#the heartbeat of greenwich

[blinder-secrets]

omg you walked into Stanley Tucci o.o where did you do your BA and MA degrees :)?

i did my BA at greenwich university in london, which is where i bumped into stanley (the campus is in a loooooot of films and tv so i think he and his team were location scouting or smth cause it was in one of the older stairwells) and then i did my MA at the uni of sheffield! back north where i belonged <3

[ofbluesandyellows]

In Rainbows - TASM! Peter Parker / Reader

Summary: Peter Parker as the colors of the rainbow.

Word count: 5,191

Warnings: swearing, kissing lol idk, it’s mostly fluff. So yeah,

a/n: this is a little something that came to me two weeks ago, hope you enjoy it. Tried to edit it but maybe there are a few errors there, lmk if you see them. Have fun :)

Meeting Peter had been a happy coincidence. 

Red was all you could see while the photographs became from white pristine paper into an unknown image. Some were already hanging from the thread up your head while you waited. Fortunately enough you had chosen a moonless night to work on your photos at college. So when the door swung open there was no risk of ruining your work.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Thought it was empty.” A voice said at your back.

“It’s alright, I’m almost done.”

The person stood beside you, eyes scanning your work and you turned to him just in time to see a smile appear on his lips. 

“Those are great shots.” He nodded with his head at the photo that was already developing in the transparent liquid. “I was there that night too, they’re a powerhouse.”

The Strokes had an unexpected gig on Wednesday and you had the fortune to get tickets and stand right in the press area to snap a few photos of them. You were really happy with what you got. It made you fill up with pride to hear someone else appreciate what you captured.

“They totally are, you took photos too?” you asked, turning to him, fully looking at the tall boy by your side. 

He seemed quite familiar now that you noticed. 

“No, a friend got us tickets, just went to have a good time.” He shrugged, putting his backpack on the floor with a thud. “What’s your favorite song of theirs?” 

He hadn’t stopped smiling at you. He started to put all his things out on top of the table. His camera, strap still on, the rolls of film and his phone. The screen was crashed and the edges of it battered, it had personality just like him; with his jumper and his tousled hair as if he had run just to make it there in time, as if he knew you could be leaving soon and didn’t want to miss you.

Of course you wanted to pretend that was the reason for his sudden rush a moment ago. 

“Well, I’d say the classics of course, YOLO and Welcome to Japan are just gems but I guess from their last album I really enjoyed Ode to The Mets. What about you?” 

And it started a full on conversation on your favorite The Strokes’ songs, it was easy to talk to him about music, about art, about playlists and pastries. With each word exchanged you could feel him getting closer to you, arms brushing, laughs shared, eyes making excessive staring, heart beats speeding and hands sweating. 

The boy finished hanging his photos, you could see friends laughing, dogs and incredible landscapes of the city. He had a good eye you wanted to tell him but he beat you to it with a new thought.

Casually, he leaned his side on the desk, arms crossed over his chest, pushing his biceps out, yeah you noticed. 

“They are doing another show in Brooklyn tomorrow… I got an extra ticket if you… you know… if you wanted to go… I could—we could meet there… I don’t know.” He said eyes going from your face to the rest of the room. 

You weren’t sure how but you could notice his whole face going one or two shades darker. It was hard to see under the red lights but the invitation made you feel funny inside, matching with all the rest of your body reactions during the half an hour you’ve been there. You balanced the options; he was sweet, and he was nervous and you were nervous too and you had nothing to lose really.

“Sure, I’d love that.” 

And he beamed, his shoulders relaxed and his eyes twinkled. “Great! Cool, so it’s in Brooklyn Steel. There's a subway nearby. If you live in Manhattan I could wait for you there or outside the venue, you tell me, it’s your choice.”

“I mean you can come pick me up, I live in Greenwich… and if you like we could have dinner before.” You felt your heartbeat in your throat.

“Oh…Yeah! Yeah sure, of course I know a pizza place, if you like Pizza of course.”

You chuckled. “I do love pizza, so it’s a date?”

His whole body filled with air and sudden pride. “It’s a date!”

“Cool,”

“Cool…. by the way my name is Peter Parker.” 

He laughed, extending his palm, which got your smaller one wrapped perfectly. 

You told him your name. “Great to meet you Peter Parker.”  and he grinned boyishly. 

•••

Orange wasn’t a color you often found yourself leaning towards, it never meant much to you, but it had been six months since you and Peter started to date in a very serious way. So you wanted the day to mean something, an unconscious choice,that was being expressed in an orange outfit, you tried it on and unexpectedly it looked good on you. 

Still the color meant nothing much, nothing until he said: “I love you.”

His lips were on the shell of your ear as you waited in line to get some gelato. Peter had his arms wrapped around your middle, he squeezed you a little tighter as his words reached your ear getting seared in your brain, the moment was typical almost ordinary, but it was golden hour and the sunbeams were casting a film of orange peachy tone, your heart somersaulted, belly twisted, and your lips turned upwards in the widest smile you’ve ever given to anyone. 

“I love you too,” you responded, turning in his arms, and you kissed Peter on his soft lips, he tasted like honey and something completely Peter’s. 

The sunset was upon you. Cherry and choco mint gelato flavored kisses. Peter left a peck on your forehead as he turned up to the sky while you walked down the busy streets of New York, a grin on his cold lips. 

“Look, you match the sky.” He pointed.

Furrowing your eyebrows you looked up as peachy skies started to turn slightly bluish on the far end. Peter gave a light tug to the fabric covering your ribs.

You indeed were matching the clouds and the day. From that moment on, orange made you reminisce about the first ‘I love yous’. 

Meaning was found in color.

•••

One night as the tv showed the film ‘Big Fish’ Peter found you crying on the couch to the scene where Ewan McGregor’s character had finally found the girl he loved and showed her how much she meant to him by flooding the outside of her house with flowers. The most beautiful act of love you’ve seen in a movie. 

You gasped when on your birthday the rooftop of your building was covered in yellow flowers, they probably weren’t as many as the movie had but you loved how the variety of them left a scent of sweetness and freshness in the air as Peter settled a picnic in the middle of the improvised garden, daffodils, roses, daisies, you weren’t even sure how many of them were there but you loved it.

“Over here,” With a flourish he showed you the path to the picnic and you followed him, fingers intertwined.

“Peter Parker you shouldn’t have,” hands on your chest and inevitably your nose tingled, your eyes watering.

Peter gave you a sweet smile.“Of course I have to! It’s your birthday honey, you deserve all the nice, most beautiful things there are in the world and I know the quantity of flowers isn’t near as the ones in the movie but the budget’s a bit tight this week.”

His face went a bit pink as you sat down the plaid tablecloth. 

Your heart squeezed. Reaching for his hand, his attention fully on you. 

“I love it, everything, even the mismatched set of plates and the fact that you are wearing the most horrible pair of socks I’ve seen.”

Yes, they were also yellow, they had tiny bright green cars printed on them. You snorted as Peter sent you a sharp look.

“What!? These are my good luck socks, I wore them when I met you, that has to mean something.” He smirked, “They're special.”

“That doesn’t mean they are pretty nor cool.”

Peter scoffed, he threw a napkin at your face, “I’ll let it pass because it’s your day. And I love you and respect you too much to start an argument over my styling choices.”

Another snort on your behalf and you didn’t see it coming but Peter launched against you. You both laid on the cloth as Peter held his weight on his elbows to not crush you. Kissing the tip of your nose, then kissing your lips. Soft lips over smiles and low chuckles.

“Happy birthday, baby.”

“Thank you for being the absolute best.” 

And all you saw was Peter’s chocolate eyes, the light freckles forming on his nose thanks to the summer time and a halo of yellow all around you.

•••

Peter had been so scared, literally he thought of cancelling last minute but a talk with May served him well. He loved you and he needed to show a bit of support, especially knowing your family would be there and this was the first Christmas you two spent together. 

You two took the subway all the way to Queens. Your mom’s side of the family had this pretty lovely house with a huge garden and one of the biggest kitchens Peter has set foot on. 

Peter wasn’t into Christmas but knowing it meant so much for you he made an effort, besides he wanted the rest of your family to like him, to love him if possible. So when your cousin asked you both to babysit littler Tommy while she put her new born baby to sleep, Peter couldn’t say no, and there you three were in the middle of the kitchen decorating gingerbread cookies with the five year old Tommy who had found a liking for Peter very quickly.

Maybe he could feel his Spidey senses too, kids had that kind of ability too sometimes, to predict stuff and shit. Well, Peter read that once so maybe it was true.

Sitting on the kitchen island Peter handed little Tommy a cookie as you put different color frostings on display for them to start their artsy gourmet pieces. 

Peter went for something that made him feel too clever, you’ve known for a while anyway. 

Red and blue, black lines, white eyes.

“A Spider-Man cookie, really Peter?” your voice was a bit judge-y but Peter saw your smile as you shook your head, and it made him chuckle. “Smartass.”

“Well… It made you smile. But it’s not just a Spider-Man cookie, it’s a Christmas Spidey, right Tommy?”

You laughed as Peter showed Tommy his Spidey-cookie, a Santa hat badly shaped on top of the masked hero. Tommy let out that childish giggle that made the both of you beam at the kid.

“See, Tommy boy appreciates my art, you should do the same, baby.” 

Rolling your eyes Peter smirked and continued on decorating cookies with the little boy in front of him.  

It warmed your heart seeing Peter getting along with kids, it made you think of the future, and in that moment the thought of a little Peter didn’t sound so bizarre.

“Can someone bring the little bunny I left in the car?!” you heard your cousin call, and just as an instinct you turned to Peter.

“Go ahead, we have it under control right ,Tom?” the kid probably didn’t know what you were talking about but he still gave you a nod.

So Peter saw you leave the kitchen. 

At some point during the decorating session, Peter needed the color green to complete his Christmas tree cookie. He only found green frosting inside a transparent plastic bag. With a shrug he took it between his palms.

“It can’t be that hard right Tommy.” The kid with those big doe eyes, grinned at him.

“Do it!” Tommy squealed. 

Peter laughed and started doing the edges of this tree. 

But the doorbell rang, Tommy jumped in his spot startled, Kiki the dog started barking, everything happened within the same five seconds and Peter– with incredibly enhanced reflexes put a little too much pressure on the bag. 

The next thing he and Tommy saw was green, green splashed everywhere in the kitchen specially Tommy’s face and Peter’s shirt. 

“Oh,” Peter said in awe.

“Uh oh, you are in trouble!” Tommy said singsonging, pointing at Peter’s shirt. And a second later he started maniacally laughing.

Peter couldn’t help but laugh too. This was definitely not the way he wanted to impress your family but at least Tommy knew how to lighten the mood.

Steps were heard as the two boys in the kitchen cackled louder while they licked their green fingers.

You appeared on the threshold, agape as you saw the explosion of color, snorting you went ahead to try and help the little kid, who only laughed harder at your face.

That was a moment in time that your family always reminded Peter of. Peter felt like he belonged right there and then when everyone made fun of him and Tommy’s green face.

•••

Coney Island was shining prettily against the darkness of the night, Peter had texted you four times to meet him there. He went to check near the cotton candy stand, you weren’t there.

He had been working his ass off for Jonah the whole week, so now that he had free time, he wanted to do something different and fun with you, and what could be more fun than going to Coney Island and getting on those rattly dubious carnival rides? 

The carousel was packed with parents and screaming kids, as loud music blasted all around, you weren’t there either, so he kept on walking. A man with a bunch of blue balloons was falling asleep on his spot near a trash can. 

Peter’s brain had an idea. He brought a balloon and wrapped it on his wrist. Took his phone out of his jeans and snapped a quick selfie.

Sent it to you instantly.

Peter🕷

I’m the guy with the blue balloon. Hurry up baby I’m starving :(

Two seconds later his hand buzzed and there you were, another selfie you had a blue balloon too.

You 🍯

Matching, now let’s see who finds the other first. 

Loser buys dinner. 

Peter smirked, he had missed you so much the whole day.

Peter 🕷

Deal. You are so gonna lose,

Forgot I got enhanced sight x

You 🍯

Too much talking Parker

We’ll see about that.

Peter loved a good challenge, and meaning he was getting free food and probably a bunch of kisses was enough incentive for him to start looking.

Five minutes and Peter decided to cheat a little. Hopping on the ferris wheel had been the worst idea ever, his eyes tried to focus on blue balloons but the colorful lights caused the opposite effect, overstimulation to his poor eyes, Peter felt dizzy.

When his ride ended, shoulders slumped, and a defeated sigh escaped him but it didn’t matter. He ran to your arms. Balloons tangling between one another, and Peter didn’t care if he had to buy dinner, he was just so happy to see you there.

“I won!” you grinned, as Peter’s hands found place on the side of your face. 

“Yeah I let you.”

“Nah, I saw when you went in there,” you smiled, as he caressed your cheeks with his thumbs. 

Peter leaned in to kiss you, it was sweet and full of love. 

“I sabotaged myself with those lights, so yeah I let you,” you rolled your eyes and Peter chuckled. “Come on, let’s get rid of these,” he punched his balloon, hitting your face with it.

“Hey!” 

He snorted, and kissed your forehead, “Sorry.”

“Just because you are buying dinner, but let’s keep them. This was a good idea to find each other in the crowd.”

“Blue Balloons seem to be better than GPS, right?” 

Peter tried to put his arm over your shoulders but the threads of the balloons were too twisted, thread tugged at your wrist wrong, you yelped and Peter grunted.

“Not very practical when I want to hold you closer.” Peter quivered his brows, but neither made the effort to unravel the knots of ribbon. 

You simply intertwined your hands and walked down Coney Island ready to eat your weight on hotdogs.

•••

“But baby my love my everything, this is so cool! I can go to work, get there faster, pick you up. We can drive to visit May, your mom! We can go on a weekend trip!”

Your face was a mix of fear and curiosity. The bright motorcycle was parked just outside your apartment building, it was indigo blue and it sparkled when the sun hit the paint. You couldn’t lie to yourself, it was a pretty motorcycle, however…

“But it’s dangerous!”

“But it’s convenient!” Peter put out a helmet from his backpack. “Look, I even bought you one! Come on, let's have a little ride, it’ll be fun.”

“Peter-“

“Don’t Peter me, c’mon”

With his doe eyes Peter persuaded you to do the unimaginable. You hated when he swung you places, the momentum of the web slinging made you want to vomit and you didn’t enjoy fast rides so this felt like a mixture of both things. Your stomach twisted uncomfortably as you put the helmet on.

“Hold onto me, if I go too fast let me know, okay?”

Your hands surrounded his waist, you weren’t too sure about the motorcycle but you trusted Peter with your life, so you nodded against his back.

“I got you baby.” 

The roar distracted you from the sudden movement, eyes closed tightly you felt Peter’s abs clench when he made a sharp turn or when he had to make a stop.

“You okay?” 

“I guess… so far,”

“It isn’t that bad, try to enjoy it.” 

You both were speaking loud to hear the other through the helmets, but Peter could sense your shaky hands against his stomach and the way you tensed your body on the curves.

But a few minutes later you started to loosen your grip on his body. Your eyes wandered as you moved between the city… Some streets were less trafficked than others but it was nice to feel the wind and the passing by colors. You didn’t even notice when Peter added a bit of velocity, you were immersed in the sensations.

The Brooklyn bridge was ahead, the view of Manhattan was breathtaking at the hour, some street lights were already turning on but the sky still reflected itself on the skyscrapers, mirroring the view.

“Move in with me?”

“What?”

You weren’t able to hear him because of the wind and the helmet.

“That you should move in with me!” Peter shouted.

“What movie?”

“For fucks sake,”

Peter mumbled as he came to a stop. His motorcycle roared still, but the noise was a lot less. Taking the helmet off, he turned around and took yours too.

“I said… move in with me”

Your eyes grew big, a little shocked, “Oh,”

“I mean we already spend pretty much all the time together so I thought… um, never mind, it was just an idea.”

You grabbed his shoulder, “I’d love to. I was just surprised you asked me all of a sudden. But yeah, let’s do it!”

Peter felt relief and a wave of euphoria. He hopped off the motorcycle, helmets hanging from the handlebars. He nestled your face between his hands, kissing you deeply, he smelt like sun, leather and spandex, with a touch of lemon thanks to his shampoo.

“I have everything planned, we can move my desk to the other room and we can make that an office for when you work from home, we definitely need to throw out my mattress, yours is way bigger and more comfy. Oh and we could get a dog, you like dogs I like dogs so why not.”

You were beaming at your boyfriend as he kept on rambling about the new accommodations of the apartment, what breed of dog and if he even had to buy new cutlery. 

“It’s alright, we can figure that out later.” The wind swirled around you and it all felt right. Even the oh so horrible motorcycle felt less wrong, like it had to be part of your trip or this decision. “We can also get rid of this indigo monstrosity too,”

Peter furrowed his brow, “I just bought it, come on, it's so cool.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “It is not, it’s dangerous and you won’t even use it.”

“Oh I definitely will, I look so hot on it.”

Rolling your eyes you gave him a good reason to not like the motorcycle, “that’s why I don’t want it, people will be looking at my boyfriend a little too much.”

Peter smirked, “oh so you agree I look extra hot on the motorcycle, huh. Knew you liked it, kinky.”

“Oh shut up!”

“You love me, don’t try to deny it.”

You grunted, but a smile slipped on your lips. Peter took the helmet and was about to put it on your head again. 

“Love you.” He kissed your forehead sliding the plastic thing, he gave the top of it two knocks, making your head rattle.

“Ouch.”

“Oops,” he put his on and there you were again on the road back to Peter’s apartment, your new home.

•••

Lazy Sunday, as Peter liked to call them. They were pretty much that, after a long night of patrolling, he finally slept until his body couldn’t stand being in bed.

There had been five months since you moved in with him and he couldn’t be happier. You threw a party a month after you were settled in. May made meatloaf as if an army was about to arrive at the apartment, you and he had to eat that for two weeks straight until the last bit disappeared. 

Peter didn’t want to see or hear the meatloaf again, like ever in his life.

So lazy Sundays for him consisted of sleeping, working on his laptop, kissing you as many times as he could, washing dishes and watching basketball games. Sometimes he would change a burned out light bulb or fix the sink’s pressure but that day Peter decided to do laundry, it was his turn so he put everything in trying to finish the task as fast as possible.

When you came back from the bakery, with a fresh baguette and a slice of lemon pound cake for Peter, he went into the kitchen to prepare milkshakes at noon.

“We should wait until after lunch time, Peter,” you pointed as you put the dishes in place.

Peter grunted, “we can have early dinner instead, come on you love my strawberry milkshakes.” 

And with pouty lips and twinkly doe eyes how could you say no to Peter Parker.

“Fine… but I want mine to be extra creamy!”

“Your wish is my command, baby” 

He kissed the top of your head and started to work.

Two hours later Peter was trying to fix some of the coloring and contrast of his photos to send to The Bugle. Kendrick Lamar played through his laptop speakers as he nodded along.

“PETER!”

And Peter flinched on his spot, he sank deeper on the couch, pretending he hadn’t heard you shout his name. Kendrick did a good job trying to make this more believable.

“PETER!” 

Shit shit shit

Peter was panicking, he didn’t even know what he had done to get that tone from you, but he wasn’t risking it.

Maybe that was a bad move on his behalf, because when you appeared in the living room with  puckered lips and flared nostrils he feared for his life. Not literally but he knew something was coming down.

“What did you do to the washing machine?” you asked him, pretending you were totally chill, calm, but it was obvious you were about to lose it.

“Uh… fabric softener?” 

“What else?” your brow cocked and Peter wasn’t sure what his answer should be.

“I—um… clothes…” you sigh didn’t help him solve the puzzle, “listen honey, I don’t know what happened, I just did what I saw you doing, what May taught me.” 

Peter half shrugged. 

Crossing your arms over your chest you pivoted on your spot, “come see what happened.”

Peter winced, knowing that whatever it was was worse than he imagined.

The little room where the washing machine and the dryer machine were, had all the clothes on display just for him to see. Peter’s eyes widened.

“Oh.” he said. Hands on both sides of his hip bones. 

“Yeah oh, now what are we gonna do?”

“I… don’t know, baby.”

Your eyes turned to him, seeing his whole face contracting as he tried his best to not laugh.

“Don’t dare laugh Parker, this isn’t funny, those right there were my best pair of shorts!”

But Peter couldn’t hold it, he snorted and started laughing, until tears were forming on the corner of his eyes. Immediately afterwards you let yourself get involved in the same stupid feeling.

The clothes were violet, not lilac or pink, bright violet. Peter’s suit was the only cloth item that remained in its true colors, red and blue. 

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Peter was trying to stop laughing but the more he looked at the scene the funnier it became.

“Yeah you shouldn’t have, but you did it.” a little smile tugged at your lips, “at least you’ll have to use violet shirts too, and socks, I mean you wear those horrible yellow socks anyway so I don’t think that would be an issue for you.”

“Oh, not this again,” Peter was grinning, “but yeah right, I don’t care about the socks, violet isn’t my color tho, but it’s what I deserve.”

“Next time wash the damn suit alone”

“I will…” Peter saw you collecting the clothes, his whole body—even when he felt a pang of guilt for the damage he cause—felt alive, happy and eased, this was the most mundane thing that could’ve happened to him today and he was almost grateful for it, because he loved having moments like that with you. Homey, normal and funny. 

He loved spending life with you, no matter what happened or what color his underwear was, his life was technicolor since you were in it.

“Did I tell you the same happened to me a couple years back, I told May I washed the American flag, just so she wouldn’t suspect of me being Spider-Man…”

Peter said this between laughs, reminiscing of the past.

“And why didn’t you put it in the washing machine alone..”

“I forgot… I’ll buy you another pair of shorts I promise!” 

“Ugh, shut up spider boy!”

•••

Black was all you saw, lying in bed next to Peter as the rain pelted on the windows. His chest was pressed to your back, you being the little spoon.

Peter kissed the back of your neck as his arms wrapped your middle, putting you as near as your bodies could ever be. 

You didn’t need light nor words to express how much you cared for him or him for you, it was all in the actions, in the deep breaths he took to inhale your shampoo scent and the still lingering perfume notes on your skin. 

It was in the way he made tiny little circles on your stomach, his hands finding a way under your shirt and his lips brushing the skin of your shoulder. You felt his heartbeat at your back and you smiled, Peter made you smile when he was falling asleep and all of a sudden he jumped on his spot, that feeling of falling off the bed when you are getting swallowed by sleepiness. 

He grunted and snuggled against you.

Of course he felt your belly wiggle with the silent laugh, but Peter didn’t care his lips only turned upwards, enjoying just the feeling of you between his arms. Your hands found his, fingers tracing the shape of his fingers and the edges of his hand, his trapped yours and it  made you giggle, his index and thumb found the new addition in your ring finger. 

In the darkness everything felt more personal, this was a reminder of what the future held for you two, secret actions no one needed to know, so you twisted to face Peter as he fixed himself to let you. 

The pitch black room wasn’t an impediment, on the contrary it gave you permission to brush your knuckles over Peter’s jaw where a stubble was forming. Your lips found his naturally, Peter was almost out but he let you kiss him, only his hand giving your hip a light squeeze.

Rain was the soundtrack you fell asleep to. Peter your comfort, and darkness, the witness of little moments of joy and love.

•••

White were the balloons, the tablecloths and your wedding attire. 

The flowers decorating the space were yellow, they had to be. 

Seeing Peter dressed in black with his bowtie and teary eyes at the altar, all you could think of was how fortunate you were, how much you loved him and how happy your life became the moment you saw him under red lights.

Forever promises were made, with more I love yous than one could dare to count, and a bunch of kisses once they let you kiss one another. 

“I’ll forever be here for you, you are the joy of my life, the light, the sun, the stars, the moon, my compass and my reason to be who I am.” Peter kept on whispering even after the ceremony. With each word your heart grew a size, you couldn’t believe you felt this strongly  about someone.

First dance with Baby I’m Yours by the Arctic Monkeys in the background felt like the right call. Peter made you twirl and you sang to him, as he hid his face on your neck, kissing it lightly.

You saw your mom and May crying at some point; little Tommy became the ring bearer and was even more fascinated by Peter when for his birthday he got a lego collection of none other than Spider-Man. 

Cake was lemon sponge and they served strawberry milkshakes along with other alcoholic beverages. Peter and you danced until your feet couldn’t take one more step. 

“I love you!” 

“No, love you more!”

“Lies,”

“I asked you out, remember? I have dibs.” Peter pinched your nose.

“But I accepted, so I have the last word.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, pressed his forehead on yours, eyes connecting with your own. He leaned in, eyes fluttered shut and there; lips collided with so much care, love and softness you could feel fireworks inside you, colorful, fiery, bright and alive. 

Loving Peter Parker was like every single one of the colors, everything merging together, forming a rainbow inside your heart.

[eyelessfaces]

thunder only happens when it's raining

llewyn davis x reader

summary: you never expected a stormy night in greenwich village to bring things back to you, but when llewyn comes at your door for shelter you believe that bad weather might not be so negative after all.

warnings: angst, allusions to past sex

tags: gn!reader, their relationship is complicated, llewyn is insecure and believes he doesn't deserve good things, good ending dw

word count: 1.5k

The structure of your bed creaked as you turned around, the sound going unnoticed as a thunder clap loudly snapped at the same time. You swore it had made your poor window shake. It had to be close for it to be that violent.

You couldn’t sleep. You had gotten to bed what– two hours ago? And you couldn’t sleep. You were tired but your thoughts refused to quiet down and of course the thunder wasn’t of any help.

You turned around in your bed for what felt like the hundredth time tonight and laid on your back. The ceiling was faintly lit up every time a flash of lightning struck, quickly followed by the rumbling sound. 

You tiredly closed your eyes, trying to focus on the somewhat relaxing sound of the pouring rain, just trying to imagine what it looked like out there on the street. 

How the rain splashed against the concrete, how it ran down the awnings of store fronts, what funky and broken shapes the lightnings took, if they looked like that crack in the mug your mother had gifted you for one of your birthdays, the sound of cars passing by too fast and the sharp sound of tires against the water on the road.

Your breath thickened, your heartbeat slowed down and you could feel it– haziness taking over your body and finally welcoming you into what the dead of the night was made for.

Until your doorbell fucking rang. 

Sure you were of good help to Mrs Edwards; she was an old woman whose son could not afford sending her to a retirement home so you did what you could to give a hand– but past midnight? There were limits to your kindness.

You sat on the edge of your bed, sighing as you pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration. You grabbed and put on the cardigan resting at the top of your clothes chair and joined your entry, deciding to keep the door chain locked before opening the door, assuming that you would just decline whatever request was on the other side of the door if it wasn’t important enough and go back to bed immediately after.

When you opened the door you had hoped it wouldn’t be important enough. You had hoped and you had wanted it not to be important enough.

“Fuck” you hissed, rolling your eyes when you saw the familiar face at your door.

“Baby– please” Llewyn bargained, and you chuckled at the nickname. 

How dare he. 

“Don’t bullshit me and keep your little names to yourself Llewyn.” you spat, closing the door and immediately hearing a sigh at the other side of it.

“Come on please.” he pleaded. “It’s pouring out there. Last time I saw a rain like that I was still with merchant marines.” 

“Yeah well last time I saw you it was still summer and you were clean shaven.” you snickered.

He sighed and closed his eyes, resisting the urge to just put on a show and go as far as getting on his knees. He knew he had fucked up and he knew you were resentful so it was going to be a pain and a long journey to get your trust back.

“Look– I’m sorry. I know it’s been long. I really need a place to stay tonight and you’re my last hope and I knew you’d be awake. Please” he asked, his voice muffled.

“I was just falling asleep when you rang.” you chuckled sarcastically.

He muttered a quick “shit” under his breath and came to the conclusion that he would have to turn around and already leave the building. 

You cursed under your breath, bringing a hand to your forehead in despair, and quickly fumbled with the door chain before opening the door.

Llewyn raised his eyebrows in surprise, and you rolled your eyes and made way for him to get inside. 

“Thank you. Thank you dove” he said as he came inside and put his stuff down next to the couch. 

“How’d you get inside the building” you asked as you sat down on the couch, trying to redirect the conversation and trying to shrug off the fact that the pet name made your heart ache.

He frowned slightly. “You gave me the code to the intercom… And even your keys, remember” he said as he took off his drenched coat.

“Oh yeah of course.” you muttered, putting your forehead against the palms of your hands, remembering that it was how close you used to be. “Yeah.” you nodded, biting your lip as a nervous reflex. If only you could punch him, or kiss him, but you couldn’t decide which one you’d rather do or both, and in what order you would do it. 

“Figured you’d be mad if I used my key and you woke up to me sleeping on your couch unannounced. Are you mad at me?” he asked, and you closed your eyes when you noticed the audacity he had to ask that question. “–for distancing myself” he added when he saw you weren’t replying.

“I know why I’m mad at you.” you snapped, looking up at him. “Goddammit Llewyn I haven’t seen you in two months!” you whisper-shouted, trying not to wake up the entire building.

“I know,” he hissed. “I’m sorry. I had things to figure out on my own.” he said as he plopped down next to you on the couch.

“Jesus we– we went from sleeping together every week and practically living together to–” you searched for your words but your emotions denied you the favor of seeming composed. “To you leaving one day without a word and not coming back.”

He had woken up next to you in your bed, your head resting over his chest, mouth slightly opened, breathing steadily. You looked so peaceful, and the way the 10am ray of sunshine embraced your naked figure made you look like a painting. It hit him all at once; he couldn’t stay.

You deserved better than him– he knew he was in love with you and he had to run away. For your own good; he had nothing good to provide you, on the contrary.

Llewyn winced and sighed in shame.

“I fucked up, I know” he muttered as his hand rested on your back. “I’m sorry, okay?”

You sighed and leaned to rest your head over his shoulder. Because even if you were mad at him you still had missed him and you were glad that he was back.

“Fuck you Llewyn Davis” you mumbled, like a child that had just been caught doing something they’re not supposed to do. He chuckled before leaving a kiss at the top of your head. “I have your fucking toothbrush here, if it means anything to you.”

He licked his lips and nodded, what you couldn’t see because you were fiddling with your own hands.

“It does. I guess I got scared and felt obliged to fuck it up like I do with every good thing happening to me” Llewyn was so used to failure and bad luck that he wasn’t sure if he could actually handle anything good happening to him. “I’m sorry. I mean it”

You sighed for the hundredth time tonight and shifted so your head could rest over his lap. He looked down and softly smiled at you, and he felt his heart sink when you took his hand in yours and tangled your fingers together. You were mad he had left but the relief of him coming back to you felt stronger. Even if it was for shelter. 

“So… what’s with the beard?” you asked, reaching for his face with your free hand and kneading your fingers against the short facial hair.

“Can’t put my hands on a razor as often as I used to be able to.” he shrugged. 

You hummed in response.

“I like it. It looks good on you. You look good.”

“Thank you angel” he weakly smiled at you.

You smiled and closed your eyes, just appreciating the relaxing silence mixed with the outside sounds of rain and storm. He rested his head against the back of your couch and just watched the reflection of the flashes of lightning, still holding your hand.

“Alright” you said opening your eyes and standing up from the couch. “I’m gonna go to bed or I’m just gonna fall asleep on your lap” you declared before a yawn escaped your mouth.

“I wouldn’t mind baby” he smirked as he reached for the blanket folded over the back of your couch.

You chuckled and smiled at him.

“Llewyn you– You don’t have to take the couch.” you nodded pinching your lips. He stopped his action and looked back at you, freezing like a deer in the headlights. “Come on… come to bed.” you pleaded, your heart aching as the words left your mouth. “And don’t leave in the morning. Stay with me.”

A sigh of relief left your mouth when he crashed into your arms with apologies mumbled over and over again into your neck, your arms enveloping him as your fingers ran through his damp curls. 

“I’ve only felt truly comfortable here with you” he whispered, face buried at the juncture between your neck and shoulder. 

“Then stay here with me, and stop running away”

Maybe he deserved this. Maybe he could allow you to be the only good thing in his life.

—

reblogs and feedback are appreciated!!

inside llewyn davis taglist: @apollo-enthusiast @scarabgrant @lockleysgrl @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @missmarmaladeth @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @beccabecs521

[revasserium]

What are some different moments a character might fall in love?

at the chime of a bell

at the first proper kiss

at the moment when the adrenaline meets up with the risk

at the pause before the drawing breath, when the world is full of hope

at the break of dawn

at the fall of night

at the pause after breathing, when the world is letting go

at the sound of laughter

at the sight of tears

at the length of a sidewalk, between far and near

at noon

at midnight

at 6:47 sharp

at the first page of a book

at the last swing in a park

at 12am, greenwich time

at the blip of a message, sent or received

at the bar in a hotel that everyone leaves

at the an airplane lounge

at the window seat

at the first light of morning

at the last light of night

at the sound of a heartbeat, thudding against skin

at the rhythm of breathing, again and again

at the mere thought of falling in love, or realizing that love is love itself, the kind of thing that unbinds us all, that it unifies more so than it divides, that no matter how this love goes, it is worth it to try, that to love and to be loved is a life-given right, and that right here, right now, is the perfect time.

[esoterium]

@aigonakru || a meme from this lil tag || accepting!

just help me with this, and i'll be out of your hair for good. ( from natasha to steve )

he only resurfaced back from the moon, apparently, a week ago and he was easing himself back into life by taking up residence just outside greenwich. not village. connecticut. somewhere close but not too close. he thought it'd send a message. something along the lines of, i'm here but i'm still sort've doing my own thing. a knock if you're here on friend business only vibe. which, he thought might include his friends appearing at his door and knocking when he was home. or waiting until he was to show up. maybe, even, giving him a phone call. or a message to let him know they were on their way.

because.

face it.

most of them can find him in a heartbeat no matter where he hides. so? hiding from them isn't really an effort he was taking very seriously. until he did. then no one knew where he was. except one person. and the moon was the answer he started telling people. never thought it'd catch on. leave it to bucky to ensure it did. which is why, a rush of air leaves his breath the second he sees her standing in his living room when he returns home from gathering some groceries. heel pushing the door closed. it makes the click by the time he clears the foyer and sees her.

"nat---," she's quick to put that out there. before his keys find the little bowl on the end table next to his lamp. so domestic. it came furnished this way and he's liked everything enough not to bother changing much. a visible flinch of his jaw as his stomach bottoms out. he's retired. or so the back of his head keeps reminding his gut reflexes all the time. it's such a losing battle but it's still not giving up.

blue eyes soften then he takes in a breath and walks past her towards the kitchen. "you know? i'm supposed to be keeping an eye on the older lady down the road's dog next week. she's going out of town." bags sat on his countertop, he glances at her over his shoulder. his gaze searches hers. god, he wants to ask why she needs the help. the question's on the tip of his tongue and he's trying so hard NOT TO. "what makes you think i'd want you out of my hair for good? maybe i like you there.."

[mythomars]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50017408/chapters/126290191

He hadn’t known how to articulate it, exactly; why he’d needed the scarring to stay. Not until he’d been made to sit for a photoshoot for the world; an artfully nude-y cover that showed him encased by the Iron Man armour everywhere but over the scarring and his head. The point, according to the director, had been to show the loss born by "Earth's best defender". He still don’t know where that title had come from, but it had stuck around, just another nom de plume in a long line of nom de plumes.

Tony Stark: Merchant of Death.

Tony Stark: Iron Man.

Tony Stark: Earth’s Best Defender.

And yet—yet. Not just another nom de plume.

It was the end of his story. There was nothing beyond this. Sure, the galaxy, the universe—the multiverse was all out there. Tony knew the implications, was only maybe beaten by the wizard crew in Greenwich Village for how the beating of the butterfly’s wings, the rings of a rippled pool, haunted him.

It was the end of his story, though. There were younger, brighter, stronger defenders, making their mark known. He could rest now.

The last time he’d had something so permanent on him, it had been the reactor. A blood oath bathed in blue light that with every heartbeat reminded him he had a life to not waste. A legacy to build that would be taken out of his hands. That he'd have to let be taken out of his hands.

Now this, this scarring. It told him: you’ve paid your debt. And every day, when he looked in the mirror and saw the sprawl of damage, it let him swallow the definite fact of his retirement.

And later in the fic:

“I’m really sorry for bothering you, it’s just that I always kept the magazine in here, just in case you ever stopped by.” The receptionist explained, offering him a well-thumbed magazine. Tony quickly recognised it as the TIME magazine cover he'd done after the final battle. Its cover showed Tony standing, left side of his body ensconced in the Iron Man armor. His right side stood bare, the geometric scarring from the gauntlet curling up his torso, right shoulder and neck. While Tony remembered trying to keep his gaze steel-like during the shoot, the outcome had been anything but. His eyes were. . . intimate. Tired. Lonely.

In sleek metallic font below, the title simply read: "The Man Who Saved Us All."

OH YOURE RIGHT I DID GET IT FROM THAT FIC!!

Thank you so much!! You’re a lifesaver!

[virtuoshosh]

{ you went to the dogs & I lived by my charms }

Rosalind switched on the lights to the sound booth as she entered, then shucked off her sweater and rested it on the back of her chair. She pulled the top half of her hair out of her face, securing it with a claw clip, before she headed into the studio, and started to set up. Shosh needed so much, she was so particular. The bench set just this way, the keyboards and piano arranged like that. But she paid the most attention to the music she made, with nauseatingly meticulous detail, which Ros had to appreciate.

She was winding up an aux cord that was no longer needed, when she felt the wards to White Witch Studios be disturbed as someone entered—two someones, if the wards were to be believed. Assuming it to be Shoshana and Eric, Rosalind placed the cord in its compartment, then headed out of the booth, pulling out her phone to check an email as she walked down the hall towards the entry way.

“Set up is done,” Ros said, not bothering to look up from her phone, “Shosh, you can head straight to the booth. Eric, if you could—” 

She looked up in surprise, raising her brows when the person accompanying Shosh was definitely not Eric. 

“Ros, this is—”

“—Sascha.” Rosalind breathed, tears immediately filling her eyes.

Sascha froze at the studio door when they heard the voice, letting Shosh wander further in, oblivious and still chattering away with the same nervous energy that had kept her talking for the entirety of their walk through the winding labyrinth of the Den of Magic.

Vampires were creatures that were granted long memories—a gift or a curse, depending on the vampire you asked about it. And Sascha, who for decades had no weapon nor comfort to rely on but their memory, had labored to ensure that each and every memory they possessed, from their undead life and the one that had come before, was crystal clear—polished like precious gems in the depths of their mind.

And so time had not dulled the memory of this voice, a songbird’s refrain, as it stopped the vampire where they stood.

“Rosalind?” Sascha said, disbelieving even as they trusted in the inability of their senses to lie. Something stirred in Sascha’s chest, in the place where their heart used to beat, as they watched tears fill up familiar grey-blue eyes, set into an ethereally beautiful and equally familiar face, framed by that familiar cascade of golden blonde; the groaning of some ancient abandoned machinery that had long sat dormant and lifeless, a dull ache like pressing on a bruise—the whispering ghosts of feelings that could no longer be truly felt.

Shoshana, at last realizing something was amiss, furrowed her dark brows and looked warily between Ros and Sascha, still stood in the gaping doorway. “You…know each other already…?” she guessed.

Ignoring her, Ros strode towards Sascha, her arms outstretched to embrace the other.

“Das ist nicht möglich, you look—” Sascha muttered to themself as Rosalind approached. She’d hardly aged a day from the naive teenager Sascha had last seen in New York—almost half a century ago. As she moved toward them, a crisp breeze swept in from the open doorway, carrying her scent to Sascha’s nose. Immediate understanding deepened the crimson color of Sascha’s eyes as they gave a reserved, knowing smile. The gemstones that gilded Sascha’s memory shifted, glinting with new light, and it wasn’t a question when they stated, “—a Veela. But, of course…”

Rosalind pressed her cheek against her friend as she embraced them, the top of her head pushing against a cold, angular chin. She tried to ignore the creeping worry that settled in her stomach when she took note of Sascha's sudden lack of heartbeat; to focus on the now. Sascha was alive. Sascha was here. Alive. Someone made it.

The grief was unsurmountable, evident in the way Ros was, for the first time in years, crying.

Just like that, in an instant, it was 1965 and they were back in their favorite Greenwich Village haunt; Rosalind’s head pressing against Sascha’s chest, her tears wetting their shirt, was so viscerally familiar that Sascha felt the strangest urge to breathe—for no biological benefit beyond the ingrained urge to comfort her.

Shosh’s mouth had been hanging agape as she watched this baffling exchange unfold, and she promptly snapped it shut just as Sascha opened up their arms to embrace Ros (seriously—when had Shosh ever witnessed either of these intimidating and untouchable Beings hug anyone, before??). She gave a frustrated huff at both her lack of understanding of the situation and the fact that she was being so thoroughly ignored. She flailed her arms up in the air in a demanding gesture and said, “Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on right now?”

Shosh interrupted their embrace and Ros straightened, brushing her tears away with the back of a slender hand, then turned to the girl.

“You were asked to go straight to the booth, Shoshana. Don't make a habit of wasting my time,” she said, slinking back into her skin as a stern producer much easier than managing whatever this other thing was. When the girl didn't move, she raised her brows, “Or is there another studio you wanted to record in?”

“As you wish, Frau Albany…” Shoshana drawled sarcastically, spreading her arms and dipping low in a mocking curtsy before Sascha tsked at her sharply and scolded, “Sei nicht unhöflich, mausebär.”

Rosalind Albany had been mocked by artists of higher caliber than Shoshana Edelman, that was for sure. She was unlikely to be rattled by it, given artists natural propensity to be achingly dramatic. Still, Ros felt something purr in victory in her chest, when Sascha defended her.

Shosh glared at them, aghast at being ganged up on by Sascha of all people, the betrayal reading all over her face, but Sascha merely gestured at the booth and waited calmly for Shoshana to stomp her way in there, slam the door, and prep for her session.

Smiling lightly to themself as they watched Shosh take her leave, Sascha said wryly to Ros, “Would you be terribly offended if I said she reminds me of you?”

Ros raised her chin as the girl stomped away, then raised her brows at the other. She was offended at first, and then she sighed, watching in the girl’s direction. “She is… Frustratingly talented, that’s for sure. How did you two connect?”

Sascha glanced at the closed door behind which they could hear the faint, muffled sounds of a piano as Shoshana warmed up, her distinct, lovely scent wafting in her wake. Would you believe me if I said something ridiculous, like fate? they mused. But instead, enigmatically, the vampire replied, “A story for another time, I think. Right now…”

They shifted their gaze back to the blonde, and Rosalind turned to her old friend once more. Truly unable to help herself, Ros reached up to press a hand against Sascha's cheek, then one on the other as well. She framed it perfectly, staring, as if trying to capture every detail in her mind to hold onto—and trying to compare them to what she remembered. “You grew your hair out,” she commented.

Rosalind, it seemed, was still processing seeing Sascha again, alive and well (relatively, anyway, on both counts)—which Sascha couldn’t blame her for. Sascha had just assumed that everyone from their First Life had perished or forgotten them, when their short leash of freedom from their Sire had loosened after many years in seclusion, and Sascha had never bothered to look anyone up. The losses they’d suffered had already been so painful that Sascha had been too much of a coward to willingly seek out more.

Sascha smiled at Ros, taking her in; the same incandescent beauty, but hardened—refined like a diamond. “In imitation of you, freilich, darling…” Sascha replied, “…though I see you’ve outgrown those Shirley Temple curls, as well.”

She smirked, briefly running a hand through the strands of her blonde hair that she hadn’t clipped away. “It is definitely not the fifties anymore. I don’t think my fingers could make a pin curl work anymore even if I tried.”

As desperately as Rosalind tried to change the topic, to focus on her natural proclivity for work, she was so taken by Sascha’s appearance. Not only there, and alive, but grown, changed. Sascha stood with the same certainty that she’d always admired of him. But as she brushed her thumb over his cheek, she noted deep bags under his eyes, like he was in desperate need of a long sleep. And while Rosalind hadn’t connected with another in decades, she noted the distinct lack of energy under her fingertips. A lifeforce, a pulse.

Her face softened. “... When did it happen?”

The unspoken, harsh question lingered between them: What killed you? Was it.. what she thought?

There was a distinct sadness between them, pulled tight like a violin string, despite the joy of such a miraculous reunion. Sascha tensed at the question; it was far more tactfully phrased than the Rosalind Curiosity that Sascha had once known, but even so—it was painful, remembering the grief-filled haze of those last days. It still wrung Sascha inside out like it was yesterday. And for some reason, looking into Ros’ bright eyes and recounting how they’d gone from the sardonic young gay man in New York City to—this, made Sascha feel unexpectedly…shameful. 

But Ros was owed the truth, if Sascha could give her nothing else. So they took another unnecessary breath, and admitted, “It was in 1979. In West Berlin.”

Ros's hands dropped before she pressed forward to hug her friend again, heart sinking.

Sascha watched Ros’ face crumple with emotion, and they didn’t know why they felt the need to add, “There wasn’t anything you could have done. It…it was my own fault.”

The sad sigh that she released when Sascha explained his own passing escaped before she could prevent it. She shook her head insistently, “We didn’t know, then, what we know now. Political mess aside, there was nothing any of us could have done. Please don’t blame yourself, Sascha.”

And that was all Rosalind could manage of it. Which was just as well, because Sascha couldn’t bring themself to meet those piercing eyes any longer. Seeing Rosalind again was like seeing a ghost, an apparition from a life Sascha had long since buried. There was still so much they wanted to say, to ask—things Sascha hadn’t dared to even think nor feel, let alone actually confide in another in many lonely decades of solitude. 

But the guilt was drowning out everything else. Sascha’s death hadn’t been a tragedy—it’d been a weakness, a disgrace. They didn’t want Ros to discover the truth—that there was no one else to blame, and that Sascha lived with the shame of it every day.

Ros put her hands on her hips, then inclined her head to the recording space, “Are you staying for Shosh’s session? There’s plenty of space.” Sascha hesitated, but she managed to coax her friend through to the sound booth, then headed for her chair before the mixing board. Removing her sweater from the back of her chair, Ros placed it over her lap and tucked herself under the table. 

Behind the glass screen of the booth, Shoshana was banging away at some scales. As Shosh hadn’t put on her headphones yet, Ros tapped politely on the window, gesturing to the set. The girl looked annoyed when she was interrupted, putting on her headphones then turning her whole body to face them with a squint, “Are you two going to explain yourselves now?” she asked, her voice audible through speakers in the booth.

Ros turned to eye Sascha with a ‘Can you believe the shit I have to put up with’ expression, to which they smirked, easing the heaviness that weighed upon them somewhat. Ros looked back to the girl. “Not at all,” she said with a near-patronizing calm, and then added, “But Sascha has agreed to stay to observe your session, so maybe he’ll motivate you–”

The decision to reach out and place a hand on Ros’ shoulder was an instinctual impulse. And though they fully did not expect Rosalind to understand, remembering the naive young woman who’d needed constant and gentle explanations of just about everything, Sascha corrected, “It’s–it’s ‘they,’ now…”

She turned her head, studying them for a moment. But that telltale dimple in the center of her forehead was surprisingly absent, and after just a beat of consideration, Ros nodded once, then turned back to the musician on the other side of the window, pressed the button to send her voice into Shosh’s headphones and said expectantly, “What do you have for me today?”

These years had seen changes to them both, it would seem.

Sascha watched Shosh’s body tighten, her eyes narrowing into a glare that she held through the window as she launched into a series of staccato chords that she hammered ferociously against the keys, no sheet music to speak of, before the song’s introduction melted into something fluid and beautiful, but no less fierce. Sascha chuckled to themself; Ros may have believed Shoshana’s attitude to be that of a spoiled, petulant child, but Sascha saw defiance—a stubbornness in the face of adversity that had inspired them about the human girl since they’d met. 

She stretched her pale throat toward the dangling microphone and sang:

“If I’m a bad person, you don’t like me Well, I guess I’ll make my own way…”

She closed her eyes, her brow furrowing as she lost herself in the emotions of what she was singing and playing. Sascha gripped the back of Rosalind’s chair with long, ringed fingers, leaning in to remark, “That—right there. This is what I was referring to, when I said she reminded me of you. Not her temperament—though, truth be told, you could be something of a brat, too, back in the day, liebling…” They gave Ros a teasing look before adding, “…but the way she pours everything into the music, into her art…that is classic you.”

The rich sound of Shoshana’s voice echoed through their speakers as she continued to sing:

“Don’t wanna hear your sad songs, I don’t wanna feel your pain When you swear it’s all my fault ‘cause you know we’re not the same We’re not the same, oh we’re not the same Yeah, the friends who stuck together, we wrote our names in blood But I guess you can’t accept that the change is good, it’s good Well, you treat me just like another stranger…”

Here, at the look Ros shot them, Sascha shrugged a bit sheepishly and explained, “We, ah…may have run into the boy—Cassius. At Plasma…”

She paused her rapid-fire texting and cracked a sassy grin that was new–but also fitting, somehow–on her face. “And she sees this as a classical arrangement…?" She scoffed, and resumed her texting. "I’m no sound engineer, but it would sound much better with a band…”

[plungermusic]

We’re talking ‘bout Quirk, Strangeness & Charm …

OK, it’s not Hawkwind, but when an album is said to have “two recurring themes: the unity of matter and the breaking down of barriers” a quantum physics gag is surely excusable?

Ruth Theodore isn’t shy of crashing through genre boundaries as proved on her last album Cactacus, and her upcoming release I Am I Am is no more hidebound by the restrictions of stylistic pigeonholes.

It’s not a surprise then that on opener Barbed Wire Fence Ruth’s playful quirky vocal (think a Brighton Big Yellow Taxi) rails wryly at boundaries and borders of all kinds, propelled by a loose-limbed acoustic guitar, upright bass and cocktail drum Greenham-campfire-by-way-of-Montego-Bay bounce. Bright and breezy like a day by the river, punctuated by tricksy touches in the timings bringing you up short like the eponymous barrier.

The upbeat mood continues in Full Metal Jacket, a glam-tinged deconstructed piano boogie driven by a striding left hand bassline and witty right hand ornamentation, topped with Andrews Sistersesque tight three-part harmony vocals adding vivacious venom to this relationship revenge tale with a twist; and People People, a stone-cold cert for a crowd pleasing set-closer or a single, with folky strumming, rattling rapid-fire Greenwich Village coffee shop lyrics, swooping vocal acrobatics, and a solidarity-soaked singalong chorus.

There’s more opportunity for crowd participation in Captured, albeit at a more measured pace: a slow tribal drumbeat (as of a ritual procession) is punctuated by heartbeat swells of strings and piano in a homily to the Insta generation on living in the moment and keeping it real, Ruth’s lithe vox descending from falsetto passion to breathy near-spoken and back again, with an airy, easy-going whole-band choir mantra chorus.

Subtler colours come in a trio of more introspective songs: Brighton Stones’ wave SFX, twinkling piano arpeggios, folky acoustic, and ethereal harmony humming make for an ostensibly mellow hypnotic beachside hymn, although the ticking-clock percussion and aching vox hint at a darker theme; opening almost as a chamber piano trio, Watercolour opens out with the aid of minimal drums and rich double bass into a Hammill-meets-Piaf anguished keening soul-baring drama; and the melodrama reaches cinematic peaks in the finale of Here Comes Your Song, an epic sprawling tale of defiant positivity in the face of hardship (and the power of music) that restlessly shifts mood and timings before closing in the aforementioned, almost Springsteen-like, climax.

Ruth waltzes off into the sunset with the closing pair of similarly-timed, if distinctive, tracks:  the deceptively simple off-kilter waltzing Thomson wraps you in snuggly marimba, bass and lyrical cello lines before repeated urgent waves of passion build and release until a belting crescendo, while Hold On Me is an out-and-out, 24-carat, 1970s radio 2 smoochy soul classic, well executed and without a hint of pastiche (but plenty of cracking piano, organ… and trombone!)

Rich production, stylish arrangements and a jeweller’s eye for intricate details (like spangles of Fender Rhodes and dashes of trumpet here, shimmering pedal steel-like strings there, a surprise (and surprisingly effective) underlying combination of synths, modern beats and strings, or washes of wistful village brass band-style horns) add depth, interest and sometimes plain otherness to the songs, making a complete cosmos of each… with Ruth’s mercurial vocal being the fundamental particle binding them all together with quirk, a bit of strangeness and bags of charm.

I Am I Am is released on Righteous Babe Records on May 3rd. Available to pre-order from Ruth's Bandcamp here: https://ruththeodore.bandcamp.com/album/i-am-i-am-4

[clothinglowpricemerch]

Immersing in New York City's Cultural Tapestry: A Fusion of Art, History, and Culinary Delights

New York City, a vibrant metropolis and global hub, is a melting pot of cultures, cuisines, and artistic expressions. Explore the iconic museums, wander through bustling neighborhoods, and catch a Broadway show. From the grandeur of Central Park to the trendy shops of SoHo, New York City offers an endless array of experiences.

Introduction

Welcome to the city that never sleeps, the cultural kaleidoscope that is New York City. With a decade of exploration behind me, I invite you to join me on a journey through the heart of this metropolis, where every street corner tells a story, every bite is an adventure, and every museum is a gateway to human creativity. In this exploration, we will uncover the layers of New York City's cultural tapestry, delving into art, history, and the delightful world of culinary experiences.

Museums: Where Art and History Converge

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Our cultural odyssey begins at The Met, an iconic institution that houses over two million works of art spanning 5,000 years. From ancient Egyptian artifacts to Renaissance masterpieces, The Met is a treasure trove that transcends time and culture. Allow yourself to be captivated by the brushstrokes of renowned artists and the whispers of history echoing through its halls.

The Museum of Modern Art (MoMA)

For a more contemporary experience, venture to MoMA, a mecca of modern and contemporary art. Marvel at works by Picasso, Van Gogh, and Warhol as you navigate through this avant-garde haven. The museum's ever-evolving exhibits and immersive installations make it a dynamic reflection of the evolving art scene.

The American Museum of Natural History

Switching gears, delve into the realms of science, anthropology, and natural wonders at The American Museum of Natural History. From towering dinosaur skeletons to celestial exhibits, the museum provides an educational and awe-inspiring journey. Don't miss the Hayden Planetarium for a cosmic experience that transcends the limits of Earth.

Neighborhoods: A Tapestry of Diversity

Harlem: Rhythms of the Renaissance

Start your neighborhood exploration in Harlem, a historic district that has been a beacon for African American culture since the Harlem Renaissance. Immerse yourself in the rhythms of jazz at the Apollo Theater, stroll along Strivers' Row to admire historic brownstones, and savor soul food at Sylvia's Restaurant.

Greenwich Village: Bohemian Vibes

Wander down the charming streets of Greenwich Village, a neighborhood synonymous with bohemian culture. Washington Square Park, with its iconic arch and vibrant street performers, is the heart of the Village. Explore MacDougal Street's coffee shops and bookstores, and feel the echoes of Bob Dylan's folk tunes.

Chinatown and Little Italy: Culinary Adventures

Embark on a culinary journey in the neighborhoods of Chinatown and Little Italy. In Chinatown, narrow streets are adorned with red lanterns, offering a sensory overload of flavors and scents. Then, cross into Little Italy for a taste of old-world charm with its family-owned trattorias and gelato shops.

Williamsburg: Brooklyn's Creative Hub

Cross the East River to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a haven for artists and creatives. Street art adorns the industrial landscape, and boutique shops showcase the latest in local design. The Brooklyn Brewery is a must-visit, where you can sample craft beers in a vibrant and eclectic atmosphere.

Broadway: The Theatrical Heartbeat

The Glittering Lights of Broadway

No exploration of New York City's cultural tapestry is complete without experiencing the magic of Broadway. Attend a dazzling Broadway show, where the neon lights of Times Square meet the artistic brilliance of live performances. From classic musicals to cutting-edge dramas, Broadway offers a theatrical journey for every taste.

Off-Broadway Gems

For a more intimate and experimental experience, venture Off-Broadway. The smaller theaters often showcase innovative productions and emerging talents. These hidden gems allow you to connect with the performers in a way that is uniquely New York.

Central Park: Nature Amidst the Concrete Jungle

The Great Lawn and Bethesda Terrace

Escape the urban hustle and immerse yourself in the tranquility of Central Park. The Great Lawn, a vast expanse of green, is perfect for picnics and outdoor activities. Stroll towards Bethesda Terrace, an architectural masterpiece overlooking the lake. It's a place to relax, people-watch, and savor the serenity amidst the city's chaos.

Strawberry Fields and The Ramble

Visit Strawberry Fields, a living tribute to John Lennon, and feel the peaceful energy of this memorial. Then, lose yourself in The Ramble, a wooded area that feels like a forest within the city. Birdwatchers, joggers, and nature enthusiasts alike find solace in this hidden oasis.

Culinary Delights: A Gastronomic Adventure

Street Food and Food Trucks

New York City is a paradise for food lovers, and some of the best culinary experiences can be found on the streets. Dive into the diverse world of street food and food trucks, from classic hot dogs and pretzels to exotic international flavors. Head to Smorgasburg in Brooklyn for a food market featuring a variety of vendors and cuisines.

Michelin-Starred Dining

For a more upscale experience, explore the city's Michelin-starred restaurants. Indulge in a culinary journey curated by renowned chefs, where every dish is a masterpiece. From fine French cuisine to innovative American fare, these establishments elevate dining to an art form.

The Vibrant Food Scene of Queens

Venture to Queens to explore its rich tapestry of international cuisines. From the bustling markets of Flushing to the diverse eateries in Jackson Heights, Queens offers a culinary world tour within a borough. Taste authentic dishes from countries around the globe, reflecting the cultural mosaic of New York City.

Practical Tips for Cultural Immersion

CityPASS for Museum Lovers

For avid museum-goers, consider the CityPASS, which grants access to multiple attractions at a discounted rate. This pass is an excellent way to make the most of your time and budget while exploring the cultural gems of New York City.

Navigating the Subway

Mastering the New York City subway system is key to seamless exploration. Purchase a MetroCard, and embrace the efficiency of the subway for quick and affordable travel between neighborhoods and boroughs.

Cultural Events Calendar

Check the city's cultural events calendar for special exhibitions, performances, and festivals. New York City is a dynamic hub of creativity, and there's always something exciting happening across its boroughs.

Conclusion

In conclusion, immersing yourself in New York City's cultural tapestry is a journey of endless discovery. From the brushstrokes of masterpieces in iconic museums to the rhythms of Harlem's jazz, every step is an exploration of human expression. As a seasoned traveler, I can attest that New York City is not just a destination; it's an ongoing performance where each neighborhood, each meal, and each museum visit contributes to the grand narrative of this global metropolis. So, pack your curiosity, embrace the diversity, and let the cultural symphony of New York City weave its magic on your soul.

[abigailhartrp]

Timeline

1980; Age 0:

November 7: Abigail Dawn Hart is born at 10:56 A.M. at South County Hospital in East Greenwich, RI, to Charles and Dawn Hart. Both parents are incredibly excited to welcome their little girl into the world, as Abby is their third attempt at a child. She's baptized a few weeks later, given her Christian Name, and assigned God-Parents, per her family's Catholic faith. 

1982; Age Two:

April; Dawn, a popular and wealthy Real Estate Agent in East Greenwich, finds it hard to juggle both her business and Abigail. She and Charles decide to hire a nanny named Maria Flores, a Mexican Native who bonds with Abigail quickly.

1984; Age Four:

April: By age four, Abigail can speak both English and Spanish due to the influence of Maria Flores. She can also sight-read, hold conversations, and is incredibly well-behaved. The Hart family often describes her as the "perfect" child.  June: Charles Hart, a Biology Professor at Providence College, has his first research paper published in the Annals of Human Biology. 

1985; Age Five:

August: Abigail begins her education at Our Lady Mercy, a private Catholic School in East Greenwich.  September: Dawn Hart discovers that she's six weeks pregnant. Having had three miscarriages before Abigail, Dawn is reserved about the news.   December: Dawn Hart miscarries two weeks before Christmas. 

1986; Age Six:

January: Depression fills the Hart Household, and Abigail, unsure of the reason behind her parent's anger and sadness, retreats. Maria brings her some books from the local thrift store, and Abigail picks through them. She finds a copy of The Hobbit and a year's worth of Popular Science Monthly from 1964. 

1989; Age Nine:

March: Abigail's brother, Daniel Thomas, is born. The pregnancy is incredibly complicated and painful for Dawn, and she's advised to have her tubes tied. 

1990; Age Ten:

February: Dawn Hart announces to the family that she's expecting again. Later that night, Abigail can hear Maria and Dawn fighting in hushed voices.  August: Shortly after Abigail returns to school, Dawn notices she hasn't felt the baby kick in a while; she goes to the doctor and discovers there's no heartbeat. After some tests, it's confirmed that Dawn has preeclampsia. Doctors force her to labor, and Dawn gives birth to a stillborn baby girl she names Elizabeth Margarete. Hoping to provide Abigail with in lesson on life on death, Dawn allows Abigail to hold the little deceased girl. 

1993; Age Thirteen:

May: Abigail requests that she get sent to a public school for her High School Education. Her parents initially refuse, but eventually, Abigail gets them to agree. August: Abigail beings her freshman year at Greenwich High School. She is offered the opportunity to skip her freshman year and begin as a Sophomore, but Abigail decides to stay with kids her own age. She is placed in Advanced Courses.

1994; Age Fourteen:

October: Abigail's mother is diagnosed with an aggressive form of Cervical Cancer. After her first chemotherapy treatment and removal of her reproductive organs, Dawn is told that her cancer has already spread to other organs. She is given only two months to live. November: Abigail and her mother have a girl's day. Abigail's mother takes her to a bridal store, where she has Abigail try on wedding dresses. When they leave, Dawn buys the dress that Abigail likes the most. December: Dawn Hart passes away in the middle of the night. After the funeral, Abby's father falls into a deep depression, stops working, and stays locked in his study, leaving Abigail to handle her grief with only Maria. 

1995; Age Fifteen: 

March: Abigail's father loses his position at the University of Providence. Essentially bankrupt, they are forced to sell the family home and downsize.  April: Unable to keep paying Maria, Charles Hart is forced to terminate her employment. Losing a second mother figure in such a short period is devastating for Abigail, who has to step up and raise her brother.

1996; Age Sixteen:

January: Abigail begins taking an advanced course in chemistry, where she meets a twenty-two-year-old Student Teacher named Jacob Spears. Abby is immediately smitten with his intelligence, charisma, and good looks. February: Jacob gives Abigail a notebook after class, where he's written her a letter. He tells her she's brilliant and knows she can achieve her dream of being a doctor. The two begin writing each other notes in this notebook and pass them back and forth between each other. Eventually, these notes become romantic in nature. November: Abigail drives her father's car to Jacob Spears's apartment on her sixteenth birthday. They celebrate, and later, they share their first kiss. He asks Abigail if she wants sex, but she says she's not ready.  December: Abigail loses her virginity to Jacob Spears.  Abigail begins working at a local grocery store after working to help cover her family's expenses. 

1997; Age Seventeen:

September: Abigail takes the ACT and receives a score of thirty-five. October: Abigail takes the SATs and receives a score of 1570. November: Abigail informs Jacob that her period is late. That night she takes a pregnancy test that reveals she's pregnant. After that, Jacob begins ignoring Abigail.  December: With no help from Jacob and too afraid to tell her father- Abigail reaches out to Maria. Maria agrees to take Abby to a planned parenthood clinic that confirms she's a month pregnant. The seventeen-year-old makes the tough decision to have an abortion. Maria stays with Abigail all night to make sure she's okay.

1998; Age Eighteen:

January: Abigail applies to Providence University. Jacob Spears does not return to finish the school year, and Abigail never hears from him again. April: Abigail is accepted to Providence University.  May: Upon graduation, Abigail returns home and has an intense and emotional conversation with her father. From that moment on, he becomes a better father to Abigail and her brother; though Abigail never forgives her father for his abandonment, they have a civil relationship.  September: Abigail moves to Providence and begins attending Providence University.

2002; Age Twenty-Two:

April: Abigail takes the MCAT and receives a score of 523. May: Abigail graduates from Providence University with her bachelor's in Biology and is accepted to Yale University.  September: Abigail arrives in New Haven Connecticut, where she begins Medical School at Yale.  November: Abigail meets Samuel Burke, a fellow Medical Student with dreams of becoming an anesthesiologist. The two become incredibly close and begin going out for drinks and movies after class. 

2003; Age Twenty-Three:

March: Sam tells Abigail that he's fallen in love with her. The two decide to make their relationship official.  June: Abigail takes Samuel back to Providence to meet her father and younger brother. When they return, the two decide to move in together. 

2006; Age Twenty-Six:

May: Abigail and Samuel graduate with their Medical Degrees. Samuel proposes at a celebration with their friends and family, and Abigail accepts. The two begin to plan their wedding. Abigail also begins her OBGYN Residency at the Yale New Haven Hospital.  October:  Abigail and Samuel have a small wedding ceremony in New Haven. Abigail wears the dress that her mother bought her before she died, and her father gives her their wedding rings. 

2010; Age Thirty:

May: Abigail completes her residency and begins working at the Women's and Infant Hospital in Providence, where she was born. As a family, Abigail and Samuel decide to move back to Providence- though Samuel stays in New Haven to complete his fellowship. He returns home on the weekends. 

2012; Age Thirty-Two:

July: Samuel completes his fellowship and moves to Providence, where he begins working at the same hospital as Abigail. While unpacking his suitcase, Abigail finds a burner phone. After confronting Samuel, he reveals he's been having an affair. Abigail forgives him, and the two begin repairing their marriage. August: Abigail decides to have some of her eggs frozen, knowing her time is growing short for children and that she and Samuel's marriage is not strong enough for a family.  November: Abigail watches as one of her patients is removed from the hospital because she cannot afford her treatment. Angry, Abigail confronts the Medical Board, but she can do nothing about their decision.  December: Abigail discovers the obituary of the patient discharged from the hospital. Her cause of death is listed as "natural causes," but Abigail knows it's from complications due to her pregnancy. 

2013; Age Thirty-Five:

January: Abigail begins to write letters to her mayor, senators, congressmen, and the governor of Rhode Island about the lack of funding and care for low-income residents experiencing pregnancy. March: Abigail begins treating a patient named Isabella Flores, a pregnant fifteen-year-old. She later realizes that her grandmother is Maria, who helped raise her. The Flores Family cannot afford the care needed for Isabella, but Abigail is determined to help.  November: Isabella Flores gives birth to a healthy baby girl. Abigail has ensured the mother is signed up for every program available to assist her and her child.  December: Abigail decides to quit the hospital and open her own Private Practice Clinic to assist low-income families. 

2016; Age Thirty-Six:

January: Samuel informs Abigail that he has fallen in love with another woman and wants a divorce.  February: Abigail and Samuel divorce, and due to the lack of a prenup, Abigail walks away from the marriage with eighty percent of Samuel's wealth and assets. August: Abigail, along with one of her fellow OBGYNs, opened the Divine Women Clinic. They hire a psychiatrist named Esmeralda Whitlock, and the two women quickly become close friends. 

2018; Age Thirty-Eight:

January: Esmeralda's mother has a seizure. Esmeralda has no choice but to bring her mother back to Rhode Island. April: Esmeralda's mother passes away.

2020; Age Forty:

April: Abigail begins to date Francis “Frank” Clark, a Rhode Island Lawyer running to become a member of the Senate.  October: Esmeralda begins to date Jean Wilson. November: Frank Clark wins his election and becomes a Senator 

2021; Age Forty-One:

May: Abigail ends her relationship with Frank Clark, stating that she and Frank are too busy to seriously date. Frank is heartbroken, but Abigail moves past the relationship quickly.  November: Jean and Esmeralda break up, leaving Esmeralda heartbroken.

2023; Age Forty-Three:

April: Abigail begins feeling as if she needs a change. She begins researching new jobs and finds a hospital in Laurel, Maine, looking for a New OBGYN.  May: Esmeralda receives news that her father will be released from prison. Nervous, she expresses to Abigail that she might need to move to keep her address private from her father. Abigail tells Esmeralda about Lake Sapphire and that they're also looking for a Psychiatrist. Both women apply and are hired.  June: Abigail closes on a house in Laurel, Maine, where she and Esmeralda will live. The two women move to Laurel, Maine.  July: Abigail begins working at Lake Sapphire Hospital. 

[ledenews]

Susan Hagan: A Big Bark with the Couth of a Cat’s Meow

It’s not that she doesn’t like dogs. She does, but she doesn’t own any. Instead, Susan Hagan is a cat lady. Now, she’s a cat owner only because, well, truth be told, dogs take time. They need their humans so, recognizing that well known verity, Hagan selects humanity over selfishness. As usual. So, yeah, cats. “Kevin” and “Bob,” to be specific, and when Hagan isn’t interacting with her felines, she’s working or volunteering or effectively influencing for the betterment of today’s version Wheeling and her future. At least that’s been the goal since she moved home during the early 20-teens, and sure, she’s misplaced her support in elected officials and some initiatives since but her motives always have been pure. These days Hagan spends the majority of her free time serving as a board member for Wheeling Health Right and volunteering for the Greater Wheeling Soup Kitchen so the folks in need of the services provided by those two non-profits need not worry. And yes, by the way, that IS why she will offer you the details on the upcoming Health Right Chef’s Auction at Wesbanco Arena on May 11. - 17 local eateries - Silent auction - Live auction - Taylor Jo & The Copper Creek Band - The Hooch (band) - 6-10 p.m. - 27,000 patients - Health Right’s biggest fundraiser of the year Don’t worry. She’ll remind you between now and then. "Keviin" and "Bob" are Susan's at-home companions. What is the one kind of ethic food we do not have in the Wheeling area that you believe would survive if opened? Hands down Thai food. Although not my first choice for ethnic food (it's top 3 but Peruvian and Dim Sum are top 2), Thai food has a broad appeal. What improvement in the city of Wheeling you have heard about are you still waiting to see become a reality? An actual full-on renovation of the McClure. Jeffrey had/has great ideas, but thoughts and actions are 2 very different things, and we've seen that time and time again. A top hotel in the downtown area would be a huge draw with all the events that go on throughout the year. We need a downtown heart and a beautiful mid-century modern hotel with a restaurant and bar area for entertainment would be the best thing that could happen. Also, the overhaul of the OVRTA transportation system. There is a group of us working on it and we've made in-roads but there's so much more to do. Transportation is the literal heartbeat of any city. Without it, many people cannot get where they need to be, and for some, it is a life-saving need. Hagan loves to be involved witht he community as many as possible. Which closed movie theatre in the Wheeling area would you like to see reopen? Well, since the drive-in Elm Grove can't happen landwise, then I'm going with the drive-in in Glen Dale. Many a night as a kid was spent there, and it was so much fun. Drive-ins are making a comeback in some areas, and I'd love to see that happen here. Who do you go – by yourself – in the area to just think? The top of Mt. Calvary. I've gone to the top ever since I was a young adult. It's a beautiful view and so peaceful. One reason Susan moved home to the Wheeling area was to be closer to her sister and her mother. What cats and not dogs? I own cats because my life is just too busy for dogs. Kevin and Bob keep it interesting, for sure. That being said, I ran a boarding kennel for a number of years in Greenwich, CT, and have a dog sitting business I do on the side, so I get my dog fix from other people's dogs. Read the full article

[peterparkersnose]

Stranger Danger

matt murdock x reader

word count: 736

warnings: harassment, sexual harassment 

a/n I watched the whole first season of Daredevil in one weekend and I’m in love with Matt. It’s unhealthy how this man’s smile has such a chokehold on me. His nose is just gorgeous also.

summary Y/N is getting hassled on the street, Matt comes to her rescue

masterlist

read time: 2 mins 54 seconds

Fresh rain was still in the air. The busy streets of New York bustled with the normal people. Vendors, kids running home from school, old ladies buying groceries. You were coming home from lunch with a friend. Unfortunately, you were stuck at a crosswalk with tons of people just waiting to cross. 

“What’s a pretty young lady doing here all alone?” you heard a voice say from behind you. Thinking it wasn’t directed towards you, you ignored it like everyone else’s conversations around you. “It’s rude not to respond when someone compliments you,” you heard, feeling a tap on your shoulder. You turned around to reveal an old man. You gave him a pursed smile, and started walking towards the front of the group. 

That is when Matt noticed. Of course, he could hear everyone’s heartbeat. But yours started picking up the pase. “Wait, miss!” the older man called to you, following you. 

‘This can’t be happening. Not today.’ you thought to yourself. “Is a beautiful, sexy girl like you dating anyone?” he asked, shuffling his hands in his pants. “Uh, yes. I have a boyfriend.” you said awkwardly, lying. “And where is this boyfriend?” the man asked. “Coming soon,” you said firmly, trying to break away again. There was no more space for you to move, this man basically had you cornered. 

Matt moved over closer to you, trying to see if this was a genuine interaction or not. “He’s a lucky young man. What I would give to kiss those beautiful lips,” the old man said, licking his lips. Matt heard you breathing heavily. You were scared. 

“Please don’t touch me,” you protested, the man about to stroke your arm. “Why not, gorgeous?” he asked you. “Looks like you haven’t been touched right in ages,” he said, smiling a creepy grin. 

Matt was sick of hearing this. “Sir please, I’m not looking to make any trouble.” you said, almost falling off the curb. “Honey, is this old man pestering you?” Matt asked, approaching your side. “Uh, excu-” you began to say. “Ready for our lunch date? I’m happy I recognized your voice out of everyone.” Matt says, holding one of his hands out to you. You took the cue. “Yes. Sorry I must have missed you in the crowd.” you smiled, taking his hand. 

The old man stood there embarrassed. “I didn’t expect you to be dating a blind guy,” he yelled, frustrated. “Neither did I,” you responded, following this brave man down the street. You two walked in silence.

Finally, Matt turned a corner. “You alright?” he asked you. “Yeah, thanks. I really didn’t expect that-” “From a blind guy. I get it,” he said, giving you a wide grin. “How much longer do you need to go?” he asked, walking with you. “Not much longer, my apartment is a few streets down.” “May I?” Matt said, offering to walk you home. “Not like I’m going to know where you live,” he chuckled. “Sure,” you smiled. 

“So, what are you doing out here?” you asked him. “My law firm is a couple blocks down. Nelson and Murdock.” he responded. “And which one are you?” “Murdock.” “I’m assuming that’s your last name?” you asked. “Matt.” “Matt Murdock,” you put together. “Sounds nice.” “And who do I have the pleasure of walking home?” Matt asked. “Y/N,” “You got a last name Y/N?” he asked. “Y/N L/N,” “Did your dad own a butcher shop on 54th?” he asked. “My uncle,” you smiled. “He gave it to my cousin years ago though,” you explained. “Hell’s kitchen native?” he asked. “Part time, my mother lived in Greenwich.” “Greenwich and Hell’s kitchen. Big difference,” he laughed. 

You stopped, arriving at your apartment building. “This is me,”

“Thank you for everything today, Matt.” you said. “You know, if you ever need legal help,” Matt started, looking for an excuse to get your number. He handed you his law card. “We’re just starting out, so my personal phone number is on there.” “Thank you Mr. Murdock,” you said, reading it off the card. “I’m good for more than legal help though.” he chuckled, his phone then went off. 

“Yeah? Alright. Yes, I’ll be right there Foggy.” he sighed. “That’s my partner I gotta go-” “Oh yeah, totally.”

“I’ll call you,” you yelled, watching the blind man walk down the street. He waved his hand in the air, wishing his goodbyes. 

-

tag list: @dani5216 @uwiuwi

[gayashouses]

I Think I Need A Doctor [1]

Pairing: Stephen Strange x reader. 

Summary: You’re lost in Greenwich Village with a migraine, stumbling along looking for help. It comes in the form of a retired doctor.

Warnings: Reader has migraines and unspecified chronic illness, more prevalent in later chapters though.

Word count: 1.4k

You stumble down the streets of New York. Rain soaks your skin. Your neck aches terribly. The migraine is already well settled into the left side of your head and it pounds. You don’t have the grit to make it home.

You shift your meagre tote bag of groceries to your right shoulder to try to alleviate some of the pain, but you know you’re too far gone. Your medication is at home. There’s no escaping it now - the migraine will have to run it’s course.

It was stupid to go out today, just stupid, but you didn’t have a choice with your pantry as bare as it was. You wish you could’ve left going out for groceries just a day longer, or could’ve pulled yourself painfully from bed a day or two earlier to make the trip, but here you are. All the telltale signs of a rising migraine were there, too, in the prodrome state - tight muscles, nausea, dread in the pit of your belly - and you couldn’t think straight enough to bring your medication with you. Of course not.

So here you are. Stumbling down streets from the corner store in Greenwich Village, your clothes soaked, hair plastered, and your food? Anything not packaged properly will be gone, though at the moment you can’t recall what you’ve picked up. It was whatever you’d managed to recognise through sunglasses and a painful brain fog.

You keep your head down against the bright white sky, trying to block out light and water and still keep track of where you are. With the pain the way it is though, you’d taken a few misturns to keep to streets with more trees and awnings and now… you’re lost.

You turn to look for a street sign and slip on wet leaves, crashing to the concrete. Your forearms take the brunt, and save your head another searing pain, but, oh hell, you’re crying out anyway as the jolt resounds through your bones up to your head.

Laying in the rain, you wait for someone, anyone to come by you, to see you, to pick you up - hell, to end you. Come on, Thanos. You think at the sky. Come and do your worst.

He doesn’t come. And no one else does either. No one picks you up, no one sees you or kills you. Now, as ever, there’s no one around to push change in your life. And frankly, you’re sick of it. Sick of this. Sick of stagnation. Sick of sickness.

“Okay, shut up.” You murmur at yourself, trying to shush yourself soothingly on your exhales. “Just get out of the rain.”

You can’t make it another six blocks or however far you’ve got to go - at the moment you don’t know where you are and your head is screaming. You’re laying on the concrete, mouth gasping and drooling with pain. Someone has to take some damn pity.

Forearms torn and leaving small blood patches on the ground, you drag yourself to an unsteady crouch. Slowly, tears and saliva and blood mixing with rain, pained out of your head, you drag yourself up a stranger’s steps and grit your teeth as you bang the door with the heaviest fist you can muster.

Time, so much time slips by. It’s all beats to you. Heartbeats you can feel in your temple, another and another. And if no one comes maybe you’ll just lay down and wait for it all to pass. It’s cold on the step. Maybe that would help.

A figure steps out as they open the door inward. The rain above you suddenly stops and, oh, that’s nice. Is it an alcove? An umbrella? It doesn’t matter. It’s nice.

“Can—nngh,” you clutch at the side of your head as even the sound of your voice and the effort of speaking makes your stomach flip and roll. Your own voice feels like nails against the inside of your skull. You take a moment to breathe through gritted teeth. “Help?”

The deep resonance of the man’s voice is soothing - help! Here is help! “Come, out of the rain.” He says. There's a soft orange glow coming from inside, but it flickers and dies in a moment and the man steps aside. You don’t move. “Can you tell me how to help you?”

“M-migraine.”

His hesitance breaks when you sob.

“Can you walk?”

You nod, barely, and shuffle past him into the space. A large open foyer. You feel the open space, the air, the natural light.

“Hold on,” he says, putting a hand to your shoulder.

His soft padded steps retreat and return, you aren’t left waiting as long as you were on the doorstep, but you stand there and curl in on yourself, shivering with pain and cold.

You hardly hear him return before you feel a towel being wrapped around you. You flinch against the contact, wanting to be sick as soon as it touches your back in the slightest of brushes.

“It’s alright,” he says, hushed. At least he has a bare understanding of what a migraine is, or that he needs to be quiet with you. You greatly appreciate that from him. “I’ll let you do it, you’re just sopping wet. Can I dry your legs? Your arms are bleeding.”

“It’s okay.” You blearily dry yourself, patting at your forearms and wiping down your body as best as you can, your movements as small as possible.

The man is soft, pressing at your legs lightly with the towel, travelling no higher than just over your knees. “You skinned your knees, too. Take a fall in the rain?”

You only hum in reply. Now that you’re out of the rain and less than completely dripping, the lack of other stimulus to focus on made the pain in your head flare up again, glaringly obvious and inescapable. You focus on keeping your breaths even, slow, and steady, with one hand pulling your hair and one hand clutched to your stomach with the towel.

You feel the man's hand touch yours over your stomach - a gloved hand. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He strokes your hand slightly, as if he's soothing a spooked animal. He means your stomach, you realise, maybe he thinks you've been hurt there.

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head lightly but even that’s enough to drive the pain searing up through your eye socket. You push your palm against your eye and cry out with a sob.

“Okay, we’re okay.” He murmurs, a hand on your shoulder. “I’m going to pick you up now.”

You can’t form any words, but you don’t want to be jolted. Careful, careful, please be careful, you want to beg him. You reach out and he’s there, his chest and open arms, letting you take the initiative.

Slowly, slowly, you wrap your hand around his neck as he lowers down. Soon it’s both hands around his neck, he has an arm to your back, you lean into it and he dips to lift your legs off the floor, careful to readjust you in his arms.

“You’re okay?”

You hum, still on the brink of tears, unable to think of anything but wanting to be in a cold, quiet room.

And then the man slips slightly on the wet floor and you jolt against his chest. “Ah, now. We’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You clutch at the side of your head with both hands and whine into a sob. Oh, crying would only make it worse, you know it, but the pain burns so badly. It burns and burns. You should’ve just gone home, shouldn’t have even left home. Of all the days to be completely out of food, to be completely overworked and rained out of your walk and, and—

“Hey, hey, you can rest, it’s alright.” He says, but you’re flinching, and clenching to keep your body curled up against the jolting with your arms and hands over your face, almost writhing in pain. You can’t stop. You can’t stop. “You can rest now. I’m a doctor,” he says softly, and the words thread their way into your mind. Something in his words must be magic because it’s a pin pulled from your consciousness and your strength releases.

You give yourself over to the sedative, to his arms, to sleep. You’re pulled away.

A/N: Next chapter. Two extra chapters posted on Ao3 ✨ 

[lifeofkaze]

The Phoenix Resistance - Book 2, Chapter 3

New Allies and Old Friends

A/N: This was written as part of the @phoenixresistance project. As always, Artemis Hexley (in mention) belongs to @the-al-chemist. Kaari Arcano, Eleanor Amaranthine (in mention) and Devon Marlowe belong to @kathrynalicemc

Greenwich, London - 22nd January 1998, 19.15 pm

New Year’s Eve had come and gone and the Christmas lights had vanished from the streets of Greenwich. Without anyone noticing, the new year had taken over and Ava still hadn’t had a single word from Kaari Arcano or his ominous underground organisation.

Ava had spent most of her Saturday in her flat, finishing up her reports from her last assignment in Brazil or poring over old tomes and scrolls from the extensive Gringotts’ archives. No one knew when the political situation would allow for them to travel again, so until the air had cleared, it was paperwork and research for Ava and the other Curse-Breakers.

Picking up new work material from Diagon Alley had been getting increasingly tense. The usually so lively alley was mostly empty and many shops closed and barred. Those who could be seen outside were minding their own business, keeping to themselves and avoiding eye contact with passing strangers.

Ava’s eyes wandered over the chaos she’d inflicted on her desk, getting drawn to an inconspicuous looking scroll hidden beneath a report on the indigenous forms of magic in Southern America. She pulled it towards her and flattened it out, the orange symbol of a phoenix glowing beneath her fingertips.

Ever since helping Kaari Arcano and her former colleague Artemis Hexley break out a prisoner from Azkaban, Ava had made sure to pick up one of the Phoenix Resistance papers every day. The locations where she would them pinned to the wall of a shop or sidestreet were varying each day, but even so, getting her hands on their counter-propaganda had become difficult.

She read through the latest issue again before scrunching the parchment up into a ball and tossing it into the fireplace where it could safely catch fire at midnight. She had no intention of explaining to her bosses why their precious books suddenly had burn marks on them.

Ava tried putting her mind back to the catalogue of found pieces from her latest excavation site, but her mind kept returning to the Phoenix Resistance. She wondered why Kaari hadn’t contacted her yet; when they had parted ways in Scotland, he had said that he would find her. Ava had waited for news somewhat apprehensively after getting home, but her apprehension had soon turned to impatience and eventually to indignant indifference. She had better things to do than sitting at home waiting, after all.

With a tired sigh she set her signature underneath her report and pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. It had gotten late and she’d worked all day; she had earned herself a bit of light reading. But first, it was time for a drink and some food from the new Chinese restaurant next to the Cutty Sark.

The air outside was cold and smelled like it was going to rain soon. Ava flipped the collar of her coat up and snuggled deeper into her knit red scarf. She walked past the dark trees of Greenwich Park and into the direction of the Thames. She weaved through the crowds on her way along the King William Walk, past bustling pubs and shops.

Ava wasn’t sure whether it was the icy wind blowing from the East or her constant thinking about the Phoenix Resistance, but she felt a shiver run down her spine and her skin was prickling. She had the distinct feeling that somebody was watching her but when she turned her head, all she could see were Muggles minding their own business.

She continued on her way but hadn’t even made five steps before out of nowhere a hand grabbed her arm from behind and pulled her to the side into a dark, abandoned alleyway. Ava reached behind her back and within a heartbeat had drawn her dagger, whipping it up in the direction of her unknown attacker. The dissonant sound of steel scraping against steel cut through her eardrums as her blade was blocked by a gleaming knife.

“I told you that a knife will never fail you,” Kaari Arcano grinned at her, seemingly unfazed by the fact that Ava had been ready to stab him just a moment ago. When she saw his brown eyes sparkling with amusement, she wasn’t entirely sure whether or not to go through with her plan regardless.

Ava scowled and slowly lowered her weapon. “And I told you I wouldn’t hesitate next time.”

“And I told you I could teach you some things about knife play. With your technique you wouldn’t get so much as close,” Kaari chuckled and took a step back from her. “Truth be told, my baby niece could do better than that.”

“Took you quite some time to get back here only to insult me.”

“It’s been some busy weeks,” Kaari shrugged and put his knife back into his belt as well. “Everyone deserves some time away from trouble. Recharge with their nearest and dearest.”

“You don’t get time away from trouble,” Ava said wryly, “you bring it.”

Kaari laughed out so loudly that Ava glanced over her shoulder. “Fair enough.”

“So you’ve been with your family?”

“Like everyone, I guess. Haven’t you?”

Ava chose not to answer him. She had spent Christmas with her parents in Castle Combe, but had skipped the annual dinner with her extended family in Lancashire. Christmas with the family was nice, but it wasn’t where she had hoped to be for the festive season. Distracting herself from the hollow feeling inside her chest, she nodded at Kaari.

“How’s Skalafell been?”

“Like always - hectic, loud and wonderful. It’s good for the soul, Skalafell.” His warm smile vanished and made way for a more serious expression. “I hope it was for Artemis, at least.”

“You’ve taken her to Norway?” Ava asked in surprise. “How is she?”

“Tense. Doesn’t talk much. Eats a lot.”

“Sounds just like the Artemis Hexley I know.”

Ava was glad to hear Artemis had been able to cope with her week spent in the high security tract of Azkaban. The image of her friend sitting in that dreadful cell, her eyes fixed on the rough stone wall, had never really left Ava’s mind. Realising she was still holding her dagger, Ava let it disappear beneath her coat again and cleared her throat.

“You know,” she said matter-of-factly, “you could have just come talk to me instead of pulling an unsuspecting woman into a dark alleyway like this. It’s a war going on, after all. I could have killed you.”

“You’re hardly an innocent woman,” Kaari replied and the corners of his mouth were twitching.

“I said unsuspecting. I never said I was innocent.”

“And you never would have been able to kill me.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“No,” Kaari said and his grin turned sly, “don’t underestimate me.”

He put his index finger and thumb between his lips and whistled sharply. A shadow fell down from somewhere above their heads and landed behind Kaari. When the shadow moved forward into the light, Ava’s breath caught in her throat.

A small dragon slowly advanced on her, maybe the size of a small horse. Contrary to most dragon species Ava knew, it had four legs instead of two, its wings folded smoothly at its sides. It’s scales were of an indefinable shade of blue, rippling and shifting colour in the dim light of the alley. It had a set of curiously floppy ears, which gave it a somewhat peculiar expression, but it’s piercingly blue eyes were fixed on Ava, and she felt herself go cold all over. When her hand flew to her wand, however, Kaari quickly raised his hand.

“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “this is Ryoko. He is my friend. He won’t hurt you, if you don’t hurt me. Or him,” he added with a warning look at Ava’s wand. “You might want to put that away.”

Struggling with herself and her instinct at self-preservation, it took Ava a moment to do what Kaari had suggested. She couldn’t take her eyes off the play of light on Ryoko’s scales and how close he was standing to Kaari without so much as looking tense. Everything she knew about dragons and their behaviour was running through her mind, but none of it seemed to add up to what she was seeing in front of her.

“What kind of dragon is he?” she eventually managed to ask.

“No one knows,” Kaari shrugged. “I found him when he was just a hatchling. No one knew his breed or what to do with him, so I raised him.”

“You raised a dragon?”

“I couldn’t just leave him, could I?”

“I guess not,” Ava whispered. “How fascinating.”

Realising she was staring and Kaari smirking - clearly satisfied with the impression Ryoko had made - Ava quickly shook out of her state of wonder and braced her shoulders.

“In any case, you owe me an explanation,” she said coolly, trying not to look back at Ryoko again. “And a drink.”

Kaari’s smirk turned into a grin and he bowed his head. “Fortunately, I know exactly where to go for both.”

***

The first drops of cold drizzle had quickly turned into a full downpour. The district of Whitechapel was still busy, although most of the people who hadn’t looked for shelter in one of the pubs or restaurants yet were frantically trying to do so. Ava and Kaari passed a group of Muggles huddled beneath a dripping roof. They were listening to the stories of a tour guide dressed in awfully inaccurate Victorian clothes; Ava snorted derisively as she caught the words ‘reign of terror’ - if only they knew.

When Kaari led her into one of the more quiet side streets, they left most of the people behind. He headed towards an old looking inn built from dark bricks and black wood. An inviting orange glow came from the other side of the diamond-panelled glass windows and next to its front door - visible only to those who knew about it - the fiery symbol of the Phoenix Resistance was blazing through the night.

Kaari pushed the door open and stepped aside to let Ava enter first. The guest room inside was packed, buzzing with voices and the sound of a television mounted on the wall in a corner. Kaari walked inside behind Ava, nodded to the giggling barmaid and headed straight toward a corridor marked as restricted to the public. Ava followed him with a confused frown on her face.

As soon as they entered the corridor the noise of the inn faded. A door to their left was leading into the kitchen, as the sign next to it proclaimed. A little further ahead a narrow set of stairs was leading down into the cellar. It was there that Kaari stopped.

“I don’t usually follow strangers into back rooms just like that,” Ava said and looked into the darkness at the bottom of the staircase.

“No back rooms but an alley is fine? Curious where you draw the line,” Kaari laughed. “And we’re not strangers, we’re friends. Or allies, at least,” he added when he saw her look.

The cellar of the inn consisted of a square room with bare brick walls. It contained what one would expect from a storage room - crates, boxes and shelves filled with ingredients, glasses and other sorts of everyday objects. What drew Ava’s eye, however, were the barrels in the corner of the room. One of them was towering above the others, big enough to conveniently fit a human inside.

“A bit excessive, don’t you think?” she mumbled as she walked towards it to have a closer look.

“What can I say,” Kaari shrugged, “people are thirsty these days.” Ava only made a sceptical sound in response, but Kaari didn’t seem to mind. He just carried on talking. “We have barrels just like this one in Skalafell. Okay, maybe not that big, but pretty big. My friends and I used to ride them down a stream when we were kids.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

He stood next to Ava and rapped his knuckles against the barrel in a rhythmic pattern. A door that had been hidden before swung open to reveal an entrance to yet another hallway; Ava felt reminded of the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room at Hogwarts.

“Where does this lead?” she asked as she followed Kaari through the barrel door.

“To the boss.”

The dark corridor was even more narrow than the one above and stretched further than Ava had expected. It probably ran beneath the adjacent buildings as well and Ava itched to look at a floorplan, if one depicting this secret cellar even existed. There was a faint, rhythmic noise in the air she couldn’t quite place. Every now and again doors were leading off the passageway and she asked Kaari about their purpose.

“They’re for members of the Resistance who lost their homes,” he explained, “or for some of the refugees to rest before we take them out of the country.”

A thought struck Ava. “Has Eleanor been taken here?”

“I took her to Skalafell for a while at first, but she’s here now.”

“How is she coping?”

Kaari made a vague gesture with his hand. “Considering how long she’s been locked up in Azkaban, I’d say she’s doing okay. She seems to prefer having walls around her.” His usually smiling face grew contemplative. “She’s an odd one. Something about her makes me shiver.”

Before Ava could ask what he meant they reached a big open room at the end of the hallway. The faint sound had increased the closer they had come, and now Ava could see the source of the mechanical humming and hissing.

The room was littered with stacks of parchment. On a desk facing the wall lay cutting tools and big bottles of ink in the midst of even more paper. In the middle of the room stood a giant black printing press. It was whizzing and whirring as it produced sheet after sheet of the latest edition of the Phoenix Resistance Paper.

While Ava was still busy taking everything in, a head of pale blonde hair emerged from behind the printing press. The woman gave Kaari something between a questioning look and a frown before turning off the press with a flick of her wand. The now missing sound of it seemed to linger in the air for a moment longer.

With a quick look at Ava Kaari started speaking while simultaneously performing a sequence of quick movements with his hands.

“This is Ava Campbell,” he said, “to one who helped the Resistance with the Azkaban heist. Ava, this is the boss. This is -”

“Devon Marlowe!” Ava cut him off before he could finish his sentence. A broad smile had formed on her face; she and Devon had been friends during their time at Hogwarts.

Ava raised her hands and started signing. She hadn’t used the British Sign Language in years. It felt unfamiliar at first, but it quickly came back to her.

It’s been forever. It’s so good to see you.

Devon smiled and wiped her ink stained fingers on her jacket. You as well. I had no idea it was you Kaari was talking about. I should have known, she added with a smile.

Kaari looked between Devon and Ava with a puzzled expression. “Where did you learn how to sign?”

“Devon taught me at school,” Ava explained. “I have become a little rusty, though.”

Ava’s suspicion turned out to be true. Once the pleasantries were over Ava was soon struggling to keep up with Devon’s and Kaari’s impressive speed. Eventually, she had to accept Kaari’s offer to translate for her.

“So this is the heart of the Phoenix Resistance?”

It is. I bought the tavern right after the ministry fell and I’ve been here ever since.

Ava nodded and took a closer look at the giant printing press. “And everything you do runs through here?”

Everything.

“What you’re doing here,” Ava said and made a vague gesture with her hand, indicating the press, the desk, the pinboards with information on the walls, “it’s admirable, and very brave. But also risky. Are you never scared of what might happen if they find you?”

Devon looked at her with a serious expression. Not when I don’t think about it. As long as I know that my family is safe, I can concentrate on helping others. No one should have to worry about their families.

Ava hummed in agreement and picked up one of the freshly printed papers. The ink was still damp and glowing with magic. There was one thing she’d been dying to know since getting her hands on the infamous paper for the first time.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Kaari said and tilted his head, but Devon had already understood and started signing.

I enchanted the printing press. It weaves a spell into the ink while the papers are printed.

“The Protean Charm, I assume?”

Combined with a timed Incendio on the master issue I keep here.

“Clever,” Ava smiled. “I always thought it was a mistake to not put you into Ravenclaw.”

Devon chuckled. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

“I know. You seem to have everything under perfect control here,” Ava said and put the paper down again. “So, what do you want from me?”

Devon glanced into Kaari’s direction before quickly performing a series of signs.

“She says she doesn’t have everything under control… Hey!” Kaari called out as he saw Devon’s grin. “I feel personally offended by this.”

Good. And besides, we always need capable raiders. The Phoenix Resistance has grown a lot since last August, so planning heists has gotten trickier. And having people on board who know what they’re doing never hurts.

Devon pointedly looked at Kaari again and Ava had to suppress a smirk.

“And what happens now?” she wanted to know. “What do I have to do to join the Phoenix Resistance?”

Devon made a surprised face. You’ve been shown our symbol. You’re part of the Resistance already.

“Excuse me?”

Ava gave Kaari an incredulous look. He rubbed his neck and mumbled under his breath, “I may have forgotten to mention it.”

“I must have escaped your notice, yes.”

Not fazed by Ava’s cool tone, Kaari grinned at her. “In any case, welcome to the team, rookie.”

Ava took a deep breath and swallowed the comment on the tip of her tongue. She felt a headache building.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” she sighed and purposefully looked past Kaari at Devon, “what do you want me to do?”

Devon started signing again and Kaari chuckled as he translated for Ava.

“To show you how we do things around here, you have the incredible honour to work alongside one of our most accomplished and valuable members until you know how to handle things on your own. Ouch!”

A ball of scrunched up parchment had hit his head and Devon glowered at him.

That’s not what I said!

“I may have embellished things a little.”

A little?

“Okay, a lot.”

Devon rolled her eyes and this time, Ava couldn’t hide her grin anymore.

“But in principle, it’s true,” Kaari now said and turned to Ava. “You’re going to be stuck with me for a while. I’m taking you under my wing - literally.”

The rapid movement of Devon’s hands caught Kaari’s eye and he signed back, but they were too quick for Ava to follow. They exchanged a few silent sentences and eventually, Kaari nodded.

“Good idea, boss.”

“What is a good idea?” Ava wanted to know.

“Our next coup will be happening soon. We’re running out of supplies and have some reliable information that the Death Eaters keep a big stock of potion supplies in a warehouse here in London.”

“And you certainly have a proper plan?” Ava said, but somehow, she doubted it. Kaari’s guilty face confirmed her suspicions. “You have looked at the warehouse already though, right?”

When Kaari pursed his lips and looked to the side, Ava sighed. “My involvement makes a lot more sense now.”

“Still enough time to do it now,” Kaari said cheerfully. “We’re going to get you ready for your first raid. Consider this your trial of fire.”

[itcantbemoreobvious]

Welcome To New York

I don’t understand how anyone can look at this song and think it’s a coincidence she mentioned the LGBT community. Why this song?

“Uh, well the song is inspired by what I love about New York, which is just kind go there’s a freedom to um… and there’s a celebration of being unique. Um, you know, and that was something that I was very inspired by. And also I wrote the song um… I wrote the song kind of following the uh… when gay marriage became legal in New York. Um, and that was something that, you know, it’s so many of my friends had to be kind of scrutinised for who they were in love with, you know, from the time they came out and I just… You know I didn’t wanna make a big deal out of it, because I don’t think it should be a big deal who you love, you know.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V62L3N0K7MQ 13:20

It’s interesting to note she moved to New York in April 2014 and gay marriage was legalised in June 2011.

Let’s have a look at the song lyrics shall we?

Walking through a crowd The village is aglow Kaleidoscope of loud Heartbeats under coats Everybody here Wanted something more Searching for a sound we hadn't Heard before And it said

“The village” is a reference to Greenwich Village in New York City. It has a very strong LGBT presence. The line “kaleidoscope of loud heartbeats under coats” could be referencing people who are out and proud of their sexuality. Apart from that, the first verse is your average song about hopes and dreams in New York.

Welcome to New York It's been waiting for you Welcome to New York Welcome to New York Welcome to New York It's been waiting for you Welcome to New York Welcome to New York It's a new soundtrack I could dance to this beat, beat Forevermore The lights are so bright But they never blind me, me Welcome to New York It's been waiting for you Welcome to New York Welcome to New York

I think the chorus speaks for itself. She’s enjoying herself in New York. It’s interesting to note the lyric “I could dance to this beat forevermore” is eerily similar to the lyric “you and me forevermore” in New Year’s Day and “this pain won’t be forevermore” in Evermore. This would be a reference to a relationship with Karlie Kloss however that needs a seperate post.

When we first dropped our bags on Apartment floors Took our broken hearts Put them in a drawer Everybody here was someone else Before And you can want who you want Boys and boys and Girls and girls

She states “and you can want who you want boys and boys and girls and girls” directly following lyrics that explain how she arrived in New York with a broken heart. Once again, very interesting.

Like any great love it keeps you Guessing Like any real love It's ever-changing Like any true love It drives you crazy But you know you wouldn't Change anything anything Anything

There’s nothing specifically queer here. The rest of the song is just a repeat of the chorus.

I don’t think this song is 100% proof of her queerness however I think it’s worthy of being mentioned. There are so many themes to explore in her music and I find the ‘gaylor’ theories very interesting.

[gxrlcinema]

wip wednesday

Hi guys! So, because it's Wednesday and I'm excited about this fic, I thought I'd give y'all a snippet of my upcoming Druig x Reader series All Too Well. There's no certain timeline for this one, but I'm hoping to have the first chapter up soon. In the meantime, have this nugget.

GREENWICH VILLAGE, NYC, NEW YORK | JANUARY 01, 1961

“You got the time?”

Druig slides his sleeves up to look at his watch. “12:11 AM.”

The woman’s face falls.

“Shit,” she frowns. “I missed midnight.”

“And what, you were looking forward to a new year’s kiss?”

She snorts, taking a drag of her cigarette and directing a skeptical brow in his direction.

“Are you volunteering, Irish?”

Druig shrugs. It had been a long time since he’d thought about kissing anyone. But, he supposes that there are worse candidates than the sort of pretty, slightly mad girl standing on the other side of the alleyway.

“Sure.”

Her eyebrows shoot up her face. Druig stalks forward, closing the gap between them. He puts one hand on the wall above her and leans in, but doesn’t quite put his lips on hers. For a heartbeat, he hovers. Her eyes are wide and nervous, but there’s a familiar spark in the depths of her eyes. She licks her lips. He blinks. Another heartbeat. Her lips are on his.

She tastes like cigarettes. Her lips are a little chapped, a little dry, but nonetheless, a spark of pure electricity runs through Druig. His other hand comes up to grip her waist, an imitation of the way they’d met not twenty minutes ago. There’s an electricity running through him that he hasn’t felt in far too long. It curls his toes and buzzes around his brain, making him deepen the kiss. By the time she pulls away, they are once again breathless.

She’s grinning, panting, resting her head back against the brick. Druig feels dazed.

“I’ve got to get home,” she says. Druig reluctantly takes a step back, missing her body heat as soon as its gone.

“I’m Druig,” he says without thinking.

“Drew,” she says. It’s not even his actual name and yet he’s lit up by the way it sounds coming from her tongue.

She smoothes down her clothes and walks back towards the street. At the edge of the alley, she throws him one more devious glance over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you around, Irish,” she says. And then she slips out of the alley and into brand new 1961.