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nelofairc · 5 months ago

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i watch a lot of tv, like A Lot.

i’m kind of ashamed of it, really. it’s not so much the ‘well, you’re unemployed, of course you waste a lot of time watching tv’ kinda snark that’s so culturally resonant (whose voices live rent free in my head FAR too much, and FAR too loudly). i watched a lot of tv when i worked every hour available, too. it was my way of switching off, back then. these days it’s more a way of accepting (and more gently dissociating from) the long periods of waiting between core foundational things which are outside of my control. i hate waiting. and a great deal of things are uncomfortably out of my control right now, ugh.

what i think i’m mostly ashamed of, when i put the negging voices to one side, is that it feels like i’m choosing to live a vicarious life, not a real life. that somehow the vicarious tv one is enough… when it isn’t. my preference is for long tv series rather than movies. over the kind of 6-8hour average duration that seasons offer, digested whole, the characters become more like ‘companions’ in their consistency. i watch their heroes journeys evolve, while getting to pretend that that’s my life (at least for the next few hours). i listen to how people communicate and consider how i might approach the same situation. and as someone who’s social-capacity challenged and situationally isolated, i get to pretend that i am not alone for a while. the worst part is when the season ends. either go back to the beginning and start again (it’s never quite so engaging the next time, the delight and wonder of the yet-to-be-known has ebbed away, and i’m clutching hold of escaping threads to remember what that newness felt like), or i choose a different series, swallow the discomfort of the transition between narratives and claimed-kin, and hope it will hold me as kindly as the last (and not become yet another one-series-wonder, which drops off the cliff-hanger into the void, never to be heard from again. NOOOOOOOOOO!)

as an undiagnosed neurodivergent kid, with an undiagnosed neurodivergent mum, the tv was always on in the background. i later found out that it’s common for other families to have radio on in the background, and my grandad checked in to the various scheduled news slots during the day, but i’ve never known any other family to have a constant background audio and visual hum from morning til bedtime. but then, there were plenty of things that my ‘family’ did which i never saw elsewhere (and vice versa).

when i found out i’m ND, the constant tv thing made more sense, and i found others who had also grown up alongside its hum. partly it’s a white noise thing - when there’s pure silence the internal monologues get louder and harder to ignore. personally i find radio annoying for background accompaniment; i’m either pulled into its dialogue or agitated by its rabid pop-centrism. playing music of my own choosing is also too evocative for just ‘being on in the background’; it yanks me into memories or distracts me with its patterns (although that’s largely to do with how i listen to music - either a one-song-on-loop thing til i can’t stand it anymore, or a randomly shuffled playlist of tracks i’ve clustered under various headers, where those clusters weave meaning between the tracks’ liminalities). i’m not sure if it was the same for mum, but she didn’t play music very often and rarely went to live performances (when she did it was classical music she opted for). grandad, on the other hand, loved jazz with passion and often played music throughout the days (watching old That’s Entertainment musicals with him was one of my few childhood delights, and i adored his precious vinyl collection… until some bastard stole them all >.<).

as i’ve acclimatised to the neurodivergent lenses (as one does with late diagnosis), i’ve realised that tv-watching is largely how i grew to understand society. and in recent years i’ve started to realise that i’m not alone, and that that is pretty fucked up. for all my arts activism… i’m starting to believe that the arts (at least, its tv offshoots) might be part of the problem… eek.

we become what we see. in our early years - for better or worse - we mimic our parents, teachers, community leaders, and peers. we learn to become by bouncing our emerging beings off others. and when you’re different, you do more bouncing than being, which generally causes rather a lot of bruising. so you conform, to fit in. to reduce attention on you-as-other. to hide your you, because it isn’t compatible with their them. in my childhood (a very long time ago), the only chance of seeing anything more like myself was through the music scene, and (in lesser degree) from the people broadcast into my eyeballs via the tv.

in the last 30-odd years, our main channels of comparison and compliance have been online. at the start of online communities (during the GeoCities and webring days), it was glorious. you were no longer other, because you could find plenty of folk far more weird and wonderful than you. as social media platforms started to manspread their way through the ether, their (male, white, cis, straight, abled, privileged) hierarchies once again took hold, forcing their polarisations accordingly. we became what we thought others wanted to see. our carefully curated images and updates depicted the realities we wanted, far more than the realities behind the cameraphones. those ‘wants’ simply yet more masks, designed to hide the flaws we believed unsuitable for public consumption. social-media-profile-as-CV.

with the early days of tv, geographic boundaries were reduced. our home screens could bring us reports of other lives in other cultures lived in other ways, in black and white and then glorious technicolour; from across the Country to across the World. the othering was still present, but held at a safe distance, despite their presence bleeding through the cathode rays and permeating our everyday influences drip by drip. online, all threads are tightly entangled; you can’t tell where the commenter next to you is from unless you invasively click on their name to read whatever they’ve chosen to leave public on their personal profiles. arguments erupt because what’s ‘normal’ for one person in one culture based in one place is not the same ‘normal’ for another person in another culture in another place. we’re still bouncing our emerging beings off each other, but with the weight of different worlds behind us. for certain people, indoctrinated under certain regimes, they’re so tightly focused in on that ‘learned normal’ to not even be aware that it isn’t ubiquitous.

when i ran my media arts company over 20years ago, my ex-partner in life and work (who was also a cinematographer) observed what he coined ‘The Grammar of Filmmaking’ (and its audiences). first we had the still image, designed to capture an action, instruction, moment, or emotion - the basis of visual communication, heralded through Aboriginal Rock Art maybe 60,000+ years ago - perhaps a doodle for the artist’s own benefit, or a service to help guide others by invitation or happenstance. much later in human evolution we developed the zoetrope, which turned a series of still images into an animated flow of silent movement through mechinised rotation (like an automated flickbook). the zoetrope’s design meant that only one person could to view this one channel of moving image media at a time: one-to-one. then we had the explosion of cinema, with its huge fancy buildings and shared experience entertainment, one huge screen for many simultaneously engaged eyes: one-to-many. then we had tv, so expensive in its early days that there might be one residence with a tv across entire streets or districts, despite later becoming accessible for every home’s personalised cluster. one screen with smaller viewing clusters, all watching the same terrestrial feeds: one-to-few. then we saw the internet change everything, in some ways returning to the one-to-one of the zoetrope, a smaller screen for a solo audience, but with the added opportunity of virality since any video could be shared: one-to-one-to-one-to-one[ad infinitum].

who we are as makers and audiences has naturally changed accordingly. and what we watch, what we consume and how we consume it, has changed us in turn, too.

it sounds so blindingly obvious it’s ridiculous to even say it… but… tv is not like real life. i mean it is like real life, but it’s also blatantly not real. real life does not have happy endings (there’s only one real ‘ending’ in life and it’s rarely ‘happy’ for anyone involved). real life is not full of smart, erudite humans who are self aware and able to learn from their mistakes and repair the ruptures they inevitably cocreate. and real life IS full of diversity of all flavours - something that tv is still very slowly catching up on. (i mean, okay, so #NotAllTVSeries have happy endings, or smart characters, or repaired ruptures, and not all of real life feels very diverse, or very accepting of diversity… but you get my point).

given ‘we become what we see’, it could be observed that society as a whole [*gestures wildly at allthethings*] is going through somewhat of an existential crisis. we’re really not sure who we are, anymore, or even how to find out.

outside of the broadcast lens, socially we used to gather at church, or at the pub, or at weekly markets, or other places of work or education - all segregated spaces to some degree (workers might have a different church to their landed gentry employers, etc). we continued bouncing our rigid edges off each other throughout these geolocated social hubs. these days churches claim more physical landmass than staunch believers, pub culture has been replaced by club culture (where getting off one’s tits or finding someone to fuck outweigh the desire for meaningful conversation and connection over a quiet pint). supermarkets (and their home delivery services) have replaced farmers or makers markets, and access to education is still far too dependent on personal status (it used to be that only rich boys were sent to school or university. now if there’s no trustfund, you’re looking at lifelong debt to pursue your interests). terrestrial tv allowed for water-cooler conversations between those threads. you could find your possee through the shows you shared an interest in, and you maintained connection by never missing an episode. now everything’s on-demand, so unless you actively organise it (or it’s been so hyped you cannot delay your epic binge-watching of the entire season the night it drops for fear of all the spoilers), no one is watching the same episode at the same time. we no longer share the episodic experience with our physical neighbours.

i’m not sure if i’m explaining my point here or not, they’re threads which have been dangling frustratingly for too long which still don’t quite make sense yet.

i think my point is: socially we used to share experiences, daily. those shared experiences formed our sense of self and helped to shape our sense of community and our place within it (masked or otherwise). these days we selectively share experiences, just like we selectively curate our online profiles. we’re far more used to our safe little echo chambers than we are sitting with the discomforts of the less-known-to-us. and we’re behaving as though person x from country y is 100% bad, because they’re in our feeds bouncing their radicalised (read: differently-coded) beliefs and desires into what we consider to be our homes. and we’re clustering ourselves alongside our professed identities, while decrying identity politics and the generic messiness of humanity. we’re lauding the existences of celebrities on and off-screens, without consistent modelling of healthy families, critical thinking, and the kind of intentional communication built on honesty and respect which comes from having to consistently coexist with others on the daily. we’re rupturing all over the place, with no accountability for repair… because ‘someone on the internet is wrong’, whereupon we behave in ways we would never get away with if we were standing next to our neighbour at our local pub. we’ve forgotten that online space is EXACTLY the same as physical space… except you can’t get punched online like you can in a pub. you can’t watch a random internet stranger’s heroes journey, either, so you have no idea of knowing whether your interactions with them achieved any kind of positive outcome, like you can if it’s someone from your village.

i see people blaming the internet for the way we behave today, and in some ways that can be true. it’s given some people licence to be a dick without repurcussion. but i think it started before the net. i think that tv has built unrealistic expectations - of course it does, it’s got to be dramatic and simplified or its narrative arc won’t work. we’re meant to hate the villain and love the hero. it wouldn’t work if the villain was kinda mean but also donated his Saturdays to helping the homeless, or if the hero was bigoted in who he swept in to rescue and who he left to die. in real life, there are no 100% villains or heroes, life is far too bloody messy for that. and yet all i seem to see online these days are declarations of ‘red flags’ - this person is 100% bad because this poster says he said something nasty when he was really stressed out. well, dur. we all say shitty things when we’re stressed out, and we’re all super-stressed out, ffs. it’s easier to declare binary judgements about others, especially when they’re 1000s of miles away from us. but life isn’t binary. life is hard. people fuck up, and, given the right environments and supports (and the desire to!), people can change.

tv producers manipulate audiences’ nervous systems through activating our sensory engagement systems. words, movement, lighting, and sound, all clinically choreographed for maximum dramatic impact. but i think that construct can be easy to ignore, which means it can be easy to expect the same dramatic simplicity in real life… and feel let down by reality. when a work colleague says something mean in real life, our tv-conditioned brain expects them to apologise and change their behaviour… because that’s what happens on the telly. what’s also on the telly is the ‘someone else’ who will come to fix it. we defer to the hero… who doesn’t exist… and instead become grumpy and disenfranchised, ripped off. there is no hero in real life. that’s our job.

i’m as guilty as anyone here - i feel let down by the fact that there aren’t any heroes coming to save us. but i also am far more keen to become the hero of my own narrative arc.

and i’m not gonna do that while all i’m doing is clicking ‘next episode’ on my streaming service.

#social engagement #our collective existential crisis #untangling threads #binge watching tv #online culture

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starcasticallyyours · 11 months ago

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Jan 4, 2023 - a lovely day!!

I just had a really good day today that I want to make sure I remember so I'm making an honest to god blog, a straight up rambling diary entry. Just like I used to on LiveJournal, wow.

I do not expect anyone to read this. I just want to remember my lovely day. It was filled with nostalgia, good food, history, productivity, genuine exercise(?!), photos, and of course, BTS.

I've been on holiday since December 30th because I have a benevolent boss (perks of working at a small company) who lets our annual leave spill over a tiny bit since it's still "Christmas" break. I was socially engaged the nights of Dec29/Jan1 as well as the afternoon of Dec30, plus I was furiously writing updates for the DnD ficlet collection since it was Tae's birthday and trying to finish up Ch1 of the Regency sequel, Pirate fic, whenever I was at home during this time so it did not feel restful at all. It was only on Jan2 where I could pull a Kim Seokjin and completely sequester myself at home and veg out -- woke up at noon and played Stardew Valley for like, 6 hours. Jan3 required me to be a functional adult again so I cleaned the flat and tried to hash out the pirate fic before realising it was going to take wayyyy more work, so I've earmarked Marryat and Forester books to check out from HK Central when I go to CWB on Saturday. (Apparently Jimin has a massive Dior ad on the Sogo screen, so I will also be going there after my haircut. Whoo!!) Which brings us to January 4th! A Thursday. Historically, Thursdays have been good to me and this was no exception. I woke up later than I intended, around 10 AM, and then the sheer pleasure of being in a comfortable bed without needing to be anywhere stretched my lie-in to 10:30. After the basics of room tidying and washing up, I had leftover pasta for breakfast and played In the Seom while waiting out the 30min I'm supposed to have between eating and taking my Chinese meds. Then it was washing up, getting dressed, packing up the devices after charging them all morning to give myself a little day trip to...

Kowloon City! My childhood 'hood. And now that I've moved back across the harbour, pressing play on The Most Beautiful Moment in Life: Young Forever while walking out the door meant that by the time I got out in Sung Wong Toi station, my earbuds were appropriately blaring Ma City. (Okay, I did repeat Run because that's my favourite title track.) I made a beeline for Islam Food because I haven't had delicious halal Xinjiang cuisine in forever except I was an unfortunate bee with poor scent receptors since I forgot where it was and ended up looping around Nga Tsin Wai for a while... we were on Converse High by the time I found the resto, that's how long it took. At almost 2 PM was nearly full but not proper crowded, and mostly with older people which is par the course for Kowloon City. As a single I got a tiny table in the corner immediately and ordered a classic beef patty + bok choy and tofu soup. If I were with a larger group, I would have also gotten mutton xiaolongbao, scallion pancakes, and a curry so I will have to drag some people here again soon. Food was prompt and only $65 so I was done eating in 20 minutes tops.

Thanks to climate change, it was a balmy sunny afternoon so I stuffed my jacket into my backpack and headed on over to KCP. It's changed a LOT since I was a teenager -- no Park'n Shop in the basement selling eel and chicken rice boxes for $20 anymore, sigh. But I did get a Coco Milk Tea (half sweet, less ice) for $22 which is a VERY good price nowadays, you can't get anything in Central under $27 minimum ($30 on average) for example and it doesn't even taste as good?? But armed with my delicious tea, I was ready to go out the other way into Carpenter Park, which looks literally the same as when I was a kid. I spent a solid decade running around this park. There isn't a bouncy dinosaur anymore so I know it's not exactly the same, but the bicycle paths are the same, the rock garden where Sam filmed his lightsabre battles is the same... and Kowloon Walled City of course is the same.

...from when I was a child, not when it was THE Walled City. (Once, when everywhere at school was occupied, our drama class rehearsed our play in the Zodiac garden much to the tai-tais' collective chagrins.) Full disclosure that I actually came here in mid-December as well to gather inspo and info for my piece for the Ma City zine which is set in 80s KWC, so this time I didn't go look at the exhibits and just went straight to the chess garden since that's the only spot with tables. I set up my laptop and finished the piece to the soundtrack of construction, which I find very appropriate considering the topic. We don't get planes howling overhead anymore, so this will have to do.

Last time, I had to meet friends islandside for dinner so I actually walked up closer to Wong Tai Sin to take the bus but this time, it was only 4:15 and the day was just for me, for me! So after taking some pics in the bonsai garden in honour of Namjoon, I walked back to Junction Road and that was when I started taking pics for nostalgia -- down the street towards Ho Man Tin for the hundreds of times we ran for the bus stop, then up towards Munsang where my old school campus used to be. No, I didn't go to Munsang, I am very clearly an Intl school kid and we were across from them. The buildings are connected to Bethel Seminary which is Grade II protected so still there. I started walking up Junction Road towards Lok Fu when I saw the Stone Houses and stopped by.

These buildings weren't open when I was a kid; I remember passing them but hardly taking notice. Essentially, they are remnants of the oldest tenement buildings in the area, now refurbished as a cafe and museum. The server in the cafe immediately offered me a menu most kindly, but since it was 4:30 and I was already full on tea I politely declined. Checked out the museum though which is small and all in Chinese, no English, but I think the photos and maps would still be worth it for a non-reader. The whole thing strongly reminded me of the Mei Ho House museum and cafe too, even with their menu which is very Hong Kong cha chaan teng-esque. AND they have wi-fi!! So I'm totally planning on coming back for another writing session.

Since it was barely evening, I decided to hike Checkerboard Hill. Back when Kai Tak was still operating, the only way pilots could land planes was to come from the west, over Tsing Yi and Mei Foo Sun Chuen and barely across Kowloon City. With all the urban area underneath, there couldn't be proper signals so what they did was paint an enormous red-and-white checkerboard on the west and south sides of this hill to let the pilots know it was time to make that sharp 47 degree turn into the harbour airstrip. I distinctly recall being a preteen standing in the middle of the asphalt football (soccer to all y'all Yanks) pitch in Kowloon Tsai Park squinting up and thinking, "Why is it painted like that?" Later as a young adult, I found out. Now in my early 30s, I was going to actually go there.

Now ever since my former regular dance studio became a Covid cluster in 2020 and I also joined a choir whose rehearsals took its place on Monday evenings, I am far less fit than I could be. This was evident when I started up this hill -- which was NOT HARD at all, I am just pathetically out of shape. It took less than 15 minutes to reach the summit garden, where I did another confused bumblebee loop looking for the checkerboard and instead found: the electricity station, the weather station, some diligently preserved water tunnels from the 1940s-60s, and an irate woman screaming and swearing at a couple who accidentally took their dogs into the no-pets zone of the park. With the dulcet notes of "diu! bak po!" echoing behind me, I snapped some lovely views of Lion Rock then surreptitiously googled how to get to the checkerboard, discovering that indeed I was supposed to clamber over the stile and carefully tread the VERY narrow ditch outside of the fence (with a super steep slope studded with trees not a foot to the right) to get there.

So I did and the view was beautiful!! I was lucky to reach it at the twilight hour with an orange sun tinging everything as it moseyed on down to the horizon. Facing south you could see all of Kowloon City, all the way to Kwun Tong and Kowloon Bay on the left and Yau Tsim Mong on the right! Directly in front was even the IFC across the harbour. Directly below, Kowloon Tsai Park and those very sports fields from my youth. Somebody named Zach was playing tennis because his partner kept yelling encouragement, but I felt if I cheered "Yeah Zach, you can do it!" back down at them it would be creepy. So instead I took a lot of photos here, including some selfies on the middle layer smack centre of the checkerboard in which it was clear that I truly need a haircut which will happen under Jimin's watchful gaze in CWB come Saturday.

Finally, I climbed down the stairs and was sorely tempted to jump a gate to get into Kowloon Tsai because I know that park like the back of my foot (like, not SUPER well since it's been a long time but I would not get lost; I've run cross country around this park so many times) but in the end was a Good Honest Civilian and went back the way I came. I was feeling incredibly nostalgic at this point, so back on Junction Road I popped in my earbuds and replaced BTS with the Used for that extra mid-2000s angst. Spotify understood the brief and fed me Taking Back Sunday and Yellowcard while I followed the usual path through Morse Park, the way my almost-first-boyfriend Darren taught me in middle school. His favourite band was Jimmy Eat World, so it was perfect. With the memories of Preston's dad teaching me to play baseball on the artificial turf and when Grace came with me to Jusco so we could buy Neopets tamagotchis, I descended into the MTR and took the train home.

(At my stop, I got groceries including sushi for dinner, which I ate while watching Beyond the Star then after a break, took a massage in the chair while playing Stardew because my body is already paying the price for my impromptu hike today. Then I wrote this down before I could forget everything.)

It was a wonderful day, truly. I did everything I wanted to do and a little more, and I know what I want to do again when I inevitably come back. Hong Kong is changing because everything changes, but being in Kowloon City felt like nestling into a warm divot in the blankets. Like Joon said, you couldn't pay me millions to want to be from anywhere else. Like Hobi said, the heat will get to you but it's charged with the passion of its people. I'll be riding and dying in ma city until there's no other choice, which I know is sooner rather than later but for now, it's still Ma City.

#starcastic sighs #in happiness because she had a nice day.#Kowloon City #Kowloon Walled City #Checkerboard Hill #Hong Kong

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kentrix11 · 2 years ago

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I have been playing a ton of Darkest Dungeon 2 recently and I was right on expecting the change to a roguelike formula to improve on some of the stuff that holded me back from going to DD1.

The fact it’s a roguelike means they had a bit more freedom to add some more unbalanced stuff for fun while also making the difficulty feel a bit less annoying by having death not really be a huge deal.

And since runs are a lot shorter (in chapter 2 at most I got to up to 3 hours) I think you can feel satisfied with winning a run without being stuck on a really long save that drags a lot.

Each time you die you build resources and upgrade units or unlock new items, so dying doesn’t feel as devastating and a waste of your time as the first one, I’m missing a couple things on the progression system but so far it seems like a good enough, the stuff you unlock feels significant and givesr that classic roguelike gameplay loop to hook you up.

And having a ton of rng in the items you get inside a run I think gave the devs a bit more confidence in just putting some really strong stuff there, as an example:

My favorite unit in DD1 was the leper, he had really high damage but low accuracy, so he missed tons of hits but when he hit, he usually decimated enemies.

DD2 has changed how accuracy works, now all characters have 100% chances to hit but there are tons of buffs or debuffs that reduce that chance by 50%, the leper now has a self-applied debuff of blindness each time he swings his sword, so they kept the concept of high damage, low accuracy like that. Where it gets interesting is that DD2 has a “combo“ system, some attacks inflict a “combo” debuff on enemies, if they have it on certain attacks will have extra effects, the leper’s big swing has the effect of ignoring blindness, which means his chances to hit go back to 100%, where we get into strong combinations is that there’s a trincket that gives you +67% critical chance if the character is blind, which means with the right set up, I can get my leper to constantly throw criticals non-stop at enemies, it was so absurd at some point I managed to almost one shot really tanky enemies, the combination got me coasting through my run and was a ton of fun (until I hit the final boss of the chapter which required me to have someone that could do damage to the back art of his formation lol).

Which also brings up how some bosses are still really mess up but learning their gimmicks feels fun and a lot less frustrating now that you don’t have to spend so much time rebuilding your time after a failed atempt, experimentations against the difficult content is a lot more fun from this context to me.

There’s a lot more of stuff that interesting so far and new characters that seem pretty strong, I will have to see how they patch it in the future or how more broken some combinations can get later on but so far it’s been really fun.

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dadsbongos · 2 years ago

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the cheerleader you hate

6.9K words

warnings - emotional cheating (you), referenced physical cheating (your boyfriend), hot but mean nancy wheeler

summary - you, a hot cheerleader, are put into a group project with Eddie, a hot nerd, that requires a visit to the Hawkins’ art museum. Neither of you does a very good job of hiding your secret friendship, or your feelings for each other.

Welcome Home (Sanitarium) was released a couple weeks ago on the Master of Puppets album - it was Metallica’s second ballad after Fade to Black, or so Eddie had so passionately explained to you. It also happened to be your favorite Metallica song, not that you really listened to very much Metallica, but it was a good song. And it was currently blasting through the speakers of Eddie’s rustbox van.

You were stuck in the back next to local meathead and star athlete, Andy Johnson: your boyfriend of a grueling three months. Nancy Wheeler was perched in the passenger seat, doing her damndest to not plug her ears at the volume with which Eddie played his music (he only ever turned it down when you were sitting up front, not that anybody else would know that).

The Hawkins Museum of Classic and Contemporary Art was not where you originally saw yourself going a few weeks ago, especially not with the crowd you were going with. The museum itself seemed lackluster on the outside - a cool two-story, off-white, black-tinted window affair of a building.

Ms. Allen had been the one to pick groups for the project and she decided yours was the most interesting. Andy almost threw a tantrum at the sound of his name next to Eddie’s. You just didn’t want to be trapped in a museum for X hours with your boyfriend. Eddie wasn’t stoked to be paired with one of Jason’s lackeys and Nancy Wheeler (who’d probably castrate him if they failed). Nancy hated Andy and only tolerated Eddie because Mike said she should try, she didn’t necessarily dislike you - she just thought you were a ditz (not that you can blame her).

“Okay,” Nancy claps once you’re all in the lobby, “everyone have student IDs?”

“Nope,” you chirp and Andy nods. Nancy sighs, brows furrowing, “Chill, Nance,” you pluck at the collar of your varsity jacket, “I didn’t wear the cheer uniform to be cute.”

Andy wraps an arm over your shoulders and Eddie has to refrain from grinning at how you tense, “Exactly, Wheeler. So just calm down, okay? We got everything covered.”

Saturdays were free entry days for students and you knew that Eddie lost his ID, and what more ID could you possibly need when the Hawkins High mascot was printed along your back?

“Fine,” Nancy huffs, her lips pressing thinly, “I think we should split into groups and meet back here in…” her eyes fly to her watch, “an hour. We just have to find one piece to connect to modern society, shouldn’t be too hard,” she smiles at your group, “Right?”

“Totally,” you slink out of Andy’s chokehold and loop an arm around Eddie’s side, “I call Munson.”

This time, Eddie does grin - all at the way Andy tenses.

“Alright!” Nancy, God bless her patient soul, cheers thinly before Andy can throw a fit. She takes him by the back of his varsity jacket and your groups part.

“God, baby, you are merciless,” Eddie ‘tsk’s, “Just leave the guy at this point.”

“It’s so hard,” you whine, cheek pressing to his leather jacket, “I even mention being unhappy and he brings it up to Jason who won’t stop calling, asking what my problem is. It’s annoying.”

It’s annoying to Eddie, too. He hates seeing jocks throw their weight - physical and social - against the people around them. He hates knowing the only reason you agreed to go out with Andy was that he wouldn’t stop asking.

You and Eddie have been secret friends for a long while now - since the first day you bought from him. He insisted on keeping it to yourselves (“It’ll ruin your life. Besides, things are perfect right now - why share that with the Barbies and Kens that wish I’d drop dead?”). Although to be fair, you couldn’t find yourself craving confession to the general public that you actually liked Eddie either - people would have your head for merely saying his hair was cool.

An honest, unintentional spasm of the eye toward the nearest movement. That’s what started it all. Exactly where it went wrong and exactly where it went right.

Eddie still had the reddened indents and scuffs of metal against his skin from passing period. His head was vaguely throbbing and the sight of a little cheer uniform at the bench he sells at after school definitely is not helping.

You, meanwhile, fidget. Plucking at the loose threads near your zipper. Twirling the end of your skirt. Tugging at the bunched, itchy uniform top. You find it impossible to sit still knowing exactly who is on their way. Eddie Munson - the boy you saw Jason and his buddies shove into lockers for glancing at a couple cheerleaders as they passed by (an honest, unintentional spasm of the eye toward the nearest movement. Not that they’d ever believe him). You felt bad - you’d never seen him do anything more than sell drugs to other upperclassmen and be obnoxious.

You only notice him when the sound of his black, metal lunchbox clattering on the table rings between the trees.

“Hey,” you’re bizarrely quiet.

“Hi,” he bites, lips thin and patience tight.

God, Eddie hates cheerleaders (acting innocent when they’d gut him alive for sport; not that he’s a fan of the guy, but at least Jason is upfront about it). Eddie is against the status quo until it proves him right, and cheerleaders usually sneer and poke and prod. He’ll keep a kind cheek towards you for now, he just won’t be surprised when you burn him.

But when he goes to hand you half an ounce, you’re all pouty - eyes not quite raising to his.

“Hey,” he lowers his head to try and meet your eyes, brows raising, “you good? I’m not gonna sacrifice you, y’know?” suddenly, he grins, “You’re too popular, everyone would notice.”

He may not believe you have the best intentions, but he hates nothing more than seeing people scared of him - so sure, he’ll play the game. He’ll make you giggle, sell you weed, and grit his teeth when you call him a freak.

But to his surprise, your fist curls against the table and you tilt your head, “Does it hurt? When people…”

“Call me a freak?” he squints at you now, pretty lashes narrow at your hesitation, he wants to laugh at how you shy away from the nickname, “Used to,” he gnaws on his bottom lip when you don’t reply, “Why? Gettin’ weepy over the town laughing stock?”

“You don’t deserve that,” you’re frowning and he hates how much he wants to fix it, “It’s cruel.”

“Well, aren’t you an everyday sweetheart?” he settles his chin in his hand, kicking his sneaker over yours under the table, “How would you know what I deserve?”

“You seem nice,” you shrug and now you’re finally looking at him, “You were nice in middle school anyway.”

He mock gasps but the cynicism seems lost on you, “Wow, you remember me?”

“Yeah,” you’re smiling and he hates how much he wants to keep seeing it, “of course, I do.”

He remembers you, too. You looked different. So did he. He’s surprised you bothered keeping him in your memory like that.

“Chrissy and I were gonna do a cheer routine,” he hums cartoonishly and nods, “and you were with your band…”

“You remember the name?”

“It was something… edgy.”

“Uhh, okay,” he shoots up, putting up a hand. Two fingers, then five. Silently, he shifts and recedes into himself - he crumbles as if shriveling under the sunlight.

Shriveling?

“Shriveling…?” you stand up and lean over, hands flat on the table as you watch Eddie.

He smiles, shakes his head, and stands, “Second word.”

His body shoots ramrod straight and his eyes close, arms folding over one another like Dracula in his tomb.

“Coffin?”

He claps, eyes now wide and he points at you, “Yes!”

“Coffin…” you tumble the word on your tongue, test it against your memory. Suddenly, you gasp and snap and point back at Eddie, “Corroded Coffin!”

Eddie jumps onto the bench seat and throws his arms wide, “Yes! You remember.”

“How could I forget?” you huff and giggle, “Oh my God, with that name, how could I forget?”

“I know, right?” Eddie kneels down on the bench, legs falling back into the gap so he’s on his ass, “You’re a freak, sweetheart.”

“Sorry, guess I was too caught up in your buzzcut,” he gags, “No, but, I- I remember you. You saw that Chris ‘n’ I were super nervous so you tried making us feel better.”

“Yeah, it was really hard to play nice when your routine was to Madonna, but,” he reaches into his lunchbox, “you two did fine.”

“Fine? That’s big coming from you,” you watch him pull out a plastic baggie.

“Well…” he lets the thought die under his tongue and shakes the bag, “How about… fifteen? With that sort of discount, you’re robbing me blind, sweetheart.”

Your smile fades and you reach for the wad of cash stuffed into your bag, “I really am sorry… about how you’re treated. It’s unfair.”

Eddie shrugs. A plan cracks to his head and he knows exactly what to say to get you off your pity parade.

“You know what?” he slides over the bag and pockets your money, “How about you be my new friend, huh? What about it?”

You’ll refuse. He’ll shove it in your face. You’ll take the weed and pretend you never saw him tomorrow.

But you don’t catch the coldness.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I’ll be your friend.”

“No shit?”

“Here, put your hands up a little higher.”

“Can’t. Then my arm starts hurting.”

“Why would your arm hurt?”

“I fucking. You know what? Fuck you. I was trying to work out.”

You’re trying not to snicker - you really are - but the image of Eddie lifting weights simply tickles something inside you (and for the sake of not being flustered, you opt to tease).

“Good for you,” you reach out and prop his arm a little higher to match the little girl in the painting, “I’m happy.”

“Really? Is that why you’re trying not to laugh at me,” he waltzes off, arms crossed tightly while glaring at you, “You’re rude.”

“You’re already toned,” you punch his arm lightly and giggle when he makes a show of hissing at the impact, “Any buffer and you’ll make Jason, like, super jealous.”

“Jealous?” he turns to you, lips stretching wide, “Or infatuated?”

“Infatuated,” you whisper, coming upon a display of two ball gowns.

The plaque beside the display reads in big, bold, Courier New font - OLD MARDI GRAS COSTUME WEAR OF FRENCH SETTLERS.

“If I had the balls, I’d steal that for you,” Eddie doesn’t bother keeping quiet. Never has, and you’ve never minded.

A passing elderly woman glares at him sharply and you two simper. You take his hand and relish in the dull coolness of his rings on your palm.

“Hey, hey,” you pat his leathered shoulder and he has to hold you back from jabbing the protective glass with your finger, “a poem. How adorable.”

It’s a page long. Four stanzas; five lines.

Eddie leans to read the poem over your shoulder. He’s never liked poetry - except the pieces you write, and even then he doesn’t get to read your work often. His favorite poem, your longest poem, was a piece he didn’t even read. Jason read it aloud to the entire cafeteria while you were watching, horrified.

He, in turn, watched as you ripped the paper up and scattered the pieces across Jason’s lunch.

It was something he actually understood - somewhat. He didn’t know who it was about, but he got the theme. He understood it very well actually.

“Jason,” you swat at the basketball captain’s shoulder, “Jason, put it down!”

“No, no,” he traps you under his arm, pinning you to his side no matter how much you squirm, “I think everyone wants to hear your little poem!”

The cafeteria patrons snap to the blond, bending quickly to his voice. Even the Hellfire kids. Eddie is watching, hands clenching the table and face stern - you can see it in his tense muscles, the way he’s ready to fight. Ready to stand, fully knowing it’ll only get him hurt.

Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t care all that much. Sure, it was mortifying to have something you wrote read to an entire room like this, but you’d get over it. Even though it’s clearly a love poem, you normally wouldn’t be so up-in-arms. You normally wouldn’t have jumped out of your seat and over the table to rip your journal out of Jason’s grubby hands.

No, the reason there’s a fire clawing at your throat, is because this love poem is very clearly, very obviously, very evidently not about your boyfriend.

Jason clears his throat heartily and his arm tightens around you, he shakes and laughs and hollers as he reads your words.

Bambi eyes Freckled nose Rosy cheeks

Things I dream

A chanced glance at Andy reveals wide eyes boring into your pounding, heated face. He didn’t look like that and he didn’t need to pretend to have brains to understand what you were saying.

Crisped wheatfield tresses Dark brown and cotton soft Shine like gold under the sun Like a boy untouched by evil

Soft and sweet and simple Unchanged and unpredictable Like a boy unwilling to bend

I bet you taste like cigarettes And still, I want your lips on mine Cherry plump and coral red

I bet your lips are soft and pliant Rough seams and mud-caked soles I want your shoes to stain my window sill I want my skin to rub raw against your vest Calloused palms and stupidly loud footsteps

You are so perfect

A boy unlike any other The one who I imagine is next to me

In the movie drive-ins And the diners And the pep rallies

The one I imagine is him

Andy’s jaw clenches and Jason howls with laughter. Chrissy joins you now, trying to tug the journal from her boyfriend’s hands, but he just holds it higher. Higher and higher. Eventually abandoning your side to hop onto the cafeteria table, like he’s Eddie.

To me, you’ve hung the stars Strung up the moon You’ve filled the world with air Curated the atmosphere You’ve planted the ferns Tended the oak trees

You could light the world aflame and I’d only giggle along Rip apart the sky and I’ll celebrate your name Tear down bridges and I’ll bring you a bulldozer

I want to feel your hair cling between my fingers I want to feel your arms around me everywhere we go I want to feel your legs entangled with mine on sherbet mornings I want to feel your body on mine until the sun engulfs our world

And the worlds around

Please say you’ll love me And I’ll say I love you I’d shout it if you asked All I ask is that you keep looking at me like that

Like a girl worthy and sweet For a boy set adrift Two life rafts and two vests Two chains and two cuffs

Please, don’t stop looking at me

Your name is lost on all tongues except mine And as much as I want people to love you As I love you I know I'm not big enough to share you Not when I don't even have you Not yet

Please, not yet

Jason threw the sparkly pink thing onto the table and you scrambled to it. Ripping out the pages and tearing them apart as the whole of the cafeteria watched. Your skin was scorching hot and sweat was beading at the back of your neck.

Chrissy was scolding her boyfriend and Andy was glaring through the back of your head.

And Eddie watched it all.

“God, I feel a little bad,” Dustin cringes.

“She’ll be fine,” Gareth steals a fry from Jeff’s tray and pops it into his mouth, “she’s a cheerleader.”

“But still,” Grant comes to your defense now, “that’s humiliating.”

“I mean, if she’s cheating on her boyfriend,” Mike purses his lips, shrugging, “‘m not saying she deserves it, but maybe there’s karma in there.”

“She’s not cheating on her boyfriend,” Eddie regrets it as soon as he cuts in, he huffs at the deer-in-headlights stares he gets, “We’re not close or anything,” it’s an easy enough lie, “but I sell to the chick sometimes. She’s not the type.”

“How would you know?” Jeff crosses his arms, leaning against the table.

Eddie’s eyes flutter to you as Andy strong-arms you out of the cafeteria. He can’t hear exactly what the blond is saying, but he’s yelling. Assuredly, he’s yelling. And you look like you’re about to burst into tears. He wants to help you.

To run up and rip Andy’s overbearing hands off you and lead you somewhere the two of you can be alone. To be your knight like he knows he can’t be. You’re the princess and he’s the peasant accused of witchcraft.

“She’s just not,” he doesn’t really know, but he refuses to accept it as possible.

No angel could be so twisted.

Unless you’re Lucifer, who was the prettiest angel and God’s favorite before he fell - then that would be cool.

This poem under plexiglass is nothing compared to the one burned with the lunch trays. He wishes you kept it. He wishes he could plaster it on his trailer wall and pretend it’s about him. His bambi eyes, his ugly freckles, his rhubarb cheeks.

But you’re still nice to Jason and it’s so peculiar to him. You smile at whatever joke he says and you look over when he talks and you barely grimace when he leans just a little too close.

Eddie can’t help but ask. Why? Why? Why’re you so nice to someone who’s so evil?

You smile and shrug and toe at the marble flooring, “Kill him with kindness, ya know? Pain is temporary, but guilt? Guilt is very effective.”

“I’ve never been more afraid and awestruck in my life.”

“Don’t be afraid,” he raises a brow at you as if to ask why not?, you grin, “You’re my friend, Eds,” no matter how much more you want, he’s just your friend, “You’re also way nicer than most of the people in Hawkins.”

In every way possible, it astounds you how nice Eddie is. He leaves a seat for lonely kids, he makes himself the fool to put others at ease, he laughs when a joke isn’t funny just because he knows you really put effort into it, he sits back and takes the abuse so that the jocks don’t move onto his friends when he retaliates. Chrissy Cunningham is nice, Joyce Byers is nice, Karen Wheeler is nice, Robin Buckley is nice, Dustin Henderson is nice, and even Chief Hopper has his moments.

But not one of them holds a candle to Eddie Munson.

If they’re kind, Eddie is Saint Vincent de Paul. And he’s all you could want - he’s it. Eddie’s your angel, and he isn’t even yours.

But it’s easy enough to lose yourself in his presence, to forget that he’s single and you have a boyfriend you hate. You two find it easy to just walk around, ignoring the museum’s actual art and taking delight in one another.

Until he asks the question.

“Who was it about?” you side-eye the metalhead, “Your poem. Who was it about?”

Your arms coil around yourself and you skip over five paintings before pausing at a statue. A man in rags and a woman in a flowy dress. They’re so close, but they don’t touch.

You shrug, staring at the statue while Eddie stares at you, “You know that question? ‘If you were in a room full of other girls, would he approach you first?’ I think about that a lot.”

“Oh? And what’s your conclusion?”

He already hasn’t. But Eddie would do a lot to Andy for less, so you don’t say that.

“He wouldn’t,” quickly, you tack on, “Andy. Andy wouldn’t.”

Eddie’s head cocks to the side, “And the boy in the poem?” he grins, “Would he?”

Would you? you want to ask. Good God, do you want to ask.

“I think so,” you nod, slow and easy, “Even if he didn’t love me - if we were just dating, he’d run to me before even noticing the other girls.”

“Sounds like a stand-up guy.”

You really are. “He really is. Sometimes…” you giggle but it’s shaky, violently unnerved, “It’s silly, but sometimes I think he’s an angel.”

He hums, hands deep in his pockets, and sighs, “Angels aren’t real, sweetpea.”

“And you would know?” you come just a little closer, lean just a little too far. Your breath is hot on his jaw, “Thought you were into demonic sacrifices, not atheism.”

“‘m just being realistic,” he doesn’t shy away, if anything he’s bathing in the scent of your perfume and lotion, “This mystery boy isn’t an angel.”

“God, if you knew,” you lean back and he misses the heat of your body against his, “If you knew, Munson!”

If he knew how the people who loved him saw him, he’d never question angels. Not once. But then again, he has nothing more than humility in that lithe body - and never once would he claim to be anything other than crazy ole Eddie Munson.

The dungeon master. The super senior. The drug dealer. The cultist. The failure. The idiot. The freak. The Eddie Munson.

He's the same old him and he is no angel.

Over your shoulder, he spots something new. It sounds like the air is suddenly sucked from his lungs and he squints into the distance, “God, I’ve never been more glad to not be high.”

Turning, your eyes widen, a surrealist painting of a man with mushrooms oozing from his pores is hung on the opposite wall. A little girl in rich purple stares at it with her father. Her older brother looks away and walks off while she continues to look - completely enthralled with the piece.

“One time someone said that if I don’t feel an edible within the first five or ten minutes, I should take two or three more. And I… had a really bad night.”

“Hawkins may be literally cursed, but that’s genuinely evil.”

The little girl continues to stare even as you two walk away.

“family #2” is a small painting. Swathed in inky black, there’s two shadowy hunches lingering above two weeping children. Eddie’s lips press and he scratches his nose, “We should move on.”

He chuckles when your soft eyes swing to him in worry. Concerned and sweet.

“I mean, yeah,” Eddie brings up a thick lock of unfit and messy curls as if to hide his face, “Go figure. Local drug dealing, fuck up freak repeating senior year for the third time had a shitty family life,” he groans thickly, eyes widening, “I’m a real stereotype, aren’t I?”

Screaming and crying and feeling like his parents would prefer he was dead before he spoke to them. It’s not like his old man even bothered returning his letters after being sentenced, anyway. And his mom wasn’t exactly kind and giving before she died. There shouldn’t be anything to mourn - not when he can’t earnestly say he truly liked them - but seeing this painting brings something back. Something ugly and raw and he wants it hidden behind the leather and tattoos.

You lay a hand on his arm before hugging it to your chest, you drag him off, pouting as you speak, “Sorry, Eds. Let’s go look at another painting. A nice one, this time. ‘kay?”

Eddie’s never been an easy guy to comfort, but he thinks it’s adorable that you try.

“Yeah, princess,” he huddles closer to you, “Let’s look at a nice painting.”

“Soulmates” is a nice painting. Classically nice - in an easy-to-swallow, vanilla sort of way (The missionary of paintings, Eddie said). Two people stand, hand in hand, looking at art in a gallery and he’s quiet while you laugh. He imagines you laugh because you see the two of you, or rather, he hopes that’s why you laugh. But that’s also exactly why he’s quiet for once - he sees the two of you.

You’re sort of it for him. But you have a boyfriend (who you hate). And Eddie would tank your social standing if the two of you were seen together for anything other than a school project.

This wing of the gallery is lonely. A few gaping spaces on the walls where they wanted pieces to be, but couldn’t afford them. An old couple tenderly holds hands and whispers to one another. Something about it feels like a place begging for confession - like a kitchen late at night, or a long car ride - and maybe that’s why he says it,

“I wish we could be friends.”

You punch his shoulder but he doesn’t feel it under the leather jacket, “We are friends, silly.”

“No,” he purses his lips, “I wish I was enough to be your actual friend. I’m sorry that- “ he rolls his eyes, “It’s fuckin’ stupid.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” you take Eddie’s hand and squeeze, “if you’re really thinking I care about the fact that people who don’t even know my favorite color would hate me for being your friend, then you don’t really know me at all.”

He doesn’t buy it - not for a second. He knows you better than most, better than your own boyfriend, and he knows that you’d gladly leave the jocks if he really asked you to. But he also knows you’d be miserable living as an outcast as he and his friends do. You hate the people that surround popularity, but you love being known and you love being loved - even if it isn’t all real - and Eddie refuses to take that from you.

But he also refuses to admit that. That makes the feelings too real. Too there.

“But going public would ruin your social life at Hawkins.”

“Then good thing school’s almost over, huh?”

You’re too sweet for your own good.

So, he pretends you didn’t say that. He wanders off and you follow closely.

He stops in front of a painting of a man in a navy blue suit. He’s sleeping on a bed of daisies as a woman stands above him in a flowy, white dress - her arms spread wide and scattering daffodils and rose petals atop of him.

You say it reminds you of when he crashed in your pink room - fitted with floral blankets and cheer trophies and stuffed animals - after a fight with his uncle when he found out Eddie was dealing. Eddie just laughs and nods and thinks about how he would give anything to be back inside that room again.

The title of the painting is “man in love”.

You take Eddie to a new painting - he doesn’t check the title, doesn’t think it necessary when it’s as simple as a fish eye view of the deep sea. A new thought bubbles to life beneath his thick skull.

You look miserable at your lunch table when Chrissy isn’t there.

And to avoid sacrificing his ego for tenderness, he sniffles and teases, “You need more friends than Chrissy. And don't say me, I'm a secret friend, that doesn't count,” he tilts his head, a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his lips when you’re silent, “C’mon, princess, who’re your friends?” when you just shake your head at him and huff, he gasps, “Do I? No way. Do I have more friends than you? I’m in shock and awe.”

“Okay, okay, Munson- “ your varsity jacket sleeve falls limply down your wrist while you gesture through the museum, as if anybody else was listening, “we get it.”

Eddie Munson definitely has more actual friends than you, but he’s your friend - and that counts for a thousand people, so who’s really winning?

“I kinda wanna disappear. Not, like, dying or anything. Just wish I wasn’t… me.”

The self-portrait is off, and he suspects that the lumped and blemished skin of this insecure woman is what sets you off.

He assumes the life of a cheerleader is pretty great on its own, but the way you and Chrissy are so trapped in your personal hells makes him believe there’s more beneath the surface. Simply has to be when you two are frozen in frowny little sunken sulks.

“Well, I think you’re pretty great, so if you do run off and restart somewhere - let me know and we’ll go together.”

There’s soft romantic guitar spilling over the crackled museum speakers. You grin, stiff and unbelieving, “You think I’m great?” he nods, “Even though I’m a cheerleader?”

“Especially because you’re an adorable cheerleader.”

“I didn’t say adorable.”

“Hm? Really? Didn’t even notice.”

“Well, the way I smile isn’t adorable,” he gasps sharply, attracting even more glares than when he said he’d steal a gown for you, “What? I don’t like my smile very much.”

Eddie looks like you’ve stabbed him through with a spike. Positively gutted him.

“Oh, sweetness,” he grabs at his chest, leaning back as though you’d shot him with an arrow, “you’re insane.”

Now, it’s your turn to sharply gasp.

“You can’t just call me insane!” this time, people glare at you, but you can’t bring yourself to care when Eddie’s sighing like you disappointed him.

He’s pointing at your face, “This? Right here?” suddenly you’re aware that you’d been grinning through the exchange, “This is how I know I’m doing my job and keeping you happy, princess. Your smile is something that ancient Greeks would’ve killed each other for.”

“Like modern Helen of Sparta?”

You’re not as stupid as you pretend to be - Eddie can, and will, attest to that, but you’re not interested in getting lumped in with the nerds (“It’s total social suicide, Eds, not even shoving myself in Ceely Hein’s Lacoste purse would save me from that sorta fall.”). He’s obsessed with the fact that he’s the only one to see you like this - not that he’d ever turn down seeing you in any different light.

“Baby,” he’s way too comfortable with pet names, “I have no idea who that is.”

“She’s who the Trojan War was fought over.”

“Then yes.”

You smile again and Eddie’s eyes can barely flutter away before you notice he’s staring, “We haven’t picked a single piece for the project. Nance’ll totally kill us if we show up empty-handed.”

Eddie is comfortable with contact, more so than pet names. He takes you by the hand and drags you down the plaster-white hallway.

“I hope we fall in love in every life” - it’s the most beautiful meadow of dandelions and petunias and lavender and peonies you’ve ever seen.

“It kinda reminds me of you,” you whisper, “I hope we meet each other in every life.”

Eddie is bold to a fault, and it certainly doesn’t stop now - as he wraps an arm around your shoulders and brings you into his side to whisper back, “I just hope you’ll let me be with you in those lives.”

He holds you close as if you’re the only people in the room. As if he isn’t him and you aren’t you. As if you don’t have a boyfriend.

You want to stay like this forever.

And sweet Eddie. Pretty Eddie. Loving Eddie. Precious Eddie has the audacity to act as though he doesn’t know who your poem is about.

Then you hear it, the clicking of Nancy’s heeled boots on the marble floors.

And you two snap apart like split twin popsicles.

Nancy is pissed and misdirects it at you two “There you two are.”

“Huh?” she grabs you by the wrist, but this isn’t the usual Wheeler Stare you get when you piss Nancy off during school assignments, “Nance, are you okay?”

She huffs and rolls her eyes and says she’ll tell you later.

And the presence of Andy - panting and breathless as he runs after Nancy - strikes you back into your role.

“‘kay,” you grin and let Nancy take you to the parking lot.

Andy is uncharacteristically nervous and quiet. Nancy abandons her hold on you and turns her attention to your boyfriend.

You don’t care much as you climb into the front seat of Eddie’s van.

Nancy is silent - arms crossed and face set firm as Andy whispers to her - after briefly saying she found her own exhibit to use and work on tomorrow (thank God for Nancy Wheeler because you and Eddie certainly didn’t find anything).

Andy is plucking at your oversized varsity jacket sleeve but you’re too enraptured by Eddie rattling your ear off about whichever new songs he wants to try with his band (so far, you’re planning to hear Corroded Coffin’s renditions of War Pigs (Black Sabbath), Fade to Black (Metallica), Seek and Destroy (Metallica), Ace of Spades (Motorhead), and at your insistence - Africa (Toto) this Tuesday at the Hideout). And there’s no room for Andy to get a word in when you’re shooting him a scathing glare every time he tries telling Eddie to shut up.

In hindsight, you suppose that if the goal was to hide your friendship, then perhaps you should be glad that neither of you is depending on acting for an income.

Nancy is dropped off first. She comes around to your window, eyes softer than before as she reaches in to take your hand, “I’ll call you.”

Even though it wouldn’t be the first time, your gut still swells at what you know will be coming. But even so, you pretend to be clueless and nod with a sunshine bright, “Sure thing, Nance!”

Andy is next. He tries another kiss but you turn and his lips catch your cheek instead.

“Cruel, cruel,” Eddie shakes his head, but both of you know he doesn’t give a shit, “Just leave him, princess.”

“For who?”

“Nobody,” he shrugs, “Yourself.”

“I need Nance to call,” your feet kick up onto the dash and if it were anybody else, Eddie would’ve popped a cork, “then Jason doesn’t have a reason to hound me for it.”

“You’d think you people are operating top shelf military forces with all the scheming you do.”

“Well, yeah,” you pick at your nail beds as Eddie pulls up to the curb of your house, “I’d compare them more to sharks. If sharks could actually have fully formed thoughts.”

“And you aren’t a shark?”

“Just a little one. The one where the bites don’t even hurt.”

“Cute.”

“Whatever,” you push open the passenger side door and wave, “Drive safe, Eds.”

Before you can hop out, Eddie’s tugging on the sleeve of your oversized varsity jacket. He leaned over the center console to reach you, eyes wide and pleading. You press back into the seat of the van and his mouth opens.

Then closes.

Then opens.

He shakes his head and laughs at nothing but himself.

“You good, Munson?” you tilt your head and his hand slides lower until he’s entwining his fingers with yours.

“Yeah, just…” he raps his knuckles on the steering wheel, “I’ll take care of everything, but - if you ever buy weed again, I won’t be there,” when your brows furrow, he waves you off, “Nothing against you, princess. Just realized that you’re… everything I ever wanted, so if I ever see you at that bench again, then I don’t know if I’ll let you go. So, I’m gonna cut loose now, before you have to worry about the freak ruining your reputation.”

You don’t know how to respond - too overcome with… with…

Glee? Joy? Affection? It’s all possible.

You don’t know how to respond, so you simply tilt your head and ask, “Remember when you were asking who the poem was about?”

“Yeah?” he looks at you, pretty lashes narrowed and cherry lips in a pout, “Why?”

It’s silent. You simply beam at him, your bottom lip tugs between your teeth and you shrug.

“No,” he whispers, but now the pout is a toothy smile and his lashes are batting at you. Somewhere between disbelief and awe. His grip on the wheel tightens, “Are you- don’t do this to me.”

You giggle. Leaning over to kiss his cheek and watching him cup the rosy flesh (now glittery and sticky and smelling faintly of mangoes from your lipgloss, but he treasures the mess). Your eyes draw over his tattoos and you lean out of the van, “For real. Drive safe, Eds.”

Through the open window, you can hear him call out as you skip up your house’s walkway, “Oh, princess, you are cruel!”

God, Eddie hates cheerleaders (no he doesn’t).

Hellfire drags miserably long into the afternoon. Almost an hour past cheer practice gets out, Eddie and his lovable band of misfits file out of the doors into the parking lot.

You two clock eyes and his jaw drops - he gasps and groans and tosses up his hands, “Disgusting!”

“Ugh,” you mock his tone, guttural and raw from the throat, “freak!”

“The princess of Hawkins High…” he ‘tsk’s, already digging out his keys before turning to the watching Hellfire Club, “You guys go, I gotta deal with…” Eddie huffs, as though a disappointed father, and shakes his head, “with this!”

He loops an arm over your shoulders and waves off the outcasts.

The Hellfire boys definitely know there’s something going on between you two because even though you’re playing up the mean bit - you’re laughing and he’s laughing and his hand slips into yours to guide you to his van.

“You’re a shitty actor,” you giggle and pinch his side.

Eddie makes a show of squealing in pain, then quickly calms himself. He clicks the van unlocked and you two part, “How shitty?”

Once the two of you are seated in the van, you toss your head back, brows furrowed as you think, “Porn shitty.”

“You watch porn? Pervert.”

“As if I haven’t seen all your gross mags.”

“Not all of ‘em,” he pulls out of the lot like a 16-year-old who just got their license.

You two didn’t talk about what happened in his van. It was a new understanding - as long as Andy was hanging around, nothing would even be up for discussion. Eddie wasn’t above being the other guy if he had to be, but it isn’t a first choice.

“Oh,” boy, do you have a surprise, “I have news about Andy.”

He hums, bitter at the name, “And how’s the boyfriend, sweets?”

“We broke up,” he gapes, nearly having to press a gun to his head just to keep his eyes on the road. You nod proudly, “Nancy ended up calling after you dropped me off. He totally tried kissing her, just like I thought. So, yeah, pretty safe to say I dumped him. And Jason doesn’t even care.”

So that’s why you were missing at lunch (not that he’d announce to you that he’d been looking).

“So, what now?” he hates being quiet because that lets people see his vulnerability.

But so long as people is limited to you, he can’t help himself.

“What do you wanna do?” you already know.

“Whatever you want.” he already knows.

“I think we should probably just make my little poet’s dream come true,” you raise your brows and Eddie can feel his heart jump up his throat, “What d’ya say, Eds? Wanna date an arch nemesis? The dreaded cheer co-captain?”

“Can I finally start drooling over your skirts in public now?” because a cheap joke is easier than outright admission.

“Only if you promise to take this off for once,” you tap the leather jacket he refuses to go a day without, “I wanna drool over your tattoos in public now.”

“Then yes, sweetpea, looks like your inner poet finally gets her dream,” not that he’d ever tell you about the handful of Corroded Coffin originals (which will never see the light of day) that are about you.

Welcome Home (Sanitarium) drones over Eddie’s speakers and you kick your feet onto the dash.

It’s quiet. It’s nice. Eddie’s not afraid to sit in this silence. You’re eager for school tomorrow for the first time since first joining the cheer squad.

“Your stop, sweet princess.”

You take the hand Eddie outstretched and lean over the center console to place yet another kiss on his supple cheek. This time, the smeared gloss smells like cherries.

You wave before crossing that threshold into your house. Eddie watches with intent that he’d give anybody else shit for. “Fuckin’ goo goo eyes,” he’d say whenever Lucas would stare at Max. Yes, Eddie watches with fuckin’ goo goo eyes.

And he’s upset at the realization that you two didn’t plan an actual date until he feels folded paper in the hand you’d held. It’s thin and smooth, simple loose leaf. Eddie’s almost embarrassingly quick to read the note.

meet me at lovers’ lake tonight at 9 - love, the cheerleader you hate

And with such simple words, Eddie’s speeding back to his trailer. Swearing he’s already weak-in-the-knees, sweaty palms levels of obsessed with a cheerleader. With you.

Only thing he’s complaining about is that he had to go to an art museum to see results.

~~ rb & comments appreciated :)

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #eddie.🍓

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notmanagingmymischief · 3 years ago

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ᴀʟᴍᴀ ᴘᴇʀᴇɢʀɪɴᴇ | ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴇᴇ

did i write this on november 7th with the encouragement of my sister and her deviousness? yes i did. what're you gonna do about it?

also this is my universe now and ransom riggs can go suck it because in my head Abe never leaves for war because we do not need jacob entering the world. ever. anyway, merry christmas y'all <3

warnings: light swearing

word count: 5K

taglist:

@havemercyonme, @winters-witch-bitch, @sythaerin, @escapetodreamworld, @anotherfantasy-world, @wizzy0-deactivated20211213, @holly-fire, @consciouschunkofmoss, @mxbeezkneez, @fxoehy, @merci-bitch, @inlovewithbilliedean, @aaron-despair, @thebijesus, @jojalie, @ahoy-gays, @when-i-miss-you, @evagreensimp, @crime-ninja, @nonbinary-cryptid-baby, @feartheclipse, @itsyourgirlmalise, @emiliaisdead, @missfalcon, @sapphic-stress, @arewecoolio, @darlingimlostwithout, @vykanya, @peregrine21, @vintageolives, @iamawriterorsomething, @whutisthus, @zyguard118, @kathryndimitrescu, @one-hundred-small-pineapples, @eowyn-for-president, @forcecaptainnoceda, @threemiceinatrenchcoat, @ilovewinter101

enjoy xx

---

When you'd realized that you could play your downloaded music offline, therefore giving you the ability to play it inside the loop, you had been ecstatic. Not only could you play it for yourself but you could also now show the others what today's music sounds like. So when you'd first joined the loop and didn't have to worry about aging after leaving, you had spent hours downloading hundreds of songs onto your phone to take back to everyone. That had been forever ago, of course. But the children had appreciated it, even Alma had found herself enjoying some of the things you would play.

But starting December 1st, the only music you had played was Christmas music. It was a tradition that you'd had since you could play your own music; every year, the second December began, Christmas music would flood your home, annoying your parents and making you the happiest you'd ever been. This was no exception, of course, and while Alma--like most adults--found herself getting tired of the stuff, the children adored it almost as much as you. Enoch didn't show it, but you could tell even he enjoyed it. The crowd favorites seemed to be "Santa Tell Me" and "All I Want for Christmas Is You" for the older children, among other pop-centric tunes, and more of the classics for the younger ones; "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree", "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas", and, of course "Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer" among the top rated ones. But when you weren't getting song requests (which you didn't mind, of course) you were allowed to play some of your personal favorites.

Lately it had been "Underneath the Tree", a song which you had played at least seven times in the week leading up to Christmas. Alma had heard it a few times, each one making her sigh and shake her head in exasperation; she didn't understand how someone could listen to the same song for hours and not get sick of it. But it also made her smile, especially when you had your door cracked open and she could see you dancing around your room, singing the lyrics loudly, the younger children joining you occasionally, singing and dancing along with you. The older ones however, they actually paid attention to the lyrics, how much you seemed to enjoy them. Specifically the tagline--"You're all that I need, underneath the tree." And amongst the four of them, they hatched a plan. You see, they had been watching you and their beloved headmistress. Saw how you acted around each other, each interaction strangely tense and, sometimes, bordering on flirtatious, and Emma was nothing if not a hopeless romantic, one who in turn got most of the others just as invested in your relationships. In actuality the two of you weren't dating, or together in any sense beside friends (though you'd be lying if you said you didn't wish that you were together).

The week of Christmas was spent decorating; you getting the tree and the ornaments from the attic with some assistance from Enoch and Abe, which the children immediately wanted to begin putting op. You found some old fashioned string lights, which you hung around the edges of the sitting room, as well as some areas outside--that was a challenge, seeing as there was no electrical source outside the house, meaning you also had to find a way to sneakily retrieve an extension cord that you spent at least an hour, possibly more, getting put in place so that it was out of sight (and out of mind). Once the job was finished, it earned you a kiss on the cheek from Alma, which honestly kept you going for the rest of the week without a drop of caffeine; quite impressive. Three days before Christmas, the headmistress allowed you all to decorate the tree. You had, of course, already wrapped the lights around it with Emma dutifully by your side, knowing it was a task for someone who knew their way around electricity. From there, the rest of the kids put up the ornaments, an activity that you mostly stayed out of, except to place a single one on a higher branch, an angel of some sort.

Once that was done, everyone stepped back to admire their hard work. A decent amount of the ornaments had ended up near the bottom of the tree since most of the kids could only reach so high, though they did have some help from you and Alma, lifting them up when they really wanted to place theirs higher up. It was quite the sight to see Alma wrapping her long arms around little Claire's waist to hold her up high enough to place her little doll ornament on one of the highest branches. Watching the ymbryne interacting so actively with her charges was endearing, and left a fond smile resting on your face even hours after everyone was finished. The tree decorated, the lights up, all that was left was the treats. That was yours and Alma's job; no one else was allowed to play with the stove except for when Olive would heat up tea. So the two of you spent the good part of a day together, shaping and baking cookies, you putting your future-knowledge to work to make some new ones that the children had yet to experience.

At some point, Alma got confused as you worked on one of the special ones, a batch of peanut butter blossoms. She hadn't seen these kind, and had ended up positioning herself behind you to watch you work over your shoulder, hips pressed snug against you and hands absently resting on your waist. Your breath got caught in your throat, but you did your best to pretend that the closeness wasn't affecting you even as your cheeks burned hotly. Still your hands worked steadily, years of practice making it easy to work on autopilot. "What are you making?" Alma whispered in your ear, and you cleared your throat before replying "They're called peanut butter blossoms. They were my dad's favorite so I've made them a lot," you recalled, "I think that--that the children will like them." Alma hummed, resting her chin on your shoulder for a moment longer before finally stepping away and returning to her own tray, checking the oven absently. The rest of the day went smoothly, soft music playing in the background as the kids messed with your phone, only a few bumps occurring that either left you laughing or blushing. Overall, you had quite a bit of fun. So did Emma, watching you from the doorway with an entertained smile.

Finally, it's the day before Christmas. You'd spent the day with the kids, conjuring up some snow for them to play in and to set the mood better. It was an action that made Alma quite happy, always enjoying you interacting with her children so easily, doing things for them that you really didn't have to do, simply because you wanted to. You caught her eye once, in the window, and grinned towards her, casually tossing a snowball at the window that made the ravenette step back automatically. When she returned she was scowling, but you could tell it was playful and winked back before bringing your attention to Hugh, who was pulling at your arm to help him build a snowman, aptly named Frosty. Somehow you knew that they had no idea how ironic that was. It wasn't too cold, seeing as the snow wasn't naturally made, but it was chillier than normal, which added to the overall novelty of the day.

Eventually though, you were all called inside, Alma standing in the doorway. Warm light spilled from the open door, silhouetting the woman standing there with her hands linked and back straight. The snowflakes that fell in front of your face slightly obstructed your view, but you could still see her affectionate smile as she watched her wards filter into the house. It was every part the classic Christmas card image, like coming home to a warm house, wife and children waiting eagerly to celebrate Christmas Eve. The correlation you automatically made between the idea of a wife and Alma made your pace stutter, along with your breath, but before anyone could notice you schooled your features. Just in time, as you approached the steps and Alma turned to face you with a slightly more fond smile. Her eyes moved up and caught on a few spots of snow in your hair. Casual as can be, she reached out and raked her fingers through it, effectively melting the delicate flakes, along with your heart, and you ducked your head, flustered as you thanked her quietly.

The ymbryne nodded and allowed you past, watching you for a long moment before doing the same, closing the door gently behind her and heading into the kitchen where the rest of the children were already gathered. You slipped off your light jacket and hung it up on the coat stand before following Alma silently. The kids were bustling around, talking loudly between themselves. Their excitement was palpable and your embarrassment faded easily into a matching joy, grinning and, as usual, enabling their antics as you picked Claire up and spun her around. The girl laughed loudly and soon Bronwyn and Fiona wanted the same treatment. They received it of course, until finally Alma stated that it was time to eat. You felt bad that you'd forgotten to come in and help her, but she assured you that it was fine and you playing with the children--therefore keeping them out of the kitchen, and the house peacefully silent--was enough help. You nodded and smiled before slipping into your seat. Alma did the same, speaking loud enough to be heard over the chatter when she said "Now, I know you're all very excited, but I don't want to see you attempting to rush through dinner. Presents will be opened tomorrow morning."

A few sighs were heard from around the table, but none were bold enough to protest, and soon you were all digging in. You muttered a compliment to Alma about her cooking, delicious as always, and the ravenette smiled back playfully, teasingly stating "Did you expect any different, darling?" You went along with the jeer, and just as smoothly replied "Of course not, dear." Paired with a wink it left Alma a bit speechless; you weren't often one for endearments, so the sudden use of one was a welcome surprise. Still the woman cleared her throat and refocused on the rest of the kids and her own meal, refusing to give you the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. You chuckled at her stubbornness but made no comment on it.

The rest of the meal passed smoothly and without mishap, and before you knew it all of you were in the sitting room. It was still decorated wonderfully, lights twinkling along the walls and a few little items sprinkled here and there around the room. You sat yourself down against the edge of the couch on the floor, The Twins on either side of you and Claire in your lap as usual while Horace began his projection. Luckily he hadn't dreamt of any specific presents, but you did catch a glimpse of red contrasting against something blue, falling snow and a flickering fire. It was a nice change from Horace's usual dreams of tailors, a topic that for once didn't appear even once. Instead his dreams had been filled with Christmas warmth and joy that left all of you smiling--even Alma. Soon it was over, and the children were being told to head to bed. Although, you did make sure that they all got to choose some cookies for "Santa" (breaking news, notmanagingmymischief makes claims that Santa is, in fact, not real, more at six) before being sent to bed with the promise that if they fell asleep fast and did as they were told, Santa would come and give them all their gifts. All of them besides the older children fell for it, of course, but even they kept the spirit up and pretended to believe your words.

Alma lingered in the doorway as her children walked past, some giving her hugs and others passing with no more than a smile and nod. Once they were all gone, the ravenette finally looked back to you. In the back of your mind you thought that she looked a bit more nervous than normal. You smiled back and mumbled "That was eventful, huh?" Alma nodded, humming in agreement and walking over to the small table where the plate of cookies and glass of milk, lights still on and creating a warm glow about the room. Meanwhile, you retrieved your phone and scrolled through your Christmas playlist, searching for a suitable song. Finally you found one, tapping on it and turning up the volume as "I'll Be Home for Christmas" began playing. It caught Alma's attention and she looked to you over her shoulder, one perfect brow arched in question. You smiled mischievously and held out your hand, dropping the phone onto a table. "May I?" Alma looked between you and the proffered hand skeptically, asking "Do you even know how to dance?"

You scoffed playfully, mocking offense as you exclaimed "Do I know how to--Alma! What do you take me as? Uncultured?" "Yes, actually." The casual comeback, slipping from her lips alongside a blank expression, made you laugh loudly. You said the woman's name again, still laughing slightly, and stated "How dare you! And yes, I do in fact, know how to dance. My mother taught me when I was like seven." Alma continued to stare at you, finally straightening up again but still smiling brightly. The song looped to start from the beginning again, and finally the ymbryne pulled in a deep breath before letting it out as a heavy sigh and nodding in acquiescence. Your leg bounced a bit in excitement when the woman took your hand in hers, allowing you to pull her closer. Your grin had dimmed into a fond smile and you automatically placed your other hand on Alma's waist, earning you a strange look; perhaps she's used to leading. But tonight she allowed you to do so, and as the first "Christmas Eve will find me" played, and it didn't take long for the two of you to set a casual rhythm. You watched carefully as Alma's expression relaxed and she muttered "I will admit, you do have...some skill."

Normally you'd return it with your own teasing jab but tonight you just hummed and murmur "Told you so." Alma rolled her eyes but also smiled, and you knew that she was enjoying herself as her hand tightened just slightly in yours.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, a certain brunette had snuck downstairs at the sound of music, and watched from around the corner as you and his headmistress danced about the room, not once stumbling or losing pace with the slow song. Even after it ended and moved onto "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas", you continued to move in time, exchanging quiet conversation. Abe's eyes sparkled in devious delight, eager to tell Emma all about this little moment of soft intimacy between you and Alma, knowing she'd go absolutely mad over it. A few minutes passed, and Abe finally prepared to leave you two be, giving you some much needed privacy, just barely hearing you mutter "I believe we're being watched," and Alma replying "Oh yes. You just now noticed?" You let out a breathy laugh and rolled your eyes. Finally Abe snuck off, retreating back up the stairs silently. You continued to dance with Alma until the song ended, at which time the ravenette finally sighed and pulled away, mumbling something about getting to bed. You nodded, knowing she was right, and moved to stop your music.

As soon as the room fell silent again, you bid your goodnight to Alma, snuck in a quick kiss to her cheek, and slipped out of the room and up to yours, ignoring the little "hey!" the ymbryne let out. You ignored the obvious fact that Emma and at least a few others were still awake, given away by the light that slipped past the crack beneath her door. They were old enough to deal with themselves and you trusted they'd get to bed before Alma caught them. While you got ready for bed, you put your earbuds in and listened to "Underneath the Tree" a few more times, just for the hell of it. And because it absolutely slaps.

Meanwhile, Abe had just entered Emma's room, everyone else also gathered with the exception of the younger children. As soon as the door was closed he began to whisper yell, excitedly telling them all about yours and Alma's shared dance. It made Emma and Olive squeal happiness only for Enoch to shush them while Abe came to sit on the floor as he spoke. Together, they talked quietly and finished planning their...well, plan, and promised to put it into motion at the first sign of Alma's wake the next morning.

The next morning, you were awoken by a beam of warm sun in your eyes, having forgotten to close your curtains the previous night. You yawned and stretched your arms above your head, reluctantly getting out of bed after a few more minutes of rest. Slowly, you began to get ready for the day. You'd found a special dress for the holiday, a deep red number with white fur bordering the bottom hem and sleeve cuffs, along with black stockings and flats. After some shimmering green eyeshadow and ruby lipstick, you fixed your hair and were finally ready. So you exited your room, only to be immediately met with Fiona standing directly outside your door talking to Millard. They both looked at you, or so you assumed since Millard's classic hat tilted upwards, and Fiona quickly exclaimed "Merry Christmas, y/n!" Millard repeated the statement and you returned it with a beaming grin. Horace walked out of his own room right about that time, your outfit catching his eye. A polite smile followed, along with "You're looking quite festive this morning." You laughed, shrugging and replying "Well, yknow. When in Rome, eh?" It earned you a small chuckle.

Soon though, you wanted to get downstairs incase Alma needed assistance. But as soon as you went to walk down the steps, Fiona stopped you and exclaimed "Wait! Not yet!" You gave her a skeptical look, already suspicious. "There's a surprise for you and it's not ready yet," the small brunette claimed, and you took a deep breath, hesitant to believe her but, not wanting to ruin the 'surprise', nodded and agreed to wait until she gave you permission. You leaned against the banister and made sure your dress was still looking good, for at least five minutes until finally Fiona let you know that you could head downstairs. Exasperated, albeit eager to see what this surprise consisted of, you obeyed and hopped down the steps until you hit the landing. You headed into the kitchen first, not seeing anyone around, then moved to the dining and sitting rooms. Nothing. A bit wary, you finally went to the study, hoping that the others were simply gathered around the tree, as young children do. You did not find any children. But you did find Alma. You took a startled step back as your lips parted and eyes widened in surprise. Because of all the things you expected to see when you entered, this was not one of them.

Instead of kids sitting by the tree, you instead found Alma by the tree. Not sitting, rather kneeling. She was wearing her usual outfit, but as she raised her head, having heard your surprised gasp at seeing her, you noticed a ruby red bow tied loosely and delicately around her neck, the same color as your lipstick. Nearly speechless, you did manage to choke out a slightly cracked version of her name, earning you a nervous smile. When she didn't move or stand up, you hesitantly walked closer, watching her unusually timid behavior carefully. The woman's head bowed slightly again, gaze not meeting yours even when you stood directly in front of her. Taking a chance, you carefully hooked your fingers under Alma's chin to tilt her head back up, forcing her eyes up as well. They connected with yours and you could see the anxiety swimming just beneath the surface as you stared down at her in confusion. "How in the world did you let yourself be talked into this, Alma?" You asked, a smile finally playing on your lips. It slightly relaxed the woman, and gave her enough courage to reply "Honestly, I'm not quite sure. I suppose I have a weakness for seven children collectively begging me to."

The image of kids crowding around Alma and pleading with her to do this made you laugh, shaking your head playfully. You hadn't yet released Alma's chin, keeping her head up and baring her neck, still adorned with the bright red bow. Your gaze dropped to it for a moment, amusement no doubt showing on your face. "You look like a present, all wrapped up so prettily. Or are you a puppy with your pretty red bow?" You teased her, voice dropping to a purr and effectively bringing a flush to Alma's neck that crept slowly up to her face. You leaned down a bit closer and murmured "The question is, who gets to unwrap you?" with a smirk, eyes dropping to Alma's lips for a moment, parted with surprise. You were close enough to hear her breath hitch before she whispered "Well that all depends on who wants me, doesn't it?" It was bold, and you had to admit sent your heart fluttering. Your gaze returned to Alma's, darkened slightly, mirroring your own. So you breathed "I may have an idea of who that could be," unconsciously licking your lips, which inevitably caught Alma's gaze, cobalt eyes focused on scarlet.

They stayed there for quite some time, the ymbryne not quite able to respond until she finally managed to choke "Who do you have in mind?" Your smirk twitched up a bit further, and Alma just had time to look back to your eyes before you had replied "Me," and finally brought your lips to hers. The suddenness took Alma's breath away and she instinctually leaned up on her heels, trying to get closer to you with you still firmly keeping her head in place by her jaw. The kiss was tender but left both of you breathless as well as speechless; though you weren't planning on talking with your lips still very much preoccupied. Neither of you were willing to break the kiss, even as the angle began to get slightly uncomfortable, and your free hand absently fiddled with the bow at Alma's neck, running your thumb across the silky material and up to the woman's jaw, where you traced the length of the bone. Finally though, you did have to breathe, so you pulled back a few inches, letting go of Alma's chin but still running your thumb against her jaw affectionately. The look in her eyes was overflowing with fondness, and she went to say something.

But before she could, the shouts of excited children entered the room, followed by grinning teenagers, and you knew exactly who had put Alma in this position. You almost wanted to reprimand them for making her uncomfortable, but you also knew that without this little push you most likely wouldn't have ended up where you are now. So instead you sighed heavily and straightened up, helping Alma to her feet before saying "This was your idea, wasn't it Emma?" The blonde nodded, clearly not ashamed in the least, and the others also piped in with admittances of guilt. You just chuckled, Alma glaring softly at her children, though it disappeared when you squeezed her hand, still linked at your sides. After a moment of silence, you gave them an expectant look and gestured behind you to the other, non-human presents, and instantly the kids were in motion, crowding around your legs and falling to the floor looking for their respective gifts. You laughed loudly and gently pulled Alma out of the throng of hyper younglings, the two of you watching from the sidelines as they began opening them (with Alma's permission of course) and talking excitedly about their bounty.

Neither of you spoke for a while, and eventually Alma checked her watch and slipped out of the room with an apologetic smile and kiss on the cheek. As soon as the headmistress had disappeared, Emma approached you with a small smile. "Took you long enough," she said, and you rolled your eyes. "How did you even come up with this?" you asked instead of scolding her, and the blonde replied "Well, we heard you listening to that one song on repeat and decided we'd, you know," she laughs quietly, "Take a hint from it." You knew what song she was speaking of almost immediately and stated "You're all I need underneath the tree," dumbfounded at their cleverness. Emma nodded, smiling smugly, and returned to the others with one last snarky comment. Finally, figuring they'd be okay alone for a few minutes, you snuck off to retrieve Alma again, finding her in the kitchen readying breakfast. She sensed your approach and her head raised with a smile, one you returned easily as you came to her side. "You know, I've got a present for you too," you mumbled, resting your chin on her shoulder.

The ravenette hummed in interest, continuing to work but responding with "And what might that be, darling?" You laughed airily and exclaimed "Well I can't tell you! Then it wouldn't be a gift!" From the corner of your eye you could see Alma roll hers yet again and gently grazed your fingers over the ribbon she had yet to untie from her neck. "Are you planning on taking that off? Or do I get the honor of opening this present?" You breathed, slipping behind her and wrapping your arms around her waist. Warm breath fluttered against Alma's skin and sent shivers down her spine, the double meaning not lost on her in the slightest. As you placed gentle kisses against her neck, the woman shakily replied "Who gave you the idea that you get to do such a thing?" Her voice wavered as she spoke and you waited patiently as she continued; "Haven't you heard of 'you can look, but you can't touch'?" The statement, posed as a challenge, made you smirk wickedly, lips still pressed to Alma's skin, and before she could register you moving, she had been spun around and pressed firmly against the counter. The ymbryne's heart skipped a beat as you leaned over her, lips just inches from brushing as you murmured "If I were you, I wouldn't be teasing me like that."

Though Alma's heart was nearly beating out of her ribcage she still managed a playful smile, one which would no doubt be wiped from her face soon enough, and replied "But you look so wonderful when you're frustrated." Not even seconds later your mouth was on hers, demanding and rough, once again stealing Alma's breath right out of her lungs and ripping a surprised moan past her lips. She did her best to respond in tandem, though you did make it quite difficult with the way your fingers had moved to grip her hips tightly. Alma's own arms raised to curl around your neck, resting her elbows on your shoulders as you pressed her into the counter and kissed her 'til she could barely remember her own name. Though she did try to speak at some point, breathlessly mumbling "Darling, the children--" But you quickly shut her down with a quick "Are busy with their presents," and reattached your lips to hers in yet another hungry kiss. She supposed you were right; the kids were most likely not even missing either of you, too focused on their new possessions to notice your disappearance.

Alma just about forgot her task of preparing the meal, as your tongue slipped past her lips and curled around her own, well practiced and honestly putting her own skill to shame--in the best way of course--and completely emptying her head of anything but your mouth and your name, playing on loop in her mind and occasionally spilling from her lips as you lavished her neck with attention, finally pulling the bow's tails and undoing the knot, letting it hang across her shoulders. It's ruby red a sharp contrast to her navy jacket, you absently registered that's what had been in Horace's dream last night. Still you didn't think about it too much as Alma pulled you back to her lips before she could let a too-loud noise pass them, the borderline moan instead felt against your lips. Your name was said like a prayer, chanted as a mantra that Alma's life depended on her getting correct--every sound that came from her mouth another invocation of a deity only you knew. You spoke her own name against pale, burning skin, orisons of worship to the woman you love. And when you finally had to stop, when you at last removed your lips from Alma's, still you repeated benedictions like it was your last day alive, like Alma was the only one who could save you.

The woman whined when you removed your lips from hers and tried to lean forward and catch them again, somehow completely abandoning her natural tendency to keep a tight schedule. But you did not, and took it upon yourself to remove her watch from her pocket, checking the time and doing your best to estimate how much longer it would be before a torrent of hungry children would pour into the room requesting sustenance like wild beasts. You weren't very good at it though, not nearly as good as Alma, but luckily she got the hint quick enough and shook herself out of her daze, clearing her throat and snatching her time piece from your hand, checking it herself. It only took a glimpse of the hands to have her stating "We have seven minutes and thirteen seconds to finish breakfast." You nodded, and let her up with no more than a quick peck to her cheek, still warm to the touch. It took Alma a moment longer to fully collect herself, but after taking a deep breath, closing her eyes tightly, she snapped into action, back to her usual self (mostly). And as she worked, stealing the occasional kiss here and there, the ymbryne couldn't think of a better way to start Christmas.

#miss peregrine #alma peregrine #miss peregrine x reader #alma peregrine x reader #miss peregrine's home for peculiar children #mphfpc #eva green #eva green x reader #fanfiction #x reader #fem!reader #romance #christmas special #lgbtq #lesbian #wlw #you're all I need under the tree

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thestruidora · 3 years ago

Text

Landslide

The Avengers (MCU) Fanfiction

Rating: Explicit

WARNINGS: This story will contain but it’ll not be limited to explicit 18+ content including Obsessive Behavior, Smut, Shower Sex, Edging, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Fluff, Oral Sex, thigh riding, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Dominance, Submission, Knotting, Scenting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Rutting, Rut Sickness

Category: F/M

Pairings: Steve Rogers/Reader, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov

Summary: Steve was never quite sure if he truly was an alpha. Genetically he should be, coming from a long line of alpha males. But due to the several health conditions in his youth, his poorly functioning body never presented. But now, because of the serum reacting to his true designation, a terrible case of rut sickness takes hold of the super soldier, threatening his life. Being a beta, Natasha can’t offer him what he needs, and since omegas are rarer today then ever, she is forced to hire a foreign girl to tend to Steve during these desperate times.

Author’s notes: Did y'all miss me? Yeah, I'm sure you didn't.

If anyone is interested in getting to know the magical music genre called forró, I chose a couple of classics that I feel like definitively played on the reader's first and only June Party: O Xote das Meninas Xote Dos Milagres Cintura Fina Morena Tropicana

Shout outs: @captainchrisstan, @keenkiddeputynickel, @danidv011, @ballyhoobarnes, @pophbfdsxa, @crashbarbie, @readermia, @musicnowandforever661, @bianaguipa, @deezy-061 Thank you so much for your guy’s support!

For those who missed it: Chapter One >> Language Barrier Chapter Two >> Bilingual Chapter Three >> Miscommunication

Chapter Four

Gibberish

She can still remember the laughter. The giggling that came from the back of her throat as she threw her head back, a smile full of teeth spread through her lips. The exhilaration of being with her friends, dancing her heart out.

It was her favorite time of the year. The sounds of the June Party moving on her feet. The rhythmic vibrations of the music's beat coursing through her. The songs, the speaking, the dancing: all at once ringing in her ears. One of her very first alcoholic drinks running through her veins along with all the spinning making her dizzy.

She was the happiest she’s ever been.

Every year her older cousins would travel to the countryside of Bahia's state, where the June festivities were the most elaborate. Her mom, so controlling, so protective, would never let her go. But on the year of her 14th birthday, she begged a little more strongly, pleaded a little more fervently, and now there she was.

It was so much more than she could ever have imagined. Bigger, louder, an explosion of newness to her senses. A big contrast to her secluded life in the city, because everybody knows that being a woman is hard, but being an Omega is harder.

Her mom was mated only a few hours after presenting, a few hours into her first heat, to a man she barely knew and definitely did not love. But still, she was one of the lucky ones. She could have been robbed, kidnapped and trafficked. Because Omegas are rare and the demand is huge, so presenting as one was as good as a death sentence.

But she was still young, she still got time.

And now, finally outside of her mom's vigilant eyes, with her girlfriends dancing by her side and the pulse of the *forró guiding her body she could allow herself to be carefree.

“Rapaz, que secura!” Lana screamed, complaining about the heat.

“É, tá um calor desgraçado.” Gabriela agreed, fanning herself with her hands, droplets of sweat trickling down her forehead and into her exposed cleavage.

Y/N simply laughed at her friends, they were a couple years older than her, but not necessarily more mature. Of course it was hot, they’ve been dancing for a long time, and even in the open space with the night air hanging over them, the place was so crowded that they would barely move while trying to get to the open bar.

She watched as the girls got their beverages, gobbling them down as if they were the first drinks they had in ages. But suddenly, the permanent smile that had been plastered on her face throughout the night died, something curious shifting inside of her. It was a unique feeling, one she never experienced before. It had started as a tightness in her lower abdomen, but it was growing into a sharp pain.

��Você tá bem?” Lana asked if she was ok, noticing the grimace in her features.

She tried to shake her head yes, but it came out the exact opposite as she doubled down on herself, her hands pressing on her stomach as she frowned, the pain becoming unbearable. Were these cramps? Was she about to get her period in the middle of this party?

But no, it wasn’t that. Somehow in the back of her mind, she knew this was different. She had begun to sweat, but not from the crowd or the dancing, there was this intense hotness forming within her.

She noticed a couple of men standing on the edges of the party space, in the shadows, almost camouflaged. Their eyes were predatory, fixated on her, they shined with a sinister glow, reflecting the flickering red light of the bonfire. Her friends called to her, guiding her to walk across to one of the tables, helping her sit down. When she looked again, the men were gone. Was she going mad?

“A gente vai ver se encontra Ibuprofeno, fica aí.” Gabriela said this time, or was it Lana again? They left, said something about looking for painkillers, she wasn’t paying attention, the pain was too much and so were the smells. All of the sudden, she felt like she could smell every single thing and every single one in the whole place.

She could smell the perfume, and the liquor, the sweet and the savory foods, altogether but also individually, it was overwhelming. She could smell the people, not their body wash or their shampoo, but their true scents. Some were warm and some were cold, some too strong and others too bland. And then there were two that were getting closer, too close, and these stung in her nostrils. Her vision had gone blurry and she couldn’t tell much of what was happening around her at that point, but she knew she wasn’t alone.

Shaking from the pain, shivering even though she was burning up, she looked up just fast enough to get a look at the two men from before, standing right behind her. One of them covered her eyes with his hand and the other covered her mouth. A muffled scream and a couple of weak punches were all she could do before they pulled her up from her chair, completely immobilizing her.

She trashed and struggled about, but to no avail. They were big and strong and she was small and frail.

“Shhh, Omega.” One of them whispered in her ear, and as if under a spell, she did just what was asked of her, her free will hushed. Something about his voice, and their touch, turned the pang in between her legs into a tingle.

And that’s when she knew: she had presented and this was her first heat.

They dragged her pliable body into the woods of the rural countryside, the sway of the forró getting left behind, her mother’s voice playing on a loop inside her head, “Be careful”, she always said.

Everything went dark, she could only make out flashes of information. The roughness of their hands and the graveness of their voices as they spoke to each other, laughing to themselves about how much she was worth, the way they sniffed at her neck, exhaling with satisfaction.

At some point, the grass of the forest turned into asphalt underneath her feet, and she was blindfolded and tied up, her lips taped as she was thrown into the back of a car. She could only whimper, her heat burning inside of her.

Shifting in and out of conciseness, she couldn’t tell how long had passed, couldn’t differentiate hours from days anymore. From time to time she would feel the prick of a needle going into her arm, and then it was all darkness again. She remembered being cold, shivering about as more rough hands grabbed at her. Were these the same ones from before or no? Had Lana or Gabriela reported her missing? Was anyone coming for her?

Eventually, it all stopped.

There was a cushiony softness below her, a thin sheet of fabric above her. When Y/N carefully tried to open her eyes, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she was greeted by light. Not the warm sunshine that often peeked through the windows of her bedroom in the mornings, but a cold, harsh light that came from a singular light bulb attached to the ceiling.

No longer tied or muzzled, she slowed sat up in the single bed, looking around. There was nothing covering her figure but the bedding, not even underwear. She found herself in a tiny room: four concrete white walls, a small barred window and a closed door.

Her heat was over, she could feel it, no more fire burning in her loins. She disentangled herself from the bed sheet, getting up too quickly, ignoring her nakedness and the dizziness, heading straight for the door. It was locked, of course.

Finally feeling sober enough to allow the rage to bubble up inside, she began to furiously bang on the door with clenched fists, kicking it, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Hey!” A male voice boomed just outside, appearing suddenly, as if he was already waiting right there. “Yapma!” He hit the metal of the door, hard, making it shake slightly.

She retreated, startled, analyzing the situation. She had no idea what he had said, but gathering from the brutality with which it was uttered, it couldn't have been good. She didn't even know where she'd been taken, but she had an idea why.

More male voices were spoken on the other side of the wall, in that language she did not know. Something electronic beeped, then it let out a subtle ping sound, and just like that the door was sprung open. Two men walked in, the first thing she noticed was the gun one of them was carrying, while the other came in with a paper file in his hands. She backed away into the corner of the room, trying to cover her exposed chest and genitals with her hands, their big Alpha bodies taking over the space, making her feel even more intimidated.

“Nasıl hissediyorsun?” The one with the file said to her, his words sounding like a reserved recording to her brain. He was older, maybe in his late forties, greying hair at the top of his head, a light blue suit framing his ample shoulders.

When she didn’t answer, simply stood there against the wall, trying to control her labored breathing and the sheer fear that had taken over her body, causing even her inner organs to shake, he gave her a once over, opening the file and scanning through whatever was written there.

“Brazil, huh?” He arched one of his brows. “Can you understand me now?” He asked her, deliberately enunciating every word.

Y/N swallowed the sigh that was trying to leave her lips, staring at the gun, wide-eyed.

“Dumb bitch.” The man in the suit murmured to himself, snapping a finger in her face, getting her attention. “You’ve been on sedatives for a long time, little one. How are you feeling?” He said it as slow as he could, as if speaking to an animal. “Do you got a tummy-ache or a headache?” He rubbed his belly while saying ‘tummy’ and touched his temples while saying ‘head’.

She only frowned at him, a crease forming in between her eyebrows. He scoffed, leaning forward, letting his light-colored eyes roam over the valley of her breasts.

“Or maybe you’re just cranky cause you didn’t get no Alpha dick inside that tight little pussy yet.” Before he could finish his words, she was already propelling the whole weight of her body into her closed fist as she punched him in the face, fear turning into fury.

“Oh!” He growled, covering his bleeding nose, quickly walking away from her, face contorted in pain. “Shoot her!” He yelled at the other man, who promptly pointed his gun at her.

“Não!” She shouted out, closing her eyes and attempting to protect her face with her hands. A blunt sound echoed in the room and she felt something sharp go into her leg. Before she had enough time to come to the conclusion that it was tranquilizer dart, her eyes rolled back into their sockets and blackness welcomed her once again.

Five years had passed with her locked in that place, slowly forgetting where her mom’s face wrinkled the most when she was angry, or the exact shade of her eyes, the particular timbre of her voice. Y/N was slowly going mad, losing all hope of ever being rescued by the hero that always came to her in her dreams.

She was fourteen when she was taken, highly prized for her young age and virginity. They tried to sell her to the highest bidder many times, but she fought like an Alpha. Biting, roaring at anyone that came too close. Some of the men even began to doubt she was a real Omega, but ever so often her heat came and it reminded them. Emir, the big boss of the operation, sometimes would come to her doorstep during those times, tap at door and use his Alpha voice, laughing when she had to bit her own lips to control the moans his presence was causing.

But in the end, she wasn’t genetically compatible with anyone, and even those that wanted her for her fierceness were disappointed to find that her DNA did not match with theirs. A part of her was happy she had never been sold and probably never would be, just for the simple satisfaction of knowing that her body wouldn’t give those men any profit.

So there she stayed, locked up, imprisoned, hearing the sounds of the other girls crying in their rooms while she got on her tiptoes, trying to catch glimpses of the outside world through her only window, waiting.

It had been a while since she last saw Emir when the door made it’s telltale beep and was opened by him, but this time, he wasn’t alone.

“Hello there, my Latin beauty.” He smiled an evil smile at her, but she didn’t pay it any mind, focused on the redhead woman that was beside him, looking at Y/N with sorrow in her eyes. “See, Widow? I told you my girls are gorgeous, look at her.”

The woman let a displeased noise at his words, coming closer to Y/N, who gave her a distrustful look.

“Hi, I’m Natasha. What’s your name?”

“It’s Y/N.” Emir answered for her.“Oh, and she doesn’t talk.”

“Excuse me, what do you mean?”Natasha turned to him, her short red locks moving with her.“She’s mute?”

“Nah, she just doesn’t know any English.”

“Oh.” She gave the girl one more pitiful stare, but Y/N felt like she was looking right through her.

Leaving the facility was like a dream and a nightmare all at the same time. While finally being free was wonderful, Y/N knew that such freedom would come at a cost. The woman, Natasha Romanoff, wasn’t the best at Portuguese, but knew enough of it in order for them to communicate.

Y/N didn’t say much when they gave her a suitcase full of brand-new clothes and guided her out of that God-forsaken place. She didn’t say a word when a dark-haired man tried to take the suitcase from her hands, Natasha said his name was James and that he was only trying to be chivalrous, something about the 1940’s that she didn’t quite understand.

She remained quiet as Natasha tried her best to explain to her that a man’s life was at stake, that Captain America was dying of a terrible rut sickness, and that he was compatible with her and her alone. That yes, she had been bought like cattle, but it was for noble reasons, because Steve Rogers was an honorable man, a hero and his destiny was in her hands.

She kept all of her thoughts to herself as Natasha pulled up a ‘Rut Companion’ contract, stipulating that once Y/N had served her purpose and Mr. Rogers was out of danger and well, she would receive a large sum of money and could walk away from all of this, go anywhere she wanted and do whatever she pleased. Even after signing it, she resigned herself to silence.

And of course, she didn’t say anything when they boarded a jet to the United States, not even a word about the fact that she was actually fluent in English.

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codenamejudas · 1 year ago

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It was mesmerizing to watch, in a way. Travelling around meant Judas met more people than he could hope to remember and while there had been very nice people, Judas doubted ever meeting anyone this disarmingly pleasant. He watched Mr. Fell pull everything together, wearing an amused smile and leaning his head against his hand while his elbow rested on the table. Then Judas remembered himself and pulled his elbow back off. Then he really didn't know what to do with his arms so he drummed both hands against his thighs. Manners, he concluded, were hard and he swore off them...after this visit so he wouldn't get any disappointed looks.

Both eyebrows raised, almost conspiratorially, "Milk, too? Scandalous! I'm sure I'll love it. Never been very picky."

The whirlwind of Crowley's return threw Judas for a loop. It took him way longer than this just to change the strings! But as his arms fumbled with clutching the case he couldn't find any words of protest. Instead he simply slid to the floor, popped the clasps and saw exactly what he expected to see. Or what he expected to see about an hour from now. The guitar was back in one piece, none of the bits had been pilfered, but- "I...will. Thank you?" He hadn't meant it to come out as a question. Even as he climbed back into his chair he left the case open so he could side eye its contents for anything awry.

Judas got the distinct feeling that Mr. Fell liked to chat. That given the right topic he might go on for a good long while. This was particularly noticeable to Judas because he, too, was at risk of talking people's ears off when opportunity struck. And Crowley had just unwittingly opened the floodgates.

"Oh, man, 'bout twenty years, give or take. I do a lot of freelancing," Judas' fancy way of saying buskering, "but there's two guys I play with regular. Mostly we do events. Cover songs. Halloween is our biggest but we'll do anything really if it pays. Don't even have to pay well, sometimes we just get free drinks and those are always fun nights. You know how it is." This was directed at Crowley. The man currently draped over the chair next to him screamed rock star. As far as Judas was concerned, he was talking to a fellow guitarist. "What's your style? You look," Judas squinted, tilted his head, "classically trained with a hint of rebellious years in metal. Well, what I grew up with as metal. I think these days it's called classic rock which is just rude."

There was what only could be described from his perspective as tension between the two individuals above, and Judas sat back on his calves trying to work out what flavour it was. Despite his hand at invoking it, Judas felt this had absolutely nothing to do with him. Not really. It did make him wish he hadn’t finished that kettle corn in his guitar case the night prior.

As Crowley snatched up the case, crumbs and all, Judas nearly reached out on instinct to grab for it. This had nothing to do with his trust in either of the people here and more to do with prior experiences. To make himself feel less embarrassed about the hair-trigger response, he tried to make it look like his intentions were to gather up what he could of the mess on the floor. Without any thought of how to dispose of the bits, he simply poured them into a pocket. Then a short symphony of cracks, courtesy of Judas’ knees, sang out as he got to his feet but they didn't hinder his ability to spring upright.

The brief back and forth got a laugh out of him, though Judas did his best not to make it too loud by slapping a hand over his mouth. “Hard to argue with you," he whispered from under a raised palm. "Not every day you meet someone willing to put in work for nothin’. ” Honestly, this whole- for lack of a better word- ordeal started to make Judas consider doing nice things to other people for a change, instead of sizing them up on whether they’d notice their wallets getting pinched or not.

Felt like dangerous thinking.

His inner turmoil, however, was interrupted by a sense of realization. Judas took a seat and assumed a Thinking pose. “I don’t...think I’ve ever had tea. I mean, I have coffee all the time, just never occurred to me to try the alternative. Is it good?” Then he held up a finger as if preparing what might be the most important question ever asked, “and can you put sugar in it?”

#storyandscng #storyandscng; Aziraphale #storyandscng; Crowley

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kohanayaki · 3 years ago

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.:Time And Time Again:. (Marauders Era x Reader) Ch 8

You come across an old photo book full of untouched memories and decide to go through it with Harry, though there are some things you decide he doesn't need to know and some things you'd rather forget. (Takes place mostly through Marauders era flashbacks)

LINKS: CH 1 CH 2 CH 3 CH 4 CH 5 CH 6 CH 7 CH 8

Ch 8 .:Snapshots, Secrets, and Sentimentality:.

“Hey, Harry?” you called out into the living room where said boy was reclined on one of the large charcoal armchairs, “I found something you might want to see.”

His eyes widened behind the round frames of his glasses as you carried over a large, leather bound book that was thick with laminated pages. You sat across from him on the couch, setting it down on the coffee table in front of you.

“We still have a few more hours before the others arrive for the meeting,” you said, “and I don't know when the next time we'll be able to talk like this will be.”

“Wait,” he said before you could open the book, “you aren't staying?”

“I can't,” you smiled at him sadly. A statement that was true for a multitude of reasons you'd rather not get into with your godson. “I wanted to show this to you before I left, though.”

With a wave of your hand the book's pages gently flipped open, revealing a number of old magical photographs. The page you had turned to had a picture of James, and you could see Harry's eyes lock onto it. His father was beaming at the camera, holding up the Quidditch cup as two of his Gryffindor teammates held him up on their shoulders.

“Now you see why everyone always tells you how much you look like him,” you chuckled, “that's him in his fifth year, same as you now.”

Harry stared in wonder at the photo. He really did look like his dad. James was slightly taller, lankier, but he had the same disheveled waves of dark brown hair and boyish grin as Harry. Their faces were nearly identical; except for the eyes, of course.

The photo right next to that one was you wearing a Seeker's crest. You were posed, standing with the rest of your team with a wide smile on your face. Harry's brow furrowed as he spotted an unknown yet somehow familiar boy next to you with curly black hair and light eyes.

“Who is that?” he asked, “he almost looks like—”

“Sirius?” you finished. Harry nodded. “That would make sense,” you said, “that's Regulus, his younger brother.”

“I. . . didn't know he had one,” Harry said in wonder.

“Well, you know he doesn't talk about his family often.”

“Right. . .” Harry trailed off for a moment, “but you knew him? His brother?”

“Yeah,” you said, feeling a tug at your heart, “We were friends, for a while.” Your eyes subconsciously looked up towards his room which now stood empty. “He, um. . . he died, some time ago.”

“Oh,” Harry said, not knowing what to say, “I'm sorry. . .”

You gave him a small smile in thanks, trying to shrug off the grim feeling the memories brought up as you turned the page of the book to the next.

This photograph was one that was moving— you and James in your Quidditch captain's uniforms. He was reaching over, ruffling your hair while you were ducking to avoid him, pushing his face away and turning his glasses askew despite the grin on your face.

“We both became team captains in year six,” you said, smiling fondly at the picture, “we'd squared off as Seekers the year prior, so it was only natural. You were already playing Seeker your first year, weren't you?”

“Yeah,” Harry said bashfully, “although my first time catching the snitch was bit rough to say the least.” You laughed at that, recalling the time he told you the story of how he had caught the snitch with his mouth his first match.

“You take after your father, for sure,” you said, “he was always a creative flier; came up with all sorts of purposefully confusing strategies as captain. By the time the other team figured out what he was doing, he'd have already caught the snitch and the match would be set.”

Harry felt pride fill his chest at your words, glad he was taking on his father's good qualities.

“So you were a Seeker your fifth year and played until you graduated,” he recalled, “but I thought you said you played Chaser before?”

“Well, sort of?” you admitted, “Not officially. My introduction to the game was unconventional, to say the least. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1974 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

James and Sirius huddled with the rest of the Gryffindor team on the Quidditch pitch, gearing up for the match. The energy around them was electric, the stands packed with students and faculty from every house.

“Remember, keep to the left,” Halls, their team captain, said sternly, “and take advantage of Parkinson's blind spot. If Rollins and the rest of the Chasers start scoring above 40 before halftime, we'll go in for the Pincer.”

Sirius nodded, determined to win this match. It was the first one of the season, so a lot was riding on this. However, his attention was diverted as the crowd's cheers suddenly grew louder. The Slytherin team had arrived on the field, marching towards them. Something Sirius didn't expect to see, however, was you, dressed in Chaser's robes next to his brother.

“What are they doing here?” Sirius scoffed as he spotted you, “they're not even on the team!”

“Rollins took a spill last practice,” Vanity said as she stepped forward. The Slytherin captain had a wicked grin on her face, “(L/n)'s a last minute replacement. Don't bother trying to argue, I've already cleared it with Madame Hooch.”

“Convenient of you to tell us ahead of time,” Halls' eyes narrowed.

“Is there a part of 'last minute' that escapes your understanding?” Vanity rolled her eyes.

“Well, no matter,” Halls said, “you've lost your best Chaser, we don't have anything to worry about.”

“That classic Gryffindor confidence,” Vanity smirked, “we'll see about that. I don't choose just anyone to fill in.”

Halls scoffed as Vanity turned on her heels, not bothering to look back.

“Seems you've found yourself another game to lose, (L/n),” James smirked at you.

“Have I?” you arched a brow, “what's our score now? 10-9?”

“10-10 since I got you with that scalene water in the Prefect's bathroom,” James reminded you, “how was being half fish for a day?”

“Marvelous, felt just like you,” you quipped.

“Settle down, everyone,” Madame Hooch said, stepping out onto the field, “Potter, (L/n), I know you two have taken to pranks on each other in class, but I don't want to see a lick of that up in the air, understood?”

“Perfectly,” you said, a smirk sneaking onto your face as you mounted your broom.

“Wouldn't dream of it, professor,” James said with sarcastic flair.

Sirius eyed you cautiously. Gryffindor had flying class with Hufflepuff, so they'd never actually seen you fly before, but there was no doubt that if Vanity approved of you, you had to pose some kind of threat.

“Take your marks,” Hooch said, and you rose off the ground in unison, staring each other down. “Let the match begin!” With a strong, well placed kick, the Quidditch case was thrown open to release the bludgers and the snitch, and as she threw the quaffle up in the air you lunged forward into a dive. You were just about to grab the ball when a blur of red and gold nearly knocked you off your broom.

“Potter has the Quaffle!” Kingston commentated from the box, “he passes to Longbottom, who evades Catchlove and Regulus Black. Longbottom scores! The first ten points go to Gryffindor!”

The patrons in the red and gold stands went wild, the roar deafening in your ears. This was definitely different from flying class. You had to get it together.

The hair on the back of your neck suddenly stood straight up when something whizzed right past your head as you barely moved to dodge it. Sirius gave you a passive shrug from the other side of the field, a beater's bat resting on his shoulder.

“Tosser,” you grumbled under your breath. You had half a mind to throw him right through the left-field hoops without his broom, but dealing with the bludgers wasn't your job; you just had to evade and score. You wouldn't let your team down.

Your eyes searched the skies for the quaffle again, and found it as you spotted a Gryffindor snatch it out of Catchlove's hands. You built up momentum, lowering your body to your broom handle as you picked up speed, swiping the ball from the red Chaser's hands before his eyes could register. You flew under him before their team could rearrange formation and spun around quickly, swatting the quaffle towards the lower right goal with the tail end of your broom. Their Keeper dove to block it, but was one second too late. The ball flew through the hoop and straight into Regulus' hands, who looped back around and threw it through the top right, leaving the Gryffindor Keeper too disoriented and too low in the corner of the goal posts to do anything about it.

“(L/n) outmaneuvers Johnson and scores!” you heard the commentary box boom, “Regulus Black follows up with another goal, we are 20 Slytherin to 10 Gryffindor, what a quick turnaround to start off the match!”

You huffed, impressed that Regulus was able to make the most of your shot. You knew he was Sirius' brother, but that was about it. He was a year younger than you, so you didn't have any classes together and never really talked to him before.

“Nice shot,” you said, flying next to him.

“Same to you,” he said with the slightest upwards quirk of his lips.

“Oi, keep it up you two!” Vanity shouted, hovering over you before dodging the bludger that flew her way, “Black, keep point on Johnson, he's off his game today. (L/n) I want you on intercept and watch for Potter.”

“Gladly,” you smirked, flying off towards the other side of the field. You were starting to feel more comfortable in the air, like you were when you were just flying by yourself; the sounds of the crowd disappeared over the wind rushing in your ears, and you were able to concentrate on your main objective:

Kicking James Potter's arse.

And that you did. The all too confident smirk that seemed to be permanently plastered to his face disappeared when he suddenly felt the weight of the quaffle leave his hands. A victorious smile graced your lips at his dumbfound expression as you threw the ball long to Regulus, who caught it with ease, swatting Johnson away like a fly before scoring another goal.

“(L/n) passes to Black who scores another ten points for Slytherin!” Kingston announced, “it looks like the two rookie players are really hitting their stride now. Choosing (L/n) as a last second fill in is really paying off!”

Sirius' eyes narrowed, grunting in frustration as he hit another bludger your way. Regulus' head turned at the sound of the crack of the bat and signaled over to one of your Beaters, who tossed the bat his way just in time for the Slytherin to send the ball flying back towards his brother. Sirius cursed under his breath, rolling to the right and spinning out of control for a moment before reorienting himself.

“Hooch, what gives!” he shouted, “penalize them!”

“Fair play under protection,” Hooch denied him, “you've been taking headshots, Black. Be grateful I'm not docking you.”

Sirius grumbled a few choice words under his breath before flying back into the fray.

“Thanks for that!” you called over to Regulus.

“Don't mention it,” the boy said, his expression still fairly neutral save for the slight smirk on his face. How the hell was he so calm during this game anyways?

You continued to work with Regulus throughout the match; you'd found a system that worked, and your captain told you to roll with it. Pass after pass you intercepted and scored, mainly targeting Potter not just because Vanity had told you to, but because it brought you a considerable amount of personal enjoyment.

That's when you saw it— a tiny, nearly imperceptible flash of gold that whizzed by your peripheral vision. Neither of the Seekers had caught sight of it yet, but you watched as it zoomed low towards the ground, hovering just beneath one of the crowd stands.

“Oi, Talkalot!” you shouted over the crowd at your Seeker, “Dive low at Hippogriff, now!”

You'd only had a few hours to look over the strategies that Vanity laid out for you, but you knew the Slytherin team had come up with code words for each quadrant of the Quiditch pitch so you could alert your Seeker if you saw the snitch without the other team knowing where it was. You hoped to Merlin you'd gotten the code right, and you exhaled in relief as Talkalot zoomed past you, taking a sharp dive straight down.

“Nice eye, (L/n)!” she shouted over her shoulder, her voice trailing off as she went after the snitch at top speed.

Sirius' eyes widened as he saw the sporadic move from your Seeker. That could only mean one thing.

“Halls, they've got eyes on the snitch!” he shouted to his team captain who cursed under his breath, taking off in Talkalot's direction, but her lead was too great.

“She's got it!” Kingston hollered into the mic, “Lucinda Talkalot has caught the golden snitch, scoring 150 points for Slytherin! Our score comes out 50 Gryffindor to 230 Slytherin, and this match is over!”

“Slytherin wins!” Madame Hooch proclaimed from her broom.

Everyone in the emerald stands cheered so loudly you thought their tents would topple. You couldn't believe the amount of adrenaline coursing through your body in that moment. It was a complete sensory overload as you were bombarded by the Slytherin team, mostly comprised of people you hardly even knew, and thrown on top of their shoulders and they cheered for you.

“What a game, (L/n)! I never knew you could play!”

“Where the hell have you been all this time, eh?”

“You better try out next year or you're dead!”

You laughed at the last comment from Vanity, people buzzing around you as soon as you were set down. You broke away from the congratulatory comments and pats on the back, however, as you spotted James across the field. You couldn't help but rub this in his face a little.

“Why so blue, Potter?” you grinned as you bounded over to him, “what was that about me 'finding another game to lose'?”

For once, James had no clever comeback, and his face flushed as you laughed at his expression.

“I do believe that leaves us 11-10,” you said cheekily, doing an overly exaggerated bow before tossing your broom from your left hand to your right and stalking off.

“Not for long,” James said to himself once you were out of earshot, equal parts impressed and supremely annoyed. It was time for him to pay another visit to Zonko's. He'd show you blue all right. . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“After that year I tried out for a permanent position as Seeker,” you said, “your father and I concluded our prank war, Sirius and I put aside our differences, Lupin vouched for my involvement with the map, and the rest is history.”

“I seriously can't believe you became such close friends only two years later,” Harry said, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“Neither could we,” you said, “it was just a series of chance encounters that we learned we were more similar than we thought. I really do believe that friendship can come from anywhere, Harry. Even more so when you least expect it. So if there's anyone around you that you think you might never get along with, I'd say it's worth it to give them a chance.”

Harry paused at your words. There were more than a few people who came to mind.

You turned to the next page, which was a spread of you and the rest of the Marauders in more casual settings. One could clearly tell you had taken them of each other, if the shaky camera movement and blurry rendering were anything to go off of.

You smiled to yourself as you saw a photo of you and Remus asleep in the Hogwarts library, lightly leaning against each other with your eyes peacefully closed. Suddenly the camera flash jolted through the photograph, and you two bolted upright. You glared at the person taking the photo and reached out to smack the camera away, the picture going blurry for a moment before resetting. Harry laughed at the brief repeating scene, as did you.

“Your father took this one,” you huffed, “because of course he did.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1977 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You rested your head in your palm as you transcribed a few spells into your notebook. The lantern in front of you gave you just enough light to read the elaborate Latin, as the sun had long since set. Your eyelids felt annoyingly heavy, attempting to close on their own as you fought against them to stay awake.

“How are you holding up?” Remus asked with a slight grin, catching you jump awake at his remark.

You and Remus had gotten permission from Madame Pince to use the library after hours to study; after all, you two were outstanding students. If James and Sirius had made the request, they wouldn't have gotten so positive a reaction.

“I've been more awake in my life, but I really need to get this done tonight,” you sighed, “NEWTS start next week and I have to be ready.” You stared up at the boy who was looking at you with obvious concern. “I'm fine, Moony. And I don't want to keep you here, so whenever you want to head off to bed, feel free to.”

“It's no trouble,” he said, “I'll walk you back to your common room, at least. At this rate you'll fall asleep in the middle of the hall for Filch to find you.”

You gave him a light but well-meant glare, groaning as you turned your tired eyes back to the parchment in front of you.

“Why the sudden all-nighters anyways?” Lupin asked, “I thought you'd be plenty prepared.”

“My Charms marks haven't exactly been the best lately,” you admitted, “that's kind of important if I want to become an auror, Remus.”

“Really?” the lycanthrope said, surprised, “but you're always in the know on some spell or another I've never even heard of. You've even made some of your own, right?”

“Yes, but the Ministry wants people who can conjure a corporeal patronus, not someone who made up a spell that makes antlers grow on someone's head to make a very specific joke.”

“Well, I thought it was impressive,” Remus laughed, thinking back to James asking him 'why does my head feel so heavy?' “but I see what you're saying,” Remus continued, “Have you thought about Dumbledore's proposal? Joining the cause might call for some more specialized tasks that would fit you well.”

“Right,” you bit your lip, “I just. . . I don't know. It's a lot to take on. A big part of me is scared, Remus. I'm not like you guys. I can't just fearlessly leap into a battle without any second thoughts. James and Sirius gave their answers so quickly and. . . I couldn't say for sure right away like they could. Honestly, I was terrified, and I still feel guilty because of it.”

“Fear is wisdom in the face of danger, (Y/n),” Remus said, “It's nothing to be ashamed of. No one is forcing you to make this decision right away, nor are they requiring you do it alone. There's a war going on out there, (Y/n). No one would blame you for not diving into it headfirst.”

“Always the quoter of muggle proverbs,” you chuckled lightly, “thank you, Remus. Really.”

A quiet yawn snuck into the back of your throat, and you stretched out of your chair to try to get feeling back into your body.

“Maybe I should turn in soon,” you said, your voice already groggy, “just a few more transcriptions. . .”

Remus stayed by your side as you continued to work diligently, and he found himself smiling at your innate stubbornness. It was something he greatly admired about you; when you decided on something you stuck to it no matter what, sometimes to a fault. You fought to keep your eyes open, even as your head began to slope and your handwriting gradually became slower.

Lupin was beginning to tire himself, which surprised him. He was naturally nocturnal, after all, and usually had no issue staying up to the early hours of the morning. But the quiet scratch of your quill against the parchment, the occasional sound of a page turning, and the smell of your shampoo that wafted with the motion, all lulled him into a sense of ease that was much too easy to doze off to.

Just when he thought he might fall asleep, he almost jumped out of his skin as he felt a soft pressure on his shoulder. He looked to the side to see you sleeping peacefully, your head having slipped from your palm and onto the soft fabric of his sweater. His face flushed a deep red, and he thanked Merlin you were sound asleep. He was caught in between embarrassment and slight panic as he instinctualy wanted to wake you but also ensure you actually got to sleep tonight.

He meant to wake you, he really had, but his mind and body betrayed him, and without even knowing when, his eyes fluttered closed and he drifted off into quite possibly the best sleep he'd had in weeks.

The flash of the magical camera was blinding, even through your closed eyelids. White spots danced in your vision as you groaned, shielding your face from the camera.

“MORNING, LOVEBIRDS!”

Remus jolted awake, remembering last night's events in an instant and banging his head on the bookshelf beside him in an attempt to put some distance between you two.

James was stood there, camera in hand and doubled over in laughter.

“Prongs, you better start running before I skin you and turn you into a pair of shoes,” you growled.

“How is it that I always catch you two sleeping together?” James chortled, completely ignoring your statement, “Can't be long till you get it on to the other sense of the phrase.”

And that's when you lunged at him. Too bad he didn't take your advice for a head start.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“That twat,” you said fondly, a statement that about summed up your and James' friendship.

Harry found himself smiling as you recounted your memories with his father. It made him feel that much more grateful for what he shared with Ron and Hermione.

“Oh, Merlin,” you laughed as you saw the next picture. You, Remus, Sirius, Peter, Lily, and James were standing side by side, Slughorn smiling in the middle of all of you. “This was the first and last Slug Club party that we ever attended all together,” you said, “Like I mentioned, Lily and I had always gone, and—”

You caught yourself.

And Severus would pretend to be reluctant tagging along, you finished in your mind. After what happened he stopped attending the parties.

You cleared your throat.

“Ahem, well, we'd always gone together as friends but none of the boys ever went with us,” you said, “It was our last year, and Lily finally convinced James to tag along, because by then they were together and he was contractually obligated to do so. I talked Sirius into coming because Slughorn had been trying to get him to come for years, and I made Remus my plus one. So for the first time ever, we were all at the party.”

“So it was the last party of the year?” Harry asked.

“Um, well, no,” you laughed, “it was the last party we were invited to. Let's just say your godfather thought it would be funny to enchant the ice sculptures to chase Lucius Malfoy around the dance floor. I'll admit, watching that stupid blonde ninny run screaming from a rapidly melting octopus to the tune of a classical string quartet was pretty entertaining, though Slughorn obviously felt otherwise.”

Harry chuckled, clearly seeing the spark of mischief in Sirius' eyes, even through a photo. As Harry's gaze drifted across the page, he noticed an empty space near the corner of the book. A discolored square remained where a photo should have been, the caption reading 'Christmas, 1976.' As he saw the way you ran your fingers lightly across the page, he decided against asking you what used to be there. He instead turned his attention to the next photograph, which was one taken in an all too familiar setting.

“Hold on,” Harry said, pointing to the picture, “that's the Gryffindor common room!”

“Sure is,” you grinned, “that secret passage from the dungeons to Gryffindor tower went from being used purely for pranking purposes to a way for us to actually hang out together at night.”

You stared down at the photograph fondly. You all looked so much older than the first pictures. You and James were lounging on the couch, not bothering to hide the overly full glasses of firewhiskey in your hands. Sirius and Remus were sitting on pillows on the floor, caught in the middle of a fit of laughter before all four of you turned to the camera which flashed. A pang of hurt and anger hit you square in the chest as it did. Peter had been the one taking the photo.

“I remember this day,” you said, an expression Harry couldn't quite figure out on your face, “it was the night before graduation. Our last night at Hogwarts. . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 1978 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A giggle rose in your throat as you took yet another drink of firewhiskey with James and Sirius, something that Remus insisted you were going to regret come morning.

“Oh, don't be suck a stickler, Moony,” Sirius guffawed, “tonight's the night! This time tomorrow we'll be packing up camp and heading out into the great unknown.” He made an expansive gesture with his hand that was cut off promptly by James smacking him upside the head.

“I'll brew a pepperup potion tomorrow if anyone really needs it,” you assured Remus.

“Not really the point, (Y/n),” he rolled his eyes.

As you leaned back to look at the four of them, all grinning like idiots and laughing, you felt a strange sense of sadness come over you. This was your last night at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the place you had spent most of your life and where you had met the people you could no longer imagine that life without. As the reality of that fact sunk in, you grew quiet.

“Everything's going to be different after tomorrow, isn't it?” you said.

The boys looked surprised at your sudden and intense declaration, and James was the first to break the tension you'd created.

“Aww, Fangs is getting all sentimental,” he grinned, slinging an arm over your shoulder.

“I will toss you out this window, Prongs.”

He laughed, poking you in the cheek, his smile only widening as you huffed in annoyance.

“It won't be different,” he promised, more serious but with that smile ever present on his face, “we'll still be friends. We'll still be a pack. And besides, after we graduate we could go. . . well, anywhere together! Just think, the five greatest heroes Hogwarts has ever seen, going on top secret missions from Dumbledore, saving the world!”

“It'll be dangerous, James,” you said, “there's a war going on, remember?”

“What war could ever break us up, huh?” he said reassuringly. You felt your heart swell at the remark. “And besides, you're gonna have to see me next year for the wedding anyways! Lily wanted it sometime in Spring.”

“. . .”

“WEDDING?!” you, Sirius, Remus, and Peter screeched, practically in unison as if it had been planned and rehearsed. Chaos erupted in the room, and you couldn't care less if you woke everyone in Gryffindor tower.

“You sly git, when were you gonna tell us?!” Sirius whacked his friend over the head with the map.

“I just did!” James said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head, “And ow, Merlin, Pads. . .”

“You hit me first!”

“I can't believe you just dropped that on us,” you said, “Lily actually agreed to this?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” James huffed.

“Hey, I'm just saying you tend to drift off into fantasy land when it comes to her,” you said, putting your hands up in mock surrender, “I was just making sure this was rooted in reality.”

Remus laughed at that, lifting the needle on his record gently.

“They have a point,” he chuckled.

“Yes, I actually proposed, and yes she actually agreed,” James said, a lovesick smile on his face, “I wanted to get married pretty soon after we graduated, and she had no problem with that. She said she'd want to start a family—”

“Oh GOD,” Sirius said, drunken horror on his face.

“An actual nightmare,” you joined in playfully, “imagine another one of you running around. Even Lily's DNA couldn't balance that out.”

“Alright, that's it,” James said, “you're not gonna be godparents anymore.”

“I'd be terrible at that anyways,” Sirius chortled.

“I disagree,” James said earnestly, and the comment struck Sirius completely off guard. He chocked up the welling tears in his eyes to the alcohol, taking another sip to mask it.

“You're going soft, Prongsy,” he grumbled.

“Look who's talking, tough guy,” James laughed, clapping his best friend on the shoulder.

“We should take a picture,” Peter suggested quietly, turning red when everyone stopped what they were doing to face him, “I-I mean, since (Y/n) was worried about things changing, and we're all graduating, a-and who knows when—”

“Good thinking Wormtail,” James beamed, pulling you closer and leaning down towards Sirius and Remus so you could all be in the frame.

Peter was looking down at his shoes, fidgeting with his wand.

“Peter, you don't wanna get in the picture?” you asked.

The large framed boy jumped at your voice, looking nervously between the people he had come to know as his friends. There was an oddly fearful look in his eyes that left as soon as it came— a look you wouldn't understand until years later.

“N-no, that's alright,” he said.

And that was one of the last peaceful days of your life you could recall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I haven't even thought about these in the longest time,” you said, staring at the faded photos, “it's crazy to look back on them. It feels both like yesterday and a hundred years ago.”

The next page immediately summoned a lump in your throat.

“This was their wedding,” you said, fighting to keep your voice level, “the year after we graduated.”

Harry looked down at the dozens of photos of the ceremony and party that took place after; James at the altar in his burgundy and gold embroidered suit, and Lily walking down the isle with a bouquet full of the flowers that shared her name. Remus raising a champagne flute to the large crowd of guests as he made a heartfelt speech. You and Sirius dancing under the floating lanterns made to mimic the Hogwarts ceiling.

“Your father never was one for subtlety,” you laughed lightly, “he wanted the ceremony to be as extravagant as possible. He pulled out all the stops. . . and then, the very next year, they announced that they were going to have you.”

You looked up at Harry, and the resemblance he shared with two of your closest late friends conjured feelings of happiness, love, and deep, cutting sadness all at the same time.

Your fingers moved to turn the page, wanting to move on to something else, but you froze as you saw the edge of the next one. So much for that plan.

“I think that's enough for now,” you said quickly, smoothing the page back down, “the others will be arriving soon for the meeting, you best get washed up.”

Harry was curious, of course, but he nodded, not wanting to press for anything else as he reluctantly headed back upstairs.

When you were left alone with the photo book you sighed, bringing yourself to turn the page to see a picture of you and Severus. You were beaming at the camera, proudly holding out your perfectly brewed Draught of Living Death, the photo having been taken by Slughorn to put up on his famous wall. One of your arms held the cauldron haphazardly, the other slung around Severus' shoulders. He certainly wasn't displaying your level of enthusiasm, but a small smile graced his expression, allowing his lips to fully curve upwards, which was as close to 'beaming' as he ever got. He looked so much younger— less burdened.

Right next to that photo was an older one from 1973. It was one you had taken from the top of the oak tree, with Severus and Lily looking up at you. You knew he'd be here soon, and you knew you should talk to him, but you found yourself stuck back in the cycle of doubting every opening spiel you came up with.

You groaned in frustration, snapping the book shut and resting your forehead on the table as stress flooded your being. You refused to live in this perpetual state of dwelling on what happened. You were ready to talk, you just had to take the first step.

Chapter 9 coming soon!

Taglist: @sleep-i-ness, @blackpinkdolan, @parker-natasha, @ornella0910 @undertaker1827 @thatwierdo-koemi @nxstalgicnxbxdy @calaryssia @aleksanderwh0r3 @juggysgirlfriend @beautifulsweetschaos @kattirin @mialupin1 @crazy-obsessed-fangirl, @youcantbesirius @pan-pride-12

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onceupon · 3 years ago

Text

London Boy - Part 4: Just friends

summary: You wake up to find Rafe Cameron in your bed. Even though nothing happened, you’re still left trying to make sense of it all.

pairing: Rafe x reader (slowburn)

warnings: swearing, drinking

word count: 5k

a/n: thank you so much to all of you who have been reading along <333 sorry in advance if you want this to progress faster haha, it simply must be this slow, sorry I don't make the rules (even tho I do lol). Not canon Rafe!!

masterlist

Your eyes slowly flutter open as the early morning rays wake you up. You didn’t even remember falling asleep. As you slowly gain consciousness you’re startled by the weight of Rafe’s arm draped across your body. What the hell? When did that happen? He spent the night in your bed?

Your mind races at a million miles an hour as you slowly slip out from under his hold. You were careful not to wake him up, not wanting to face any awkwardness. You throw on fresh clothes and grab your backpack, desperate to make your escape. You had wanted to get to school early today to work on some homework anyways, never before so eager to trade in the comfort of your bed for the library.

After a quick pit stop to pick up a coffee and a croissant, you swing the heavy wooden doors open. You liked campus at this hour, the morning light still soft, the air crisp, and the atmosphere silent. As you scan your eyes for a spot to sit, you notice the unmistakable sight of fluffy brown hair hunched over a table.

“Liam?” your whisper. “What the hell are doing here?”

That classic cheeky grin spreads across his face as he looks up to find you standing in front of him. “I go here, Y/n. Forget already?”

You roll your eyes, “I just didn’t know you were the studious type.”

“Not gonna lie to you babe, I’m not. But Rogers is already all the way up my ass over this class, and I’m not letting that prick hold me back a year.”

You pull out the chair across from him and go to sit down, spreading your books out on the table.

“Who said you could sit with?” he asks, and you shoot him a look. You’re not in the mood. “Geez alright, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed… you good Y/n?” he slows, taking in your disheveled appearance. You hadn’t so much as brushed your hair.

“Can you promise not to tell anyone,” you stare dead into his eyes.

“On my life,” he extends his pinky, and you accept.

“Rafe… slept over last night…”

“Oh shit!” he exclaims, and your eyes widen at his echoing voice.

“Not like that,” you hiss, not wanting to draw anymore attention to the two of you. “Nothing happened… like he just came over to watch a show and then we talked for a while and just accidentally… fell asleep. I panicked when I woke up and realized he was still in my bed so I ran out of there as fast as I could and now…. well now I’m here.” You nervously chug your coffee, heart racing.

“So he hung out with you all night and didn’t make a move?”

You nod, nervously awaiting his analysis as you take a bite of your croissant.

“Damn, boy must really like you,” he muses.

“What? Definitely not,” you scoff.

“Y/n, let me tell you a little something about guys. If we really like you, we’re gonna make the time to hang out with you, no matter what. The fact that he’s coming over your room to watch a show and hanging out with you until he physically can’t stay awake - I mean I can’t make it any more obvious to you.”

“I don’t know I just don’t think so… You don’t know Rafe like that, he’s a total player back home. He can pull any girl he wants, so if he liked me like that he would’ve done something by now. This is probably how he is with all his friends and I’m just reading too much into it. I’m sure Lily Colts will be in his bed soon enough,” you mumble. That last part stings in particular, you had already thought it, but saying it out loud made you feel… icky.

“I may not know Rafe like that, but I know guys like him. I am guys like him. He likes you Y/n. So what if he pulls a lot of chicks, he doesn’t actually care about them. But he cares about you, probably can’t even understand why, and now it’s like bam Uno reverse. He can’t pull the cards he normally does, and now you’ve got him confused and he doesn’t know what to do. Man’s down bad. Give him time though, he’ll come around,” he explains to you calmly, stealing your coffee cup from you and taking a sip.

“Honestly can I just start paying you to figure my life out for me. You make everything seem so simple.”

“Because it is simple. You insist on complicating it. But I know how you could pay me,” he adds with a wink and you shoot him a glare. You know he’s just joking (partially), he loves pushing your buttons.

“Well whatever. I’ll believe it when I see it,” you resign on the Rafe matter. You wanted to believe what Liam was saying but it didn’t quite make sense to you. You were only going to drive yourself crazy trying to read between lines that you weren’t sure existed. Rafe was just used to situations like this with girls. To him last night was probably no big deal. It was to you though. You would never let ‘just a friend’ stay over like that, with his arm around you no less. But Rafe didn’t need to know that, you decide.

—-

You manage to avoid Rafe all day, not having any classes with him on Friday’s. As soon as your last class is over, you sprint home, relieved when you’re the first back at the flat and can quickly slip into your room undetected. You set down your bag and sit on the edge of your bed. Your hand slowly runs over your comforter, still ruffled from where Rafe had been laying the night before. The indent of his head is still on your pillow; you can almost smell the scent of him lingering in your room and hear the sound of his soft whispers. You wonder what his first thoughts were when he woke up in your bed alone - was he confused? Embarrassed? He probably thought nothing of it at all. You can just picture him casually getting up with a stretch, like it’s the start of any typical day.

You slip into the shower and let the water wash over your body. It’s warm and soothing, and it’s reminding you of Rafe laying next to you, of his arm wrapped around you. God if there was only a way to shut your brain off once in a while. As much as you tried to suppress it, there had been a tiny part of you that was happy to have woken up in his embrace, giddy like a school girl with a crush. You’d always wondered how a moment like that would feel, or how a moment like that with him would feel. You had conveniently failed to mention the “arm” detail to Liam, maybe because in the back of your mind you knew it would only help prove his theory right.

When you make your way back to your room, your phone buzzes and the Royal Fam 🇬🇧🇺🇸 group chat appears.

Olivia: who wants to go out tonight 😈

Topper: me and Rafe have to be up early tmrw for soccer - rain check on this one ladies

Olivia: :(

Olivia: girls night out??

Millie: you know I’m there!

You’re a little bummed that Rafe won’t be there tonight. But a girls night sounds like just what you need to get him off your mind.

Y/n: I’m in :)

Not even a few minutes later Olivia and Millie are barging into your room, causing you to let out a startled yelp.

“My god, heard of knocking,” you exhale with your hand coming to your chest. Your statement falls on death ears.

“Which jeans with this top,” Olivia asks, holding the clothing items against her body.

“Should I curl or straighten my hair with this,” Millie follows, holding her outfit up.

“Uhh,” your mind scrambles, “those jeans Liv. And straight, Mills,” you reply, shocked by your own decidedness. “But now you guys have to help me, I have no clue what to wear.”

“Say less,” Olivia flashes a smile.

Within minutes they tear through your closet, picking out your outfit. Things were always much more clear with a fresh set of eyes. The three of you discuss the night’s logistics before making your way to the kitchen - couldn’t go drinking on an empty stomach. Rafe and Topper are already there, and you try your best to act natural even though your stomach ties itself in a knot the moment you catch a glimpse of his face. You haven’t seen him since you ran out this morning.

“Uh hey I’m gonna run to Sainsbury’s real quick, I wanna get a chaser, anyone need anything,” you ask, avoiding eye contact with Rafe. Your nerves get the best of you and in terms of fight or flight, you were ready to flee.

“Hey wait I’ll come with you. Gotta pick something up for dinner,” Rafe stands grabbing his jacket, and before you can interject, he’s leading the way down the hall and out your shared flat.

“So what are you chasing tonight?”

“What?” you ask startled, his question pulling you back to reality. Your mind had been running in a loop, trying to read him and the thoughts in his head. You wished now more than ever that you knew what Rafe was like behind closed doors back home, so you could somehow make sense of it all.

He chuckles at you, lost in your own world. “You said you needed a chaser?” Those intimidating blue eyes have found their way to yours again and you hastily look away, focusing in front of you instead.

“Oh yeah- uh just for the vodka,” you laugh nervously.

“Basic,” he mocks. You scoff in surprise and lightly hit him on the chest as the laughter leaves your lips. He’s sporting a shit-eating grin, having successfully egged you on.

“You’re funny if you think I’m gonna do shots of whiskey before going to a club.”

“Well you do owe me one…” he says.

“Oh so he remembers?” you reply, amused.

“Of course,” he states so calm and so sure. Your head swirls at that, his cool confidence making you melt. The automatic doors slide open in front of you, fluorescent lights stealing your attention from the boy you were finding dangerously more attractive by the second.

“I thought we’re supposed to take it together? But someone’s being lame and not coming out tonight,” you say sarcastically, playing it as cool as you can manage. Rafe’s confidence seemed to come naturally, but you were more of a fake-it-till-you-make-it kind of gal.

“Hey you know I have soccer,” he defends. The Kook Prince was not one to turn down a party without cause.

“Excuses excuses,” you shake your head.

“Actually, speaking of soccer, you uh- you and the girls should come tomorrow. If you’re not doing anything. Or not too hungover I should say. Game’s at 12.”

“Can’t make any promises Cameron, but we’ll see,” you smile, earning a satisfied smile from him in return.

You make your way to the frozen food aisle, Rafe explaining to you how they call a soccer field a football pitch here, as you laugh at him grabbing 5 frozen pizzas (dinner solved for the next week, of course). You ask him which chaser you should pick. He points out a cola, so naturally you decide to get blackberry seltzer water, Rafe twisting his face in disgust (who would voluntarily drink that tv static). You always felt so nervous at first, to be in Rafe’s presence, but all it ever took was a few minutes for you to completely relax around him. He was intimidating, yet inviting. Mysterious, yet open. He was somehow the cause of your anxious nerves and yet the source of your comfort. The fear of facing Rafe after running out this morning had paralyzed your thoughts all day, and now you could hardly remember why. He hadn’t mentioned it at all, as if nothing happened. His normalcy confirmed for you that him sleeping over was in fact no big deal, and you almost want to laugh at yourself for how much you had worked it up in your head. You two were just friends, and perhaps Rafe was used to being… a friendlier friend than what you were used to. But that was okay, you could learn to be friendlier too.

—-

Rafe and Topper had decided to accompany you guys in the kitchen as you pregamed. They slowly sipped beers as you, Millie, and Olivia pounded back shots, laughing at the way you guys got progressively drunker and progressively louder before finally heading out. And much to your surprise, the boys were still seated in the same spot hours later, when the three of you stumble back into the flat, McDonalds in hand.

“Oh look who’s still up,” Olivia slurs, taking a bite of her cheeseburger.

“We can’t go out, we have soccer,” Millie mocks, almost falling to the floor as she trips over her heel, Topper and Rafe not making any effort to hide their clear amusement.

“Fun night huh?” Topper quirks his brow.

“The funnest,” Millie holds her head high, sinking down against the wall until she’s sat on the floor. You had made a beeline for the dining room table, silently admiring your chicken nuggets. In that moment, they were the best thing you had ever tasted.

“I want Jake,” Olivia pouts, and before anyone can say a word she’s turned on her heel, burger in hand, off to crawl into her boyfriend’s bed.

“Alright you drunk, let’s get you to bed,” Topper laughs, scooping an incoherent Millie up to her feet by her elbows.

“M’not drunk,” Millie protests, even though she’s leaning her full body weight against Topper who sarcastically nods at her, escorting her down the hallway. Rafe sits on the couch, silently playing with the cards in his hand again, not the least bit uncomfortable with sharing your company in silence.

“I’m mad at you,” you say matter of factly, taking a bite of a french fry. At this point, the alcohol is doing the talking.

“Mad at me?” Rafe stops shuffling the cards and raises his head to look at you, intrigued.

“Yeah because you didn’t come to the club,” you furrow your brows, chucking a fry at him. He catches it instantly, laughing to himself with a shake of his head.

“Don’t worry I saw all your guys’ snaps, I feel like I was practically there.”

“That’s not the same,” you frown, throwing another fry which he catches yet again.

“I’ll try to be there next time,” he laughs.

“That’s better I guess,” you grumble, eating another chicken nugget. The room grows quiet, Rafe training his attention back to the cards.

“When are we watching the next episode Cameron,” you break the silence, chucking another fry. He barely has to look up to catch your latest throw, shaking his head with a chuckle. He puts the cards down and makes his way over to the dining table, standing right above you now.

“Come on, time for you to go to bed,” he beckons you toward him with his arm, to which you only furrow your brows in indignation.

“I’m not done with my food,” you protest.

“Now you are,” he says, grabbing your last fry and finishing it with one bite. “Now c’mon.” You reluctantly grab onto his extended arm to help you get up. You walk down the hall together and he opens your door for you, letting you in as he leans against the frame. You immediately fall back and collapse on to your bed with a gasp, you didn’t remember it feeling so soft when you were sober.

“Goodnight L/n,” Rafe laughs, staring down at you.

“Goodnight Rafe,” you mumble, seconds away from passing out. He smiles to himself at the sight of you still in the outfit and shoes you had been out in, bent in surely the most uncomfortable position possible, legs half way off the bed, yet somehow already asleep. He’s about to head back to his room, but he hesitates, turning back to you with a sigh. As slowly and quietly as he can, he pulls your shoes off for you, lifts your legs onto the bed, and covers you in your blanket. And just as quick, he slips out of your room and back into his.

—-

You wake up the next morning, letting out a groan when you realize you’re still in the outfit you had worn clubbing. Your head dully aches and your throat is desert dry so you force yourself up and to the kitchen. When you see the aftermath of McDonald’s containers on the table, vague memories start flooding your brain in horror. You couldn’t have… could you? Did you actually throw french fries at him? You close your eyes and slowly run your hand over your face in realization. Great, you think to yourself, Rafe probably thinks you’re an annoying idiot. Good grief.

You hear the door of the flat opening and Olivia appears in the kitchen, holding a plate of breakfast sandwiches, your mouth watering at the sight.

“Thank the lovely lads in apartment 4E,” she laughs, placing them on the table. “Oh god, we went hard last night didn’t we,” she says, taking in the sight of the flat.

“A little too hard…” you remark.

“No such thing, darling! Now eat up and get dressed, we’ve got a match to catch,” she declares before disappearing down the hall where you can hear muffled groans of Millie being reluctantly dragged out of her bed. You sigh and sink down into a chair, grabbing a sandwich and taking a bite. Heaven. You make a mental note to thank Jake for his chef skills. You had completely forgotten that you and the girls were supposed to go watch Rafe and Topper’s match today. Your worries about having to face Rafe yesterday had been quick to melt away, but today they were back with a new vengeance.

—-

“Okay no one wander off when we get there. Y/n, fair warning, these games get… rowdy,” Millie says, as the three of you walk toward the field, arms linked.

“Things get pretty crazy at Kildare too,” you laugh, “so yeah, don’t fucking let me out of your sight.”

The three of you shake off your fits of laughter as you stumble toward the stands, finding a spot amongst the already packed crowd. You’re finally able to take in your surroundings, glancing at the field ahead. The opposing team is warming up on the pitch, clad in red. Westheath’s team is off to the side, the boys stretching and getting ready in their white uniforms. The dirty blonde immediately catches your eye. He’s jumping and jogging in place, headphones in as though he’s tuning out the physical noise around him, and probably the mental noise too. You wonder if he’s listening to one of the songs he showed you the other night.

He pauses his jogging to stretch out his arms, his eyes glazing over the stands, when suddenly they lock with yours. Your cheeks flush pink, embarrassed at having been caught staring, but his face just pulls into a wide grin and he gives you a wave. You wave back, and he does a quick hand motion that everyone does at Kildare games back home. You laugh and do the responding gesture, as he smiles cheekily at you before a teammate comes up to him, pulling his focus away. The exchange was brief, but oddly intimate. There was a whole field and a couple dozen people between you, and yet you two were the only witnesses to the interaction. You smile to yourself, relief in the fact that maybe getting a french fry chucked at him wasn’t enough to make him hate you after all. You wonder briefly if Rafe spends half as much time overanalyzing things the way you do. Liam was right, you do insist on overcomplicating things.

“Hey, earth to Y/n!” Olivia laughs, waving her hand in front of your face. “The game is starting!”

—

The final score flashes on the screen: 4-2, a win for Westheath. The students are going nuts, rushing the field. Olivia and Millie lead the way, pushing through the crowd until you guys reach Rafe and Topper.

“Let’s go boys!!” Olivia yells, jumping up and down with the sea of bodies and beer around you. Rafe and Topper react with equal enthusiasm, pulling each of you in for a hug. You and Rafe are the last to hug, him pulling you in brief but close against his large sweaty body, arms wrapped around you. You don’t even mind the stickiness of the hug, feeling deja vu at the warm feeling of being in his embrace again; a feeling that is foreign yet familiar, one you hadn’t felt before.

“Did you guys see Rafe’s goal in the second half!?” Topper asks, clapping his friend on the back.

“Of course we did, super star!” Millie cheers, giving Rafe a high five as he humbly shakes his head and laughs at his friends. The mental image of his goal was burned in your head, one that your mind would certainly play for you involuntarily over the next coming days.

“Alright we gotta go do some stuff with the team, but everyone’s going to Central Bar later. See you guys there?” Rafe asks.

“You got it,” Olivia replies, and they jog off with quick waves, you meeting those blue eyes in silent acknowledgement once again. It was that gaze that always made the rest of the world seem to disappear while his eyes met yours, making your heart skip a beat. He’s just a friend, you remind yourself. Just a tall, attractive, soccer-playing friend…

—

“Y/n! Liv! We’re doing a round!” Jake calls you and Olivia over to where him and Liam are already at the bar, four shot glasses ordered and lined up.

“On three! One, two-“ Liam chants, as the four of you down the alcohol. Central Bar had been buzzing with what felt like half of Westheath’s student body all day. After the game, you and the girls had gone back to your flat to nap and eat, before meeting up with Jake, Liam, and the rest of their boys to head to the bar. Rafe and Topper were already pretty buzzed when you guys got there, playing a round of table tennis with you before the rest of the soccer team and their other friends pulled their attention away. You couldn’t help the way your whole body tensed when Rafe greeted Lily with a tight hug, humbling you with the confirmation that Rafe’s actions toward you weren’t anything special. You resolved yourself to a night of drinking and dancing your worries away with Liv and Liam instead.

“Alright, round of table tennis? You two against me and Y/n?” Liam challenges.

“Please, I saw Y/n playing before, you guys have nothing on us,” Olivia flashes an evil smile, her competitive side coming out.

“Oh it’s on Liv,” you laugh, as your foursome stakes your claim at the pong table. While Olivia and Jake gather the balls and paddles, you notice Liam grimacing off into the distance. You follow his line of sight, landing on Topper and Millie drunkenly dancing together across the bar, a bit too close for comfort.

“What is she doing with that geezer,” he mumbles.

“Liam! Jealousy is unbecoming of you,” you gasp in mock disbelief.

“I’m not jealous,” he scoffs, and you quickly realize that he actually is, even though you had just been joking. Your jaw falls slack as you put two and two together. Liam and Millie were always by each other’s side, at school, at the pub, when you were all watching a movie at his apartment a few nights ago. He would tease her relentlessly and his own words rang in your ears If we really like you, we’re gonna make the time to hang out with you, no matter what.

“Shut up! Shut up!,” you whisper yell, hand coming to your mouth. “I should have realized this whole time… of course you like Millie! Everything you’ve been telling me you think exists between me and Rafe has actually been about her! She’s your Uno reverse card!” You’re shocking even yourself at these revelations.

“No no no, you can’t use my own words of wisdom against me, that’s not how this works Y/n. So what, maybe I slightly give a shit about Millie? Who cares. Her and I both know that’s never gonna happen. I still stand by everything I said about you and Rafe so don’t think your getting off so easy on that.”

“Then tell me why you’re staring at Millie while Rafe hasn’t so much as glanced my way since the minute Lily Colts got here, hmm?”

“Oh Y/n, Y/n Y/n Y/n,” Liam tuts, shaking his head laughing as he turns to the game your group of four is about to begin. You don’t have the energy to argue with Liam over the matter right now, oblivious to the fact that Rafe had indeed been glancing your way, several times. In fact, he was glancing at you right now, as Liam reached his arm over yours to help you actually hold the paddle the right way. You just hadn’t been glancing back to notice, scared of what you may or may not see between him and Lily if you did.

—

The night dies down and it’s time for the pilgrimage back to your building. You’re walking with Millie when Liam quickly falls in step with you two. You give him a knowing smirk, to which he responds with a glare behind Millie’s back, but you let the two banter as you fall behind, now walking alone. You stare ahead, eyes mindlessly settling on Lily walking in between Callum and Henry at the front of the pack. You don’t notice the pair of legs that begin moving in pace next to your own.

“Tonight, by the way,” Rafe’s voice startles you as you jump next to him. He chuckles at the confusion written all over your face. “You asked last night when we’re watching the next episode. And my answer is tonight, L/n,” he states.

“Haven’t you been up since like the crack of dawn? Aren’t you tired?” you ask incredulously.

“Too tired for Game of Thrones? Never,” he scoffs, Liam’s words ringing in your ear. If we really like you, we’re gonna make the time to hang out with you, no matter what.

“Well then tonight it is,” you smile. “Sorry about the french fries last night by the way,” you say meekly, looking down at the sidewalk in front of you, cheeks burning.

“Seriously L/n, talk about a horrible throw. Room for improvement,” he jokes with a comforting smile, saving you from yourself.

“Good game by the way,” you add, grateful for the way he was letting you off.

“Thanks,” he looks at you, shoving his hands in his pocket. You turn to look at him too, and after a few moments laughter is taking you both apart. Nothing funny was said. Neither of you knew why you were laughing. And yet it felt natural, not an ounce of awkwardness in the air.

As your whole group walks into the building, people begin to peel off, splitting towards staircases and off elevator stops.

“I’m fucking beat,” yawns Topper, as you and all your flatmates file into your hall.

“I’m gonna sleep like a baby tonight,” Millie yawns in agreement. One by one everyone files off into their rooms. You open your door, backing into yours, Rafe across the hall from you backing into his. Laughter tugs at both your faces once again, as you let your doors close. You manage to change into your sweats and brush your teeth before you hear the light rap on your door. Rafe enters, in a t-shirt and gray sweatpants, your weakness. But you feel comfortable being alone with him now. The Rafe jitters had finally began to subside.

“Alright L/n, episode 4, you ready for this?” he asks, plopping down in his spot next to you.

“Oh I’m very ready,” you reply, sitting up to reach for your laptop which was resting by your feet. As you lean back, you find yourself in Rafe’s arm. He had extended it out before you sat back, effortlessly catching you against him. His hand rests casually on your arm, and you gulp, pressing play. You pray he can’t feel the way your heartbeat quickens and your body flushes. So much for those jitters being gone.

The episode plays, you and Rafe making comments here and there before your chatter eventually dies down, leaving just the sound of the show to fill the room. You can feel Rafe’s body lean further and further down, becoming heavier and breathing slower. You very slowly turn to check, and sure enough he’s fast asleep. You sigh, and shut your laptop, careful not to stir him. You could easily shake him awake, tell him to go to his bed, but for some reason you don’t. You don’t mind him here. In fact, you almost prefer it, his body heat keeping you warm. He had already slept over once before and it clearly hadn’t been a big deal, so what was the harm in letting it happen again? You’re just friends after all, you remind yourself, not sure who you’re trying to convince. And so, the two friends fall asleep in the same bed again.

---

🏷: @hopebaker @pogueslandia @mardema

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron imagine

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