gabi 🪷

she/her

[gabigoingcrazy]

quick note : just wanted to let yall know I have my requests open for any mason thames character!! just let me know what you want and I’ll try my best to deliver. also, thank you for all the support it means so much to me !! 🥹💗

[mallowwblossom]

I ain't even searched smut I only typed "x reader" — why am i getting flooded with porn😭

[rainedravens]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[dearlizzies]

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

[gabigoingcrazy]

mason thames x singer!reader

summary: At a Hollywood party, you — a singer — meet actor Mason Thames on a balcony, sparking a connection that grows from casual to complicated. When distance and doubt inspire your hit song “Is it casual?”, the truth between you surfaces, leading to a heartfelt reunion where both finally choose something real.

You hadn’t planned on staying long.

It was one of those sprawling Hollywood house parties where the music was too loud, the air smelled faintly of champagne and citrus perfume, and everyone seemed to be talking about someone who wasn’t there. You’d promised your mutual friend — a producer who was far too good at convincing people — that you’d stop by, smile for a few photos, and leave before the crowd got sloppy.

But then the balcony happened.

You stepped out to breathe, a glass of something cold in your hand, city lights stretched below like a glittering sea. The night was warm, a soft wind tugging at your hair. Inside, laughter rose and fell; out here, there was quiet.

And then a voice — low, easy, a little uncertain — came from behind you.

“Didn’t think anyone else knew this spot existed.”

You turned, and there he was.

Mason Thames. You’d seen him before — on screens, in interviews, on billboards you passed on the way to recording sessions. But in person, he looked different. Softer somehow. A little more real. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair just messy enough to suggest he hadn’t planned to be photographed tonight either.

“Guess we both needed a break,” you said.

He smiled, that boyish grin the camera loved. “Guess so.”

You offered him the lighter sitting by the railing, and he hesitated for a second before taking it. The flicker of the flame caught in his eyes as he lit the cigarette, a thin curl of smoke drifting into the night.

“Bad habit,” he muttered, exhaling.

“Every artist needs one,” you said, half teasing.

He chuckled, then leaned beside you against the railing. For a few moments, you both just watched the city below, trading quiet small talk that felt oddly comfortable. He asked about your latest single; you asked about the film he’d just wrapped. Neither of you sounded like interview versions of yourselves — no media polish, no public answers

It felt like the kind of conversation you stumble into at 2 a.m., when the world feels softer and time forgets to move forward.

The hours slipped past. One drink became two. The laughter turned real. Someone came looking for Mason at some point — a friend, maybe a handler — but he waved them off. When you finally noticed how long you’d been standing there, dawn was a faint blur behind the hills.

You left together, not in the same car, but with that unspoken something hovering in the air — the kind that makes you check your phone more than you’d admit the next day.

Weeks passed.

You went back to the studio — writing, recording, chasing melodies that never quite landed the way you wanted. The balcony felt like something suspended between memory and dream. You told yourself not to think about him. You had an album deadline. He had a press tour. People like you didn’t get to linger on nights like that.

But then you saw him again.

It was an awards show afterparty — a dimly lit rooftop, strings of gold lights swaying in the warm breeze. You’d just come offstage, still buzzing from the performance, when you spotted him across the room.

He noticed you at the same time.

Mason crossed the distance like he’d been waiting for the right moment, hands in his pockets, half-smiling like he wasn’t sure if he should say hi or I’ve been thinking about you.

“You again,” you said, unable to hide your smile.

“I was hoping for that,” he said, and there it was — the easy charm again, but warmer now. Familiar.

You ended up talking in a quiet corner, your shoes off, your drink untouched. The conversation picked up as if no time had passed. He told you about the new film, how exhausting interviews could be, how fame could feel like wearing someone else’s face. You told him about the pressure of being “the voice” of something — of always being expected to feel everything and make it sound beautiful.

“I get that,” he said softly. “Everyone wants to own a piece of you. And you start wondering if there’s anything left that’s just yours.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just looked at him — really looked. The noise around you faded. The lights blurred.

When he brushed a strand of hair from your face, it wasn’t some movie moment. It was small, human, real.

After that night, it became a pattern.

Not official. Not planned. But inevitable.

A premiere here. A friend’s birthday there. A text that turned into dinner. A dinner that turned into a night that blurred into morning.

You told yourselves it was casual — two busy people crossing paths, finding comfort where they could. No expectations. No promises.

And yet, somehow, he always showed up.

When your new single hit the charts, he sent flowers with a note that said “You’re unstoppable.”

When he was filming out of state, he called just to tell you about the sunsets there, how they reminded him of that first night on the balcony.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was something dangerously close.

Still, neither of you dared to name it.

It started small.

A change in tone. A glance that lingered too long. A hesitation before goodbye.

The sort of things you could easily brush off if you wanted to — and you did, for a while. You told yourself you weren’t looking for anything more. That the moments with Mason were just that — moments.

But people talk.

A photo leaked — the two of you walking out of a café, sunglasses and baseball caps doing little to hide your smiles. The gossip blogs called it a “rumored romance.” Mason’s publicist called it “coincidence.” You tried to laugh about it. He did too. But when he showed up at your apartment later that week, quiet and tired, you both knew it wasn’t just coincidence anymore.

He leaned against your counter, fingers drumming the edge of a mug. “I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding this,” he said. “It’s just—things get complicated when people start watching.”

“I know,” you said softly. “They always are.”

He looked at you for a long time. Then, almost shyly:

“Do you want complicated?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The silence between you did the talking — warm, loaded, uncertain.

After that, things changed.

He started calling you more. You started missing him more. And suddenly, this “casual” thing began to feel like a lie you were both trying to keep straight.

One night, you flew out to where he was filming. He met you in the hotel lobby, wearing that same half-smile you’d fallen for before you realized it was happening. You stayed up until sunrise again — not at a party this time, but in the quiet of his suite, talking about everything and nothing.

When he touched your hand across the couch, it wasn’t about attraction. It was about recognition. Like he saw you, really saw you — the person beneath the fame, the music, the noise.

And when he kissed you, it was slow, careful, and honest.

Afterward, he held you for a long time without speaking. His hand traced slow circles along your back. The world outside might have been spinning, but in that room, it felt still.

You fell asleep against his chest.

When you woke, sunlight was spilling through the curtains, and he was still there, watching you like he didn’t want to forget the moment.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning.”

For a few hours, it almost felt simple.

But then came the interviews. The rumors. The way his name and yours started showing up in the same headlines. You tried to ignore them, to keep what you had private. But privacy was a fragile thing — especially in your world.

He called one night, frustration thick in his voice. “They asked about you again. I said we’re friends, but—”

You cut him off. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

He paused. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What do you mean, then?”

Another pause. Then, quietly:

“I mean I don’t know what we are.”

The line went silent for a long time.

You wanted to tell him you didn’t know either — that maybe it didn’t matter, that maybe it was enough to feel something real for once. But you didn’t.

Instead, you said, “Maybe we’ll figure it out.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

It was the kind of conversation that didn’t end so much as fade away — like a song that never resolves its final chord.

It happened the way most songs did — honest.

You’d been in the studio for hours, restless, pacing, trying to find the right words for something you couldn’t name. The producer had gone home, the lights were low, and the only sound left was the soft hum of the city through the windows.

Mason hadn’t called in days.

Not out of anger, not even out of distance — just… life. His film had wrapped, and he was back in L.A., caught up in post-production, press meetings, the endless rhythm of being seen. You told yourself you understood. You told yourself not to read into it. But the silence had a weight to it you couldn’t shake.

You sat on the piano bench, fingers hovering over the keys. The melody came first — wistful, slow, the kind that feels like a conversation you never got to finish. Then the words began to form in your mind, like a whisper:

Is it casual?

Or are you trying to spend your life with me?

You stopped.

It was too direct. Too raw. Too honest.

But you kept writing anyway.

Because the truth was simple — the not-knowing was eating at you. You’d built this careful balance between freedom and feeling, between privacy and longing, and now it was tipping. You were tired of pretending it didn’t matter.

So you wrote.

Every word you couldn’t say to him over the phone, every question that kept you awake at night, every piece of your heart that had nowhere else to go.

By morning, the song existed — bare and aching and alive.

When you played it back for your team, they went quiet. Your manager called it “the most honest thing you’ve ever written.” The label wanted to rush it. You hesitated — not because you didn’t believe in it, but because you knew what it meant. Because you knew who it was for.

You didn’t tell Mason about the song before it came out. You couldn’t. You wanted the music to speak first.

When it dropped, it spread fast. Fans called it “the love song of the year.” Comment sections lit up with speculation. The lyrics hit people hard — the way they hung between hope and heartbreak, between wanting more and fearing it might never come.

“Is it casual?

Or are you trying to spend your life with me?

I don’t mean to pressure you,

But I want a man to stand and fight for me.”

The night of the release, you turned your phone off. You didn’t want to watch the reactions. You didn’t want to know how he’d feel hearing himself in your words.

But the next morning, there was a message waiting.

Mason: Heard the song.

A pause.

Then another message:

Mason: I guess I should’ve said something sooner.

You stared at the screen, unsure whether to smile or cry. You typed and deleted a dozen replies before finally sending one.

You: You don’t have to say anything at all.

He didn’t reply.

For a week, nothing. Then came the awards event — another red carpet, another crowd. You hadn’t expected him to be there, but when you saw him across the room, something inside you went still.

He walked toward you, expression unreadable. No cameras this time. No public smiles. Just you and him.

“That song,” he said quietly when he reached you. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

He looked at you for a long time, his voice dropping. “It wasn’t casual for me. Not really.”

You felt your breath catch. “Then what was it?”

He hesitated, searching for the right words. “Something I didn’t know how to hold onto without breaking.”

You could’ve told him you understood. That maybe you felt the same. But you didn’t. Not then. The air between you was too full of everything left unsaid.

The photographers called his name. Someone tugged you toward the stage. The moment slipped away.

Later, you stood by yourself again — at another balcony, another night, city lights spread below like the first time. You thought of him, of all the versions of almost you’d shared, and whispered the words quietly to yourself:

Is it casual?

And somewhere in the distance, maybe he heard it too.

Time passed — not a lot, but enough.

The song had become a milestone. People quoted its lyrics in captions, and your team was already asking for “the next one.” You smiled through it all, but some nights, when the world was quiet, you still thought about that last conversation with Mason.

You hadn’t seen him since that award show. He’d gone off to film another project overseas. You’d gone on tour — late nights, soundchecks, airports, applause. You told yourself you’d moved on.

But some things don’t stay in the past. They circle back when the timing’s right.

It was a small benefit event — low-key, for once, just artists supporting a cause they cared about. You weren’t even supposed to perform, but you agreed to sing one song. The crowd was relaxed, the stage lights soft.

You walked out with just a microphone and a guitar, no backing track, no big production. You played that song — slower this time, stripped down, almost like the night you first wrote it.

When you finished, the room went still. Then came the applause — warm, honest, kind. You bowed, smiled, and stepped offstage.

And there he was.

Mason stood near the back, half-hidden by the crowd. He looked different — older, calmer somehow — but the same eyes, the same quiet gravity. You froze. He smiled.

You walked over before you could talk yourself out of it.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” you said.

“Didn’t think you’d remember me,” he said softly.

You laughed, a little breathless. “How could I ever forget ? ”

For a long moment, you just stood there, caught between everything that had been said and everything that hadn’t. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out something — a folded piece of paper, creased and worn.

“I wrote you something,” he said. “Never sent it. But after that song… I think maybe you already read it, in your own way.”

You took it, hands brushing his. “What did it say?”

He looked at you, eyes steady. “That I didn’t want casual. I wanted you.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just exhaled, relief and recognition mingling in your chest. Then, quietly: “Good. Because I never wanted casual either.”

He smiled — the kind of smile that felt like sunrise.

You stepped closer, the noise of the room fading until it was just the two of you again, like that first night on the balcony. This time, there was no uncertainty, no hesitation. Just the quiet understanding that sometimes, timing has to break before it fits.

Outside, the city shimmered — same lights, same sky, but it all felt different now. He reached for your hand, and you let him.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a beginning or an ending.

It just felt right.

[gabigoingcrazy]

miller adams x reader pt.2

summary: Miller Adams, the effortlessly cool guy everyone knows, has secretly loved the girl next door since childhood. When she’s heartbroken after her boyfriend cheats, Miller suggests they fake date to make it look like she’s moved on—but as the act continues, their friendship deepens into something real. What started as pretend turns into an honest confession of feelings, proving that sometimes love isn’t about grand gestures but about finally seeing what’s been right beside you all along.

If anyone had told Miller Adams that “pretending” to date you would turn his life upside down, he would’ve laughed.

Now, he wasn’t laughing.

Because pretending was starting to feel alarmingly real.

By November, you and Miller were the school’s favorite couple — the kind people whispered about in hallways, the kind that got tagged in memes and voted “Cutest Duo” on someone’s Instagram story.

And somehow, the two of you made it look effortless.

He’d drive you to school every morning, your coffee cup balanced between you, music playing low on the radio. You’d joke around, sing badly, tease each other. When you got out of the car, Miller would loop his arm around your shoulder like it was second nature.

None of it was fake anymore. It was just habit.

At first, Miller thought maybe you didn’t notice. You still talked about the “plan” sometimes, checking if it was working — if Josh seemed jealous, if people believed it. But more and more, it wasn’t about Josh at all.

Like one afternoon, when you were sprawled across Miller’s bed, flipping through an old yearbook.

“Do you ever miss middle school?” you asked suddenly.

Miller looked up from his desk, where he was halfheartedly pretending to do homework. “Uh, no. I had braces and bad hair. Peak nightmare.”

You laughed. “You didn’t have bad hair.”

“I did. You just didn’t know what good hair looked like yet.”

You threw a pencil at him. He caught it easily, smirking.

There was a quiet moment after that — the kind that slipped in more often lately. You looked at him, like you wanted to say something but decided not to.

Then you said, “You’ve always been kind of… nice.”

“Kind of?” he said, pretending to be offended.

You smiled. “Okay, very nice. But you don’t really show it. Like, people think you’re this chill guy who doesn’t care about anything, but you do. You care a lot.”

Miller blinked. “You noticed that?”

“Of course I noticed.”

And just like that, his heart tripped over itself.

Later that week, at the fall carnival, the act was tested.

Josh was there.

Miller spotted him before you did — standing near the ring toss booth, wearing that smug half-smile that made Miller’s blood simmer. Lena was beside him, pretending not to see you.

You froze when your eyes met Josh’s. Miller felt you tense under his arm.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you said too quickly. “Fine.”

Miller didn’t buy it. So he leaned in closer — close enough that Josh could see. Close enough that Josh’s smile vanished.

“Let’s give him a show,” Miller whispered.

Before you could answer, he pulled you into a hug — not one of those friendly half-hugs, but the kind that said mine without words. You stiffened for half a second, then melted into it.

When you pulled back, Josh was already walking away.

You looked up at Miller, half-amused, half-blushing. “You’re terrible.”

He grinned. “Effective, though.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Only a little?”

His grin softened. “Okay, a lot.”

The next few weeks blurred. Between fake dates that didn’t feel fake and study sessions that turned into late-night talks, something was shifting.

Miller knew it in the quiet moments — when you fell asleep on the couch next to him, your head resting against his arm, or when you laughed so hard you snorted, and he thought it was the best sound in the world.

He was falling for you. Harder than before.

And maybe… maybe you were falling too.

Because sometimes, you’d look at him like you were thinking the same thing he was — that this whole thing had stopped being pretend.

Then came the night everything cracked.

It was after a Friday basketball game. Josh’s team had lost, and he wasn’t handling it well. Miller had walked you to your car when Josh appeared out of nowhere.

“Can we talk?” Josh said, his tone sharp.

You froze, keys in hand. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Come on, don’t do this.”

Miller stepped forward slightly, his voice even. “She said no, Josh.”

Josh scoffed. “What, you think you’re her bodyguard now?”

Miller’s jaw tightened. “I think she doesn’t need to deal with you.”

Josh looked between you, eyes narrowing. “You two aren’t real. Everyone knows it. You’re just trying to make me jealous.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Miller spoke first. “Funny. Seems to be working.”

That pushed Josh over the edge. He took a step closer, glaring. “You think you can replace me, Adams?”

Miller didn’t move. “Don’t need to. She already replaced you herself.”

Josh’s fists clenched. You grabbed Miller’s arm quickly. “Let’s just go.”

Miller’s gaze stayed locked on Josh’s for another second — calm, dangerous — then he nodded and followed you.

When you got into the car, the silence was thick.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He looked at you, still tense. “You okay?”

You nodded, but your voice wavered. “I just hate that he thinks we’re fake.”

Miller hesitated. “Well… he’s not wrong.”

You looked at him, something flickering in your eyes. “Yeah. Right.”

But he didn’t like how that sounded — like it hurt you to admit it.

So before he could stop himself, he said, “It doesn’t feel fake anymore.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

“Miller…” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. “Forget it. That was—”

But you shook your head. “No. I know what you mean.”

The car was silent except for the soft hum of the heater. Outside, snow had started to fall, tiny flakes catching the glow from the streetlights.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then you whispered, “Maybe we should stop pretending.”

He looked at you, pulse racing. “Yeah?”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. Because I don’t think I can tell what’s real anymore.”

And Miller knew — the act was over.

The first snow of December came down in thick, steady sheets that Friday night, blanketing Ridgeview in quiet. Streetlights blurred into halos. The town felt smaller, softer — but Miller’s chest felt like a storm.

Everything had been building for weeks. The pretending, the smiles, the half-truths. He and you had stopped talking about Josh completely, but he still hovered in the air like static.

And tonight, he came back.

The winter dance was supposed to be harmless fun — string lights, hot cocoa, glitter falling from the ceiling. You and Miller had gone together, more out of habit than plan. He’d driven you there in his beat-up Jeep, his music humming through the speakers, you humming along.

It was all perfect until Josh showed up at the gym doors.

He was waiting by the bleachers, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes already locked on you.

“Can we talk?” he said, cutting across the crowd.

Miller stepped instinctively between you. “She doesn’t want to.”

Josh laughed bitterly. “Since when do you speak for her, man?”

Your shoulders straightened. “Since you lost the right to,” you said, voice shaking but steady.

People were watching now — the music still thumping, lights flickering like stars. Josh’s jaw flexed. “You really think this—” he gestured between you and Miller “—is real? You’re kidding yourself.”

Miller felt the words hit you like a slap. He saw it in the way you blinked hard, the way your chin lifted to hide the hurt. And that was it — the moment his restraint snapped.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Miller said, stepping closer.

Josh’s mouth twisted. “Or what? You gonna hit me?”

Miller’s voice dropped low. “I don’t have to. You already did enough damage yourself.”

For a second, no one moved. Then Josh scoffed, shook his head, and walked out into the snow. The doors slammed, music rushed back in, but everything still felt cracked open.

You turned away, eyes glassy. “I need air.”

Miller followed you outside.

The cold hit like a wave. Snowflakes caught in your hair, melted on your cheeks. You stood under the awning, breathing hard.

“I can’t believe he just—” You stopped, voice breaking. “Why do I still let him get to me?”

Miller’s heart hurt at the sound. “Because you cared. That’s not a flaw.”

You looked up at him then, eyes bright with something that wasn’t just anger. “And you? You keep showing up. Why?”

He opened his mouth, but no words came. He’d practiced this moment in his head a thousand times, but now every version of it scattered.

“Because I can’t not,” he said finally.

You frowned, confused. “What does that even mean?”

“It means…” He exhaled, snow misting from his breath. “It means I’m tired of pretending this is just a game. I told myself I was helping you — making Josh jealous, being the nice guy — but that’s not it. It hasn’t been that for a long time.”

Your voice went soft. “Miller—”

He stepped closer, every nerve alive. “You’ve been my friend since you moved next door. And every time you laughed, or looked at me, or did that thing where you double-tie your sneakers like the world depends on it—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I noticed everything. I always have.”

The words hung in the cold air, white clouds of truth.

You blinked at him, tears gathering. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Then tell me to stop.”

Silence. The only sound was snow hitting pavement.

You didn’t tell him to stop.

Instead, you stepped forward, close enough that he could see the reflection of the porch lights in your eyes.

“I don’t want this to be pretend either,” you whispered. “I think I stopped pretending a while ago.”

Miller’s chest flooded with warmth and disbelief all at once. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He laughed under his breath — a shaky, half-relieved sound — and then you were both moving at the same time. The kiss wasn’t perfect; it was cold and messy and full of everything you’d been holding back. But it was real.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, you rested your forehead against his.

“So,” you said softly, “what now?”

Miller smiled, snow melting on his eyelashes. “Now we figure out what real looks like.”

The rest of the night blurred — laughter in the Jeep, you stealing his gloves, his jacket around your shoulders. By the time he walked you up to your porch, the sky had cleared.

You stopped at the top step, turning back to him. “You know, this porch has seen way too much drama.”

He grinned. “We should probably change that.”

“Agreed.” You took his hand, squeezing lightly. “Goodnight, Miller.”

“Night, fake-real-ex-whatever-you-are.”

You laughed — the kind of laugh that made every bad moment worth it. Then you leaned in, kissed his cheek, and disappeared inside.

Miller stood there a long time, staring at the closed door, snow crunching under his boots, smiling like someone who’d finally exhaled after years of holding his breath.

[gabigoingcrazy]

miller adams x reader

summary: Miller Adams, the effortlessly cool guy everyone knows, has secretly loved the girl next door since childhood. When she’s heartbroken after her boyfriend cheats, Miller suggests they fake date to make it look like she’s moved on—but as the act continues, their friendship deepens into something real. What started as pretend turns into an honest confession of feelings, proving that sometimes love isn’t about grand gestures but about finally seeing what’s been right beside you all along.

author note: this is @qulxnria request on fake dating, hope you like it!!

Everyone at school knew Miller Adams.

Not for any particular reason — not for winning championships, or starting fights, or pulling straight A’s. He just had that sort of effortless presence that drew people in. He was the guy everyone waved to in the halls, even if they’d never spoken to him before. Teachers liked him. The janitor liked him. Even the cafeteria ladies smiled a little wider when he came through the lunch line.

He wasn’t trying to be cool. He just was.

Most people figured it came naturally — the easy grin, the relaxed shoulders, the quiet confidence. But no one really knew that half the time, Miller was just thinking about what to say to one person.

You.

He’d known you for almost ten years now, ever since the day your family moved into the house next door. He’d been ten, you’d been ten, and he remembered that first day in flashes — the smell of cardboard boxes, the sound of your laughter when he’d helped carry your bike off the moving truck, the way you’d grinned at him with a gap between your front teeth.

You’d said, “Thanks, neighbor,” and he’d shrugged, trying not to let you see his face go red.

From that day on, you were part of the background noise of his life — your porch light through his window at night, your voice on the other side of the fence in summer, your footsteps crunching in the snow on your way to school. He noticed everything: how you twisted your hair around your finger when you were thinking, how you always tied your sneakers twice even if they weren’t loose, how your laughter always came a second after everyone else’s, like you were waiting to see if it was okay to be loud.

You were friends — kind of. You walked to school together sometimes. You’d share gum, swap playlists, complain about math. But you also had separate circles, separate lives. You were sunshine, he was the shadow that followed — content to orbit quietly around you, never close enough for anyone to notice.

Then last spring, Josh Carter came into the picture.

Captain of the basketball team, tall, loud, golden smile. The kind of guy everyone expected you to end up with. Miller had smiled when you told him, said “That’s awesome,” even though his chest felt like someone had pulled the air out of it.

He tried to be happy for you. He really did. But he noticed things — because Miller noticed everything.

He noticed the way your smile tightened when Josh didn’t text back. The way you looked down when Josh and his friends made jokes that weren’t funny. The way your laugh became smaller around him, like it was something you were trying to protect.

He noticed, and he said nothing.

Because that’s what he did — Miller Adams, everyone’s favorite guy, never in drama, never in messes. He kept his feelings folded up neat, like spare shirts in a drawer. Nobody saw them. Not even you.

The last week of October rolled in with cold mornings and leaves scattered across the yards like burnt paper. Miller was leaning against his car one evening, hoodie zipped up halfway, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, when he noticed the light on your porch.

You were sitting there. Alone. Shoulders shaking.

He froze for a moment, half-hidden by the shadow of the maple tree between your houses. Then, almost on instinct, he pocketed his phone and crossed the short stretch of grass separating your yards.

The porch steps creaked as he approached. You didn’t look up.

“Hey,” he said softly. “What’s going on?”

You startled slightly, wiping your face quickly with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “Oh. Miller. I—nothing. I’m fine.”

You weren’t. He could see it — the redness around your eyes, the tightness in your voice. He sat down beside you anyway, the wood cold beneath him.

“You don’t cry over nothing,” he said, quiet but firm. “Did something happen?”

You shook your head, but your breath hitched, betraying you. “It’s stupid.”

“I’m good with stupid,” he said, tilting his head, trying for a small smile. “Try me.”

For a long moment, you said nothing. The porch light buzzed faintly above them, moths flickering in the glow. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.

Finally, you said, barely audible, “He cheated on me.”

Miller blinked. “Josh?”

You nodded, staring down at your hands. “With Lena.”

The words hung there, sharp and heavy.

Miller’s jaw clenched before he could stop it. “Lena… your best friend Lena?”

You gave a weak laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “Guess she’s not, huh?”

For a second, all Miller could see was red — Josh’s stupid grin, Lena’s hand on your shoulder at lunch, the way they both pretended everything was fine. His stomach twisted. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to find Josh and make him understand what it meant to hurt you like that.

But he didn’t move. He just sat there beside you, his hand resting on the wooden step between them, close enough that his fingers brushed yours when you shifted.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You shrugged, eyes glistening again. “I should’ve known. Everyone warned me. He’s Josh Carter, right? He could have anyone.”

“Yeah,” Miller muttered, “and he picked the worst possible someone.”

That earned him a tiny, broken laugh. You sniffed, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. “You don’t have to sit here, you know. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he said gently. “And that’s okay.”

He leaned back against the porch railing, watching the street. Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable — just quiet, like both of you were too tired to fill it.

Then, after a while, Miller said, “You know what’d really mess with him?”

You turned your head slightly. “What?”

“If you acted like you didn’t care.”

You scoffed softly. “Easier said than done.”

“Maybe not.” He paused, thinking. “What if… you made him think you’d already moved on?”

Your brows drew together. “Moved on? You mean—?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, a mischievous glint in his eyes now. “Like if we were… together.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Not for real,” he added quickly, holding up his hands. “Just—pretend. You know, for appearances. Make Josh think he didn’t matter.”

You stared at him for a long time, searching his face. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

“Miller…” You gave a shaky laugh. “That’s insane.”

He shrugged, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe. But it’s a good kind of insane.”

“And what do you get out of this?”

He hesitated — for a heartbeat too long. “A break from people asking if I’m dating anyone, I guess.”

You studied him again, like you were trying to see through him. He looked away, pretending to focus on a leaf skittering down the sidewalk.

“It wouldn’t have to be for long,” he said, quieter now. “Just until he stops trying to talk to you. Until it stops hurting so much.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know, Miller…”

“Hey.” He nudged your shoulder lightly. “No pressure. Just think about it.”

You did. You didn’t answer, but you didn’t say no either.

When he finally stood to leave, you looked up at him. “Thanks,” you said softly. “For… sitting with me.”

He smiled — the kind that reached his eyes. “Always.”

As he walked back to his house, his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, Miller glanced over his shoulder once. You were still sitting on the porch, but your shoulders weren’t shaking anymore. The light from the doorway haloed around you, soft and golden.

He told himself he was only helping you get over Josh. That this fake dating idea — if you actually agreed to it — would just be a way to help you move on.

But deep down, in that quiet, aching corner of his chest that had belonged to you since he was ten, Miller knew better.

He wasn’t pretending anything.

Miller hadn’t really expected you to take him up on his ridiculous idea.

Fake dating? It had sounded half like a joke when he’d said it — a distraction to stop you from crying, something light to make you smile again. But the next morning, as he was grabbing his keys to head to school, his phone buzzed.

You: “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night.”

You: “About pretending.”

You: “Let’s do it.”

Miller just stared at his screen, heartbeat thudding a little faster.

Then he smiled — small, involuntary, like the sun coming through clouds.

By lunchtime, the whole school was already buzzing.

Highschool had a rumor mill faster than wildfire. The moment you’d walked into the cafeteria with Miller’s arm slung casually around your shoulders — your head tilted slightly toward him, your smile soft but confident — a thousand invisible cameras had clicked in people’s minds.

“Wait—are they together?”

“I thought she was with Josh?”

“Dude, Miller Adams?! Seriously?”

Miller played the part effortlessly. That came naturally — the easy grin, the small protective gestures. When he opened a soda for you, his hand brushed yours on purpose. When he laughed at something you said, he leaned in a little too close, like he couldn’t help it.

You weren’t bad at it either. You smiled when you needed to. You looked at him when people were watching. But sometimes, when you thought no one was paying attention, Miller caught it — the flicker of hurt that hadn’t healed yet.

Josh noticed too.

He was sitting at the far end of the cafeteria with the basketball team, trying to look like he didn’t care. But Miller could feel his glare from across the room — sharp, possessive, almost disbelieving.

And Miller loved it.

For the first time since you’d been hurt, you looked like you were winning.

After school, you both sat in Miller’s car in the parking lot, windows fogged slightly from the autumn chill. The adrenaline of the day was still lingering, but now that it was just the two of you, the silence felt heavier.

“So…” Miller said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “How’d I do? Believable enough?”

You gave him a side glance. “You were a little too good at it, actually.”

He smirked. “What can I say? I’m a method actor.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “Thanks, though. For… going along with this.”

“Hey, it was my idea,” he said. “And for the record, it worked. You should’ve seen Josh’s face.”

You looked down at your hands. “Yeah, well… I wasn’t really trying to hurt him.”

Miller’s grin faded. “You don’t have to feel bad for that guy.”

“I don’t,” you said quickly — then softer: “I just… don’t want to turn into someone bitter. You know?”

He looked at you for a long moment. The afternoon light slanted across your face, catching in your hair. You weren’t smiling now, but there was something steadier in your expression — like you were putting yourself back together piece by piece.

“You won’t,” he said quietly. “You’re not built that way.”

You met his eyes for a heartbeat — long enough that something unspoken passed between you, something Miller didn’t quite have words for yet.

Then you cleared your throat and said, “So… how long do we keep this up?”

He shrugged, pretending to think. “Until Josh moves to another planet?”

You laughed, and it was the first real laugh he’d heard from you in days.

Over the next few weeks, your act became part of the school routine.

You and Miller walked to class together. You’d share a set of earbuds in the hallway. He’d drape his jacket over your shoulders at football games, mostly to keep up appearances, but sometimes because you were actually cold.

Everyone seemed to buy it — maybe a little too much.

People whispered, smiled knowingly, tagged you both in posts. Miller’s DMs flooded with messages like “Didn’t see that coming, man,” and “You and her? Power couple!”

And Josh? He was losing it.

He’d stopped pretending not to care. Every time Miller had his arm around you, Josh would stare. Sometimes he’d mutter something to his teammates. Once, Miller even caught him talking to Lena — both of them avoiding your gaze like they’d swallowed guilt whole.

Miller wasn’t sure if it was petty satisfaction or righteous fury that made his chest tighten every time Josh’s jaw clenched. Maybe both.

But the thing was… it started to feel less like acting.

There were moments that didn’t fit into the script — like when you’d lean your head against his shoulder during a movie night and fall asleep halfway through. Or when you’d text him late at night, not because of Josh, but because you couldn’t sleep and wanted to talk. Or when he’d make you laugh so hard your nose crinkled — that little crinkle he’d been obsessed with since you were ten.

None of it was fake anymore. Not for him, at least.

One Friday evening, Miller found himself standing outside your house again. Porch light glowing, same as the night you’d cried there weeks ago — only this time, you weren’t crying. You were sitting on the steps, scrolling through your phone, wearing his hoodie. His name was printed across the front in faded letters.

He felt his heart stutter just seeing you in it.

“You realize that thing’s basically my favorite hoodie, right?” he said, stepping up beside you.

You looked up, smirking. “Guess it’s mine now.”

He smiled. “You always were a thief.”

“Borrower,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“Uh-huh.” He sank down next to you. “So, fake girlfriend—how was your day?”

You shrugged. “Weirdly good. Josh ignored me in the hallway. That’s progress.”

“See? The plan’s working.”

You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?”

“Just a little,” he admitted. “I like seeing you happy again.”

That made you pause. “You always say stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you actually mean it.”

Miller blinked. “That’s because I do.”

For a moment, you just looked at him — really looked — like you were realizing something new about him, something you hadn’t let yourself see before.

Then you looked away, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re a good guy, Miller.”

He laughed softly. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You could’ve just said ‘told you so’ when Josh messed up. Or ignored me. But you didn’t.”

“That’s what friends do,” he said automatically. But even as he said it, the word friends felt too small now.

You smiled faintly. “Yeah. Friends.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it buzzed with something unspoken — something electric. The porch light flickered slightly, and in that soft golden glow, you looked up at him again, your expression unreadable.

And for one reckless second, Miller thought about leaning in.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stood up, clearing his throat. “Come on, movie night’s starting in ten. My grandpa made popcorn.”

You grinned, standing too. “He likes me better than you anyway.”

“Yeah, he tells me that every day.”

As you walked beside him toward his house, Miller shoved his hands into his pockets, trying to calm the rush in his chest.

He told himself this was still just for show — a fake relationship, an act.

But deep down, he knew better.

Because when he glanced over and saw you smiling under the porchlight — wearing his hoodie, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks — the thought that hit him was dangerous and certain all at once:

He wasn’t pretending anymore.

note: I already have part 2 almost finished I’ll post it in a bit !

https://www.tumblr.com/gabigoingcrazy/799109204043513856/miller-adams-x-reader-pt2-summary-miller-adams

[gabigoingcrazy]

finney blake x reader

summary: Finney Blake and Y/N have been inseparable since the first day of first grade — a quiet boy who looked at the stars and a bright girl who always reached for them. Through scraped knees, late-night calls, and a thousand small moments, they grow up side by side. But when friendship turns into something deeper, Finney must face the truth he’s spent years avoiding: he’s been in love with his best friend all along.

authors note: this was a request from @lokotrona11 where she falls first but he falls harder. hope you like it !!

The first day of first grade was too loud for Finney Blake. The classroom buzzed with voices, paper crinkled, crayons rolled off desks, and laughter echoed like it had nowhere else to go.

He sat near the window, a small figure with hair too long and shoelaces untied, tracing circles on his desk with the tip of his pencil. The other kids were already clumped into groups, giggling over stickers and lunchboxes. Finney wasn’t part of that. He’d never really been part of much.

And then she arrived.

Y/N came into the room with a bright pink backpack and a smile that didn’t waver even when she realized everyone already seemed to have someone. She scanned the room, frowning slightly, until her gaze landed on him.

The boy by the window. The one who looked like he was trying to disappear.

She walked straight toward him.

“Hi,” she said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m Y/N.”

He blinked at her, startled.

“…Finney.”

Her smile widened. “Cool name. Wanna be partners for the art thing?”

Finney hesitated, then nodded.

And just like that, his life changed. He didn’t know it yet, but every important thing that would happen to him from that day on would somehow include her.

They painted side by side that morning. She liked bright colors — blues and yellows and pinks — while Finney’s paper was all deep space, dark blues and silver stars. She leaned over, peering at his brushstrokes.

“It’s pretty,” she said. “What is it?”

“Space,” he murmured.

She thought about that, then added a big, uneven sun in the corner of her own paper. “Now they match,” she said, pleased.

That afternoon, they sat together at lunch. She shared her fruit snacks, he gave her one of his cookies. By the end of the week, it was already a given that wherever Y/N was, Finney would be close by.

When she laughed too loud and got scolded, he’d look down, trying not to smile. When he got pushed by older kids at recess, she’d glare at them until they walked away.

By Halloween, their teacher called them “the inseparables.”

By Christmas, they had matching mittens.

It didn’t occur to either of them that this wasn’t how all friendships worked — that most kids drifted. They didn’t. They grew together, quietly, like two trees planted side by side.

It was third grade when she invited him over for their first sleepover. Her parents thought it was adorable — two best friends staying up late to watch cartoons and eat popcorn.

They built a blanket fort in her living room and whispered about what they wanted to be when they grew up.

“I’m gonna be an astronaut,” Finney said.

“I’m gonna be a teacher,” she said, proud. Then, after a pause: “If I don’t get married first.”

He tilted his head. “To who?”

She giggled, hiding her face in the blanket. “You.”

Finney didn’t know what to say. His ears went hot. He laughed because that’s what you did when you were eight and someone said something that made your heart jump weirdly.

He didn’t know that moment would come back to him years later — when he was older and realized he’d never stopped wanting to hear her say things like that.

When she fell off her bike once and scraped her knee, Finney tore a piece of his shirt to wrap it. “It’ll stop bleeding soon,” he said.

She sniffled but smiled. “You’re my hero, Finney.”

He rolled his eyes but looked away so she wouldn’t see him blush.

When Finney’s mom died that winter, she sat with him on the back steps, neither of them saying much. She just leaned her head on his shoulder. For the first time, Finney understood that silence could be safe — that being near her made even the worst things hurt a little less.

That night, when she went home, he looked at the stars and whispered, “Thanks,” to no one in particular. But he meant her.

On the last day of elementary school, their teacher handed out little “time capsule” cards — each kid wrote down what they wanted to be when they grew up.

Y/N wrote teacher. Finney wrote astronaut.

Then, in the blank space for “best friend,” they each wrote the other’s name.

She looked at his paper, smiling. “We’re gonna stay friends forever, right?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Always.”

She held out her pinky. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

It was such a small thing — two kids making a promise they didn’t understand yet. But Finney kept it. Every year. Every version of himself that came after.

Middle school began the way most things did for Finney Blake: quietly.

He and Y/N still walked to school together, sharing earbuds, splitting granola bars, finishing each other’s sentences. From the outside, nothing had changed.

But Finney noticed things.

He noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she read. The way her laughter wasn’t a child’s anymore — lower, richer, like a song he half-remembered.

He caught himself staring too long and looking away too fast.

By seventh grade, their lockers were side by side.

Y/N covered hers in photos of friends and bright stickers; his was mostly empty except for a drawing she’d taped there — a little rocket ship with don’t forget to look up written in pink marker.

Some mornings he’d reach for his books and catch the scent of her shampoo — coconut and something floral — and his mind would go blank.

He hated that his heart beat harder for no reason he could name.

He hated more that he liked it.

They’d still joke, still nudge shoulders, but every now and then their hands brushed.

The static of it lingered longer than it should have.

Neither of them wanted to go to the first official school dance, but their friends talked them into it.

Finney wore the only button-up he owned. Y/N met him in the gym doorway, silver lights glinting off her dress.

“Don’t laugh,” she said. “My mom made me wear heels.”

He didn’t laugh. He forgot how to.

When a slow song played, she pulled him to the dance floor.

“Come on, space boy,” she teased, looping her arms around his neck.

He rested his hands carefully at her waist, terrified of doing it wrong.

They swayed awkwardly, both pretending it was funny.

Inside, Finney felt like the ground had tilted.

He didn’t say anything that night.

But afterward, when he lay awake staring at his ceiling, all he could see was the shimmer of her dress and the way her eyes had caught the light.

They spent summers exploring the outskirts of town, riding bikes past the lake, lying in the grass naming constellations.

Y/N talked about dreams — teaching, traveling, leaving their small town behind.

Finney listened, storing every word like a secret.

Sometimes she’d fall asleep beside him under the stars, her hand barely touching his. He’d stay awake, memorizing the shape of her profile against the sky, wondering when his best friend had become the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

He didn’t tell her. He couldn’t.

Instead, he learned how to smile through the ache.

By eighth grade, people had started noticing her.

Boys from the basketball team lingered at her locker; one of them even asked her to the movies.

She’d said no — we already have plans, Finney and I — but the sound of it made his chest tighten in ways he didn’t understand.

That night he told himself it didn’t matter.

He told himself he wasn’t jealous.

But when she texted him a picture of popcorn and wrote next time you’re picking the movie, he realized the truth:

He wanted to be more than the next time.

High school hit like a storm — louder hallways, bigger crowds, new faces.

Yet every morning, she still waited for him by the bike racks.

He’d watch her laugh with other friends, sunlight catching the edge of her hair, and something inside him would pull tight.

One afternoon she found him sketching galaxies in the margins of his notebook.

“You still want to be an astronaut?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Only if you promise to wave at me from Earth.”

She smiled. “Deal.”

The bell rang, and she squeezed his shoulder before walking away.

Finney stared after her, heartbeat racing, realizing he’d fallen — quietly, completely, hopelessly — for the girl who had once painted a sun to match his stars.

By sophomore year, Finney Blake had learned to live with it — the constant pulse of feeling that came with being around Y/N.

She was everywhere: in the back of his mind when he daydreamed in class, in the half-finished poems he never showed anyone, in the way he started noticing songs about love.

He’d learned how to mask it, how to act like nothing had changed. But something had. Everything had.

It started on a Wednesday, the kind that smelled like warm asphalt and late spring.

Y/N was waiting by the bike racks, her cheer uniform still on from practice, hair tied up, skin glowing in the sunlight.

“You’re late,” she said, grinning.

He shrugged, trying for casual. “Missed the bell.”

They started walking, the way they always did. Except this time, she kept bumping his shoulder on purpose, laughing when he tried not to smile.

At one point, she stopped to tie her shoe. When she stood, she caught him looking.

“What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

He’d grown up beside her, and somehow she’d become the axis his world spun around.

A week later, a thunderstorm hit right as they were leaving school.

They sprinted for the overhang, laughing, breathless, soaked through.

“Great timing, weather gods,” she said, wringing out her ponytail.

Finney couldn’t stop looking at her.

Rain clung to her eyelashes, caught in her smile, and he thought, This is it. I’m gone.

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Just—” He stopped, words slipping away.

She looked at him for a long second, the noise of the rain filling the silence between them.

Then she smiled, small and knowing, and turned away. “Come on, space boy. I’ll race you home.”

He followed, half-running through puddles, half-drowning in her.

By junior year, their lives were busier. She had cheer practice; he had part-time shifts.

But every night, they still talked — about classes, music, what they wanted from the future.

Sometimes she’d fall asleep mid-sentence, voice soft in his ear through the phone.

He’d lie there listening to her breathing, heart aching with everything he’d never said.

He didn’t know when “I love you” had started living behind everything he did.

He only knew it was there.

It happened at the end of senior year, at a bonfire by the lake.

Everyone was there — laughter, music, sparks drifting into the night sky.

Y/N was across the fire, surrounded by friends, her face lit orange by the flames. She looked happy, but when her eyes found Finney’s, the noise around them blurred.

Later, when the crowd thinned, she found him by the water’s edge.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitated, then met her gaze. “You.”

Something flickered in her expression — surprise, then something softer.

She stepped closer. “Finney…”

He exhaled shakily. “I’ve liked you for a long time. Since before I even knew what that meant. I tried not to, but—” He laughed under his breath. “I don’t think I know how to stop.”

The words hung between them, fragile and real.

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then she reached out, fingers brushing his. “Good,” she whispered. “Because I don’t want you to.”

He looked at her then — really looked — and realized this was what every year had been leading to: the art table in first grade, the fort, the dance, the late nights.

All of it, leading here.

She smiled, the same one she’d given him years ago in that sunlit classroom, and he leaned in.

When their lips met, it was gentle and certain, the kind of first kiss that felt both brand new and long overdue.

[gabigoingcrazy]

finney blake x cheerleader!reader pt.2

summary: when popular, outgoing cheerleader Y/N is paired with quiet, mysterious Finney Blake for a science project, sparks unexpectedly fly. As they work together, their differences collide and connect, revealing hidden depths and forming a slow-burn connection neither expected.

The week after the project, everything feels… different.

Not in a dramatic way. No one’s suddenly writing my name next to Finney’s in marker on the bathroom wall. But every time I see him—across the cafeteria, in the hallway between classes, by the bleachers after practice—it’s like the world pauses for a second.

And he always looks back.

Not the half-interested glance most guys give when they think they’re being subtle. Finney’s eyes are steadier. Searching. Like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid to lose.

It starts with a text.

FINNEY: u busy?

ME: depends. why?

FINNEY: come outside.

When I step onto the front porch, the air is cold enough to bite. Finney’s sitting on the curb, hood up, one earbud in. There’s a flicker of amber at his fingertips — not a cigarette this time, just the faint glow from his lighter, open and snapping shut in a rhythm.

“How do you even know where I live?” I ask.

He smirks. “You mentioned it once. On the way to your car.”

I sit beside him, knees brushing. The sky is clear, stars scattered like salt.

“You ever think about it?” he says quietly.

“About what?”

He gestures upward. “All that. How small we are.”

I smile. “You sound like our science project.”

He laughs under his breath. “Guess it stuck.”

We fall into silence. The kind that’s not awkward, just… comfortable. He smells faintly like mint gum and cold air. My pulse hums in my ears.

“You don’t really let people in, do you?” I ask.

He shrugs. “People don’t usually stay long enough to be let in.”

“Maybe they just didn’t try hard enough.”

That makes him look at me. Really look. There’s a flicker of surprise, then something softer.

“Maybe,” he says.

The next day at lunch, I spot him sitting alone by the window, sketchbook open. Hailey notices me looking and raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not seriously thinking of sitting with him, right?”

“Why not?”

She lowers her voice. “Because he’s… Finney Blake. He’s weird. He skips class. He—”

“—helped me get an A on our project,” I cut in. “He’s not weird. He’s just different.”

Hailey sighs, like I’m the one being difficult. “Suit yourself.”

I grab my tray and cross the cafeteria. The chatter dims for half a second — that collective whoa, she’s really doing it kind of silence.

“Mind if I sit?”

He glances up. “You’ll ruin your reputation.”

I grin. “Guess I’ll survive.”

He closes his notebook but not before I catch a glimpse — a sketch of me, hair caught up in a ponytail, face half turned like I’m looking out a window.

“That’s me,” I say softly.

He looks almost embarrassed. “Yeah. Sorry. You have—uh—interesting angles.”

I laugh. “You’re such a liar. You just like drawing me.”

He doesn’t deny it.

It’s a Friday night when Hailey drags me to one of Jason’s parties. The house is packed, music shaking the walls, everything sticky with spilled beer. I’m halfway through pretending to have fun when I see Finney leaning against the railing outside, hood down, hair messy, a red plastic cup in his hand.

“You came,” I say.

He shrugs. “You said you’d be here.”

“You don’t seem like the party type.”

“I’m not.” His eyes flick toward the crowd. “But I wanted to see you.”

Something inside me stutters.

We end up on the back porch, away from the noise. The music fades into a pulse behind us. He lights a cigarette but doesn’t smoke it, just watches the flame.

“You ever feel like you’re just… playing a part?” I ask. “Like people only like the version of you they made up.”

He exhales slowly. “All the time.”

I glance at him. “Who are you when no one’s looking?”

He thinks for a long moment. “Someone who wishes he could start over.”

I want to reach for him, to tell him he doesn’t need to. That the version of him sitting here right now — quiet, raw, real — is enough.

Instead, I whisper, “You don’t have to start over. You just have to keep going.”

He looks at me then, eyes tracing every word like he’s storing them somewhere safe. The distance between us shrinks until I can feel his breath on my cheek.

And then Jason bursts through the door, laughing too loud, slinging an arm around my shoulder.

“Hey, there you are! Been looking all over for you.”

Finney steps back. The warmth between us evaporates.

“Guess I’ll see you around,” he says, voice steady but his eyes not meeting mine. He drops the cigarette and walks away before I can stop him.

The next few days feel heavy.

He stops answering my texts. Doesn’t look at me in the hall. During class, he keeps his hood up, pencil scratching across his notebook while I pretend not to care.

But I do.

I care more than I want to admit.

After practice, I find him behind the bleachers, smoke curling around his silhouette.

“You’re avoiding me,” I say.

He doesn’t look up. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“I noticed.”

He takes a drag, exhales. “Look, you’ve got your world. I’ve got mine. Don’t mix well.”

“That’s crap, Finney. You’re pushing me away.”

His jaw tightens. “Maybe that’s safer for you.”

“Safer?”

He flicks the ash off the cigarette. “You think I don’t see how they look at you? The perfect cheerleader with the loser who spends his nights getting high? They’ll eat you alive.”

“Let them,” I say, stepping closer. “I’m not scared of them.”

He finally looks at me, and something breaks in his expression — frustration, longing, fear. “You should be.”

“Why?”

“Because I already am.”

And then he drops the cigarette and walks away, leaving me standing in the smoke.

A week passes. The silence between us stretches thin, like the distance between two planets drifting too far apart.

Then, one night, there’s a knock on my window.

I push the curtain aside. Finney’s outside, hoodie soaked from the rain.

I open the window. “Are you insane? It’s pouring!”

“Can I come in?”

I nod, and he climbs through, dripping water onto the carpet.

He looks exhausted, eyes rimmed red. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

I hand him a towel. “What happened?”

He shrugs, rubbing his hair dry. “Just… needed to get out. My dad—he’s been drinking again.”

I don’t ask for details. I just sit beside him on the bed, the rain pattering against the glass.

For a while, neither of us speaks. Then, quietly, I say, “You’re not alone, you know.”

He turns to me. “You really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be saying it if I didn’t.”

Something in him softens, like a knot finally loosening. He leans back, eyes closed, and exhales.

We lie there, side by side, listening to the rain. My hand finds his — hesitant, uncertain — and when he doesn’t pull away, I lace our fingers together.

No fireworks. No dramatic music. Just the quiet realization that maybe, for the first time, he’s letting someone stay.

After that night, something changes.

We start walking to school together, sharing earbuds and half-smiles. He starts coming to my cheer practices, sitting at the top of the bleachers with his sketchbook. My friends still whisper, but the words don’t sting anymore.

He tells me about the constellations tattooed across his memory, about the way he used to trace them on his ceiling when he couldn’t sleep. I tell him about the pressure to always be perfect, to smile even when it feels fake.

And somehow, between all the talking and the silence, we find our own gravity.

One afternoon, we’re lying in the grass behind the football field, clouds drifting overhead.

“You ever think about what comes next?” I ask.

He turns his head toward me. “Next?”

“After high school. After all this.”

He thinks for a moment. “I want to leave. Somewhere dark enough to see the Milky Way every night. Somewhere quiet.”

“Take me with you,” I say, half-joking.

He smiles. “You’d hate it. No Wi-Fi.”

“I’d survive.”

His smile fades into something more serious. “You really think you’d want to?”

I meet his eyes. “Yeah. I really think I would.”

Spring brings the annual spring formal. Glittering decorations, loud music, dresses like flower petals.

Hailey helps me get ready, curling my hair, fussing over my earrings. “You sure he’s gonna show?” she asks.

“He said he would.”

When I walk into the gym, heads turn — partly because of the dress, partly because of the boy waiting by the doors in a black button-up, sleeves rolled up, hair neatly combed for once.

Finney Blake cleans up well.

He grins when he sees me. “You look…” He trails off, shaking his head. “You look like trouble.”

“And you look like someone who’s about to dance,” I tease.

“I don’t dance.”

“You do tonight.”

We move together awkwardly at first — his hands uncertain, mine guiding. Then the music slows, and we find a rhythm. His fingers settle at my waist, and I rest my head on his shoulder.

“Everyone’s staring,” he murmurs.

“Let them.”

He exhales, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “You really don’t care, do you?”

“Not about them,” I whisper. “Only you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes search mine, hesitant but burning.

“Can I—” he starts, but I don’t let him finish.

I lean in, and the world blurs.

The kiss is soft, tentative — like a spark finally finding its match. And when he pulls away, both of us smiling like idiots, I know there’s no going back.

Summer comes slowly. The nights stretch longer, the stars brighter. We spend them lying on the hood of his old car, parked at the edge of town, listening to the hum of the radio and the rhythm of our breathing.

“You know,” he says one night, tracing circles on my wrist, “binary stars aren’t always the same size. Sometimes one’s bigger. Stronger. But they keep each other from drifting away.”

“Which one am I?” I ask.

He smiles. “You’re the light. I’m just trying to keep up.”

I shake my head. “No, Finney. You’re the gravity.”

By August, everyone’s talking about college and futures. Hailey’s leaving for New York. Jason’s got a football scholarship.

Finney’s saving up to leave town, maybe head west.

We sit on the curb outside my house — the same spot where it all started.

“So this is it?” I say.

He nods. “For now.”

“I don’t want a ‘for now.’”

He takes my hand. “Then make me a promise.”

“What kind of promise?”

“That you’ll keep looking up. No matter where we are. We’ll be under the same sky.”

I swallow hard. “That’s cheesy.”

He grins. “You love cheesy.”

He’s right. I do. Especially when it’s him.

The streetlight hums above us, the night full of quiet possibility.

He leans in, kisses my forehead, and whispers, “You’re my favorite constellation.”

And for the first time, I believe that maybe love isn’t about burning bright or fast — it’s about orbiting close enough to never lose sight of each other.

[gabigoingcrazy]

finney blake x cheerleader!reader

summary: when popular, outgoing cheerleader Y/N is paired with quiet, mysterious Finney Blake for a science project, sparks unexpectedly fly. As they work together, their differences collide and connect, revealing hidden depths and forming a slow-burn connection neither expected.

author note: hi guys!! I’ve been gone for such a long time but I’m kinda obsessed with mason thames and there aren’t many fics here so I decided to give this acc a new try! if you have any recs or suggestions pls let me know, it would mean a lot!! also, english isn’t my first language so sorry for any mistakes.

⸻

The thing about Finney Blake is that he never talks unless someone makes him.

He sits in the back of every class, hoodie up even when it’s ninety degrees outside, eyes half-lidded and quiet, like he’s somewhere else entirely. People say he spends his weekends getting high behind the 7-Eleven with a few guys from the skate park. I’ve seen him once or twice, smoke curling around his hair, a shadow of a grin on his lips when someone said something funny.

I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh.

And yet—he’s always there.

In the hallways, at the edge of crowds. When I’m talking to my friends at my locker, I’ll feel it—someone watching—and when I glance up, Finney will be standing a few feet away, head tilted like he’s thinking about something else. But his eyes? Always on me.

I tell myself it’s nothing. That he’s just zoning out. Guys do that. But still… sometimes it feels like he’s seeing right through me.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when Ms. Carter announces the science fair project. Half the class groans, half cheers. I just sigh, scribbling the due date into my planner. Science isn’t really my thing—I’m more of a pom-poms-and-routines kind of girl.

“Partners will be assigned,” Ms. Carter says, looking up from her clipboard like she knows that’s the last thing any of us want to hear. “I want this to be a chance to work with someone new.”

Around me, girls start whispering. My best friend, Hailey, leans over.

“Bet you get paired with Jason,” she says, smirking. “He’s totally into you.”

Jason, quarterback and certified flirt, flashes me a grin from across the room. I roll my eyes.

Ms. Carter starts calling names. “Jason Miller and—” pause “—Katie Spencer.”

Hailey stifles a laugh. “Oof, not you.”

I grin, pretending I’m relieved, but my stomach twists. Jason might be easy on the eyes, but he’s also all ego and hair gel.

Then—

“Y/N L/N and Finney Blake.”

The room goes silent.

For half a second, I think I misheard. Then Hailey turns toward me, eyes wide. “You’re kidding.”

Finney doesn’t even look up. He just flicks the hood of his sweatshirt down and keeps staring at his desk.

When class ends, I walk over, clutching my binder like a shield. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual.

He glances up, eyes hazel-green and sharp despite how sleepy he always looks. “Hey.”

“So, uh, science project. Guess we’re partners.”

“Guess so.”

Silence stretches between us. The rest of the class filters out until it’s just the two of us and Ms. Carter erasing the board.

Finally, I clear my throat. “Do you want to meet after school? Maybe figure out what we’re gonna do?”

He nods slowly. “Library?”

“Library,” I repeat, surprised. I expected him to say no—or to shrug and leave me to do the work.

When he walks past me, I catch a whiff of smoke and cedarwood. His hoodie sleeve brushes mine. For a moment, he hesitates like he’s about to say something—but then he just shoves his hands into his pockets and walks out.

The library’s nearly empty when I get there. He’s already sitting at one of the tables by the window, sketching something in a notebook. I drop my bag in the seat across from him.

“Hey,” I say again, softer this time.

He looks up. “Hey.” Then he flips the notebook toward me. It’s a sketch of planets—perfectly shaded, detailed, orbit lines drawn with precision.

“Wow,” I say. “You did that?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s really good.”

He shrugs, but I see the faintest smile tug at his mouth. “I like space.”

I lean forward. “So… what do you want to do for our project? I was thinking something easy, like, uh… photosynthesis?”

He snorts. Actually snorts. “That’s boring.”

“Boring is safe,” I counter.

He leans back, tapping his pen against the notebook. “What if we built a model of a binary star system? Show how gravitational pull affects orbit? We could use magnets and string.”

I blink. “That’s… really specific.”

He shrugs again. “Told you. I like space.”

And something about the way he says it—quiet, but certain—makes me nod. “Okay. Let’s do it.

He looks up, a little surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Teach me about binary stars, Blake.”

That’s the first time I see him actually smile—small, crooked, and real.

Over the next few weeks, we meet almost every day after school. Sometimes in the library, sometimes in his garage, which smells like motor oil and incense. He always has music playing—old vinyl records that crackle and hiss, bands I’ve never heard of.

He teaches me about gravitational fields, escape velocity, red giants, and white dwarfs. His eyes light up when he talks, voice low but steady, and I start realizing something: Finney Blake isn’t cold. He’s just… quiet. Careful. Like he’s afraid if he says too much, someone will use it against him.

He doesn’t talk about his friends—or lack of them—but I notice the bruises on his knuckles, the small scar above his eyebrow. When I ask, he just shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Sometimes we don’t even talk. We just sit there, painting styrofoam planets and listening to the hum of the record player. It’s oddly peaceful

One night, while I’m gluing Jupiter’s rings, I say, “You know, people think you’re scary.”

He laughs—quiet, disbelieving. “Scary?”

“Yeah. Or, like, mysterious. You barely talk to anyone.”

He dips a brush into black paint. “You shouldn’t believe everything people say.”

I smile. “Maybe not. But I’m trying to figure you out.”

He glances up, eyes softening. “Why?”

“Because you’re my partner.”

He doesn’t look away this time. “That the only reason?”

My heart stutters. “Maybe not.”

The next week, I catch him outside the school gates, leaning against the fence with a cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curls around him like fog.

“Thought you said you liked space, not fire,” I tease, walking up.

He smirks. “Maybe I like both.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That stuff’ll kill you, you know.”

He exhales, the smoke drifting between us. “Yeah. I know.”

He stubs it out on the fence post, then glances at me. “You’re not like everyone says you are either.”

“Oh?”

“You’re supposed to be this perfect, untouchable cheerleader. But you’re… actually kind of nerdy.”

I laugh, shoving his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He grins, that lazy, half-lidded grin that makes my chest feel weirdly light. “It’s a compliment.”

By the time the project’s due, we’ve built something incredible—planets suspended from fishing wire, orbit paths marked with silver paint, a tiny sun that actually lights up. When we present, Ms. Carter looks genuinely impressed.

Afterward, as everyone crowds around, I glance at Finney. He’s standing beside me, hands stuffed in his pockets, but his eyes meet mine and—just for a second—he looks proud.

When class ends, I find him by the bike racks. “Hey,” I say, tugging on his sleeve. “We made a good team.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We did.”

“Maybe we should, you know… hang out even though the project’s over.”

He hesitates. “You sure your friends wouldn’t mind?”

I roll my eyes. “Let them talk.”

He smiles—small, almost shy. “Then yeah. I’d like that.”

⸻

I kind of started a part two for this in my drafts so let me know if you want it posted !!

Post by @gabigoingcrazy · 3 images

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 20 · finney blake x cheerleader!reader pt.2 summary: when popular, outgoing cheerleader Y/N is paired with quiet, mysterious F

[gabigoingcrazy]

jobe bellingham x mom!reader

summary: jobe bellingham and his wife navigate the joyful chaos of daily life with their two-year-old twins, balancing professional commitments and parenting with love and teamwork. From morning wake-ups to bedtime routines, every moment is filled with love, laughter, and a touch of exhaustion.

warnings: none

The day began early, as it always did with two-year-olds. You were awakened by the soft, insistent cries of one of the twins over the baby monitor. Jobe stirred beside you, already reaching for his phone to check the time.

“I’ll get them,” he murmured, planting a quick kiss on your forehead before slipping out of bed.

You stretched, listening to the familiar sounds of Jobe soothing one of the twins, while the other soon joined in the chorus. Smiling, you got up and made your way to the nursery, where Jobe was already changing diapers.

“Good morning, my little loves,” you cooed, lifting your daughter out of her crib. Her giggles were music to your ears, a perfect start to the day.

Jobe handed you a freshly changed son, and you both headed downstairs, twins in tow. Breakfast was a team effort—Jobe prepared the twins’ oatmeal and fruit while you made coffee and toast for yourselves.

With everyone seated around the kitchen table, you and Jobe took turns feeding the twins and stealing bites of your own breakfast. Laughter and tiny messes filled the room, setting a cheerful tone for the day ahead.

After breakfast, Jobe headed out for training, promising to be back by lunchtime. You spent the morning engaging the twins with playtime, storybooks, and a bit of creative chaos. They were particularly fond of building block towers only to knock them down with squeals of delight.

Around mid-morning, you managed to fit in some work, responding to emails and planning content while the twins napped. The house was blissfully quiet for an hour, allowing you to focus.

Jobe returned home just as the twins woke up, their sleepy faces lighting up at the sight of him. “Daddy’s home!” you announced, watching them toddle over to him with outstretched arms.

Lunchtime was another family affair, with sandwiches, fruit, and lots of chatter. Jobe shared stories from his training session while you updated him on the twins’ morning adventures.

After lunch, you both took the twins to the park, enjoying the fresh air and watching them explore the playground. Jobe pushed them on the swings while you captured the precious moments on your phone, memories to cherish forever.

Back home, it was nap time for the twins again. This gave you and Jobe a rare moment of peace. You cuddled on the couch, catching up on a favorite show or simply enjoying each other’s company in comfortable silence.

Once the twins woke up, it was time for more play and a bit of screen time with their favorite educational shows. You prepped dinner while Jobe kept them entertained, the house filled with the sounds of playful giggles and the occasional sibling squabble.

Dinner was a lively event, with the twins eagerly trying new foods and sharing their delight with every bite. You and Jobe took turns eating and managing the occasional spill, the routine now a well-practiced dance of parenthood.

After dinner, it was bath time. The twins loved splashing in the tub, and you and Jobe relished the chance to make it a fun, bonding experience. With the twins clean and wrapped in fluffy towels, you headed to their room for storytime.

Jobe read their favorite book while you tucked them in, the soothing rhythm of his voice lulling them into drowsiness. You both kissed them goodnight, watching as they drifted off to sleep.

With the twins finally asleep, you and Jobe retreated to the living room. You shared a quiet, intimate dinner, reflecting on the day and planning for the next. The exhaustion of the day melted away in the comfort of each other’s presence.

“Another successful day,” Jobe said, pulling you close as you settled on the couch.

“Couldn’t do it without you,” you replied, resting your head on his shoulder.

After some much-needed relaxation, you both headed to bed, ready to recharge for another day of joyful chaos with your little ones. As you drifted off to sleep, you felt content, knowing that together, you and Jobe were creating a loving, happy home for your family.

[gabigoingcrazy]

jobe bellingham x model!reader

summary: In a chance encounter at a local café, Jobe Bellingham and a successful model and influencer (you) meet without recognizing each other’s fame. Intrigued by the genuine connection, Jobe asks you out for coffee. As they get to know each other, they discover more than just mutual attraction—they find someone who understands the challenges of their respective careers

You sighed as you entered the cozy little café, grateful for a moment away from the constant buzz of your social media notifications and the relentless pace of your modeling gigs. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the soft murmur of conversations offered a welcome respite. Finding an empty table near the window, you settled in with your laptop, hoping to catch up on some emails.

Jobe Bellingham walked into the café, looking for a quiet corner where he could enjoy a break from the demanding world of professional football. Spotting a table near the window, he approached with a friendly smile. “Is this seat taken?”

You looked up, meeting his warm eyes. “No, go ahead,” you replied, returning the smile.

As he sat down, you both exchanged pleasantries, naturally falling into conversation. “I’m Jobe, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Jobe. I’m Y/N,” you replied, shaking his hand. “So, what brings you here?”

“Just needed a break,” he admitted. “Sometimes it’s nice to find a place where no one knows you.”

You chuckled. “I can relate to that.”

The conversation flowed easily, touching on favorite books, travel destinations, and shared love for coffee. Neither of you mentioned your high-profile careers, enjoying the rare chance to be seen as just two people enjoying a chat.

As the afternoon sun began to dip, Jobe hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I’ve really enjoyed talking with you. Would you be interested in grabbing coffee again sometime?”

You felt a flutter of excitement at the genuine interest in his eyes. “I’d like that,” you said, exchanging numbers.

Over the next few weeks, you and Jobe met regularly, savoring the simplicity of your time together. It wasn’t until you saw a sports article featuring Jobe that you realized who he was. Meanwhile, Jobe stumbled upon your Instagram profile, piecing together your identity as a well-known model and influencer.

On your next coffee date, you decided it was time for honesty. “So, I found out something interesting about you,” you began, a teasing smile playing on your lips.

Jobe laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going to say the same thing. You’re quite the influencer.”

“And you’re quite the footballer,” you countered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I enjoyed being just Jobe with you,” he said softly. “No expectations, no pressures.”

“Me too,” you admitted. “But now that we know, what do we do?”

“We keep being us,” he suggested. “Navigating the craziness together.”

From that moment on, your relationship deepened, strengthened by the honesty and mutual understanding of your unique worlds. Public events and media attention brought challenges, but you faced them together, finding balance and comfort in each other’s presence.

At a charity football match, where your paths crossed publicly for the first time, the media frenzy was intense. Yet, standing side by side, you knew you were stronger together. Jobe’s arm around your shoulder, your supportive smile, told the world that this connection was real, and you were ready to face anything that came your way.

In the end, the unexpected meeting at a quaint café turned into the start of something beautiful—a love story that blossomed amidst the pressures of fame, grounded by genuine connection and mutual respect.

[gabigoingcrazy]

jobe bellingham x model!reader

summary: living together, jobe bellingham and his girlfriend —a successful model and influencer— find solace in each other after exhausting days. Their evenings are a blend of simple, comforting routines that help them unwind and reconnect.

warnings: none

You pushed open the door to your shared apartment, your body aching from a long day of photo shoots and meetings. The familiar scent of home was comforting, and you sighed in relief as you kicked off your heels, dropping your bag by the door.

“Hey,” Jobe’s voice greeted you from the living room. He looked just as tired as you felt, still in his training gear, his hair damp from a recent shower. “Rough day?”

“The worst,” you replied, making your way over to the couch where he was sprawled out. You collapsed beside him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. “You?”

“Same,” he said, shifting slightly to make more room for you. “Coach was relentless today.”

You both sat in silence for a moment, the only sound being your synchronized breathing. The weight of the day seemed to lift slightly just by being close to each other.

“Let’s just stay here for a bit,” you suggested, snuggling closer to him.

“Sounds perfect,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around you. His fingers traced gentle patterns on your arm, a soothing gesture that made your eyes flutter closed.

You stayed like that, enveloped in each other’s warmth, the world outside fading away. No words were needed; the comfort of being together was enough.

After a while, you stirred, pressing a kiss to Jobe’s jawline. “We should shower and get to bed.”

He nodded, reluctantly letting you go. You both made your way to the bathroom, shedding your clothes and stepping under the warm water. The water cascaded over you, washing away the fatigue of the day. Jobe’s hands found your shoulders, gently massaging the tension out of them.

“This is nice,” you sighed, leaning back against him.

“Yeah,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Really nice.”

You finished showering, wrapping yourselves in fluffy towels and making your way to the bedroom. The bed was inviting, but not as much as the thought of being wrapped up in each other.

Sliding under the covers, you nestled close to Jobe, his arms coming around you instinctively. “I love you,” he whispered, his breath warm against your neck.

I love you too,” you replied, feeling the last remnants of exhaustion melt away in the safety of his embrace.

As you drifted off to sleep, the world outside could wait. Here, in each other’s arms, was where you found true rest and the strength to face another day.