#serendipitous new beginnings | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

orchidniins · 2 months

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Serendipitous Beginnings Pt. 1 | Arthur Frederick

Summary: Y/N moves to London to pursue her dreams and reconnect with her best friend But what she doesn't expect is a cute neighbor and a new exciting chapter of her life. Pairings: ArthurTV x F!Reader Warnings: Fluff Word Count: 6.4k A/N: FIRST FIC!!!!!! I’m so down bad for Arthur and just wish there was more on tumblr about this literal walking green flag of a man. I wanted this to be a cute little fic. But I feel like I got a little carried away with the story. But I also think that I need to start somewhere. Maybe the next fics I write after this will be a little more to the point. The more I write, the better I’ll get. I'm always open to suggestions and requests. Hope you enjoy!!

Part 2

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The bustling streets of London welcome you as you step out of the taxi. Having grown up in a small town just outside of London, you’d always fantasized about what life in the big city was like. Sure, your past academic pursuits had given you the opportunity to live all across the world, but London was always the ultimate destination - the place you dreamed of settling down in.

Securing a spot in the archeology PHD program of your dreams was the culmination of years of hardwork and determination. Those late-night study sessions, caffeine-fueled cramming marathons and years spent away from home were finally paying off. It marked the beginning of an exciting new chapter.

Like clockwork, Sienna bursts out of the main entrance of the building and engulfs you in a bone-crushing hug.

Sienna and you went way back. From the eager little girl who lived next door to becoming your closest confidante, she’d been through everything with you. Despite the miles between you over the years – ever since you left for the States to pursue your bachelor's degree and she moved to London for her’s – she remained one of the few constants in your life.

Your day wasn’t complete without a minimum three-hour facetime session. So naturally, after your family, she was the first person you informed of your move. True to form, she’d already cleaned out her spare bedroom and sent you a photo of the door adorned with a makeshift sign that read "Y/N’s Bedroom." It was safe to say that you were excited to reconnect with your childhood best friend and focus on your work. Little did you know, your life was about to take an unexpected turn.

“I can’t believe you're finally here!”, Sienna exclaimed, finally letting you out of her embrace. “I can’t believe it either! I’d started to believe that you only existed on my phone screen”, you replied, pulling her into another hug, which she gladly returned.

“Come on now, we have much to catch up on”, pulling out of the embrace, Sienna grabs one of your oversized suitcases and starts lugging it into the building, you follow closely with a huge grin on your face.

As you entered the apartment, you couldn't help but admire the cozy atmosphere. Sienna always had an eclectic taste, much like yours. She was a bit of a collector and she always made sure to keep and display the souvenirs you sent her from all the museums and dig sites that you had visited and worked at.

You look to the side of the living room that was littered with boxes, “All your stuff got here a few days ago”, Sienna informs you as she shuts the door behind her.

“There should be one or two boxes coming in today that I shipped out a little later”, I mentioned, Sienna nods in understanding. “While we’re on the topic of shipping boxes, have you had a chance to send that cretin’s stuff back to him?” you ask her as you kick off your shoes and take your coat off.

“Ugh, I don’t want to talk about Joey,” Sienna groaned. “He said he’d come by to pick his stuff up later, so I’ve just left a box by the door”, she added, plopping down on the couch and signaling for you to join her. ”But what I really want to know is, how’s your love life? What happened to that guy you were talking to last month? The one from your internship?”, she asks, a curious glint in her eyes.

“Hmmm, yeah, things didn’t work out”, you drawled out. “He was really nice when it was just the two of us, and he wasn’t too bad in bed either, but once we were at our work, things got weird. He’d treat me completely different. Honestly he was a real prick," you explained, throwing an arm around her. "No more guys for me. I guess it’s just you and me, babe," you sighed, earning a laugh from her.

---------------

The next hour or two passed in unpacking and catching up when you received a notification on your phone saying a package had been dropped off at the downstairs lobby. "The rest of my stuff just got delivered. I’m heading downstairs," you announced to Sienna, who had just ventured into the kitchen to get dinner started.

You spot the box as soon as you exit the elevator. You sign for the package at the front desk and pick up the heavy box. Perhaps thinking you could manage a nearly 40kg box full of books by yourself wasn’t the best idea after all.

Lost in the effort of balancing the hefty box, you were completely oblivious to your surroundings. As soon as you turn to head towards the elevator, you feel yourself colliding with what felt like someone's side, causing you to stumble back a step. The impact was enough to make you wince, but that was the least of your worries.

With a dreadful realization, you watch in horror as the bottom of the box gives way, sending a cascade of books tumbling onto the stranger's feet.

“Oh my god, I’m so, so sorry,” you begin to profusely apologize to the man in front of you who is now bent over, clutching his ankle. Quickly chucking the box to the side, you kneel down to inspect his foot. ”Please tell me you’re okay. I’m so sorry. I should have been paying attention,” you continue your string of apologies, hoping that the man wasn’t hurt too badly.

The man winces slightly as you examine his foot, but instantly looks down at you with a reassuring smile. "Hey, don't worry about it. I'm okay, really," he tries to assure you, trying to alleviate your guilt. His smile catches you off guard, you stay frozen for a second, momentarily captivated by his warm smile and almost sparkling brown eyes. However, you quickly shake yourself out of it, realizing that this might not be the best time.

"Liar," you retorted with a hint of skepticism, knowing very well that anyone in their right mind would have cursed you out by now.

The man furrows his eyebrows and lets out a light chuckle. "No, really, I'm okay," he insists, standing up straight to show you that he was fine. You couldn't help but exhale a sigh of relief as you fully stood up as well, grateful that your clumsiness hadn't caused any serious harm.

With a slight laugh, the man gestures towards the pile of books on the ground. "Either you have a shopping problem or you just moved in," he remarks, a playful glint in his eyes.

You laugh in response, shaking your head. "I do have a shopping problem, but this is from just having moved in. My fault for thinking I'd be able to manage," you admit sheepishly.

You bend down to reach for the box to put it back together. You're surprised when the man gets down to your level and starts helping you out.

Mumbling a small thanks, you both begin placing the books back into the reassembled box. As you do this, you take a moment to observe his face. He looks to be around your age, with messy brown hair, and honestly, he was kind of cute.

The man picks up a book titled "A History of Archaeological Thought" and reads the title out in interest, quickly flipping through the pages. “I've actually read this one," he remarks, holding up one of your books on ancient roman archeology "Found it quite interesting."

You look at him slightly surprised and say, "Oh, you have? One of my professors from uni recommended it to me. It's really fascinating."

"These are all archaeology and history textbooks," he observes, gesturing to the pile of books.

You put the last book in the box and stand up along with him, laughing slightly. "Haha, yes, some of them are old textbooks from university. The rest are just stuff I've collected over the years."

He looks at you in awe and exclaims, "You're an archaeologist? That's so cool! I've never met an archaeologist before." The sparkle in his eyes returns, and you almost feel yourself slightly melt at the sight of them. You find yourself flashing him a wide smile. There's something about the genuine curiosity and admiration in his gaze that warms your heart.

Before you can say something, your phone rings. Excusing yourself for a moment, you check your phone and see that Sienna is calling, likely worried by how long it's taken you to pick up a delivery. "Sorry, just a minute," you say to the man, turning to the side to answer your cell. He nods in understanding.

"Hey, Sienna," you answer.

"Girl, what happened? Where are you?" Sienna's voice comes through, concerned.

"Long story, but I'll be up in a minute," you assure her.

"Please, come quick. Joey just texted me; he said he'll be here in like 5 minutes to pick up his stuff and I really don't want to be alone when he gets here," Sienna explains anxiously.

"Ok, yeah, I’ll be right up" you respond, sensing the urgency in her voice.

You hang up the call, tucking your phone quickly into your back pocket, you turn back to the handsome stranger. "Sorry about that, but I actually need to go," you apologize, feeling a twinge of disappointment that your conversation was just cut short.

"Ha, don't worry about it," he reassures you with a warm smile.

You apologize again for his foot and thank him for the help. As you go to bend down to pick up the box, he beats you to it, lifting it effortlessly. "Oh, you don't have to," you insist, but he shakes his head with a small laugh.

"Don't want to risk you possibly injuring someone else," he quips playfully.

You look at him with mock hurt and reply, "Rude!" before bursting into laughter, appreciating his kindness despite what had just happened.

As he begins to walk towards the elevator, you follow suit. You suddenly realize just how warm your cheeks had gotten and you quickly fan your face to cool down before you enter the elevator. Once inside, you press the button for your floor and glance around awkwardly, unsure of what to say next. The tension is palpable, but there's also a subtle excitement lingering in the air.

Arriving at your floor, you lead the way to your new flat, with him following without hesitation. Standing outside your door, you turn to him and say, "Well, this is me. Thanks again, you really didn't have to."

He responds with a gentle smile, "Again, it wasn't a bother. I'm glad to help." He sets the box down next to your door.

You stand in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say next when it suddenly dawns on you that you didn’t know the man’s name. Just as you’re about to introduce yourself, your attention is abruptly pulled away by the sound of your name being called from a distance.

"Y/N!" You spot Sienna's nightmare of an ex strolling towards your door, and you know that if you don't go inside right away, Sienna would probably kill you.

Quickly moving to unlock your door, you turn around to the attractive man and flash him a final smile. "Well, I appreciate the help. I'll see you around," you say hastily.

"Goodbye," He replies with a nod, understanding the urgency in your departure.

With that, you pick up the box and swiftly slip into your door, the sound of it shutting behind you signaling the end of your unexpected encounter.

---------------

A week had passed since your fateful encounter with your charming neighbor, yet his presence continued lingering in your mind, a constant reminder of your missed opportunity to exchange names. Mentally scolding yourself for the oversight, you couldn't help but replay the encounter in your head repeatedly, wishing you had seized the chance to learn more about him.

The past week kept you fairly busy, preparing for the start of term on Monday. Despite that, the thoughts of him persisted more than you'd like to admit. Each time you stepped into the elevator or the lobby of your apartment, you secretly hoped for another chance meeting. Though you were someone who always tried to look presentable when stepping out, you found yourself putting in extra effort, something that didn’t go unnoticed by your flatmate.

"This usually isn't like you. Hoping to run into someone?" Sienna teases you with a knowing smirk as you prepare for the day ahead. With an interview for a teaching assistant position in the morning, lunch plans with your future classmates and some pending errands, today was shaping up to be quite hectic.

"You know," you explain to Sienna, "I just need to meet a bunch of people today, trying to make a good first impression that's all." Sienna's excitement bubbles as she responds, "Speaking of meeting new people, we're going to a party tonight!"

Usually, you were pretty social, but with all the tasks on your list today, the only thing getting you through the day is the thought of getting home and sinking into your bed. "I have quite a long day ahead, and all I want is to rest once I'm back," you confess to Sienna. But she's the persistent type that doesn’t take no for an answer, "You're in London now. New place. New life. You need to make some new friends as well," she insists. "Come on, it'll be fun. You can meet some of my friends."

"Fine, I'll see if I'm feeling up to it once I'm back in the evening," you reluctantly agree and bid her goodbye. “Good luck on your interview!” Sienna screams as you head out the door.

---------------

You return home to a dimly lit flat, only illuminated by the lamp next to the couch and the light emanating from Sienna’s room. You feel a wave of relief as you kick off your shoes, finally able to give your feet a break after being on them all day. You attempt to move as quietly as possible, hoping to sneak past Sienna and retreat to your bedroom for some much-needed rest. However, it seems as though she possesses some sort of mind reading ability, as she calls out to you in a sing-songy tone, "Hey Y/N… Don't even think about sneaking off. Get in here."

You weakly protest, "But…" before Sienna shuts down any objections with a firm, "No buts. Get in here." Giving up, you toss your purse and the shopping bags onto the couch and reluctantly make your way into her room.

Standing in the doorway of her bedroom, you offer a half-hearted, "You called?"

"Yes, get your cute butt in here and get ready. You can borrow one of my tops if you want," Sienna responds. Though you pout for a moment, Sienna's pointed glare leaves you with no room for argument. You finally agree, "Fine… I'll go put something on. I'll be right back." Sienna nods, continuing to put on her mascara.

Returning to your bedroom, you rummage through a box of clothes that you had yet to unpack. Finally settling on a pair of black wide-leg jeans, a black bralette, and a sheer black top to layer over it. Quickly changing, you grab your makeup bag and head back into Sienna's room.

"You look so hot! If I were a guy, I'd be all over you," she says with a wink. "I know right!" you playfully reply as you start to retouch your makeup beside her in the mirror.

As you apply a fresh coat of lipstick, you inquire, "Where is this party by the way?" Sienna responds, "Oh, it's right upstairs. It's a house party at my friend George’s place."

"Cool, but I don't want to stay too long. I actually feel like I'll drop dead any second after the long day I've had," you tell Sienna, hoping she'll understand your need for an early night, but you can't help but feel a twang of hope in your heart that you might run into the cute brown-eyed stranger there.

Sienna turns to you with a playful salute, saying, "Yes, ma'am. We'll just have a few drinks, mingle around. We won't be there long." Her words reassure you, and you offer her an appreciative smile as the two of you share a laugh.

---------------

As you and Sienna stand outside of George's flat, you hear the sounds of laughter and music echo from inside. With an encouraging grin, Sienna grabs you by the arms and pushes open the door, pulling you into the flat.

Your eyes scan the room, taking in the sights and sounds of the party. Despite your fatigue, a spark of excitement blooms within you; it's been a while since you've had the opportunity to drink a little and let loose.

Sienna's eyes scan the room. and an excited smile lights up her face as she spots someone. "George!", she calls out enthusiastically, waving to catch the attention of a brown haired man.

He gives Sienna a slightly intoxicated smile as he stumbles over to where the two of you stand. "Hi! You made it!," he greets her with a hug.

Sienna responds with a smile, saying, "Of course! Any excuse to get drunk," as she pulls away and turns slightly towards you. "George, this is my other half, Y/N," she introduces, prompting you to flash him a smile and lean in for a side hug, which he reciprocates.

"Hey, Y/N, how are you finding London so far?" George inquires, prompting you to reply, "Oh, it's been great, and it's a plus living with Sienna…"

"Well, let me introduce you to the rest of the gang and get you guys a drink. Come." He leads the two of you near the kitchen, where you see two men chatting with solo cups in hand. George gestures towards the drinks and encourages you to help yourselves, handing you each a cup as well.

You quickly fix yourself a drink and take a sip, the cold liquid adding some life back into you. You turn around to see Sienna and George now in a conversation with the two other guys. You grab your drink and head over to join them.

"Guys, this is Y/N," Sienna introduces you to the two men in front of you, slinging an arm around you in the process. "Y/N, this is Chris and this is Arthur," Sienna continues, "They live here too. We have another Arthur; he should be around here somewhere," George adds as he takes a look around the room.

Arthur extends his hand and says, "It's nice to finally meet you. Sienna doesn't shut up about you." Chris chimes in, "Yeah, we know everything… even the thing with the door." You look at him in shock and lightly laugh, replying, "Yeah....I am not drunk enough to get into the whole door story." you say taking a large swig of your drink, earning a laugh from the group.

30 minutes and many vodka shots later, you get to learn a little more about the boys. The conversation is flowing and filled with laughter. You find out that all of them are YouTubers and create content on the internet. George makes videos on YouTube and Tik-Tok, and Chris made football videos. Arthur, in particular, was a musician, which you spent a few good minutes remarking how cool that was.

After conversing a bit more, Sienna takes you around the room and introduces you to few more people. Some lived in the building and others were mutual friends that she had with George, Chris and Arthur.

You are chatting with a few girls when George joins the group, more shots in hand, "No more...I'm like another shot away from throwing up," you tell him.

"That's fine. I'll find someone to hold your hair back," he says with a chuckle, placing a shot glass in your hand and in the already drunk state you were in, you comply.

Even more shots later, you excuse yourself to go to the restroom. George tells you to use the en-suite in his room and despite George's instructions, it takes you all but 5 seconds to forget in your intoxicated state.

You head in the general direction that he pointed you in and walk down the hall, stumbling into the first bedroom that you see. The room has a cozy and warm atmosphere. There is a filming set up on the desk in the corner, a bookshelf overflowing with books and a white piano placed against one of the walls. At first glance, you don't feel like the room fits the vibe that George had, but you brushed it off and made a beeline to the toilet.

You finish your business and step out of the restroom. As you exit, you hear the door of the balcony open wider, and at that moment it dawns on you that you might have unintentionally entered someone else's private space by mistake.

Without a second thought, you try to head straight out the door, hoping to completely avoid any interaction at all. But with the alcohol slowing down your reaction time, you're only able to take maybe four steps before you hear a man's voice, "Oh, hello."

In that moment, you just want to make a run for it, but instead, you turn around to face whoever's room this was. You're pleasantly surprised when you come face to face with a familiar warm smile.

"Hey", you reply with slight surprise in your tone, a smile creeping up on your face. His face lights up with a bright smile at the sight of the person that was occupying space in his mind for the past week.

"Hide everything heavy, else I might drop it on your foot," you say, your face scrunching at your embarrassing attempt to make this interaction less awkward. Your words earn you a laugh.

"Oh, sorry btw," you blurt out, pointing to the restroom door. "George said I could use the one in his room, but I got confused and ended up here. I know I probably should have checked to see if there was someone else here first. Haha, I don't always think too straight when I'm drunk, you know, especially because it's been almost 6 months since I drank last so, I'm usually not a lightweight, but I guess the large pause from drinking has kind of turned me into one." you word vomit in your drunken state.

You pause for a second to catch your breath, all while the man in front of you takes it all in with an amused smile on his face. "Oh shit, I'm rambling, aren't I? Sorry for that," your words are accompanied with a slight stumble even while just standing, and the man quickly rushes to your side. "Woah there," he says, helping you regain balance. "Come sit down." He leads you and sits you down on the edge of his bed, taking a seat next to you.

"Oh! I'm Y/N, by the way. Sorry I didn't catch your name last time," you finally introduce yourself, hoping to clear the awkward air. He smiles warmly. "I'm Arthur," he says, his voice soft and friendly.

"So you're the fourth flatmate," you remark, trying to keep the conversation flowing smoothly.

"Yeah, that's me," Arthur confirms with a nod. "The elusive fourth flatmate," he adds with a chuckle. "I've been friends with the boys for a while, but I just moved in a a few weeks ago."

As Arthur talks about how he met each of his flatmates, you can't help but be drawn in by his charming and slightly goofy personality. You also didn't mind just staring at his handsome face for a while. You find yourself smiling at his easy demeanor, pleasantly surprised by how instantly at ease you started to feel around him as you two spoke, as if you'd known each other much longer than your short interactions.

You learn that Arthur is a YouTuber too, specializing in TV show commentary and reaction videos. You make a mental note to check out his channel, along with the others', when you manage to find the time.

He says, "You know, I totally felt like an idiot the other day for not getting your name." You chuckle softly, feeling a bit relieved that he brought it up first.

"Oh no, that was totally on me," you admit sheepishly, "I was in a bit of a hurry." you quickly recover, flashing him a warm smile. "But it's nice seeing you again," you say sincerely.

"Likewise," Arthur replies, a hint of relief in his voice. "I was hoping we'd run into each other again."

"Is your boyfriend here as well?" Arthur asks, his voice tinged with a hint of disappointment. For a moment, you almost feel like you misheard him. "I'm sorry, what?" you ask, taken aback. "Your boyfriend, the guy from the hall the other week, don't you live together?" he asks, with furrowed brows.

"Oh, no, he wasn't my boyfriend," you clarify, a hint of amusement in your voice. "I live with my friend Sienna. He's her ex; he was just coming over to pick up some of the stuff he left behind." You swear you see relief wash over Arthur's face.

"But where did you get that impression?" you ask, intrigued.

Arthur hesitates for a moment before answering, "Well, before he went into your flat, he said that his girlfriend lived there, tried to size me up, and then told me to stay away from your place."

You look at him in shock. "He did what!?" you exclaim, "Are you serious?", you say, making a mental note to strangle Joey if you were to ever see him again.

Arthur nods, a sympathetic expression on his face. "Yeah, I found the bloke a little dodgy. Weird character."

You can't help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "Well, now you know why he's her ex," you quip, shaking your head.

After a moment of silence, Arthur clears his throat, his tone slightly hesitant. "So, you're single?" he asks, his gaze meeting yours. You notice a hint of nervousness in his voice, and he quickly adds, "I-I don't mean to make you uncomfortable with that question…"

You offer him a reassuring smile. "No, no, it's okay," you reassure him, appreciating his concern. "Yes, I'm single," you confirm, feeling a sense of ease in his presence.

Arthur visibly relaxes, relieved by your response. "Good to know," he says with a small, sheepish grin. You can't help but find his reaction incredibly cute, and you let out a soft laugh. "Yeah, just focusing on finding my footing here in London," you explain, your tone light.

Arthur leans in with curiosity. "So, what brings you to London?" he asks, genuine interest gleaming in his eyes. You can't help but feel a flutter of warmth in your chest, surprised and pleased by the level of interest he's showing, unable to recall any guy you've talked to who has shown such genuine curiosity about your life.

You smile, feeling a sense of connection as you share a bit of your story. "Well, I'm actually starting my Ph.D. next week," you reveal. "It's been my dream program for as long as I can remember."

His eyebrows raise in intrigue. "Wow! a Ph.D.? That's impressive. In archeology?" he asks, his interest piqued. He laughs softly, and adds "I remember from the books you dropped on me."

You laugh, appreciating his recall. "Yes, that's the one," you confirm, feeling your heart melting at how attentive he was.

"Wow, archaeology sounds fascinating," Arthur remarks, leaning in with genuine interest, and you realize just how close he had gotten during this conversation. "How did you get into it?"

You smile, reminiscing about your journey. "Well, it's kind of because of my father," you begin, "He was a Greek history professor, and some of my youngest memories are of sitting in on his lectures when I was little and he has always been very supportive of me learning about other cultures and their histories."

Arthur's eyes light up with curiosity as he listens intently.

"So I just knew," you continue, "When it was time for uni, it just felt write to study archeology. Though I was studying in the States up until now, I traveled to various countries, exploring different archaeological sites." Arthur nods, captivated by your story.

And just like that, the conversation flows effortlessly between you, diving deeper into the world of archaeology and sharing your mutual fascination with the subject. You also ask him about his journey in becoming a youtuber and are extremely impressed by how he transitioned from being a lawyer to a content creator. With each new detail he shares, you find yourself being just a little more attracted to him.

As you continue on with your conversation, your attention is drawn away when you hear a knock on the open door of the room.

George peaks his head into the room, you get up and face him, realizing that you had completely forgotten that you even were at a party. Time had slipped away as you spoke with Arthur.

You check your phone, and were slightly shocked to see that almost 2 hours had passed by since you came stumbling into Arthur's room.

"Y/N, I was looking for you," George says, concern evident in his voice. "Sienna seems a bit out of it. I think you should take her home."

Immediately, you're on your feet, concern for your friend overriding any other thoughts. You follow George back into the living room, Arthur following closely behind. You see that the crowd had thinned out a bit but the music was still playing and there were still people chatting and drinking.

Sienna is sprawled out on the couch, her hair covering her face. You crouch down next to her, gently brushing her hair away. "Are you okay, babe?" you ask softly.

Sienna's eyes flutter open, and she springs up, throwing her arms around you. "Y/N! Where were you all night? I wanted to drink more with you!" she exclaims. Then, she turns to George and demands, "Get us more shots, George!"

George looks between the two of you and shakes his head with a smile. "Water it is," he says and heads to the kitchen to get some.

Sienna spots Arthur standing behind you. "Hey there," she says cheerfully. She'd always been the more social one between you two and absolutely loved meeting new people.

Arthur comes over and crouches next to you, introducing himself to her. "You must be Sienna. I'm Arthur, another one of George's flatmates," he says warmly. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?" He asks, and you find yourself looking at Arthur with a smile, touched by how sweet he was being.

"You're the guy that Y/N almost decapitated last week," she teases, a mischievous twinkle in her eye, completely ignoring Arthur's questions. "Oh, you are cute!"

Sienna then glances at you, a goofy smile spreading across her face. "You were right, he is cute," she says, with a playful wink in your direction.

As Sienna's playful words sink in, you feel a blush creeping up on your face. Sienna always lost whatever little filter she had when she was drunk.

You catch Arthur glancing at you for a second, and you quickly avert your gaze, attempting to hide your flushing cheeks.

George returns with a bottle of water and hands it to you. You get Sienna to drink as much as she can.

"I should get her to bed then," you announce to the boys. Moving to pick her up, you find her weight causing you to stumble. Just as you're about to lose your balance, Arthur steps in to help, stabilizing both of you.

"I'll help get her back home," Arthur offers. You flash him an appreciative smile. Grateful for his assistance, you nod in agreement.

"It was great meeting you George," you say with a smile as he hands you Sienna's bag.

"It was great meeting you too," George replies warmly. "Take care yeah?", you nod in response.

With a final wave, you and Arthur begin to make your way out of the apartment, Sienna leaning on both of you for support.

---------------

"Alright, Sienna, we're home," you say gently as you now stand in front of your door, slightly nudging her, waking her up, as she had managed to doze off while you were getting the door open. You carefully guide her through the door with Arthur's assistance.

"Her bedroom is just down the hall." You say to Arthur and he helps you get her to her room.

"Let's get you settled then," you say to Sienna as you lay her in her bed and take her heels off. Arthur steps aside for a moment while you tuck Sienna into bed and ensure she's comfortable.

Once Sienna is settled, you glance at Arthur and gesture him to leave with you. The two of you leave her bedroom as quietly as possible, and you step outside your flat so you can thank him and see him off.

You and Arthur stand in the hallway outside your door, a quiet moment settling between you.

"Thank you again for helping me with Sienna," you say, breaking the silence.

Arthur shakes his head, "It wasn't a bother at all," he replies sincerely, his eyes reflecting genuine kindness. Then, he remarks, "You and Sienna seem really close."

You nod, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Yeah, we've known each other since we were about 10 years old. She's probably the only person in the world who knows me better than I know myself," you explain. Arthur listens attentively, admiring you as you talk about your best friend with a slight twinkle in your eye.

Arthur nods with a smile. "It was great seeing you again," he says, and you return his smile, expressing your mutual sentiment.

He then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone. "Could I get your number?" he asks, a hint of nervousness in his voice as he hands you his phone.

You take the phone with a smile, feeling the subtle tension building in the air. After exchanging numbers, a moment of silence passes as you gaze into each other's eyes. In that moment, you notice just how close he's stood, his height easily towering over you.

In a low voice, you say, "I really enjoyed speaking with you today," with a smile. Arthur replies, "So did I."

The tension between you grows palpable, and Arthur breaks the silence. "I think we should hang out more often," he suggests.

"Yeah, I think so too," you reply, excitement lacing your voice.

Maybe it was the alcohol that was still flowing in your system, or maybe it was the feeling of anticipation that was building, almost like each of you was waiting for the other to say or do something, or maybe it was just this gorgeous man standing ever so close to you, with his pretty brown eyes and a charming smile that was already getting you weak at your knees. Whatever the reason may be, all you knew is that you were feeling surprisingly bold tonight.

Without another word, you lean in, deciding to shoot your shot with the guy who only came into your life a week ago. Arthur reciprocates, leaning in and connecting his lips with yours. His hands come up to your waist, giving it a light squeeze as he pulls you almost flush against his hard chest. The sudden contact causes a light gasp to escape your mouth. Arthur takes the chance as he slips his hot tongue into your mouth. Arthur's tongue explores your mouth, sending shivers down your spine and a warmth spreads down your body.

He gently pushes you up against your door as he deepens the kiss further. You find yourself melting into his touch, your arms moving up to wrap around his neck. You give his fluffy soft hair a slight tug, causing Arthur to let out a low groan and he tries to get even closer to you, as if that were even physically possible anymore.

You feel his warm hand snake up the back of your shirt and settle on the low of your back, the sensation turning your legs to jelly.

If someone would have told you a month a ago that you’d be making out with a guy you had just met outside of your flat in London, you would have laughed at their face.

This particular moment was absolutely perfect and you did not wanna stop anytime soon.

Eventually, the two of you pull away breathless, panting for air. Both of you look at each other with matching lust-filled eyes and flushed cheeks.

In that moment the both of you let out a laugh, now feeling a lot lighter after breaking the tension.

Arthur takes a step back and looks like he is about to say something. But, before he can get a word in, a loud thud interrupts the moment from inside your flat.

The sounds causes you to jolt and step away from the door. You turn around to open the door, hoping that Sienna hadn't hurt herself in her drunk state.

Before you stepped into you flat, you turn to Arthur. "I had a really good time tonight," you say, smiling. He returns you that swoon worthy smile of his.

"I'll see you later." He says with a goodbye.

With that, you head inside, a goofy smile of your own plastered across your face. You lean against your door and take a moment to process what just happened.

"Y/N", your thoughts are interrupted as you hear Sienna call out to you from inside her bedroom.

"Coming," you reply, heading in her direction, your mind still reeling from the passionate moment you shared with Arthur.

Once you had made sure that Sienna was all good and tucked back into bed, you find yourself sitting on the edge of your bed, with flushed cheeks, replaying the events of tonight.

Your phone dings beside you, lighting up your dark bedroom. You peer over to see a "Hi" from an unknown number and at that moment you knew that this new chapter of your life in London, might just be the best one yet.

Part 2

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A/N: AAAAAAHHHH! I still can't believe that I've finally gotten my first fic up. I kind of want to write a part 2 for this fic. I’m envisioning cute museum dates and late night ramblings. Something that is in the same universe as this story. Let me know what you think.

Check out my other fics and oneshots here. Requests are currently open!! Or just drop in for a chat! 😊

#arthurtv #arthurtv x reader #arthurtv imagines #arthurtv fics #arthur frederick #arthur frederick imagines #arthur frederick fics #george clarke #george clarkey #youtube fics #youtube imagines #chaos chrew #strangers to lovers #fluff #arthur frederick x reader #youtuber #youtuber fluff #arthurtv fluff

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cooliestghouliest · 3 months

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LOVE ME TWO TIMES, ch. one

(chapter one) (chapter two)

PAIRING: eventual Mungrove x Reader

SUMMARY: Struggling to come to terms with the abrupt abandonment of your father, you’re left with two options – attend an “all girls’ therapeutic boarding academy” that’s really more Bedlam Insane Asylum than trusty reformative school, or move half-way across the country to a small town in Indiana to live with your older brother, Rick. The upheaval of your life in Fresno might just end up being a little star-crossed and a whole lot serendipitous.

WORD COUNT: 3.5k+

SERIES TAGS: angst. some pretty heavy topics in later chapters. just enough fluff to hopefully balance it all out. eventual smut (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI). eventual love triangle. neurodiversity. dom/sub undertones (dom!Billy, switch!Eddie, switch!Reader), also bi!Eddie and bi!Reader but confused!Billy. drugs and drug addiction. no use of Y/N (but much use of nicknames and pet names). Reefer Rick is Matthew Lillard circa Senseless. more TBA as the story progresses.

CHAPTER TAGS: absent dads and mean moms. brief mention of self-destructive tendencies (way more about that later). your brother's a total cockblock. long-winded parental background information. this is really just some stage setting before we get into the nitty gritty.

A/N: this is my favorite fic i've ever written, and now it's coming at you re-edited. it's my verbose word child, sprinkled with a few What The Fuck and Holy Shit moments, dolled up with some silly humor and a dose of hot (and often borderline depraved) smut. a lot's already planned for this, so i hope you enjoy. :-)

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chapter title: O Brother, Where Art Thou?

You weren’t expecting the high pitch of the doorbell that sounded throughout your colonial-style home, and proof of that was now spilled all over the kitchen floor.

Tiny green buds were sprinkled across the white-and-black linoleum tile, some scattered in the blonde mess of curls that belonged to the boy kneeling before you, his mouth busy between your legs.

You’d been attempting to multitask, rolling a joint while twisted awkwardly at the dining table, the quarterback’s head shrouded by your bare thighs, lapping noisily at your wet center.

You huffed out a frustrated sigh at the spillage, but it quickly turned into a moan when goldilocks gave a particularly harsh suck on your clit.

“You needa get that?” he mumbled against your folds, tongue halting its assault only to speak before diving back in, showing no intention of stopping.

You shook your head, one hand moving to tangle in the his hair, the other crumbling up the now empty and useless rolling paper. “Uh-uh… prob’ly just some Mormons,” you answer, beginning to rock your hips up into the warm mouth covering your cunt. “I don’t wanna be saved.”

Chris… or Carl… or Craig… whatever his name was, laughed, the sound vibrating nicely against your heat. Your toes curled at the sensation, thighs wrapping tight around his ears.

He moaned appreciatively at your movement, running his tongue flat against the length of your opening. Maybe you could keep this one around. He liked New Kids on the Block unironically, but holy shit, he knew what to do with his mouth.

The bell rang again.

And then again, and again, and again.

“Oh, little seeeee-eeee-ster!” came a familiar male voice from the other side of the front door. “I know you’re in there, Bean. I can see your shadow in the kitchen!”

You shot up straight, aligning your posture and pulling Chris Carl Craig from between your legs by the grip you had in his hair. He gave an unappealing whine, his fingers moving up to console his scalp.

Standing quickly, you adjusted your pleated skirt so it fell normal again, just above your knees. “Up, up, up,” you impatiently urged the jock still kneeling on the ground, smoothing your clothing and hair to make sure nothing looked too out of place.

“Who is that?” the blonde asked, finally following you into a standing position, large hand still cradling his head. “Still the Mormons?”

“It was never Mormons, Chet,” you said, hoping your shot-in-the-dark guess at his name was right.

It wasn’t.

“It’s Chad,” he said, eyes beginning to narrow. Whether it was in suspicion, confusion, annoyance, or a combination of all three, you didn’t know. And it didn’t matter. You needed to get him out of here without your new visitor catching sight of him, or else you knew you’d never hear the end of it. Chad was still intent on conversing, though. “We’ve literally been in the same school district since, like, kindergarten.”

You bit your lower lip, offering a sheepish smile. “Right,” you said. “I know that.” You didn’t. “Sorry. Head’s a little loopy right now. Your tongue could win awards.”

With Chad’s newfound cocky grin, you knew the flattery angle had worked out. It usually did. Boys were such suckers for some ego stroking.

“Oh, fuckin’ right!” you heard from the front door, the visitor’s voice now cheerful. The door handle began to jangle, and you heard the sound of a key in the lock.

He must have found the spare. Of course he had. He’d only lived here his entire childhood, just like you.

The key had been in the same place it always had been since moving to Fresno -- under the coir doormat that read Definitely Not a Trap Door, courtesy of your father. He’d made it for the family after moving from Chicago to California for his new teaching position at CSU in ‘70. Your mom still hadn't gotten around to throwing it out, even though she’d managed to get rid of almost everything else inside the home that reminded her of her ex-husband.

The door swung open and there stood your older brother in all his punk rock, Fuck-the-Bourgeoisie glory. Short bleached blonde hair, numerous facial piercings, ripped Dead Kennedys t-shirt, tight red tartan pants, muddy black Doc Martens. He was smiling wide, dopey.

Fuckin' Rick.

You started to match his expression, unable to resist your brother’s effortless and childlike charm, but your smile fell flat when Rick’s now disapproving gaze landed on the blonde still standing at your side.

“A Letterman, Bean? Really?” Rick asked you incredulously, having spotted Chad’s football jacket as the jock in question slid it from its place on the kitchen chair to rest over his broad shoulder.

“What?” you asked Rick coyly, quickly eyeing Chad. “You know I don’t discriminate. I’m a true equal opportunist.”

Chad seemed oblivious to the underlying context of the conversation between the pair of siblings. He was watching the two of you interact with seemingly nothing behind his eyes.

God, so cute but so totally stupid.

You closed the distance between the two of you, Chad looking hopeful he was going to be kissed or something, but you instead reached your hand out to pluck a few pieces of weed from his hair. “You can go now,” you told him, finger tapping his nose lightly.

Chad’s face scrunched at your touch but he then shrugged it off, picking his backpack up off the kitchen floor before making his way to the front door. “See ya at school,” he said to you over his shoulder. Stopping briefly next to your brother, Chad assessed him before saying, “Um, bye, whoever you are.”

Rick pulled his lips into a tight line, raising his brows in amusement. He clapped his hand hard on Chad’s back a few times before pushing the footballer out the door. “Later, loverboy.”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

An hour and a half later, you and Rick were seated on opposite ends of the tufted tuxedo sofa in the living room. A box of half-eaten extra cheese pizza laid open in between the two of you.

Some low budget horror VHS was playing on the TV across from the couch, the volume low. You thought it was called Ghoulies. You kept catching glances of tiny, ugly wet looking monsters scurrying on the screen out of your peripheral.

You’d been talking to Rick about senior year at Fresno Central High (you said you were doing great, straight A’s across the board, but in reality, you were failing everything but English and Music).

You'd been talking about work at Spins and Needles, the record store you’d been employed at for a little over two years now (you told him you’d gotten promoted to Assistant Manager, which was true, but you left out the fact that you were on Strike Two of Three for blowing off shifts to get high with some goth kids that routinely came in a few hours before closing).

And you'd been talking about your mom (this you were honest about – “She’s still a huge bitch, Rick, that hasn’t changed”).

But then he tried to bring up your dad, asking in an obnoxiously forced nonchalant tone if you’d heard from him lately.

That’s where you stopped him.

You were not going to talk about your dad.

Flipping the pizza box lid shut harshly, you sat up straight and faced him.

“Why are you really here?” you demanded.

Rick sighed, defeated.

He knew you’d catch on soon enough that this supposed innocent visit was actually a planned mission. He’d just been hoping maybe you’d be the one to breach the topic of going back to Indiana with him. Maybe you wanted out of this Californian hellhole. A chance at a fresh start, hundreds of miles away.

But he knew you recently had developed a penchant for self-destruction and self-catastrophizing, which meant getting you to see the bright side and the positives of his request was going to be near impossible.

Still, he had to try.

“Mom called me,” he admitted, which earned him a dramatic eye roll from you. “I know you’re failing your classes. I know your boss has been blowing up the landline wondering why you keep closing up shop so early. And I know mom’s a bitch. I’m trying to save you from her. She said she’s thinking of enrolling you into St. Mary’s.” Rick wasn’t surprised at the bewildered scoff you gave to that, St. Mary’s being Indiana’s notorious Catholic boarding school for wayward girls. He’d finally gotten to the point, the real reason he was there: “Come stay with me in Hawkins, Bean.”

“Wow, Rick, so noble. It only took you, what, ten years to come back for me?”

Rick couldn’t help but flinch, your wounding words accusing. And accurate.

It was true.

Rick, at twenty, had left Fresno in an old RV he’d bought for dirt cheap, with plans to travel the country and get the fuck away from his parents, Ronald and Maureen Lipton.

Or, away from his mother, really.

Ron Lipton was generally fine -- until a certain point in his life. To outsiders, the man seemed to be very happy and very put-together, successfully established in both his home life and his career.

Ron and Maureen had gotten married just a few short months following their high school graduation, after finding out Maureen was pregnant with Rick.

With the draft ever present, Ron enlisted in the army, while Maureen enlisted the help of her mother-in-law to take care of Rick (and eventually you, once you were born, conceived on one of Ron’s short stints back home), so she could work on her doctorate in psychiatry.

After being honorably discharged a handful of years later, Ron had gotten his Master’s degree in education and creative writing.

To the public, Ronald and Maureen Lipton were fantastic at keeping up the facade of Perfect Suburban Family.

In private, however, the Lipton household was like living in a layer of Hell.

Where Ron was imaginative and endlessly inquisitive, instilling a love of storytelling and curiosity in his children, Maureen was passive aggressive and judgemental, harboring jealousy for the relationship her children had with her husband. This eventually festered a spiteful dynamic between her and Ron, and between her and her offspring as well.

When the two of you were younger, Rick in his late teens and you in your last years of elementary school, one of your favorite backyard games was to wonder aloud to each other how and why your parents had ever even gotten together in the first place.

You were both sure that it must have been an arranged marriage of some sorts.

Rick thought maybe your grandparents had made a deal with the devil, and to ensure the safety of the family, Ronald and Maureen were forced to be betrothed for life.

You thought maybe Maureen was an evil sorceress who had cast a spell on your father, trapping him in a loveless marriage that he was an unsuspecting victim in.

The truth was not stranger than fiction.

The reason behind their nuptials was simple, really: Ronald was raised to believe he needed to provide for his family, and after having knocked Maureen up not only once but twice, he was resigned to the fact that this was his path in life.

Devoted father, loving husband.

While he couldn’t stand his wife, her harshness and indignation usurping any positive characteristics she may have once had, Ron did love his children. Dearly.

Rick was his wild child; his rebellious, rambunctious trouble maker.

Ron would sit on the front porch late at night, waiting for Rick to get home and tell him all about his latest escapades. What parties he’d gone to, what girls he’d kissed, whether he preferred the high from acid or mushrooms more. Ron lived vicariously through his son, encouraging the boy to play hard, but to play hard responsibly.

You were Ron’s Little Leia of Alderaan; his opinionated, open-minded warrior, brave enough to stand up to any bully who’d dare to make fun of you or your friends. You were Ron’s daydreamer, his whimsical muse, his daily reminder that there was still innocent softness in this cruel world.

You would have Daddy Daughter Dates twice a week, where you’d do things like go to the roller rink or have picnics in the park, and they always ended with a two scoop mint chocolate chip ice cream cone shared between the both of you.

But Ron’s love for his life dwindled the second he stepped foot inside his house -- where he was forced to occupy space with his resentful excuse of a wife, a woman who would never miss a beat to berate him for every choice he’d ever made in his life.

With your older brother gone, the squabbles between Ron and Maureen got worse.

Rick had been able to placate his father and put himself in the line of Maureen’s fire, taking her verbal hits so his father didn’t have to. You, being only ten when Rick had left, didn’t have much ground to stand on with your parents arguing, and trying to step in as Rick had would usually only make things escalate.

Ron fantasized about leaving, starting over anew. The immediate and resounding “no” that his subconscious always answered himself with, thinking of the kids, dwindled down over time, until all of his fantasizing led him to making actual plans of departure.

Last year, right before summer break was set to start, Ron finally left.

Having taken PTO from the campus, he’d waited that morning for Maureen to leave for work and for you to be on the bus to school. Alone, he took the time to pack all of his belongings, leaving only a few things behind, all with you in mind -- things to remind you of him in his absence. He’d intended on coming back for you as soon as possible, wanting to settle in somewhere before dragging his daughter into his uprooted life.

But it was over a year now that Ron had been gone, and you could count on one hand the amount of times he’d reached out to you.

You could count them on two fingers, actually.

The first time was the night after he’d left, when he’d tried explaining to you his reasoning, which you weren’t at all interested in hearing. You were beside yourself that he’d left you, just like Rick had, except Rick was your brother and that was normal, but Ron was your daddy and he was supposed to always be there.

Your mother, in anger that Ron would attempt to talk to you and not her, had disconnected the call, and while you waited by the phone all night for him to call back, he never did.

The second and last time he reached out was a few months ago, via letter for your 18th birthday. It was postmarked with an address in Fort Worth, Texas. When you’d tried writing back, you'd found the letter you'd sent in your mailbox a week later, marked Return to Sender.

It was mid-November now, and you hadn’t heard from him since.

At least Rick had kept in touch after he’d left.

He’d sent you care packages every month since arriving to Indiana in '81. They were full of sci-fi and horror books he’d found at the local Goodwill or Salvation Army, newspaper clippings for outlandish Classified segments, scribbled notes on stained notebook paper detailing concerts he’d gone to and new bands he thought you should check out.

Remembering this, you softened quickly after accusing Rick of abandoning, your biting comment causing guilt to swirl in your stomach.

Rick had his reasons to leave, you understood that. He was allowed to live his life. And even though he’d done just that, left and lived his life, he still always managed to keep tabs on you. The two of you hadn’t gone more than a few weeks without letters sent or parcels mailed back and forth since he’d first left home.

Never there, but never gone. Not really.

That was more than you could say for your father.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” you admitted, even though the hurt words you spoke did hold some kernel of truth. “It’s just… I don’t wanna have to start all over somewhere else.”

“It’ll be good for you,” Rick promised, choosing to let the accusation of his abandonment slide. He was sure you'd both get into it more later, considering it was a conversation that was long overdue. “The house is too big for just me anyway, and you know I’m fuckin’ shit at decorating. I’ve basically just been using beer cans for bookends and stuff like that – you could make it look way cozier.”

You laughed, sure your brother wasn’t exaggerating.

Rick was about as anti-capitalist as you could get, and that included being a minimalist when it came to possessions. Give the man a hand-me-down couch, a little TV, some weed, his cassettes, and a subscription to Playboy, and he’d be content for the rest of his life.

You were the opposite.

You loved things.

You had many different collections you’d amassed over the years -- your vast assortment of books had spilled from the two bookshelves in your room to several stacks littered throughout the house, much to your mother's annoyance; your vinyls were shoved into four big storage bins stacked under your octagonal bedroom window, which you draped a blanket over and used as a makeshift window seat nook; your cliques of creepy looking dolls you’d collected from estate sales and antique shops crowded your bed, your vanity, the storage shelf in your closet; the bug assemblages you’d been adding to since your childhood had their own corner of your room, little homes full of ladybugs, ants, and deathwatch beetles.

The idea that you could expand your knack for interior embellishing (hoarding, really) further than the confines of one room was one thing that made you start to consider taking Rick’s offer seriously.

That, and the realization that finally getting the fuck out of Fresno might not be such a bad idea.

Because what did you have there anymore, anyway? Shit grades? A handful of mean exes? A dead-end job?

Was any of that worth staying for?

You thought of your dad trying to reach out to you via telephone, imagined your mother answering and telling him you’d moved away and no longer lived there.

If it were only a few months since Ron had left, you didn’t think you would have gone with Rick back to Hawkins. You would have stayed just for the mere possibility that your dad would show up on the doorstep one day, begging for your forgiveness for leaving you alone with your coldhearted mother.

However, it was over a year now that he’d been gone. One year, four months, and fifteen days... if anyone was counting.

You’d never verbally admit it, but you still were.

There was a page hidden in the back of your diary where you kept track.

Your hopefulness was starting to make you sick.

Maybe a change wouldn’t be so bad.

Going back to Hawkins with Rick sure beat being forced to attend an all girls’ reformatory school, one with a reputation that claimed the headmaster performed shock therapy on students in lieu of giving them detentions.

You were sure that was just a rumor, but still. You didn’t want to take any chances.

“Bean, let me be there for you,” Rick said, reaching over to grasp your hand with his fingers. You noted his nails were painted a lime green. “It’ll be just like when we were kids, except now you’re older and actually cool so I won’t be embarrassed to introduce you to all my friends.” Dipping his head to the side, he wiggled his pierced brows, a grin toying on his lips as he added, “And we can smoke weed in the house.”

Pretending as if that alone was what sealed the deal, you stood swiftly. “Say less. You really should’ve started with that, Richard.” You headed off in the direction of the stairs that led up to your room, glancing over your shoulder at your brother who was staring off after you with a relieved countenance on his face. “Gimme an hour and then we can go?”

Rick answered with two thumbs up before grabbing a slice of pizza, shoving as much as he could of it into his mouth as you disappeared up the spiral staircase.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie x you #eddie x reader #billy hargrove x reader #billy x reader #billy x you #mungrove x reader #mungrove #billy hargrove smut #eddie munson smut

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tj-dragonblade · 2 months

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[FLUFFBRUARY FIC] A Sweet Romance Beginning In a Queue

Rated: T Word Count: 4551 Tags: Fluffbruary, Fluffbruary 2024, fluff, human AU, rain, writer!Dream, professor!Hob, song-based meet-cute, clumsy metaphors

Notes: This is springboarding entirely from Bus Stop by The Hollies; shoutout to @valeriianz for suggesting this song would make a great Dreamling fic many many months ago. I thought Fluffbruary Day 3 would be a good opportunity to bang it out real quick but uh. It didn't want to flow, so I've just been rolling additional days into it all month. Also went a wee bit off-script from the song but. I'm pleased enough with what it's turned out to be. Prompts listed at the end.

Summary: Bus stop, wet day, he's there, I say, 'Please share my umbrella'

On AO3

It's the first day of the new term and the sky is overcast, threatening rain as Hob steps off the bus at his connecting stop. He's got his umbrella and his overcoat and his bag is water-resistant; his stop on the other end is very near the college and he's feeling well-prepared should the weather follow through on its threat.

Which of course it does, not half a minute later, and Hob deploys his umbrella with a sigh. There are a handful of other people waiting at the stop who do the same.

And one who does not.

He's pale and pretty, and tall, and dark—dark trousers, dark peacoat, dark hair, which is well on its way to getting thoroughly soaked as the skies open up in earnest. He appears to be lacking an umbrella entirely. Hob, who these days makes conscious effort to be a Good Samaritan whenever he can, and who also maybe thinks that attractively-pale men dressed in black who forget their umbrellas are worth at least a 'hello', moves quickly.

"Share my umbrella? Please." He's holding it over the guy as he speaks, but they'll have to squish up a bit to get maximum benefit for either of them.

"…Thank you," the guy says, shuffling closer; their shoulders touch. He is stiff, awkward, and yeah okay Hob can understand; courtesy in rainy weather or not, they're still complete strangers.

"Hell of a day to forget your umbrella, yeah?" Hob rolls his shoulders and shifts, putting himself more or less back-to-back with the guy so they fit better.

"Quite," comes the answer. His voice is low and rumbly, pleasantly dark without being bass-deep; it's oddly appealing.

Hob shrugs. "We've all been there. And hey, I'm glad to share."

"Again. Thank you." There's a touch more warmth this time, and Hob smiles to himself.

They pass a moment in silence, save for the drumming of rain against the umbrella and the splashing of cars in the street, and then the bus is pulling up to the stop. The guy steps toward it, first in line, and Hob follows with the umbrella, then lets the other three people board ahead of him.

Which means, once he's boarded and tapped in, the only open seat is serendipitously next to his slightly-soggy goth stranger. Who makes eye contact and holds it as Hob approaches, scoots just that little bit closer to the window to make clear he doesn't mind Hob taking the seat beside him, and Hob is quietly thrilled at the subtle welcome.

"Are you a conversationalist, or a ride-in-silence enthusiast?" he asks, as the bus lurches into motion.

"Ordinarily, the latter," the guy admits, glancing briefly at Hob. "But, as I stormed out with neither book nor earbuds, and I find myself with a chivalrous seat partner, perhaps I could be persuaded to the former just this once."

"Very kind, thank you," Hob says, with a smile. "'Stormed out' doesn't sound promising; feel like unburdening to a friendly ear? I'd be happy to listen, if so. Or find something else entirely to talk about if not."

His stranger turns to the window, watching the rivulets of rain trailing over the glass; there is a brief lull before he speaks. "I find myself creatively blocked, and my sister's attempts to be helpful. Were not." He sighs. "I left the house to clear my head, before saying anything truly unkind."

"Smart," Hob agrees. He could listen to this guy talk all day, his rumbly words and his dark-velvety voice.

"'Smart' would have been making certain to grab more than just my phone and wallet." There's a pretty little scowl accompanying the words, that rosy mouth plumped out in the faintest pout visible in his reflection in the window, and Hob is smitten.

"That may be, but then I'd hardly have had reason to say hello, and we'd both be sitting here reading our books politely ignoring one another. Silver lining?"

"Perhaps," the guy says, but it sounds agreeable enough. Hob likes to think he's a decent judge of unspoken communication and that he could tell if he was being a bother. Currently his stranger is glancing over Hob's bag and his attire with a curious and observant eye, posture reserved but not closed off, and Hob figures he's doing alright.

"Where are you headed, then—work?" the guy asks.

"Yeah, I teach at the college, medieval history, now and then a class in medieval lit too."

The guy's attention goes from merely polite to genuinely interested. "Oh?"

"Yep!" Hob's heart rate bumps up a notch at the light in those (gorgeous) blue eyes; the sudden intensity of this stranger's focus is heady.

He's turned in his seat, angled to somewhat face Hob, gaze bright, expression open. "I imagine that is a difficult sell to many students."

"Oh my friend, you have no idea!" Delighted with his good fortune, Hob launches into tales of his most recalcitrant classes and the victories he's won in inciting and maintaining student interest. He's good at talking, and enjoys doing it, and this pretty stranger is paying genuine attention to him, and so Hob prattles on enthusiastically as the bus trundles steadily through the rain.

~ "This is me," Hob says, as the bus pulls up to the college stop. "It was delightful chatting with you, and I hope your day improves from here!"

"It already has, thank you."

The tiny smile that the stranger offers in parting buoys Hob's spirits all the way to his office.

~ Tuesday is miserably wet again and Hob checks for his stranger at the bus stop, hopeful (yes alright, perhaps he's got a bit of a crush), but there's no sign of him. It's earlier than it was yesterday though, on account of his 8 a.m. lecture this morning, so there's no reason to think he'd be there again. Plus he'd talked about 'storming out' and 'clearing his head'; it wasn't like this stop was a daily transfer point the way it was for Hob.

Chances were good they'd never cross paths again.

~ Wednesday it's less a downpour and more a light shower, but it's still enough that an umbrella is practical.

And Hob is absolutely delighted as he steps off his first bus to see that Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Emo is there again, and again without an umbrella, hunched ineffectually into the collar of his coat and resembling nothing so much as a disgruntled wet cat. He perks up distinctly as Hob approaches with his umbrella angled forward in offering.

"You gallantly come to my rescue yet again." He tilts his head and glances up through lush black lashes, just this side of coy. "I thank you, sincerely, Mr…?"

"Hob, I'm Hob. Just Hob. You can call me Hob." Not his most suave, certainly, but this blatantly-flirtatious greeting atop his own delight has somewhat stolen his functioning brain cells.

"Hob," the guy repeats, unhurried, like he's savoring the taste of the name in his mouth, and smiles just a little bit. "You may call me Dream."

"Pleased to run into you again, Dream." Hob dimples brightly, delighted with the turn his day has taken, delighted that they've made proper introductions. "How was the head-clearing, the other day?"

"Effective." The guy—Dream—crowds close under the umbrella (Hob's largest, which he had pulled out yesterday just in case) and smooths the clinging water from his hair with one hand. His (damp) shoulder is firmly pressed against Hob's and his profile is absolutely beautiful, this close. Hob tries not to stare.

"Got your creativity flowing again, did it?"

"I managed to finish a very troublesome chapter Monday evening, yes."

Hob perks up at this new tidbit of information. "You're a writer, then?"

He gives a short nod, staring out into the rain, then glances sideways at Hob. "I have you to thank for my progress, also."

"Me?"

"The stories you shared…you inspired a direction for the scene that was plaguing me. I came out yesterday, with intent to thank you, but you were not here…?"

His voice lilts up just a touch on the end of his sentence, curiosity expressed without actually voicing the question, and Hob just smiles. "Yeah, Tuesday's my early-morning class. Sorry I missed you."

"No matter. I have now left the house three days in a row and my sister is distressingly pleased about it. She says it is good for my mental health."

"And what do you think?"

He sighs, heavily. "She is not incorrect." He glances sideways at Hob again, eyes narrowed prettily. "But I am not going to admit it to her."

Hob laughs; he can't help it. "You are so completely valid for that," he says, and when Dream smiles in return his spirits soar.

~ "Remembered your umbrella this time, I see!" Hob ignores the little pang of disappointment; just because he doesn't need to share his umbrella with Dream this time doesn't mean they can't still have a conversation.

"My sister reminded me, yes," Dream answers, and then to Hob's great surprise he lowers and closes the umbrella. "But I would prefer to share yours, if you're amenable." His eyes flick up, just a hint of hopeful uncertainty showing there.

"Of course." Hob moves close, brings his umbrella over Dream's head, heart thudding in his chest with delight. He hopes the great spreading grin on his face doesn't put Dream off; he can't quite get it under control.

If Dream notices, he gives no indication. "This routine is working well for me," he says, and it takes Hob a second to cotton on to what he means.

"What, catching the bus in the rain every morning?"

"Yes," Dream says serenely. "The company is. Refreshing." The corners of his mouth tilt up the smallest bit.

"Nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," Hob says, making a valiant effort to sound normal while something warm blooms in the vicinity of his heart. He shifts the umbrella, making sure they're both still sheltered.

"Writing flows more easily when I return home after our morning conversations," Dream says, as if this is something they've been doing for weeks instead of just days. "I shall have to credit you in my author's notes."

Hob laughs, absolutely delighted. "That is extremely flattering, my friend, but wholly unnecessary. But if I'm at all helpful? I'm glad."

One day maybe he'll ask if he can see Dream's writing, when they've been acquainted for more than a week; one day further, perhaps, he'll ask him on a date. It certainly seems he'd be amenable, but Hob knows himself and his tendency to rush in full-tilt and tells himself there's no harm in just. Seeing what happens, for a little while.

~ "Share my umbrella?"

Dream looks askance at him, hair fluttering prettily across his forehead in the breeze. "It is not raining, Hob."

"Well no, but. Bit windy, isn't it? Wouldn't want you to suffer any windburn. Umbrella makes a decent wind-break." He has oh-so-smoothly said 'wind' three times in ten seconds, and it is the flimsiest of excuses to begin with, but Dream only smiles as if he's said something profoundly wise.

"Indeed. Truly, I am fortunate to receive your continued chivalry." He crowds in close to Hob, who angles the umbrella behind them to keep the wind off, and smiles.

~ The other patrons at the bus stop are giving Hob weird looks as he opens his umbrella, but there's only one person here whose opinion matters.

Dream tilts one eyebrow up, amused. "The sun is shining today, Hob Gadling. Yet still you offer your umbrella?"

"It's tradition, at this point. And besides—got a very fair complexion, haven't you? Bit of shade will do you good."

"…As you say." His smile is radiant as the sunshine, and Hob's heart thumps happily. "Thank you."

~ It's been about a month since that first meeting when Hob leaves campus for the afternoon and finds Dream waiting at the college bus stop. The morning's rain has cleared throughout the day but now rises again as a light drizzly mist; Dream is huddled into the meager shelter offered over the bench while pulling out his umbrella. Hob hurries over with his own already deployed, playing into their established pattern.

"Fancy meeting you here?" he greets, smiling. He's delighted to run into Dream outside their developed routine, and the way that Dream kind of blooms to see him is very satisfying.

"Hob. At last," Dream smiles, ducking under Hob's broad umbrella.

"Been waiting long?"

"…Somewhat. You see. I have. A question, I would like to ask you. An important one." The gravity in his tone is clear, and Hob might be worried if it wasn't so plainly obvious that Dream was nervous. "But I do not know your schedule, beyond your morning commute, and so…"

"Have you just been hanging around half the day waiting for me to show up?" Hob is equal parts appalled and delighted.

Dream meets his eyes briefly, glance flicking away again too quickly to interpret as anything other than confirmation. "Perhaps."

Hob laughs, aware he should possibly be alarmed by what any normal person would read as stalking behavior but utterly charmed by it instead. "Your patience has its reward, then. What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"I…ah." Dream colors prettily, the faintest pink flush across his cheeks as he stumbles over actually speaking his question, and Hob is rapidly escalating from 'charmed' to 'enamoured'. "I am not. Good, at—at—"

"Obviously it was important enough to identify my most likely location and wait hours for me to show up, right?" Hob cuts in gently. "Go ahead. I promise I won't judge you." He can hear the fondness seeping into his own voice, and apparently so can Dream. He lifts wide eyes to Hob, lips pressed together resolutely, and heaves a fortifying breath out through his nose.

"I wish to ask. Would you like to have dinner sometime. Or. Or coffee, perhaps."

The bus pulls up at that exact moment, disgorging a single passenger; Hob barely hesitates before waving the driver on.

"That was our bus?" Dream states, lilting up in such a way that it's clear he means Why did we not board, why are we still standing here?

"Well, yes," Hob agrees, very aware of the size of the dopey grin on his face. "But you see, a very dear friend of mine has just asked if I might like a bite to eat with him, and I know the most amazing little spot right around the corner."

"That. That is 'yes', then? Now?" Dream seems delightedly flummoxed, and it ratchets Hob straight up to 'besotted'. How could Dream think he'd ever say anything else? Although it occurs to him belatedly Dream might have other obligations for the evening.

"Well 'now' is certainly 'sometime', yes? If you're free, that is. If you've something else you have to do—"

"No. Nothing else," Dream cuts him off, and the warm smile spreading over his face makes Hob's heart skip a beat. "There is nowhere I should like to be more, just now."

Of course not, not when he'd dedicated the bulk of his day to waiting for Hob just to ask him out. "Wonderful. Shall we?" He offers his arm, angling the umbrella to keep the misty sprinkle off them still.

Dream tucks a hand into his elbow and falls into step beside him.

~ "Wanna try mine?" Hob offers, plucking a crispy slab of cheese from his plate with a bit of everything on it and holding it out, other hand cupped underneath. They are talking over plates of halloumi fries; Hob had gone for his favorite—smothered in pomegranate molasses and za'atar yoghurt with pomegranate arils and fresh mint garnish—and Dream had taken his drizzled in honey and sprinkled with sesame seeds.

"Thank you, I am fine," Dream says, rote politeness in his voice but curiosity in his eyes, and Hob arches a brow.

"Worried you'll have to spend a month stuck with me for each pomegranate seed?"

"That would hardly dissuade me," Dream replies, with a sweet little smile that hits Hob straight in the gut. "Very well, since you offer so generously." He leans forward, grasps Hob's wrist instead of the proffered food, and bites through the warm-crusted cheese while Hob's still holding it, lips brushing Hob's fingers as he pulls back.

He chews, making a contemplative face, and gently plucks the rest of it from Hob's hand while Hob is still scrambling to reboot his poor blue-screening brain and not make a fool of himself.

"Do you know," Hob blurts, grasping for anything, "whatever Persephone might have eaten in the underworld, it would've bound her there the same? It wasn't just because it was a pomegranate?"

"I did know that, yes," Dream replies, and Hob feels the flush of having said something fairly stupid rising into his face. "The pomegranate is a tidy choice for enumerating the months she stays below, I think, with the countable seeds." He plucks one of the ruby-red arils from the cheese that Hob had given him between two delicate fingertips and places it in his mouth, eyes on Hob in a way that makes him lose his brain again.

"Yes that's. Good point," Hob tries, and thankfully Dream pops the rest of the halloumi fry into his mouth without any fanfare or continued eye contact.

"I can see why you like this," Dream says, once his mouth is empty. "It is a wonderful blend of flavors. But the honey-sesame remains my favorite." He takes a bite from his own plate, and Hob tries not to fixate on the casual way he licks the honey off his rose-petal lips.

"I wrote an alternate version of Persephone's story, once," Dream says then, eyes not exactly meeting Hob's or even on his face, darting between his shoulder and his sternum and dropping back to his plate. "I made it her choice; they met and fell in love long before the abduction, which was closer to an elopement. She ate the pomegranate seeds deliberately so as not to be taken away from the partner she had chosen. In my version, it was the pomegranate specifically that would bind her."

"That sounds brilliant," Hob says, feeling a little starry-eyed; Dream has never really talked specifics about his writing before. "I'd love to read it sometime."

"It. Was many many years ago, before I ever considered publication," Dream admits, barely glancing up at Hob, still a little skittish. "I thought it a unique idea at the time, but there are dozens of Persephone remixes to be had and I have never felt it warranted the effort of reworking it from my current skill level or attempting to publish."

"Well for what it's worth, your version is the remix I'd be most interested in reading," Hob says, utterly sincere, smiling from ear to ear. "If you ever wanted to share, that is." He bites into another halloumi fry and speaks around it. "I would never pressure you to let me read your stuff if you don't want to. But I'm always interested."

"…Thank you." Dream covers his awkwardness with another dainty bite from his own plate, a hint of pink dusting across his cheekbones. When his mouth is empty again, he offers, "Mostly I have written. Romance."

"Oh?"

"Not under my own name. But yes."

"See it's fascinating that pseudonyms are so prevalent through the ages, and for so many reasons," Hob starts, and as the conversation turns in this new direction Hob does not miss how Dream relaxes to have the focus shifted from the vulnerable personal glimpse of himself he'd offered.

And Hob maybe falls a little bit deeper.

~ It's still lightly raining three hours later; they've talked about so many things, they've had dessert and then had coffee since neither of them were ready to leave yet. It's dark by the time they finally head back to the bus stop; Dream presses up against Hob's side beneath the umbrella and Hob thrills at the warmth, the closeness, the graceful slide of Dream's hand into his and the way he doesn't let go until the bus shows up.

~ It's raining again the first time Hob kisses Dream, pulling him close beneath the umbrella outside the theater, one finger tipped beneath Dream's chin; the kiss is tentative, but Dream's mouth is warm and the way he lists gently forward has Hob coming back again, soft and sweet and smiling helplessly.

~ Three straight days of rain are clearing on the afternoon that Dream takes Hob to the bookstore and leads him to the romance section, points him to a shelf in the 'M's where there are a dozen or so titles by Morpheus, mononymous. Hob doesn't make the connection for a second, and then he does.

"Is this you?" he asks, reaching for one of the hardbacks, and sure enough there's Dream's photo inside the dust jacket, solemn and styled and somehow less authentic than the Dream standing nervously next to him.

"Yes," Dream confirms, and soft warmth floods Hob's chest. Dream has been very reserved about his writing—"It is one thing to publish for strangers, but I find it…much more difficult to share, when it is someone whose opinon matters to me personally," he'd said once, and being trusted, opened up to like this—Hob is not oblivious to the privilege of it.

"You've certainly written a lot," he says, warmth and fondness curling in his chest. "And you're okay with me reading any of these?"

"Yes; however—" he reaches into the messenger bag slung over his hip, withdraws a large clear envelope with what looks like a manuscript inside. "If you wish to read my writing, I would have you begin with this." He hands it to Hob.

Hades and Persephone: The Morpheus Remix the paper proclaims through the plastic, and Hob looks up at Dream, delighted. "Is this—?"

"It needs a proper title." Dream shrugs, hunches into his coat a little bit. "I would like—perhaps you might help me come up with one, as it was you who inspired me to revisit and update it."

Hob cannot for the life of him stop the broad smile that overtakes his face, is not even trying. "I would be honored."

~ It is raining buckets the night that Dream comes home with Hob, and even the umbrella is not enough to prevent their getting a bit wet. But that's alright, Hob thinks, with Dream's eager mouth warm and hungry on his as they move in the direction of his bedroom, it's not like their clothes were staying on anyway.

He lays Dream gently in his bed, covers him with his own body, makes love to him with slow and ardent urgency while the rain lashes against his window. Later, after, when the winds have calmed and thunder rumbles soothingly in the distance, he holds Dream curled against him, asleep, and he thinks. He thinks about umbrellas, and shielding, and guardedness, and how Dream has slowly gifted so many of his vulnerabilities to Hob; he thinks about the duality of potential in that realization, the power it gives him to either harm or protect, and vows to himself that he will always be Dream's metaphorical umbrella when it's within his capabilities.

~ It's sprinkling just a little when Hob realizes that he's going to marry Dream.

It's early Autumn and they're at the park; Dream is under his own umbrella (look, sometimes sharing just isn't practical, as much as Hob still loves faithfully carrying on their schtick), scattering peas and grapes for the ducks and Hob is hanging back, watching him with an aching fondness in his heart.

Dream is beautiful, and thoughtful, and engaging. He is guarded and private, but so warm and emotional and giving once he has let you in. He is smart, and witty, with the driest sense of humor and the most endearingly terrible laugh and Hob has fallen desperately in love with him along the way.

He watches as a particularly bold duck comes close and snaps up the pea that had fallen directly at the toe of Dream's boot; watches the soft delight that steals over Dream's face, and he knows.

~ It is the following Spring before he asks. They are at the bus stop where they first met and it's a bright sunny day; Hob's got the umbrella up and they're shoulder-to-shoulder beneath it. Dream is animated, excited, talking about his editor's latest feedback on his Persephone remix (The Seeds of Fate, they had decided to call it), and Hob is listening, very much interested but so so nervous. The little velvet box on his pocket is weighty, not physically of course but he can't stop touching it, hoping Dream will say yes, believing Dream will say yes.

At last, Dream turns to him, a little wrinkle of concern between his brows. "You feel…distracted; is everything alright?"

Hob smiles at him, entirely and wholeheartedly in love. He hooks the hand holding the umbrella with Dream's so their fingers are tangled together around it; he leans his forehead against Dream's, closes his eyes. "I have a question, I'd like to ask you. An important one." It's a deliberate echo of how Dream had asked him out more than a year ago; Hob can picture the way Dream smiles to recognize it, can feel one eyebrow lifting against his own.

He takes a deep breath, pulls the little box from his pocket and clicks the lid open. "Will you marry me?"

It's a quiet request, pitched low so the other couple people at the bus stop don't overhear, so that if Dream does wish to say no, he won't be under the public pressure of strangers to say yes for appearances' sake. Not that Hob expects him to say no.

He hopes he doesn't say no.

Dream pulls back and Hob opens his eyes, meeting the surprise and delight and disbelief in Dream's. Dream looks down at the ring in the open box in Hob's hand, touches a fingertip to the velvet-covered lid delicately, looks back up at Hob with joy blossoming in his face.

"Do you mean it? Truly?"

Hob swallows down the nervous lump in his throat, squeezes gently where his hand is tangled with Dream's around the handle of the umbrella. "More than anything," he murmurs, entranced by the gathering shine of happy tears in Dream's eyes. "Marry me. Please."

Dream makes a joyful little noise, wrenches his hand free and throws both arms around Hob's neck, kissing him soundly. Hob manages to snap the ring box closed and swing the umbrella low, wraps both arms around Dream's waist and kisses him back.

"Yes," Dream breathes wetly when they part a moment later. "Yes, of course yes, a thousand times, yes."

~ They marry in the park in August, the clouds high and the breeze warm. Hob puts up the umbrella when they reach the crux of the ceremony; he holds its history over them while they say their vows, while they slip rings on one another's fingers, and then they seal their marriage with a tender heartfelt kiss beneath its promise of care and protection.

= Started: 2/3/24 Drafted: 2/24/24 Posted: 2/25/24

Fluffbruary 2024 Prompts Day 3: umbrella seashore mist Day 4: camera lush beau Day 5: rescue inertia lullaby Day 6: tie embarrassment* dessert Day 7: potatoes blue glass Day 8: shower blessed layer Day 9: urgency kneel rural Day 10: flush angel owl Day 11: reflection water apology Day 12: graceful volcano blanket Day 18: suave cologne gradual* Day 19: teacakes flood feature Day 20: smooth glitters queen Day 23: rhythm chalk humor Day 24: spring fuzzy silky

*The word did not get used but the concept is very much in there

#TJs Fics #Fluffbruary 2024 #TJs Fluffbruary #Dreamling #Sandman #wip: umbrella boys

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remnant-thoughts · 1 year

Quote

To find such familiarity in an unexpected stranger is as serendipitous as flipping to the right page of a story on the first try. Like the delight that comes with being naturally good at learning something completely new, and the excitement that comes with relearning something old in a new light. This just so happens to be exactly where we begin.

“Prologue” remnant-thoughts

#writing #words #alt lit #prose #feelings #spilled ink #thoughts #thoughts out loud #poems #poetry #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #excerpt from a book I'll never write

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mysterious-moonstruck-musings · 3 months

Text

Light in the Darkness Masterlist

A Companion Series to Destiny & Deliverance Dieter Bravo X OFC ||| Last Updated: 01/31/2024

Series Summary: Dieter Bravo is in the midst of major life changes at the height of his acting career when he meets the beautiful and intriguing Natalia Cohen on a work trip. They quickly develop a connection that will forever alter their future.

Warnings: Themes dealing with mental health, emotional trauma, alcohol abuse, drug use, and discussions about suicide. There will be fluff, tears, spicy language, and smut. This will be a slow burn type of story. Read at your own risk. Dieter Bravo comes with his own warnings.

✨Note: This is a companion series to Destiny & Deliverance. The Light in the Darkness will cover events that take place in that fic from Dieter’s point of view. I recommend reading The Light in the Darkness AFTER Destiny & Deliverance.

EXTRAS ||| TEASERS ||| VIBES ||| MAIN MASTERLIST

New Chapters Coming Soon

Serendipitous Beginnings

Leading the Lost Soul Home

Reunions & Introductions

Catharsis

Descending into Madness

Living in the Darkness

Deliverance

Home

Serenity

If you would like to be added to the tag list, let me know in the comments or shoot me a DM.

Divider Credits: Reblog/MDNI: @cafekitsune Stars: @saradika

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #Destiny & Deliverance Series #Light in the Darkness Series

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prolix-yuy · 1 year

Text

A Bearable Weight

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader

Summary: New Years Eve is the holiday of new beginnings, and you take a leap to see if Javi might be one of them.

Word Count: 3k

Story Warnings: T, plenty of sweetness, more ridiculousness because I can't help myself, some lightly spicy kisses. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ so MINORS DNI.

Notes: I had to get these two to New Years. They were just too cute to leave hanging. I hope each and every one of you reading this waves goodbye to anything that made your 2022 difficult and enters 2023 with open arms and excitement. Now let's see where the new year takes Javi and Conejita!

Cross-posted on AO3

The restaurant is smaller than you thought it might be, unassuming in a strip of businesses. The sign for it is understated, white lettering on a black rectangle with a thin gold border - Aperitif. You’ve been studying the sign, and the door below it, for well over ten minutes, the chill night air creeping up your bare legs. The new dress you bought for the occasion - black, tasteful but a little sexy, an amount you’re comfortable with - weaves around your knees when a breeze makes you shiver. You look down at your heels again, still torn between whether the glittery gold is too loud for your personality or loving that they make you feel festive. Your hair is styled, your makeup is perfect, everything is ready for you to go inside.

And you’re still rooted on the damn spot.

Javi texted you a few times since the first voice message. Every new phone alert made your heart jump, evolving to a flutter when it actually was from him. He sent you photos of his friends’ Christmas tree, their dog plopping her head in his lap, the snow outside a fogged up window. He also asked you things about yourself, some that you expected and others that made you stop and smile.

What food will you eat if you’re having a bad day?

Best movies adapted from books?

Did your sister like the message?

Your sister did indeed, and after catching you grinning at your phone several times throughout the long weekend finally made you confess how you got it. Her elation over the serendipitous meeting was only eclipsed by your hesitation over seeing Javi again.

“Are you serious right now? Cute, funny, probably loaded, a dork, sweet, and definitely into you? I will drive you there and drop your ass on the sidewalk if you don’t do it yourself.”

So you accepted the invitation, which was accompanied by a string of excited texts filled with details and one that made you tingle from head to toe.

Thank you for accepting. I hope you will consider what I asked you in my first message. But only if you’re comfortable. I really like talking to you, no matter what.

A beat, then…

If you’d like to be mine, this year.

You did. Holy hell, you did. But you were also a classically trained overthinker, and the days leading up to New Years Eve were spent Googling and riding the rollercoaster of excitement and dread. The Gutierrez family had an online presence, and not all of it was good. Luckily it seemed like Javi wasn’t in the crosshairs, but the more you learned the more convinced you became that this was going to be a shitshow. Wealthy, influential, a lover of the arts and gorgeous in every photo you find, your hopes got buried a little deeper with each word.

He told you it was going to be a party, nothing large, but the idea of being in your department store dress among the elite of society made you want to cancel. Go out for coffee instead. Let yourself down gently when you realize how different your worlds are.

But then you find a voicemail - a missed call from Javi:

“Hi conejita, I hope all the texts have not been too much. I realize that you barely know me, and I am maybe moving a little too fast. I get…ah, well, I get excited. You have made me very excited, and I want to be, you know, ‘cool’ about it, but I am not so great at that. Anyways, I am…hah, yeah, excited to see you tomorrow. It will be a lot of fun. And, um…we don’t…I only want what you want, conejita. So let’s just…see where the night takes us. I know what I feel, but I…I only want you to…to know…agh! I am messing this all up. Sorry, this message is so long now. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m…I’m really happy to see you tomorrow. Okay, bye.”

What’s the harm, you thought after listening to the message three times. If it’s terrible you never have to see him again.

Another breeze ripples over your skin, finally making you move towards the door.

And if it’s amazing?

You smile to yourself and enter the warmth of the restaurant.

Aperitif looked small from the exterior, and the interior is about what you expected. It could maybe seat 30 fully booked, but the dining room has been cleared out in favor of buffet servers against the walls, the ivory bar lined with champagne glasses and eager bartenders shaking cocktails. The handful of people chatting inside don’t look like heiresses or oil barons. Your shoulders relax a fraction.

“Name?” the man at the door asks, a short list in his hand. You give yours and are ushered in, a drink immediately put in your hand and a string of metallic gold beads tossed over your head by a waitress.

“Happy New Year!” she says, taking your coat. You slip into the crowd looking for the only person you came here for - Javi. But his caramel curls and exuberant laugh haven’t reached you yet.

“I love what they’ve done with the decorations!” a cheery voice exclaims over your shoulder. You look around, then up to see a delicate web of black and gold streamers holding balloons precariously above you. One single streamer hangs to the floor behind the bar, which an olive-skinned hand points to. “I think at midnight they pull that.” You turn to see the woman speaking to you, and she’s...normal-looking. Peppy brunette with a sharply cut bob, sparkling brown eyes, and a glittery top with black slacks. Maybe you had nothing to worry about.

“That’s fun, I haven’t been out on New Years in ages,” you say, taking a sip of champagne. The bubbles tickle your tongue pleasantly. It’s good, much better than any champagne you’ve had at parties.

“Oh then you’ve come to the perfect place! Who invited you?” she asks, finishing off her glass and placing it on a waiter’s tray as it floats by.

“Javi,” you say, a little shyly. He mentioned that he was hosting it, but you had no clue who the other guests were. How long could you keep up the facade?

“Of course! How do you know him? I’m a long-lost cousin myself, been out of the loop for a while, but it’s nice to see him again.” She waits expectantly, and if you didn’t feel like throwing up before you definitely do now.

“Uhhh, we met…on a flight…” you start to say, working through how the hell you were going to explain the circumstances of your meeting to a stranger, when her eyes light up.

“Oh my GOD, it’s you!” she gasps, grabbing on to both your shoulders. “Javi told me about the girl on the plane on his way here. That story, the way he tells it, it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. And you’re here! Now! I have to find him, he’ll be so excited!” She squeezes your shoulders again with a little squeal before darting through the crowd, a nervous giggle smothered in your hand.

He told people about you.

He told people about you in a way that made him sound happy.

You could burst, the light inside you is so expansive.

You’re about to follow when a large palm circles your bicep, turning you gently around in the crowd.

“You came.”

Javi says it like a prayer, like he believed but never thought a miracle would grace him. His curls are swept back from his face in tantalizing waves. He’s in a gray blazer, a navy button-up with some abstract patterning hanging onto his broad chest for dear life. The top three buttons already gave up the fight, chest dewy with the humidity in the room. But it’s his face that melts your anxieties away. His eyes drape warmth over you, fondness in their depths that he only hinted at in his messages. His soft smile lashes your heart into a gallop, breaking into one of your own.

“Of course. How could I miss it?” you say, winking when his grin widens. He leans forward to place a chaste kiss on your cheek, hand spreading across your lower back.

“I am so happy to see you, conejita,” he whispers, raising goosebumps along the nape of your neck.

Oh, you’re in it deep now.

As the night continues more people file in, filling the small space with chattering conversation. You find the bubbly brunette again, who introduces herself as Julia, and get to talking about houseplant care and aggravations. She’s unpretentious, passionate, and makes you feel like you belong. Honestly, most of the people do. As the night wears on and you shake more hands and spark more conversations, it dawns on you why these people are all together tonight. This is Javi’s circle, people who understand him and bring him joy.

Bashful happiness that you might bring him joy settles in your chest.

Javi scoops you up every few minutes, guiding you to new groups or asking you if you’ve tried something. The upscale pigs in a blanket are your personal favorite, snagging a whole tray for yourself when a waiter walks by. You’re almost embarrassed, but Javi’s crinkled smile as he tries to steal one and gets his hand slapped is worth it.

A murmuring begins by the entrance, a flocking to the door. Javi comes to your elbow, leaning on one foot and placing his warm hand on your lower back. He’s been doing it to you all night, every time you stand beside him, but it’s never less thrilling.

“What’s that all about?” you ask, your third glass of champagne fizzing delightfully under your skin. He catches someone’s eye in the crowd, gesturing them over.

“Just a good friend who came to visit.”

You almost choke on your sip of bubbles.

“Nicolas. Fucking. Cage,” you scoff to Javi under your breath as the man himself emerges out of the crowd. He’s bee-lining your way but stops to shake hands and engage in polite conversation. His emerald velvet jacket contrasts the burgundy button-up underneath nicely, but the faded Dad jeans and white tennis shoes clash adorably with the ensemble. “You could have warned me!”

“Your reaction was well worth your annoyance,” Javi placates, pressing you forward as the crowd falls back.

“How are you doing Nic? How’s the family?” Javi asks, pulling the famous actor in for a hug. They give brief updates, you standing back a step awkwardly. Debating on slipping away, Javi introduces you to Nic and pulls you back into the conversation.

“The girl on the plane,” Nic says, and if you ever thought his speaking affect was fake you’re certain now it’s genuine. He takes your hand in both of his, shaking it earnestly. “I heard your sister is a big fan. I hope she liked the message, I know it was a little rushed but, last minute on the holidays, you know…” You shake your head, fighting back your sister’s scream in the back of your mind.

“She was over the moon. Thank you again for doing that, it was very kind of you,” you say, trading a secret smirk with Javi. It’s a harmless lie, but the fact that he’s perpetuating it makes you even giddier.

“Well next time you’re at one of Javi’s parties you should bring her. I love meeting fans,” Nic says, giving you a pat on the shoulder and peeling off to get himself a drink. Javi slides back to your side, the laughter you’d been suppressing squeaking out of the corners of your mouth.

“Clara’s gonna die. I’ll have to lie to her to get her in the same room as Nic,” you sputter, leaning into Javi’s side as he puts an arm around your shoulders. Frenetic energy dissipating, you savor the solid breadth of his chest, that delicious citrus bite of his scent. He holds you there, and after a moment his cheek presses against the side of your head. He inhales, your face burning when you realize he’s smelling you.

“That’s it, you’re a wizard or something. No one can grant as many wishes as you,” you tease, twisting to look into Javi’s face. The crows feet and wrinkles smooth as he looks at you, eyes darting from your own to your lips and back again. “Thank you,” you finally say, letting him slide his arm down to pull you into his chest.

“It is I who should be thanking you, conejita. I’ve been living a full life, a better life in recent times, but it feels that much brighter when you’re close to me.” His touch is hesitant when his fingers graze your jaw, his hold loosening on your back. It’s all broadcasting only what you want. He would chase you if you let him, though if you stepped away now he’d let you. But in those touches are the longing to be more than acquaintances. And in this room you thought you’d never belong in, you feel safe, and seen.

Over the chatter and laughter swirling past, you talk. About Javi’s life, and your own. Your work and what you love to do. His love of movies, your love of old houses and national parks. Your mutual dislike of overused CGI elements and predictable jumpscares. He strokes your back, your arm, as you speak, sometimes needing to break away to say hello or answer a question, but unfailingly coming back to you.

As the final minutes near, you voice the question burning in the back of your mind.

“Javi, you’re so…” you gesture at this posh, gorgeous man standing beside you. “You’re so far out of my league I can’t even see you. And I know I’m a catch,” you interject, gesturing at yourself now with amusement. “I’m a snack, I’m a whole meal, I don’t deny it. But I’m more like…Applebees than Wolfgang Puck.” You wave your hands, banishing the jumble away. “I guess I just don’t understand why…me. Here. Tonight.”

Javi’s brow furrows, his mouth tightening into a pout as he casts his gaze down. Waiting is torture, needing to know if this is just a little thank-you or something more.

“One minute!” someone shouts, the excitement in the room ratcheting up another series of degrees as everyone gathers in the center of the restaurant. Javi leads you to the middle, the throng of people parting enough to give you some space inside it. Once your feet stop, he sweeps you into another embrace, this one firmer. His eyes roam your face, searching for something before he speaks.

“As much as I love the old movies, I do not believe in love at first sight. I believe in attraction, and common interests, and support. I believe in two people finding each other in the most unusual way and taking it as a sign. And when the universe gives you another chance and it only makes you want that person more, well…” Javi trails off, one hand coming up to curl around your head, his thumb stroking the hinge of your parted jaw. Your eyes must be hopeful because he barrels on.

“Well, I am not one to overlook lightning striking twice. And you are…you are not an…apple bee?” he asks, confusion twisting the words. You shake your head and pat his chest.

“It’s a, like, chain restaurant. Sorry, doesn’t make a lot of sense if you haven’t heard of it,” you murmur, stroking a finger along his lapel.

“But that’s just it, because I don’t agree with that. You are so much more than I wished. I feel like…not like a puzzle, but like…two rivers meeting. Both strong on their own, but together, mingled, are in harmony.”

“Okay everyone, get ready, on ten!”

“Javi, what are you…”

“Nine!”

“I want more of this, conejita. I want more of you. If you’ll have me too.”

“Eight!”

“I…do, but I just…it…it feels so…complicated.”

“Seven!”

“We do not need all of the answers now. Just one.”

“Six!”

“Which one is that?”

“Five!”

“Will you let me kiss you tomorrow?”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

“Yes, Javi.”

The restaurant erupts in cheers of “Happy New Year!” as people hug and kiss and celebrate. One of the waiters pulls the crepe paper cord and balloons tumble from the ceiling, packets of foil confetti dumping and exploding over the crowd. If you were paying attention you’d laugh, reach your hands up to the ceiling and try to catch handfuls of the glittering shower, but you’re preoccupied with Javi’s gentle smile before he pulls your lips to his.

If this kiss was a precursor to how your next year would go, magical might be a good descriptor. Or explosive. Swoon-worthy maybe. But perfect might be the best. Javi’s first chaste press is followed by deeper kisses, his full lips covering your own with quiet little pants. When he pulls back enough to see your kiss-drunk face his whole demeanor lights up, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you through the crowd.

Once tucked away on a bench in the back of the restaurant, he proceeds to kiss you with more fervor, tongue slipping against yours tentatively. He only interrupts the worshipful makeout with touches to your face like he still can’t believe you’re here. Covering his hands with your own, you tilt your head to one side.

“I feel like this is going to be a very good year.”

Javi’s sweet smile turns just a fraction devilish, and your heart flutters with it.

“Better than I could have wished for."

END

Part 3: A Gift of Light and Joy

#javi gutierrez x you #javi gutierrez x reader #javi gutierrez x f!reader #javi g x reader #javi g x f!reader #prolix fics

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lucybronzey · 9 months

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wildest dreams - lucy bronze

pairing: Lucy Bronze x fem!reader warnings: fluff word count: 1,897 author's note: Please note that my dyslexia still affects my writing and there can be lots of grammar/vocabulary/phrasing mistakes. Feedback is always welcome! Please do not translate, copy/paste or take credit/ownership of any of my stories! summary: Y/N attends a football conference with her friend Betty. An engaging event about women's football lets Y/N connect with Lucy Bronze, a football star. Their conversation deepens, forging an authentic bond that overshadows Betty's presence. Lucy's genuine interest and vulnerability make the encounter special. The melody of "Wildest Dreams" echoes the enchanting atmosphere. As they part ways, a shared journey seems possible. The memory becomes a reminder of unexpected connections turning into reality.

The conference room buzzes with vibrant energy as attendees from different corners of the world gather to celebrate their shared passion for football. Your mate Betty had invited you as her plus one to the conference where a few ex and current Lionesses were discussing and introducing new courses on how to talk more openly and widely about women's football in England and how to address the current talk around menstruation. As a communication specialist, this was actually quite an important and interesting event to attend as it would give you extended knowledge to exceed and communicate better on certain topics from the point of view of your position. You take a seat at a table, surrounded by fellow specialists, scientists and enthusiasts, excitement coursing through your veins. Engaging in conversations with strangers has always been a bit nerve-wracking, but there's an air of possibility that hangs in the air, much like the refrain of a favourite song of yours - Wildest Dreams (Taylor's Version).

Just as you are about to take a sip from the champagne glass, your mate appears at your side again after taking a short trip to the loo, a warm smile playing on her lips.

"Hey again, duck," Betty says, the lassie who seems to have an uncanny knack for appearing just when you need her.

"Mind if I introduce you to someone?" Betty's eyes twinkle mischievously and you cannot help but feel intrigued.

You shake your head, eager to see who Betty has in mind. Your gaze shifts to the person standing beside her and time seems to momentarily halt. Lucy Bronze, the football sensation whose prowess and defensive moves on the field have made headlines and captured the hearts of many people around the world. Her eyes meet yours, greenish-grey galaxies that hold a universe of stories and emotions. It is as if the stars themselves have aligned to orchestrate this serendipitous encounter.

"Y/N, meet Lucy," Betty says, her voice carrying a hint of excitement. "Lucy, this is Y/N."

Lucy extends her hand and as your fingers touch in a brief handshake, a spark of electricity seems to pass between you. "Nice to meet you," you manage to say, your voice betraying a hint of awe.

"Likewise," Lucy responds with a smile that feels like a glimpse into the sun breaking through the clouds. "Betty's mentioned you before a bit as you probably know her more than me."

The conversation begins with a tentative question about each other's favourite football teams. Of course, you had to mention that you follow and watch FC Barcelona's female team games and cheer along behind the screen. Lucy's eyes light up as you share your allegiance and a playful back-and-forth ensues as she defends her own team with a grin. As the conversation flows, the initial awkwardness dissipates, replaced by a sense of camaraderie that feels like meeting an old friend.

You delve into discussions about memorable matches, reliving moments that had your heart racing and adrenaline pumping. Lucy's animated storytelling makes each anecdote come to life and you cannot help but feel captivated by the passion in her voice. Her eyes sparkle as she recalls a particularly intense match, her gestures mimicking the players' movements on the field. You find yourself hanging onto every word, your laughter mingling with the buzz of excitement around you.

Amidst the stories of victories and defeats, the conversation takes unexpected turns. Lucy asks about your personal connection to football and you share childhood memories of playing with friends in the park, the thrill of kicking the ball and the taste of victory even in the smallest of games. Her genuine curiosity makes you feel seen, as if your experiences matter.

"You know," Lucy begins with a smile, "sometimes it's the simplest moments that shape our love for the game."

You nod in agreement, feeling a shared understanding. "Definitely. It's the magic of those moments that keeps us coming back. It gives this kind of lovely feeling and you are able to share with the people around the pitch."

As the conversation between you and Lucy flowed like the gentle melodies of a familiar song, you couldn't help but wonder what had become of Betty, the friend who had introduced you. However, amidst the captivating exchange with Lucy, the presence of Betty seemed to fade into the background, eclipsed by the magnetic pull of your conversation.

Unbeknownst to you, Betty had discreetly slipped away to give you both space to connect. She had noticed the immediate chemistry between you and Lucy, the way your eyes locked and your laughter mingled effortlessly. With a knowing smile, she decided to step aside, recognising that sometimes the most magical connections require a touch of serendipity.

The topic shifts to tactics and strategies and you find yourself immersed in a discussion that balances technical insights with a love for the sport. Lucy's eyes light up as she explains a particularly clever play her team executed, her hands gesturing animatedly. The atmosphere feels charged with a feeling of mutual passion, as if you are both in the midst of a match, strategising and celebrating each brilliant move.

As the night deepens, the conversation seamlessly transitions to personal aspirations and dreams. Lucy opens up about her journey as a footballer, the challenges she's faced and the moments that have made it all worthwhile. Her vulnerability creates an intimate bond, and you find yourself sharing your own dreams – the ones that tug at your heart and keep you pushing forward.

"As I love to say," Lucy says softly, her gaze intense, "sometimes it's the struggles that define us and shape our paths. I find it especially unique when someone can describe their dreams as in much detail as possible - it is genuinely adoring."

Her words resonate deeply as you feel a sense of connection that goes beyond your shared passion for football. It is as if the conversation has become a journey of discovering each other's souls, revealing layers of your personalities that you had not anticipated sharing with someone you had just met.

With a quiet smile, you reply, "Absolutely. They make us who we are."

As the daylight outside softens into twilight, the conference room is bathed in a warm, inviting glow. The ambience mirrors the growing warmth between you and Lucy – a connection that seems to be deepening with every exchanged sentence. Amidst the buzz of conversations around you, Lucy's voice remains a steadfast beacon, narrating tales of her and her move to Barcelona. Her humility and fervour intertwine, painting a picture of a remarkable athlete who remains grounded despite her success. Betty found herself drawn to the sidelines of the event, watching from a distance as the two of you became engrossed in each other's stories. She saw the way Lucy's eyes lit up as she recounted her experiences on the field and how your laughter seemed to harmonise with the atmosphere around you. It was a scene that brought a warm smile to Betty's face, a silent celebration of the connection she had unwittingly facilitated.

In those moments, Betty became a silent spectator to a story that was unfolding before her eyes – a story of chance encounters shared passions and the blossoming of a connection that felt almost otherworldly. She knew that sometimes, the most beautiful moments do not require orchestration; they simply need the right environment to flourish.

"Have you ever felt like destiny has a hand in things?" Lucy's question is accompanied by a playful smile, her eyes reflecting the sparkle of stars.

You share a chuckle, a shared understanding forming between you. "Most definitely. It is the nerves that show how much you care. Furthermore, it is the notion of vulnerability that allows us to truly connect." Lucy's gaze is holding yours with a depth of understanding that leaves you both suspended in a moment of shared truth. The words hang in the air like a delicate promise, echoing the sentiment that this newfound connection is built on the foundation of authenticity and the willingness to open your hearts to each other.

When the event eventually draws to a close, you find yourselves standing under a canopy of stars, the world seemingly quieter, as if nature itself is holding its breath in anticipation. Betty found herself stepping back into the conference room, a soft smile still gracing her lips. Catching your eye, she gave you a subtle nod of approval, her eyes twinkling with a mixture of mischief and affection. It was a nod that conveyed a message: that the sparks of connection between you and Lucy were undeniable and had been meant to be, regardless of her initial introduction. Lucy stands beside you, her presence an anchor amidst the celestial expanse.

"I'm really glad we had this chance to connect, Y/N," Lucy's voice is a gentle breeze that stirs your emotions.

Meeting her gaze, you feel a mixture of gratitude and wonder. "Me too, Lucy. This evening has been nothing short of magical."

A soft breeze rustles through and Lucy's fingers brush against yours in a fleeting touch that sends a shiver down your spine. "Would you be open to continuing this over a cup of coffee?"

The words hang in the air like the opening chords of a favourite song, a promise of something more to come. Your heart flutters with excitement as you reply, "I would absolutely love that."

As contact information is exchanged, you are struck by the feeling that the universe might be orchestrating something beautiful. The melody of "Wildest Dreams" intertwines with your reality, creating a soundtrack for a story that is unfolding in ways that leave you breathless with anticipation. Each note seems to echo the sentiments of this encounter, a melody that captures the essence of new connections, unexpected sparks and the thrilling unknown.

Under the expanse of stars, you part ways, but the energy of the moment lingers like an enchanting spell in the air. The promise of future encounters hangs between you, a thread that connects your hearts despite the physical distance. It is as if the universe itself has conspired to bring the two of you together and now, it is working its magic to ensure that your paths cross once more.

The refrain of the song plays softly in your mind, weaving into the tapestry of your thoughts as you walk away. It is a reminder that dreams often manifest in the most surprising ways – that sometimes, the universe has plans that exceed our wildest imaginations. The sensation of connection and the prospect of a shared journey fill you with a sense of wonder and excitement, a feeling that dances in time with the rhythm of the song.

As you move through the night, the stars above seem to twinkle with an added brilliance, as if they too are celebrating the magic of this encounter. Each step you take is infused with a new sense of purpose, a reminder that life's most beautiful moments often come when we least expect them. And though you may be walking away for now, the memory of Lucy's smile, the resonance of her laughter and the promise of a future meeting linger in your heart like a cherished melody, ready to be replayed whenever you need a reminder of the serendipitous dreams that can turn into reality.

#mine #read #lucy bronze #lucy bronze x reader #lucy bronze imagine #lucy bronze oneshot #woso imagine #woso #fc barcelona #fc barcelona femeni #lb #england wnt #england women

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skaylanphear · 1 year

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Miraculous Fanfic List

I feel like I don’t have much of a presence on tumblr anymore, so since I want to get back into writing Miraculous fic, here are some notable fics I wrote back in yee olden days if people be wondering why they should care. I know y’all have read some of them:

Pick-up and Chase

Summary: After she accidentally trips into Adrien and apologizes about "falling for him," Marinette learns that he's no match for cheesy pick-up lines--whether they were unintended or not. And while she finds it flattering that he turns into a flustered mess with only a few words, Marinette comes to regret making him uncomfortable. That is, until she learns he's Chat Noir. At which point the phrase "just deserts" becomes a permanent fixture in her everyday plans.

A story in which Adrien is flustered, Marinette is smooth as glass at dropping lines, and Chat Noir gets the romance he was always asking for--even if he doesn't quite know how to handle it.

My Last Thoughts are of You

Summary: When a freak accident sends Marinette into critical condition, the only thing she can think about is Chat Noir. She wasn't going to make it and someone had to tell him. Otherwise, he'd never know what had happened to her--why his lady had never returned. And, as it just so happens, Adrien is there with her near the end, so she decides that he can take the message to Chat just as well as anyone.

Serendipitous Fate

Summary: Adrien is excited to reveal his true identity, while Marinette is terrified. But Master Fu says they can't afford to be distant any longer. Chat Noir and Ladybug are meant to work in tandem both in and out of uniform, their strength stemming from the bond created between them. Yet, teenagers are sometimes better at dancing blind than running with wide open eyes, even with the steps laid out before them.

Steps in the path of an expanding world. Apart, they'll flounder. But together, they might just stand a chance.

One Thing After Another

Summary: Marinette notices that, sometimes, Adrien acts a little out of the ordinary--like the time he stood in a cardboard box for no reason, or when he actually hissed at Nino. It's only when she starts to notice the similarities between Adrien and a certain feline that she begins to get suspicious.

Basically, Adrien acts like a cat when he probably shouldn't.

I plan to write more new stuff and finish some old stuff. Please come give me the attention and validation I so desperately crave.

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #ml

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orchidniins · 2 months

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𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

[updates at least once a week]

₊˚⊹✧ Requests temporarily closed ✧⊹˚₊

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

fluff - ☁ angst - 💢 smut - 🔞

₊˚⊹✧ Arthur Frederick ✧⊹˚₊

Serendipitous Beginnings ☁/🔞 - Part 1 Part 2 - Where moving to London brings along a cute neighbour and a new exciting chapter of your life. - Words: 12.4k+

Possessive ☁ - Where Arthur can't seem to control getting possessive over his gorgeous partner. - Words: 1k+

Forehead Kisses ☁ - Where Arthur looks after his sick partner - Words: 1.3k+

₊˚⊹✧ George Clarke ✧⊹˚₊

Island Loving 🔞 - Where you and George are away on holiday, enjoying your time together, but you two can't seem to keep your hands off of each other. - Words: 4.6k+

Morning Cuddles ☁ - Just some cute morning cuddles - Words: 700+

Drunken Adventures ☁ - Where you and George go off on a little drunken late night adventure - Words: 2.8k+

₊˚⊹✧ Arthur Hill ✧⊹˚₊

Heartstrings (Fic) ☁ /💢/🔞 - Where your boyfriend Arthur comes to surprise you while you are on tour. - Words: 6.8k+

Opening Act (coming soon) - Where opening for one of your favorite artist's tours turns out to be a dream come true in more ways than one.

Craving your Touch (coming soon) - Where after a long day of filming with the boys and the whole day away from you, all Arthur has been craving is your touch.

₊˚⊹✧ Chris Dixon ✧⊹˚₊

Dating Headcanons ☁ - ChrisMD x Male Reader - Words: 700+

Cupid (coming soon) - Where George Clarke plays matchmaker for his best friend and his roommate

#arthurtv #arthurtv x reader #arthurtv fics #arthurtv smut #arthur frederick #george clarke #george clarkey x reader #george clarke fics #george clarke smut #arthur hill #arthur hill x reader #arthur hill fics #arthur hill smut #chrismd #chris dixon #chrismd x reader #chrismd fics #chrismd smut

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startrekfangirl2233-writes · 7 months

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Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

Mickey 'Fanboy' Garcia x Reader

Description: Mickey Garcia has always had dance in his soul. It shocked everyone he knew when he didn't follow the music and dance in his soul for a career. Instead he became a Naval Aviator - a Weapons Systems Officer, in fact, and didn't regret that decision even once. Some part of him knew that he would find his dance partner one day. After the Uranium Mission, the restlessness in his soul lead to Mickey going dancing, and that's where he'd found you. At first things between the two of you were just fun. But what happens when Mickey wants more? Can he convince you just how good the two of you could be dancing in step for the rest of your lives? Disclaimer: Female!Reader Word Count: 2947 Author’s Note: Hiya! I wrote this fic as yet another installment for @roosterforme's Top Gun Rocktober Event. This time, it's based on the song Wake Me Up (Before You Go Go) by Wham! This is my first official oneshot for Fanboy and I really love it! I hope you all do too! All of the bold and italicized parts are lyrics from the song! My Masterlist

Miguel Garcia has always had a dancer’s heart. Growing up in Miami, Florida, he’s been surrounded by music since the day he was born in an inner-city hospital to two people with pure music in their souls. If you asked either of his parents, they’d have thought he’d grow up to be a Merengue, Cumbia, or Salsa dancer. Instead, Miguel chose to join the Navy. When he was so serious, so sure of the decision, who were they to stop him? He’d worked incredibly hard to climb the ranks, but he’d never lost the rhythm in his heart. What was harder to find was the girl who dances in a complimentary rhythm to his own.

It hasn’t helped either that he’s been deployed around the world for most of his career. It has been an incredibly fulfilling life, but a solitary one. Sure he has Reuben, who Mickey can unequivocally class as both a best friend and a brother, but it's not the same. A part of him has always wanted the kind of love his parents share, the kind of love he'd grown up with. The Uranium mission had seemed like the turning point in his career. The admiralty had formed a new squadron, electing to keep the Daggers together, and he was (he is) happy to have a permanent place to call home. It had finally felt like he had a family again. But something was still missing - someone was still missing.

He'd started up his old habits from his youth once more. Weekend after weekend he'd hit the dance clubs of San Diego, dancing with everybody who wanted to, until the nervous thrum in his veins had quieted once more. That was the only way he’d been able to fall asleep with the new monotony his life had taken. It had been one such night after a terribly boring week when he saw you for the first time. You were laughing and carefree, each elegant movement looking like poetry on the dance floor of the small salsa bar. It was the first time all night he’d felt the incessant energy thrumming under his skin grow quiet.

"Hi, can I cut in?" He'd asked.

"Sure," You'd giggled. The minute you put your hand in his, he'd been lost to the music in your eyes and the rhythm of your soul. You'd felt like sin under his fingertips and your smile had been brighter than the sun. Mickey had not wanted to let go of you all night.

That rhythm had translated into what was the best sex of his life in the months following your serendipitous meeting. But night after night he always woke up in his simple, shitty little base apartment to the sight of you slipping out of the door like you'd never been in his bed to begin with. Just like that, too, he'd stay awake an hour longer to see your posts on social media about dancing in the Gaslamp Quarter. And every night he'd fall back to sleep wishing that one day soon your heart would beat to the same rhythm as his own. He'd known you'd wanted something light, "Just fucking, just for fun", you'd murmured in your musical voice that first night. And just fucking, just for fun was where he'd stayed.

Mickey isn’t sure when it happened, but you've been haunting his every thought. He only needs to blink and he can see your smile, your sparkling eyes, and everything about you in technicolor swimming in front of his eyes. All of a sudden, your arrangement isn’t enough. He wants to dance through life with you, not just waltz you into his bed every few nights. It’s no lie that work keeps you busy, just like the Navy keeps him. He knows you love it, dancing by night and during the day writing reviews of the places you danced at for one of San Diego's travel websites. But Mickey can't help wanting more of you.

Even when he's supposed to be flying, he's only thinking of you. His inattention could cause him to make some serious mistakes, but he can’t stop. The one time he’d mentioned it to Payback, he’d regretted it too. Reuben was no help. His advice had been, "Just tell her how you feel. Then you can woo her!"

Well, Reuben may know exactly what to say to Emily, his wife, but Mickey still has no idea what to say to you. Or when, to be honest. You're barely around for more than a few hours at a time. And when you are, your pretty mouth is too occupied to do much talking.

After months of trying and failing to tell you how he feels, Mickey's decided he has to take matters into his own hands and track you down at one of these clubs. He has to dance with you, take advantage of the close proximity and your body pressed against his to tell you the truth. But he has no idea what your schedule is. So Mickey does what he does best, analyzes all of the facts. If he can do it in the back of a jet, he can track you down, right? The first thing he does is call your best friend.

"Hey, Maria. Do you have any idea what Angel's doing this weekend?" Her response had been vague at best, something about a themed dance night at one of the clubs in the city. Okay, it's a start. But it's October. Nearly every dance club in the city is throwing themed dance nights Friday through Sunday. That's not going to help much.

You'd mentioned something to him a couple of nights ago, about reviewing the theme night happening at one of the newest clubs in town. It was one of the few words of pillow talk he actually remembered before your mouth was doing wicked things that made his heart rate skyrocket. Now if only he could remember what kind of theme night. Not hip hop, funk, or soul. It could've been a kpop night, but you'd mentioned something about lycra? What the hell does lycra have to do with dance? Before he can update his list, his phone gets snatched right out of his hands. It's Hangman, because of course it is, and the nosey fucker's already looking into Mickey's phone like it's his god-given right to do so.

"Well, well, well, Fanboy. You like going dancing on weekends? Picking up the ladies?" The glare Mickey levels at the obnoxious blond could have been powerful enough to set him up in flames.

"Can I have my phone back, please, Bagman?" But Hangman just keeps scrolling, quite gleefully ignoring his pleas.

"Nah. This is too interesting." He squints at the screen. "What do dancing and lycra have to do with each other?"

"I wish I knew. My girlfriend, I guess, mentioned going to one of these Halloween theme dance nights this weekend. And she mentioned something about lycra and one of the places she's going this weekend." Mickey should not be grateful to have his phone back, not when Jake just slumps down on the sofa and starts brainstorming out loud. Most of his suggestions are frankly ludicrous and the longer Mickey hears him talk the more his head pounds.

By the time training is over for the day, every single Dagger knows and has contributed their two cents. Mickey's more than exhausted and all he wants is his Angel, but you're not there. But as it stands, there is a monster in his stomach growling loudly and he’s covered in sweat. So into the locker room he goes, praying that the guys have something, anything to talk about other than his Angel search.

Of course the minute he walks into the locker room he’s bombarded with even more suggestions. At that moment, Mickey has to remind himself that he likes these people. They may be pains in his ass but he likes them.

"Aww, c'mon Fanboy! This is your girl we're talking about. So what's she like in bed? She has to be a bombshell in and out of bed to keep your attention." Mickey's not quite sure what to say to Jake's comment because you are. He calls you his Angel for a reason after all. But he's never once indulged in locker room shop talk and he isn't going to now. Not when he's not even sure how you feel about him and everything.

So he just shrugs and turns on the shower. With the hot water pounding down around him the tight band of pressure across his temples eases. It helps that Hangman has finally, finally shut up about Angel's weekend plans, too.

But it feels like it's nearly too good to be true. Because the squadron is at the Hard Deck later that night, and Mickey gets cornered by Natasha and Bob.

"So, Fanboy." Bob's smiling good naturedly as he pushes a soda towards Mickey. "What's your girlfriend like? The other guys probably just want the dirty details but you look happy, man. I'd love to know more about her if you'd like to tell me about her? Nix and I both would."

Under their gentle smiles and easy demeanors it's almost too easy to state all of the ways Mickey adores you. He probably sounds like a broken, stuck record, prattling on and on about your soft hair, sweet smile and your big brain. He even pulls up one of your reviews to share and oh. Oh. He's in love with you. But he’s not sure how he’s going to tell you, not at all.

“Okay, you obviously love this girl.” Mickey can only nod at Natasha’s fondly amused tone. “So why aren’t you tracking her down to tell her so?”

For the first time in weeks, an idea starts to crystallize in his mind. “Would you guys be able to help me find her? She’s supposed to be reviewing one of the Halloween theme nights this weekend. But all Angel told me is something involving lycra.”

"Maybe she is going to wear lycra? Like for eighties jazzercise?" Mickey’s so excited he could kiss Bob for that suggestion. Sure enough there is only one place hosting an eighties theme night this weekend. It would be too much to hope that he could manage to go alone. Because the minute Bob’s found the club, Hangman is right there to start planning a night of it. Before too long, Mickey’s quest to tell his Angel how he really feels has turned into a Dagger’s night out and a complete and total mess.

Come Saturday night, Mickey’s one of the first Daggers ready to leave base and head out for the night. He's not wearing anything too out of the ordinary, opting for a wide collared shirt, and trousers. The one difference is how his curls cascade over his forehead and the retro shades covering his eyes. It doesn't surprise Mickey at all to see Natasha appear in the parking lot minutes later dressed in lycra and a leotard, big puffy hair, sweatbands, leg warmers and all. Bob wearing a turtleneck and slacks and Reuben when he finally drives up is dressed like Mickey is. But the true surprises of the Daggers seem to be Rooster and Hangman who walk up side by side in matching leggings, leotards, wristbands and headbands. Javy appears sedately behind the duo, dressed similarly to Bob.

Mickey feels kind of like the Ringmaster of a particularly rowdy circus as he leads the way into the club not longer after. It feels like entering an alternate universe. The music is so loud he feels it in his bones. Everyone’s wearing bright colors and dressed like they stepped right out of the 80s. There are more than a few people wearing lycra like Nat, Hangman and Rooster. Already, Mickey can feel the thrum of the beat in his blood. But as much as he’d like to dance, he’s a man with a mission.

He melts into the crowd before Nat and Hangman are back with the first round. If he knows you correctly, and he thinks he does, you’ll be right in the middle of the dance floor. You’ve said it a hundred times, that the center of the dance floor is where you can get the best idea of what the mood is for a club. Sure enough, he finds you in the center of the dance floor.

The sight of you, it takes his breath away. Lit up by the glow of the lights, you look ethereal. Your eyes are closed as your body moves to the beat. Much like Nat, you’re in leggings and a leotard too, your hair a halo of curls around your head. But your leotard is more than a little sexier, only a scrap of fabric covering your breasts. You look like sin, your bare arms sparkling under the neon lights as beads of sweat drip down your neck. It’s obvious all the other men on the dance floor want you for themselves too, because one after the other, they keep trying to grind up on you.

When your eyes open, they glimmer with rage, rage you rightfully use to push the wandering hands off of your skin. Rage that melts into a sweet O of surprise when you see him standing there.

“Miguel?” Here’s another reason why he loves you. The way you say his name is like music. He takes your hand just as the beats of an all too familiar song pound through the speakers.

Jitterbug

"Hi, Angel." Mickey's voice would be barely audible were it not for the way he murmurs the words right into your ear. "I missed you."

You look flattered at his innocent admission, and Mickey's not sure why.

"I remember you saying something about an Eighties Dance Night. It didn't take long to find this place."

To your credit, you let Mickey twirl you around the dance floor for a few more seconds before you pretty glistening lips part.

"Why do you miss me, Miguel?" You look like you're almost scared of the answer you're going to get. So instead, Mickey croons the lyrics of the song playing into your ear.

"You take the grey skies outta my way (ooh-ooh)

You make the sun shine brighter than Doris Day

You turned a bright spark into a flame (yeah-yeah)

My beats per minute never been the same"

Now there's understanding in your beautiful eyes and as much as Mickey wants to turn tail and hide, instead a glorious smile takes over your face. He doesn't object at all as you drag him outside. In the quiet, he finally, finally hears the staccato rush of your frenzied breaths, calming in tune to your own.

“Mickey, I …” You look lost all of a sudden and Mickey can’t stand to see that look on your face. So he steps forward and kisses you, slow and sweet, pouring all of his pent up feelings into the soft, tender kiss.

“Angel, please. This once, can I talk?” At your nod, he continues. “I know you just wanted some fun, and that was what I wanted too. But sweetheart, I can’t do this anymore. Cielito, it hurts too much.”

Your face falls at his words, and he can almost see the walls come up around your heart.

“I’m almost certain I’m in love with you, and I can’t stand that you’ve left me sleepin' in my bed. I was dreamin' but I should've been with you instead. Wake me up before you go-go. Don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo.” Your giggle when Mickey starts singing the song is far better than your tears would have been.

“You’re a sap, Miguel Garcia.” But even as you say the words, you’re stepping into his arms. You taste like strawberries as he sucks on your plush lips and it's a taste he's not sure he'll ever get tired of. “I’m pretty sure that I’m falling in love with you too.”

"Come home with me, baby? And stay the night?" Your grin and nod makes his smile feel like a mile wide as he calls an Uber. You’re all over him on the drive to the base gate and all of a sudden it feels like the world is still. Because you’re in his apartment, and then on his bed, the scrap of fabric covering your tits riding up until it’s not covering anything at all. Your moan is musical, too, as he leaves wet kisses over his skin. But Mickey’s sure he likes you best when you’re completely naked and in his arms, a sheen of sweat over your soft skin as you pant against his chest. Your mind looks to be finally, completely silent, and your lips are pillow soft as you press soft kisses over his heart.

“Miguel?” Your voice is a little rough, vocal cords rubbed raw as you snuggle in closer.

“Yeah, Angel?” Mickey’s sure he’ll never get tired of you, not when you’re blinking sleepily at him.

“Take me out for brunch in the morning?” For some reason your sleepy words make him happier than he’s felt in a long time.

“I can do that, beautiful. But you’ll have to wear my clothes. I don’t think that lycra set of yours should be worn in public, ever again.” He has to stifle his chuckles when all he hears is a soft snuffling snore. There’s no way you’re going out dancing without him tonight. You’re too worn out. Is it a crime that he likes you that way?

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I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE, ON WATTPAD, OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

#star writes #top gun fanfic #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun rocktober #wake me up before you go go #mickey fanboy garcia x reader #fanboy x reader #mickey garcia x reader

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cellarspider · 2 months

Text

9/?? What remains

(Previous) | (Index) | (Next)

⛬

We return to the movie that I’m not giving a jokey intro to this time, Prometheus.

When I was in archaeological field school, we were digging in an area that had been continuously inhabited since the Neolithic period. Untold numbers of people had lived there through the ages.

And so it wasn’t entirely unexpected when someone told the professors that a construction crew across the street had just dug up a human skull.

(https://www.standard.co.uk/news/uk/work-begins-to-excavate-45-000-skeletons-from-hs2-site-at-london-euston-a3972926.html )

One of the grad students slapped on a dayglo vest and hard hat, and ran over there to speak with the crew. Undergrads were not allowed anywhere near the site, simply because of the liability risk. But the bones themselves? We weren’t allowed to touch them. They went right into boxes for a specialist to take care of.

All told, remains from 18 skeletons were found, twelve of them children. They’d been there for about eight hundred years. The professors said the construction crew was diffing on top of a medieval churchyard. They’d dug a hole to connect up the utilities, and their trench went right up to the wall of the former church. You could tell that, the professors said, because unbaptized children would’ve been buried under the eaves of the church: rainwater falling from the eaves was thought to be sanctified, so they’d be blessed every time it rained.

The construction crew wasn’t actually obligated to tell anyone about the bones. There was no legal requirement–the dead were everywhere there. As long as there was no reason to suspect a murder, people could just dig.

But because they did stop, just long enough for the bones to be retrieved, those skeletons would be examined, cataloged, and would either be held in an osteoarchaeological collection for further research, or reburied. There was no strong legal or social pressure one way or the other. That’s not universal–some peoples forbid the practice of handling and studying human remains, or require that remains be reinterred with the most culturally appropriate religious rites that can be provided. There is a lack of international or even regional consensus on what to do in these situations.

(https://railuk.com/rail-news/the-archaeology-of-hs2/)

And there are a lot of places where the wishes of descendants and local cultures have not been honored by archaeologists. The twenty year fight over custody of the bones of Kennewick Man (or the Ancient One) is one notable, hard-fought win for repatriation and reinterment of human remains, and there are many, many cases that have been far worse, that are still worse.

But where we dug, the relevant ethical standards for osteoarchaeologists stressed that “[b]iological remains, particularly human remains, of any age or provenance must be treated with care and dignity.”

We students never saw the bones. We didn’t need to, frankly, it would have been incompatible with those values. Is this how it’s handled everywhere? No. And most of the time, our dig was a very casual and lively place. But these professors were trying to start us out with the best ethical standards they could, which I am grateful for.

That’s the context that was running through my head as I watched Prometheus. Movies tend to treat dead bodies with far less reverence. They often carry some sort of emotional weight–fear, disgust, grief, or even excitement or humor. In violent movies, they’re set dressing, less important than the main characters–unless one of them was a main character. I chafe at that distinction, sometimes, but I’m not squeamish about movie violence. Two of my favorite movies of the year prior had been The Raid and Dredd. Two serendipitously similar action movies where death was relentless, graphic, and cheap–content warning in both links, by the way.

Both movies had carried me through because they were consistent on what they were throughout. I didn’t expect anything more sensitive from movies about action-fantasy cops. Prometheus had already lost me, and it was about archaeologists. Ones who professed a belief that they were there to meet their makers.

And so I found the way they treat the discovery of an alien body to be utterly galling. Despite the fact that I didn’t expect anything better from them by this point, I still wasn’t willing to meet the movie where it wanted me to be. I wasn’t feeling their excitement, trepidation over what else they were going to find next, or any voyeuristic excitement over how screwed they obviously were–any of those might have been the intended emotion, I’m honestly not sure what sort of horror movie Prometheus was trying to be at this point.

I was just seething that they were touching the body. Sticking probes into it. That was bad enough.

We haven’t even gotten to what they do to the head yet.

⛬

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⛬

Citations for alt-text:

All links listed in-line below the images this time.

#prometheus 2012 #prometheus (2012)#I'm trying to analyze the movie from within its own goals and parameters when that's most useful #but I also want to give space for topics like this #my takeaway was definitely not what they intended #but people often don't think carefully about the bones of strangers #and what their treatment means

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maximumwobblerbanditdonut · 6 months

Text

I HAVE AN obsession with the color green. It’s a color of opposites. Green is life, growth, and health. It’s also sickness, greed, and envy. It’s good and bad at once. And it’s everywhere this afternoon as I sit down with actor, producer, author, and entrepreneur Sam Heughan — most recognized for his starring role in the Scotland-based time travel drama “Outlander.” His shirt bears a green tartan pattern, somewhere between jade and emerald. To my right, the glass bottle of his new gin is a transparent seafoam. Above my head is the leafy expanse of a tree, planted in the courtyard of New York’s Crosby Street Hotel. The gin we sip tastes green: grassy and alpine, fresh as menthol and bright as a sour apple. Most vividly is the green in my mind’s eye: the wet, rich, misty green of Scotland, a place Heughan speaks of with rapture.

Missing home is what drove Heughan to launch his spirits brand Sassenach, after the Scottish Gaelic word for an English person, or rather, an “outsider.” “When I was in London away from home, a jobbing actor, missing Scotland, I remember my first time trying a single malt whisky and I had such an emotional reaction,” he recalls from across the table, his bright blue eyes wide. “It reminded me of Scotland.”

I remark on the gin’s legs, thick and viscous, streaking the sides of my glass. Heughan nods, “I increased the strength. It just gives it a bit more weight. I love a bit of weight on my tongue.” Toasted oats give a creamy feel to the cornucopia of flavors present in the liquid: pine resin, heather, blackberry leaf, blaeberry — and, again, that sour green apple. “There’s no citrus in Scotland. That’s why I chose apples,” Heughan explains. “I remember as a kid, picking them and throwing them at people, eating them, then being really ill because they’re so sour.”

Heughan’s family — his mother, brother, and uncle — still live in Scotland. His uncle used to have a ceilidh band. “[Ceilidh is] a traditional Scottish dance,” he explains. “It’s madness. Everyone’s drinking whisky and the dancers get faster and faster and there are lots of spinning people around.” Heughan listens to a lot of Scottish music. He later sends me a song called “Blackbird” by Martyn Bennett, known for mixing dance tracks with traditional Celtic music. I tear up at its aching slants. “It makes me homesick for a home that’s not mine,” I message him. “That’s Scotland,” he writes back. “It does that to people.”

Sam Heughan Is in Good Spirits Image Float

Heughan was raised by a single mother in the south of Scotland — the rural stretches of Dumfries and Galloway. “Spent a lot of time on my own pretending I was a knight or Robert the Bruce.” The land’s botanicals now flavor his gin. Courtesy of Sam Heughan.

“It’s one foot in the present, one in the past,” muses Heughan about his country, adding a splash of tonic to my gin, whose flavor now reveals a pleasant salinity. “The castles. So many great battles. You

can feel the history. I think that’s what makes it so magical.” This history is inextricably linked to ritual, observed in Scotland to this day. Take Beltane, a pagan ritual beginning serendipitously on Heughan’s birthday, April 30. “You’re supposed to stay up all night and wash your face in the fresh dew when the sun rises, then go to bed and dream of your future spouse,” he describes. “It’s all about rebirth and nature.”

We talk about other parts of the world that have shaped him, as I remark on his fusion accent: a bit Scottish for sure, but mixed with something else, sort of American and British, too. America’s opportunity and diversity captivate Heughan. He came here for the first time at 18, hostel hopping in San Francisco. “I remember looking at the Golden Gate Bridge for hours, playing my cassette of ‘(Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay’ by Otis Redding over and over. I was living on $5 burritos — one a day. It’s all I could afford.” He speaks of Hawaii with reverence — the local culture’s connection to wildlife and the sea. He spent time with a fisherman and his family there who taught him the Indigenous way to fish: “Gut it straight away. Take out the heart, say a prayer, and throw it back into the ocean immediately to allow the soul of the fish to live on.” New Zealand also moves him. He was there recently and learned about tā moku, the art of Māori tattooing. “You sit with an artist and tell him your story. He chooses where it goes on your body and makes it there and then. He stuck [the initial sketch] on my left forearm here, and it was all about my mom and my brother and the absence of my father.” He wants to return to New Zealand and get the tattoo next time.

My gin has opened up even more, spreading out into softer, aromatic florals as Heughan uncorks a bottle of his whisky. “People have called you a global heartthrob.” I begin, “Is that a role you’re —”

“Who has?” His eyes grow bigger in feigned shock. (Fun fact: the Sam Heughan fanbase even has their own name — “Heughligans.”)

“Someone I talked to in the subway.”

“Right, right,” he nods gravely, pouring new glasses.

“Do you,” I continue, taking a sip, “feel comfortable in that role?” The whisky tastes like a spicy Werther’s caramel.

“My character is what some people aspire to, and I understand why. He’s this incredible human being who’s just so in love with his wife and does the most romantic things. Selfless. People then think you might be that person. I’m certainly not. But it’s something to aspire to.”

“Are you comfortable,” I press, “being an object of desire?” Heughan shares that in earlier years, he was treated in a way that would no longer be tolerated. “I’d be asked, ‘What’s under your kilt?’ or ‘How do you get your abs?’ I wish I did have abs! We were just in a different industry. I don’t have resentment or a grudge. But I would like to be seen for the work that I do, rather than my looks.”

While he’s still based in Scotland, Heughan also has a house in LA, a city he’s not exactly sold on. He toys with the idea of New York as his next home base. He loves it here. “The cocktail bars. Cycling along the West Side. SoHo. The river. Getting a ferry. I’m so into ferries! I’ll go to Staten Island, then come back again. We got a helicopter the other day back from the Hamptons — I don’t like helicopters. They’re not meant to fly. However, seeing the Statue of Liberty from there, it’s so good. New York could be my city.”

I show Heughan around some local spots that evening. We sit at the bar of Superbueno for mezcal drinks and tacos. The music gets louder and so do the crowds. Mouth full of al pastor, I semi-shout a question in Heughan’s direction, asking if he ever gets overstimulated. “No, not really,” he replies simply, between chewing. At 6 feet, 3 inches, Heughan towers over seemingly everyone. Maybe it’s calmer up there. There’s an overall good-natured quality to him; it’s soothing to be around.

We head to another bar, Mr. Fongs. The air is thick with the smell of trash and rats dart to and fro. A subway thunders overhead as we walk below a bridge in Chinatown. “This is awesome,” Heughan murmurs. We order the bar’s specialty: salty plum old-fashioneds. “I want a place where the second I walk out my door, I’m right in the center of all of it,” he says decidedly, whistling a little at the (notoriously strong) drink. “Right in the middle.”

Heughan is noticeably unadorned. I suggest some rings and an ear piercing for his New York era. A candle light flickers against his cheek, evoking another world — someplace old and rural and rugged. At this moment, I see his character, a fantasy projection of the leading man. But really, we’re just in Chinatown, weighing the pros and cons of earrings on men. “Sadly I don’t think I’m quite cool enough,” he sighs, “to pull that off.” ▪️

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Tom Craig is a photographer and director whose work has been featured in Vogue, i-D, and Vanity Fair. His work is driven by a desire to tell stories and the urge to travel. His work often blurs the line between fashion photography and straightforward reportage.

**Full article from @departures www.departures.com

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renegade-skywalker · 1 month

Text

Experiments in Idle Pleasures

Summary:

Merit pays Gale a visit in his study with the intention of surprising him with dinner but ends up providing a welcome distraction instead. Set post-game.

Word Count: 4,480

Rating: E

Notes:

Not required reading but I mention a pair of enchanted rings here from my other fic, A Soft Proposal, which this acts as a bit of an unofficial but spicy sequel to, that provides a little more backstory on how I imagine the rings to work, though you can parse out how they function if you only read this one anyway ;)

~~~

It was the first time in weeks Merit found herself in the throes of possession.

Her fingers spirited over her lyre, an unwritten song summoned unbidden from her fingertips as if she’d known its melody already, intimately familiar with its every intonation. Pen to parchment could hardly keep up. Her palms were smudged with ink as she committed each verse to paper and hoped her handwriting accurately translated every bit of inspired scrawl.

It came in parts.

First was the melody, its inherent theme emerging as every note was simultaneously played as if just-discovered yet also intimately-known. And then came the verses, hymnals and mismatched bits of poetry inherent to the song itself but not yet stitched together in the proper order, its words needing finessing, its structure needing bolstering, its overarching story needing a careful hand and even more fine-tuned ear.

She thought it had taken all afternoon, but before she knew it the room had grown dark and the warm sea breeze from the open window had grown cold. At first Merit thought night had crept up on her, midnight upon her when she was only expecting it to be four o’clock at the latest. But after glancing at the device on the far side of the room she realized it wasn’t quite as late but also not nearly as early. It was almost nine.

Papers scrawled with notes and semblances of song scattered about the room in the oncoming gale from outside, rain beginning to patter at the windowpane.

Gale, her mind echoed, thinking of the rain but also of her love, still tucked away in his study upstairs. Gale.

Similarly enraptured by his own life’s work, it appeared that the time had slipped Gale’s mind as well, though it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Merit hadn’t gotten so lost in a song in ages and she was glad to find Gale so buried in work that he no longer found himself pacing in whatever room she happened to be in, biting a nail and running a nervous hand through his hair as he recounted every possible minute misfortune that might befall his new tenure at Blackstaff Academy, his anxiety from so long a time away mostly attributed to his desire for his every lecture to be absolutely perfect and without pause, an ease Merit soothed would come with practice - not unlike her singing and songwriting.

Merit continued scrambling about the room collecting her things as she thought of him. The room was one Gale set aside to have her design entirely as she wished upon moving back to Waterdeep. He’d taken a thoughtful approach to her moving in with him, proposing that she have some say in the entire tower’s decor and overall appearance since it would now be a place they shared (with Tara’s input as well, of course), but this room was hers and hers alone.

It once housed my very impressive, though perhaps rather hoardsome, collection of Weave-touched objects, Gale had recounted with a wan smile upon showing it to her for the first time, barren save for the dust motes floating in the idle shafts of sunlight that filtered through the window. It would bring me nothing but joy for it to be entirely yours now, to do with as you wish. This room was empty long before my rather timely abduction, so perhaps by some serendipitous twist of fate this space was always meant to be yours.

Merit smiled at the memory, the warmth of it sating her as she closed the windows against the encroaching storm. The room still smelled of salt air as she closed the panes against the suddenly insistent rain, relishing in the sound and the smell of it as the petrichor intensified from the balcony just outside. Thinking the better of it, Merit left one pane ajar if only to let the scent in before she finally left the room and descended to the kitchens.

Not her usual domain other than on quiet mornings when sleep failed her and the dream of baking bread filled in her dreamless gaps, Merit tiptoed her way around the space as if trespassing, which it very much felt like. Though she knew the larder by heart, its every nook and cranny known to her at this point, she dared not disrupt the unspoken spell of a system Gale had placed upon the space - which was to say there wasn’t any actual spell placed on it, only his incredibly meticulous organizational preference insisted on every facet of the room and its contents. So instead of altering anything, she spied the soup Gale had prepared in the cauldron above the hearth the day before, still covered, smiling at its remaining wealth before deciding to heat it up and warm a few rolls of her own sourdough along with it before finally retreating upstairs with a generous slab of butter and a honeyed cup of tea to bring it all together.

Merit rapped gently at Gale’s study door, counting to ten before knocking again and almost instantly hearing a rushed but quiet Come in, come in.

He often did this. He’d hear the door but doubt himself as he kept on reading or writing, awaiting a rejoining rap at the wood before answering as if never quite believing his own senses when drawn so deeply into his work. Upon his invitation, Merit nudged the door open with her foot and slid inside with the serving tray as leverage, careful not to tip anything over as she finally slipped inside. She set the tray on the nearest surface clear of clutter, which was an endeavor in and of itself, and took it upon herself to light a few more candles as she bit back a knowing smile, eyeing Gale’s already squinting eyes in the scant light as he scribbled in one book whilst having his nose pressed in another.

“I made dinner,” she proffered lightly. "Well, you did, technically. Yesterday."

Gale mumbled something indecipherable as he wrote some more, discerning his notes before reconsidering his source material, his bespectacled eyes looking from one set of words to the other twice over before eventually acknowledging Merit.

“Dinner?” he asked absently, “ But it’s only-”

His eyes finally glanced sideward out his study room window, realizing that what he had presumed to be afternoon was now already well past night.

“Huh,” was all he said as Merit took the bowl from her serving platter and placed it in his unsuspecting but welcome hands.

“This is the soup you made yesterday,” Merit said, at first referring to the bowl’s contents before also passing him the bread and butter, “It’s thickened into a bit of a stew over the hearth so I warmed this to go along with it.”

Gale looked dumbfounded at both the bowl and the bread before looking up imploringly at Merit who hung over his shoulder like a parrot atop a pirate, only instead of echoing his every command her only intention was to make sure he began eating.

“You’re starving,” she insisted as she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Trust me.”

Gale laughed a hollow, tired laugh as she pressed her lips to his temple.

“Thank you,” he said, a begrudging resignation lacing his voice though not out of indignance but instead of appreciation, forever a man too proud to say he’d lost track of the time but forever indebted to a woman intent on feeding him anyway. To think of how many nights Gale went without a proper meal despite his inherent skill whenever Tara wasn’t around to insist otherwise or at least remind him of the time almost made Merit sick with a retroactive worry. “Truly.”

“Make no mention of it,” Merit said, insistent, “Just-”

But before she could finish her thought, Gale raised a hand and reached for her lowering head, bringing her face back towards his as she leaned over him so he could kiss her again but properly this time.

Their mouths inverse, Gale pressed an eager kiss to Merit’s still half-smiling mouth, this time parting her lips with an eager tongue. Allowing him passage, Merit melted against him though she had no idea what possessed him. Not that she minded either way.

Merit finally pulled out of their kiss if only because the arch of her neck was starting to ache, though she would gladly go on kissing Gale forever despite it.

“I don’t want to distract you,” she said in a whisper, her lips brushing against his. “But-”

Before she could finish, Gale deposited his dinner atop the desk as he twisted in his chair and grabbed her gently but firmly by the waist, his hands nearly clawing at the fabric there as he pulled Merit onto his lap.

“What if I could use a good distraction?” he asked in a low husky voice, his eyes mischievous over the rim of his glasses. “Plus, you’re too good to me. I need to return the favor.”

“It was the least I could do,” Merit obliged as she slipped her arms around Gale’s neck, biting down on her bottom lip at the sight of him, always fond of how he looked in glasses. “You really ought to consider raising your bar a little.”

Gale pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there as he relished in the scent of her.

“You’ve raised the bar plenty,” he said before nuzzling against her head.

Merit softened beneath his touch, leaning her head further against his as she hummed pleasantly under her breath.

“What are you working on?” she asked in a half-whisper. “Going well, I hope?”

Gale sighed into a smile against her cheek, making Merit feel warm all over.

“Exceedingly well, in fact, even though I’ve hit a bit of a wall,” Gale admitted into her hair. “I’m not surprised time eluded me so completely.”

Thankfully, the windows in Gale’s study were already shut against the coming storm though not out of any abundance of caution and instead because there were far too many precarious piles of books stacked in front of the panes to open them properly. Merit would have suggested some spring cleaning if she knew that the space hadn’t also doubled as a practice ground for finessing spells as well, the darkness sometimes aiding Gale’s often intense focus and need for absolute precision.

“I don’t want to take away from your work, though,” she protested in earnest, their heads still resting together, Merit’s fingers now absently caressing the back of Gale’s neck. “It’s taken a while for you to get back into the swing of things.”

Gale said nothing, instead absently puckering his lips against her forehead in a half-hearted kiss, his mind clearly elsewhere. His fingers grasped more despairingly at her dress, inching the fabric up ever so slightly.

“I wrote a song today,” she said softly against his skin. “If you’d like to hear it”

“Always,” he said, one of his hands winding up her back until his fingers met skin. “I love hearing you sing.”

Merit shivered into the ease of his touch and settled there, the very state of her teetering on the border of comfort and arousal. Her skin grew warm as she snaked one hand gently down Gale’s back, slipping beneath the open collar of his shirt, while the other threaded through his hair.

“Why do I have a feeling you have something else in mind, though?” Merit asked, one hand softly raking at Gale’s scalp, relishing in how he held her closer as if in immediate response to her hungry grasping.

“Because I might,” Gale admitted, this time placing a kiss at the base of her ear, nestling his nose in her hair afterward. “You know, for science.”

“Hm,” Merit considered in earnest. Her song had been about idle pleasures, small saccharine moments mounting to a greater hunger, stolen perhaps but all the more sweet for their idle if not indulgent appetites. Perhaps her inspiration had been more divinely inspired than initially intended… “I’m of a mind to indulge your scientific inclinations, if that’s where your ever so diligent research has led you this evening.”

Merit couldn’t help but think of the first time they kissed, not to mention the few times after. Gale had kept her questing heart at bay at the tiefling party by warning her of his not-yet-quelled orb’s potential for destruction, its ire possibly inspired by whatever errant excitement might flow through him at any given moment, but by the end of the night, in part to Merit’s insistence as well as a good deal of wine, Gale had given into his idle if not ill-advised desire to kiss her, inspired no doubt by the vision she’d shared of the very same through the Weave. The vision come true, and both of them intact in the aftermath, Merit had raised a timid hand to Gale’s chest, her fingers tracing his scar as she wondered at the implications.

In my experience, the best cure for doubt is study and experimentation , he’d uttered against her lips, the hunger for another kiss clear in the way he looked at her and held her to him, as if the moment may very well slip through their fingers and be lost forever. And an experiment must be repeated at least thrice in order to ensure accuracy, of course. If you did want to repeat it thrice, I can certainly make myself available.

“It would only be prudent,” Gale argued, kissing her neck now. Merit sighed and melted against him.

“Well, if it’s for the greater good,” Merit played along. “We might as well.”

“Might as well,” he echoed.

Gale sowed kisses up her neck, across her jaw, and up over her awaiting chin before kissing Merit square on the mouth, pausing there as if savoring the taste of her. Gale’s hands met again at Merit’s waist and continued their earlier work of gathering the fabric of her dress, only stopping this time once the hem reached precariously over the curve of her thighs. One hand descended, planting itself firmly between her legs and paused as Gale kissed Merit with an earnest and hungry mouth, hours worth of studying and meticulous calculation quickly recalibrating so he might best have Merit in whatever way his imagination was already conjuring up in his mind’s ravenous eye.

Without instruction, Merit swung one leg around Gale’s torso so she straddled him proper. The feel of him between her legs sated an inner keening she knew not of until the very moment it was satisfied, rolling her hips against his in a way that made her want him even more. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, his want against her want. None of this was part of her plan, intent only on feeding him dinner but suddenly finding herself indulging him in dessert first instead.

“Gale, I-” she said before Gale wrapped her in another kiss, though no further argument followed.

Gale’s hand remained poised at the warmth between her legs, running his fingers along the stretch of linen that separated him from the strength of her want for him. Merit eased herself against his touch just as his other hand rose to her chest, pulling precariously at the neckline of her dress until her breasts were exposed completely. He traced the outline of her before running a careful thumb over the curve of her, her nipple growing hard against his touch as well as the open air.

“No fair,” she argued, tugging at his shirt. Before reaching for the hem of his shirt, Gale reached for his glasses but Merit stayed his hand.

“The glasses stay on,” she urged into a kiss before relinquishing, pulling away just far enough for Gale to remove his tunic, and to her surprise, sensing his desire not just against her but thrumming through her veins in kind. Glimpses of various states of undress, hungry mouths slaked but wanting more, skin warm and sweatslick, all lanced through her mind’s eye courtesy of the ring Gale had gifted Merit in asking for her hand along with the full-bodied impulse to hold her closer. Mirror image cravings laced with longing yearned out of her in return, Merit’s own wishes bestowing Gale with a parallel idea of how the evening might progress if they let dinner remain a delicious afterthought. “I’ll indulge your experiment if you indulge me with this.”

“But you’re blurry,” Gale argued weakly into another kiss as Merit’s hands began their intrepid exploration of his now bare chest, enticingly raking her nails with a gentle sweep over the pleasing shape of him: the base of his now unscarred neck, the sloping edge of his collarbone, and the soft swathes of curled hair that spanned the sinew of his muscles tensing beneath her touch. A sigh rich with yearning escaped Gale’s throat.

Merit kissed Gale still as she mentally shared her image of him, the thought filled to the brim with want as she took in the sight of him between every breath, that same desire inspiring every kiss that followed. Gale relented, humming into her kiss and smiling against her still-hungry mouth as he relished in her unending ache for him, an ache that echoed sweetly within him and yearned to be sated.

“Perhaps I can manage,” he whispered in eventual surrender, his lips brushing against hers before he pulled back slightly from Merit’s seeking mouth, smiling when he saw the disappointment on her face. Or at least guessed it from what he could make out through his glasses. “If it keeps you feeling like this.”

With that, Gale’s touch circled with practiced pause over the center of her, the fabric betraying Merit’s inexplicable craving, his other hand tracing a delicate arc over the exposed curve of her in a way that made Merit shiver, her breath quickening. Merit could only nod at him in quiet request for more, her eyes heavy-lidded with a covetous need for Gale to be closer yet cursed with a warring desire for him to keep teasing the very want out of her.

He deserved this, knowing just how much and how badly she wanted him. As much as Merit wanted to stop what she was doing and please him until Gale became so utterly undone that he hardly knew his own name, she wanted him to know this. To feel this. Her pining for him was more than a physical need but a spiritual indulgence, a pleasure made perfect only because of the depth of her love for him, fueled exponentially so by his matching devotion to her.

Their minds married beyond the mere symbolic, their shared desires and errant pleasures flowing freely through the joined rings at their fingers, informing their every touch, each caress, imbuing every stolen kiss with something both known and yet to be discovered.

Half imagined yet experienced in full, Merit and Gale shared in a wealth of thought and sensation, their shared rapture bridging the gap between real and imagined as Gale’s hand crept carefully yet delectably beneath the last slip fabric that separated them physically, gratifying Merit’s mental pleasures by appeasing her basest need.

“Right there,” she found herself sighing against him, though nothing at all needed to be said, her hips magnetized against the deliberate rhythm of Gale’s touch as he delved deeper. “Just like that, yes.”

A wave of exalted elation flooded Merit’s mind as she kissed him, a gift from Gale as he brimmed with the knowledge of her desire, relishing in the wetness of her want for him and yearned for more of it as he pressed her every pleasure point with an eager yet craving effort. As if in response, Merit conjured an image with the express purpose of it being shared between them, a prediction as well as a wish - Gale overcome with a demanding necessity to be inside her, half-clothed yet too impatient to carry her to bed - easing herself against his venturesome fingers in a way that both abated her growing need of him yet fed it just the same.

Gale panted deliciously into Merit’s each and every kiss, before eventually grunting pleasurably against her ear, whispering, “You know me so well - too well.”

Merit bit back a self-satisfied smile at the sound of his confession, melting against his fingers as well as the warmth of his breath on her neck.

“What if we try something else first?” Merit ventured, a smirk threatening to overcome her expression as the thought occurred to her, mouthwatering in its deviousness. Perhaps it was cruel of her to keep this from him, but in the spirit of science she thought it worth a try as she lowered one hand down to the undeniable bulge at the inseam of Gale’s trousers to ease his want out for her to please while she continued to ride his fervent hand.

Gale couldn’t speak, suddenly overcome with a whole other world of want for her as his unspoken gratification at Merit’s similarly scientifically inclined mind met his keening physical craving for her, clear in the glazed way he looked at her now as well as in the way he eased his hardness into the palm of her hand, gyrating against her anticipating touch. Merit smiled, pleased with herself, as she sighed in kind and tried to kiss Gale again, their beings brimming with several universes of want and need threatening to converge precariously into one.

Gale let out a low groan against Merit’s mouth as she touched him, sighing against his hand in kind with another greedy roll of her hips. She ran her fingers lightly along the warmth of his shaft, smiling into their kiss when she felt him tremble at her touch, before closing her palm around the pleasing girth of him. And then she conjured the image again: of Gale inside her, thrusting the wealth of his want inside her again and again with a careening urge that walked the line of utter necessity yet drove dangerously into ravenous indulgence, bordering on excess. She grew wetter at the thought just as Gale grew harder, their respective hands thirsting to feel the others’ culminating rapture whilst desiring for the dream to be made real, simultaneously feeling as if it were in the reality of their shared minds’ eye.

Merit whimpered against Gale’s mouth, every part of her vibrating with excess longing that made her mind and her body feel like a live wire bristling with electricity. She communicated the feeling, receiving a similar sensation psychically in response, their mounting lust brimming dangerously close to completion until their shared cup runneth over - though that was also the entirety behind Merit’s deliciously devious plan.

She eased the cradle of her palm against him, pleased to feel Gale grow harder and harder beneath her careful caress. Gale’s mouth wilted against hers, at first an involuntary response to whatever she was doing to him, but then deliberately, his lips then kissing the length of her jaw until he met the spot at the base of her ear, eliciting an unbidden sigh from Merit’s throat. The shared fantasy continued, this time images pouring from Gale’s mind into Merit’s: his hands hooked beneath her legs, lifting her along with him as he stood from the chair though he remained pleasurably deep inside her, as he then unceremoniously swept his hand across his desk, disheveling his days’ work to lay her against its slanted edge and urge his keening need for her inside again and again, the feel of him sweet and syrupy as he pressed kiss after feverish kiss against her skin.

Merit grew unendingly wet around Gale’s ambitious fingers at the thought, the feel of him growing hot beneath her hungered touch. They panted, whimpering into each and every famished kiss as they each succumbed to the dream completely, collapsing against the other, laced in each others’ resulting cravings made real, endlessly warm in the waning aftermath of their shared climax.

It was quiet then, the air warm between them as they caught their shared breath, the memory of their fabricated fantasy hanging in the air along with the sweet reality of what transpired, still saccharine and endlessly abating, a promise of more to come. One experiment of many more.

“So,” Merit sighed, a wave of contentment falling over her every limb like a welcome shroud, a satisfied smile possessing her lips as easily as her earlier song had. “Do your results support or contradict your theory?”

“Hm,” Gale said as if both truthfully considering this whilst mischievously playing along, his gaze going soft as he took in the still half-clothed vision of her from over the rim of his spectacles. “You threw me for a bit of a loop there when you posed that unexpected hypothesis, though I must say that the outcome was far more in line with my initial suspicions than I hoped to expect.”

“Mhm,” Merit rejoined, running her hands over his chest again. “And? Final thoughts and conclusions?”

Gale succumbed to a soft smile, one that met his eyes and made Merit feel warm all over as he nudged her closer, resting his forehead against hers.

“Any time spent in your company far exceeds even the most ambitious of my expectations,” he said whispersoft before placing the gentlest of kisses to her unsuspecting lips, a wealth of affection lacing the beat of every second spent between them. “Though, I must admit, it did open up an entirely new train of thought, which… will require further study, of course.”

Merit bit her bottom lip as she hummed into a self-satisfied smile. She knew the experiment only started as a means of distraction, perhaps a welcome diversion that would eventually aid Gale’s tired mind in reaching whatever studious conclusion he had been aiming for in his work all day, only to find himself now possessed with the desire to explore the further implications of the rings he’d enchanted, intent on discovering just the lengths to which they could push its linked capacity to bridge their minds and their every imagined desire in between.

“Well, I’m available for any and all further experimentation, if need be,” Merit promised with another kiss, sweet and slow. Gale pulled her closer, savoring the taste of her. "Once you've finished dinner, that is."

Gale smiled, speaking softly into her kiss, "I’ll be sure to keep that in mind."

~~~

(More) Notes:

A bit of head canon backstory: I never have the heart to trigger Gale's pick-up line about experimenting thrice when you have to choose between him and another romanced party member, so in my head he says this line to Merit as they test the boundaries of their mounting affections during the course of the game. In my head, they've at least tried to kiss, or made some attempt, before the orb is quieted in Act 2, but as per their experiments they discover they can't go much further than that otherwise it starts to glow rather ominously… I plan on exploring that head canon in a later fic but figured I would at least explain my line of thinking here anyway.

#bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #gale x oc #my writing #the brainrot is strong with this one

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