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drowningbydegrees · 4 years

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Well, I’m clearly failing on the whumptober front, but here is a sort of fluffy thing. (And also Geralt pining because Jaskier does not have a monopoly on that.) <3

Read on AO3

“I want nothing.”

The thing is, it’s not a lie. Not really. It’s just that it’s an incomplete sentence. I want nothing there is room for in the life of a witcher. I want nothing I have any right to long for. I want nothing I think you would give. I want nothing reasonable.

These are the ways that sentence ends, and so it’s simpler, Geralt thinks, to stop short of that kind of vulnerability. He can’t imagine that’s what Jaskier is asking anyway.

“You always say that.” Jaskier smiles at Geralt across the campfire, the expression softened by the light on his face and the shadows crowding in at his back.

Does he? Geralt supposes he does, but what else is he going to say? “And yet, you keep asking.”

“Of course I do,” Jaskier insists in a way that sounds like he thinks this should be obvious. And who knows, really, if it would be to someone else? Someone else is not Geralt, who is only taken more by surprise when Jaskier adds, “I keep hoping one day you’ll tell me the truth.”

“Who says I’m not already?” It’s not a lie either, even if it’s very much a deflection from the truth. Geralt knows it’s too much to expect Jaskier might drop it, but a man can hope.

As expected, Jaskier doesn’t drop it. He scoots perilously closer, shaking his head at the witcher. “Honestly, Geralt. I’m not stupid.”

Their usual back and forth of teasing and sarcasm is more comfortable than the kind of honesty that Jaskier is currently after. In lieu of a reply, Geralt lifts a brow at Jaskier, mostly for the offended sound the bard makes. Normally, this is the part where whatever serious conversation they’re having derails, and Jaskier rants about whatever particular affront he’s been subjected to.

“Not about this, I’m not. To yearn for things is an inescapable aspect of humanity and-” Geralt doesn’t know when Jaskier got so close, but as soon as he opens his mouth to say something, the bard’s fingers press warmly against his lips.”No, don’t interrupt. Whatever the world tells you, you are the most human person I know.”

“What is it you think I want?” Geralt asks, because if he’s the one posing a question, it’s time where Jaskier is not. The answer, sadly, doesn’t really but Geralt any time or space to think. All it gets him is that fond look Jaskier gives him sometimes, haunting in its proximity to the sort of affection Geralt wants. “Dunno. That’s why I keep asking.”

There’s nothing he can say to that that won’t give him away. Geralt could shut down the conversation or flee entirely, but somehow it feels like he’s just delaying some inevitable ruin. Jaskier can’t possibly know what he’s asking for, and Geralt can’t possibly risk what he’s been given in pursuit of something he’s got no right to.

“You don’t have to tell me.” In the end, it’s Jaskier who rescues Geralt from his own indecision. “But don’t think you’re fooling anyone.” It could be over. He could talk about something else. For once, Jaskier isn’t pressing him for answers, so Geralt really has no idea what compels him to ask, “Why?

Judging by the way Jaskier’s eyebrows abruptly try to flee to his hairline, he wasn’t expecting the question either. “Why… what?”

Now that he’s had time to consider, it’s really only the fact that he dug himself into this that makes Geralt bother to clarify. “Why do you want to know?”

“Oh…” Jaskier huffs out a laugh and bumps his shoulder companionably against Geralt’s. “Because, you great fool, you’re dear to me.”

And that’s the end of it. Sort of. Jaskier settles nearly close enough to touch, content to watch the merrily burning fire. It feels almost surreal, like an empty street in a bustling marketplace, and it leaves Geralt aching. The worst part of his foolish, runaway feelings is that it’s nothing so simple as wanting to tumble into bed together, however pleasant that might be. It’s this moment, right here, where they just exist together, where he can imagine Jaskier is drawn in by more than a platonic sort of companionship.

“What do you want?” Geralt finds himself asking, because he wants to know, truly. Jaskier has an uncanny knack for talking incessantly without actually telling anyone anything, but perhaps he won’t dodge a direct question.

Jaskier lights up like Geralt has made his entire year, all excitement and unnecessary animation.“All sorts of things. I want the whole continent to know who I am. I want to capture the best and the worst of the world we move through and share it. I want all the adventure life has to offer.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt spots Jaskier rubbing his fingers and thumb together as he quiets once more. It’s a familiar habit after all this time, a self soothing behavior Jaskier turns to when he’s nervous or lost in thought about something. Before Geralt can try to suss out what it means, Jaskier sighs and starts again, strangely subdued. “But mostly, I want to… to matter, I guess. Not to everyone, but to someone.”

“How do you mean?”

The corner of Jaskier’s mouth pulls up just a hair. “I guess I just want someone’s life to be a little bit better for having me in it.” There are so many things Geralt wishes he had the courage to give voice to. Each and every one of them fails him now that he has an opening. “Hmm.”

---

The bard’s words never quite leave Geralt. Not as they finish eating. Not as they put out the fire. Not as they bed down for the night.

Jaskier sticks close the way he always does this time of year, when the chill in the air is harder to fend off. Even in their respective bedrolls, Jaskier is near enough that Geralt can feel the warmth emanating from his body. It’s soothing in a way Geralt hates himself for taking some measure of refuge in.

Honesty in its entirety is easier in the dark though. Not about the things he wants. He will perhaps never divulge that, but… “You already have that last one,” he says quietly before he can second guess himself.

“Hmm?” Jaskier rolls over to face Geralt, one bright blue eye cracked open.

“You said you wanted someone’s…” Geralt sighs and wishes he didn’t have to finish that sentence. Nevermind that he’s the one who started it. “Life to be better because you exist.”

It’s not a confession. It’s not. But Geralt’s heart insists on picking up its pace anyway as he waits for Jaskier to reply with something besides what looks to be stunned silence.

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Before Geralt can protest, Jaskier’s arm is draped around him, dragging the witcher into a haphazard embrace. Jaskier's fingers splay out between Geralt’s shoulder blades like they're made to fit there.

If he were a better man, he would pull away for both their sakes, Geralt thinks. But Jaskier’s palm is a brand right through his shirt, and the bard’s head is tucked comfortably under Geralt’s chin, and letting go is a bridge too far right now.

So Geralt stays, allowing the unexpected intimacy of it all, right up until Jaskier mumbles against his collarbone. “I am absolutely going to remind you of this the next time you grouch at me.”

“Nevermind. I take it back.” The foray back towards their usual banter is a welcome thing, even more so because it’s not and either/or right now. He doesn’t have to let go to needle at Jaskier.

And it really must be getting late or else Jaskier simply knows him too well, because the bard doesn’t even look at Geralt. “No you don’t.”

For a time, Geralt listens to the steady in and out of Jaskier’s breathing, punctuated by warm puffs of air against his skin. This is a closeness usually reserved for too small beds and cramped quarters, places where there is some excuse to touch beyond simply that he wants to. Jaskier looks to be drifting off as if there’s no place he’d rather be though, and Geralt thinks maybe he could let it be. Just for tonight.

“Geralt?” Jaskier mumbles, voice thick and sluggish.

They’re on hallowed ground, it feels like, and Geralt dares not speak a word. “Hmm?”

In the silence that draws out around them, Geralt feels Jaskier’s mouth twist into a smile against his skin. “Me too.” (Fic Masterpost)

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #gerlion #Jaskier #geralt x jaskier #my fic #better where you are series

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eyebright-iris · 5 years

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Review: Met Gala 2019

Good morning to girls and gays only. Straight men can perish.

Well, the Met Gala has rolled around once again and all I can say is: I’m so glad I’m a lesbian. The theme for this year was ‘Camp: Notes on Fashion’ and my GOD did some men decide that this was the perfect opportunity to come in a bland black tux or worse.

Some of the biggest disappointments of the night for me have to be Rami Malek and Taron Egerton, who, having both just played some of the most iconic men in recent history who lived, breathed and ate the essence of camp, saw fit to turn up in black tuxes. Taron’s was kinda sparkly though and I still respect the dude for his general lack of typical masculinity elsewhere (more men commenting “phwoar” on their mates’ Instagram, please). Shout out to Frank Ocean who showed up looking like any bouncer you might find outside one of my local clubs on a Saturday night. He collaborated with James Charles to prove that while some gays showed their best, others certainly did not. The theme was CAMP, James Charles, and you still couldn’t deliver.

I appreciated the change in pace from Darren Criss and Harry Styles, but to be honest, Harry’s had camper looks in concert and Darren Criss…well, I loved his look, but it also took me a solid ten minutes to work out that it was him and not just Brendon Urie in his regular concert gear. Glittery jackets and statement eyeliner do not a camp icon make, I’m afraid, though you certainly did better than so many others.

Kim Kardashian was certainly…there. I’m impressed with the way she managed to make herself look like she’s just stepped out of the ocean butt-naked and dripping wet, but girl. You’re rich as fuck. There’s more than bodycon dresses out there. Also please smack your husband, he’s a dick and he’s wearing a black tracksuit. Kendall and Kylie were a little more flamboyant but honestly, they were single-colour knockoffs of things I would say you could find at a Rio street festival, except that would be an insult to Brazil and all the ways Rio festivals embody everything the Jenner looks were not. And to be real with you? For all the colour that was there, they were boring. What is it with these women and being afraid to be #Iconique? It’s sad that all they seem to know how to do is emphasise their boobs and hips in dresses with very little fabric to try and be daring. If they weren’t so rich and influential no one would pay them any mind because you can see the same look on anyone else.

While I don’t like Cardi B, I can appreciate her attempt to get into the spirit of the Met Gala, which she pulled off so well last year. I only wish her skirt hadn’t ended up looking like rows of theatre seating. Katy Perry was there as both a chandelier and a hamburger, which, while a step up from the Jenner-Kardashian contributions, leads me to wonder if she knows what ‘camp’ means, or if her foray into queer culture stopped once she was done appropriating sapphic sexuality for male consumption in 2008. Special mention must go to Benedict Cumberbatch who saw fit to show up dressed like some bizarre visiting cousin of Colonel Sanders who maybe definitely owned a plantation. It wasn’t a black tux but somehow I just wish it had been.

To get to the real stars of the night, I think it’s only fair to start off by saying this Met Gala was once again, Black Excellence. I cannot BREATHE for the number of incredible, powerful black icons taking to the pink carpet in works of art. Let’s begin, shall we?

Billy Porter showed up (and showed everyone else up) with six hot half naked slave dudes decked out in gold carrying him in on a black-and-gold chaise-lounge like a modern-day Cleopatra and, once he had both feet firmly on the floor, threw up the massive golden wings of Isis and owned the entire space around him. The crown. The wings. The copious gold sparkly shit. The gold bedazzled stuff on his face. Every other man should be ashamed of his failure to measure up to the king. Also every man in a tux found DEAD by the side of the road thanks to our Lord and Saviour Billy Porter.

If Billy Porter is the king, then surely, there are too many queens to choose from. From Laverne Cox’s strikingly shaped black dress with her brilliant blue-white hair and statement makeup, to Lupita Nyong’o showing up in the full neon spectrum of the rainbow, black women showed up to take the crown every single time last night. Janelle Monáe’s stunning artsy dress blew me away, from the Picasso-like features to the multitude of hats that I have no idea how she balanced, she’s a masterpiece. Lizzo stepped out looking like the Empress of Flamingos and I am absolutely here for every second of it. The colours are loud, bold, and the outfit is as large-as-life as Lizzo herself. Her hair was so stunning, I swear I thought it was a crown at first.

Black hair certainly had a starring role on the red carpet as well, from Tessa Thompson’s insanely long braid (she was carrying a WHIP to complete her outfit RIP all wlw) to Lupita’s impressive afro with its many golden combs. I adored Danai Gurira’s hair and especially loved her Oscar Wilde-inspired outfit: here is a woman who understands her brief and works from it to great effect, and I loved Keiynan Lonsdale’s gorgeous hair and butterfly gown – seeing him embracing his queerness with both arms since Love, Simon led him to come out has made my heart big.

I can’t move on from the black dominance and excellence of the night without mention of two of my favourite looks: Zendaya and Lena Waithe. If Billy Porter is the king and there are too many queens to count, then Zendaya stands out yet again as the living, breathing princess of the lot of them. I can hear the white tears over black girl magic Cinderella from here. She arrived in a whole Cinderella dress that expanded and glows from within, a pumpkin-carriage purse and her own fairy godmother to transform her with a little bibbity-bobbity-boo? She even lost her damn glass slipper on the stairs. A true artist. As they say in the LGBT+ community: um, wig.

Speaking of which: Lena Waithe. The lesbian icon herself, who showed up to last year’s Catholic-themed Met Gala in a pride flag cape, and who went hell for leather this year as well, putting every man in a tux to shame by not only out-classing them in how fantastic she looked in her lilac suit, but also paying homage to the origins of camp, with the back of her jacket boldly stating “Black Drag Queens Invented Camp” and the pinstripes on the suit actually being cleverly displayed lyrics to iconic drag queen songs. She really Did That yet again and I’m knocked dead.

This review is already long as hell and it’s about to get longer because there are more looks that I want to mention.

First of all: Lady. Fucking. Gaga. My girl did four outfits on the pink carpet in the space of 15 minutes and holy shit did she kill it. Starting out in a voluminous hot pink ballgown, followed by a more sedate but still impressive black one with a matching umbrella, then down to a slim hot-pink number, huge sunglasses, and statement telephone, and finally ending up in an iconic mesh and underwear set, all while sporting the most gorgeous gold false eyelashes that made the whole thing pop. The creativity and flair of everything Gaga does has made her iconic throughout the years and this event was no exception.

Ezra Miller FUCKED IT UP. Pinstripe suit with the sweeping train, glittering cage corset on top and a myriad of imitation eyes all over his face, carrying an eerie mask of himself on a stick? Phenomenal. The confidence in his walk as he moved and the way he displayed his look was so striking and seeing him own it so much made my night.

I loved Jordan Roth’s take on Billy Porter’s wings, allowing him to show up as a literal whole theatre. I loved Ryan Murphy’s sparkling pink champagne tux and high-collared cape. Florence Welch absolutely slayed in her glittering wing-collared cloak.

However, one of the standout looks for the night was Hamish Bowles. The embodiment of camp, with that magnificent fur-trimmed patterned cape. The look is absolutely dominating even when he’s standing still, and when he moves, the whole thing comes alive. Watching some of the dynamic shots taken of him having fun with his outfit, I felt like I was watching a bullfighter in a lion’s mane – and all of that is good. I can’t quite put my finger on why I felt he looked like a fabulous Mrs Doubtfire (maybe it’s the shoes) but the outfit was one of the best and definitely set a bar that so many men fell short of.

Final Words:

Can someone please tell cishet men to step their game up? Or men in general (I see you Frank Ocean and James Charles letting the damn side down)? They can stay boring if they want, however. The rest of us will be having far more fun without them, and the plain black tuxes certainly are no talking point of the evening.

#review #met gala #met gala 2019 #fashion review #fashion #red carpet #zendaya #billy porter #ezra miller #lady gaga #i wanted to get this out in a timely fashion so it was relevant #also idk if you can tell but i'm eagerly anticipating macdoesit's review because his red carpet reviews are EVERYTHING and i think it shows #*it shows here #i am INFLUENCED because i love him

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linzerj · 6 years

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should’ve, could’ve, would’ve

In an alternate version of reality, Thor aims for Thanos’s head.

(another foray into the mcu. read on AO3 here)

----

On Titan, Stephen Strange looks into the future to see all possible outcomes of this battle, and what it means for the war. There are 14,000,605 possible outcomes, and only one where they win.

But it’s how Stephen Strange defines ‘win’ that determines there only being one favorable outcome. In this version of events, everyone makes it out the other end alive. Tony Stark, Peter Parker, Steve Rogers, Thor, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, T’Challa, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, James Rhodes, Wanda Maximoff, Vision, Peter Quill, Drax, Mantis, Rocket, Groot, Gamora, Loki, and Stephen Strange himself are all alive at the end of the one, single, favorable, best-possible-outcome timeline. This is the path Stephen Strange tries to send them all down.

But after his surrender of the Time Stone on Titan, there are several ways the battle on Earth can go.

Even without the Eye of Agamotto, Stephen has been exposed to it’s energies long enough to tell that in this version of reality, the battle will go as it should for the most favorable outcome to come to fruition. Vision will fall. Thor aims for the chest. Thanos snaps, and half the world becomes ash, becomes dust.

After this, he recalls, the remaining heroes reunite, with Scott Lang and Carol Danvers arriving and playing crucial roles in setting things right. This is the sequence of events that will eventually lead to Thanos’s downfall and the restoration of the universe and the fallen, as it should be.

But in a universe just so slightly off from this one, Thor changes the outcome. In an alternate version of reality, Thor aims for Thanos’s head.

---

In this version of reality, they win too, but it’s at a higher cost.

Thanos’s body lays in the outskirts of Wakanda, bloody, lifeless, and still. Some yards away, Vision’s body lays broken, most of his head missing and mangled from when Thanos tore the Mind Stone from his head. Wanda has collapsed onto his body, sobbing.

Hundreds of Wakandan warriors also lay in the fields, having given their lives to stop Thanos. T’Challa and Okoye turn from staring at Thor and the giant purple body, and begin coordinating with the rest of the survivors to identify the fallen.

Thor remains, staring at where Stormbreaker is embedded in Thanos’s face and skull. He barely acknowledges Rocket and Groot and Steve, who are standing behind him. They’re staring too, but whether out of awe or horror is anyone’s guess at this point.

It’s Rocket who can’t stand the silence, and eventually breaks it. “So what are we gonna do with those stones now?”

“I do not know,” Thor replies slowly, trying to hide a tremor in his voice. “I…” He closes his eyes. “I should like to use the stones to restore those who Thanos has killed, but I do not know what effect this will have on the universe. And regardless, I think I would like to see if we can restore Vision, with or without the Mind Stone, before destroying any of them.

So they leave it, for now. No one can touch the Stones anyway, except Thor, unless they want to risk destroying themselves. A few Dora Milaje are stationed around the body and the Stones as Thor and the rest follow King T’Challa back to the palace to determine what happens next.

---

On Titan, Stephen’s eyes open and he drops from his meditative hover. “It’s over,” he announces, gaining the attention of their motley band. “They’ve killed Thanos on Earth. We’ve won.”

“How the heck do you know that?” Peter Quill asks. Peter Parker nods, watching the doctor, curious as well.

Stephen eyes Quill, then sighs and says, “I saw it, before, and sensed it just now.” And that’s all the explanation he gives.

Still, they all seem to believe him, for what it’s worth. Quill looks back at the rest of his group, including the blue lady, Nebula, who crashed a ship into Thanos halfway through their battle, and they all begin to head toward their ship, still somewhat shaken. Then Quill pauses, turning to watch as Stephen tries to shut Tony up and help heal the stab wound in his side with Peter Parker hovering nearby.

“Hey,” he calls, gaining their attention. “You guys want a lift back to Earth? We’ve got some medical supplies and shit too, so you can patch yourselves up on the way.”

The humans share a look, before Stark nods, turns, and says, “Thanks.”

---

When the Milano makes contact with Wakanda a day later and they get the clearance to touch down, the land around them is still littered with bodies. But these are the bodies of the Outriders, Thanos’s army; the people of Wakanda were efficient at finding their own so they could receive proper funerals.

So the ship touches down, and the Guardians emerge first. They are immediately swarmed by Rocket and Groot, Thor standing solemnly to the side with the Avengers. It’s Rocket who asks where Gamora is.

“She’s – she’s –” Quill can’t get the words out, so Nebula speaks quietly from behind.

“Thanos sacrificed her for one of the Stones. She’s gone.”

Their stunned expressions quickly melt into ones of grief. As they mourn in their little group, Tony emerges from the ship, followed by Peter and Stephen.

“So who got to kill the big purple ballsack?” Tony asks wearily, in lieu of a proper greeting. Thor turns from watching the Guardians, gripping Stormbreaker tight.

“I, but I only wish I could have killed him sooner,” Thor says. “He killed Vision, Stark. Ripped the Mind Stone right from his head.”

Tony breaks. “No,” he whispers. “God, no.”

Behind him, Stephen swallows before stepping forward. “Where’s the Gauntlet?” he asks. “Where are the Stones?”

Thor eyes Stephen, before deflating or relaxing, just a bit. “Ah, yes. You sorcerers guarded the Time Stone.” Thor sighs, turning to gesture towards the palace. “I brought it to the lab of the Princess Shuri. No one else has wanted to risk touching it. Even for me, all six stones together like that are… tempting, and volatile.”

Stephen nods, at this. “I could at least manipulate the Time Stone back into the Eye of Agamotto,” he says. “And while I did not meet Vision, if you are trying to revive him –”

“If Bruce and Shuri and Wanda aren’t already trying to get him back up and running you better bet your ass I will,” Stark cuts in, fists clenched at his side. Stephen studies him for a moment, then nods.

“Well. I can do my best to assist, both medically and magically, if you will allow it. And we should keep the Mind Stone safe, in order to revive him again.”

“Hey, magic man,” a voice cuts in, and it’s Quill, looking both lost and determined at the same time. “Nebs here –”

“I told you to never call me that.”

“– She says that the Soul Stone required a sacrifice of a soul for a soul.” Peter Quill pauses, licks his lips, before continuing. “I… we were wondering if you could take a look at the Soul Stone for us, and just – just see. If Gamora – if she’s there, somehow. Before you destroy it. Please.”

Strange blinks, and then nods. “I’ll call Wong to help,” he says, “and we will try. But I make no promises. If it truly is a soul for a soul, I would imagine you’d need another sacrifice to get her back out, if she’s even in there.”

“Just… let us know what you find, okay?” The heartbreak in Quill’s voice causes Stephen to soften, just a bit more.

“Okay.”

---

When Wong joins them, he and Stephen and Wanda are immediately asked to destroy the other three Stones – Space, Power, and Reality. Wong and Stephen debate over it with Thor, before they agree to it.

“It drastically reduces the risk of something like this happening again,” Stephen explains after it’s all said and done. The Soul and Mind Stones still rest in the Gauntlet, waiting for their turns to be examined. Vision’s body lays on one of Shuri’s medical benches behind them, almost completely repaired physically, but the neurons and coding are still a destroyed mess.

“Reduces, but doesn’t eliminate it totally?” Tony asks, crossing his arms. “I mean, you need all six to become a crazy powerful ultra-god, right?”

“Yes,” Stephen replies, “but even these three remaining Stones are powerful in their own way. Controlling the minds of others; altering time; and deciding the fate of people’s souls? Even with the other three destroyed, I can think of several beings that would look to amplify their own power with but one of the remaining Stones.”

Tony nods, thoughtful, before a light seems to go off in his head. “So your Stone – it’s Time. You could go back in time, if you wanted.”

Stephen swallows, licks his lips. He knows where this is going. “Tony, no,” he says. “I… if I could, I would. But going back in time on that big of a scale, it would cause too many ripples, contrast too sharply with natural law. It could quite honestly destroy our universe when we’re just trying to save it.”

“But…alright, but what about small scale?” Tony asks, gesturing to Vision. “Could you just – just reverse time on Vision only? Make it so he’s – he’s back?”

Stephen sighs, gripping the necklace housing the Time Stone. “Without affecting the rest of time around us? I’m good, but I’m not that good.” He breathes deeply. “The only time I’ve ever done time manipulation on a scale larger than messing around with an apple was restoring the Hong Kong Sanctum to prevent Dormammu from consuming our world. When I made a time loop to –” Stephen sucks in a breath. “– to repeat the same moment over and over and over until he went away, and left Earth in peace instead of pieces.”

Tony sighs, runs a hand down his face. “Alright. Fine.” He looks back at Stephen, then puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, anyway.”

It doesn’t feel like he’s done anything worth thanking, but Stephen forces a smile nonetheless.

---

Peter Quill is impatient and emotional, so when he finds Stephen again it takes a lot of effort to remain outwardly calm as he asks, “Any luck?”

But he takes in the expression on Stephen’s face, as well as the other sorcerer Wong, and just knows the answer even before the sorcerers speak. “It requires a soul for a soul,” Stephen says quietly. “Her soul… it exists within the Stone, in a sense, but it is impossible to–”

“I’ll sacrifice myself if I have to,” Peter cuts in, desperation lacing his words. “Just. Please. She deserves to live.”

Stephen’s heart breaks a little bit more. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We still don’t understand it fully, but from what we do understand you need to sacrifice the soul of someone you love to wield the stone. That is literally all we know.”

“It may be possible to sacrifice yourself to free her soul,” Wong says softly, “but without her body, she will just be like a ghost, or so we believe. And we would not want to risk any more lives if none of this works.”

“I’m sorry,” Stephen says again as Peter’s heart shatters. All he can do is slump into the sorcerer and sob.

---

Tony and Shuri and Bruce stare at the mess of neurons, the mess of Vision’s brain, and slump in defeat. “I should be able to do this,” Shuri says. “I was so close, before…”

Tony takes a shaky breath. “It’s alright, kid,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. Beside him, Bruce puts a hand on his shoulder. Bruce knew that Vision was important to Tony. Bruce knew that Vision was all he had left of JARVIS. Bruce knew.

Shuri, though, bless her heart, she wanted to help him too. “I’m sorry,” she says, for the fifth time today. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Stark – Tony.”

“I could try inserting the Mind Stone back into his body,” Stephen’s voice says, and the three whirl around to see the sorcerer standing behind him, the fading glow of sparks indicating he’s only just opened a portal into the lab. “It might jump-start some of the neural connections that were severed, but I don’t know…how efficient it would be.”

Tony swallows. Opens his mouth, then closes it, thinking. Then he says, “Alright. We… we should try it, if you think it has even the slightest chance. For Vision.”

Everyone else in the room nods in agreement.

So they try.

But it doesn’t bring Vision back.

---

So they continue on existing. Thor has lost his people, his brother. Nebula has lost her sister, Peter Quill has lost his lover, and the Guardians of the Galaxy have lost a beloved friend. Wanda Maximoff has lost her love, and Tony Stark has lost his – his – his Vision. Wakanda has lost hundreds of good soldiers.

In an alternate version of reality, Thor aims for Thanos’s head. In this reality, they win, but they also lose.

---

There are hundreds of thousands of millions of alternate realities just like that. One little act has ripples throughout space-time. There are realities where the Hulk does not hide away and changes the tide of the fights. There are realities where Peter Quill shoots Gamora before Thanos can change his blaster to bubbles. There are realities where Gamora lets Nebula suffer and refuses to give the location of the Soul Stone, and realities where Gamora is successful in killing herself before Thanos can use her. There are realities where Peter Quill does not strike Thanos, either because he recognizes that he needs to wait or because someone holds him back or because he hesitates one extra second and that’s all Peter Parker and Tony Stark need to rip the Gauntlet from Thanos’s hand. There are realities where Stephen Strange does not give up the Time Stone for Tony Stark, and runs or continues to fight or even reverses time in an effort to save his new friends, save the world. There are realities where Shuri successfully removes the Mind Stone from Vision without harm, and Wanda Maximoff destroys it long before Thanos arrives. There are realities where they destroy the Time Stone before confronting Thanos. There are millions and millions of realities. They lose in most. They are partially successful in others. It’s all a game of should’ve, could’ve, would’ve; each action has an equal and opposite reaction. Butterfly effects. All of these realities exist. Stephen Strange sees all of these realities, and remembers them all too.

But Stephen Strange sees just one reality where everyone comes out the other side alive. They have to sacrifice much to achieve that end, but that is the reality in which they exist. The odds are 14,000,605 to one, but they’ll get lucky in this universe.

In other realities, it’s should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

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ben-j-man · 6 years

Text

Secret War- Chapter 3

Link to chapter 2- http://ben-j-man.tumblr.com/post/180097372453/secret-war-chapter-1

As before Glaitis sat at her desk. Reclining her long, lithe form back in her leather chair, feet planted on her desk. She looked positively relaxed but her piercing blue-eyed glare said otherwise, and I had to fight to keep myself from wincing under its intensity.

My breath caught in my throat as I saw her and my heart sped. She was, she was-.

Then my jaw set. Taryst was right! Glaitis must know! She must've used it to manipulate me! Why had no one in the company ever mention it?

Glaitis would have ordered them not to, of course. My fear replaced by giddying disgust and I found myself reconsidered my decision on Taryst's proposition.

"Mamzel Glaitis, here he is, as ordered," said Elandria behind me, her smooth, soft voice flowed like silk. But the pistol never relented in sticking in my back.

"I can see that, thank you Elandria, " said Glaitis. "Good work."

I glanced over my shoulder as the pistol finally let off. Glimpsing the young assassin bow slightly- likely she had never noticed Glaitis sarcastic tone and turned to leave.

"Stay Elandria," ordered Glaitis as she sat forward, leant her shoulder on her desk and cupped her smooth jaw in the palm of her hand. "I have a task for you which I will tell once I deal with him."

"As you order," said Elandria.

Then Glaitis turned her glare on me, and I met it although it took all my willpower to keep from flinching.

"Why did you do it?" she asked bluntly and despite myself, I flinched. I had expected her to fly straight into a rage-fuelled lecture, saying things like: 'you have disgraced our company!' Or 'your idiocy could have cost us our reputation!'

I hesitated, no matter how hard I tried Glaitis always outwitted me, it was infuriating. In all my years under her tutelage, I could never predict what she would say or do.

"She asked you a question worm! Hurry and answer!" I flinched at the sudden words erupted behind me, and even Elandria started in surprise.

I clenched my teeth, recognising whom the voice belonged to and turned to see Darrance approaching. He was one of Glaitis most senior employees and a right bastard, the true epitome of arrogance and snide superiority. I knew nothing of where he came from, but I could hazard a guess, and my guess was this: he was some son of some member of the Imperial Hierarchy who had squandered and spoilt Darrance and thus creating this monster. How and why Darrance became an assassin was beyond me, perhaps the governor got sick of his creation and threw him out into the cold.

Despite my dislike for the ponce, I could not deny his skill. Neither Elandria nor I had any idea he was in the room until he chose to reveal himself.

My jaw set as I turned back to Glaitis, this just emphasised how much I had to learn.

"Yes, young Attelus. I did indeed ask you a question," said Glaitis, an evil smirk curling her full lips. "Has a feline stolen your tongue, by chance?"

I could think of a no more fitting cliché at that moment.

"Hey Darrance," I managed through clenched teeth, but I kept my attention fixated on Glaitis, "I see you have returned from your assignment as well, and so I assume it was a success, then?"

"I am not here to waste time tarrying words with a fool like you!" snarled Darrance. "Mamzel Glaitis asked you a question, and you will answer, or so Emperor help me I will-!"

"Darrance," interrupted Glaitis her eyes were attached to my own and her voice soft but the warning in it evident, but I could detect slight amusement in the words and her eyes. What did she find so entertaining? My audacity of taunting Darrance who was three decades my senior and who could potentially beat me in a fight with his eyes closed and one arm tied behind his back? Or perhaps the sheer idiocy. Either way, I was making progress.

The senior assassin said no more.

"Now, child, please would you finally deign to answer my question? Why indeed did you beat up on poor little Vor?"

"I believe it is pronounced, Vax, mamzel," corrected Darrance, timidly.

"Oh yes. Sorry. Indeed it is, why did you beat up poor little Vax?"

"Vex," I corrected gruffly.

"Sorry young one?" she asked.

"Vex! His name is Vex," I said impatiently, so she cared so much about the poor kid that she would forget his name.

No, I corrected. Glaitis' memory was almost photographic. No way in hell she forgot, especially when she was only informed a few short hours ago. She was testing me again.

I glanced sidelong at Elandria; my fellow squad member must have informed Glaitis of my meeting with Taryst and Glaitis. Glaitis must be testing to see if I had betrayed her.

"Hmm, indeed," said Glaitis as she sat back, tapping her perfect nose with an index finger. "I know you, young Attelus. To all but the most educated you seem…chaotic, strange, random. But you really are not; there is some method to your madness. Some surprisingly sane reasoning as to why. Funnily enough, nothing like your father who was always as straight and narrow as anyone can get. That is a trait I can admire, one that would help you if you ever meet the requirement of making you a full-fledged assassin…That is if you live that long of course, but for me, it makes you predictable."

I smiled, now I knew the game, so could play, but decided I could not tell her. If I confirmed her of Taryst's proposition, it would take away any potential leeway I may have in the future, and so, I followed one of her many teachings, "the best way to lie, is, to tell the truth."

After hissing out through clenched teeth and I said, "the little bastard told."

"Told? The little bastard told whom? And of what! Answer straight, young one! I begin to tire of your meandering!" Glaitis snapped making everyone but me flinch in fright.

"I had made an agreement with Vex, a few weeks ago. I paid him to search the systems for more detailed information into Taryst's past. Just in case, but came up with nil for anything of any use. Taryst hides his tracks very, very well."

"And so you were stupid enough to be surprised when this young hacker betrayed you? So you strangled him right in his very office? Right were dozens of witnesses could see you do it?"

"Pretty much," I said, trying hard to keep my cool and to keep any remorse from my voice. "I let my anger overcome me. I was idiotic, stupid and foolish. I make no excuses and am ready to face my punishment, mamzel."

"Punishment young one?" sighed Glaitis, and she could not hide her rising ire in her voice. "Believe me, Attelus Xanthis Kaltos you will face punishment. But for now, you escape it; we have far more important matters to attend to."

"What!" both Darrance and Elandria exclaimed together incredulously, and I could not help but smile. This I had actually seen coming. Both Darrance and Castella just suddenly being here, Glaitis earlier saying that she had a "task" for Elandria. I had gambled on this and had won and I could not help but wonder if Glaitis knew this, and that was why she was so flustered. Knowing the game, indeed.

"Quiet, both of you!" she roared. "I like this no more than you do! We have this task, and we are to act before Taryst can know, and we need all of us to do it!"

I grinned and asked, "and what is 'it' that we have mamzel Glaitis?"

Glaitis eyes narrowed, "information 'it' is, child. Information on the whereabouts of this 'Brutis Bones.' The man that Taryst seems so desperate to hunt down."

Elandria and I sat in silence in the back seat of the old Hesuitor 89. We watched as the hive outside drove by. It was midnight, but the lighting of the hive conquered the darkness in a blazing haze of artificial day, and the hustle and bustle of traffic had not abated.

A hive city like Omnartus never slept. Imperial bureaucracy was everything. It was more important to the survival of mankind than the Magistratum, the Ecclesiarchy, the Adeptus Arbites, the Imperial Guard or even the Adeptus Astartes. Everything rode upon its ever turning cogs. As long as Omnartus lived, millions upon millions of serfs would sit and type upon their cogitators, every second of every day, monitoring countless upon countless lines of information.

The thought made my mind hurt to know that more counted upon them than those who fought for the Imperium, than those who have given their lives for the war. They say that they fight for their Emperor, but in all honesty, it is so this organised chaos can survive. To say it was quite depressing, really was the understatement of the millennia and many more millennia to come.

I could only thank goodness that I wasn't one of them.

Besides the countless bureaucrats coming and going from their daily drudgery. Many were party goers, wishing to temporarily alleviate their boring lives with a foray into the nightlife. We were driving through Omnartus' night district, and at its peak. I wore a high-quality silken suit with white shirt, black blazer and black pants. Castella had told me it was the latest in men's fashion, and yes, I had noticed many in similar attire along the way.

Elandria sat next to me and was stunning. Her black hair was tied back, revealing her beautiful high cheekbones. Somehow, her pouting in anger made her even more appealing. Also, she was wearing make-up. A first for her since I had met her six months ago.

I sighed, placed my elbows on my thighs, intertwining my fingers together and began to relay for the umpteenth time, Glaitis' plan.

After the master assassin's revelation, immediately Castella burst into the room, grinning almost from ear to ear.

"Ah yes indeed information retrieved by yours truly, of course!" said Castella, with an exaggerated bow. "You can all thank me later if you like."

Initially, Castella's entrance took me back, but this was replaced by the sudden revelation, and I turned to Glaitis.

"So I see that you have been doing your own extracurricular investigating while under Taryst's employ, master?" I said.

Glaitis grinned, "why of course, my young apprentice," then she looked to Castella. "And do not take all the credit for yourself. Do not forget that Hayden had as much of a hand in it as you did."

Castella hunched forward with an animated pout, "Pah! Details!" Then she grinned slyly. "And now I'm betting that you are wondering how I knew what you were saying, right?"

"No," said Elandria. "We can all see your earpiece quite clearly."

Castella grimaced another extremely animated expression that made me smile.

"Pah! Details!" she repeated.

"All right enough of your clowning," sighed Glaitis but I could hear the amusement in the master assassin's voice. "Now we move onto business."

"We have located through much investigation the possible location of Brutis Bones," Glaitis said. "His all evidence points toward a bar in the night district of the hive as his base of operations. It is highly popular for the locals; it is named "The Twilight bar."

Castella let out a derivative snort which made me smile all the broader, I could not have agreed any more. "The more I hear that name, the cheesier it sounds," said Castella.

"Yes I know," sighed Glaitis. "But the bar provides an almost perfect cover for the gang leader; it is high class, quite sophisticated and-."

"And so it wouldn't be believed by anyone looking because it would be too obvious" I cut in. "What do they call that? That's right, refuge in audacity."

"Indeed, young one," said Glaitis. "Taryst being the utter genius he is, had left that area for last in his investigation as you and Elandria may know."

"Yes," said my squad mate and to my surprise, I could detect an undercurrent of annoyance in the young woman's voice. Elandria did not like being left out of the loop. In all honesty, neither did, but I could hide it, and by then, I was used to it.

Glaitis could also tell Elandria's dislike, emphasised by the master assassin's patronising glare.

Glaitis moved on, "thanks to Hayden Tresch's hacking ability. We were able to get a full layout of the plans for the bar." Glaitis pulled out a control wand, and with a flick of her wrist the lights died, and a giant, sophisticated hologram sprang out from the middle of her desk.

"It is located on the far North West end of the night district's main street, the Dawn of Ages Boulevard. As you can see, there are three entrances, the main being on the south-east from the Dawn of Ages Boulevard. The other two, one is placed on the northern side and the other on the south all are guarded constantly, and all are placed on surveillance cameras. The security is very tight indeed as befitting such a leader."

I shrugged, "but I'm guessing no tighter than any other club in the district, so they don't draw suspicion."

"Indeed, and also it is no match for us at all," said Glaitis. "Here is my plan, Elandria both you and Attelus, both of you dressed satisfactory for the occasion, will enter into the bar via the front entrance, posing as legitimate patrons. As a dating couple, of course."

Beside me, Elandria stiffened in obvious distaste. Making me more upset than I cared to admit.

"But, mistress," I said. "If you send in Elandria and myself…with our activities, together with over the last six months the odds of them knowing our faces would be higher than if you sent in Castella or anyone else."

Glaistis smiled, "of course and that is what I gamble upon that viewing your entrance into the bar will spike up the suspicions of the ones running it. They will not turn you and Elandria away for fear of spiking your own suspicions. I believe that you two will be very, very closely monitored indeed."

My jaw set, "so we are the distraction, then?"

"Never miss a beat then, do we, child?" she said. "But that beat was about as subtle as an explosion. Yes, you and Elandria are the distraction once inside I want you both to-."

"Start a bar brawl?"

Glaitis frowned, "yes, child. Start a bar brawl, and we need a big one, indeed. One that will distract the vast majority of the moody hammers acting as bouncers so both-."

"Darrance and Castella can slip in unnoticed and plant bugs in the bar? But why not just have us plant them? It would be easier."

"Actually, child. I was going to say that Darrance and Tresch do it. While what you say is true, what we are not sure of is the surveillance in the bar. It is well hidden. But what we do know is two elite assassins in syn-skin body gloves will move unseen, we just need you to distract the hammers for long enough to do it. Also, we don't want them just placed in the bar itself but in the back rooms, too. Otherwise, it would be just pointless, wouldn't it?"

I shrugged, it made sense. But why was she doing this? I knew Glaitis, and she would only move if this information were one hundred percent confirmed. She never did anything halfway. I suspected she wanted to plant these bugs so she could find the reason why Taryst was so desperate to find Brutis Bones, but there had to be more.

I set my jaw.

"So, there is the plan," said Glaitis. "Whether you take it or leave it is immaterial we are doing it. I have a transport readied for you both in the parks and suitable clothing. After, of course, you take a shower, Attelus! You smell like you haven't washed in days! Dismissed. And Castella, make sure that you go over the details with the lovely couple for me."

"As ordered, mamzel," said Castella with a bow and I frowned in annoyance as we all turned for the door.

"Oh and, young one," called Glaitis at my back, making me freeze. "Do not for a second believe that you are off the proverbial hook. You will face your consequences one way or another, and you will keep that in mind, understood?"

I swallowed noisily, "y-yes mamzel."

"Oh, and young one, stop interrupting me in mid sent sentence you are not doing yourself any favours."

"Y-yes, mamzel."

"Good, now leave before I make you leave."

I did as ordered and quite hurriedly indeed.

"We are here," growled a voice knocking me from my reverie. Darrance glared over the driver's seat at me as the car was coming to a stop. The senior assassin's face foul.

I grinned. "Yes, thank you, good driver," I said in my best up hive accent. "We must really be getting to the party chant us, dear?"

It was Elandria's turn to glare at me, "what are you doing?"

"Why getting into character, my dear."

"Well if you call me "dear" one more time you will find yourself sorely lacking a head."

I grinned even wider, "well, good luck with that endeavour, my dear. Since you lack the proper appliances to pull through with said threat."

Elandria started in remembrance. Both of us were unarmed so that we could go through the bar's detectors. Then she smiled, "I have not tried it with my bare hands yet, 'dear.' But then there is always a first time for everything. Isn't there?"

"Shut up you two and get moving!" snarled Darrance, "I have yet to get into position, and I will not have this mission ruined by your unresolved sexual tension!"

I flinched in embarrassment and moved quickly, opening my door of the old limousine, swiftly got out, walked around and like a gentleman of old opened the door for my "date." All the while I fought the urge to cover my eyes from the blaring lights.

Elandria clumsily climbed out, she was still unused to wearing Stilettos, and I frowned as I wondered if it was wise sending her instead of Castella. I offered her my hand which she reluctantly took.

Gently pulling her out, I placed my arm over her shoulders, pulling her close and steadying her walk as we moved down the street. Almost immediately, the old Hesuitor violently drove off leaving a cloud of exhaust in its wake.

"W-What are you doing?" she said, though only slightly struggling.

"Making sure that you don't fall on your face my dear," I answered and then cried out theatrically and so loud that many a passing pedestrian look my way in bemusement: "Oh Emperor forbid! That my lovely date would slip and break her nose on our very first engagement, I would never hear the end of it from father! Oh, Emperor forbid!"

"Lovely?" she said wide-eyed, and we started to approach the bar.

When I saw the long line of potential patrons waiting for entrance into the Twilight bar, I barely stifled a curse. I hated waiting in lines it was my anathema. Well, one on a long list with many more.

I sighed. Then Elandria, my arm still over her shoulders, glared at me.

"What's wrong now?" she growled.

"Nothing, nothing," I said lightly. "I am just so entranced by your-."

"Shut it!" she snarled, "Your 'character' is even more annoying than you are."

I smiled patiently. Elandria's constant grumpiness was beginning to get on my nerves, "may I ask you a question, my dear?"

"No," she pouted, "but I know you will anyway."

I grinned, "now that you have said that, I will. Have you ever done undercover operations like this? You have always sat out our earlier missions as reserved reinforcement."

"No."

I frowned, it was evident from the start that Elandria's skill set seemed more militaristic than the other assassins of our organisation. Seemingly the cult that trained her had neglected to teach her the complexities of civilian infiltration in favour of the battlefield and stealth specialisation. Hence why she could barely place one foot in front of the other while wearing high heels or act like a high-class hive citizen for more than three seconds.

I sighed, "I guess that answers a few questions, yes. But could you, at least try, to be in character when we line up?"

"But I thought we were to make them suspect us as being undercover?"

My jaw set. Why was she so insistent on antagonising me so? Actually, I suspected she wasn't doing it on purpose at all.

"That is true, but it does not mean we can't be professional. We are gambling on them knowing our faces, and even if they don't, the fight we start will hopefully suffice for the distraction even without the extra attention. Perhaps acting convincingly may cement any suspicion of our position in Taryst's private investigatory force."

"Whatever," was her reply, causing my anger to rise but before I could reply we arrived at the end of the line. It was depressingly long. I did a quick headcount, of the crowd of young, ostentatiously dressed pretty people and found that approximately sixty locals in total waited for the huge hammer acting as the bouncer to let them in.

Inside the bar, the music blared and the boom of the bass line tingled my teeth.

Despite it being called a 'bar' the Twilight Bar resembled a club first and foremost. Prior booking was a must to gain access and thanks to Hayden Tresch's hacking expertise we were on the list. Under aliases, of course.

That made me wonder, how long had mamzel Glaitis actually known about this club and its connection to Brutis Bones? Just judging at how long this line is alone that a booking needed to be at least a week prior to guarantee entrance. Perhaps Tresch had not hacked into the system at all? Perhaps they had made the booking legitimately? But if that was the case why act now?

I could hazard a myriad amount of guesses. But the most obvious was, once again, that Glaitis was testing me, and if so, whether it was a test of my abilities, or if I had betrayed her was another question, entirely.

Or perhaps, I just needed to get it through my thick head that the universe didn't revolve around me and my idiocy.

"Attelus Kaltos, stop it," Elandria's voice abruptly ended my revere. "Stop leaning on me."

With a start, I let off my weight, feeling my face flush in embarrassment. "S-sorry about that."

"Lost in your little world once more were we, dear?" she said with a contemptuous sneer that seemed to exclaim my idiocy and hypocrisy at once.

The corner of my mouth twitched. I needed to learn to keep myself from being lost in my thoughts. I shrugged.

"Oh I do apologise, my dear, oh how my idiocy knows no bounds, please forgive me! Please do!"

Elandria gritted her teeth then turned away. I grinned, that made her shut up, and again, I took another comprehensive look across the crowd.

I flinched midway through as I saw through the crowd two young, gorgeous women eyeing me with enthusiastically flirtatious gazes.

I felt my face turn bright red. Then tore my attention away, up toward the three surveillance cameras watching us from above. Castella had informed me of their positions during her in-depth briefing earlier, but I wanted to see for myself. Just in case.

When I looked back, the two women were still looking at me luridly. I tried to avoid their eyes by looking down at my wrist Chron. In all my research into Omnartus' culture, I could not recall reading about the local women being so obvious about their attraction this despite the guy of interest having another woman already under his arm. Perhaps they had a sixth sense? They could they just tell by instinct that Elandria and I were not a real couple?

I looked sidelong at Elandria, who still had her attention away. My jaw set, or perhaps she was just making it so frigging obvious it wasn't funny.

I sighed and reached into my pocket for my lhos. It had been a while since my last smoke, and the cravings were getting to me.

I lit the lho clenched in my teeth, using the activity to try averting my attention from the two women, who were still looking even now. The line then finally made a step forward and I began to tap the tip of my shoe on the rockcrete sidewalk.

I am not a partier; I am an assassin who kills people for a living. And being the dangerous job it is and that I would quite like to live past my twenties, I spend every waking hour for training. Making sure I have the necessary skills to live to see the next day.

The line was speeding up. Already, we had made another step. I glanced over my shoulder and to no surprise saw that five more had lined up behind us and as I did this I accidentally caught the eyes of another young woman.

I flinched, turned and sighed, hunching animatedly then Elandria looked to me.

"You're strange," she said.

I looked at her sidelong, exhaled smoke and slipped my ceramic Lho casing back into my pocket. I was used to Elandria's extreme lack of subtlety, but it took a hell of a long time to acclimatise to.

"Yeah, well. Tell me something I don't know."

"There are many things I do not understand, like how after so long training in martial arts and weaponry that your posture could still be so terrible."

I immediately straightened, Elandria had a point. If I were to act as an upper-class hive citizen, I had to stand like an upper-class hive citizen, who were stereotypically straight-backed and refined. Both traits I sorely lacked. Perhaps that was the real reason those two young women were looking at me so intently, they must find my bad posture entertaining, and at that I inwardly cursed. That had to be it, no other reason could explain it.

"There, is that better?" I growled.

"Now you are just overdoing it."

I sighed and went back to being hunched again.

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a-splash-of-stucky · 7 years

Text

The King’s Cook

Pairings: King!Bucky x servant!Reader

Summary: King James develops a fascination with you, the castle cook.

Warnings: Implied/referenced smut.

Notes: For Erin’s (@theassetseyeliner) AU writing challenge! My prompt was: “You don’t care about me anymore, do you? Did you ever?” -- in bold somewhere in the fic.

This is my first foray into a Medieval AU — I quite like how it turned out. Fair warning: this fairytale has no happy ending.

My Masterlist || gif source

Never, not even in your wildest dreams, did you imagine yourself in this position.

It had started when Maria, the head cook came stomping into the kitchen earlier this evening. “You, new girl!” she cried, pointing a finger imperiously in your direction. Your heart had stopped, eyes widening in mild terror.

“Come. You are to serve the King his dinner,”.

“M-me, madam?” you stammered, setting down the knife you’d been using to peel potatoes as you stood up and brushed off your apron.

“Yes, you,” Maria snapped impatiently. “The usual girl, what is her name? Sheila? No, Sharon! Yes, Sharon — she is ill and unable to go, so I am sending you in her stead,”.

“B-but, I—,”

“Come on,” Maria hissed, grabbing hold of your forearm and dragging you over to the side table, where a tureen of beef stew was waiting to be taken up to the King. Maria glanced over your outfit and clucked disapprovingly, producing a rag from the pocket of her apron and using it to wipe the grime off your face. “Nothing we can do about the clothes, unfortunately,” she muttered under her breath. Maria straightened up, put her hands on your shoulders and levelled you with a stern glare.

“See here, girl,” she began, “You are to take this stew up to King James. You know where he dines, yes?”. After you nodded your confirmation, she continued, “Serve the stew into his bowl, try not to spill any on yourself, do not look him in the eye and only speak if he addresses you, understood?”

“Yes, madam,” you replied meekly.

“Now, for heaven’s sake, go!” Maria cried, thrusting a ladle into your hand, “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”

And that is how you ended up here, making your way up the stairs to King James’ dining hall. To say that you’re nervous would be an understatement; you’re practically quivering with fear, hands trembling so hard you’re worried that you might spill the hot stew all over yourself.

You’ve only been working in the castle for about a fortnight and so have yet to lay eyes on the King. Wanda, the castle maid with whom you share a room with, claims that he is extremely handsome, if rather reserved. The King is reputed for having a fierce temper and is known to be particularly sulky at times. You hope that tonight is not one of those times.

You make it to the dining hall without incident, pausing outside the heavy oak doors for a moment to take a calming breath.

The room is ornately decorated in opulent shades of red, gold and emerald green. King James sits at the head of a long table, so you walk quickly towards him, careful to keep your head bowed. Though Maria had said to not look him in the eye, this does not prevent you from stealing glances at him through your lashes.

King James looks as regal as Wanda had described. Though he is swathed in thick robes of forest green, there is no hiding his muscular, well-built body. His dark hair flows over his shoulders, perfectly complimenting the devilish glint in his shocking blue eyes. You feel a distracting heat beginning to bloom in your core and you pray that he doesn’t notice your apprehension.

When you get to his side, you set the tureen on the table, pick up your ladle and beginning spooning the stew into his bowl. From the corner of your eye, you can see the King watching you with an amused smirk on his lips.

Just as you’re about to pick up your things and leave, his hand darts out and closes around your wrist. You gasp in surprise, startled by the sudden movement. His grip is not rough or forceful, just meant to hold you in place.

“You’re the new girl, aren’t you?” the King asks quietly, his voice deep and husky in a way that makes your heart flutter and your knees go weak. You force yourself to nod mutely in answer, not quite confident in your ability to form words, right now.

“What was your name, again?”

You dare to lift your eyes up to look at his face. This close, you can see how exquisitely stunning he is, those blue eyes observing you intently, as if he can see into your soul. As the seconds tick by, you feel your pulse accelerating, heart hammering against your ribs. It is a wonder that the King doesn’t hear it. “It—it’s Y/N,” you mumble.

The King hums thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side as his inquisitive gaze roams over your face. “Well, Y/N, I trust that you are happy working in the kitchens,”, he says.

“Y-yes, your majesty,” you reply, “I—I really do enjoy m-my work,”.

King James chuckles, sitting back in his chair as he releases you from his grip. You can still feel the ghost of his fingers around your wrist, a hauntingly familiar touch that you ache to feel again. “You may go now,” he says, flapping his hand at you in a dismissive motion, “Though I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you soon, Y/N,”. You bob your head in some semblance of a bow, pick up the tureen and flee out of the dining hall, trying not to let your giddy excitement show too much.

—————————

“I heard you were sent to give the King his dinner,” Wanda comments, as she brushes the tangles out of her hair. The two of you are in the small bedroom which you share in the servants quarters.

“I was,” you confirm.

“And how was that?”

You don’t reply immediately, pausing to lace up the ties on your simple linen nightgown. “He was…unusual,” you murmur, “It seemed like he was interested in me,”.

Wanda snorts. “I’m sure he’s like that to all the maids in the castle,” she scoffs. “Probably beds a different girl every night. Certainly has the wealth to do so,”.

“Maybe,” you agree, even though you can’t help but think that Wanda is wrong. Whatever happened between you and the King was something unique. The moment had felt charged, electric even. There was an intense curiosity behind those blue eyes, a force that connected with you on a deeper level.

But then again, perhaps that is just your wishful thinking. Wanda has worked in the castle for longer, after all, she’s probably more aware of the King’s habits. You sigh heavily as you climb into bed, lying on your side to face Wanda.

“Why has he not wed anyone yet?” you ask.

She shrugs one shoulder indifferently. “I’ve heard that the pressure on him is mounting to produce an heir to the kingdom. Lady Potts has been suggested as a potential suitor, as has Lady Romanoff,”.

You hum thoughtfully. “Well, whoever he weds, I hope they make him happy,” you murmur, “I think he deserves it,”.

—————————

Over the next few days, you become increasingly aware of the King’s presence. No matter where you are in the castle, or what it is you’re doing, he always manages to show up — if, only for the briefest moment of time — casting that curious gaze over you, watching discreetly from the shadows. The more King James observes you, the more difficult it is to get thoughts of him out of your head; they plague you constantly, a cloud of fantasies and sinful desires which you keep to yourself.

It is just your luck when, a couple of weeks after you’d served the King his soup, Maria dashes into the kitchen late in the evening, a mildly panicked look on her face. You are the only cook still remaining, so she turns to you.

“Take this to the King’s study!” she cries, thrusting a decanter of port into your hands, “I cannot believe I have forgotten to send Sharon up with his nightly port!”

You stand there, dumbfounded by your orders. Maria growls in frustration, grabbing your elbow and hustling you out of the kitchen. “Quick girl, take the shortcut passage to the drawing room, hurry!” she urges.

You hasten down the corridor, heart racing in your chest at the thought of seeing King James up close once more. The shortcut passage is dark, forcing you to squint in the dim lighting. You pray that you’re going the right way; the entire castle is filled with narrow shortcut corridors like this one, meant for servants to use to travel quickly from one place to another. You try to conjure up a map of the castle in your head — this passage should lead you to the drawing room opposite the library, and the King’s chamber should be to the left—

“Oomph!”

Something large and incredibly solid crashes into you, sending the bottle of port tumbling to the floor, the glass shattering into a million shards with a sickening smash. In the darkness, you’d failed to notice the person coming down the corridor in the opposite direction. You can feel wetness seeping into the material of your bodice, making your dress cling to your skin — some of the port must have spilled onto you.

You huff angrily. “Why you little—,”

“Oh ho ho, what is this?” asks a dark, gravelly voice. You freeze, recognising it immediately. “If it isn’t little Y/N, getting angry at the King for her own clumsiness,”.

“I—didn’t—I’m sorry—,” you stammer, words failing you in your shock.

“You should be,” the King hisses, taking ahold of your wrist and dragging you down the corridor after him. His strides are much longer than yours, forcing you to walk at a fast trot in order to keep up. You know that it is futile to resist him; King James is much stronger than you and if he so wanted, could carry you with ease. Besides, if he is already furious with you, there is no point in angering him further.

You’ll finally get a glimpse of that infamous temper of his.

The King walks briskly to his chambers, shouldering open the door to his study effortlessly. Now that the lighting has improved, you can see that he’s taken off the formal robes he wears during the day and changed into a simple pair of trousers and a white linen shirt. Vibrant pink is splashed over the front of his shirt, where the port has spilled. You cringe internally at the sight, mentally preparing yourself for the berating that will inevitably come.

To your surprise — and confusion — the King doesn’t say anything. You wait by the door, hands folded in front of you, your head bowed respectfully. King James stalks over to his desk, untying the laces of his shirt as he goes. With his back to you, he pulls the shirt over his head and drops it onto the table. You stifle a gasp at the sight of his bare back; sinuous muscles ripple underneath his skin, which glows invitingly by the light of the fire.

What interests you more is the extensive scarring over his left arm. Ridges of darkened tissue bloom over his shoulder, twisting and coiling their way down the limb, going as far down as his wrist. You vaguely remember Sharon telling you that the King had been involved in a terrible accident during battle, leaving his arm mangled and almost unsalvageable.

He turns to you now, padding swiftly across the room to stand in front of you. Your breath hitches in your throat as the King draws near. You’re fighting to keep your gaze trained on the floor, ignoring the overwhelming urge to roam your eyes over his half-naked body.

“Tell me, Y/N, are you afraid?” the King asks softly.

“Y-yes, your majesty,” you reply, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“What do you think I will do?”

There is something in the tone of his voice that piques your interest; amusement mixed with a note of concern. Though it is a risky gesture, you lift your eyes to meet his gaze. You’re taken aback by the softness in his gaze — perhaps he does not intend to punish you after all.

“I…don’t know, your majesty,” you answer honestly, “I was careless, and should have seen you coming. I am sorry,”.

“I wouldn’t fret about it,” the King assures you, “I should have been more watchful myself. Besides, I have plenty of shirts — the loss of one is not a huge concern to me,”.

You breathe out an internal sigh of relief, overjoyed by this turn of events.

“Would you like to stay, Y/N?” he asks.

“Your majesty?” you murmur uncertainly, your mouth twisting into a frown. Does the King wish to send you away from the castle?

“Please,” says the King, “Call me Bucky, when we are alone. I drop the title on the other side of this door,”.

“Bucky,” you repeat, feeling the syllables roll off your tongue with a surprisingly familiar ease. “But I thought your name was James, your ma—Bucky,” you correct yourself.

Bucky smiles gently, “Yes, it is. James is my formal name, but Bucky is a nickname I allow the people closest to me to use,”. A thrilled shiver runs down your spine at the implication behind his words.

You nod slowly, licking your lips before speaking again. “Why—why would you want me to stay, Bucky?”

A shy smile spreads over his lips. “You are incredibly beautiful, princess,” Bucky breathes, one hand reaching out to cup your cheek.

“Princess?” you echo, brows knitting in confusion, “But I am no princess, Bucky. I’m just a humble cook,”.

“This is true,” Bucky agrees, “But in here, with me, you can be my princess. Would you like that?”. His thumb is brushing over your cheekbone, touch gentle and hesitant. You cannot stop yourself from leaning your head to the side, pressing your cheek into Bucky’s palm. You have a feeling you know exactly what the King’s intentions are, but you have no desire or will to resist them. This might lead you to your ruin, but Bucky is, without question, the man you want to be with.

“Yes,” you reply, tipping your head back to look into his soulful blue eyes, “I would like that very much,”.

—————————

A few nights later, you’re startled when someone raps their knuckles on the door to your bedchambers. Wanda frowns, puzzled as to who could possibly be wanting to see you at this late hour. You get out of bed and cross the room to open the door, stunned to find the King’s closest advisor, Lord Steve, on the other side.

“Good evening, Y/N,” he says formally, bowing his head in respect. “The King has summoned you to his chambers. Follow me, if you please,”.

You look at Wanda over your shoulder, whose eyebrows have shot up so high, they almost disappear into her hairline. She winks at you, jerking her head to the side in a silent go.

“Yes, of course,” you say to the Lord, pulling the door shut behind you, “Lead the way,”.

Lord Steve takes you down a series of corridors towards the King’s chambers. He stops beside a small room and pushes the door open, gesturing for you to step inside. “Go inside,” he instructs, “There is a dress there for you. You may leave the rest of your clothes on the table after you’ve changed. I will wait here,”.

“Yes sir,” you murmur, stepping inside. The Lord shuts the door after you.

It’s a small bath chamber, a basin filled with water in one corner of the room, a bar of soap and a rag beside it. Against the opposite wall is a table, on top of which lies an exquisite black lace dress, that seems to reveal more than it covers. Hanging from a hook on the wall is a long black cloak, presumably for you to wear on top of the dress so as to preserve your modesty.

You hastily strip off your nightclothes and step into the basin, groaning as the hot water kisses your skin. Picking up the soap and rag, you work up a good amount of lather, then use the rag to clean yourself as best as possible. You wash the grime for underneath your nails and rub at your skin until it is scrubbed raw. After your late-night tryst with Bucky a few days ago, you have a feeling you know what you’re in for tonight, and want to be as nice as possible for him.

Once you’re satisfied with your cleanliness, you pick up the small towel beside the basin to dry yourself off. Then, you cross over to the table and carefully pick up the lace dress. As you hold it up, you see that the lace has been interwoven with silver threads that catch the light and sparkle seductively whenever the dress moves. You put it on, fastening the row of buttons down the front of the bodice whilst marvelling at how well the garment accentuates your body. After donning the cloak and ensuring that it covers everything, you go outside to meet Lord Steve.

The walk to Bucky’s chambers is silent. Steve knocks thrice on the door and, upon hearing Bucky’s call of ‘enter’, gestures for you to go inside.

Bucky is pacing back and forth over the floor of his study, robes half-off and in disarray. He stops in his tracks when he sees you, eyes immediately going soft and tender.

“My princess,” he says quietly, rushing over to your side, “I have been dying to see you again,”.

“Me too, your maj—Bucky,” you reply, smiling coyly at him. Bucky’s eyes flick up and down your body. When he notes the black cloak, his eyes widen infinitesimally.

“The dress? It’s to your liking?” Bucky asks breathlessly, his big hands coming to rest on your waist. You lean up on your tiptoes and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I want you to see it,” you whisper, taking one of his hands and bringing it to the fastening on your cloak. His breath quickens, pupils dilating as he fumbles to get it open. The dark material pools around your feet, revealing you in that glorious dress. Bucky looks like he’s about ready to eat you alive; you’ll happily let him do so, if that’s what he wishes.

“My princess,” he growls, eyes darkening with lust, “You truly are beautiful,”.

—————————

Wanda pulls you aside one evening as you’re sneaking away to Bucky’s chambers, a grim set to her jaw. You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, but she claps her hand over it, pulling you into an alcove. She glances up and down the corridor to ensure that no one is eavesdropping on your conversation — your affair with the King is still a secret, after all.

“Lady Romanoff is arriving at the castle in two days’ time,” Wanda says tersely.

Your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach at her words. “What—what does she want?” you ask, voice strained.

Wanda sighs, squeezing your shoulder gently. “We’ve…been asked to prepare the bridal chambers for her arrival,”.

“Bridal chambers?” you hiss, stomach doing a nauseating flip-flop at the word.

“Yes,” Wanda replies, lips pursed. “I am to be one of her ladies in waiting. They are to be married, Y/N. The wedding arrangements have been going on in secret for months, apparently,”.

Your heart stills inside your chest, icy-cold talons of dread encircling it in a vice-like grip. It is as if your entire world is collapsing around you, since the one source of happiness in your life has been cruelly ripped out of it. If he knew about this, why would he lead you on with his promises of a forever together?

“You can’t go back to him, Y/N,” Wanda whispers sadly, “Not when he is to be married to someone else,”.

“I at least need to see him again,” you protest, crossing your arms over your chest, “To ask—to…for answers,”.

Wanda seems hesitant to agree, but shrugs nonetheless. “If…you think that is wise,”.

“Thank you, Wanda,” you say sincerely, squeezing her hand, “For telling me of this. I will—,”

“There’s no need,” she assures you, “I wish you the best in there Y/N. Crossing a member of the royal family is not for the faint-hearted and weak,”.

You hurry through the castle, rage simmering below the surface of your skin as you reflect upon your foolish naivety.

The few months you’d had together are beyond what words could describe. You cannot remember how you lived without him; Bucky is your sun, your moon, the only thing holding you to this planet. Every moment you’d shared together you treasure dearly. Your heart is completely devoted to your King, belonging to him entirely. There is no doubt of it in your mind; you would’ve done anything for him, surrendered yourself completely to him, if that is what he asked of you.

It’s a shame that Bucky does not feel the same.

You’re on edge when you step into Bucky’s study and he picks up on this immediately. He comes to your side and wraps his arms around your waist, rests his chin atop your head.

“My princess,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over the small of your back. “What troubles you?”

There is no skirting around the issue here, it is best to get this over and done with as fast as possible. “Why did you never tell me?” you ask coldly.

Bucky tenses, the hand on your back stilling all of a sudden. “Tell you…what?” Bucky asks slowly.

“Don’t play the fool,” you snap, pushing him away from you. Bucky swallows nervously when he sees the livid fire in your eyes. “I know that you are to wed Lady Romanoff in a few days’ time. You’ve been planning this for months — why didn’t you tell me?” you scream.

He hesitates, disconcerted by the unbidden rage in your tone. In his silence, you press onwards, throwing more accusations his way.

“You don’t care about me anymore, do you? Did you ever?” you snarl, fighting to keep your voice steady despite the anguish threatening to bubble out of you. “Did I ever mean something to you, or was I just another girl to bed? A conquest? A game for you to play with? Was my heart nothing more than another one of your toys?” you ask, voice becoming shriller and more hysterical at the end.

Bucky shakes his head fervently, hands reaching out to cup your face. You swat them away angrily.

“Princess, I—,”

“Don’t you princess me, your majesty,” you mock, “We both know that I am not a princess. That’s the problem there, isn’t it?”

“I love you,” he says desperately, collapsing to his knees in front of you, hands fisting in the skirt of your dress. “Please, I swear on my life, I love you,”.

“I find that hard to believe,” you say curtly, gingerly disentangling his fingers from your skirts. “You love me, yet you’re marrying her,”.

“No, Y/N, please believe me,” Bucky pleads, the torment evident in his tone, “I do love you, I love you with all of my heart,”.

“That may be true,” you concede, “But I will always love you more. How can your love for me ever match my love for you, if you choose to marry her?”.

“Choose?” Bucky repeats in disbelief, “I have no choice,”.

You shake your head sadly, allowing the back of your hand to graze over his stubbled cheek one last time. “I have always known that this would end, your majesty,” you murmur, “Goodbye, my King. Please, if you truly mean what you say, do not send for me again,”.

And with that, you turn on your heel and dash out of his chambers.

Bucky may well have loved you with every fibre of his being, but the truth is, you have always loved him more; that is a fact that will likely haunt you for the rest of your miserable existence. You’d dared to cross a royal — which itself is an act worthy of punishment — but at this point, death may be more merciful than life. A life without him by your side is the most barbaric form of torture you could ever imagine. Can it even be called living if your heart has been torn out of your chest, leaving a yawning cavern of despair in its wake?

You don’t think so.

-------------------------- Taglist is open, but I’m only accepting requests via PM or asks! Tagging requests through comments/replies will be discounted.

#erinswritingchallenge #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #royalty AU #medieval AU #king!bucky #servant!reader #wanda maximoff #steve rogers #maria hill #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes smut #my writing #the king's cook

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this-is-big-lady · 7 years

Text

Swipe Right part 4/10

part 1, part 2, part 3

Hey guys! Here’s a long chapter to make up for the filler that was part 3, and to celebrate the last day of my second year of uni! (except for exams...) Fun fact, all of the courses that are mentioned in here are actual courses offered at my university, some of which I’ve taken. And all the places are real places on my campus!

A piercing alarm woke Davey from his dreamless sleep. He threw an arm over his eyes, groaning as he rolled over to fumble blindly for his phone. Begrudgingly rubbing his face, he squinted at the bright screen, stabbing at the stop button before the alarm finally switched off. He lay on his back with a huff, seeing the gentle morning light slipping through the gaps at the sides and bottom of his curtains, and stretching to wake up.

Davey stared at the ceiling for a few moments before he remembered the events of last night and sat bolt upright, scrambling to see if he had any new messages from the night before. He did, but none from the person he wanted. A couple from his family group chat, his mum wishing him well for the new week and Les sending him a picture of the new book he picked up from the library, and a couple from guys on tinder, but none from Jack. He dragged his hands through his hair in an effort to remove some of his bed hair, and pulled himself out of his bed.

He padded into into the kitchen only to be greeted by sunshine in human form, Crutchie. Through a mouthful of toast, Crutchie managed to articulate a “good morning!” to Davey, to which he simply replied, “do you always have to be so fucking chipper in the mornings?” Crutchie swallowed his toast and smiled in response, and Davey rolled his eyes and turned to make his own toast.

Thankfully the two boys didn’t live too far from campus, so after Davey finished his breakfast and had a shower, the friends walked to college together before they headed off to their respective classes - Drama on Stage and Screen for Davey, and Social Policy for Crutchie. They always enjoyed the walk, it meant they could complain to each other about what the day’s classes had in store for them, or they could grab coffee if they’d been up late studying. Crutchie’s lecture hall was on the way to Davey’s, so they said their goodbyes and Davey continued to his classroom.

30 minutes into the class, Davey couldn’t be more bored. He loved this class, but the topic of today’s lecture wasn’t capturing him. As the lecturer droned on about how Disney adapted Beauty and the Beast from its original French fairy tale, his phone dinged in his pocket. He scrambled to turn it onto silent, and checked the notification: Jack sent you a new message. An involuntary squeak of surprise came from his mouth, and he swiftly apologised to the people around him who turned to look at the commotion. His cheeks quickly went bright red, and his heart was pounding as he opened the message. Even though he felt guilty for ignoring his lecturer, this couldn’t wait.

His message said, ‘I’d love to talk to you about art sometime, but it’s pretty difficult to talk with the masterpiece ;)’

He openly gaped at the message, his blush travelling to his ears and burning his face. Did Jack really just insinuate that he, Davey Jacobs, was a masterpiece? Even if it was a cheesy pick up line coming from the fact that he listed art as one of his interests in his bio, Davey couldn’t quite believe anyone would have the balls to send him that.

Davey spoke too soon, as a second message quickly appeared under the first.

‘But seriously, I’d love to talk with you sometime. Does coffee tomorrow sound good?’

He felt like he could faint. His heart was pounding a million miles a minute and Davey swore the people sitting around him in the lecture theatre could hear it. He laughed a little to himself - more like a tiny exhalation of air - as he realised that Crutchie was right. Jack came to him first! When he managed to calm down enough that his hands stopped shaking from the adrenaline, he texted Crutchie that something urgent happened and that he needed to skip his next class to meet him. Crutchie’s tendency to do anything for his friends meant he’d definitely meet him in the quad area between their two buildings, and that’s what the duo agreed to do.

When the lecturer dismissed Davey’s class, he was the first one out the door and speed walked to the tree in the quad. Crutchie took a minute longer to reach the tree, but was panting a little, so he obviously went as fast as possible to see what was so urgent that he had to skip his Learning Sexualities course.

“Wha- What happened?” Crutchie projected as soon as he was in earshot. Davey’s smile from ear to ear showed that it clearly wasn’t a bad thing, but Crutchie was confused. Normally when someone said something was urgent, it meant it was bad. So why was Davey smiling?

“He messaged me!” Davey all but yelled. “You were right! I didn’t do a thing and he… Jack messaged me!” He boy was bouncing on his toes, a bubble about to burst from too much excitement.

Crutch slowed down to a stop in front of Davey, processing the information. “You mean to tell me, that you texted me in the middle of a lecture - something you never do,” Davey’s head nodded furiously to prove Crutchie’s point. “And then told me it was urgent, which it probably wasn’t, because a boy messaged you on a dating app you downloaded last night?!” Davey was a little stunned at the hint of anger mixed in with Crtuchie’s surprise. He started to scuff his shoes against the dirt , and mumbling out an apology. “Well, yeah, Crutch. I guess I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sor-“

“No, don’t finish that sentence.” Crutchie hated seeing Davey like that, doubting himself and feeling like he’d done the wrong thing. He was genuinely excited for his friend, he was just surprised at the un-Davey like behaviour. Even if he was missing a lecture, he knew it was important to his friend for him to be here. Crutchie took a step closer to Davey, waving his bum leg over Davey’s feet in order to get his attention from where he was studying the ground. When Davey looked up at him, he simply asked, “What did Jack say?”

Davey’s eyes lit up as he fished in his pocket for his phone and he excitedly blurted out, “He called me a masterpiece Crutch! He really did! And he asked me out for coffee tomorrow, isn’t that exciting?!” Davey thrust his phone into Crutchie’s right hand, letting go of the hand hold of that arm’s crutch, and scanning the two messages for himself. He smile back at his friend, and with a laugh in his voice said “That’s so great Davey, I’m so happy for you!” Davey bobbed a little side to side, a telltale sign that he was genuinely happy. “Well, what are you gonna reply, loverboy?”

“Reply? I… I don’t really know.” Davey’s smile faltered a little and his bobbing slowed. “I was kinda hoping that you’d help me, Crutch.” The younger boy couldn’t help but smile up to Davey - he’d never seen his normally hyper-focused friend get so torn up about someone. Even if it had been less than 24 hours, this kind of distraction from his constant work and worry would be good for him. “Of course I’ll help you Davey! But if Jack can wait overnight, he can wait for the next two hours. You know how much Trudy hates it when people are late to her class!” Crutchie gave the phone back to Davey who was elated to hear that his room mate was going to help him out.

Crutchie started to head off to his lecture that would be starting any second. He was going to be late and probably get called out by his lecturer for it, but he knew that it’d be worth it if it meant he got to help Davey. “Lunchroom in the Human Sciences Building, 1pm, okay?!” He yelled over his shoulder as he walked away, and saw Davey throw him a thumbs ups in acknowledgement. This was going to be a long day for Crutchie.

As he walked into the lunchroom, Crutchie could see Davey peering at his phone’s illuminated screen and picking at his fingernails. It was a bad nervous habit of his that he could never seem to break. When he reached Davey’s table, he tapped him on the shoulder, taking the boy of his reverie, even if he jumped a little. “Oh hey, Crutch. How was class?” Crutchie sighed as he slung his bag off his shoulder and plonked down on the seat next to Davey. “The usual, y’know. It was Learning Sexualities, so just lots of gay kids yelling at each other under the guise of a ‘class discussion’. At least it’s an easy pass.” Davey chuckled a little at Crutchie’s exasperation. He definitely knew the feeling of sitting through a painful class. “Anyway,” the blonde boy continued, “have you thought about what you want to say?”

With a sigh Davey nervously ran his hand through his hair and stared at the two blue message bubbles that were staring back at him. “I mean, it’s a fairly simple message right?” He looked at Crutch for approval, and he nodded back at Davey with a smile. “I should just say that coffee tomorrow works for me and ask where. I can do that.”

A few quiet moments passed as Davey’s affirmation hung in the air, and he made no move to do what he said he would. “So, do it” Crutchie prompted. He noted that Davey’s hands shook a little as he held his phone. Nerves. More silence.

“What if he kills me Crutch?” Davey’s eyes were pleading as he looked at his friend. This was Davey’s first foray into the dating world, his nerves were understandable. Good thing then that he had the ever optimistic Crutchie on his side.

Crutchie placed his hand softly over Davey’s hand longing onto his phone. “That would put a real dampener on his project, Dave.” This was met with a groan from the nervous boy, who clearly though that his friend’s attempt at humour wasn’t funny. “I’ll tell you what, how about I sit in the coffee shop too? Not at the same table, of course, but I’ll be there in case you need an easy way out. How does that sound?”

Davey’s eyes flicked between Crutchie’s face and his phone as he was processing the request. “That sounds… good.” Davey visibly relaxed at the reassurance that his best friend would be there to look after him, to which Crutchie patted him on the back. “Excellent! Now, all we have to do Dave, is accept Jack’s invitation!”

Davey took a deep breath to steady his hands and typed out a quick message to his virtual conversation partner, and showed Crutchie for approval. “‘Tomorrow sounds perfect. When and where works for you?’,” he snuck a smile at Davey who was back to picking at his nails, waiting for the go-ahead. “It’s perfect Davey! And it’s…”He looked back down at the phone at tapped the send button, telling Davey when the sent symbol appear. “Sent!”

Davey opened his mouth in panic to protest, and Crutchie slipped his index finger over his friend’s mouth to silence him. “No protests, Jacobs. I simply did what you didn’t have the balls to do.” After a moment, Davey pushed away the wrist resting under his chin, simply noting, “fair enough.”

The boys dug into their lunches - mince pasta with a very generous helping of cheese for Crutchie, and chicken sandwiches for Davey. They bitched back and forth about their classes and upcoming assignments. Thankfully they were coming up to a two week break, so they had time to relax a little and do their course work at a slightly more leisurely pace. In the middle of Davey’s animated monologue about masculinity in Beauty and the Beast, a lecture he received last week in his literature course, his phone sounded from where it was placed next to his lunch box. His heart leapt into his throat as he saw Jack’s message notification from Tinder. The monologue came to a screeching holt as he scrambled for his phone and unlocked it. Crutchie sat and watched an elated expression spread across Davey’s face.

“The Starbucks opposite the church on the south end of campus. 2pm… Oh my god Crutchie I have a date!” Davey’s eyes widened with excitement and he clutched his phone close to his chest. Crutchie couldn’t help but laugh, Davey was just too damn excited and it was the best thing he’d seen all week. “Not so loud, Jacobs!”

Only a few people had turned to look at the outburst Davey had made, but the boy was on cloud nine and couldn’t care at all. He quickly typed out a reply - Sounds great, I’ll see you there :)

“I guess I have a date with a coffee and my social policy essay too,” Crutchie added with a lilt and a smile. Davey jumped up and walked over to his friend, leaning down and wrapping his arms around Crutchie’s torso, resting somewhat awkwardly on his shoulders. “You’re seriously the best, Crutch. Was would I do without you?” The smaller boy patted Davey’s arm, and stated the obvious. “You certainly wouldn’t have a hot date tomorrow, I can tell you that.”

#javid #davey jacobs #crutchie morris #jack kelly #newsies #newsies fanfiction #tinder au

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wonademnigaz-blog · 6 years

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“Who’s afraid...?”

A headline from the Sunday, May 21, 2017 New York Times caught my attention. It was nothing momentous, nothing of concern on the national or international stage – although it did concern a stage. This news item, probably and justifiably inconsequential to most readers, was about what is not going to appear on the stage of a 35-seat theater in Portland, Oregon, and why. The “why” is what caught me.

The story, written by Times theater reporter Michael Paulson, was about the minor controversy that arose when a producer planning to mount a production of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” learned he would not be granted the rights to do so because a black actor was cast in the role of a character whose blue-eyed blondness is spoken of more than once in the play. Playwright Edward Albee, who had died eight months before the news article, was notoriously protective of his work, so the denial of rights by his estate was in line with what he would have wished. As Paulson writes:

“Albee, one of the nation’s leading 20th-century playwrights, was known for his tight control over professional productions of his plays, insisting on approval of casts and directors while he was alive; directors were often required to submit head shots of proposed cast members before receiving the rights to mount his plays.”

Before you get the wrong idea about where I’m going with this, let me say Albee’s (and his estate’s) objections are not without merit. Albee set his play in the 1960s, and the character in question, Nick, is married. Paulson writes that a representative of the estate noted that Albee himself, having previously considered the matter of nontraditional casting, had pointed out that a black and white couple in that period “‘… would not have gone unacknowledged…’” Let me say also that Albee was not always consistent; a black actress played the lead without his objections in 2002. Paulson reports that, two years earlier, Albee assisted with a black-cast production of the play at Howard University. So, no, I see no need to view this brouhaha as racism extending its grip from the grave. What, then, is my interest in this story? Well, we’ll get to that.

First, let me share part of an exchange I had before beginning to write this. I asked a friend (Gregory Ford, and for reasons that will be made clear) what his thoughts were on the matter. He wrote:

“I don’t have any problem with the Albee estate’s decision. 1) It’s his work. If you want to do your interpretation, write your work; 2) August Wilson – again write your own works from your own people’s mythology; 3) I think Albee writes about whiteness and its repercussions on the world in a way that is similar to how Melville writes about whiteness and how its pursuit, spurred by capitalism, is destructive. I think casting Black actors in this situation allows white people in particular to avoid looking at the destruction their systems perpetrate and how they collude in the maintenance of that destruction.”

My agreement was only partial. So strongly do I feel that artists should be doing their own thing that I once wrote a proposal and distributed it among theater friends questioning the efficacy of waiting for casting calls and other offers of work from theaters and producers. (I was young and idealistic). I entreated them to work collectively as their own producers, commissioning the writing of new plays, renting or leasing theater space, hiring directors and other personnel, and developing the criteria for casting members of the collective in productions.

My thinking varied from Ford’s in that I did not see Albee’s work as about whiteness. I wonder if Albee did. If so, he underestimated his own gifts as an artist. In Albee’s work, I’ve always found the human experience, as I have in the works of artists who may never have had “the other” in mind when in the act of creating. I’ve always been able to see the lives of black people reflected in the experiences of those who might never imagine such a thing. As if reading my mind, Ford later followed up with this erudite observation:

“On the other hand, a large part of the survival of African Americans is due to the appropriation of the cultural conserves of other cultures and adapting them to forms that served to express and nurture the existence of Africans in the diaspora. Jazz, gospel and all that has come since. So why not appropriate Albee or My Fair Lady?”

Exactly.

The question of my interest in this story can be answered by something else Ford said in his first thoughts on the matter, when his initial reaction to the Times article elicited admonishment for those who would do Albee their way. “My views have shifted since we did it, maybe. And maybe it’s different if it is an all-Black cast. I don’t know.” Twelve years before Albee reportedly assisted Howard University with such a cast, Ford, the late Gideon Ferebee and I attempted to mount such a production. What happened instead is the tale I now tell.

My interest began long ago on a Saturday night, sitting in front of a television, not prepared for the movie I was about to see, now eternally grateful. I guess I sat down to watch because of who was going to be in it: Elizabeth Taylor and her then-husband, Richard Burton. The night ended with me being marked for life. Why the caustic relationship of the main characters left such a lasting influence on a high-schooler is something I have yet to figure out. Later, when reading Albee’s “The Zoo Story” in English class and learning the movie that had stunned me was a film adaptation of another of his plays, it was the beginning of an idea that stayed buried in the back of my mind for years: I would love to do that play one day and, if I ever did, all the characters would be black.

Those who have known me since those days already know the idea of my doing a play is not unusual. Theater, not academics, was the motivating factor for me in high school. In fact, by the time I got to be a senior, there were days when I only went to school after dismissal time and only for rehearsals of the play we were doing. Even my brief foray into academia following high school was curtailed by a lack of interest in school; among other non-academic pursuits, I was drawn to the black drama group on campus.

The idea of doing Albee’s play never left me, but – over the years — became more of a nice dream because of a dilemma I saw no way of overcoming. “Virginia Woolf” requires an actress of prodigious talents to play the lead character of Martha, and it had been more than a decade since I had seen one I knew could pull it off. She, too, had joined that college drama group, a girl so good it just didn’t make sense, a girl named Alfre Woodard.

Then, one evening, I saw my Martha. She was at the now-defunct Back Alley Theater which was in DC’s 16th Street Heights neighborhood. I had gone there to see the play “Bumps.” I remember an evening of energy and excitement and wonderful performances, and in the midst of all that talent stood a standout. Her name is Cathy Simpson (still doing her thing, having finished a run in “Seven Guitars” in St. Louis another in “Peaceable Kingdom” in Philadelphia). At the time, I didn’t know whether I ever would do Albee’s play, but seeing Cathy gave me hope.

Hope grew when I learned about Sanctuary Theater, a venue then in Columbia Heights where that neighborhood meets the communities of Adams-Morgan and Mt. Pleasant, right in my neighborhood in fact, but a theater I never had visited. That changed when the late Garth Tate decided to direct his play “Blood Moon” there and asked me to do the lights, something I regularly did for folk who needed it. At Sanctuary, I became acquainted with its founders and artistic directors, Michael Oliver and Elizabeth Bruce, and learned how accommodating they were with their space. Their co-founder, Jill Navarre, a director I had done lights for on a few productions, has written of the three of them that, “We were crazy enough to think we could start a new theatre company in Washington which would present cross cultural, inter-racial, avant-garde theatre. And we did.” Following Garth’s play, the actor Clayton LeBouef asked me to do the lights for “Tied Apart,” a play he was directing there, one he had written and in which he would be performing. Clayton would have been a perfect “Nick” for a production of “Virginia Woolf,” but that was still a dream.

The dream began to take form thanks to two colleagues and collaborators, Ford and the late Gideon Ferebee, both of whom – like I (and the aforementioned Garth Tate) – had been among the founding members of the Station-to-Station Performance Poets and Writers’ Collective. The Collective had run its course (another story for another day), and one of the things that had grown from it was Dream-Keepers Productions, an idea of Gideon’s that he had invited Ford and me to help make real. We saw the potential Sanctuary presented and decided to make use of it. As co-producers, we would rent the theater and mount two productions to run in repertory. Ford would direct “The Dozens” by Laird Koenig, and – finally — I was going to direct “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”

There was no need to hold auditions for the role of Martha. In my mind, there could be no play without Cathy Simpson in the role. When asked, she said yes. That left me with the stark realization that the other cast members had to be able to rise to her standards. My first inclination was to also not hold auditions for the role of Nick, but to offer it to a young actor I had been strongly impressed by when he had performed at Sanctuary in Clayton’s play, an actor named Isaiah Washington; Isaiah said yes, which meant two down and two to go.

I booked space at the city’s Reeves Center and held auditions for the roles of George, Martha’s husband, and Honey, Nick’s wife. The character of George must be able to go toe-to-toe with the tornado/volcano that is Martha, able to slow her wind and douse her flame; the actor playing the part had to be able to hold his own with Cathy. That actor was Michael Mack, who stepped up to the plate at the audition and hit an out-of-the-ballpark homerun right-off-the-bat, causing me to have to disappoint a friend and neighbor who really wanted the part. I had encountered Michael ten years earlier, when I was running lights at what had been the O. Street Theater when I attended a play there in high school, but what had become the grandiloquently-named Paul Robeson International Center for the Performing Arts (again, another story for another time). Michael had wowed everyone who watched him the day he came to the Robeson to audition, but the Center’s artistic director decided that the then 15-year-old, who had been accompanied there by his father, was too young for the play we were doing at the time (Richard Wesley’s, “The Mighty Gents”). Now, ten years later, here he was demonstrating he had only gotten better. The character of George is a middle-aged man, but the 25-year-old Michael had the voice, the presence, could the effect the carriage, and could evince the gravitas needed to pull it off. I gave him the part. The cast was complete when I selected an actress named Pamela Armstrong for the role of Honey. There would be a black-cast production of “Virginia Woolf” in Washington, DC.

Not knowing any better, we assumed that the fact it would be non-equity, community theater precluded our having to obtain the rights to the play, so we didn’t. The first line-reading rehearsals took place in my living room. Then, something happened that would fundamentally change not only the nature of the production, it would deepen a dimension of the play itself.

At this point, I need you to remember something essential to the story that Albee wrought, how it turns on acts of betrayal. Also consider that, in this society, the very nature of something as universal as betrayal can be wholly transformed when experienced by black Americans. Engendered by acts of betrayal intended to cut a soul to the quick, the rage and sense of emasculation Albee intended his characters to feel could – depending on the trigger — easily metastasize exponentially in a black Martha or a black George. Isaiah unintentionally provided that trigger.

My dream of an all-black “Virginia Woolf” died early in the process. One day when we still were in the line-reading phase, Isaiah informed me that – now that he was no longer studying drama at Howard University — he had decided he was leaving DC and heading home to Texas. Not quite a year ago, in an interview with Soraya McDonald, senior culture writer for ESPN’s The Undefeated, Isaiah spoke of his time here:

“Once I realized I was splitting my time from the Sanctuary Theater, and D.C. Space, and George Washington University’s basement theater programs, I found myself quickly ready to make a move. I was like a year short of graduating. … I ran out of money, and, you know, tried to take side jobs here and there, up and down Georgia Avenue, at the Ibex [go-go club], working there, doing whatever I could. Odd jobs, moving people out of their homes, offices … whatever I could get. But just could not afford to remain, and could not qualify for any funding.”

Well, it’s true that we could not afford to pay him much.

You’ve heard the saying before, so you know the show must go on, and on we went. The show, however, was to take a completely different turn, and the depth it added to the play was something that even went over my head initially. I already had decided I would keep the dialogue about George and Martha’s imaginary Aryan son; I wanted to use it to depict the self-hatred felt by some blacks. I didn’t realize until later how that would mesh so well with the dynamic introduced by the very presence of the actor who would be my new Nick, Matthew Bretz – who is white.

Cathy had done a play with Matthew and suggested I audition him. He read for the part, and I could see he would do just fine. Off-stage drama due to personality clashes led to Pamela’s departure, and she was replaced as Honey by an actress named Edie Kattlekopp – also white. So, now, there was the black, middle-aged couple with serious issues spending an evening entertaining the unsuspecting and alternately bewildered and appalled young white couple with issues of their own. It is not difficult to understand why Nick and Honey would endure such an ordeal when social and political maneuverings are involved; Nick, after all, is a college professor with ambition and Martha, his hostess for the evening, just so happens to be the president’s daughter.

It was when we moved to the theater for rehearsals that I finally saw what I had not seen before, the degree to which certain interactions within this racial mix might make the impending explosions and implosions seem even more certain, more consequential, more relevant. Watching the actors from the lighting booth, I began to understand what had been added by the change in casting, how – for some audience members – the feelings elicited by the proceedings of the night would not arise if watching a dissimilar staging of the play. When the betrayals that propel the play toward its conclusion begin, the severity of the resulting wounds would suggest the pain being borne by the characters is greater than even Albee could have imagined. Was it hubris on my part to think such a thing?

Consider the character of George alone. Albee puts him through the humiliating experience of having to observe his wife overtly flirt with the younger Nick, to watch as she dances with him in a seductive manner, to suffer through the realization that his alcohol-fueled wife and guest disappear for an attempted sexual dalliance. It is easy to understand how any man might feel in that situation; certainly, Albee did. My George, however, was not just “any man.” This was an accomplished black man in America being disrespected and dismissed in his own home by a white man, with his own wife as a willing accomplice. How would black audience members respond? Would white audience members comprehend the magnitude of the assault on George’s senses and psyche?

Unfortunately, these questions never were formally answered. During the run of the play, I never thought to have an audience discussion after a performance, as is done at times. Comments usually centered on aspects of the staging or the affecting performances (or the wonderful set design by the late Robert “Bobby” Spirdione). Perhaps the only thing that matters is that these questions were answered in the experiences of people sitting in a darkened theater.

Going back to the Times article that started all of this, reporter Michael Paulson quotes Tim Bond, the man who directed the black actress as Martha in 2002 (Andrea Frye, at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival). “I think the play would work beautifully with any number of approaches to cross-cultural casting.” For us, that proved to be true.

#ww470 #30days

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a-splash-of-stucky · 7 years

Text

I Know This Game | Eleven

Pairings: Bucky x Foster!Reader

Summary: You’ve won the ultimate prize

Warnings: Implied smut? This is pretty PG, fam. Just some much-needed fluff.

Notes: Chapter title and some of the dialogue was inspired by Halsey’s ‘Now or Never’. Visual insp for this part [x] [x] [x] and [x]. Bucky’s suit and hair.

This is the ‘end’ end of my first-ever foray into the world of Bucky Barnes fanfiction. IKTG is how I met many of you lovely people — and y’all know who you are 😉 — so for that, this fic will always hold a special place in my heart. Thanks for sticking around with me, my darlings, you’re the best. I dedicate this final chapter to you ❤️

side note: props to you if you get where the ending line comes from ;)

IKTG Masterlist

To say that you’re nervous right now would be more than a little bit of an understatement.

When Bucky asked you if you were nervous earlier this morning, you’d told him that you weren’t — and to some extent, that statement still holds true. You’re not nervous.

Well. You are a little bit nervous. It’s complicated.

You’re not nervous about the fact that in about fifteen minute’s time, you’ll finally be able to call Bucky your husband and know that there is nothing, no force in this entire universe strong enough to keep the two of you apart from each other.

You are nervous about having to walk down the aisle and say your vows in front of all those people, though. Sure, ‘all those people’ literally means no one besides your family and your closest friends, but still. The thought of having to say something momentous and profound in front of them is rather nerve-wracking. You want to be married to Bucky, of this you have no doubt; you just don’t know if you’re ready to get married to Bucky, right now.

Why did you turn down the idea of eloping, again?

It is at this point that the door to your dressing room opens and Jane steps inside. She looks wonderful, swathed in a tea-length burgundy tulle dress with her hair pulled back into an elegant bun.

“Hey there, sis,” she murmurs, coming to sit beside you on the couch. “How’re you feeling?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Like—I do kinda wish mum and dad were here.”

“Yeah,” Jane sighs, “Takes dedication to work to a whole new level, huh?”

You shrug. “At least we’re used to it,” you mutter.

Your parents are currently somewhere in the depths of the Congo rainforest, tracking down some rare species of beetle previously thought to be extinct. Because their funding is due to run out in about a month’s time, they’d had no choice but to go now. Sure, it would’ve been nice to have them around for your big day, but you’re not particularly close with them, anyway. Their absence is not that big of an issue for you.

“But you’re okay?” Jane prompts, nudging you with her elbow.

You release a heavy sigh as you nod your head. “Yeah…besides that…I just wanna get this over with,” you say, turning to flash her a tired smile. “Don’t get me wrong — I’m happy and excited, and all of that good stuff, but—,”

“You just wanna skip to the part where you’re Mr and Mrs Barnes, huh?” Jane finishes, chuckling as you nod your head fervently. “Well, in that case, are you about ready to get out there and get married?”

“No,” you say sharply, a sudden rush of panic bubbling up your throat. “Janie, I feel like m’gonna be sick,”.

“Y/N,” Jane sighs, taking both of your hands and pulling you to your feet, ignoring your weak protests. “Everyone says that. What’s gonna go wrong, huh? You love Bucky, Bucky loves you, and both of you wanna get married to each other. Where is the issue in all of this?” As she speaks, Jane reaches up to straighten the delicate lace headband in your hair.

“Jane I…I don’t know, okay?” you huff frustratedly. Jane snorts, grabs your hand and leads you out of the room.

“Are you ready for this?” she asks, turning to look at you over her shoulder. Jane’s voice is firmer this time.

“I don’t know!” you squeak, allowing yourself to be dragged out of the room and down the corridor, “I just—I’m allowed to be nervous, okay? I’m the bride. It’s my day,”.

You can practically hear Jane rolling her eyes in amusement. It’s possible that she says some choice words under her breath. The two of you walk in silence until you get to the double doors at the end of the corridor. Once there, Jane stops, turns around and puts her hands on your shoulders, levelling you with a stern, but loving, gaze.

“Sis, trust me. Everything’s gonna work out. You just need to relax and enjoy yourself, okay? I’m not gonna sit here and lecture you about love and your future with Bucky — I’m probably the least qualified person around to do that — but what I do know is that you’ve been through hell and found each other again. Now, I don’t believe in fate, but something tells me that the universe clearly wants you two to be together. So, we’re gonna get out there, you’re gonna walk down the aisle like you own it, and then you’re gonna make him your husband, you get me?”

“Jane,” you breathe, stunned by her sudden outburst of emotion. “I—,” instead of finishing your sentence, you throw your arms over her shoulders and squeeze her in a suffocatingly-tight hug.

“Love you. Thank you,” you whisper fiercely.

“Okay, okay,” Jane laughs, patting your shoulder awkwardly. “You ready now? Wanna do this?”

You step back, shake out your hair snd roll your shoulders. Jane snorts at your dramatics, but bends down to fluff out the skirt of your dress nonetheless. “You look gorgeous,” she murmurs adoringly, flashing you one last smile before taking your hand and looping it around her elbow.

Perhaps it is a tad bit unconventional to be given away by your little sister, but then again, ‘conventional’ is a word with little meaning to you, nowadays.

The two of you wait in front of the door for what feels like an eternity, before you finally hear the opening bars of the hauntingly beautiful piano melody that you’ve chosen as your procession song. It’s a piece with a name you can’t pronounce, written by some obscure Russian composer — Nat had suggested it to you and you’d fallen in love with it the moment you heard the first notes.

Right on cue, the doors swing open with a dramatic flourish.

After sparing one last glance at each other, you and Jane step out onto the rooftop. You’d come out here earlier this afternoon to see how the set-up was getting on, but at that point, most of the decor had only been half-finished.

Now, your eyes widen in wonder as you take in the beauty of the setting. Fairy-lights and lanterns are strung over the aisle in a sort of ethereal canopy, flickering and twinkling merrily above everyone’s head. In the distance, the setting sun paints the sky in a burnished orange hue, its glowering rays bathing the entire rooftop in a soft, warm glow. Red and blue — the colours of your wedding — decorations complete the scene.

The next few seconds past by in a blur. You dimly register Jane taking a step forward and prompting you to follow her lead. You feel like you’re in a daze. Your eyes roam over the assembled crowd. It’s small; only your family members, your closest friends, plus a few colleagues dotted here and there. Everyone is smiling, and a lot of people already have tears in their eyes. You make eye-contact with a beaming Pepper, who’s looking gorgeous in her pale pink shift dress, one hand resting protectively over her baby bump. You owe so much to her — not least because you have a strong suspicion that she had a large hand in vetoing a lot of Tony’s more extravagant ideas.

You spot Nat, Wanda and Peggy to the left of the flower archway at the end of the aisle; your three best friends decked out in red dresses, each one in a slightly different style to accentuate their best features. Sam is standing underneath the archway, hands crossed in front of him, smiling at you like he’s the world’s proudest dad. Steve looks like he’s barely holding himself together. When his best friend had asked Steve to be his best man, Steve — in true Steve fashion — had said yes with tears brimming in his eyes.

And then, your eyes land on him.

Time slows right the way down.

Bucky looks fucking spectacular. His hair is groomed back into a neat man-bun, emphasising a stunning jawline which is covered in the faintest dusting of stubble. His navy blue suit fits him like a goddamns glove, the deep colour perfectly complimenting his complexion. As much as you like him in the suit, you also can’t wait to get him out of it.

You find yourself wishing that the aisle was shorter.

Bucky’s grinning from ear to ear, practically bouncing on his feet with excitement. In the blink of an eye, you find yourself standing in front of him, taking his hand in yours and waiting for the ceremony to begin.

Sam waits for everyone to settle back into their seats before clearing his throat and beginning.

“Now, I know that Y/N and Bucky have prepared their own vows,” he starts, “And I’m willing to bet that they’re dying to get this show on the road, but first, I’ve got a couple of things I’d like to say,”.

He pauses, looking between the two of you with fondness in his eyes. “I don’t pretend like I know everything about love and relationships. But, I’ve seen people get in them, I’ve seen people fall out of them and I’ve seen all manner of strange arrangements in between. And from all of this—well, I’ve made a few observations. I’d like to share one of them with you today, if I may,”.

Sam raises both hands and gestures towards you and Bucky, as he addresses the crowd. “If you’ve seen these two together, you’ll know that this here? This is love. All love. Right here. Bucky and Y/N have been through hell on this earth — for Bucky, I mean literal hell — but they found each other, and most importantly, found safety and happiness with each other. And y’all? That is what love is. That’s what’s important when two people get married — the love they have for each other, that undying, unyielding force. I know these two love each other more than any one of us can hope to understand, and that they respect each other and want to keep each other happy, so…yeah,”.

Sam nods his head as his voice trails off, pleased with the way his little spiel turned out. He’s somehow completely oblivious to the fact that he’s just left you completely speechless.

“Now,” Sam says brusquely, clapping his hands together. “Your vows?”

You and Bucky catch each other’s gaze and burst out into hysterical laughter. “I don’t know if I can follow up from that, Sam,” you chuckle.

“Yeah, you kinda set the bar high there, Wilson,” Bucky adds.

You shake your head in amusement as you turn to face your husband-to-be.

You’re a complicated mess of emotions right now. Tears are threatening to spill from the corners of your eyes, your pulse is roaring in your ears and you feel like you’re about to projectile vomit the cereal you had for breakfast at any second. In your peripheral vision, you can make out the silhouettes of your closest friends and family, all gathered here to celebrate one of the most momentous days of your life. All eyes might be on you right now, but you only have eyes for one person.

Bucky Barnes, the love of your life. The man who will officially become your husband, in just a few short minutes.

If you can get through this ceremony, that is.

Noticing your hesitation, Bucky reaches out and takes hold of your other hand, squeezing it reassuringly. You take a deep breath, slowly count to three in your head, before opening your mouth to recite the words that you’ve written, scratched-out and re-written countless times in the last month.

“Bucky—,” your voice comes out shaky and a little croaky, so you clear your throat noisily before trying again. “Sweetheart, I never thought this day would get here. And…now that it’s here…I kind of feel like I need to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. I know you don’t like thinking about…the past, but sweetheart, we’ve been through it all. We’ve…we’ve been through really tough patches, and really good patches, and that’s probably how it’s gonna be for the rest of the time we have together,”

Bucky chuckles softly, nodding his head in agreement.

You pause to take another deep breath. “I just…I just want you to know that I’ll be your biggest cheerleader, your solid rock, your shoulder to cry on, your best friend—your home to come back to. I promise to support you and all the choices you make, believe in your dreams and most of all, love you unconditionally,”.

A fat tear rolls down Bucky’s cheek. You’re pretty sure you’re not faring off much better yourself but you forge on, nonetheless.

“I know it’s taken us a while to get here, and I am glad that we are where we are, but at the same time—I wish we’d done it sooner. You’re it for me, sweetheart. No one else gets me the way you get me. Not a day passes by without me thinking just how goddamn lucky I am to have you in my life. You make me happy. So happy, just—in general,” you chuckle wetly.

“My point is, well—I want you to love me now, forever, and always, because that’s the only way you’re gonna be able to keep up with me, darlin’, with the amount of love I got for you. I wanna hold you down, wanna keep you around forever, because there’s no one else I can see myself spending forever with, sweetheart. I love you, and I’m gonna keep on loving you for as long as we have together, and maybe a little bit beyond that, too,”.

Practically everyone at the ceremony is openly bawling now. Bucky brings both of your hands to his mouth and gently grazes his lips over your knuckles; tenderness, vulnerability and raw, unbidden love are all apparent in his expression. “I’m gonna keep on loving you too,” he vows quietly, flashing you a watery smile.

Bucky straightens up and clears his throat. “Wow,” he says, “You done good, sweetheart. Remember I said something about you being a writer if the whole clinic thing doesn’t work out, once upon a time? This is exactly why,”.

A titter of laugh ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head fondly, squares his shoulders, then locks eyes with you, looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane.

“Y/N—,” and that’s as far as he gets before his voice gets all choked up. Bucky tips his head forward to rest his forehead against yours. You rub small circles on the back of his hand with your thumb in an attempt to soothe him. He takes another, shakier breath, then tries again.

“Y/N, first off, I’d like to say this: you little shit,”.

A startled laugh bubbles out of your throat.

“How the fuck am I supposed to follow up to that masterpiece? Why did I agree to go second? Why did we even want to write our own vows in the first place? Hindsight is a fucking son-of-a-bitch, man,” Bucky huffs. You giggle weakly in agreement, as the audience erupts into uproarious laughter.

“I have a confession to make,” Bucky admits, as everyone attempts to compose themselves. “I don’t actually have a speech prepared,”. At your arched eyebrow, he elaborates, “Winging it is more my thing, anyway. I—yeah, sure, I’ve been trying to write a speech, but I don’t have one because…well…I didn’t know what to say. Not—not because I don’t have anything to say, but because I have so much I wanna say. Sweetheart, there’re so many crazy good things about you, I didn’t even know where to begin. So many reasons why I love you, why you’re the greatest person I’ve ever met, why you’re the only girl I wanna spend the rest of my life with — there are so many reasons why I wanna stay with you. Forever,”.

Bucky takes a deep breath and squeezes your hand a little tighter, like he needs to ground himself. “I never knew how much I needed you in my life until…until you weren’t in it. I know we both hated those six months, but—well, now I know I need you ‘round with me,” he huffs.

“Yeah, it’s like you said. You’ve been through the ups and the downs with me. You’ve—god, you’ve done so much for me, stuff you probably don’t even know you’re doing. I’m so fucking happy that this day’s here because now…now I know that you’re mine. Forever,”

“Always gonna be yours, Buck,” you breathe.

Bucky laughs breathlessly. “I love you, sweetheart. That’s…that’s kinda why we’re here, right? Don’t you worry about me having problems keeping up with you, sweetheart—,”

“Super serum takes care of a lot,” you hear Nat mutter behind you.

“—I got a whole lot of love and I…I want to be able to love you for the rest of my life, Y/N. I want to always be there for you, the way you’re always there for me. I mean sure, sometimes you’re the pain in my ass, or the chip in my shoulder, but the point is, I never want to be apart from you, ‘cause I can’t get enough of you as it is,”. The audience erupts into a chorus of tearful ‘awws’ at that.

“I promise to make sure that you know that I love you, every second of every day. I’ll say those three words until you’re sick of them,”.

“That’ll never happen,” you swear, twisting one hand free of Bucky’s grip so you can brush away the tears staining your cheek. The corner of Bucky’s lips twitch up into a smile.

“Even when we’re mad, or upset, or on opposite sides of the world…we’re gonna make it work. Because you’re worth it, sweetheart. I love you, I love our life, and I’m gonna try my damn hardest to make every day that we spend together a million times better than the day before. So…marry me already, will ya?”

The rings are exchanged. It’s possible that Sam says something along the lines of “I now pronounce you husband and wife,” but in all honesty, your brain has blocked out all other stimuli, in favour of focusing solely on Bucky. He winks impishly, then wraps his arms around your waist and leans in close, brushing his lips against yours. Distantly, you register the audience bursting into joyful applause, but nothing else matters, nothing else exists besides you and Bucky and the little bubble you’ve created for yourselves.

You and Bucky remain intertwined until Sam obnoxiously clears his throat, looking like he’s trying hard to hold in his laughter.

“Save it for the honeymoon suite, guys,” Steve mutters fondly.

———————————

The rest of the evening passes by in a series of flashes — snapshots of wonderful, intimate and at times, downright hilarious moments. You’re giddy with excitement, floating in Bucky’s arms as he spins you around the dance floor. Like a butterfly in a flowering meadow, you’re fluttering between conversations, trying to make sure that you’ve said hi to everyone that’s turned up. The white-gold wedding band on your finger is a foreign, but strangely comforting weight.

There’s plenty of laughter, a whole lot of alcohol-drinking, and Steve surprises exactly no one when he starts choking up in the middle of his best-man speech. It’s quite endearing, actually.

Everyone whoops and hollers when Bucky enthusiastically scoops you into his arms and whisks you off to the honeymoon suite. You throw your arms around his neck and pepper soft kisses along his jawline as he scampers towards the lift like an excited puppy. Once he’s stepped into the lift, you find yourself trapped between the wall and Bucky’s warm body, his lips passionately locked onto yours.

“I know the rings don’t really make anything different between you and me,” says Bucky in between kisses, his eyes sparkling with exhilaration, the corners crinkling with excitement. “But sweetheart, I sure am glad you said yes,”.

You’re silent for a minute, looking at him adoringly as you catch your bottom lip between your teeth. Bucky cocks his head to the side in curiosity as his flesh hand comes up to cup your jaw.

“What is it, darling?” he whispers, stroking his thumb back and forth over your shin. You tip your head to the side, pressing into the comforting touch.

“Nothing,” you murmur, “I’m just the luckiest girl in the world. You know why?”

Bucky arches one eyebrow as if to say what?

“Because I’ve finally finally won the game,” you husk, curling your fingers into the lapels of his jacket and drawing him close. Bucky’s dark, musky scent enshrouds you, making you feel safe and loved and turned on, all at the same time. “And not only did I win this game, I hit the jackpot, baby. I got the ultimate prize,”.

“Oh sweetheart,” Bucky croons, hooking his finger under your chin and tipping your head back so that he can gaze into your eyes. “I’m the lucky one here. What’d I ever do to land a girl like you, huh?”

Your smirk at that. “Yeah? Well, either way, I want my trophy,” you breathe, looping your arms around his neck as you press a coy kiss to the corner of his lips. “Gimme that gold,”.

--------------------------------- Condensed tags: @feelmyroarrrr @valkyeries @hollycornish @buckingoffthebed @moonbeambucky @sanjariti @in-winchester-we-trust @badassbaker @retroasgardian @lostinspace33 @waywardpumpkin @jurassicbarnes @buchonians @katielu-blog @alohabucky @sarahmatthews7 @i-should-probably-be-asleep-rn @toongtii @barnesdeservestheworld @amrita31199 @amour-quinn @ugh-supersoldiers

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes fluff #my writing #i know this game

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misssophiachase · 7 years

Photo

Too many Jodice tumblr posts contributed to this spontaneous drabble. I hope you are all very proud of yourselves (you know who you are.) I'm no Jodice aficionado but have tried to do some basic research on events, episodes etc but have obviously taken liberties too.

PS no spouses exist for obvious reasons! Picking up from the most recent episode of the Originals. Also points of view will change in each section. All lyrics in italics from Lady Gaga.

You and I

"Something about this place, something, 'bout the lonely nights and lipstick on your face."

Present Day - London, England

The fact he'd just directed the most recent episode of The Originals and it was trending worldwide certainly gave him a renewed boost in confidence. Apart from acting, directing was his closest passion and seeing that fans liked his work filled him with a certain ambitious desire to repeat the experience.

As an actor he knew very well that a renewal was still pending and given his affection fo the show he hoped it got its rightful continuation. The finale which he'd already taped told him that much. There was too much unfinished business, in more ways than one. As Joseph scrolled through his twitter feed he found the usual mentions of a certain co-star that hadn't graced the screen with him in a while.

His mind flashed back to that particular scene, there was apparently a tree, some woods and about 200 crew present. Not that he'd noticed at all. He'd been far too consumed by the blonde beauty who he'd known so intimately both onscreen and off at that stage.

He would never forget the first time they met at the Craft Services table on set. Joseph always thought she was stunning on screen but seeing her there with rice unknowingly stuck to her cheek was causing him to smile uncontrollably (he was pretty certain he flashed a few dimples in the process). He'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He knew right then and there he was a goner.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

"It's been years since I let you go. I couldn't listen to a joke or Rock and Roll."

Candice knew that looking at her twitter feed was never a good idea. If she wanted a reminder of her relationship with Joseph it was plastered across her timeline. Granted the photos were either scenes they shared from the show or manips but they all stirred the same feelings inside. She missed him, she'd be lying if she said she didn't. She was happy his latest directorial foray had been such a success. If there was something Candice knew it was how good he was at directing people, she'd been one of his star performers in the bedroom after all.

The hardest part was trying to answer all those questions at the Vampire Attraction Event about a possible appearance in the Originals after TVD's recent ending. She'd been told by producers to encourage such a move, it made a fifth season all the more possible if the fans were invested. Like the dutiful CW employee she'd done it but the thought of being that close to Joseph again was causing all of the residual feelings she had for her former co-star to resurface and she wasn't quite sure how to handle a possible reunion.

February - 2011 - Atlanta, GA

"Did the new guy smirk at you?" Candice asked Kat earnestly. They were in wardrobe after lunch break and she couldn't stop thinking about the way Joseph had been looking at her while they spoke. They'd just met so she thought it was strange not to mention a little rude. Just because he had a gorgeous accent and lips the colour of deep crimson didn't give him the right to think he was God's greatest gift.

"I think he has a name, Candice." Kat mumbled from the corner where she was changing her top behind the makeshift screen.

"That's not the point."

"What do you mean smirk? He's always been perfectly polite and professional with me. What did he say anyway?"

"Wished me good afternoon and then I asked him how he's finding everything on set given he's just come onboard." They'd been shooting for the better part of the morning and the hungry hordes had made their way to the craft services table absolutely famished. Her eyes were firmly focused on the sushi, Candice was pretty certain she could have finished the entire plate on her own.

"Sounds pretty inoffensive, maybe that's just the way he smiles at people, did you ever think that?" Kat asked, finally emerging from changing her clothes for the next scene and looking at her curiously,

"You didn't see it, Kat," she sighed. "It was almost like..."

"He was trying not to laugh?"

"Excuse me?" Kat let out a giggle, moving closer and wiping her face with a tissue she'd swiped from the nearby table. "What are you doing?"

"You, uh have some rice on your cheek, Candice," she smiled, knowingly.

"What?" She asked and rubbing her face, slightly mortified.

"Seems like someone was trying to hide that fact and obviously it took the form of a smirk." Candice went from completely embarrassed to annoyed in seconds. How dare he do that?

"The least he could have done was tell me rather than embarrass me like that in front of the cast and crew," she muttered.

"You just met the guy, he probably thought it wasn't polite to call you out about food on your face. It doesn't make for the easiest first conversation."

"Yet instead he was secretly laughing at me," she growled. "You know, I'm just happy that we don't have any scenes together because I'm not sure I could stand that smirk and those dimples from such a close proximity."

"Sounds like someone was paying an awful lot of attention to someone's dimples," she grinned. Candice didn't respond just busied herself with her clothing for the next scene.

From then Candice made it her mission to steer clear of the new guy, until it became almost impossible to avoid him. That's what you got for being on a hit TV show and having to do publicity together. And there was no bigger publicity opportunity than the annual Comic Con in San Diego.

July 2011 - San Diego, CA

It was his first Comic Con and for Joseph it was completely overwhelming. Given he was pretty much the most evil hybrid to hit the Vampire Diaries in its entire run so far, he wasn't expecting such a frenzied reception. Turns out a lot of the girls there seemed to have a thing for the bad guy. Not that he was complaining.

He looked across at Candice at the signing table, her golden waves cascading down her back and wrapped in a fitted blue dress, thinking just how much the colour brought out her expressive eyes and creamy skin. Ever since their first meeting all those months ago they'd barely had any interaction, mainly because they didn't share any scenes. Joseph had to admit he was a little disappointed by that fact. It seemed like she had this amazing chemistry with everyone who she interacted with on screen and he'd be lying if he wasn't jealous.

After the craziness of 5000 screaming fans at the panel earlier in the day it was time for the after party. Given they were all staying in the same hotel it seemed normal that they made their way together however for some reason it was just him and her crossing the street and surrounded by screaming photographers. Joseph was trying not to stare at just how her strapless, aqua dress showed off those creamy legs as she walked brusquely to avoid the cameras. If there was one thing he knew about Candice it was just how shy she could be around the press. For Joseph that was just another reason to admire her given so many actors were the complete opposite.

One of the photographers got too close, knocking her slightly and Joseph reached forward without thinking, his instinct to protect her taking over. His hand grazed her lower back and Joseph could swear he felt her shiver slightly. "Are you okay, love?"

"Um, yeah, thanks," she mumbled, her gaze cast downwards. "It's uh just a little cold." The one thing Joseph knew without a doubt was that 90 degrees on a Summer night in San Diego wasn't in the least bit cold.

"If I had a jacket I'd give it to you," he promised, steering her towards their destination. Maybe it wasn't the best look given the press would misconstrue anything but right now he didn't give a damn, it felt far too good having his hand on her back.

"Nice to see chivalry isn't completely dead," she smirked, he couldn't miss the sarcastic tone in her voice.

"Is there something I'm missing?" Joseph murmured, trying to avoid the inquisitive stares of the reporters loitering close by. "You realise I'm a complete gentleman, right?"

"A gentleman who doesn't tell a girl she has rice stuck to her cheek?"

"I didn't want to be rude," he insisted.

"Trust me Morgan, a girl needs to know these things even if she barely knows you."

"Noted, Accola," he grinned.

"Um, we're here," she said, gesturing towards the hotel where the party was being held. "You can let go of me now." Joseph immediately but albeit reluctantly lifted his hand from her lower back. She gave him a thankful smile and breezed into the party like the professional actress she was. He'd be lying if he couldn't still feel the residual heat on his palm from the close contact.

October 2011 - Atlanta, GA

"Social media is going to go nuts," Candice murmured, laying herself out on the bed. "You know if it's anything like the response from you putting your hand on my back at Comic Con in July."

"I was only trying to protect you," he replied, flashing her one of his winning smiles.

They were currently at the Forbes house ready to film their very first scene together. Candice would be lying if it wasn't a big moment for her. She'd always been able to hide her attraction for him because they didn't share any scenes, well until now that was. Now she had to be in close proximity and in a bed of all things. She wasn't quite sure what the writers were getting at given she'd been so hot and heavy with Michael's character Tyler lately.

"Funnily enough I didn't need protection and we both know that," she smirked. "I really should have known Klaus would order Tyler to bite me only to ride in on his horse and save the day."

"I think you've misjudged Klaus, he really can be a nice guy," he offered, winking in her direction. "Speaking of which, I better go wrangle my horse in anticipation."

Candice would be lying if she didn't think he was cute. She'd been so quick to write him off as one of your typical, egotistical actors she came across daily (not naming any names of course) but he had this adorable wit that she couldn't quite resist. Ever since he'd placed his hand on her back in July she'd been a little distracted by those lips and those damn dimples too.

Candice was an actor first and foremost and the scene played out exactly as planned but she couldn't deny just how good it felt to have his body pressed up against hers in bed as she pretended to drink from his wrist. His chest seemed so much more toned than she'd imagined and the smell of his spicy aftershave was definitely causing a few foreign feelings to take over. It was all done in one take, unheard of but Candice knew their underlying chemistry had definitely played its part in creating such a perfect scene.

"Don't worry I'm not counting," he smiled rising from the bed, as the crew moved away in preparedness for the next scene.

"I'm sorry?"

"You know the number of times I've saved you."

"Oh p-uh-lease," she groaned, rolling her eyes as she did. Candice was finding it more and more difficult not to act on her burgeoning feelings for him and she secretly hoped they got more time to spend with each other on set as an excuse.

March 2012 - Atlanta, GA

Joseph found himself missing home for the first time in a while. Although he'd been working in the States for close to a year now it didn't stop him wanting all of the familiarities from home. He'd spoken to his mother and thoughts of her amazing cooking had infiltrated his brain which he carried with him onto set.

This was the day he saved Caroline from Alaric's clutches at the high school and Joseph was excited about reminding her just how many times he'd saved her now. He could just imagine the cute, exasperated look she got when she was attempting to argue back. Social media had erupted as Candice had predicted after their first scene together and fans were delirious about their onscreen and offscreen characters giving into their feelings. Joseph would have laughed if it wasn't so true.

The scene at the school went off without a hitch which was becoming the norm between them. Even Julie Plec had pulled him aside a few episodes ago and mentioned just how explosive the chemistry between them was. He wasn't going to argue given his ever growing feelings for his beautiful, blonde co-star.

"What's wrong?" She asked, approaching him at the lunch table.

"Excuse me?"

"You haven't boasted about the fact you saved me yet again," she drawled. "I know you were thinking it, Morgan."

"I was," he admitted. "But I'll admit, I was kind of distracted by a bad dose of homesickness." Joseph couldn't believe he was admitting it to her of all people.

"Missing the Queen and Prince Harry?"

"I'll assume that Prince Harry reference was just for you, Accola," he joked. "While her Majesty certainly holds a dear place in my heart I was thinking of my family, if you must know."

"It must be difficult to be this far from home." She murmured. "I may come from Houston but at least the flight doesn't take that long."

"And without the jet lag," he joked. "I guess I just miss my family and the food."

"I was actually thinking of having a dinner party to celebrate the wrap of season three next week. I can't promise you England but hopefully a pretty good time at least?" Joseph couldn't have declined if he tried. He knew this was her way of trying to welcome him and it was something he'd been craving for a while.

What Joseph wasn't expecting was the array of English delicacies on her dining room table that night and as he helped himself greedily to the Beef Wellington, he couldn't help but send her a smile of gratitude. The fact she'd thought of him was only making him want her more.

"Don't ever let my mother taste this," he said pointing to the Yorkshire pudding on his plate.

"Why" She squeaked, self consciously.

"She might not like the competition," he shared. "I can't believe you did all of this."

"I know better than anyone else how difficult homesickness can be, Joseph." His heart almost stopped beating as she uttered his name for the first time since they'd met. "But I couldn't imagine having my family that far away so it was really the least I could do."

"Well, thank you, love," he smiled. The fans seemed to think that was a Klaus term but Joseph had been the one to suggest it to the writers. He was starting to realise he only wanted to use it on one person though, acting or in real life. "You have no idea what this means." He noticed her blush slightly as he said it. If Zach hadn't interrupted their conversation right then who knows what she might have replied?

September 2012 - Atlanta, GA

"Now, you both know what you're supposed to do this episode?"

"He's supposed to shamelessly chase me as usual?" Joseph sent her a sideways glance. Ever since her impromptu dinner in March, their relationship had elevated to an extremely flirty friendship. Not that he could recall when they'd ever really been friends. She delighted in teasing him but Joseph would be lying if he didn't delight in exactly the same thing.

"Last time I checked Caroline was the one who suggested a date?"

"Yeah to a movie where I can put at least three seats between us," she quipped.

"Glad to see you two know your lines," the director drawled. "How about we get this show on the road then?"

"Happy to buy you a drink later, you know tell you all about being the bad guy," he whispered in her ear. Candice was trying to ignore just how good it felt to have him tease her hair with his hot breath as he said it.

"Easy tiger," she joked using his own terminology, moving away to her starting point but it was difficult to ignore her shaking legs as she did.

After the director called cut for the day, Candice made her way towards the porch where the cast would relax between scenes. It was extremely peaceful overlooking the lake at the fictional Lockwood Mansion. The other actors were filming elsewhere and she found it quite relaxing sitting there and drinking in the Fall afternoon.

"A souvenir," he announced, placing it on the table and assuming his seat on the nearest rocking chair.

"You realise I could write a much better Miss Mystic Falls application? As much as I love Caroline, I don't think everything needs to rhyme."

"I don't doubt it," he murmured, his blue eyes closing in obvious exhaustion. "Although I'm pretty certain Candice would be just as equally enthusiastic about the task at hand, you know just saying."

"Hey," she growled, slapping him awake. "We can't all come from the birthplace of William Shakespeare."

"I wasn't judging, love."

"Yeah sure," she muttered. Suddenly she found some extra courage and kept speaking. "So, apparently you promised me a drink." He was immediately awake, leaning forward in his seat.

"Well, of course. It's the least I owe you after having to put up with me all day."

"Not sure your thousands of twitter followers would agree, they seem extremely excited about you sharing so many scenes with 'you know who'."

"I didn't realise you followed me on twitter, love?"

"Call it professional courtesy," she shot back, her blue eyes blazing.

"It's okay, I've been following you since the beginning for exactly the same reason,' he admitted. "Dana?" Her face broke into a gorgeous smile and Joseph was extremely excited to be able to have even one drink with this beauty.

One drink had led to more at the local whiskey bar in Covington. She was trying to ignore just how gorgeous his stubble looked as they talked across the bar and felt herself slowly losing all her inhibitions. She remembered him brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear and placing a chaste kiss on her cheek before escorting her to her accommodation. Who knew he had such impeccable manners? Candice would have been lying if she wasn't disappointed it didn't go any further given the chemistry they'd generated on set earlier that day.

January 2013 - Atlanta, GA

"There's been two massacres. Pastor Young's farm is here, and the old Lockwood cellar, where you spitefully slaughtered 12 of your own hybrids, is here. According to the book, the expression triangle is equilateral, putting it here."

"Somebody's been skipping their geometry classes. There are actually two places where the third massacre could be." He drew the extra lines on the map as she watched him curiously.

"Well, you didn't let me finish." They held each other's gaze because the scene called for it but Joseph knew it was the built up tension between the two co-stars who couldn't resist each other any longer. He could sense it in her eyes, her demeanour and the fact that her breathing had quickened slightly.

He couldn't wait until they called cut and he subtely called her to his trailer with his eyes. They'd missed each other over the holidays and he couldn't wait to embrace her after too much time apart. Joseph couldn't quite recall whose clothes came off first but before he knew it the beautiful blonde was straddling him naked and he was sucking on her nipples hungrily.

She was moaning now as he raked his hands through her waves maintaining his pressure on her nipple while finding his way to her quivering centre. This was the moment he'd been waiting for, so too Candice. He looked into her eyes asking permission, he didn't want to do anything unwanted but her blue eyes were begging him to continue and before Joseph knew it she was laying on the couch as he writhed above her uncontrollably. Their intermingling cries as she rode him until climax.

Joseph held her for a long time afterwards, he wasn't one to get attached but he couldn't let go of her soft skin if he tried. The feeling of her beating heart against his was enough for him to realise she was it. His hand found its way through her hair as he placed butterfly kisses on her jaw and onto her collarbone.

"I'm usually more of a gentleman, I promise," he mumbled against her bare skin.

"I'd usually reprimand you but for once I'm not entirely annoyed by your behaviour," she moaned, running her hands through his curls. "As long as this stays just between us."

#you and i #jodice drabble #thoughts #to be continued #let me know #klaroline drabbles

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