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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 months

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A soulmate AU: Steve Harrington x fem!reader [4.6K]

THE TIMELINE

"Oh, won't you stay, just a little bit longer. Please let me hear, you say that you will, Say you will."

- Stay By Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs

IV. MOUNTAIN LAKE, VIRGINA: 1963

The man in front of you was not part of your vacation plans. He was half naked, sweaty, annoyed and scowling. The man in front of you was a stranger.

Except he wasn’t.

Was he?

You knew his name by now, something you’d only learnt on Monday, or perhaps the day before. Steve, Steve Herringbone or Barrington or something. He didn’t like it when you called him Steven and he certainly didn’t like it when you argued back.

But this was supposed to be a getaway, a small summer break where you could maybe sneak a smoke by the lake when everyone had returned to their cabins and the geriatric morning yoga was done. Except your dad knew the owner of the summer retreat, a huge house settled in the Virginia countryside, the forest greener than it was back home. Bauman’s Mountain House was host to many golf courses, a fencing team, seventeen rowboats, an archery club, the best water aerobics in the state and an award winning dance show.

The very latter included the man in front of you.

Tall, broad shouldered and tanned from the summer, Steve Harrington was handsome and painstakingly so. Brown hair that he always tried to tame by pushing his hand through it, brown eyes and too many freckles to count. He wore a gold chain around his throat, black slacks and a leather jacket on his days off, driving around the resort in a BMW that made too much noise, but he didn’t seem to care.

He cared even less about his bad reputation and loud ways when his partner broke her foot weeks before the final show, a tiny girl called Nancy that you were unreasonably jealous of at first sight. You watched them both on your first night, sat between your mother and father as they took to the stage, dancing flawlessly, fluidly, like they were one whole person. You watched the way she touched him, an easy familiarity that had your stomach feeling unsettled and something inside of you burned when her hand brushed the man’s neck, holding onto him as he dipped her low, her fingers trapping two little moles and hiding them from sight.

You’d blamed the cheap cocktails and called it a night.

But then your father found him arguing with Mr Bauman about the show and suddenly you were volunteered against your own volition, your parents talking loudly and proudly about talent shows and dance lessons when you were much younger, boldly exaggerating about how must’ve been a dancer in another life as you shook your head and tried to escape back to the gazebo by the shoreline.

Now you were left spending your evenings with Steve Harrington and his tight trousers in a cabin that was much smaller than your own. There was a leak in the corner, a consistent drip from a missing nail in the roof and rainwater splashed against the wooden floor as if it were counting down the seconds.

As if it were counting down to— something.

It had rained every night since you had started seeing Steve, the stifling afternoons giving way to humid evenings that always started to smell like rain by six o’clock, sweet tea and lemonade taken over by the scent of a new downpour. There had been threats of storms, chattering of it during breakfast in the main dining hall, grumbles of it from groundskeepers during bowling on the green.

But nothing wild, not yet.

Steve had scowled the entire time he was with you, minutes and hours spent with a frown on his face as he did his best to avoid touching you, mumbling something about getting the timings right, about learning the steps and the footwork before putting it all together. It was tedious now, repetitive and too warm in his small room and even with the bed pushed to the wall, there was barely space to avoid brushing up against him when you moved.

You were flushed, skin shining with a thin layer of sweat and the same sheen made Steve’s lips look glossy, his hair sticking to his forehead in curls and flicks. You rolled your eyes when he hit rewind on the tape deck, a silent order for you to take it from the top. But you didn’t move as he made quick work on his buttons, undoing them one by one until his short sleeved shirt hung open, showing off far too much skin. Lean muscle and a smattering of hair across his pecs, more skating down the line of his navel and you sucked in a breath, pretending you hadn’t stood on your own foot.

“It’s too fuckin’ warm,” he complained, circling you as he spoke, watching you for more errors, inspecting your footwork, your posture, the way your held your head up and squared off your shoulders.

“No shit,” you couldn’t help but bite back. “How’d you think I feel?”

You wore denim shorts to his black slacks, but your cotton T-shirt was sticking to your torso now, the baby pink material too heavy and restricting for the heat inside the cabin. You pressed your lips together and moved, eyes on the wall ahead of you, your right foot moving in front of your left before you twisted your hips half a turn and—

“Take it off, then.”

You blinked, your framework going slack as you dropped both your arms and your jaw. You were hardly prudish, but something about this man had set you on edge since you’d first seen him. An electrical buzz every time you looked at him, fizzing through your bones, an invisible string tied to your insides pulling and pulling and pulling you closer. You’d ignored it until these dance practices, always turning in the other direction, putting the entire resort between you both.

But now… now?

He was standing all of three feet away, cheeks flushed from the heat and his chest on show, his hands behind his head and his fingers buried in his hair in frustration as he stared at you. Like he was challenging you. The muscles in his arms were flexed, taut cords and lines that showed off how hard he work at his job and you couldn’t help but stare.

“What?” You demanded it, a bite of an answer.

“Your shirt,” Steve nodded to the pink material, brows raised like it were obvious. He almost rolled his eyes. “Take it off.”

Above you, the rain outside fell a little harder, a consistent din against the thin roof.

You didn’t say anything. You just hoped you didn’t lose your cool as you reached for the hem of your t-shirt, untucking it from your shorts. The cotton stuck to you uncomfortably, dragging against your skin as you raised it up and over your head, the brief second where your eyesight was blinded a terrifying prospect.

Was he looking? At you? Was he watching? Did he care?

By the time you’d balled up the offending fabric and tossed it in the corner, Steve had turned his back to you, pressing some buttons on the tape deck until the song - some kind of mambo - played for the beginning again. You couldn’t see his face but you wondered if he’d caught sight of your bra, as plain as it may have been. White cotton, thin with scalloped edges and a tiny pink bow between the cups. Hardly sexy, nothing near scandalous, but there was certainly a lot more skin showing now.

Slick, damp skin that you wondered if he’d touch. It was like he wasn’t allowed to, the way he skirted around you all of the time, his hands shoved into his pockets when he wasn’t demonstrating the next step, a fist pressed to his chin as he watched you repeat his instructions, a wide palm always hovering just out of reach of your lower back when he scolded you for slouching, like he’d went to put his hands on you - only to pull catch himself at the last second.

“You gotta loosen your hips,” Steve’s voice interrupted your thoughts as he turned back around. His eyes were on the floor before he finally dragged them up your legs and over your bare stomach. He sucked in a breath. “You’re too rigid.”

“You told me to hold my shoulders,” you retorted, knowing fine well that he’d bitched about your ‘noodle arms’ for days.

“Yeah, your upper body needs to be squared off. Hold yourself tight from here up,” Steve gestured to your waist with the side of his hand. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the heat radiate from him. “But from here?” He tapped at the button on your shorts.

You froze.

“From here down, you need to put a bit of swing in the hips, alright?” He spun, putting himself behind you but you could see him in the mirror that leant against the cabin wall, an old looking thing that was too ornate to be here. Once gold, it had carvings of cherubs on the frame, tiny wreaths and rosettes intertwined with ancient style busts. “It’s a mambo, sweetheart, put a little heat into it.”

The tape begun again and Steve leant against a dresser, arms folded across his bare chest, his open shirt plastered to his skin. He watched you, waiting. The intro played and you counted the beats, nodding your head to each note and before you could hit the mark. Thunder rumbled somewhere outside and you were suddenly reminded of a man that looked like Steve, standing and watching you like that in a room much smaller than this, lit by firelight, dressed like a fighter.

“You missed the count,” Steve sighed, exasperated.

His hair had been longer, his face bruised and bleeding, but it looked just like him. A familiar scene, like you’d maybe seen it in a movie, but it felt more like a dream you didn’t recall having. You looked down at your feet, chest heaving, lips parted in confusion and you were only more dazed when you saw your bare legs and not the long skirts you expected. Your body didn’t feel like yours, not really.

Like it was borrowed, or broken.

You turned, facing Steve as if you expected him to be dressed differently, in leathers and studs and pleats, but he was still the same, just looking at you as if you’d suddenly fallen ill. Maybe you had.

“Drink some water,” he ordered, and yes, that sounded like a really good idea. “Then we’ll go again.”

You chugged the bottle, the water tepid and hard to swallow but you gulped it down greedily, praying against heat stroke or whatever else it could be that could be plaguing you with such hallucinations. You swiped at your lips and closed your eyes before you turned back to the boy and when you did, he looked the same as he always did.

Annoyed, tired, pretty.

“C’mere,” Steve said briskly, crooking a finger at you. You stepped towards him, unsure of what he was asking you, lingering awkwardly with a few feet of space between you. Steve huffed and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, I mean— here.”

He touched you then, his hand reaching out to grasp your own as he pulled you forward, closer than you’d ever been. There was barely space for a prayer between you both.

You thought that his hand in yours would’ve made you feel something, a spark, a fizz, that buzz that you felt in your bones around him. But something else settled over you instead, a strange familiarity, a longing for a home you didn’t know or didn’t remember, like Steve touching you was hardly anything new. His touch made you think of the sea, of vast gardens, of islands and storms and great wars, ruby wine and promises that seemed impossible to keep.

From the unsettled look in Steve’s eye as he stared down at you, you thought that maybe he felt the same thing.

But then he was fussing, moving his feet into the right position and mumbling about your stance. His hand took you with him as he moved, less than an inch separating your bare stomach from his and you let him direct you as he pleased, waiting for the song to reply from the top. The drums began, a cacophony of instruments you’d never be able to name joining in.

And then Steve was counting, his eyes suddenly fixed on yours as he nodded to the beat. “And five, six, seven—”

Steve’s other hand was on your waist.

His palm felt huge, big enough to envelop your side and his thumb was pressed into the soft of your belly, just below your ribcage. His fingers were splayed out over your bare back, his skin warm against your own and you’d never felt so completely consumed by just one touch. You were reminded of white sheets and hazy mornings, the taste of fresh bread and an open window that looked out to blue skies and you could hear a fountain spraying water.

But you were moving before you could consider it, what it meant, what it was, if it was possible to have someone else’s memories trapped in your head. Steve moved and you followed, your feet chasing his step by step as he walked you back and forth, his hips turning into yours on each beat, his shoulders set and his chin held high, ever the professional.

“Don’t look at your feet,” he murmured, barely heard over the music. “Chin up. Look at me.”

You didn’t know how to tell him it hurt to do so, how looking into his eyes this close felt like giving in, it felt like being stitched back together without any medication. You had never been aware of any wounds in your body, but this man you barely knew seemed to fill the space very well.

So you did, holding your breath until your chest burned, your eyes meeting Steve’s as you clasped his hand in your own and gripped his shoulder, letting him lead you around the cabin floor. The storm raged on, louder than before, more threatening now, like it was arguing, fighting, scolding.

The rain poured harder and what little evening light there had been was now dampened, the setting sun hidden behind navy and violet coloured clouds - but the heat was just as oppressive. Steve turned you, a twist of his body that led into yours as you spun on your toes, and when he caught you— when he caught you, his hand moved lower, slipping down your overheated skin until his fingers grazed the denim waistband of your shorts.

Maybe he saw you falter, maybe he saw your lips part, but Steve sucked in a breath and kept moving, his chest brushing your own as you stepped into his space as he danced into yours, torso meeting, separating, meeting, separating, meeting—

“Keep count,” he reminded you. “Keep counting the beats.”

You nodded, Steve’s face startlingly closer than before, as if he’d forgotten his boundaries, the box he created with strong arms, the one that kept him professional as a dancer, standing tall and strong. Now his elbows were bent, his hand falling from yours so both of his palms could bracket your hips and it was too much, it was everything you’d ever wanted, it was something you felt like you’d once had.

You just couldn’t remember who had taken it away from you.

Lightning lit the cabin, the storm over the resort, the sky black.

“Remember your hips,” he whispered, and god, god, his forehead was almost touching yours, his nose drawing a line against your own as his eyelids dropped and his lashes fanned his pink cheeks. His hands guided your waist, moving you from side to side, following the rhythm. “Listen to the beat.”

You were sure he meant the music, but it was impossible to ignore the thud of his heart against your own chest. You could feel yours even more so, a constant drumming that seemed to seep into your bones, making them crack at the edges, something blooming between them, something new and old and familiar and exciting.

Like driving into your street after a long vacation, like falling into your own bed after too many weeks away, smelling the laundry detergent that clung to everyone else that you loved. It felt hopeful, like the beginning of the morning when the only thing that had entered your thoughts was the way the sun looked in the sky, how pink it was, how the clouds seemed softer than the day before.

Steve pushed at your hips, holding them as you swayed from side to side, your hands leaving the safety of his shoulders to slip up, holding the sides of his neck, the heat of his skin scalding your palms and he nodded, pupils blown wide and lips parted as he stared down at you in amazement, like he was seeing you for the very first time.

Like he was seeing you for the first time after a very long time apart.

“Good,” he told you softly, like he was still teaching you, like this was still professional. Like he hadn’t put his hand on your lower back and obliterated whatever wall someone else had built between you. Something that had once seemed so strong was knocked down so easily, like not even a god could keep it between you. “Good. Like that, just like that—”

He swore when you moved closer, emboldened by his pretty eyes and the way his gaze tracked down your chest, down your bare stomach. His fingers flexed on your hips, blunt nails tattooing your skin and you hoped the marks would stay there, you hoped they’d be there tomorrow so you could remember that this wasn’t a dream.

His leg found its way between yours, the song finally slowing to the last few drumbeats and you knew this was the time where you were supposed to spin in Steve’s arms and raise your hand in a grand finish. But Steve tucked your hips close to his instead and let his thigh push into the seam of your denim shorts.

The song that came on next was slower, lazier, languid.

The singer had a deeper voice, the drums rolling with a dirtier beat and this wasn’t the mambo, this wasn’t a salsa and it certainly wasn’t anything you’d do in a ballroom never mind on stage in front of others. You’d seen this kind of dancing once before, the night after you first arrived at Bauman’s. You hadn’t meant it, but a walk along the lake after the sun had set had led you to a larger cabin at the back of the resort, where the lights were on and the music was loud.

Music like this.

A guy at the door with long curls and an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips had appraised you, one eyebrow lifted at your little white summer dress and tennis shoes.

“You work here?” He’d asked and you had shaken your head, ready to walk back the way you came. “You a snitch?” He asked after a pause.

Again, you shook your head ‘no’ and listened as the music inside got louder. The man, who you were sure you’d seen on stage during dinner, playing the guitar for the dining guests, just shrugged. He’d nodded to a stack of beer crates at the side of the building.

“Grab a case and keep your mouth shut, alright?” He’d opened the door for you, the music louder than ever, the smell of smoke and weed and sweat pouring out. You remember how’d he grinned at you as you took in the sight. “Have fun, princess.”

It’s where you’d seen Steve for the second time, in the middle of a makeshift dance floor with the bow tie and dinner jacket he’d worn during his evening performance long gone. Moving with a girl with his shirt buttons open, his hair a mess, grinding and manhandling her in a way you weren’t sure you would even call dancing. Everyone was doing the same, hips gyrating, skirts too short, men’s chests bare, the smiles meeting in an almost kiss.

It was nothing short of scandalous.

You’d left, dumping the beer on a table beside a watermelon that almost rolled to the ground in your panic, turning from the crowd and walking out the way you’d came. The curly haired man had snorted at the sight of your wide eyes, calling out a goodbye between laughs.

And here you were, not even two weeks later, doing the same, if not worse. Why worse? You and Steve were alone.

Thunder cracked again, louder than before.

It didn’t feel wrong to be doing this. In fact, for as much trouble as you’d be in if your father had had to catch you, everything about it felt right, like you’d done it before, like this man was yours to touch. But something that felt like danger lingered in the air, a threat far more serious than your dad or Mr Bauman.

But still, you let your body move with Steve’s, a slow grind of your hips into his and when your hand found the nape of his neck and your fingers twisted into his hair, Steve’s palm cupped your ass, pulling you into him, making you feel how affected he was.

It should’ve scared you. How this man was touching you, this person you barely knew, alone in a cabin and who you were so sure had hated you only a mere ten minutes before. But Steve looked as gone as you felt, eyes filled with longing, a passion that was visible, his brows knitted together as he stared down at you hungrily, lovingly, adoringly.

It was almost too much to bear. So you let your head fall back, body slack as you kept dancing, trusting the man to keep you upright and against his own chest and you heard Steve let out a breath at the sight of your exposed neck, the long line of it offered to him like a sacrifice.

“That’s it,” you heard him murmur. “You feel the beat now?” His words fell on your throat, your bare skin, the top of his nose drawing a line from the base of it to your jaw, his mouth following and you were so sure he wasn’t talking about the music anymore.

But you nodded, clinging to him when he dipped you backwards, his hands holding you like you were precious, like you were made of marble and gold and suddenly you felt like Steve could’ve been. Like someone had taken a piece of the earth and grown this man from it, just for you. Like he had something ancient in his bones, like whatever he was made of you, you were created from the same thing too.

When he pulled you back up, effortless and graceful, you were closer than before, impossibly so. Chests meeting in the middle as you both panted into each other's parted lips, noses meeting and foreheads touching. Steve’s hands were curled around your waist, fingers splayed across your naked back as if he couldn’t bear not to touch every part of you. Your hand was on his neck, your fingers brushing over two moles on his tanned skin, the ones you’d watched Nancy touch before you.

But as you pressed your fingertips to them, your lips buzzed and Steve let out a sigh, like you’d unravelled a knot in his spine, like you’d found a magic button that fixed him. Like you’d touched a place that you’d once touched before.

“You’ve never touched me before,” you whispered, voice cracking on each syllable because it suddenly was too much.

Steve looked pained, lashes fluttering as his gaze dropped to your lips and he struggled to find the right words to give you. “I— I shouldn’t be doing it now,” he murmured. “I’m not allowed.”

“Why? Because of your boss? My dad?”

He grinned, a smirk that faltered too quickly and he shook his head, still not moving from you, his nose nudging yours as he struggled to keep himself from shifting closer still. “You’d think that should’ve been enough to keep me away.” Steve licked his lips and you tracked the movement, so sure that he’d taste like summer and salt and the peach tea from the diner. “Not even the threat of losing my damn job and house can keep me away from you.”

His words had an effect on you, breath hitching, chest aching. “Then who said you’re not allowed?”

The song was still going, a lazy beat that was easy to sway to, Steve’s leg still wedged between your thighs and his hands were wandering, sensual and slow, a whole other kind of dance over your skin. Fingers gripped at your waist before one hand trailed down your hip, over your bare thigh, ghosting over the line of your torn off shorts. He brought your thigh to his hip, hitching your leg high, pressing you both together until you could feel him all, until he could feel all of you.

Laid bare enough for you to feel like he could take the very soul of you from your body.

You found that you didn’t mind the idea of it at all.

“You’ll laugh at me,” Steve murmured but he didn’t sound embarrassed at all, like he didn’t actually believe that you would.

You shook your head, nose brushing against the tip of his and if you moved another inch, just one, you could’ve been kissing him, mouth slotting against his. “I won’t,” you promised.

“I started having dreams when you came,” Steve told you. “Dreams where it always rained and the sky was always dark. And there was a man there, a thing, maybe. But he felt ancient, older than the fucking world and he told me to stay away, to keep away from you.”

You didn’t laugh. No. No, in fact, you didn’t say a damn thing.

Steve laughed, breathless and without any humour, and his hand trailed back up your thigh as your leg dropped slowly to the floor. He spun you both, lazy and languid, but the world around you both still blurred. The cabin faded away, a mix of the low lights and the colours of his quilt on the bed.

You could barely hear the storm, but god, it was the loudest it had been.

“I want to do ungodly things with you,” Steve confessed and he sounded pained, his throat tight with the same kind of emotion you felt, like you were both sharing the same heart. “I want to do ungodly things to you.”

“Steve--”

“I know it sounds crazy, but there’s somethin’-- somethin’ in the sky or in the goddamn cracks of the earth that’s telling me I shouldn’t.” His bottom lip grazed your top one, an almost kiss, a whisper of one, a mere idea of it. Hardly a touch. “That something real bad will happen if we do.”

You couldn’t explain it, just like you couldn’t explain your sudden proximity to the man, the achingly familiar closeness you felt. But you knew, somehow, some way, Steve was right.

Tears stung your eyes, a fiery nip that you tried to blink away and when the music slowed to a stop and the next song began, Steve kept moving, your body melted to his, no space between either of you to be able to determine where you ended and he began.

Your voice cracked when you spoke. “What should we do?”

Steve took a breath before he answered, one hand coming up to push against your hairline, his palm coasting down your cheek, holding you, cherishing you. His touch was hot with adoration.

“We can keep dancing.”

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington oneshot

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i-was-today-years-old-when · 8 months

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i learned who is the most accidentally famous person ever

Imagine you're a regular 70 year old Hungarian guy, who, after a satisfactory career as an electrical engineer, has finally retired and is spending his days in peace. I know I'm asking you to get bored even in your imagination but bear with me. It's about to get fun…

So this one day, some photographer, who happened to see a picture of you vacationing, on a social media site, approaches you for a photo shoot and you comply, because there's nothing much to do.

You then proceed to upload some of your photos on Google, to see how stock photos work…

..and who uses it. (Uh oh) Because now, things start escalating…

While you're sitting in your home, punctually maintaining your routine of getting bored, there's some random guy on some random part of the world, who looks at your stock photo and finds immense potential in it, in your face, in your smile. (And no, he's not gay)

The potential for the next revolutionary meme. He posts it on Facepunch.

And fortunately for him (unfortunately for you), the meme clicks. So much so, that a Facebook page called “Maurice”, springs up, which gets 10k likes in no time.

When you first see your meme, you find it offensive, but there's nothing you can do about it, so you let it go (thinking that it'll die soon). But you duly warn your acquaintances to be more wary the next time they upload their photos on the internet.

But alas, you're already on your way to the list the most famous memes of all time. There are people on 4chan, who, in a thread dedicated just for you, start theorising that you must be some sad old man who has to work as a stock photography model. Then, an Imgur user goes on to compile notable quotes from the above 4chan thread into a gallery post titled “Hide-the-pain-Harold”, which garners more than 8,80,000 views in just three weeks.

You are now a classic meme template.

Eventually, you decide to publicly recognise yourself on a Russian social media site called “VK”.

You transcend from being bits on the Internet, to actual prints on a coffee mug, on a skirt! Documentaries are made, and articles are published about you. There's a random Quora user who nominates you as one of the most accidentally famous person from Hungary.

People start recognising you on streets. Some of them now want to get a picture taken with you. You're a celebrity for wrong reasons. After having lived 70 peaceful years as a harmless guy, you've become world famous - as a painter, as a singer, as whatever the next notorious meme maker wants you to be.

You are Arató András, the meme guy. Every single time a stranger recognises you, you acknowledge it with a smile, but there's an inevitable pain which just cannot be hidden.

So you smile like this,

I feel your pain Harold.

Hide your pain, Harold.

#today i learned #facts #truth #history #memes #meme

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elvisalltheway101 · 2 months

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Stay; 60s elvis x f!reader 18+

summary: Elvis isn’t new to pleasuring women, but you were.

^^^^^^^^^^^

You told him you were a virgin, you swear.

but he must’ve forgot because by the time he knelt down to your spread, slick thighs, he could have cum right there. You were pure, pubic hairs curling and decor to your flushed lips that were wet and shiny under the crappy camp light.

He dove right in, and your pretty lips couldn’t close. Gasping softly with cute mewls had Elvis moaning into your cunt but it’s when his upper lip was pressing against your hooded clit that, that’s when he felt it.

Your untouched little hole. As his tongue dove in eagerly to capture the feel of your walls engulfing his pink skilled muscle, your hymen blocked and your hole clenched to whatever length was able to fit.

“O-oh fucking damn me.” He whimpers softly, pulling his face out of your pussy to pepper kisses against your heated inner thigh. “Look atcha all untouched, waitin’ for me, huh?”

You nod vigorously, too hazy and drunk into the sexual bubbly pleasure he driven you into. He smirks and nuzzles his face back into your pubic mound. His nose inhaling your natural scent, as your belly heaves and tightens with every height and squeal of desire.

You lean more juices that run down his chin, and he eagerly laps it up, only to flick against your untouched hole again. By this time, he sneaks a hand up to rub tight circles against your sensitive little nub while he praises your virgin cunt.

You squeal, thighs flying about as you clutch at the sheets. Your hips bucking into his palm as he watches apart with strings of your arousal and his drool connect to your pussy and his lips. He watches with hungry eyes at your hole that springs nectar down and onto his sheets. Watching your pussy pulse with need.

Stars flood your vision when your orgasm crashes into you but he doesn’t stop. His thumb keeps wetly flicking against your puffy clit and when tears of pleasure and overstimulation flood your cheeks and eyes, he ruts his hard, straining cock against his own palm.

he focuses his thumb right onto your lil bundle of nerves, as he lowers his head to lean back in and flatten his tongue to feel that closed hymen of your again right on his tongue. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he rolls his tongue against you and your nearly a squirming, moaning and withering mess under his touch.

When you try to shove his head away, feeling as if you’re gonna pee, he swats your hand away and growls into your swollen, puffy vagina, “stay.” Caging your hips with one arm that’s still pressing on your clit, and the other arm busies to relieve the ache you’ve made him.

He ruts his hips against his sweaty palm to the feeling of your virgin hole squeezing and clenching around his tongue. He moans and pants into your sloppy, slurping messy pussy.

His cock angry and hard, he gasps in delight as you scream in pleasure and tremble, squirting your juices. Immediately gushing onto his face, he flutters his eyes close as he’s showered in your cum rain, his cock pulses hard and wickedly, creating a steamy mess in his slacks. White cream from his swollen and horny manhood, he grits his teeth, stutter his hips against his palms.

glancing down at his wet pants to your cunt that follows with your heavy breathing, he might get hard again at the thought of pressing into that hole and break into you real good.

“Stay”

•••••••

tagging my doll: @jhoneybees

#Army elvis #60s Elvis #elvis smut #spotify #elvis #elvis presley #enjoy!#elvis fanfiction #elvisaaronpresley #elvis imagine #elvis x y/n #elvis fanfic #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader smut

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chaosgremlinmunson · 3 months

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STWG prompt: “I couldn't lose you”

For @hitlikehammers happy birthday sweetheart!!

Steve was running around the fair like a chicken with its head cut off, the kids were following him yelling at the top of their lungs. They'd all only turned their backs for a minute, where had Eddie disappeared to? Was this another UD thing?

Steve came screeching to a halt when he caught sight of Eddie standing in front of a sale booth of jewelry and trinkets fiddling with a sunshine yellow gem necklace.

“Edward Maurice Munson!” Steve bellowed, Eddie jumped in the air, his hand clutched to his chest necklace still in his grip, “Just what the hell do you think you're doing wandering off. We were worried sick!”

Eddie's face broke into a wild grin before leaning up into Steve's space.

“Aww, did you miss me, Big Boy?” He twirled a curl in one of his fingers, the attendant behind him was smiling though seemed a bit annoyed still, oh, right, Eddie hadn't paid.

“How much?” Steve nodded to the necklace Eddie still had in his hand.

“Well, he said it's for his maiden fair, so I'll bring the price down from $30 to $10, that way he can get his beloved more trinkets. Sounds fair?” The merchant leaned against the stall.

Eddie whirled to them handing over the cash and picked up a matching bracelet, plus two cross earrings. “How about $30 for all of these things then, my maiden fair would love them, don't you agree” Eddie let his dimples pop out, he leaned onto the counter.

The man standing behind the stall blushed a furious red, “Yes, that sounds reasonable. How lucky they are to have such a devoted lover.”

Eddie smiled at the man as he packaged the items and skipped back to Steve and the kids.

“Oy, Eddie, I thought Steve was your boyfriend. Why are you buying jewelry for a maiden?” Mike sneered from behind Dustin.

“Oh, mini Wheeler, who's to say Stevie boy isn't my damsel.” Eddie grinned.

“If I recall, I was the one who carried you out of hell, not the other way around, princess.” Steve leaned in to lower his voice beside Eddie's ear.

“Y-yeah? Well, uh, well.” Eddie stumbled over his words and thrust the bag into Steve's hand.

“I couldn't lose you Eds,” he whispered, still right by his ear, “you're everything.”

Eddie's eyes were wide and he swallowed visibly. He was in so much trouble, he bagged someone who could melt him with little words and touches, and here he'd been ready to romance his Sunshine only to be thwarted by that honey dripped tongue.

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve x eddie #fanfiction #stwgdailyprompt #flustered eddie munson #harrington charm

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ghost-proofbaby · 10 months

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EDDIE MUNSON - OURS

😭😭😭

ours (eddie’s version)

warnings: none. just tooth-rotting fluff <3

wc: 1.4k+

a/n: i got a little carried away. but i wish i had an eddie munson to go home to each night and just kiss and cuddle goddamn it

“Oh, is that your boyfriend?”

“He’s… interesting.”

“I guess when you said you had a boyfriend, I never envisioned someone like him.”

“You two are such… opposites! I mean- no! No, not a… bad thing, I suppose. Just… interesting.”

You were growing tired of it. You know people didn’t mean for their incessant questions or comments to get under your skin so badly, but they did. Any time someone at your new job caught sight of your phone’s lock screen – a joyous selfie of you and a sunburnt Eddie at the lake – or your work computer’s screen saver – a photo taken at dusk of Eddie on your couch, strumming on his guitar completely unaware – they had something to say. Something to point out. Whether it be the way you two didn’t seem to fit in their minds, or how rough around the edges he seemed to be. Some coworkers even pressed on how long you two had been together, pulling out the marriage card at a completely inappropriate time. One coworker had even made a snide remark on his long hair, saying “oh, I thought that was a girl! What a relief!”. It just…. It dug beneath your skin every time without fail, making you uncomfortable and irritated all in the same breath.

You don’t understand why they cared so much. It wasn’t their relationship – they didn’t know you. You’d only started the job a few months prior. They could eat shit, for all you care.

Today had been a bad day. Maurice, one of the elderly women who worked at the front reception desk, had just been awful. She was always talking of you going on a date with her grandson, each time conveniently forgetting that you were already happily in a relationship, but today she’d crossed a line. She’d had her grandson physically come into the office at lunch time, and caught you just as you were on your way out the door to try and pick up something to hold you over until five o’clock would finally arrive.

The one day you didn’t pack your own lunch. Go figure.

“Oh! Dear! Over here!” she called to you as you tried to scurry past her desk. You had held out the hope that the young man standing beside her would have occupied her, but no. No such luck for you on this wicked Thursday.

You took a deep breath before you turned slowly, forcing a polite smile as you faced the elderly woman, “What can I do for you, Maurice?”

“This is my grandson!” she animatedly motioned to the blonde boy at her side, and as he looked up, your stomach dropped, “Jason! The one I was telling you about!”

Jason fucking Carver.

“Oh,” you tried to keep kind in your tone, but you were already feeling hatred prickle at the back of your neck. You knew all about Jason — he’d made Eddie’s life living Hell too many times to count. He was nothing like the angel Maurice had tried to paint, “I… It’s nice to meet you, Jason, but I really should get going. I’m on my lunch.”

Jason didn’t take the social cue, stepping forward and stretching out his hand towards you, “Pleasure to finally meet the beautiful coworker my grandmother has been going on and on about. Words really didn’t do you justice.”

Gag. “You’re too kind. I do hope she also mentioned I’m already spoken for.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, glancing at Maurice for a second. “You’re taken?”

You opened your mouth to say, yes, I am happily taken, but Maurice was already waving her hands about as if that fact of the matter was nothing more than trivial smoke. “Technicalities. She has a fling with that Munson boy-“

“It’s not a fling,” you stressed, your patience meeting its end, “We’ve been together for years. We live together. I’m really sorry, Jacob,” you purposefully say the wrong name as you turn to Jason, exasperated and not sorry in the slightest, “But I’m not interested. I’ll see you after lunch, Maurice.”

You think you heard Jason call out a correction of his name from behind you, but you paid him no mind. Fuck him.

You ended up taking a longer lunch, not even caring for the consequences just so you could sit in your car and call Eddie. You described each person who walked into the building that you caught sight of, completely forgetting to scavenge a snack, too wrapped up in giggling at every ridiculous joke or story he makes up for the strangers.

He made it feel better. Maurice and Jason and everyone’s incessant comments forgotten. Their judgments never took this into consideration — this tranquility and Eddie’s ability to make you laugh until your ribs ached. They never considered the love that carried you home each night.

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

You practically speed the entire way home, forgetting to watch for any police cars half the time. Your poor front door cries out on its hinges as you barrel through it with only one thing on your mind: Eddie.

“Hey baby-“ Eddie tries to greet you, but he hardly has the time to set his guitar to the side before you’re falling into his lap where he sits on the couch. “Oof, bad day?”

Your thighs bracket his hips and your nose is already nuzzling into his neck, his soft laughter shaking his shoulders slightly as your arms wind themselves around him to the best of your abilities. He returns the favor without hesitation; arms hold you close to his chest and you can feel his nose dip to graze along your temple.

“The absolute worst,” your voice is muffled by his neck, but he doesn’t seem to mind, so you continue, “I swear to God, if I had know this office was full of such judgmental assholes I would have never-“

“Woah, woah, woah,” he pulls you back slightly, bringing his hands up to hold both cheeks between his palms as his thumb trails softly against your cheek bone, “Are they being mean to you? Because if they are, just say the word – I’m not afraid to kick a couple of grandmas’ asses.”

You laugh, sniffling a bit, still on the verge of tears out of relief of being home with him finally, “No, no. You don’t need to go and kick any elderly ass – today.”

“What about tomorrow?”

You pretend to think about it as you finally slide off his lap, sitting to his side as your legs remain draped on his lap. He’s quick to reach down and let his calloused fingertips graze a trail down your thigh, ending at your ankle before he wraps them around it and squeezes softly, “Hmm, I’ll have to think about it.”

“Yeah?” he questions, leaning his face down to your shoulder, peppering kisses there, eyes still attempting to glance up at you in adoration through thick lashes, “So not a no. Got it. I’ll have my boxing gloves at the ready.”

You both laugh as Eddie continues his short assault of kisses.

Your coworkers can say whatever they want. They can judge the two of you based on short snapshots all they please – they can’t take this from you. Not as his lips brush your collarbones, not as his palms massage your calves, and certainly not as he murmurs soft declarations of how much he missed you all day against your skin.

“Say, you wanna play a song for me on that guitar, rockstar?” you say as you thread your fingers through his curls, noting the way they’re extra soft, as if he’d done a hair mask like you always pestered him to.

He lifts his head and leans back casually against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded as he smiles at you like you hold his entire world in the palm of your hand, “Maybe later. Right now, I just wanna spend some time with my baby.”

“Oh, I see,” you snort, “You’re gonna break out sweetheart instead? No more dragon-slaying for today?” you joke, referencing his nicknames for his two guitars.

He only shakes his head and rolls his eyes at you, surging forward and capturing your lips against his, teeth clashing a bit due to both of your wild grins. He has you falling backwards into the couch cushions in an instant and lets his weight settle between your thighs, enveloping you in smells of home. Just him, just you, just the love that you two have gardened here. No opinions of others ever needed.

“Shut up. I love you.”

“and it’s not theirs to speculate if it’s wrong. and your hand’s a tough but they are where mine belong.”

#speak now (ghost's version)#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #my writing

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rainbow-femme · 4 months

Text

Rewatching the animated Beauty and the Beast

-Right off the bat the thing in the opening that gets me is not the possible age implication but the fact that this prince is opening his own doors and to people he’s not expecting. You’re lucky it was just an enchantress looking to test the purity of your heart and not an assassin. Just power posing with the door fully open, no guards, going “Oh hey it’s someone I don’t know! I’m going to have a conversation with them alone” before god and everybody. Of course you got cursed, your guards should have rugby tackled her before she could get her wand out

-I never liked Maurice as a kid and I still don’t. Like he’s not bad he’s just annoying to me every time he’s on screen. The wind blows and he’s dying on the side of a cliff somewhere

-It is never not funny to me that Belle promises to stay in the castle forever and then just leaves three hours later

-I love Gaston having his whole “I’m going to get Belle’s father locked up so she marries me” scheme and then she’s fully just not remotely near the town. He’s living in a high stakes drama and she’s clapping along to dancing tea cups

-Hey when Maurice goes to look for Belle he grabs a bunch of rolled up pieces of paper and protractor. Is the idea that he’s just gonna invent and build something while actively walking? Sir you spent 6 hours in a dungeon and nearly died of being in a dungeon disease, you can’t help yourself out of a wet paper bag much less get your daughter out of anywhere with an invention you made out of rocks and sticks while clawing your way through the woods because you’re dying again

-But it is funny to imagine this revolving door of Maurice and Belle trading themselves for the other until the beast is just like “hey if I let you both leave will you promise to never come back”

-Belle is such a dick at the beginning it’s so funny. “Oh there’s one place in this giant castle I can’t go? I bet he’s hiding all the really cool stuff in there and I’m going to ignore his wishes and that of the staff. Oh no, consequences, the guy who said not to come here is upset I came here! Who could have foreseen this!”

-Like it’s not bad writing, it’s her character arc that she was mainly focused on herself and her interests and pretty judgemental of people who weren’t like her, so her disrespecting someone’s boundaries because she want to sets up something she grows from, and she learns to connect with someone else on their level even if that person is different from her and she learns that people are more than their surface appearance and even an angry beast has depths if you actually get to know them and see their view of the world, and connecting with people who are different from you enriches your life. Which is why when the townsfolk later try to kill the beast because he’s different we see she’s now understood the danger of that way of thinking and is horrified

-But that’s such a funny thing to do just immediately upon entering a castle owned by a big scary beast. Day one hour one she’s like “oh boy I know where I wanna go!”

-I don’t want to be a CinemaSins and point out how improbable it is that Belle got a giant unconscious beast onto her horse when he would be hundreds of pounds. But I do want to see the scene of her doing it. I’m picturing the horse sorta laying down and the beast is on the ground like a sack of potatoes and Belle has her back against him and is pushing with her legs to try and roll him over. Or she’s got her shoulder against him and is trying to push that way but her feet keep slipping in the snow

-Oh my god I forgot they told her about the library before the beast “gives” it to her. She was already allowed to go in there and knew it existed, “giving” someone a room they had full knowledge of and access to is very funny

-But you know what if he’s the kind of guy who thinks that will work and she’s the kind of girl it works on then they’re perfect for each other. Just two people with zero social skills bumbling around a castle together, making weird decisions and the other is like “wow they’re so cute and normal”

-I love the sweeping faux crane shot during the ballroom dance. Over 30 years later and that shit still slaps, more animated movies need to act like they’re being shot and edited like live action

-Maurice really can find a way to immediately die in any situation. When he’s at home he’s fine but the second he leaves the town border he develops tuberculosis and begins losing all function in his limbs

-I’m going to be honest with you guys, I’ve seen various versions of Beauty and the Beast and every time it’s the letting Belle go scene I have the same thought: I absolutely would not have read that social interaction correctly, I would have been fully under the impression we were all aware I was running an errand and coming back later. Because if I’m Belle, and I can live in the cool castle with a friend and people who are nice to me or a town I specifically stated not liking filled with a guy who is pushy and makes me uncomfortable and people who are mean to me and zero friends, I would not have been like “oh thank god I can finally go back!”

-“You should go to him. I release you, you are no longer my prisoner” See to me that reads “We are friends and I am removing this technicality between us so you can go run out and do something that is clearly important to you.” I would not have picked up on everyone in the castle thinking I was leaving forever. I’d just show up two hours later like “boy, it’s been a day, huh?” and the beast is just laying face down on the floor in his room listening to a sad boy playlist

-But the beast is clearly part dog so I guess it’s a normal reaction for him to have

-I don’t want to victim blame, but if you have a sick dad and are equidistant between “castle where everyone likes you” and “town where everyone is mean to you” and your dying father can be cured by a nap, I feel like it’s a bit on you if bad things continue to happen in the Bad Things Happen To Me town

-Not saying she should have anticipated a mob coming to incarcerate her father but I do feel like it would be expected that the people who have been mean to you and your dad would continue to be mean to you and your dad in the Everyone Is Mean To You and Your Dad town

-Because if the forced incarceration hadn’t been an issue, they would have gone to town the next day and someone would go “Hey Belle, your dad said you were kidnapped by a beast.” And everyone would point and laugh and he’d start waving his arms and going “It was the biggest beast you ever saw! 18 feet tall and claws bigger than my head!” and people would probably suggest that the guy they all call Crazy Old Maurice may be crazy and Belle would need to prove he wasn’t. I just don’t think we would have ended up with much of a different situation in any timeline that involves going back to the town

-Ok. So. If I live in a town. And I find out there is a beast within walking distance that is sentient enough to take villagers prisoner. And this guy is like “yeah he took me and my daughter prisoner, he’s terrifying!” I’m not saying I would have been part of the mob but I do think I would be worried about there being a beast and two people he previously kept prisoner living next door. And her saying “no he’s actually very sweet” would sound like those people with exotic pets who get their faces eaten by their pet tiger. Like yes they’re wrong but Belle also thought he was scary and violent until she’d been there a number of hours. I feel like if instead of giving herself up she went to town and asked for help and they created a mob to get her father back she would not have been against the idea so it’s not wholly their fault for having the same idea

-“Is it dangerous?” “No, no, he’d never hurt anyone” Every owner of a dog who wants to bite you so so bad

-So when Belle and her father are alone she is clearly telling him that the beast let her go and is kind. When asked about the beast by the town, Maurice starts yelling about how he’s the most terrifying monster in the world. Belle has to show the beast to back up her father’s claims to try and save him for the second? third? time. And then they’re locked up and she says “this is all my fault” and this man does not for a second contradict her or take blame at all. “Yeah I can’t believe you specifically caused this mess.”

“We won’t rest until he’s good and deceased.” I know there are only so many words that rhyme with beast but that’s such a funny line in a bloodlust song. I will not rest until this animal has been declared legally dead by the state

-“We will fight even though the danger just increased” I’m obsessed with all the words they had to use to rhyme with beast

-It’s so funny that this is canonically France and he is canonically a prince. They didn’t make him a duke or a lord he is directly related to the royal family and in the line of succession. Likely not the dauphin because they wouldn’t have sent him to run a castle in the countryside away from the center of politics so probably a younger son but still, this guy is part of the royal family. They didn’t have to explicitly state this is France but they do, and they reference the baroque period so it’s after the construction of Versailles. The beast is actively being stabbed to death while sentient furniture watches and at the same time his family are canonically pissing on the walls and floors of their own home

-Oh my god the beast is brooding on a chaise. Did he drag it over to the window just so he could dramatically sit on his chaise and stare longingly out at the rain? Absolute break up mood

-He’s also in a different outfit that isn’t the fancy one or his every day one, he went and changed into a breakup outfit. Important to note the breakup outfit includes a cape and what he was previously wearing did not. He chose to put on a cape as part of his breakup outfit

-So Gaston points his arrow at the beast. The beast acknowledges it then looks away. Gaston then fires and hits him and he reacts all surprised and angry that it hurt like my dude you let him shoot you with an arrow, what did you think that experience would be

-It is so wild that Gaston assumes the beast is in love with Belle. Like yeah he’s right but what a wild assumption to make when you’re not even sure this thing comprehends human speech. Again my thought would be he’s attached to her like a dog is attached to its owner, I would not see a big furry animal and be like “this thing is fully sentient and feels romantic attraction to human women”. Yeah he’s wearing clothes but still that feels like a leap. Pointing at a dog in a sweater following its owner and yelling “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

-The beast’s arc is partly him controlling his temper, and we see him want to kill Gaston but controls himself and lets him go, immediately resulting in his own death. Gotta be honest I feel like less self control would have been helpful in that specific scenario

-I didn’t remember the blood spray after the beast is stabbed followed by the stab wound bleeding a good amount of blood. Are there other Disney princess movies with onscreen blood? I think in Mulan we see blood oozing out through clothes from an injury but that’s the only other one I can think of. Eugene gets pretty bloodlessly stabbed

-Best scene in the movie: The beast floats up in the air, actively transforms into a human in front of Belle, stands up, says “Belle, it’s me!” She then squints at him, touches his hair a bit, squints at his face, and when she recognizes his eyes she goes “It is you!” Ma’am what the hell else did you think was happening. If you didn’t recognize his eyes would you have just been like “Hmmm I dunno…”

-Ok so at the end there is an entire royal court watching them dance. Again I don’t want to be a CinemaSins I just want to see the missing scene. Like did he explain what happened to him? If yes then again I want to see that conversation of him explaining to his family how he was literally transformed into a literal beast for the last ten years and they had no idea this was happening to their family member. If no, imagine just going back to being a prince after 10 years as a beast and you just have to pretend like everything has been normal this whole time. I want a sequel that’s just the human beast reintegrating not only back into society but French royal society, which was notorious for having some of the most intricate and complicated social etiquette in all of Europe

-The final shot is a stained glass window of them with a prominent rose. Now in the original he had a whole rose garden he was very attached to, so that makes sense. But I feel like this beast specifically would have only negative connotations with roses and that window would probably be seen as a little tasteless given the circumstances. “It’s a rose! You know, the physical manifestation of a curse that was clearly quite upsetting for you for nine years and roughly 360 days, reminding you daily of your flaws! Isn’t that fun?”

“Original score by Alan Menken” Look up his IMDB, if you live in at least the US this man has written the score to your entire life

#long post #I’ve been called out for being long winded so here is your warning #beauty and the beast #disney

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iheartpeppino · 2 months

Text

So I actually downloaded a recording of McPig's DOOM stream he did before he released The Noise Update for Pizza Tower, and for multiple days watched through the entire thing in order to learn more about Maurice Spaghetti.

Maurice is the guy dressed like Peppino in this ending screen from Swap Mode. He's Peppino's brother who criticizes Peppino for literally everything and bullies him for no fucking reason other than to be a dick. He is also the epitome of toxic conservative American masculinity in human form. Maurice claims to hate Peppino, though he never explicitly states why.

I, however, have a theory: Peppino is a better person who's accomplished way more than Maurice could ever hope to, and Maurice knows this, and he's jealous.

Peppino owns his own business and works hard, while Maurice is working in a "garbage factory" for a living, and wasting his money on his gambling addiction. Also, Maurice scammed Nonna Spaghetti into buying $8000 worth of psychic crystals so he could predict horse races. Plus he physically assaults everyone around him if they so much as breathe wrong, so... yeah, it's pretty clear Maurice is a scumbag we're meant to hate. Peppino definitely has his moments of selfishness, but even he expressed disgust at Maurice's bullshit.

It's funny, but... I kinda wish I had a plushie of Maurice so I can beat the crap out of it.

Oh, did I forget to mention Maurice has a son? He's Maurice Spaghetti Jr. and apparently "named after the smartest man [Maurice] know[s]". I feel so bad for his kid...

EDIT: I edited this post a bit in order to add a point I had been TRYING to make but apparently forgot to type. I'm sorry about that.

#pizza tower #screenshots #maurice spaghetti #the noise update #pizza tower spoilers #spoilers #maurice spaghetti jr

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shit-ultrakill-imagines · 2 months

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imagine gabriel but hes kind of adopted/in a relationship with a filth. itd be so cute. he could fly him around hell and give her a tour of heresy. oh my god. he would have to just like put his arm on their shoulder because she has no hands omg. go on a walk through limbo and he trips on a fucking tiny maurice and she catches him with their mouth. like by the wing. i think i hauve covid

yea you probably do

#ultrakill #filth ultrakill #gabriel ultrakill

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collecting-stories · 8 months

Text

When Emma Falls In Love - Remus Lupin

A/N: I totally didn’t intend to make this as long as it is (6k+), it sort of got away from me while I was writing. Despite the title and the lyric, the reader is gender neutral.

Summary: Remus and the reader take a trip to Hogsmeade after Christmas break. Marauder’s era cause I'm a sucker for that whole time period.

TS Anthology Masterlist | Harry Potter Masterlist

…turns out her heart fits right in the palm of his hand…

“What’s this?” Remus asked, long fingers smoothing over the newspaper that concealed the object you’d handed him. The funnies, he noticed, eyeing up Hogan’s Alley with a nostalgic grin. “How long have you had this newspaper, by the way?”

“A gift for you, obviously,” you replied, tugging the bow on top of the rectangular package. “Are you going to open it?”

“I’m reading,” he teased, tilting his head to see the underside of the package and the conclusion of the Hogan’s Alley comic strip.

“Remus!” You laughed, “you absolute mong, open the package!”

“Alright, alright,” he slipped a finger into the folded edge and tore the paper away from itself, beginning to reveal what you had wrapped inside weeks ago. You’d been waiting for winter break to be over and a good excuse to give Remus the christmas present you’d bought him while you’d been home.

You’d heard him earlier, recalling some story of debauchery that the marauders had gotten up to while at James’ for winter break and you’d listened in shamelessly, minorly jealous that they got to see so much of Remus and you were confined to shared classes and passing in the hallway. You were friends of course, be odd to give a stranger a present, but only school friends. The sort of friends who work on homework together if they happen upon one another in the library. Who chat about the turn in the weather, a particularly difficult assignment, or plans for hogsmeade (plans that never include the other person, of course). You wanted to be more than friends and you had been hoping he’d get the hint since fifth year but he was either extremely stupid (which you knew he wasn’t) or he didn’t like you back and didn’t want to embarrass you. Which was perfectly alright because you were pretty hellbent on embarrassing yourself with no help from outsiders.

“I saw it in a bookshop near my house,” you explained as Remus stared down at the cover of Arsene Lupin by Maurice LeBlanc. “I thought of you.”

“Because his last name is Lupin?” He inquired, holding the book up against his chest, front cover facing you.

“No,” you replied, “because he’s a gentleman thief and master of disguise.”

Remus burst into laughter, clutching the book tighter to himself. The newspaper and bow had fallen to the ground and he stepped back, accidentally crumpling the paper further. “Brilliant.” He sighed, looking at the cover again, “thank you…I don’t have anything for you, I’m afraid.”

“Oh no, it’s alright. I just saw it and thought you might enjoy reading it…I’ve only read the first two myself but I do love them quite a bit.” You explained, trying to sound nonchalant about the present. You’d spent the entire two weeks at home mulling over whether you should buy it, whether it was something he’d like, whether it was appropriate to even give him a gift, and then, when to give it to him.

“Well, thank you,” Remus stepped back further, off the newspaper, and bent to pick it up off the floor of the hallway.

“I can toss that in the bin for you,” You mentioned, reaching a hand out for the rumpled paper.

Remus shook his head, tucking the book between his arm and his side, and began to smooth the paper out and fold it. “Oh no, I quite like the funnies. I’ll enjoy reading them. You can have the bow, however.” He peeled the red bow from the top of the folded newspaper and pressed it against your head, the tape sticking to your hair.

“How does it look?” You joked, reaching up to rub a finger against the velvety ribbon. You’d tied and untied the bow nearly five times before you were happy with it.

“Supreme,” Remus replied, “say, are you going to Hogsmeade on Saturday?”

“Probably, I’ve promised mum taffy from Honeydukes.” You had gifted her some for christmas and it was already gone.

“Ah, perfect. We’ll go together, as my present to you, what do you say?”

“You really don’t have to change your plans around for me,” you replied. It wasn’t so much that Remus had concrete plans, just that everyone knew he spent his Hogsmeade days with the rest of the marauders.

“No change,” Remus promised, glancing down at the folded newspaper and licking his lips, “in fact you’d be doing me a favor. Sirius and James have detention, and Peter’s…busy.”

“If you’re sure,” you began.

“Absolutely,” he lied. They’d only been back to school a week, too short for detention, or at least in this one instance they had seemed to keep their noses out of trouble. He was sure they’d fudge a detention for the greater good, or at least for him getting a date. Though probably it didn’t sound like a date.

“Of course it doesn’t sound like a date Moony, you said ‘let me take you to Hogsmeade as a gift because I was an oblivious twat and didn’t get you anything and I feel bad but also I’ve got no one to go with, which is a lie, so come to Hogsmeade with me?’ when you should’ve just asked them to Hogsmeade properly.” Sirius remarked around a mouthful of chocolate orange.

“It scares me to say this, but I agree with Padfoot,” James replied, sprawled across his bed in the dorm, looking over at Remus with a concerned expression. As if he didn’t always agree with Sirius about everything.

“I’m sure James,” Remus said, his gaze wavering, wandering back to the book that sat on his nightstand. Arsène Lupin looked up at him, gold foil embellishments and silhouetted profile begging to be read. He ran his fingers over the cover as he picked it up, imagining briefly what it might’ve been like to have seen you over break. To have wandered together into a little bookshop in Cambridge, searching through titles and reading aloud bits of summaries that intrigued you. He thought of getting tea, or coffee as he knew you preferred, somewhere quaint and quiet where you could sit at a corner table and whisper with each other.

A real date, not some fallacy.

“Are you off in your own head there Remus?” Sirius asked, eyeing his friend suspiciously. “Don’t go too far honey, you tend to ruin your daydreams before you can romanticise them.”

“I’m not doing that,” Remus huffed, reaching for the curtain on his bed, “you’ll steer clear of Hogsmeade this weekend, swear it?”

“Swear it,” Peter piped up first, looking to James and Sirius for confirmation that they were, actually, going to leave Remus’ plan unscathed.

“Of course,” Sirius’ voice sounded sickly sweet as he smiled, “swear it.”

“Me too,” James replied, a side glance at Sirius ensuring that they were both thinking the same thing. There would be no keeping their promise.

Remus pulled the curtain closed, settling into his blankets and enchanting the light on his wand so that he could read. He read eagerly, devouring the story, or at least as much of it as he could before he felt himself falling asleep. He knew it was probably a bit crazy on his end but he wanted to finish the book before the weekend so he could discuss it with you.

By Friday afternoon he’d selected a whole list of topics and written them out on a piece of parchment, testing the ones he thought might have the best result on Sirius and James (though they were unsurprisingly not helpful).

“Is Herbology an especially favourable subject?” Sirius asked, looking over the parchment as Remus scribbled a note in the corner about muggle books you might’ve read.

“No, actually, I think they were failing until last year…” Remus replied, looking at the word scrawled across the page in his usual neat cursive.

“Perhaps not a good subject then, eh?” Peter asked, straining to see the list.

“True.” Remus scratched it off and looked through the rest of them, “any ideas?”

“Tell them you fancy ‘em and want to snog their face off.”

“Has that worked for you James? Ever?”

“Actually…no.” James frowned, “sorry mate, I’ve got nothing I’m afraid. Quite new to this relationship business myself.”

Remus groaned, not close to being in the mood to hear his friend drone on about Lily Evans when he was meant to be helping. “Let’s stay on task, shall we Prongs?”

“Alright, alright…what about…why are these all school subjects Remus? Surely they don’t want to walk around Hogsmeade talking about classes all afternoon.” James said, plucking the pen from Remus’s fingers and crossing off anything that resembled a school subject. He left muggle books, the only category not related to Hogwarts directly.

“Sad list,” Sirius admitted, clapping Remus on the shoulder.

“I realize that,” he snatched the pen back from James and crumpled the list. “I just want to have a nice afternoon.”

“And you will.” Sirius assured, “they’re absolutely mad about you honey, it’s obvious. Embarrassingly so.”

“Compliment them, it always works for me,” James offered, reaching into his pocket for the leftover candies Peter had brought from home. They were softer than they were meant to be because of the time spent in the pocket of James’ corduroy trousers but no less delicious.

“Has it always worked for you?” Remus levelled, taking a lolly from James’ outstretched palm and peeling away the red and yellow wrapper.

“It eventually worked for him,” Sirius replied.

“Exactly, thanks mate.” James nodded to him.

“Anytime.”

“If you two are done,” Remus interrupted, “perhaps we could get back on track.”

“You don’t need our help Moony,” Sirius assured, ruffling his hair, “you’re a catch, honest. They’d be lucky to get a moment alone with you!” He grabbed Remus’s cheeks in his hand without warning, turning his head as if to show James and Peter, “look at him, regular model face, that is.”

“Get off me Sirius!” Remus huffed, swatting away his friend’s hand.

He crumpled the piece of parchment he’d been writing the list on into a tight ball before tossing it away. It rolled off to a corner, stopping at the edge of a bookcase.

“Looks like your quidditch arm is out of practice there hon,” Sirius teased, sitting down beside Remus.

“None of you are helpful, I hope you’re aware of that?” He replied beginning to gather all of his papers and books together to put in his bag.

“Leaving us?” James asked, chewing on a particularly gummy piece of the taffy lolly.

“I am,” Remus replied.

“Oh come off it Moony, don’t be a sourpuss,” Peter said, earning an approving nod from Sirius.

“How do you expect us to help Moons?” Sirius asked, laying a hand over Remus’ bag to stop him from leaving, “you’re friends with ‘em. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we all love ‘em and think the two of you would make a lovely pair-“

“Brilliant, really,” James piped in.

“Exactly Prongs, but you’ll know what to say better than us. Just don’t overthink it, alright? Any other day with them, yeah.”

“It’s not any other day though Sirius.” Remus sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“You see them in Hogmeade plenty.” He argued, which was technically true.

Remus had run into you plenty of times in Honeydukes or at the Three Broomsticks. On occasion, more in fifth year and then hardly in sixth and now never in seventh, you’d ask if he might want to get a butterbeer with you but he always declined because he was with James, Sirius, and Peter. It was unfortunate and he wished everytime that he just put aside whatever niggling self-doubt existed in the back of his head because he really could be quite charming when he wanted to be (when there were no strings attached…or feelings, more accurately).

“Getting in your head again honey?” Sirius asked, drawing him out of a daydream. A rather bleak one, as it stood.

Remus hummed, “You think it’ll be alright?”

“I’ve never known you to worry this much over a date,” James replied, “what about that bird you went out with over christmas?”

“Exactly my point James,” Remus replied, “I tend to avoid going on dates with people who matter a great deal to me. It’s let’s messy that way, but it’s given me zero training in what I ought to do on a real date.”

“What about all the dates we’ve been on?” Sirius posed and Remus shoved him gently.

“We’ve not been on dates you mong,” he replied.

“That’s truly hurtful hon, can’t believe you would wound me that way when I’m here offering you support in your great hour of need.” Sirius teased.

Remus rolled his eyes at his best friend, finally pushing his chair back and standing up, “I’m heading back to the common room.”

“To wallow in your bunk Moony?” James called, earning and immediate shushing from Madam Pince.

Remus paused monetarily to offer James his middle finger in reply before making his way out of the library. The corridors were empty all the way back to the gryffindor common room and Remus spent the walk trying to rehearse talking points with himself in his head. As much as his friends drove him mad with their advice, he knew they were half-right and fully looking out for him. He just needed to calm down his brain, it was you after all. His darling study partner and an absolute vision in yellow.

You wore a lot of yellow; even Peter had commented on it once in the library (“you wear an awful lot of yellow” “yes, well, I am a Hufflepuff”) but Remus thought of it more like Marigold. Like a flower sprouting up to reach the golden rays of the sun, Remus felt the warmth of the color radiating off of you every time he was near.

It was no surprise then that you turned up in yellow on the morning of Hogsmeade. Black doc martens inherited from your father, yellow corduroy pants and a striped sweater that looked soft and felt softer when he hugged you.

“You look very excited this morning,” you mentioned in a teasing tone, smiling at him.

“Do I?” He asked, looking down at himself as though his excitement was a coat he could simply shed himself of.

“For someone who didn’t have anyone to go to Hogsmeade with,” you replied, “you’re very cheerful.”

“Well, not no one,” Remus insisted, “we’re going together.”

You smiled, tilting your head back as if you were turning your chin to the sun. “That we are,” you agreed.

As other students gathered in the courtyard began to depart for the long trek to Hogsmeade, Remus held his arm up, bent at the elbow, as if presenting it to you. The gesture was an inside joke that probably wasn’t truly funny and that neither of you could accurately recall the origin of but you laughter all the same. You took his arm, fingers pressing into the fabric of his plaid blazer, and allowed him to begin the journey. Mostly it was an enjoyable silence, you didn’t feel any pressure to fill the space (and you almost always felt pressure to fill empty air with some rambling assortment of nonsense) and Remus let his daydreams be far more romantic in nature than he usually allowed.

Remus was a bit of a cynic, more than a bit if any of his friends were queried on the topic, though he was wont to blame his lycanthropy for that less charming quality. Whether he would’ve been prone to cynicism without the affliction or not, Sirius was right. He did tend to let himself talk circles around any good thought that passed through his head until it became absolutely, unbearably, negative.

“Are you having a conversation with yourself there?” You asked, drawing his attention to you. The both of you had passed into Hogsmeade and when you’d begun asking which shop he’d most like to go in you’d realized he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention.

Remus hummed in reply and then shook his head as his brain caught up with the question you’d asked him, “no, sorry. James tells me I’m prone to daydreaming though I don’t often realize I’m doing it, I suppose he’s right.”

“There’s nothing I love more than a good daydream,” you replied, “Did I ever tell you, I zoned out on Alice’s hat when I was being sorted…imagined myself unraveling the whole horrid thing and fashioning it into a cute little top, I’m quite the crocheter, if you don’t know, and the sorting hat thought it was a trip…stuck me in Hufflepuff over the whole thing. Said I had too much going on between my ears,” you laughed as you finished the story and Remus couldn’t help smiling at you.

It was a nonsensical story but it had seemed to ease the tension in his bones, relaxing him enough to let him banish the niggling cynicism that made a home in his head.

“Are you positive it didn’t say Ravenclaw and you misheard, being so distracted as you were?” He asked.

You huffed out a laugh, “I heard correctly! Surely if I hadn’t someone might’ve mentioned it.”

Remus hummed in response as if he was weighing the validity of your argument, “I suppose.”

“I should crochet you something, it probably would’ve made a nicer gift than a silly book,” you mentioned, changing the subject, already thinking how nice Remus would look in a wool sweater. Maybe a maroon or a deep brown, he seemed to always be in earth tones and mismatched plaids.

“I quite like the book, actually,” Remus replied. He’d finished it within the three days between when you’d gifted it him and today. He wanted to be sure he cloud talk to you about and was thrilled to find that he throughly enjoyed the story (and his namesake, though Arséne sounded much classier than Remus).

“Have you started it?” You asked, passed beneath his arm as he held the door open to the Three Broomsticks. As he followed you in he caught sight of Rosemerta, watching him with a smirk as though she knew something he didn’t. Or perhaps she was more insightful than he gave her credit for and she could tell from across the crowded tavern that he was bumbling his way through a first date, hoping that you thought it was a first day to.

“Yes, I started it the other night, really very good,” he replied, taking a window spot.

You sat on the stool beside him, eyebrows pulling together as you looked out the window, your expression half way between surprise and confusion.

“Something wrong?” Remus asked, looking out the window himself but seeing only some younger students he wasn’t familiar with.

“No,” you shook your head, “just thought I saw…can’t be though. Anyway,” you changed the topic quickly, “I tried making butterbeer at home over the holiday but it turned out rather poorly.”

“I’ve never tried making it…don’t think it’s crossed my mind,” Remus replied. He turned in his stool, “just realized I’ve to get the drinks,” he slid off his seat and headed over to the bar to order.

You looked out the window again as he weaved his way through the crowd. Outside, against the backdrop of the snow you thought you saw something, blinking away the image at first and then…you realized you weren’t seeing things at all. Sirius was standing there, looking as if he didn’t know quite how he was visible to you but he recovered quickly, offering a wave and a wink. You waved back and then he pressed his finger to his lips before pointing over your shoulder and you understood the silent request. Don’t tell Remus. You smiled and nodded and then, practically before your own eyes the boy seemed to disappear.

“Here we are,” Remus set the butterbeer in front of you and resumed his spot. “How was your holiday? I don’t think I properly inquired before.”

“It was alright,” you shrugged, taking a sip of your drink, “my sister’s had the baby, so everyone was in a state over it. You would’ve thought it funny, the little devil puked all down the front of my party outfit on Christmas Eve!”

“Did he really?” Remus hid his mouth behind his glass, taking a somewhat stunted drink as he tried not to laugh at your misfortune.

You nodded in reply, unable to contain your own quiet laughter. “It was quite becoming too, my party outfit. Sirius owled me about coming to a Christmas party, which I was really very surprised by, and I’d picked it out just for the occasion.”

The flush that Remus had felt on his cheeks colored his neck and ears at the thought of Sirius inviting you to their Christmas party. His best friend had been particularly rowdy that evening and Remus had suspected that he’d had something up his sleeve but nothing had ever come of it. Now he knew; Sirius had been trying to get him to “make a move” on you since fifth year, when he’d first caught wind of Remus’ crush. Or infatuation perhaps.

“I’m sure it was lovely,” Remus replied, trying to fit you into what he thought you might wear to a fancy dress party. Something golden and soft and glittery, if he was asked to bet money on his assumptions.

“It really was!” You exclaimed, “I tried a spell to clean it off but i’m rubbish at household magic and ended up melting it! I looked like I was wearing a baby’s bib after they’ve thrown up on it!”

Remus laughed at the image your words produced, taking the final sip of his butterbeer, “I didn’t know you were planning on coming to the party, mishap aside I would have loved to see you there.”

Your heart swelled at his use of the word “loved” and you smiled, “Well my night was just as chaotic, I’m sure. Do you mind popping in to Honeydukes? I don’t want to keep you.”

“I wouldn’t mind it.” Remus muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop himself.

“Sorry?” You had busied yourself with pulling your coat back on and looked up in confusion, having not fully heard him over the commotion of the tavern.

“Oh, I was just uh…I have plenty of time. All day really.” He insisted, standing himself and taking his hat off the table so he could follow you back out to the village street.

“Damn!” You stopped suddenly, recalling with all the annoyance of someone who had forgotten something vital to their daily life that you had left your second present for Remus in the refrigerator at home.

“Are you alright?”

“I’d forgotten, because of baby Lucifer…not his real name ‘course…I made a batch of fudge for you. I was going to sneak it to you at the party but I obviously did not attend and so it’s sitting in the fridge at home.” You replied, already thinking of what you would say in an owl home to your mother.

“That’s alright, honest,” Remus replied, laying a hand gently on the back of your coat. The pressure of his touch seemed to get you moving again. “Wait, why would you need to sneak it to me?” He asked, his mind catching up to the entirety of your situation.

“Well, Sirius invited me to the party, as I’ve said, and he said you’d be there, very specifically too, and so I made you the fudge…this was before I saw the book of course…but I didn’t make anything for anyone else. I hate people feeling left out, naturally, but it didn’t even occur to me until I was getting ready to come over. And then, of course, I suppose it worked out because my sister handed me Fredagar, that’s his real name by the way…a doozy if you ask me…and well, you know the rest.” You replied, “I was looking forward to going though, I thought about owning you over the holiday but I didn’t want to seem like that nagging friend who didn’t know the boundaries of their friendship, you know?”

“You could never,” Remus replied, “I’d like to think there are very few boundaries on our friendship, if any.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” you said, plucking a cellophane bag of taffy off the shelf in Honeydukes for your mum, “I’m not completely clueless though Remus, I know you’ve got a couple secrets up your sleeve.”

Despite the smile when you said it, Remus felt the flush that had been staining his cheeks rush away as he paled. He looked almost nervous, you thought, far more serious than you’d intended. You had a few ideas about what his secret might be, and you knew he had one, but you would never wager a guess out loud. His business was his and if he wanted to share, when he wanted to share, you knew he would.

“Sorry,” you apologized, taking his hand in yours and giving a squeeze of reassurance, “I didn’t mean to upset you Remus, I was only teasing.”

“Of course,” he nodded, squeezing your hand back. “I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t think anything of it,” you replied, “now, tell me how your holiday was? Did you lot get into any trouble?”

Remus tried to refocus, shaking his head gently to clear his thoughts, “With Sirius and James?” He reached for the candy in your hand, “here, let me get this for you.”

“Oh no, you got the butterbeers,” you replied, “besides the taffy is for my mum. I’m only getting the sherbet lemons and the chocolate frog. Hoping it’s not Dumbledore again, got a load of him.”

“James’ got a whole shoebox full of Dumbledores,” Remus replied, “Sometimes he lines them all up and watches him go back and forth between them all.”

You laughed at the thought of James sprawled out with his wizard cards, staring at Dumbledore passing through them. “Sounds like him.” You replied. “No, Remus, really-“

“I insist,” he placed the candies on the counter with his and then realized he’d need his other hand, “sorry I-“

“Oh, gosh, sorry…didn’t even realize I was still hanging on to you.” You let go, crossing your arms and looking around the shop while he paid.

“It’s alright,” Remus took the bag of sweets from the lady behind the counter and then reached over, deciding that maybe a bold move would be the right one, and took your hand again. “Do you want to walk a bit? Maybe?”

“Sounds good,” you agreed, letting Remus lead you back out onto the streets and through Hogsmeade.

The companionable silence from before seemed to fall over the two of you as you made your way around the small village. Remus let himself focus on the feeling of holding your hand in his and not the nerves that were still eating at him from your earlier comment. If he thought too hard on it he’d follow his own rabbit hole to the conclusion that you had figured him out and though you were still very obviously right here beside him, your motivations for wanting to be his friend if you knew were murky at best. He knew he was catastrophizing, even if he didn’t intend to, and that was probably why he didn’t realise exactly where he was until you finally spoke up.

“My sister used to tell me she would lock me in there when she was still at Hogwarts.”

Remus looked up in confusion, the Shrieking Shack standing a few meters away behind an old rickety fence.

“The shrieking shack,” he said, just for good measure.

“What do you think of it?” You asked.

“What do you mean?” His grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly and he looked as uneasy as he had back in Honeydukes.

“Oh, just like, do you really think some murderous hermit lives there? That’s what my sister used to tell me, that he built the house on the bones of his victims and that it was their screams you could hear on the anniversaries of their death.” You replied, gravely. Just as quickly you smiled, “or something like that.”

“I’ve heard a different one then,” Remus laughed.

“Have you? Suppose it’s not a murderer then. That’s a relief.” You replied.

“I should tell you,” Remus began, clearing his throat, trying to calm his nerves. “I uh, well, Sirius and James didn’t actually have detention today. And Peter wasn’t busy either, I sort of…well I wanted to come to Hogsmeade with you and I didn’t know or I was too nervous to ask.”

You bit your bottom lip to stop the smile that was threatening to spread. “I sort of, guessed about the Sirius and James bit. Not that I knew you were lying just to go out with me, if that is what your saying-“

“It is. It…how did you know about James and Sirius?” He asked, perplexed.

“I think they might’ve been following us, I saw Sirius outside of The Three Broomsticks,” you replied.

Remus looked around quickly, as if he could somehow see them, hiding out in the open, when it was just the two of you. “You swore you’d stay out of Hogsmeade!” He called to the empty space around you.

And despite Sirius and James appearing seemingly out of thin air you only felt mildly surprised to see them both. “Did your sister really name her son Fredagar?” Sirius asked as he ran a hand through his hair and straightened his jacket.

Remus looked absolutely peeved, though you weren’t sure if it was because they broken their promise or because they’d been following the two of you around Hogsmeade all afternoon. “Oh, come off it Moony, we would’ve closed our eyes if you two started snogging.” James said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

You chose to ignore him and focus on Sirius instead, “afraid so. According to her husband it’s a family name.”

Remus still looked bother and perhaps now a touch embarrassed, the red coming back to his cheeks in full force. He let go of your hand in favor of crossing his arms, looking about the clearing as though someone else might be there as well.

“Peter didn’t come, the spoilsport said ‘we promised Remus we’d stay behind’.” Sirius answered the unspoken question, pitching his voice higher to sound like Peter.

“At least one of my friends actually listens to me.” Remus huffed.

“It’s alright, really,” you promised.

“See, they aren’t bothered,” Sirius pointed out, “can’t believe you weren’t going ti give Jamesy and me a present though. Really gutted over that one. You don’t even know how you’ve wounded me.”

“You’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

“Never. Take it to my grave is what I’ll do.” Sirius joked, clutching at his heart dramatically, “it’s betrayal really, I thought I was your favorite.”

“My favorite what? Pain in the ass?” You laughed.

“And the hits just keep coming!”

James smacked Sirius’ arm, “it’s alright, we all know who your favorite is.” He looked over at Remus, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Christ, can’t you two find something else to do?” Remus asked, “where’s Lily?”

“She said something about someone breaking up with somebody else and having a nice Hogsmeade trip to mend them up…can’t remember specifics.” James replied.

“Good to know you listen to your girlfriend.” Remus snarked.

“I do listen! It’s just that we were making out and she always tells me things when we’re in the middle of it and then I can’t remember what it is she said.”

“Maybe that’s why she does it,” you pointed out, “to see if you’re paying attention.”

“I am!” He insisted, “to her!”

“Let’s just go back,” Remus tried, gesturing for James and Sirius to go ahead.

Sirius looked surprised at the suggestion though, a devilish smile coming to his face as he looked passed Remus to the shrieking shack. “We wanted to check your theory,” he said, looking over at you, “about the murderer in the shack.”

“Sirius!” Remus snapped, the scarlet of his cheeks suddenly giving him a furious look. He was no longer feeling embarrassed or annoyed or even smitten as he had been in The Three Broomsticks. This Remus was pissed off.

“It’ll be fun,” Sirius insisted. He and James were excitable and charming when they wanted to be but sometimes they were downright cads. No regard for anyone’s feelings and taking jokes just over the line until they weren’t funny anymore.

“I think I’d rather just go back to Hogwarts,” you replied, worrying your bottom lip as you glanced over at Remus. He wouldn’t meet your eyes though.

“Just a minute or two, like a dare,” James teased, grabbing your shoulders and pushing you toward the break in the fence where others had clearly manipulated the wire to get in.

“I think-“

“You two are assholes sometimes, you know that?” Remus snapped, hurt more than anger fuelling his words, “I told you to leave me alone for the day and you can’t even fucking do that? You insist on ruining everything!”

You looked over your shoulder, passed James (who was also looking over his shoulder) and realized Remus was trudging back toward Hogsmeade. Sirius had turned to watch him go, picking up the discarded bag of sweets that he’d tossed as he’d stormed out.

“Remus!” Sirius called, still sounding jovial though mildly confused, as if he couldn’t fathom why his friend was upset.

James seemed to have caught on, his hands falling from your shoulders, “sorry, we just thought it’d be a laugh.”

“It’s okay,” you weren’t really sure that it was okay but you didn’t know what other platitude to offer them. “I’ll go see if I can catch up with him?”

“Think that’s best, he might sock us if we follow him now.” James replied.

You took the candy from Sirius and started after Remus, following his tracks in the snow. By the time you got to Hogsmeade, his footpath had muddled with everyone else’s and it was impossible to know exactly where he’d gone. You thought about asking around but then that seemed silly, you had misplaced someone in a village this small? Wouldn’t that just mean they didn’t want to see you? Hogwarts seemed logical, he’d show up there eventually, at least. So you hiked your way back to Hogwarts and were almost immediately reminded why you disliked coming to Hogsmeade most of the time. The treacherous uphill climb back to the school was daunting, especially when you were forced to trek on your own through the snow.

By the time you got back to the castle your knees, shins, elbows and the bottom of your jacket were all wet and icing over. Luck took pity on you though and you found Remus on the bridge, over looking the lake and gorge.

“I‘ve saved your chocolates, which turned out to be quite a feat because I lost my footing at least three times on the walk back,” you called, “you’ll be relieved to have abandoned the day, then you didn’t have to be embarrassed by my clumsiness.”

“I,” Remus sighed as he turned toward you, “I didn’t mean to abandon anything…I uh, I’m prone to a temper every now and again.”

“Is that what that was? You seemed so calm and collected,” you teased, “Sirius was right though, I’m really not bothered. I’m sorry that you were.”

“I just wanted it to be a nice date,” Remus admitted. “I fucked up the ask and then…well I made a whole list of things we could chat about and it was complete rubbish so I tossed it and then I couldn’t come up with anything noteworthy to say-“

“I had a lovely time,” you cut him off, laying your hand on his arm, “you don’t need a list of topics Remus, we’re friends…we talk all the time.”

“Yeah, but not…I mean, not the sort of talk that leads people to think you’re interested in them, in a more than friendly way.” He admitted, “we always chat about friendly things.”

“Well, I could start telling you how gorgeous you look in your vest, would that help?” You asked, reaching out to gently tug the hem of his vest as you spoke.

“Yes, I suppose.” He nodded, “I, as you can imagine, I was planning on kissing you…perhaps, if you wanted to, of course. Not by the shack, that would be unromantic. I was thinking maybe just in the woods but then we wander further than I intended too and, as you know, James-“

You tugged his vest again, a little rougher this time, and leaned in to kiss him. “You know you sound an awful lot like me right now?” You almost laughed, “you’re supposed to be the confident one aren’t you?”

“You should try being me when you’re looking at me like that.”

“What am I looking at you like?” You asked.

“Like, well,” the thought occurred to Remus suddenly, like someone pulling a lightbulb string inside his head and bringing a lamp to life, “like you always look at me.” He said it softly, as if he were afraid to admit what he’d really known all along.

“You’re very clever,” you teased, kissing him once more, “are you positive you aren’t in Ravenclaw?”

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avocado-writing · 8 months

Note

Hello, writing req prompt if you're up for it: Aziraphale x reader first time intimacy

Btw I'm eating your every fic they so good!

notes: my fav thing is when people eat my stories. Reminds me of that Maurice sendak story. Anyway hope you enjoy!!!

pairing: aziraphale x reader

rating: E, minors dni

The first time he touches you it’s totally without realising. His mail got delivered to your shop and you’re bringing it over, grateful to have an excuse to talk to the man you’ve quite fancied since you met at the last Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Street Traders Association. As you pass him the small pile of letters your fingers brush together and you feel a little spark of electricity. You’re not sure if it’s static, or something… else.

He offers you a cup of tea, and you accept it happily. He’s very easy to talk to. Before you realise, the day has slipped into evening.

The first time he touches you on purpose it’s because you’ve walked into his shop and slipped over, falling heavily on your arse. It’s raining outside and you apparently brought in a puddle with you. The only thing bruised is your pride but he rushes over and offers a sturdy hand to get to your feet, all worry and care.

“My dear, are you alright?”

“Yes, sorry! I didn’t mean to get your shop floor all wet. I can always mop…”

“Don’t be silly. You need a cup of cocoa and some biscuits on the double. Sit down, I’ll get you both. Oh, but let me take that wet coat first.”

It’s nice to have him fuss over you. You only came round to ask if he could see about getting a book in and, if you’re honest, that was just an excuse to say hello. He helps slip your raincoat off of your shoulders and he must also realise how intimate an action it is, because as he goes to put it on the coatrack his cheeks are flushed pink.

Another lovely chatty afternoon. He reveals he’s never seen Notting Hill, and you simply can’t allow that to continue unremedied. So the two of you sit on his couch (he seems more than happy to close the store early) and enjoy the movie as much as each other’s company.

The first time he holds you, it’s on one of the film nights you’ve scheduled with him. It’s your favourite part of the week, closing up your shop and scuttling to the bookstore with a dvd in hand. You’re watching the 1995 Sense and Sensibility, and he seems very tense the entire way through. For a while you’re not sure why until he finally gathers up the courage to put his arm around you. Your heart leaps up into your throat at the gesture, but you snuggle in tight next to him, letting him run his thumb up and down your shoulder in a little caress.

And the first time he kisses you is as he walks you back to your shop that night - you live in the flat above it, so he doesn’t have to accompany you as it’s just over the road, but he insists it’s the gentlemanly thing to do - and, at the door, you spin and give him a quick peck. He seems dazed, but manages to get ahold of his senses enough to bring you back for a second, proper kiss.

At your next movie night, you don’t pay attention to Four Weddings and a Funeral. You’re too busy snogging.

And now, here you are. In his lap. The kissing has gotten hot and heavy, he’s unbuttoned your shirt nearly all the way down; you’ve stripped him of his waistcoat which makes him seem positively nude. His hands slide under your thighs and grip you tightly, moving a little closer to your arse as you breathe hotly into the shell of his ear.

“Aziraphale…” you gasp, stretching your legs open wide so that he might fit between them better. Your hand runs down his beautiful thick chest to the front of his trousers, where you rub the strained tent. He gasps and his head rolls back at your sure touch.

“Can I…?”

“Yes. Please,” he chokes. You make quick work of his fly and reach in to take him in your hand. He’s hot and heavy in your palm, throbbing with need, and you give him a couple of pumps just to hear the little overwhelmed noises he makes.

He slips his fingers away from where they dig into your soft skin and presses them at the sweet point between your thighs. You moan and keel into him, letting his deft and precise movements sweep over you with pleasure. You kiss him again, moving only so that you can take off enough of your clothes to return with your lower half naked. To disrobe further would mean you’d have to stop touching him, and you can’t stand that thought. You need him close. As close as he can possibly be.

Aziraphale settles his hands on your waist as you take him once more into your grasp. You line him up with your entrance and, checking that he’s ready with sultry eyes, sink down on him. He moans, bloody moans, and it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard; you want to bottle it and keep it for yourself so you can listen to it again and again. He fills you, stretches you, makes you one with him. You’ve never felt so warm and complete in your life.

Hands on his shoulders you tip forward to be able to rest your forehead against his. You’re both a little sweaty, both a little breathless, but both more than a little elated. His soft curls tickle your face as you begin to ride him with gentle but deliberate motions. You roll your hips and he squeezes you tighter, your name falling from his lips like he’s offering up a prayer to you.

As the London rain pelts the windows, you make love to the bookseller in the back of his shop, and it’s perfect. -

Taglist: @angiestopit@dazed-soul @@foolishprincipalitee@smile-eywa@staygoldsquatchling02@underratedboogeyman@cool-ontherun-world@emilynissangtr@cool-iguana@this--is--music @ilyatan

#aziraphale x reader #michael sheen x reader #request

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sleekervae · 2 months

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New York Romantic .6

Masterlist

a/n: Hi everyone, thanks again for your patience! This chapter is a little shorter and there's not as much dialogue as there is a lot of dancing. I had a lot of fun researching some of the dances for the Nutcracker ballet, and while I hoped to have this chapter up by Christmas, March 1st isn't so bad either 😅

pairing: Tom Blyth x ballerina!oc

summary: tom attends noelle's recital

word count: 2,759

taglist: @watercolorskyy @carolanns-world @alana4610

Tom wasn't so sure how he found himself sitting across from Noelle's family at a local breakfast eatery, somewhere along his morning Franca had insisted that he come along. And it went without saying that he was grateful for the meal, it had been a while since Tom had the privilege of eating out while on his student budget.

Maurice was an investment banker who worked for a smaller banking branch in Maine, tall with a shiny bald head, a seasoned gentleman of respectable stature with deep smile lines and wise eyes. Meanwhile Franca was an architect, a lavish yet simply dressed woman with long auburn hair, and freckles were scattered across her cheeks and nose. Chiara was a couple years younger then Noelle, her curly hair was much more reminiscent of her mother's but it was easy to draw facial comparisons between the cousins. She was a senior at some fancy private school, and whatever was on her phone proved to be much more interesting then conversation with the table crowd.

"So, Tom," Maurice looked to him as he stirred his tea, "Have you always wanted to get into show business?" he asked.

"Not at first," Tom replied, "I wasn't quite sure what I wanted to do at first, but my mum signed me up for some drama classes and my father worked in the film industry, so it all just kind of fell into place,"

"And where'd you grow up in England?" Franca asked, resting her chin on her locked fingers.

"York,"

"Oh, lovely! It's just North of Leeds, yes?"

"That's right,"

"Maurice and I were debating where to go for our fifteenth wedding anniversary, and I've heard such lovely things about that town," she said, "Alas, we settled on Marseilles and toured a bit through Southern France,"

"That sounds beautiful!" Tom awed, glancing Noelle's way, "Did you go, too?"

Noelle shook her head, "Nope, Chiara and I were manning the house for two weeks," she replied.

"It was so peaceful," Chiara added, her gaze still fixed on her phone. Maurice cleared his throat abruptly, staring down his daughter as she swiftly got the hint and put her phone away.

"Anyway," he then grumbled, "What do you want to do when you graduate, Tom? Theatre? Movies?"

"Movies, ideally. But I'd be open to wherever the wind blows me," he replied.

"I went to see his improv show last week," Noelle said, "He was really good!"

Tom shrugged, praying his cheeks wouldn't tinge, "I -- I mean I was okay..."

Noelle cocked her head down, giving him a playful glare, "Oh, c'mon. You were great. And I say so, so it must be true," she grinned. He couldn't help it then, Tom averted his gaze to his plate but nonetheless he was blushing.

Chiara scoffed under her breath, "You two are just adorable," she muttered sarcastically.

Tom watched Noelle roll her eyes, never the less her fingers fidgeted as she went to pick up her coffee cup. A sip of something to quell his dry throat sounded like a good idea, a pleasant cooling off before Tom could find himself swept up in the memory of that kiss yet again.

"Anyway," Franca cut in, "How's Bianca doing, Noelle?"

"Good!" Noelle nodded quickly, thankful the spotlight was off her for the moment, "She made it Maine just before the snow storm hit,"

"Is she gonna be back in time for the showcase?" Chiara asked.

"She's supposed to be back the morning of,"

Tom raised a brow, "Why didn't she leave after the showcase?" he asked.

Noelle shrugged listlessly, "She likes Christmas in Manhattan better,"

"-- Is Derek gonna come down?" Chiara asked, her interest seemingly peaking more than it had all morning. Derek was Bianca's older brother, as Noelle had told previously.

"I guess we'll find out," Noelle replied.

Maurice's gaze narrowed, "And if he were, what would you have in common with a twenty-six-year-old college drop out, anyway?" he asked gruffly.

Franca swiftly elbowed her husband, an urgent smile plastered to her lips as she stared him down pointedly, "Perhaps we can find something more relevant to talk about?" she suggested, turning back to Tom, "Have you been to any of the ballet recitals, Tom?"

Tom shook his head, "I haven't yet. This will be my first," he replied.

"We're so excited to see it. This will be Noelle's first big part in a production," she beamed.

Maurice nodded along, cutting into his egg-white omelette, "She's our little Sugar Plum Fairy!" he awed. None of them paid attention to Chiara's eye-roll.

Noelle grimaced, a bashful grin befalling her as Tom turned to her, "You didn't tell me that," he said.

She shrugged back sheepishly, "... Oh... didn't I?" she chuckled.

"No, you did not," he drawled back, "That's fantastic!"

"Well -- I still have a lot of practice to do before Friday, so we'll see," Noelle didn't like drawing too much attention to herself in that rhetoric. She was grateful for the opportunity, though nevertheless she knew the recital wasn't all about her.

"Are you gonna do her makeup, Chiara?" Franca asked her daughter.

Chiara shrugged back, glancing at her cousin, "Do you want me to do your makeup?"

"Of course I do!" Noelle nodded, "I'm no where near as good as you,"

"Alright, sure then," Chiara barely got the words out as she turned to her phone once again.

Maurice took the conversation again, folding his hands before his plate and twitching his nose, "Tom, why don't you join us on Wednesday? We reserved a box for four,"

"It'll be a great view of the stage," Franca added.

Tom was flattered, though he didn't want to impose, "Oh, I don't -- I don't want to intrude on you guys like that,"

Franca shook her head, "Please, it's not intruding if we invite you -- that's what my mother always used to say, anyhow," she chuckled.

"Have you bought your ticket?" Maurice asked.

"Yes," Tom replied.

"Well then, you're already set up," he told him, "I insist, and we can head out for dinner after,"

Tom turned to Noelle, her smile was bordering on confident, but she hoped that he wouldn't feel too pressured. After all, she knew her family could be a bit much and they had all only just met. But he didn't see the harm; her family was so nice and the view of the stage was promised to be excellent. And if it meant having a better view of Noelle, who was he to pass that up?

"Alright, if you're sure I'll be happy join you," he decided.

Friday was the twenty-third, and despite Christmas Day being just around the corner, the hustle and bustle of New York never stopped. Neither did the cold. It hadn't snowed again but the nefarious east coast arctic fronts swept through the streets; icicles were formed off of passing trucks and the sidewalks and roads were awash in various colours of crushed melting salts. And the cold certainly didn't deter eager shoppers to tick off last minute Christmas gifts from their lists.

Tom wasn't sure what he was supposed to wear to a ballet recital, he didn't want to overdress but he certainly didn't want to look sloppy either. His mum had shipped over some more clothes a couple weeks prior, nicer slacks, dress shirts, a couple pairs of shoes that definitely weren't ice-friendly. Nevertheless, he settled for a white t-shirt and blazer jacket sat over some dark jeans, and his trainers that at least wouldn't send him skidding with one wrong move.

The last few days had flown by rather quickly, and surprisingly, Tom always found that he had something to do. Usually hanging out with Jordan; he introduced Tom to a plethora of video games ranging from Super Mario to Zelda. It was one of the few things Tom found Jordan didn't complain about. And when they weren't inside playing video games, they were out exploring Times Square.

And this worked out quite well because when Noelle wasn't spending time with her family, she was always rehearsing. But in the evenings they would spend time together, watch more movies and just relax. Tom was practicing his cooking skills as well, nothing too fancy but he perfected how to cook salmon in a pan and boiling rice. Noelle was grateful too, especially as her muscles ached from her practice. The more time they spent together, the more fascinated they became with each other.

The campus was typically closed for the holidays, making exceptions for shows such as this. Audience members were lined up just outside the auditorium door, shielded from the cold within campus but still bundled up in long or heavy coats, scarves and hats.

Tom found Noelle's family already settled in their balcony seats, Franca spotted him first and waved him down. And just as Maurice had said, there was an excellent view of the stage from their spot. The heavy red curtain was drawn over the stage, dim mood light reflecting off the material and back on the shadowy faces mingling in the crowd.

Backstage meanwhile was a calamity mess, stage hands rushing to finish prop placement, sets, and stage cues. The ballerinas were also making their last minute touch ups, makeup, hair, tutus, dusting their slippers in rosin and some even sewing their tights and ribbons to their slippers to keep everything snug and in place. Noelle however was dawdling behind the curtain, peaking out through the sliver at the side to skim over obscure faces.

It was a delicate balance, trying to locate her family without being too conspicuous, but after a bit of searching, she spotted them. Chiara was engrossed in her phone, bathed in the soft glow of the screen, while Uncle Maurice struggled to free himself from his coat. Aunt Franca was deep in conversation with Tom, who, despite the dim lighting, seemed to blend into the shadows effortlessly, though he appeared to be holding his own in their lively discussion. Noelle's stomach was aflutter, not from the performance unfolding before her, but from the sight of Tom. Her attention was fixed on him, and the magic of the evening's entertainment paled in comparison.

"Noelle!" Stanis' voice bellowed behind her, he was storming her way as Noelle turned, "Pre-show in two minutes!"

Tom found Franca fascinating. She was a captivating woman, full of vibrant tales from her travels to exotic locales. Her stories were peppered with encounters with intriguing characters from whom she had negotiated for unique souvenirs to add to her collection. Nevertheless, Tom's anticipation grew as he eagerly awaited the start of the show. His eyes couldn't help but flicker towards the curtain, eager to catch a glimpse of Noelle as the curtain would lift. His curiosity and excitement were palpable, adding to the charged atmosphere of the evening.

And sure enough the lights dimmed down to near darkness, a single spotlight illuminating a spot on the curtains. The theater was alive with excitement as the curtains rose, revealing a beautifully adorned stage set for "The Nutcracker" ballet. Tom sat back in his seat, his eyes wide with anticipation, taking in the magical scene unfolding before him. The stage was transformed into a winter wonderland, with a backdrop of snow-covered trees that stretched up to a starry sky. The stage was lit with a soft, moonlit glow, casting a magical aura over the scene. Glittering snowflakes fell gently from above, adding to the enchantment of the setting. The dancers moved gracefully across the stage, each step perfectly choreographed to Tchaikovsky's enchanting music.

The Miniature March Dance began, and the stage came alive with the lively and charming movements of the young dancers. They moved with precision and grace, their movements synchronized to the playful notes of the music. The choreography was intricate, with the dancers forming intricate formations and patterns, showcasing their skill and talent. Tom was captivated by the youthful exuberance of the performers, as were the audience, and the dance brought a smile to everyone's face.

As the performance unfolded, Tom found his eyes repeatedly drawn to Noelle, who gracefully moved among the dancers. Clad in a celestial white gown, she seemed to float across the stage, her every movement a dance of ethereal beauty. While she was currently a background presence in the performance, Tom couldn't help but be mesmerized by her presence, captivated by her effortless grace and enchanting allure.

Next came the Arabian Dance, and Bianca took centre stage. A hush fell over the audience. She was a vision of grace and lithe elegance, moving with a captivating fluidity that mesmerized all who watched. Her every movement was deliberate and confident, exuding a subtle but undeniable aura of cockiness.

Bianca's performance was a masterclass in control and precision, her movements perfectly synchronized to the haunting melody of the music. As she danced, she seemed to command the stage, drawing the audience into her world with a confident allure that was impossible to ignore. The Arabian Dance was no easy feat and Tom had to give Bianca credit where credit was due, however he couldn't help but feel slightly unnerved as her gaze always seemed to land on him time and time again.

Soon enough it was Noelle's time to shine. As the familiar notes of the Sugar Plum Fairy dance began to fill the theatre, Tom's gaze was immediately drawn to Noelle, who had taken centre stage. She looked radiant in her tutu, rose gold detailing shimmering in the lights, her gorgeous long hair tied back in a sleek up-do, and a delicate, shiny tiara placed upon her head. She looked like a true princess, her every movement a testament to her skill and grace. Despite the beauty of the dance unfolding before him, Tom found it impossible to tear his eyes away from Noelle, his admiration for her growing with each passing moment.

Noelle, for her part, felt a mixture of nerves and excitement as she danced. She had dreamed of this moment for years, to prove herself worthy of the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy, and now that it was finally here, she couldn't help but feel a surge of nervous excitement. However, as she danced, it wasn't the perfection of her performance that consumed her thoughts, but the way her stomach fluttered with butterflies every time she caught Tom's gaze. It was a feeling unlike any other, a mix of joy, nerves, and she could see the admiration and affection in his gaze, which both thrilled and humbled her.

As the dance reached its climax, Tom found himself holding his breath, completely captivated by Noelle's performance. She danced with a grace and elegance that took his breath away, her every movement a testament to her talent and dedication. He couldn't help but think back to the moments he had seen her exhausted, bruised, and drained after long hours of practice. He could only imagine the dedication and hard work she had put in to reach this point, and it filled him with a deep sense of admiration for her. All those late nights and early mornings had led to this moment, and as he watched her graceful movements across the stage, he felt a swell of pride knowing that he had witnessed a small part of her journey to this incredible achievement. He swore he could've watched her -- become lost in her -- forever.

As the final notes of the dance faded away and Noelle took her bow, the audience erupted into applause, but Tom's eyes never left Noelle, his adoration for her greater than ever. She glanced up briefly, trying desperately not to become so overwhelmed with the applause, and her gaze fixating on Tom once more. His beaming smile was all the validation she needed in that moment.

The show progressed on, right up until the final Pas de Deux between the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Nutcracker. Tom watched among the crowd, his heart racing with a realization that took him by surprise. In that moment, he couldn't deny the truth to himself any longer. Watching her dance, he had felt something more than admiration or friendship. It was a crush, a flutter of emotions that he had been trying to ignore but now couldn't deny. Tom realized that he had developed feelings for Noelle, captivated by her everything. And if the previous few days had been anything to go by, there was a slim chance that she too felt the same way.

If only his own uncertainty wouldn't hold him back.

#tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus fanfiction #coriolanus imagine #coriolanus x reader #the hunger games #the hunger games the ballad of songbirds & snakes #the hunger games x reader #original story #original female character #original series #imagines #imagine blog

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