This is my reaction when I find a cool fanfic but don't look at the header. And then I realise it's unfinished and the last chapter came out several years ago.
my 14 year old sister is in the icu right now after an attempt, and i feel like my entire world has just stopped. i’m still trying to process what even happened. i found her barely alive, and i don’t think that’s something i will ever be able to forget. it keeps replaying in my head and i don’t know how to make it stop.
i feel everything at once. i feel terrified, confused, shattered, and so unbelievably angry. angry that she was hurting this much. angry that i didn’t see it. angry that someone could make her feel like this.
we found out she’s been getting bullied online by her classmates for months. and what breaks me even more is that she tried to reach out. around seven months ago she went to one of her friends for help, and instead of being supported, that friend cut her off, made fun of her, and told other girls at school that she was a “crazy suicidal freak” i can’t even begin to understand how someone could do that???
when we found her phone, we saw that she had called suicide hotlines four times and none of them answered. i don’t know how to even process that. she tried to get help, she really did.
and the part that’s tearing me apart the most is how normal everything felt. i was with her. she wasn’t crying, she wasn’t acting different, nothing seemed wrong. i left for fifteen minutes, just fifteen, and when i came back everything had changed. it was so sudden, so quiet, and i keep replaying it wondering what i missed.
there are police involved now, child protection, all of it. but none of that fixes what’s already been done. none of that takes away the image of her lying there. none of that makes this hurt any less.
i just want her to wake up. i just want my sister back. i want to hear her voice, see her smile, watch her be her again.
if you’re reading this: please, please be kind. look out for people. take someone seriously when they say they’re hurting. stand up for others when you can. you never truly know what someone is going through, even if they’re right beside you every single day, until it’s almost too late.
She is a painter and draws all the boys all the time. But she has never once drawn james in the 5 years she's known him. The only things she's done with him in it, is when she draws a picture with her and the boys and it's always his back that's seen. He finally asks her for a photo and that's when she admits she likes him because she has tried drawing him and he's just too pretty for her to draw. He carries too much sun and warmth for her to capture it.
Blank canvas - J.P.
╰ James Potter x Fem!gryffindor!reader
✵ Summary: James is the only person you just can’t draw well. Try as you might, you’re never happy with the result. Eventually, you’ll have to learn that your favorite things aren’t always meant to be captured.
✵ CW: Nothing but fluff, I missed writing the marauders era
✵ Word Count: 3.1k
Notes: Thank you for the request! Sorry for such a delayed response, the holiday season really kicked me this year. I hope you enjoy!
The sound of laughter and cheerful voices filled your ears, acting as a tempting distraction from the task at hand. What would normally have been a quiet morning to study in the great hall was now anything but that. It was the perfect combination of the liveliest students, spread out across the four long tables.
You glanced to your left down the table you sat at, spotting James engaged in whatever story Sirius was very expressively telling. Peter sat right beside them, eagerly inserting himself into the conversation whenever the opportunity arose.
Sirius reached the climax of his story, suddenly throwing his hands up dramatically. The move caused a chain reaction among the three of them. James laughed uncontrollably, a hand clamping down on Peter's shoulder for stability. The boy was quick to mimic the response.
Beside you, you sensed Remus lean forward to follow your gaze toward whatever caught your attention. A breathy little laugh escaped his mouth in response to the sight. It was enough to remind you of the little book that lay open in front of you. On its pages, your half-finished sketch waited for completion.
Remus glanced here as well. "Looks like it's coming along," He complimented, turning back to his own work. The boy was sat to your right, wrapped up in a cozy-looking sweater, while he only half-heartedly worked on studying.
“It’s getting there,” You agreed and gazed down at the picture, your lips pursing as you examined the organized mess the pencil left behind. This was going to be one of your favorite pieces, you were sure. But you were still stuck on the last figure.
You had started the sketch the previous morning. It was the first warm day in months, and everyone was taking advantage of it. As the sun inched toward the top of the sky, you found yourself down by the lake, watching water wash over smooth stones as it pulled into shore and back out. In your arms was your most current sketchbook, wrapped up in a leather binding with a pencil tucked into the cover.
The boys were all knee deep in the still-cold water, enjoying everything about the lake you normally couldn't this time of year. You watched them fondly, laughing with them every time a joke was made or scolding when one of them threatened to splash you.
At one point, James began wrestling with Sirius, who fought back valiantly but came out unsuccessful. James had him in the water in under a minute. He looked to you immediately, as if to check that you were watching. A grin found his lips when he confirmed you were, his brown curls appearing a shade of gold in the sunlight.
You made a face and shook your head playfully, which made him forget all about Sirius, who was regrouping to retaliate. James sent you a little wave, but it was quickly put to an end. And suddenly, both of them were in the water. Laughter escaped your lips as they climbed to their feet, cursing.
The scene before you filled your chest with warmth that couldn’t fully be blamed on the weather. It reminded you of the little book that still sat pressed to your chest.
That's how this particular sketch came to be, and it was almost perfect now. The only thing in the way now was the same person you were always stuck on. James. It was a frustrating pattern. In every single sketch, without fail, you always had a hard time with James. And no matter what you tried to improve, you had no luck.
There were no issues when it came to the others. You could draw an intricate sketch of anyone at this table and impress with the results, but when it came to James, you felt like all your skill vanished right before your eyes. You just couldn't capture him.
So that's why you now sat at the table, staring frustrated at the paper in front of you. It seemed like the not-quite-right figure of James was aiming to mock you.
During your many failed attempts in the past to sketch him, you resorted to simply making his back turned whenever a mistake was made, which was exactly what you were about to do to this one.
You finally gave in, taking an eraser to poor James and adjusting the positioning to be faceless. An audible sigh left your throat as you finished and set the pencil down. It was good enough to satisfy this particular drawing, but you couldn't help but feel a sharp edge of irritation that you had to add another failed try to your sketchbook.
Suddenly, the indirect source of your frustration sat himself right beside you. "What's bothering you, love?" James asked, having heard your dramatic sigh. The nickname threatened to put a little color in your cheeks, but you fought it well.
"Sketchbook drama," You answered casually, gesturing down to the still-unfinished artwork.
He wasted no time pulling the book toward him, examining the open page. An admiring look appeared on his face. It was the same look he got whenever he saw your work. Something about the care you put into every pen stroke, or just the fact that it was you who created it, made each piece dear to him.
"This?" He asked, pointing down to the drawing. He couldn't even imagine how you could have a problem with it. "This is what you're upset about?"
“Don’t flatter me, James.” You told him, reaching for the book. But he held it just out of reach.
"No, seriously. There's nothing you could improve here." He said, sending you a playful smile. James examined the book again. "Actually, just one thing. My back's facing us. You should be drawing more of my pretty face."
You shook your head at his words, watching his head tilt to emphasize them. "I think we see quite enough of your pretty face." You told him sarcastically, giving up on trying to reclaim your sketchbook and just resting an elbow on the table.
"I disagree," He stated, setting the leather-wrapped book down on the table and flipping through a few pages. "Look, I'm hardly in here!"
James was likely right. You could only recall one or two sketches of his face that you didn't hate enough to get rid of. And who knew if they were even still around. Still, you wouldn't admit that to him yet.
"Oh, come on," You started, pulling your book back in your direction. "You have to be in here." After a few moments of page-skimming, you proved yourself incorrect. James gave you an I-told-you-so look, eyebrows slightly raised above his glasses.
"They're probably just in the other books." You defended yourself weakly, but he wasn't one to let something like this go.
"Alright, I believe you." He said, to your surprise. But after a moment of silence, he sprang to his feet and offered his hand to you.
“I thought you believed me?” You questioned with a brow raised, already setting your hand in his. The moment he had you, his fingers closed gently around yours, helping you to your feet.
"We'll find which books I'm in." He assured in a tone that was all the persuasion you'd ever need. So you followed him easily as you let you out of the hall, hand still comfortably wrapped around yours.
It was an amusing walk up to your common room. A mix between determination and playfulness radiated off of James, putting a little more energy in his steps and a smile on your face.
Once you had crossed the common room and begun climbing the steps to your dorm, you could feel him back off a little to let you lead the way. "What? Scared to take a girl to her bedroom?" You joked with him, catching the boy off guard.
James faltered momentarily, but recovered gracefully. "This particular girl, sometimes." He replied, following behind you as you approached your dormitory's door. You weren't quite sure what to make of that.
"Do I make you nervous, Potter?" You asked as the door slid open to let you inside. You stopped just short of the doorway, letting him in first.
"In your dreams, love." He replied, gently brushing his fingertips to the side of your face as he passed, like it was the most casual thing in the world to him. You found yourself instinctively reaching for that spot on your cheek, mimicking the touch.
Inside the currently empty dorm room, it wasn't hard to spot which bed was yours. Tried as you might to keep your work organized, it wasn't your strong suit. Books lay stacked at your nightstand, the foot of your bed, and in a box underneath it. Surely James wouldn't want to go through all of them.
"We'd better get to work." He stated, proving your previous thought wrong. That's exactly what he wanted to do.
"You can't be serious." You said with an airy laugh in your voice.
“Of course, I’m serious.” He replied, passing you the closest book within reach and then grabbing one for himself. James hopped onto your bed, his long body lounging carelessly across it as he began flipping through the pages.
You sighed and gave in, sitting down beside him and pushing one of his legs out of your way so you had room. Digging through your books took just as long as you thought it would, but. longer than he expected it to. You could tell by the hurried way he started searching the pages that he was realizing the difficulty of his task.
After what must have been nearly an hour, every single book was looked through, and to his surprise, there wasn't a single sketch that fit what he was looking for. Each one that was found was faceless, just like the first one.
"Not one drawing of me," He said, sitting up to face you. Your gaze followed him the whole way, trying to gauge his reaction. There was no true offense in his expression, only curiosity. "I'm hurt, love." The words held little weight when followed by a goofy smile and the nudge of his elbow.
"I swear, I had a few in here." You tried to soften the situation with your words, but he didn't believe them for a second.
James gazed at you with a contemplative look as he considered. “I don’t buy it.” He said simply, finally setting down the last book beside him. It landed with a small thump against the pile that had already been formed there.
"What don't you buy?" You asked, fully aware you were going to lose this conversation.
He leaned a little closer, turning on that James Potter charm he knew worked so easily on you. "You know exactly why there aren't any pictures of me in these." He told you confidently, as if it were a fact as sure as the sky is blue.
You knew you shouldn't indulge in his persuasion; it would only go to his head. But with the way his hazel eyes locked softly with yours and his curls fell messily atop his head, it took a shameful matter of seconds before you folded. "Fine," You huffed, standing from the bed and crossing your arms. "I don't draw any pictures of you because I can't."
His brows tugged inward in confusion. "What do you mean you can't?" He didn't quite believe your words, having witnessed firsthand the talent you had with a pencil. James waited for a smile or laugh or anything that told him you were joking, but it never came. Your serious expression never faltered. So he smiled for you. "Like, physically or?" He started in jest.
“No, I mean, I can’t draw you well.” You admitted, leaning against the wooden bed frame. “I don’t know what it is. It just never looks right.” He must’ve sensed the frustration in your tone, because his expression softened a little.
“Oh, easy, you just need more practice.” He stood, taking the couple of steps to stand right in front of you, taking one of your hands into his.
You glanced down at them, watching his thumb brush affectionately across your skin. The sensation of it made your heart flutter. “I’ve had plenty of practice.” You replied in complaint, your eyes finding his. They met yours with something warm and inviting, drawing you closer.
“Well, clearly not enough, darling.” His lips tugged upwards at his own words, clearly aware of what he was doing. “What you need is a model.” He stated, and you were suddenly all too aware of how close he was to you. It made your heart perform the lightest little tap against your ribs.
Before you could do anything about it, James pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, reaching down for your most current sketchbook and passing it off to you. He then hopped back onto your bed, sitting comfortably against the pillows. “You get more practice and a free excuse to stare at me.”
Taken aback, you glanced down at the book that now lay comfortably in your arms, doing a very poor job at hiding the blush in your cheeks. “For artistic purposes only, Potter.” You said, finally snapping out of your daze.
“Of course, love.” He said with an obvious smirk on his lips. “What other reason would it be?”
You shook your head, sitting yourself down in front of him. The blank page in front of you was daunting, with potential for both the greatest success and failure. You had yet to discover which it would be.
Your hand went up to his chin, adjusting his head to your liking. He smiled down at you as you did this, completely full of himself.
“Don’t let this go to your head.” You told him, making the first few shapes appear on the paper. A slow laugh escaped him as he focused on holding still.
The first attempt was just like any other. The figure was technically correct, but there was still something there that just didn’t look right. It just didn’t look like him.
“It’s really not bad,” He assured, leaning closer to get a better look.
“But it’s not right.” You replied, that frustration creeping up again. It grew more noticeable once your second attempt began. The pencil moved quicker, and your grasp on the book tightened by a hair.
He glanced at your hands while they worked, trying to understand what it was you thought was missing. Sympathy crossed his face when you held up the finished product, which was arguably worse than the last. It was a direct result of your frustration with the work.
“You’re thinking about it too hard,” James suggested suddenly, during your third attempt at the drawing. You glanced up at him at the words, cueing him to continue. “You’ve got to loosen up a bit.”
“I was loose,” You argued. “I just don’t know what’s making this so hard. Your face really is just too pretty.” Your tone was meant to be teasing, but the delivery was off. That really was the problem. You just couldn’t capture the way he looked in your eyes.
The comment put that smirk back on his face. “Did you just call me pretty?” He questioned.
“James, we both know you’re pretty.” You told him, placing a hand on both sides of his face to readjust his head again. You could practically feel the comment boosting his confidence.
“Have you ever heard that saying?” He asked, surprising you that he dropped your reply so quickly. The tone he used gave away that there was meaning to his words.
“What saying?” You asked, hands sliding gently toward his neck. The touch lit up his skin, only convincing him to lean in closer.
“That you can’t ever capture someone you love.” He stated as casually as he would a topic in class. The bold words froze you in place.
“Love is a strong word.” You added, but didn’t pull back from him. In fact, you found yourself closer.
The air between you was suddenly tense, like the sky just before lightning strikes. “Maybe.” James’ voice softened with the word, sensing it. “I just mean, you’ll care too much to ever consider one of your drawings a perfect capture of me.”
You stole a quick glance toward his lips, gaining the sudden urge to forget this drawing issue. “You’re right.” You admitted, thumb brushing against the skin of his cheek. “How do you suggest I care less?”
James’ smile grew, the look you made not avoiding his notice. He leaned in so his lips just barely brushed yours, waiting there for your permission. You gave it to him without a moment’s hesitation, leaning in the rest of the way to meet him in the softest kiss.
Maybe he was right, maybe you did care too much. Maybe it was your affection for him that caused your artist's block. But none of it seemed to matter in that moment. James’ hand found your waist, pulling you towards him, your sketchbook falling carelessly from your lap in the process. You let it fall, forgetting your frustration with it.
He kissed you so gently, as if he was only imagining this and it would disappear in an instant if he moved too quickly. All it did was make you want more, but you didn’t dare take it.
When he finally pulled away, it was only to place another kiss on your cheek, and then your forehead, and then the bridge of your nose. You giggled like a little kid throughout the entire process, putting a grin on his face.
James put a hand to your cheek, gazing at you with affectionate eyes. It took everything in him not to kiss you again, but the issue at hand still needed resolving. You watched him locate the abandoned sketchbook and hand it to you. “Try one more time.” He suggested.
You reluctantly agreed, sitting back a little to get a better view of his face. Every feature there was softer, and there was a new bit of color in his cheeks. The sight of it gave you all the motivation you needed.
This time, when you finally held up the finished page, it was something you were happy with. Not because it was a perfect copy of the boy in front of you, and not because you cared about it less. But because it was yours, and so was he. And in the end, that was all you needed.
Synopsis: James catches you being cold (you weren’t really, he just wanted to share a scarf) and says it is unacceptable.
Point of view: Second-person ( “. He saw you .” )
Warnings: None!
w.c.: 1.7k
The corridor was quieter than usual that evening. Most students were already tucked into the Gryffindor common room, laughing or reading by the fire. You, however, had decided a walk through the castle would help clear your head after a long day of lessons. Your bag felt heavy on your shoulder, and the chill of the stone walls made you pull your cloak tighter around yourself.
As you turned a corner near the portrait of the Fat Lady, a familiar voice rang out behind you.
“Oi! Careful there, you nearly knocked me over!”
You froze for a moment before turning. Sure enough, there was James Potter, grinning like he had just discovered a new way to cause trouble. His hair was messy in that signature way of his, like he had rolled out of bed and decided that was stylish. A crooked smile tugged at his lips as he leaned casually against the wall, looking far too comfortable for someone supposedly “almost knocked over.”
“I wasn’t going to—” you began, but he cut you off with a raised hand.
“You’re always going to knock me over eventually. I’m just saving the moment,” James said, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Think of it as… heroic.”
You let out a small laugh, the tension in your shoulders loosening. “Heroic, huh? More like reckless.”
He stepped closer, peering at you with exaggerated concern. “Oh no. Not reckless. Not when you’re involved. That would be… irresponsible. Dangerous, even. And I can’t have that on my conscience.”
Your cheeks warmed, though you tried to keep your expression neutral. “You’re really pushing it tonight, aren’t you?”
“Pushing it?” James gasped, feigning shock. “I prefer to think of it as… enhancing the night. You know, making it more interesting.”
You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile too brightly. But James, of course, had no intention of letting you do that. He reached out suddenly and tugged at your scarf. “Speaking of interesting, you look a little cold. We can’t have that!”
“James!” you whispered sharply, jerking back slightly. “This is my scarf! And for Merlin’s beard sake, I’m not cold!”
“But it looks much better when shared,” he said, draping it around both of your shoulders. “See? Now we match. It’s perfect. Symmetry is very important.”
You felt your heart flutter, but you try to keep an annoyed mask on. The scarf smelled faintly of cedar, with that hint of mischief that seemed to cling to James like it’s a painting of him with a crown.
“Oh, is that what this is?” you said, stepping closer despite the warning in your chest. “Charm? Or are you just being dramatic?”
“Dramatic?” James raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know, this is the most subtle form of heroism Hogwarts has ever seen. And yes, there may be a slight dramatic flair, but that’s part of the charm.”
You felt yourself smiling fully now, unable to resist the way he looked at you. He leaned just slightly closer, close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from him, but not close enough to be overwhelming. “You’re impossible,” you said softly.
“And yet,” James replied, his grin widening, “you keep letting me.”
You laughed, shaking your head, and then he did something entirely unexpected. He pressed a quick, gentle kiss to your temple, just enough to make your heart skip a beat. “There,” he said, stepping back with a triumphant grin. “See? Heroic. Subtle. And incredibly effective.”
You blinked, still a little dazed. “Effective in making me flustered, yes. Heroic? What even is considered heroic in this.”
James gave a theatrical bow. “I accept partial credit.”
He started walking beside you toward the common room, arms swinging casually. You tried to act nonchalant, but the warmth of his hand brushing against yours occasionally made your stomach do flips. James noticed immediately and smirked.
“Why are you walking like that?” he asked. “Like you’re trying to hide your delight at my presence.”
You shot him a look. “I am not.”
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head. “That’s what they all say. But your cheeks betray you. And your smile. Very telling.”
You groaned but couldn’t help giggle at yourself. “You really have a way of noticing everything, don’t you?”
“I’m James Potter,” he said proudly. “It’s practically my superpower. That, and getting into trouble. But that’s not relevant right now.”
The hallway opened into the Gryffindor common room, warm light spilling across the floor from the fireplace. You hesitated at the threshold, and James took the moment to tug you gently by the hand into the room. “Come on. You’re shivering. You need proper warmth. Preferably mine.”
You smiled, feeling the butterflies in your stomach dig and twist and do backflips, making your cheeks hear up, but allowed yourself to be led to one of the couches near the fire. James immediately plopped down next to you, tugging the scarf snug around your shoulders once more. He leaned back, a smug but soft smile on his face.
“There,” he said, glancing at you. “Safe from the cold. And obviously from my heroics, of course.”
You laughed quietly, leaning slightly into him. “I don’t know if I should thank you or be suspicious.”
James said with a wink. “Well I did just do that without your permission, but that doesn’t matter anyway”
For a while, you just sat there, the fire crackling in front of you, letting James’s playful energy wrap around you as snugly as the scarf itself. Every so often he would nudge you, make a teasing remark, or flash one of those grin-where-you-know-he’s-about-to-do-something mischievous smiles. And each time, your chest warmed, not from the fire, but from him.
“Do you ever stop?” you asked after a particularly dramatic sigh from him, when he was pretending to be overcome by the cold.
“Stop being charming?” he asked, feigning offense. “Never. That would be very irresponsible. Hogwarts relies on my charm to keep morale high. Everyone needs a little James Potter energy now and then.” He said quickly.
“You’re unbelievable,” you said softly, shaking your head.
“And yet, here I am, fully believed in,” he said, pressing a light kiss to the back of your hand. “And here you are, smiling like a fool.”
You felt your cheeks heat up again, and he noticed immediately, his grin widening. “Told you, you can’t resist me. It’s part of my superpower.” he teased.
For a long moment, you just stayed there, giving up on resisting, quiet except for the soft crackling of the fire. James’s hand found yours again, giving it a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that made your stomach flutter. He looked down at you with those mischievous, warm eyes, and somehow, just being near him felt like the safest, happiest place in the world.
Synopsis: James always runs late and whenever that happens, it becomes a tradition for him to wear unmatched socks. You notice and quietly join in.
Point of view: Second-person ( “. He saw you .” )
Warnings: fluff, very short
You notice it the first week back at Hogwarts.
It’s Monday morning. The sky is grey and heavy. Everyone in Gryffindor Tower moves like they’re underwater. You’re curled up on the sofa, tying your shoes slowly, because last night was too late. Across from you, James Potter is hunting for his tie.
He’s loud.
“Has anyone seen a red tie with a suspicious stain that looks a bit like pumpkin juice but isn’t?” He digs under the sofa cushions.
You roll your eyes, but look anyway. His shoes are on the wrong feet. Hair sticking up everywhere. And then you see his socks.
One is bright green with little snitches stitched along the cuff. The other is plain grey.
You laugh.
James freezes, tie dangling from his mouth, and looks at you. “What?”
“Your socks,” you say. “They’re fighting.”
He glances down. Blinks. Shrugs. “They’re mates. Opposites attract.”
You shake your head, giggling. Your smile sticks long after he’s gone to breakfast.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 <- bob
It becomes a thing.
Every few days, there’s a new pair. Blue and yellow stripes. Polka dots and stars. One afternoon after Quidditch, one sock has tiny frogs, the other has lightning bolts.
It’s ridiculous.
So you tease him.
In Charms, you murmur, “Did the socks choose each other, or did you just close your eyes?”
He grins without looking. “Bit of both.”
Sirius laughs from the next desk. “He does it on purpose. Thinks it makes him mysterious.”
James tosses a crumpled piece of paper at him“Actually, if you allow me, it’s interesting, not mysterious.”
You roll your eyes. But he notices your smile and smiles back. You start feeling flip flops and twists and knots in your stomach, just like.. “Cramps!” you say to yourself. Stupid you.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 -> Mr. bricks
Autumn drifts by.
The corridors are crisp with wind. Leaves swirl. The lake darkens. James sits near the fire when it rains. Shoes half off. Socks always strange. You start looking forward to it.
You tell yourself it’s just funny. Harmless. You also tell yourself lots of things that aren’t quite true.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 <- kevin
One morning, as you wait for the others, James plops down next to you. “Normal socks again? Tragic.”
“They’re warm,” you say. “That’s what matters, James”
He freezes a little and you soon realize he does so every time you say his name.
“Warm is fine,” he leans closer. “But a little personality wouldn’t hurt.”
“Like yours?”
“Exactly! It’s called, Mismatched perfection.”
He lifts a foot. green and orange stripes. The other bright blue with little cars.
“Your feet look like they are arguing about Quidditch teams,” you say, trying not to laugh.
“Only because they both think they are winners, but the real winner is obviously gryffindor.”
You shake your head, smiling anyway.
(no, I did not just giggle 2 minutes over my own writing)
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 <- willie
October.
He makes a show of it now. Rolling up trousers. Tilting a foot toward you in study. A secret game no one else notices.
One afternoon, while you’re working on a Transfiguration essay, he says, “I think you’re secretly jealous.”
“Of what?”
“My unmatched style.”
“Unmatched being the key word.”
He laughs bright, full. Your chest feels light. Stomach warm. You tell yourself it’s nothing.
That night, you dig through your trunk. Find one pair almost close, pale yellow and tiny daisies. Not quite matching. You set them aside.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 <- david
November.
You know.
The teasing is routine, softer now. When he catches you looking, he smiles shy. You sit closer. You notice broom polish and rain on him. The socks are only a piece of it.
He’s always moving, always laughing. But sometimes he looks at you like you’re the only person thhere.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 <- emma
Last Quidditch match before winter. You wake up early. Sky grey. Sitting at the edge of your bed with socks in hand. One navy with moons, one plain white. Strange, but you pull them on.
Breakfast buzzing. You slide in next to him.
“Morning. Ready to cheer for the best team at Hogwarts?”
“Always.” you smile brightly.
“You’ll need lucky socks,” he says.
You glance down, then up proudly. “Already have them!”
Nudge one foot forward. He sees it. Mismatched.
He stares. Noise fades. Heartbeat loud.
Then a soft smile. Not his usual grin.
“You copied me,” he whispers.
“No. I matched you.” you pout.
James Potter is silent.
Remus calls him. He doesn’t move. Just keeps looking. Warm eyes.
“Guess we’re in the same club now,” he finally says.
“The Mismatched Socks Club,” you reply.
He laughs, soft now, still memorizing.
Later, after Gryffindor wins, he finds you outside the changing rooms. Robes messy, hair wild, eyes bright. He lifts one foot. Red and gold.
“Still dramatic,” you laugh.
“Wouldn’t want to let the club down.”
You straighten his scarf. “Then we make it official. Mismatched and proud.”
He looks at your feet, back at you. Smiling wide.
“Deal.”
Snow falls. Between teasing and matching, and all the little moments, you’ve become more. Something smaller, simpler, yours.
synopsis: you swear regulus has dimples but no one believes you, until he walks in and proves everyone wrong.
warnings: pure fluff, mentions of cold demeanor, some mild language, grumpy x sunshine kinda?
w/c: 3k
a/n: my headcanon is that regulus has dimples!!! i said what i said guys, argue with me !! also this has been in my drafts for a good 7 months </3
masterlist
"Regulus Black does not have dimples!"
Sirius declares for the third time that afternoon, sprawled across the common room sofa with his legs thrown carelessly over James’s lap, his voice carrying that unbothered arrogance he wielded like a second skin.
"You’re hallucinating."
You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as you stand firm before the Marauders, unyielding in your defiance. Mary is nestled against Remus’s shoulder, her eyes glimmering with barely-contained amusement as if she knows something the others don’t.
"I am not hallucinating," you retort, voice dripping with indignation, hands finding your hips in a stance that borders on stubbornness. "I’ve seen them! They’re right here."
You jab your own cheeks for emphasis, fingers pressing into the softness just beneath your eyes, and the room erupts into snorts and muffled laughter, your so-called friends delighting in your apparent delusion.
But you know the truth. You have seen them—the delicate crescents that carve themselves into his cheeks when he smiles in that unguarded way, soft and fleeting, like moonlight filtering through darkened leaves. It is a secret you hold close to your heart, something sacred and untouched, for Regulus Black is not supposed to smile like that. Not according to them.
To everyone else, he is sharp lines and cold eyes, distant and unyielding, a boy forged from winter’s breath and brittle starlight. His name drips from their tongues like a warning, a reminder of ancient bloodlines and whispered expectations. But you know better. You have seen the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way his hands hesitate before touching yours as if afraid he might shatter something precious.
Regulus Black, to you, is soft edges and hidden warmth, tenderness folded into the corners of his smile, something gentle and achingly beautiful beneath the surface. They could not see it, would not believe it, but you did. You always did.
"Darling," James begins, slipping into his most condescending tone as he tilts his glasses down the bridge of his nose to peer at you properly, eyes alight with mischief. "I’ve known Reggie since fourth year, and not once have I ever seen a dimple. Not even a suggestion of one."
He is wrong, you think, pressing your lips together to keep the secret tucked safely in your heart.
They do not know the way Regulus looks at you when no one is watching, how his gaze softens like the edge of dawn, or how his laugh—rare and unbidden—blooms like a flower in the dark. They do not know that Regulus Black, for all his coldness, holds sunlight in his smile, and you are one of the very few who has ever been allowed to see it.
"That’s because you’re not paying attention," you shoot back, arms crossing defensively. "He does this little smile sometimes, it’s soft and kind of lopsided, and there’s this tiny dimple right here—" you poke your cheek again, more insistently, as if the physicality might convince them. "I swear, it’s like magic."
"Or madness," Remus suggests mildly, and Mary dissolves into laughter, her curls shaking as she leans further into him.
"I mean, we’re talking about Regulus Black here, right? My-face-is-carved-from-stone Regulus Black?"
"Maybe it’s just a shadow," Sirius chimes in, inspecting his nails with a grin that teeters on smugness. He hardly even glances up, as if the matter is too trivial for his full attention.
"A trick of the light. Or you’ve been hexed. Definitely hexed. I bet it’s a dimple jinx. You see fake dimples, fall madly in love." His grin widens, eyes glinting with mischief, and the others snicker at the notion.
"I have not been hexed!" you cry, voice pitching higher in your indignation, but your outburst only seems to spur their laughter further.
The sound spills into the room like the crackle of firewood, unrestrained and merry, and you stand at the center of it all, defiant and unyielding. "I’m telling you, I’ve seen them. He has dimples!"
"Right," James nods, his expression shifting to exaggerated seriousness as he claps a hand on your shoulder, eyes sparkling with that brand of Marauder mischief that rarely bodes well.
"And I’m secretly the heir to the Malfoy fortune."
"Stop it." you protest, your hands flying to your hips as if that might root your argument more firmly in truth.
"He has dimples. If you look closely, you’ll see them!"
They laugh again, the sound bubbling up like champagne flutes clinking together, indulgent and disbelieving. But you only hold your ground, chin tilted upward with all the stubbornness of someone who has glimpsed something magical and refuses to let it be reduced to smoke and shadows.
Because you know. You have seen the way Regulus’s face softens when he lets his guard slip, how those tiny, secret dimples blossom at the edges of his smile like something fragile and hidden from the rest of the world. It is not a trick of the light, not some fleeting mirage conjured by wishful thinking.
It is real. He is real. And maybe, just maybe, they have never looked closely enough.
"He does not," Sirius says flatly. "I would know. I’ve seen that miserable mug for seventeen years straight, and not once has it ever hinted at joy. If he’s smiling for you, you might want to check if he’s choking."
"You don’t know everything about him," you snap back, and it’s a bit more pointed than you intended, because Sirius’s expression shifts for the briefest moment, but then he’s back to smirking, one brow arched.
"Oh, I know enough. And I know that my miserable little brother is physically incapable of producing dimples. It would require smiling first. Which is practically illegal for him, by the way. Pretty sure he signed a contract with Death himself."
"He does smile," you argue. "Just... not around you lot."
Mary’s eyes light up at that, and she sits up a little straighter, nudging Remus. "Not around us, huh? Just around you?"
You hesitate, heat creeping up your neck. "Well… yeah. I suppose." At their expressions, you quickly add, "That’s not weird!"
"It’s a little weird," Remus says thoughtfully. "I mean, I’ve never seen him smile like that." He looks to Sirius for confirmation, who just shakes his head.
"Me neither," Sirius agrees. "And if he was going to be grinning like a lovesick idiot, I feel like I’d know. Or maybe you just have some sort of freaky dimple-seeing ability. Is that a thing? Can we get that checked?"
"Maybe he only smiles for her," Mary sing-songs, and you swat at her, cheeks blazing. "What? I’m just saying!"
You cross your arms tighter over your chest, frustration curling hot and sharp beneath your ribs. You know what you saw. It wasn’t magic or shadows or madness. It was Regulus, soft and unguarded in a way that felt almost secret. A piece of him reserved just for you, like a glimpse behind the curtain of a play only you were meant to watch.
But they wouldn’t believe you. They couldn’t. Because to them, Regulus was all sharp edges and cold stares, impenetrable as stone. But to you, he was something else entirely.
You saw the parts he kept hidden—the softness, the ache, the way his eyes would linger when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his fingers brushed yours just a bit too long when he handed you your books, the way he stood a little closer than necessary when you walked side by side. His dimples were proof of it. Proof of the parts of him that were gentle and real and yours.
"I’m not making it up," you murmur stubbornly, softer this time, almost like you’re telling it to yourself.
James leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You know, I almost want you to be right. I’ve never seen Regulus with dimples before. I think it would break my brain."
The room is still shaking with laughter when the portrait door swings open. It is a subtle thing, just the soft groan of hinges and the hush of movement, but you feel it like an echo in your bones. Your gaze snaps up before you can help it, the breath stalling in your lungs as if caught between heartbeats.
There he is, Regulus Black, framed in the doorway like he has stepped out of a painting, shadows and light playing across his features in sharp relief.
He is ice and elegance, his gaze sweeping over the room with cool detachment, the sort of look that makes even Sirius go still. His brother’s grin falters, an instinctual pause as if the air has been sucked from the room.
Regulus’s eyes flicker over them, James’s raised brow, Sirius’s smirk half-frozen in place, Remus’s unbothered calm, but there is nothing there, not even a nod of acknowledgment. His expression is marble-carved, beautiful and unyielding.
But then his gaze finds yours, and it softens, melts like snow beneath the first touch of spring. His eyes brighten, lips twitching at the corners, and suddenly it is like you are the only two people in the room. The change is breathtaking, the kind of transformation that feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.
Without thinking, you are already moving, feet carrying you across the room as if pulled by some invisible thread.
"Regulus," you breathe, and the way his name falls from your lips feels like unspooling thread, like the first sigh of spring. His expression softens entirely, something delicate and aching sparking behind his eyes as you practically throw yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, arms winding around your waist, steady and certain, like he has been waiting for you his entire life.
Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, fingertips grazing the base of his neck as you pull back just enough to look at him properly. His smile is still there, still hovering at the edges, and it is soft and real and yours.
"I missed you," you whisper, half a confession, half a prayer, and as soon as the words leave your lips, it happens.
A tiny crease, delicate and almost imperceptible, blooms on his left cheek, like the first hint of dawn breaking over a dark horizon.
A dimple, soft and secret, there and gone in a heartbeat, as if it only exists for you.
"I missed you too, amour," he murmurs, his gaze flicking over your face like he is memorizing it. "You have no idea."
There is a tension in the room, thick and breathless, as if the very walls are leaning in to listen, the crackle of the fire muted under the weight of disbelief.
The Marauders and Mary are watching with wide eyes, suspended between fascination and utter incredulity, as if the scene before them is too tender, too impossibly soft to be real.
Regulus Black—aloof and unyielding, frost-kissed and sharp-edged—is holding you like something sacred, his arms wrapped around you with a gentleness that seems to contradict everything they thought they knew of him. His thumb brushes across your cheek, feather-light and reverent, as though you are made of something finer than bone and breath, something worth protecting.
And then he smiles—just a fraction more—but it is enough.
You do not even realize what you are doing; your body moves before your mind catches up, and you lean up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and soft and so achingly familiar it feels like slipping into an old memory. He blinks, eyes flickering with surprise, but you do not pull away.
You lean in again, pressing your lips to his other cheek, right where his smile deepens, and it happens—a twin to the first, blooming on the opposite cheek as if coaxed into existence by your touch alone.
A second dimple, tender and unmistakable, carved into his pale skin like it had been waiting there all along, hidden just beneath the surface.
You are not the only one who notices.
Behind you, there is the unmistakable sound of someone choking on their own breath, followed by a very loud, "What the hell?" from James, his voice pitched somewhere between awe and utter disbelief.
Regulus glances up, his gaze catching on James, who is staring as if he has just witnessed stone turn to gold, like magic itself has unfolded right in front of him.
Sirius is uncharacteristically silent, eyes narrowed in something akin to suspicion or maybe even wonder, while James’s jaw is completely unhinged, glasses slipping precariously down the bridge of his nose.
Remus is blinking rapidly, as if trying to clear away a mirage, mouth slightly parted in surprise. And Mary—sweet, sharp-eyed Mary—looks positively gleeful, her grin spreading slow and wicked as she nudges Remus sharply in the ribs, her eyes dancing with triumph.
"I told you," she mouths, lips curving around each word with delight.
Because it is true.
There is no need to look closely, no need to squint or peer beneath shadows—Regulus Black’s dimples are right there, clear as daylight and twice as warm, so stunningly visible that they might as well have been carved out of starlight.
They blossom wide and unguarded, softening the sharp lines of his face, and for a heartbeat, he is not the boy forged from winter’s chill and midnight silence. He is something brighter, something softer, and it is plain to see that with you, he is allowed to be gentle.
"I told you!" you practically crow, turning back to face them while still locked in Regulus’s arms. "I told you he has dimples!"
Sirius remains silent, watching with something like suspicion, but James looks like he has seen a ghost.
James is still staring. "I think I need to sit down."
"You are sitting down," Remus points out.
"I think I need to sit down lower," James clarifies faintly.
But you are not paying attention to them anymore, because Regulus is looking at you with that same impossible smile, both dimples still lingering like promises.
His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking a gentle line across your skin. "You told them about my dimples?" he asks, voice low and edged with amusement.
You nod, breathless and unashamed. "I did. And they did not believe me."
His smile softens, stretching wider, and both dimples deepen like secret doorways to some hidden softness that only you are allowed to see.
He leans in, the space between you shrinking until his breath mingles with yours, and his voice drops to a low, velvety murmur meant only for you.
"You really should not spend so much time with Gryffindors," he whispers, his tone laced with quiet disdain that is more habit than heart, though his gaze remains warm and unyielding, crafted entirely for you. "I think they are starting to rub off on you." His eyes glimmer with amusement, but there is something else there too, something tender that settles in the quiet curve of his smile.
Your laughter spills out, bright and unrestrained, like the first crack of sunlight through winter clouds, and before you know it, your hands are tugging him closer, closing whatever space remains.
In that moment, it is just you and him, suspended in the fragile stillness that belongs only to the two of you, where the rest of the world feels distant and unimportant, something to be dealt with later.
For now, there is only this: his smile, his dimples carved like promises into his cheeks, and the gentle, unwavering warmth of his arms around you, holding you close as if he is terrified of letting go, as if this is a vow whispered into the spaces between heartbeats.
The truth is, Sirius had always known that Regulus had dimples.
He had known for years, had seen the faint creases carve themselves into his brother’s cheeks on the rarest of occasions, like fleeting whispers of a softer world beneath the ice.
But the thing is, those dimples only ever appeared when Regulus was around you, when your laughter spilled into the room like sunlight or when your name slipped from his mouth with that unguarded tenderness that seemed to unravel something deep and hidden in him.
It was as though the universe had woven this small, delicate fragment of softness solely for you to uncover, a secret threaded carefully into the very fabric of him, waiting patiently for your hands to find it, to hold it like something sacred and fragile and wholly yours.
Synopsis: After a Slytherin hex shatters James Potter’s glasses, he’s left half-blind and too stubborn to admit he needs help. Sirius won’t stop teasing, Remus tries to keep peace and you step in to repair his glasses. James drops his bravado and hates admiting how much he feels weak around you.
Point of view: Second-person ( “. He saw you .” )
Warnings: Fluff, swearing
a/n: Pretend James can’t see without glasses:))
James Potter wasn’t blind. Or, well, not usually.
But today? Yeah, sort of.
The hex had come from nowhere — end of Quidditch practice, broom slung over his shoulder, laughing with Sirius about some new “signature” move he was convinced would win them the Cup. Then a flash of green zipped across the pitch, his glasses snapped clean in half, and the world went… blurry. Just like that. He’d caught most of the pieces before they hit the ground (and swore very loudly when one lens bounced away into the grass). The Slytherins responsible were already halfway down the pitch, laughing their stupid asses off.
So now here he was.
Hunched over a table in the common room like an old man reading the Prophet. His hair, which never behaved anyway, was sticking up even worse than usual. His nose was practically touching the parchment, and every time he muttered at it, it looked like he was trying to scare the ink into behaving.
“Prongs,” Sirius finally said, after watching for maybe ten minutes, “you look like somebody’s granddad. You know the ones who shout about prices going up and how the Cannons used to be good? That’s you right now.”
“Shut it, Pads,” James muttered without even looking up.
“You can’t even see me to tell me to shut it.” Sirius leaned back, grin stretched wide. “Merlin, I should get you a cane. Or knitting needles. You’d look good with needles.”
James reached for his quill, missed the table entirely, and slapped the air like he was trying to swat an invisible fly. “I can see just fine.”
“Sure,” Sirius said, “about as well as a troll in a snowstorm.”
The portrait hole creaked, and Remus stepped in with his usual mountain of books. He froze mid-step, blinked at the sight of James squinting hard enough to wrinkle his entire forehead, and sighed like a man twice his age.
“What happened?” he asked flatly.
“Prongs got hexed. Glasses exploded. Won’t go to Pomfrey,” Sirius said, absolutely delighted.
“I am not refusing,” James protested, sitting up so quickly his knee smacked the underside of the table. “I’m just saying she’ll make it a whole production. She’ll fuss, keep me overnight and drown me in fucking potions. I don’t need all that.”
Remus bent down to rescue the inkpot James had nearly killed. “James, you can’t even see the wall right now. You do need all that.”
“I’ll manage,” James said firmly, though he was still squinting vaguely in Remus’s direction.
Sirius grinned like Christmas had come early. “He’ll manage, he says. Moony, he just called me Evans five minutes ago.”
“I did not!” James snapped.
“You did!” Sirius said, hand pressed dramatically over his heart. “And then you asked me out again, which, honestly, was flattering.”
Remus shot Sirius a look that could’ve cut glass. Sirius ignored it, of course.
“You’re both fucking insufferable,” James muttered, ears red.
“You love us,” Sirius sing-songed, leaning forward like he couldn’t possibly miss James’s scowl (though James couldn’t actually see him).
James made another grab for his quill, overreached, and this time properly knocked the inkpot. Black splattered across the parchment. Sirius nearly fell off his chair laughing.
Remus muttered something under his breath — it sounded a lot like “idiot” — and fixed it with a quick charm. “Honestly, James,” he said, exasperated, “either let Pomfrey fix it or… find someone else to help.”
James slumped back, dragging a hand through his hair until it stuck up in even worse angles. His pride told him to keep insisting he was fine, but Merlin, he hated this. Hated how Sirius’s jokes were funny because they were true, hated feeling like a useless lump. He was James bloody Potter. He wasn’t supposed to be the one stumbling around blind.
Sirius’s grin softened a little. “Alright, alright. We’ll sort it. Can’t have you walking into walls, mate. Doesn’t suit your whole… image.”
James didn’t answer. Just muttered something like “brilliant” under his breath and squinted harder at the fireplace until it blurred into one big orange blob.
And that was the sorry state you’d find him in later: James Potter, Gryffindor’s golden boy, reduced to making messes while Sirius rattled on about monocles and Remus rubbed his temples like a weary dad.
James was still sulking at the table, chin propped in his hand, quill abandoned beside him. Sirius had finally gotten bored of teasing and was now trying to balance a cushion on his head, while Remus buried himself in a book to avoid getting dragged into it.
That was when you came down the staircase from the dorms. You’d been in the library for hours, arms full of books you didn’t strictly need, when you spotted the scene. James Potter, usually the center of every room he walked into, was slouched like a kicked Kneazle. Ink stains dotted the table in front of him, and his glasses — or what was left of them — lay in a sad little pile.
You frowned, slowing your steps. “What on earth happened to you lot?”
Sirius immediately perked up, grinning like a cat who’d found cream. “Ah, perfect timing. Our dear James here has gone blind. Utterly, completely, tragically blind.”
“I’m not blind,” James said quickly, sitting up straighter. He aimed a glare at Sirius but overshot it by several inches, scowling at the empty space to Sirius’s left.
You blinked, then bit back a laugh. “Right. And yet you’re glowering at the wall.”
Remus made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, though he didn’t look up from his book.
James’s ears went pink. “It’s temporary,” he muttered, fumbling for the broken frames. “Someone hexed my glasses after practice. I’ll fix them later.”
“Sure you will,” Sirius said, leaning back with his arms behind his head. “Except you can’t see a thing. He called me Evans earlier, you know. Asked me out and everything.”
You raised an eyebrow, trying not to seem like it didn’t trigger jealousy in you. “Did he really?”
James groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “Just go fuck Remus already, Pads.”
You set your books down on the arm of the sofa and crossed the room, ignoring Sirius’s snickering. “Give them here,” you said, holding out a hand.
James hesitated, his pride warring with his common sense. “I can—”
“You can’t,” you cut in gently, soft enough that it didn’t sound cruel. “You’ll just stab yourself in the eye with your wand or end up with a monocle. Come on, Potter.”
Remus looked up then, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. Sirius let out a low whistle. “Oh, he’s doomed.”
James shot him a half-hearted scowl, then carefully passed the broken glasses to you. His fingers brushed yours, warm and hesitant, and you felt him watching, well, trying to watch ,as you sat down beside him.
Up close, he looked smaller somehow. Still James Potter with his wild hair and crooked grin (though the grin was nowhere in sight), but the bravado had cracked. He was… human. Vulnerable. And you doubted he let many people see him like this.
“Alright,” you murmured, turning the frames over in your hands. “This isn’t too bad. A couple of charms should do it. Just… don’t breathe down my neck while I work.”
James let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. “Okay.”
Sirius leaned forward like he was about to add something outrageous, but Remus kicked his shin under the table. Sirius yelped and sat back, pouting, but stayed blessedly quiet for once.
You pulled your wand, muttering the first of the repairing charms. The frames wobbled, then clicked back together. A lens followed with a sharp snap, though it was still a little crooked. James leaned in unconsciously, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
“Better than Pomfrey already,” he murmured.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m not done,” you said, biting your lip in concentration. The second lens trembled, then slid neatly into place. With a final whispered charm, the cracks sealed, leaving the glasses looking almost new. Almost.
You turned to hand them back, but James was already watching you — or at least, aiming in your general direction. His expression was softer than you’d ever seen it, pride set aside for once.
“Thanks,” he said quietly, and the way he said it made your chest warm.
Before you could answer, Sirius flung himself dramatically across the couch. “And lo! Our hero is saved! By none other than—”
Remus threw a cushion at his head.
James, still pink around the ears, just slipped his glasses back on. He blinked a few times, the world sharpening around him again, and the first thing he saw clear as day was you.
His breath caught, but he covered it quickly with a grin. “Well. Look at that. You’re even prettier when I can see properly.”
You rolled your eyes, though you felt the heat rise in your cheeks. Sirius groaned loudly about “true love” while Remus muttered something about leaving before it got worse.
synopsis: You and the Z4 cast have a dorm pizza party and Malachi starts ranting about his never ending love for pizza until he starts debating about what toppings go best on pizza.
Point of view: Second-Person ( “. He saw you .” )
Warnings: Fluff, humor, nothing really:)
You sank into the stiff hotel chair, legs heavy after a long day. The kind of day where your cheeks ached from smiling and your voice was hoarse from talking. The kind of day that made you wonder how actors ever got used to the blinding crowds and the endless pressure.
MK and Chandler were sprawled across the couch like they’d melted into it. Freya had claimed the bean bag, lazily tossing a stress ball back and forth with Sway, who sat cross-legged at Chandler’s feet. And then there was Malachi.
The Malachi you’d known since Under Wraps. The Malachi who could talk about cars for hours like it was his first language. The Malachi who always made time just to read The Bible. The Malachi who never stopped moving, who once dragged you out to surf at dawn.
Your Malachi. Or atleast , the version of him you secretly hoped was yours.
“ I’m feeling some sushi “ MK mumbled, eyes glued at the TV.
You smirked to yourself. Here it comes. Malachi’s gonna say pizza.
Sure enough, before Freya could open her mouth, he shot up straighter.
“ I want pizza! “
the timing was so perfect you couldn’t help but laugh. Freya, Sway, and you exchanged knowing looks like the punchline of an inside joke had just landed.
“ Obviously you do, Malachi. “ Chandler teased.
Everyone laughed, especially you because you knew about his not-so-secret admiration for pizza. He always had a bubbly inner-child.
“ What?! If I ask ( Y/N ) you’ll see she agreees! “ He said, him breaking character a little by giggling mid-sentence.
You threw your hands up in surrender. “Don’t bring me into this, Malachi!”
He looked at you with such betrayal! Like you’ve done the worst thing ever.
“How could you not want pizza?!” he demanded. “It’s the most wonderful food ever. You can put anything on it. Pineapple? Add it. Apples? Add it. More cheese? Load it up! But my favorite has to be margherita! “
He looked at you like no one else existed. His eyes were full of brightness and happiness, like no one could ever steal that from him.
“ Okay since Malachi has this undying love for pizza, I guess we can order some! “ MK said.
——————————————————————————
guys can we all just interlock toes and be friends❤️
——————————————————————————
The knock on the door came twenty minutes later, and Chandler practically sprinted to pay the delivery guy. The smell of melted cheese and dough filled the room, and Malachi’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Behold!” he yelled, holding up the box like Simba in The Lion King.
“Sit down before you drop it,” Freya muttered, already stealing a slice the second he opened the lid.
Everyone grabbed food, the hotel room turning into a mess of chewing and laughing over dumb inside jokes. Malachi wouldn’t shut up about how stuffed crust was “evil” and “basically a war crime.” He was gesturing so much with his slice you thought he might throw it across the room.
At some point you caught yourself just… watching him. His curls were a little messy, his eyes too bright for someone who should’ve been dead tired. He caught you staring and smirked.
You scoffed, taking a bite of your slice. “Relax, Barton. It’s literally just bread and cheese.”
“JUST BREAD AND CHEESE?!” He gasped so loud MK threw a napkin at him. “Wow. Can’t believe this betrayal.”
The night dragged on until everyone started passing out. MK’s phone slipped out of his hand mid-scroll, Freya curled up on the bean bag, and Sway started sleeping with her head on Chandler’s leg.
You were about to call it when Malachi dropped into the chair beside yours, still holding half a slice like he wasn’t full yet. He leaned back, eyes half-closed but still playful.
“Hey,” he said softer. “Thanks for laughing at my dumb rant. You always do.” He smiled.
“Which one?” You chuckled.
“Fair” He said, fighting a laugh.
he room was dim now, the TV muted except for the faint hum of commercials. Everyone else was knocked out, and the weight of the day finally started pulling at your eyelids. You shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable, but somehow your head tipped against his shoulder.
Malachi put his arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer to him, as you belong there. His breathing growing quieter and quieter.
The last thing you registered before sleep pulled you under was the steady beat of his laugh still caught in his chest, right beneath your cheek.
pretty pretty please can you use a readmore on your very long posts that use fandom tags 🙏🥺 (my thumbs will thank you and then i won't need to block you to save them 🥲)
yes I'm so so sorry! i'm pretty new to writing on tumblr and thought tumblr would js do that
