paws ⏾ ݁·𓇬 ݁·.| “i never knew you could hold moonlight in your hands.”
lars lindstrom x fem!reader
—established relationship.
LARS had been thinking about holding your hand for so long that the thought had started appearing at inconvenient times.
the though arrived while he was at work, while he was standing in line at the grocery shop, during church services when he was supposed to be listening. sometimes it appeared in the middle of entirely unrelated thoughts, slipping quietly into his mind and refusing to leave.
the embarrassing thing was how simple it was. not kissing you, not saying “i love you”, just holding your hand.
you’d been dating for nearly a month now, and although that wasn’t a long time, it was long enough that most people probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought. most people would’ve reached for your hand automatically. most people would’ve done it weeks ago.
your lars wasn’t most people.
sometimes he felt as though he’d spent so much of his life standing slightly apart from everyone else that he no longer knew where the invisible lines were supposed to be. things that seemed effortless for other people often felt enormous to him. physical affection was the worst of all.
not because he didn’t want it, but maybe because he wanted it too much. that was the frightening part. wanting something that bad meant it mattered, and if it mattered, it could hurt.
the thought followed him all the way through town one saturday afternoon as the two of you walked home from the market together. the day was warm, the streets quiet. children were riding bicycles up and down the road, and somewhere in the distance a lawnmower hummed steadily.
you were talking about a book you’d finished the night before, describing a character you couldn’t stand with such dramatic irritation that lars found himself smiling despite only understanding about half of what you were saying.
that was something he’d noticed very early on.
when you were excited, your eyes brightened. when you were making a point, your hands moved. when you thought something was ridiculous, your nose wrinkled slightly.
lars noticed all of it.
he noticed everything about you.
unfortunately, that included the way your hand kept swinging beside you while you walked. every few moments his gaze drifted towards it before immediately darting away again. the distance between your hands couldn’t have been more than a few inches.
just a few inches that it felt like several miles.
“…and honestly, the ending didn’t even make sense,” you were saying. “the author spent three hundred pages building up this relationship and then suddenly—”
you stopped, and lars realised he’d missed the rest of the sentence.
“sorry..” the word escaped before he could stop it. you laughed softly, “where did you go?”
“hm?”
“you weren’t listening.”
his ears immediately began to warm, “…i was.”
“i don’t think you were~”
“i was listening.”
you smiled, “then what was i talking about?” lars very briefly considered lying, but then decided against it. “the book?”
your laughter floated through the afternoon air, warm and bright and completely unrestrained. it was one of his favourite sounds, he wasn’t sure when that had happened. somewhere over the last few months, he’d begun looking forward to it. looking forward to seeing you. looking forward to every small interaction in a way that felt both wonderful and vaguely alarming, because you were becoming important.
that thought lingered with him long after you’d changed the subject. important. the word felt too small somehow. when he got home that evening, he sat on the edge of his sofa for a long time thinking about it. thinking about you. about dating. about how strange and miraculous it felt that somebody as warm and easy to love as you had chosen him.
even now, nearly a month in, part of him still expected to wake up and discover the whole thing had been imagined, not because you gave him any reason to think that. you never did. you were patient with him in a way that almost hurt, you never rushed him, never laughed when he stumbled over words, never made him feel awkward for being awkward.
you accepted him exactly as he was, and somehow that made everything worse, because every day he liked loved you more.
every day it became harder to imagine his life without you in it. the following tuesday evening, the two of you were sitting on your porch. the sun was beginning to set, washing everything in soft gold light. the neighbourhood was quiet except for the distant sound of birds settling into trees for the night.
you sat beside him beneath a shared blanket, talking about your day. lars wasn’t saying much, not like he ever did, but he was listening.
watching the changing expressions on your face while you spoke, just enjoying the simple comfort of having you there. sometimes that alone felt remarkable. having someone beside him. someone who wanted to be there. the thought still carried a certain fragile wonder.
you shifted slightly beneath the blanket, your shoulder brushed his. the contact was brief, barely noticeable. yet lars felt it immediately, felt the warmth of it. his body tensed before he could stop himself. not because he disliked it, he just … liked it so much.
you must have noticed.
of course you noticed.
“i’m sorry,” you said quietly. lars looked at you, and the concern in your expression was immediate. it was very gentle, and something inside his chest twisted painfully. not because you had done anything wrong, you could never do wrong in his eyes. it was because you cared enough to worry.
“no.” the word came out more quickly than intended. you look at him, and lars immediately wished he knew how to explain himself, how to communicate all the thoughts tumbling around inside his head, how to tell you that your shoulder brushing his had been the nicest part of his day, how to tell you that he wasn’t uncomfortable. that he was simply unused to being that cared for.
unused to being this genuinely wanted.
instead he managed, “you don’t have to apologise.” your expression softened and the concern faded. you smiled, a small smile. the kind reserved only for him.
for some reason that made his chest ache even more.
the good kind of ache, the kind that came from healing.
a week later it finally happened, not in some grand romantic moment. just on an ordinary afternoon while the two of you were walking through town. you were talking, as usual. telling him about a conversation you’d overheard earlier that morning. lars was listening, mostly.
his attention drifted occasionally towards your hand. again. always your hand. he was beginning to think this was becoming a serious problem. then, quite suddenly, he found himself tired. not physically, just tired of being afraid. tired of treating every small thing as though it were impossible, tired of standing on the edge of things he wanted.
before he could talk himself out of it, he moved his hand slightly, just slightly enough for his fingers to brush yours. for one terrifying second he considered retreating and pretending it hadn’t happened.
then your hand turned naturally into his, effortlessly. as though you’d been waiting like he was. your fingers slipped between his, holding on.
lars stopped breathing, the sensation was almost absurdly ordinary. warm fingers and soft skin. it nothing dramatic, yet he felt it everywhere. in his chest, in his throat, in the sudden sting behind his eyes. you didn’t make a comment, didn’t tease him. didn’t even point it out.
you simply continued walking beside him, your hand resting comfortably in his as though it belonged there. perhaps it did. after a moment, you gave his hand a small squeeze.
just once. the gentlest pressure imaginable, and something inside him gave way. unknotting that tie of self doubt, of fear and that little bit of self hatred.
years of loneliness loosening fraction by fraction, because the truth was that nobody had touched him like this in a very long time. not casually nor affectionately, and definitely not romantically.
you held his hand simply because you wanted to. the simplicity of that nearly overwhelmed him.
that evening you were sitting together on his sofa. the television was on, though neither of you was paying much attention to it. your legs were tucked beneath you. his shoulder rested against yours.
the room felt warm and safe. comfortable in a way his house never had before you came into it. at some point your hand found his again. naturally and without hesitation.
you laced your fingers together and settled closer, like it was the easiest thing in the world. lars looked down at your joined hands. the sight stirred something deep inside him. something tender. something he didn’t quite have words for.
you noticed his expression immediately, “what?” but he hesitated, he was searching. then finally shook his head, “nothing.”
you smiled, “lars.” the gentle amusement in your voice made him laugh softly. a real laugh. then he looked at your hands again. at the space between your fingers that no longer existed. and finally he found the was he was searching for.
“i like this.”
your expression changed instantly, becoming softer than he’d ever seen it. it was warmer. “yeah?”
lars nodded.
“yeah.”
you squeezed his hand again, and for a moment neither of you spoke. the silence settled around you like a blanket. comfortable and peaceful.
lars sat there feeling the weight of your shoulder against his, the warmth of your hand in his own, and realised that healing wasn’t always dramatic.
sometimes it happened quietly. sometimes it looked like somebody choosing to sit beside you day after day. sometimes it sounded like a familiar voice filling the rooms of your house. sometimes it felt like fingers intertwined with his on an ordinary evening.
the small things, the simple things.
yet somehow they reached places inside him that years of loneliness never could. and as he sat there beside you, your hand safely held in his, lars found himself thinking that perhaps love wasn’t a lightning strike after all. perhaps it was this.
two hands, a sofa, and a quiet house. love was the slow, steady feeling of becoming less alone.
europa‧₊˚♪ 𝄞𝄢 | “i’m your jazz singer, and you’re my cult leader.” [hcs]
sebastian wilder x jazz singer!fem!reader
—strangers to coworkers (?) to lovers
𝄢 sebastian only hires you because his actual friday night singer cancels three hours before opening. he’s already stressed out of his mind when you arrive. he spends most of the afternoon pacing around the club muttering to himself while staff avoid eye contact. he’s sweaty, irritated, sleeves rolled to his elbows, while he argues with somebody over the phone about “musical integrity.”
𝄢 then the door opens. and everything goes quiet in his head for a second. because you walk into the club like you’ve already belonged there for years. elegant in this effortless old-hollywood kind of way. gold silk dress, gold hoops catching the warm amber lighting, lipstick perfect despite the rain outside. ridiculously calm.
𝄢 and sebastian, who usually has opinions about every musician he meets, just stares at you for a second too long before remembering how words work. that’s the replacement singer?
𝄢 “you know jazz?” he asks cautiously, still halfway expecting disappointment because he’s spent years dealing with people who say they understand jazz and then proceed to butcher it. you just smile softly. “i know good jazz.” that should annoy him but instead, it completely derails him.
𝄢 rehearsal is supposed to be quick. just one song, maybe two or three. just enough to survive the evening. but then you step up beside the piano and ask: “what do you want to hear?” sebastian studies you carefully before playing a few opening notes from “is it a crime?” almost experimentally. because how can you fuck that up? it’s a classic.
𝄢 most singers oversing it. push too hard and mistake restraint for lack of emotion. but you don’t. you sink into the song slowly like smoke filling a room. low velvet voice and perfect timing. no unnecessary dramatics. and sebastian— for the first time in his life, sebastian completely misses his next chord because he’s too busy staring at you.
𝄢 because suddenly the club sounds exactly like the version he’s carried around in his head for years. it’s intimate, it’s warm. late-night golden. it’s alive.
𝄢 when the song ends, there’s silence for a second. you glance over at him curiously. “well?” sebastian just blinks, then: “where the hell have you been?”
𝄢 the first performance is supposed to be forgettable. background music while people drink overpriced whiskey and pretend to understand coltrane. then you start singing and the entire room changes. not dramatically at first. quietly. all conversations slowing. glasses lowering. people turning in their seats without realising they’re doing it. because your voice doesn’t sound forced or theatrical. it slips through the room slow and warm and intimate, like smoke curling through dim light. smooth in that impossible sade kind of way. effortless. sensual without trying to be.
𝄢 sebastian’s standing by the bar when he realises he’s completely stopped moving. he’s just staring because suddenly the club sounds like the version he’s had in his head for years. not polished. not commercial. not obnoxiously drunk and loud. it’s full of soul.
𝄢 and the worst part is that you catch him watching halfway through the set. your eyes meet across the club while he’s frozen beside the piano and you smile slightly into the microphone.
𝄢 sebastian almost misses his cue entirely. after the performance the crowd applauds harder than they ever have before in that club. and sebastian, who normally acts deeply emotionally constipated about praise, immediately corners you backstage. “you free tomorrow night?” you raise an eyebrow. “for another emergency?”
“for employment.”
𝄢 from that point onwards, the club changes completely. because people become obsessed with the two of you. not just the music. you and sebastian. the chemistry is visible from the stage immediately and neither of you are subtle enough to hide it properly. sebastian watching you while he plays piano like he’s witnessing divine intervention.
𝄢 you leaning against the mic stand smiling at him knowingly during solos. the quiet little conversations between songs that feel far too intimate for an audience to be witnessing. people start coming back specifically to watch the dynamic unfold. entire tables placing bets on whether you’re secretly together.
𝄢 sebastian doesn’t call it “being attracted to you” at first, he calls it as “professional curiosity” which is his favourite lie to himself. he tells himself he’s just fascinated by how you bend timing, how you sit behind the beat like you’re refusing to be chased by it
𝄢 you notice him noticing you before he ever speaks properly. it’s not obvious attention, it’s worse: quiet attention. the kind that lingers too long on your phrasing after you’ve finished a line, like he’s trying to reverse-engineer you
𝄢 the first real shift happens when you start changing small things just to see if he reacts. a held note slightly longer. a lyric twisted into something more playful. he reacts every time, even if it’s just a micro-expression in his jaw. you start playing to him specifically without meaning to. not in a performative way, more like your instincts adapt. you lean into certain phrases because you know he’ll recognise them as a challenge
𝄢 there’s a night where you hold eye contact during a long instrumental break and neither of you looks away first. after that, everything changes slightly. not dramatically, just enough that it can’t be undone
𝄢 sebastian starts doing small, unnecessary acts of care that he immediately tries to rationalise: saving you a seat near his piano during your breaks without acknowledging it. adjusting the stage light so it doesn’t hit your eyes directly. rewriting the set order so your hardest song isn’t first
𝄢 he watches you more than he means to. not in a staring way at first, more like his attention just keeps drifting there. when he catches himself, he looks away too quickly and pretends he was listening to the band. you start catching him at it. sometimes you pause mid-sentence just to see if he’s paying attention. he always is. he just looks like he isn’t.
𝄢 he starts walking you out without announcing it, like it’s obvious. he takes your coat off the back of a chair without asking and holds it out. when you look at him, he says: “you’re slow when you’re cold.” and refuses to elaborate. you begin timing your exits so you meet him in the same corridor after shows. neither of you admit this is planned.
𝄢 sebastian starts getting protective in very quiet, socially unacceptable ways. if someone interrupts your set, they mysteriously don’t get booked again. if someone talks over you, the sound balance “accidentally” shifts so they can’t hear themselves properly. if someone flirts with you after a show, sebastian suddenly appears beside you with a question about “logistics”
𝄢 he never acknowledges jealousy. he reframes it as professionalism. “they’re distracting the room.” “they’re not respecting the music.” “they don’t understand timing.” you call him out once: “you don’t like people talking to me.” and he replies, without looking at you: “i don’t like people wasting your time.” that lands harder than he intends. he goes quiet for the rest of the night.
𝄢 he begins adjusting the club’s rhythm around you. not in big changes. just tiny edits that make your presence feel inevitable rather than scheduled. you start leaning into him emotionally in small ways without naming it: “was that set alright?” “you’d tell me if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you?” and he always answers honestly, which surprises both of you.
𝄢 sebastian becomes slightly worse at pretending he doesn’t care. people notice before he does. someone says: “you’ve got favourites now.” and he replies: “i’ve got standards.”
𝄢 you start noticing he only fully relaxes when you’re still in the building after your set. not speaking, just present. one night, you ask: “do you ever go home?”and he says: “eventually, but not when you’re still here.” he immediately regrets it. you don’t let him retract it. you just nod like it makes perfect sense.
𝄢 sebastian is falling in love and he feels like control he regained after mia is slowly failing in very precise ways. he starts waiting for you to arrive because it’s the best part of his day. he begins smiling slightly when he hears your voice before he sees you. and your falling in love looks like familiarity turning into dependency. you look for him first in any room. you sing differently when you know he’s listening. you start staying longer just to see what he’ll say when the crowd leaves
𝄢 neither of you define it, because if you do, it stops being something you can hide behind work. and right now, the work is the excuse that lets him stand close enough to you without falling apart.
𝄢 bar goers openly complaining about the way sebastian looks at you. band members hanging around after hours just to witness whatever strange romantic tension keeps happening onstage.
𝄢 because sebastian wilder, chronic snob and professional emotional avoider, becomes ridiculously obvious about you. he’s impossible. introducing you every night with increasingly lovestruck descriptions disguised as professionalism. “and now, the reason any of you people actually showed up tonight…” or: “if you talk during her solos i’ll have you removed physically.”
𝄢 meanwhile you stand beside the piano trying not to laugh while the audience loses their minds over him. he starts dressing even better than he already does too. not intentionally at first. but suddenly his nice button ups are nicer. his shoes extra polished. his hair actually brushed perfectly instead of loosely.
𝄢 because you complimented one outfit once and sebastian has apparently decided to build his entire self-esteem around that interaction forever.
𝄢 the rehearsals become unbearably intimate. all dim lighting and old records and lingering eye contact. sometimes you stay after closing while sebastian plays piano softly just for you, tie loosened, whiskey abandoned somewhere nearby while the city glows outside the windows. and he talks more around you. that’s what surprises everybody most. because sebastian usually keeps people at arm’s length emotionally. he hides behind jazz trivia and pretentiousness and sarcasm. but around you? he softens completely.
𝄢 suddenly he’s telling stories about childhood records he used to play. talking about music like it still hurts him a little. looking at you after songs with this open vulnerable expression like he forgot how to hide for a second. and you always notice.
𝄢 one night during rehearsal you quietly tell him; “you only tap your fingers like that when you’re nervous.” sebastian looks genuinely alarmed. “you can tell?” you smile, “i can tell everything with you.” he spends the next hour completely unable to make eye contact.
𝄢 the audience notices that shift too, because your chemistry evolves from flirtation into something softer and infinitely more dangerous. suddenly there are moments onstage where you look at each other too long after songs end. little smiles meant only for each other. sebastian adjusting the microphone for you with absurd tenderness before performances start. and the crowd eats it alive every single night.
𝄢 articles start appearing about the club. “the jazz revival hidden in downtown la” “the impossible chemistry keeping audiences returning weekly” sebastian pretends to hate the attention. meanwhile he keeps every article folded carefully beneath the counter in his office.
𝄢 after shows the two of you always end up sitting together in the empty club long after everyone leaves. exhausted. half-drunk on whiskey and adrenaline. music still humming softly through the speakers. sometimes you sit on top of the piano while sebastian talks nonsense beside you at three in the morning. sometimes he plays quietly while you sing only for him. those are his favourite moments. no audience, no applause. just you in the dim golden light sounding like true love and velvet.
𝄢 sebastian falls first obviously, catastrophically too. because you understand music the way he does. you make jazz sound intimate again, human again.
𝄢 and sebastian looks at you like you saved something inside him he thought had died years ago. one night after a packed show, you find him alone at the piano after closing, absentmindedly replaying one of your songs. he doesn’t notice you immediately but he feels you there. he’s smiling to himself softly while playing. completely gone. “you know people think we’re sleeping together,” you tease lightly from the doorway.
𝄢 sebastian glances up. and the look on his face is so fond it almost catches you off guard. “yeah?” he says quietly. “they’d probably lose their minds if they knew i’m actually worse than that.” you lean against the piano curiously. “worse how?”
𝄢 sebastian looks at you for a long moment. then admits, voice soft and helpless: “i think i’m in love with you.”
honey ꙮ₊˚⊹♡ | “there’s a bird in a tree singing a song, just for me.”
older!noah calhoun x younger!fem!reader
—established relationship, noah is 24, reader is 20.
NOAH has learned that asking you a simple question is one of the most dangerous things a person can do. not because you’re difficult. not because you’re dramatic. but because your brain works like a river after heavy rain.
one thought becomes another thought, which becomes a memory, which becomes a story, which somehow turns into an entirely different subject twenty minutes later.
and noah loves every second of it, he’s exactly where he wants to be.
he’s twenty-four now, old enough to have spent years around people who wait for their turn to speak rather than actually listening. old enough to know how rare it is to find someone who is genuinely enthusiastic about life. someone who notices things. someone who gets excited.
someone like you.
the conversation starts because he’s stupid enough to ask a question.
“how was your day?”
you’re sitting on his lap on the porch steps, an untouched glass of lemonade in your hands. that should have been a simple question. it should have received a simple answer.
instead, you immediately brighten.
“oh my god.”
noah smiles, he already knows what’s coming. “it was unbelievable.”
“good unbelievable or bad unbelievable?”
“both!”
“ah.”
you point at him. “exactly.”
then you’re off. apparently your day started normally until you saw a dog wearing a blue handkerchief. which reminded you of a film you’d watched when you were fourteen. which reminded you of your friend from school. which reminded you of a disastrous birthday party involving a trampoline and a watermelon.
which somehow leads into a completely separate discussion about whether watermelons are actually worth the effort.
by this point, fifteen minutes have passed. noah has contributed approximately four words, but he’s having the time of his life.
because while you’re talking, your entire face changes. your hands move when you’re excited. your eyebrows lift dramatically whenever you’re making a point. sometimes you interrupt yourself because you’ve remembered something even more important. sometimes you completely lose the thread of the story and have to circle back.
and every single bit of it makes him smile. he could listen to you for hours, he often does.
“and then she said—” you stop suddenly, frowning, “wait.”
“what?”
“that’s not right.”
“which part?”
“hold on,” you stare into the distance for a moment, thinking. noah watches you with the sort of fondness that would be embarrassing if anyone else saw it.
“okay.”
you nod decisively, “i forgot an entire section.”
“an entire section?”
“yes.”
“that’s concerning.”
“it is.”
you immediately continue, and noah laughs. because of course you do. because your stories are less like stories and more like adventures. he never knows where they’re going. he just knows he wants to follow. the thing is, most people assume noah is the talkative one.
and he is.
he’ll happily chat to strangers. he’ll spend twenty minutes talking to a man in a hardware shop he met thirty seconds ago. he’ll tell stories. he’ll ramble. but around you? around you, he’s perfectly happy to listen. because listening to you isn’t work.
it isn’t patience, and it isn’t endurance either, it’s one of his favourite things in the world. sometimes he catches himself looking forward to it during the day.
he’ll be fixing something by the lake or painting part of the house and suddenly he’ll wonder what you’re doing. just simple curiosity. because he knows you’ll have something to tell him later.
some observation, or some story, or some completely random thought that entered your head and refused to leave. and somehow he never gets tired of hearing them.
one evening you’re stretched out on the old sofa in the living room while noah is trying to read. trying being the important word. because you’ve spent the last twenty minutes explaining a dream you had. a dream that apparently involved a horse, a grocery shop, three nuns and a giant wheel of cheese.
noah still isn’t entirely sure how they’re connected.
“and then the horse was buying oranges,” you pause, “which should’ve been strange, but honestly it wasn’t even the weirdest part.”
he’s staring at you over the top of his book now.
completely invested, “what was the weirdest part?”
“the horse had reading glasses!”
“right.”
“and they suited him!”
noah laughs so hard he nearly drops the book, you immediately look pleased with yourself, which only makes him laugh harder.
later, when he finally manages to stop, you continue talking as if there was never an interruption at all, and noah finds himself smiling again. because you’re comfortable with him. you don’t second-guess yourself. you don’t apologise for talking too much. you don’t stop midway through a story and say you’re being annoying. you just talk.
and noah never realises how much that means to him until one afternoon when he overhears somebody tell you exactly that. they’re not trying to be cruel, not really. but he sees your expression falter all the same. just slightly.
“you sure do talk a lot.” you laugh awkwardly, the kind of laugh he hates, the kind that isn’t real.
and for the first time all day, you go quiet. the silence lasts maybe ten minutes, but noah notices immediately. because your voice is woven into his days so completely that its absence feels wrong.
later, when you’re both walking home, you kick at a stone on the road. “do i talk too much?”
noah looks genuinely horrified, “what?!”
“be honest.”
“absolutely not.”
“noah.”
he stops walking and turns towards you with such immediate certainty that it catches you off guard.“baby.” the word comes out soft. “i’ve listened to you explain cloud shapes for forty-five minutes.” you stare, “and?”
“and i wanted a sequel.”
despite yourself, you laugh. his expression relaxes instantly. there it is. that sound. music to his ears.
“i mean it.” he reaches for your hand, holding it naturally, the way he’s done a thousand times before. “i like hearing you talk.”
“you have to say that.”
“why?”
“’cause you love me.”
“exactly.”
he says it as if you’ve just proven his point, “that’s part of it.” you roll your eyes and he smiles, then squeezes your hand, “the other part is that you’re interesting.”you snort. “i’m not.”
“you spent ten minutes wondering if fish get bored.”
“that was a valid question.”
“see?” his grin widens. “interesting.”
by the time you get home, you’re talking again, and noah feels absurdly relieved. because the truth is, he loves your voice. he loves hearing it from another room while he’s working. he loves waking up beside you and immediately being told about whatever thought entered your head overnight.
he loves the way your stories wander, he loves how excited you get. he loves that sometimes you start laughing before you’ve even reached the funny part. he loves all of it. especially on quiet evenings. those are his favourites. the two of you stretched out together on the dock behind the house.
the lake glowing gold beneath the setting sun, your feet skimming the water. you talking about something completely random, today it’s books, yesterday it was birds, tomorrow it’ll be something else. it doesn’t matter. because noah isn’t listening for the subject. he’s listening because it’s you.
every now and then you’ll stop, usually because you’ve realised he’s staring. “are you listening?” he smiles immediately. caught.
“yeah.”
“what did i just say?”
“something about how the ending would’ve been better if everybody got married.”
“that wasn’t even close.”
he laughs, and you groan dramatically. and then, because you’re you, immediately continue the conversation anyway.
another story, another tangent, another thought. the sky grows darker while you talk, the air cools, fireflies appear near the edge of the lake.
still, neither of you move, because this is enough. it’s more than enough. you eventually lean against his shoulder without interrupting yourself. without even thinking about it.
and noah’s heart does the same stupid thing it always does, the thing where it feels too full. too warm. like loving you is somehow happening all over again.
he wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer, settling you comfortably against him, and you keep talking. completely unbothered. because you know he’ll listen, and he always does.
after a while, you tilt your head back to look at him, finally noticing the expression on his face. the soft smile, the ridiculous amount of affection. the fact that he’s looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.
“what?” you ask. noah shakes his head, still smiling. “nothing.”
“noah.”
“nothing!”
“you’re doing that thing again.”
“what thing?”
“looking at me all weird.”
he laughs quietly, then leans down and kisses your forehead. “i just like listening to you.” your cheeks warm immediately, which makes his smile grow. “even when i ramble?”
“especially when you ramble.”
“even when i go off topic?”
“baby.” he sounds genuinely amused. “you’ve never once stayed on topic.” you laugh. and there it is again, that sound. noah swears he’ll never get tired of it. never get tired of you. never get tired of sitting here while you tell him absolutely everything that passes through your mind.
because at the end of the day, when the sun is setting over the lake and you’re tucked against his side, talking about a hundred different things at once, he can’t imagine a better way to spend an evening.
cinnamon roll .ೃ࿔*･ | “coffee smell, and lilac skin, your flame in me.”
dean pereira x fem!waitress!reader
—strangers to lovers
DEAN doesn’t mean to fall in love with you. that’s the thing. people always talk about love at first sight like it’s some grand, cinematic moment. violins playing. the universe shifting on its axis. sunlight catching someone’s face at exactly the right angle.
for dean, it happens on a tuesday in october, when he’s mostly thinking about coffee.
he’s halfway through a long day of moving furniture, his back hurts, he’s got sawdust on his jeans, and he’s running on about four hours of sleep and pure stubbornness.
he pushes open the door to a small café he passes all the time but never actually enters.
a bell jingles overhead, and the smell hits him immediately. coffee, cinnamon rolls, fresh bread. something sweet like cupcakes baking in the kitchen.
the place feels warm in a way most places don’t. it’s comfortable and lived-in. like somewhere people actually want to stay. dean steps inside. everything is a warm tone of brown, red and cream. the lights are low and golden, everything is so cozy, no wonder people want to stay.
and then he sees you.
oh. well.
that’s a problem.
a pretty significant problem, actually.
because suddenly he’s forgotten why he came in. you’re standing behind the counter scribbling something onto a receipt pad. completely focused. a cute little crease between your eyebrows.
you don’t even notice him at first, and dean just stands there like an idiot. staring. because you’re so beautiful. not in a dramatic movie-star way. in a real way, the dangerous kind. the kind that sneaks up on people. the kind that feels warm and alive.
the kind that immediately makes him want to know everything. your laugh. your favourite song. whether you’re a morning person or not. what you look like when you’re happy. what colour you paint your nails. what books are sitting on your bedside table. all of it.
which is ridiculous. because he hasn’t even spoken to you yet. eventually you glance up.
your eyes meet.
and dean forgets how to breathe for a second. you smile politely. the customer-service smile. the one you probably give everyone. it still nearly kills him.
“hi.”
he blinks. right. words. words are important.
“hi.”
great start. excellent.
you nod towards the menu, or the glass display, he wasn’t really paying that much attention.
“what can i get you?”
dean doesn’t even look at it, he’s still staring at you. “uh.” long pause. you wait patiently. he continues staring, eventually you smile slightly.
“you okay?”
“yeah.”
he points at absolutely nothing, “just looking.”
your eyebrow lifts, “…at the menu?”
“sure.”
you glance at the menu, then back at him, and something in your expression suggests you don’t believe him for a second. which, unfortunately, only makes him like you more. “right.”
you’re trying not to laugh now. he can tell.
“coffee?”
“coffee sounds great.”
“what kind?”
he stares blankly, and you stare back. eventually you ask, “do you actually drink coffee?”
“occasionally.”
“how occasionally?”
“every day.”
you laugh.
and that’s it.
that’s genuinely it.
dean is done for, because that laugh is warm, and real. and suddenly it feels like the nicest sound he’s heard all week. “regular black coffee.” you nod. “coming right up.”
dean should leave after that, he knows he should. he’s finished with work, but he has responsibilities… or something. instead he sits at the counter for forty minutes, drinking one cup of coffee very slowly. and watching you. not in a creepy way, hopefully. just…looking.
you move quickly when the café gets busy, always remembering orders, always smiling. always remembering people’s names. an elderly couple comes in. you know exactly what they want before they ask. a little kid drops a muffin. you give him another one for free. a woman looks like she’s having a terrible day. you sneak an extra biscuit onto her plate.
dean notices everything.
every single thing.
by the time he leaves, he’s already planning his return.
the next day he comes back, and the day after that, and the day after that. pretty soon you’ve become a permanent part of his lunch break. sometimes he buys coffee, sometimes a sandwich.
sometimes things he doesn’t even particularly want. just because he needs an excuse. eventually you start recognising him. which dean pretends doesn’t make him absurdly happy.
“coffee guy.”
he looks up from digging through his wallet. “what?” he asks, “you’re coffee guy.” you gesture vaguely. “you come in every day.” dean grins, “that’s my name now?”
“until i learn your actual one.”
“dean.”
the smile you give him should honestly be regulated by law. “nice to meet you, dean.”
he likes the way you say it far too much.
weeks pass, then months, and somewhere along the way, the flirting starts. neither of you acknowledges it. it just sort of appears. naturally, effortlessly. like it’s always been there waiting. one afternoon the café is quiet. just you and dean.
he’s sitting at the counter, you’re wiping it down, though it isn’t dirty at all. and he realises he still doesn’t know nearly enough about you. which is unacceptable. so naturally he decides to fix that.
“what’s your name?”
you don’t even look up.
“go away.”
dean blinks, then a grin slowly spreads across his face. “go away?” you continue wiping the table. “that’s a weird name.”
your shoulders immediately shake. he sees it, you are trying not to laugh. “it’s family.” you state.
“ah.” he nods thoughtfully. “traditional.”
“very.” you chuckle
“irish?” dean asks
that does it, you’re laughing. it bright and uncontrollable. and dean’s heart does something deeply embarrassing inside his chest. because there it is again. that sound. his favourite thing in the world.
after that, everything changes, just slightly.
you start saving him his favourite seat., he starts bringing you little things, a flower he found growing near a work site, a funny postcard. a ridiculous keychain that made him think of you. you claim to hate the keychain. then attach it to your keys.
he notices.
of course he notices.
dean starts finding excuses to stay longer and you start finding excuses to talk. suddenly every coffee takes twenty extra minutes. every goodbye stretches a little further. every conversation somehow becomes another conversation. and another. and another. until one day the owner actually has to remind you both that other customers exist.
the worst part is how easy it feels, that’s what gets dean. he’s never had this before. someone who fits. someone who understands his jokes before he finishes telling them. someone who makes ordinary afternoons feel important. someone whose smile can completely change the direction of his day.
he starts looking forward to seeing you more than anything else. more than weekends. more than paydays. more than finishing jobs. sometimes he catches himself smiling while driving over.
just because he knows you’re there.
one rainy afternoon he arrives soaked, just completely drenched. you take one look at him and immediately burst out laughing. “dean!”
“i know.”
“what happened?”
“weather.”
“you got into a fight with weather?”
“weather won.”
you disappear into the back room, only to return with a towel. walk around the counter and place it over his head. dean freezes completely. you start drying his hair. casually.
without thinking, and suddenly he can’t remember a single thing he’s ever known. your hands are gentle. your smile is close. your eyes are warm. and dean is absolutely certain he’s in love with you.
not maybe. not possibly. definitely.
“you’re staring.” your voice pulls him back, he blinks. “what?”
“you’re staring.” you tilt your head, amused, “again.”
dean smiles slowly, because at this point there’s really no point denying it. “yeah.”
“why?”
he looks at you for a moment, really looks at you. the way he always does. like you’re something precious, something worth memorising. then he shrugs. “’cause i like looking at you.”
for once, you don’t have a clever reply. it’s your turn to just stare, and dean watches the colour slowly appear in your cheeks and he watches your smile soften. watches your eyes become something warmer. something sweeter. something that makes hope bloom inside his chest.
and suddenly the café feels very small. just you and him, and the space between you. “dean.”
“yeah?”
you smile that smile. the one that started all of this. the one that ruined him. the one he’d gladly spend the rest of his life chasing. “that’s a really good answer.”
dean grins, leaning forward slightly.
“i know.”
and for the first time since he walked into that little café on a random tuesday looking for coffee, he gets the feeling that maybe, just maybe—you’ve been looking at him the same way all along.
Hihii.. am like obsessed with Ryland x Alien reader because of your fics!! Theyre adorable.. i didn't see any rules against smut... so I hope this doesnt make you uncomfortable, but I keep thinking about alien reader who's inexperienced and having their first time with Ryland 👀
office hours ☏.✦ ݁˖ ᝰ | “sweet love, hear me calling out your name.”
lars lindstrom x fem!reader
—coworkers to friends to ???
YOU first notice lars properly in the way he sits at church. not because he’s loud, he’s the opposite of that. he sits a few rows behind, always slightly to the side, as if he’s trying to take up less space than he allows himself. he keeps his hands folded too carefully, like he’s learned what to do with them but doesn’t fully trust it yet.
you don’t think much of him at first. just another familiar face in a small town where everyone eventually becomes background.
but then he starts looking ahead. not often. not boldly. just sometimes, when the hymn is quiet and everyone else is focused forward, you catch his eyes flicking in your direction like he didn’t mean to be caught at all. and you smile. it’s small. automatic. nothing you think about afterwards.
except lars does.
you don’t know that yet.
he sees you at the grocery store on wednesdays. always around the same time. always with a short list, folded twice, held carefully in your hand like it matters. you move through the aisles with a kind of unhurried focus that makes everything around you feel slightly calmer.
lars notices things like that. he notices that you always choose the same kind of apples. that you pause for too long in front of the bakery section even when you don’t buy anything extra. that you hum softly when you’re thinking. he doesn’t say anything. he never does.
but one wednesday, he stands behind you in the checkout line and realises he’s been rehearsing “hello” for so long in his head that it stops sounding like a word.
so he doesn’t say it. he just nods slightly when you glance back. and you smile again.
that smile does something to him he can’t name.
the office is worse. or better. depending on how you think about it. you work on the same floor. different desks. different departments that don’t technically overlap, except they do in small, invisible ways. shared printer. shared lift. shared silence in the mornings before everyone fully arrives.
lars is always early. you are sometimes early. on those days, you find things on your desk. at first you think it’s a mistake.
a small bunch of flowers, wrapped in string. nothing dramatic. just something soft-coloured and careful, placed exactly where your keyboard should be. no note. you look around the office. no one is watching you. at least not obviously. you take them home anyway.
this week, is was a little origami swan. the week after, a single cookie from the vending machine, placed neatly on a napkin like it belongs there more than it does in plastic packaging.
still no note. still no name. but the pattern starts forming in your mind whether you want it to or not. someone is paying attention, very close attention.
lars tells himself it is nothing, that is how he survives it. he watches you from across the office when he thinks no one is looking. not constantly. just in fragments. when you laugh at something someone else says. when you stretch your hands after typing too long. when you sit very still for a moment like you’re thinking about something far away.
he notices everything, and then tries not to notice it. it doesn’t work, you feel like a book he physically can’t put down. so he starts leaving things, not big things. just evidence that he exists near you without asking for anything in return.
the first time you realise it might be him, you don’t confront it. you just start paying attention back. you start leaving your desk slightly tidier than usual. a folded note under your keyboard that says thank you, even though you don’t know who it’s for. the next day, there is a paper star in the same place. no note from him. but a response. and now it feels less like guessing and more like conversation.
just one that doesn’t use words out loud.
church becomes a little more stressful in a different way after that, because now you know his face. you notice how he always arrives a little early too. how he sits in the same place. how he never quite relaxes, even when everyone else does. and now, when you look back and smile, you are no longer smiling into empty air.
you are smiling at someone who looks like he might break if you hold the eye contact too long. so you start holding it anyway, just for a second longer than before. lars starts arriving earlier.
the first time you speak to each other, it is almost nothing. after church, outside, when people are dispersing in small clusters of conversation. you are standing by the steps, adjusting your coat. he passes you. he hesitates so slightly it almost doesn’t exist. then he says it;
“hello.”
just that.
then immediately, as if the word itself has consequences, he continues walking before you can respond properly. you turn slightly, caught between amused and surprised. “hi,” you say back, a little too late.
he doesn’t stop.
but his shoulders change. just a fraction. like something in him has loosened and tightened at the same time. you don’t know it, but he remembers that moment for days.
after that, the gifts change, they become more deliberate. a note appears on your desk one morning. no flowers this time, just a paper. folded once. inside, in careful handwriting: “you like the blue mug better. i noticed.”
there is no signature.
you sit with it longer than you should, because it is accurate. you do like the blue mug more than the others. it is intimate in a way that does not feel invasive. just observant.
you start leaving replies, a small note tucked under the keyboard: “i do! thank you.”
the next day, there is a drawing of a mug next to a tiny heart. you stare at it for a long time before putting it in your bag.
it becomes a pattern. he leaves things, and you answer.
you begin to notice his habits the way he notices yours. how he always steps aside in corridors even when he doesn’t need to. how he avoids interrupting people mid-sentence even when it would be normal to. how he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking, then immediately looks away when you are.
you catch him once. properly. in the lift. just the two of you. the doors close. the silence is immediate and heavy in a way that feels louder than conversation. he looks at the floor numbers like they are the most interesting thing in the world. you say, softly, “you’re very quiet.” he nods once. “yes.”
you smile a little. “i don’t mind.” he glances at you then. properly. quickly. like a test. you hold it. and something in his expression changes, like he has been given permission to exist more fully for half a second. then the lift opens and he leaves too fast, as always.
the “war” starts without either of you naming it. you leave a small paper bird on his desk. the next day, there is a flower in a glass of water at yours. you leave a note that says, “you don’t have to keep doing this.” he replies underneath it: “i want to.”
and that is the problem. lars really wants this. you.
he begins signing things, first just a letter. one morning, a small note appears on your desk with a name at the bottom.
“lars :)”
the smiley face is almost more shocking than the name. you read it three times. then you sit down very carefully like your body has forgotten how to behave. that day, you reply differently. you leave a small wrapped chocolate and a note that says:
“hi lars :)”
he’ll keep that note forever.
no one in the office notices, and if they do, they do not understand it. to you and lars, it is something else entirely. a private language built out of silence and paper. and glances. a lot of longing looks.
because you have started talking more with your eyes than anything else. in meetings where you are not meant to acknowledge each other, you do. briefly. like a reassurance. like you are both checking if the other is still there. and always, always, the answer is yes.
he’s been saving things. your notes, your drawings, your replies. he keeps them in a drawer at home that he opens too often. he reads them when he is trying not to think too hard. especially the ones where you sound like you are smiling even on paper.
there is a moment, small and ordinary, that changes everything. you leave a note on his desk that says: “your sweater looks nice. the colour fits you.” lars reads it standing still, then sits down. then stands up again because sitting feels impossible. he reads it again and again. that night, he takes it home carefully folded in his coat pocket like it is something fragile enough to break if he breathes wrong.
he puts it on his bedside table. and for the first time in a long time, lars lindstrom feels… seen. properly and completely.
church changes again. you sit closer without planning it, not beside him. not yet, but closer than before. close enough that you can feel his presence more clearly than the rest of the room. he notices. of course he does, but he doesn’t say anything.
but after service, when everyone stands, he pauses just slightly longer before leaving. you catch his eye, and instead of looking away immediately, he holds it. this time, it does not feel like an accident. you smile and he almost does too. almost
the final shift is subtle. that evening, he is at church longer than usual, and you are there too. it is almost empty. just the echo of footsteps and the fading smell of candles. you stand near the aisle and he stands near the pews.
there is a long silence. then he says your name, it’s quiet. you answer, “hi lars.” he nods, then stops. then, very softly, as if it costs him something real: “i didn’t think you would… notice me.” you tilt your head slightly. “i always noticed you.” that is all.
but it’s enough to change the air between you completely. lars looks down for a moment. then back up, and this time, he does not retreat immediately. he just stands there with you. finally in the same space without distance doing all the speaking.
after that, there are notes still, there are gifts still. small, careful acts of affection that neither of you rush to define, but now there is also presence. he waits for you after work sometimes. you wait for him after church sometimes.
you both still struggle with timing. with words. with what to do with hands and silence. but the yearning is no longer one-sided, and when you look at each other now, really look, it no longer feels like guessing.
catastrophically.˚ ⋆ 𖤓☽˚.⋆ | “you make everything stop.”
ryland grace x alien!fem!reader (ft. rocky) | [previous episode]
—more than friends to lovers.
RYLAND grace is not normal about you. unfortunately, “normal” stops being an option approximately four days after you join him on the hail mary.
it starts innocently enough.
at least, that’s what he tells himself.
you’re the first intelligent lifeform he’s encountered besides himself in an impossibly long time. of course he’s emotionally invested. of course he likes talking to you. of course he keeps finding excuses to linger in rooms after conversations should reasonably end.
that’s just psychology. not love. definitely not love.
then one morning he wakes up before you and immediately feels disappointed about it. and that’s… concerning. because ryland has spent most of his adult life alone very comfortably. he likes solitude. likes quiet. likes not having to emotionally perform around people constantly.
but now the hail mary feels strange when you’re not in the room. too still. too empty. and it doesn’t help that you’re so painfully easy to adore.
you emerge from your sleeping pod every morning with your hair floating wildly around your face in, feet slightly dangling as you fly around the ship, glowing softly with sleepiness while mumbling cheerful greetings in increasingly better english.
“good morning, ryland grace,” you say brightly one day. “i have missed you for seven hours.”
ryland nearly choked on his coffee pouch. you don’t notice. you never seem to notice what you’re doing to him. or maybe you do. he honestly can’t tell anymore.
at first, he thinks your warmth is simply cultural. your species is tactile and emotionally expressive in ways humans aren’t. you touch his arm while talking. lean against him while reading data projections. smile at him constantly with this open radiant affection that makes his chest hurt.
none of it means anything romantic necessarily.
probably.
except then you start seeking him out.
not just for work. not just for translation practice or scientific collaboration. for him. if he disappears into another section of the ship too long, you come looking. always with some transparent excuse. “i have another human question.” “the plants appear emotionally unstable again.” “i became bored without conversation.”
and every single time, ryland feels himself soften instantly at the sight of you. it becomes ridiculous very quickly. he starts talking more around you. rambling honestly. endless tangents about earth and science and terrible films and obscure marine biology facts that absolutely do not matter. and you listen to all of it like he’s fascinating.
that’s the real problem. nobody has ever looked at ryland grace the way you do. not impatiently. not tolerantly. not waiting for him to finish. you look at him like hearing his thoughts is genuinely the best part of your day.
one time he’s explaining the concept of theme parks while repairing a filtration system, mostly because you asked why humans would voluntarily pay money to experience fear recreationally.
“it’s the illusion of danger,” he says, crouched halfway beneath an open panel. “your brain knows you’re safe, so it turns fear into excitement.”
you’re sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor listening intently. “humans are very strange.”
“correct.”
“you enjoy this?”
“rollercoasters? absolutely not.”
you think about it seriously, “i would likely vomit.” ryland laughs so suddenly he bangs his head against the panel above him.
“ow— fudge.”
you gasp and immediately lean towards him in alarm. “ryland!”“i’m okay,” he wheezes, rubbing his forehead. but you’re already kneeling beside him, glowing faintly with concern while gently moving his hand away to inspect the injury yourself.
and ryland stops functioning entirely because you’re so close. your face inches from his. your hands warm against his skin. your expression openly worried in a way that feels terrifyingly sincere. “there is redness,” you murmur.
“yep.”
“you are injured.”
“it’s barely—”
you touch his forehead lightly. ryland forgets every language he has ever spoken. you blink at him. “your heart rate accelerated significantly.”
“yeah, well,” he says weakly, “that happens sometimes.” you continue staring. then very earnestly: “humans are emotionally unstable organisms.” and somehow that makes him laugh.
that night he lies awake in bed staring at the ceiling of the hail mary and realises, with absolute certainty, that he is catastrophically in love with you. not a little bit. not rationally. catastrophically. the kind of love that rewires your nervous system. the kind where your entire day reorganises itself around another person without permission.
he starts noticing insane details after that.
the exact shade your glow turns when you’re amused. how your voice softens when you’re tired. the way you fly closer unconsciously whenever he sounds upset. he notices because he’s watching you constantly now. not intentionally. okay, maybe intentionally. a little.
the worst part is that he cannot hide it to save his life.
one evening you’re both cataloguing samples in the lab while soft music plays through the ship speakers. ryland is supposed to be entering data. instead he’s watching you smile at a petri dish because apparently some microbial reaction looks “friendly.”
“you know,” he says before thinking better of it, “you’re really cute when you do that.” you glance up immediately. “do what?”
“uh.”
abort mission. abort mission immediately.
“you make that face,” he says helplessly. “that little— the smile thing.” you beam at him. actually beam. “oh! you find me visually pleasing.”
ryland physically covers his face with both hands. “ryland grace,” you say with growing delight, “you are turning red.”
“i know.”
“this is extraordinary!”
“i’m having a horrible time.”
you laugh so brightly the sound echoes through the ship, and ryland thinks helplessly that he would probably survive being set on fire if it made you laugh like that again.
by the time rocky arrives, the situation has already become completely unmanageable. rocky notices immediately. because of course he does.
the first time the three of you share a proper meal together, rocky pauses midway through discussing astrophage trajectories. “observation,” he says calmly. “grace stare at y/n constantly.” ryland chokes on his cup noodles. you look delighted. “you have observed this also!”
“oh my god,” ryland groans.
rocky tilts his body curiously. “why grace pretend this not obvious, question?”
“it is not obvious.”
rocky and you stare at him in silence. then you say gently, “ryland grace, earlier today you walked into a wall while looking at me.”
“in my defence, that wall came out of nowhere.”
“you say this often,” rocky observes.
it only gets worse after that. because now rocky actively enjoys pointing it out. ryland offers you his blanket during a cold cycle?
“observation: mating behaviour.”
ryland brings you human fruit portions because you liked them once?
“grace perform courtship ritual.”
ryland spends forty straight minutes fixing the environmental settings because you mentioned the temperature felt slightly uncomfortable?
“grace aware he already pair-bonded, question?”
“rocky,” ryland says through a full body blush, “i need you to know, you’re not helping.”
meanwhile you seem endlessly fascinated by all of this. not mocking. never mocking. just curious.
“you care for me greatly,” you say one evening while the two of you float near the observation deck watching distant stars drift past. ryland glances at you nervously. “yeah. i do.” you smile softly at that. “so does rocky.”
“okay, yes, but differently.” you tilt your head. “explain.”
and there it is. the problem. because ryland grace can explain astrophage reproduction and relativistic mechanics and molecular biology under pressure. but trying to explain how deeply he loves you apparently turns his brain into soup.
“i just…” he exhales shakily. “i think about you all the time.” you blink slowly. “i worry if you’re tired. or cold. or sad. i like making you laugh more than literally anything else. the ship feels wrong when you’re not around and—” he cuts himself off abruptly. “jesus christ.”
your glow brightens softly in the dim observation deck. “you experience significant affection.” you state, “that is a horrifying understatement.” for a moment neither of you speak.
the stars drift endlessly outside. then you move closer. just inevitable. your hand rises carefully to his face, fingertips brushing his cheek with unbearable gentleness while you study him with those big glowing eyes.
“you are very dear to me also, ryland grace.”
he actually stops breathing for a second, because you sound so sincere and so certain.
“you know,” he says faintly, “for a scientist, i’m handling this situation with very little professionalism.” you smile. “i enjoy when you become emotionally compromised.”
“oh good. excellent. glad my suffering entertains you.”
“it does.”
ryland laughs helplessly, and then, because apparently the universe has decided he deserves happiness after all, you lean forward and kiss him. so very softly, and very carefully. like something precious. ryland makes a tiny startled noise against your mouth that will haunt him forever. your species doesn’t kiss naturally. you learned it from human media and anthropological discussions with him, which means this kiss is entirely intentional.
entirely for him.
when you pull back slightly, ryland is staring at you like you reached into his chest and restarted his heart. “oh,” he says weakly. you look worried instantly. “was this unpleasant?”
“what? no! no, i just— wow. okay.” you brighten immediately at his reaction. then kiss him again. ryland is so unbelievably gone it’s honestly embarrassing.
after that, it becomes common knowledge aboard the hail mary that ryland grace is hopelessly obsessed with you. even armando and mary know it. not subtle obsession either. disgustingly obvious obsession.
he follows you around unconsciously now. smiles whenever you enter rooms. looks physically happier every time you touch him.
rocky watches this unfold with endless fascination.“observation,” rocky says one day while you’re curled beside ryland during calculations. “grace now approximately seventy-three percent softer emotionally.” ryland points accusingly. “i was always soft.”
“no,” rocky says immediately.
you laugh into ryland’s shoulder and he instinctively wraps an arm around your waist tighter without even thinking about it. rocky notices that too. “further observation: grace would do anything for y/n instantly.”
ryland looks down at you curled comfortably against his side. at your soft glow. your warm smile. the way you still look at him like finding him out there among the stars was the best thing that ever happened to you. because it was.
Okay! I have this scenario in my head that I really can't get out of my head. And I'm a very musical person, so the song that always comes to mind for this scenario is "Noctiline No. 1" (Bandoneon Solo). Well, after clarifying that, here it is:
You work in the same place, go to the same church at the same time, do your shopping on the same day, and yet you two don't speak to each other. Maybe a glance, a polite smile, a nod here and there, but it's enough for him to feel noticed. So it's not long before you start finding small gifts on your desk. They're small, nothing ostentatious, they're anonymous. They never have his name on them, but something tells you from the way he looks at you, not at all subtle, that he's watching your expression, waiting for some reaction to the gifts. (Example: Your favorite flower, origami swans, stickers, a snack from the office vending machine, etc.)
He stares at you for a long time, trying to muster the courage to approach you and say hello, although he immediately leaves without continuing the conversation. He also seems more prideful or nonchalant (like a showoff) when he's near you, even if it's obvious that he's forcing it. He wants to get closer to you; he's even learned a lot about your interests just because it would give him much more self-confidence to hypothetically have something to talk about with you in a future conversation. He wants to get closer to you because being far away hurts more than being close. When he sees you in the office, he hides to compose himself and puts on his nonchalant face when you walk past him or talk to him.
He constantly stares at you; sometimes he can look creepy. He hides himself in paperwork when you look back at him. Like, he literally puts papers over his head like a blanket just to hide from you. He might also glance back at you to see if you're still looking.
And that's where the war begins. Lars started finding gifts on his desk, always written "Lars :)" in hurried handwriting, his name written on them so he wouldn't think they weren't for him. He wakes up very early in the morning just to look his best for you. He's just waiting for a sticky note on his computer screen, with that same handwriting as the gifts. He just nods and smiles as he sees the simple compliments that fill him with a warm feeling. Like "I like your sweater today" or "Green looks fantastic on you". Of course he knows it's you; he knows everything about you. As soon as he goes to bed, he'll read that note over and over, this make him restless and causes him to lose sleep, but he still continues with the same routine... He never throws any of them away; he keeps them in a drawer next to his bed with all the notes and gifts you've given him. Neither of you has a conversation that's longer than two sentences; you have entire conversations just with looks, smiles, and expressions. Now he stay close, without speaking because there is no need.
oh my god this SO fucking sweet :’D you’re both competing to see who can look the best for the other, or who can get the best gift, or who can write the best note 💔💔💔
i’m definitely going to write something based on/similar to this thank you for the great idea
good morning to my THREE HUNDRED AND SIX??? followers hey what the fuck are we doing i’ve been here for just nine days what the hell hey i love you all ???? to death???
ellievsbear
snowghoul
gummygunk
areudirty
germansingergirl
vaporwave