Read this and this before requesting a matchup tho
hello everyone! i'm lovelymindescape. 🤗
🌸About me : my name is E. (she/her) , I'm from western europe, I'm a proud mom of 8 pets, I speak about 5 languages, I'm reblogging and sharing things I like but also want to write 💗
🌸my interests: a lot of things actually ! I like music and watching movies and Shows, I am a really big fan of swinging and I have a big swing in my garden, I like drawing and just started my journey with digital Art 💗
🌸tagging: you can tag me anything you want to : games , stories you recommend , things you like me to see
Here's :
《MY MASTERLIST》
《MY REQUEST GUIDELINES》
《MY "CHARACTERS I WRITE FOR" LIST 》
🌸the fandoms I do matchups for:
▫️ lord of the rings / the hobbit ▫️ harry potter (let me know if you'd want a character from a specific era) ▫️Stray Kids ▫️Haikyuu▫️Tvdu and TO ▫️Squid Game ▫️
🌸the fandoms I write headcanons, social media au's and stories for :
▫️Stray Kids▫️Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit ▫️Haikyuu▫️Harry Potter ▫️Squid Game ▫️
I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.
E’s Notes: The last one guys. The last one. It was a good one , thank you for all the likes and comments and I wish you a happy New year. Luv y'all💕
Chapter 19 : Shooting Star
You don’t leave Fuller the way people expect you to. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no slammed doors or tearful farewells. You simply… drift a little farther out. Just far enough that the town loosens its grip, just close enough that the Hewitt place is still part of your horizon.
The small house you settle into sits at the edge of a dirt road, half-swallowed by tall grass and stubborn wildflowers. It isn’t much. One bedroom, a narrow kitchen, a porch that sags in the middle. But it’s yours.
The first night there, you sit on the floor with your back against the wall, eating bread and soup straight from the pot. Thomas sits beside you, knees drawn up, quietly observing the way the light moves across the bare walls.
When the wind rattles the windows, he startles, only slightly, and you reach for his hand without thinking. He laces his fingers through yours. The house exhales around you, as if relieved to be occupied. Your mother visits once. You stand on the porch, hands folded too tightly, eyes searching for danger. Thomas stays back, respectful, giving you two space.
When she leaves, she presses a jar of preserves into your hands and tells you to be careful. She doesn’t say his name. But she doesn’t forbid you anymore. That feels like a mercy. Thomas starts working full-time at the slaughterhouse not long after. His days begin before sunrise. You wake to the sound of him moving quietly through the house, careful not to disturb you, even though you’re almost always awake anyway.
You listen to the rhythm of him, boots, jacket, the door opening and closing softly. Some mornings you walk him halfway down the road. He never asks you to. You just go. The sky is usually pale then, the air cool and forgiving. He squeezes your hand once before turning back, like a promise. When he comes home, he smells of metal and soap, fatigue clinging to him like dust.
He washes at the pump outside before stepping in, scrubbing his hands until the water runs clear. You sit on the steps and talk about nothing important, the weather, the chickens, something you read that day. He listens, eyes following your mouth, your hands, the small movements you make without realizing it.
Sometimes he hands you a note. Sometimes he just leans into you and that’s enough. The little farm grows slowly, almost accidentally. A few chickens first, then more when you realize you’re better at caring for them than you thought. A goat appears one afternoon, you just decide to keep it.
It takes to Thomas immediately, following him like a shadow. You laugh the first time you see it refuse to budge unless he’s nearby. “You’re his favorite,” you tease. Thomas pretends not to hear, but his ears turn pink.
You plant a garden in spring. The soil is stubborn, rocky, but you work at it together, hands dirty, knees aching. Not everything survives. Some things thrive unexpectedly. You learn to accept both. You learn that failure doesn’t feel so heavy when someone is kneeling beside you, quietly replanting without complaint.
Evenings are your favorite. You sit on the porch steps as the sun sinks low, the world turning gold and then blue. Luda Mae sometimes walks over with a basket of vegetables or bread she baked too much of. She doesn’t linger, but she stays long enough to comment on the weather, the fence, the goat.
Charlie nods at you when you pass him in town now. Monty waves with two fingers, as if that’s all the affection he knows how to spare. It’s enough. Thomas sketches constantly, but not with urgency anymore. He draws the way the light hits the fields at dusk. The curve of your shoulder when you’re bent over the garden.
The way the house looks at night, warm and small against the dark. You catch glimpses of yourself in his drawings, never exaggerated, never cruel. Just… seen.
At night, you read aloud sometimes. He sits beside you on the bed or the floor, back against the wall, eyes closed as if listening with his whole body. Other nights are quiet. You lie together, listening to the sounds of the house settling, the distant hum of insects, the wind brushing past the windows.He still startles sometimes.He still has bad days.But he comes back to you every time.
One evening, much later, you sit together in the yard, stars spilling across the sky. Thomas presses a folded note into your palm. The paper is creased, softened from being carried too long.
I didn’t know life could be like this.
You don’t answer with words. You lean into him instead, resting your head against his chest. His arm wraps around you, firm and sure, like he’s finally learned that he’s allowed to hold and be held. This life isn’t loud.It isn’t perfect. But it is steady. Chosen. Real. And together, in this quiet corner of the world, you are, simply, deeply, happy.
Summary: After everything that tried to pull you and Thomas apart—rumors, fear, silence, and misunderstanding—things finally come to a head.
Setting: Fuller, Texas ,Early Fall 1955 ,The Hewitt House, County Fairgrounds
Characters: Thomas Hewitt, fem!reader, Reader’s Mother, Luda Mae Hewitt, Hoyt Hewitt, Monty Hewitt
Content Warnings: emotional confrontation, past abuse implications, social hostility, public harassment, trauma references, slow-earned acceptance, tenderness
E’s Notes: Just the Epilogue left. My Darlings I really hoped you liked this Story , personally I never thought it would go this long but here we are. You can send in requests for blurbs/scenarios of these two and their world if you want , I will answer all your questions and thoughts to them. Luv y'all 💕
Chapter 18 — Borrowed Silence
Everything bleeds into everything else, the way real days do. The house has always made noises like it’s thinking. It settles when the sun moves, sighs when the air cools, ticks and hums and creaks in ways you learned as a child to read like moods. That evening, the sounds feel louder , not angry, just tense, like the house itself is waiting for something to be said.
You sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea cupped between your palms. The condensation has long since soaked into your skin, but you haven’t lifted it once.
Across the room, your mother moves slowly, deliberately, wiping a counter that doesn’t need wiping, rinsing a plate that’s already clean. She hasn’t looked at you yet. “He came by,” she says at last, voice steady but thin. You don’t ask who. Your chest tightens anyway.
“Thomas?” you say. She nods. “Yesterday afternoon. I was hanging laundry. I didn’t hear him at first.” The image forms instantly, Thomas standing at the edge of the porch, weight shifted back, hands at his sides like he’s prepared to leave without a word. He always waits like that.
As if space itself might reject him. “He didn’t knock,” she continues. “Just stood there. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to ask.” Your fingers curl slightly around the glass. “That sounds like him.” She finally turns to face you.
There’s no sharpness in her expression now, just exhaustion, and something closer to caution than anger. “He held out a note,” she says. “I didn’t take it at first.”
“But you did,” you say quietly. “Yes.” She exhales. “Eventually.” She sits across from you, folding her hands together. “He said he wasn’t asking for permission. Just… understanding. That if I wanted him gone, he would go. That he didn’t want to cause harm.” Something tight and aching loosens just enough in your chest to hurt more.
“He thinks that’s all he does.”
“I could tell,” she says. After a pause, softer: “I saw how he stood there. Like he was expecting to be struck.” The words settle heavily between you. “I don’t like this,” she admits. “I don’t like how cruel people can be. And I don’t like how much you’re willing to risk.”
“I know,” you say. “But walking away would hurt more.” She studies you for a long moment, then nods once, not in agreement, but in acceptance of something she can’t change. “Bring him here,” she says. “I want to speak to him.” You don’t breathe again until she leaves the room.
Thomas arrives just before sunset, when the cicadas have grown loud enough to fill every quiet thought and the sky has turned the color of dust and honey.
He stands on the porch with his shoulders drawn inward, bandana in place, eyes flicking nervously past you like he’s already mapping escape routes.When he sees you, relief flickers across his face, quick, instinctive, before he reins it in.
Inside, he doesn’t sit until your mother gestures to the chair. Even then, he perches on the edge, hands clasped tightly in his lap, spine straight with effort. “You don’t need to speak,” she tells him. “I understand.”
He nods once. “I’ve said things about you,” she continues. “Things rooted in fear.” His brow furrows slightly. “I was wrong,” she says. “You are not hurting my daughter.” You see his fingers tremble. She stands slowly and steps closer. He flinches, just barely, before catching himself.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and holds out her hand. Thomas stares at it like it might vanish.
Then, carefully, he reaches out and takes it. The contact is brief, awkward, and real. “I won’t pretend I’m comfortable,” she adds. “But I will tolerate this. And I will not stand in your way.” Thomas nods again, eyes shining but dry. He pulls out his notebook, writes with shaking hands, and holds it out.
Thank you. I will be careful.
“I know you will,” she says.After that, things don’t suddenly become easy, but they become possible.
When you start spending time at his house, no one makes a show of welcoming you. Luda Mae watches you from the doorway the first time you come by, arms folded, gaze sharp and assessing.
The first time you stay for supper, no one announces it. She sets an extra plate on the table without comment, porcelain clinking softly as she places it down. The gesture is small, almost careless, but it lands heavy in your chest. You sit where Thomas pulls out the chair for you, his movements careful, reverent, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too fast.
Charlie eats in silence, fork scraping against his plate. Every so often his eyes flick toward you, assessing, weighing. Monty leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the ceiling fan spin as if he’s somewhere else entirely.
No one asks you questions.
No one tells you to leave.
Thomas’s knee bumps yours beneath the table, accidental, then still. You don’t move away. After a moment, neither does he. “Can pass the bread, Thomas ? ,” Luda Mae says. It’s an ordinary request. But it sounds like a reminder. Like an allowance. He passes it. Luda thanks him.
Later, when the dishes are cleared, you stand to help. Luda Mae hesitates, then nods once. You work side by side at the sink, warm water steaming between you.
She doesn’t look at you much, but when you nearly drop a plate, she steadies it with a quick hand. “Careful,” she murmurs. You take it like something fragile. Outside, Thomas waits on the steps, sketchbook balanced on his knee. When you sit beside him, he angles it toward you, not a finished drawing, just lines.
The shape of the house.
The tree out back.
The porch where you’re sitting now.
And you, not detailed, not centered, but present. Standing close. Your chest tightens. Charlie steps out a moment later, lighting a cigarette. He glances between the two of you, then exhales smoke into the dark.
“He treats you right?” he asks gruffly. Thomas stiffens, then you nod once.
Charlie grunts.
“Good.”
That’s it.
He goes back inside. Something shifts behind Thomas’s eyes, cautious, hopeful.
A few days later when the fair comes to Fuller, it feels almost natural to go together. Lights bloom against the dark like something unreal, music drifting through the air alongside laughter and the smell of grease and sugar. You walk in side by side, openly.
Thomas stiffens when heads turn. When whispers trail. You squeeze his hand. "You're allowed to be here,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. At the shooting stand, a man scoffs. “Didn’t think I’d see him here.” You turn before Thomas can react.
“He’s allowed to be here too,” you say clearly.
The man mutters under his breath, but backs off. Thomas exhales, shoulders loosening just a fraction. When the attendant hands him the rifle, his hands steady the moment they close around it.
One shot.
Two.
Three.
Perfect.
The prize, a small stuffed animal, is pressed into his hands. He stares at it like it might dissolve. He offers it to you immediately. “You won it,” you say softly. He hesitates, then nods, holding it tighter. Later, under the string lights, you stop walking. Thomas turns toward you, uncertain.
You reach up, brushing your thumb gently along his jaw, careful, stopping short of the bandana. “You’re allowed to exist,” you tell him. “You know that, right?” He makes a small sound, fragile and unsure.
You lean in, lift his bandana a little and press a brief, soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, not hidden, not ashamed. He freezes, then exhales, something easing deep in his chest. His forehead rests against yours, grounding. Before you part, he writes one last thing and presses it into your hand.
I believe you. The fair lights glow behind you, bright and imperfect.
The world hasn’t changed. But it has learned to make room.
Summary: An afternoon stolen from the world stretches thin as you and Thomas linger at the edge of what you’re allowed to have.
Setting: Outskirts of Fuller, Texas — late afternoon, fall, 1955
Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), you (reader)
Content Warnings: emotional restraint, internalized shame, fear of abandonment, self-blame, unresolved tension, quiet anguish
E’s Notes: I watched Heartstopper again. Beware of the refrences to that. I'm probably gonna post the last two chapters on Christmas and New Years Eve. Luv y'all 💕
Chapter 17 : The Aftermath
The path beyond the fields is barely a path at all; it's just a patch of grass where footsteps have pressed the earth down over time. The ground feels warm beneath your shoes, with dust clinging to the hem of your skirt. The air is thick with the scent of sun-baked soil and dry weeds. Cicadas hum loudly enough to blur your thoughts.
Thomas walks next to you. He’s close enough that you’re aware of him without needing to look, but he doesn’t touch you. He never initiates contact. His steps are careful and measured, as if he knows how to move through the world without disturbing it.
Every few seconds, his attention shifts ,to the road in the distance, to the tree line, to the sky. It’s not fear; it feels more like expectation. He seems to be waiting for this moment to end. You notice this because you’ve begun to pay attention to everything about him.
“You don’t have to keep watch,” you say softly, breaking the silence. He glances at you, startled, then looks away again. His shoulders lift slightly in a helpless motion.
It’s not a denial.
It’s uncertainty.
You reach the fence line. The wire is rusty and bent, and the posts lean from years of neglect. Tall grass sways here, whispering in the breeze. This place feels tucked away from the rest of Fuller, forgotten, ignored, yet safe in its own quiet way. You sit first, lowering yourself onto the warm earth, palms pressed behind you.
The sun filters through the clouds, casting bands of gold and catching dust in the air. For a moment, Thomas remains standing. Then, slowly, he sits beside you. Too slowly. He leaves space between you, as if it were something fragile. His hands rest on his knees, fingers flexing and unclenching, revealing the tension he’s trying to hide.
“You okay?” you ask.
He nods.
The movement is quick, almost automatic. Too quick. The silence stretches again, but it’s not the comfortable silence you’ve grown used to with him. This one feels heavy and tight, like a held breath. You tilt your head and watch him. His gaze is fixed on the horizon now, his jaw tight and his eyes distant.
He looks like someone trying to memorize something they fear they won’t see again.
“Thomas,” you murmur. “Something’s wrong.”
He stiffens.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move at all. Then he reaches into his satchel and pulls out his notebook. The paper is worn, with soft edges from use. He opens it to a blank page, pencil hovering. He writes a line. Then he stops.
He crosses it out so hard the paper wrinkles.
He tries again.
You hear the scratch of graphite. The faint sound feels louder than it should in the quiet. Finally, he turns the notebook toward you. I don’t know how long I’m allowed to have this. Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost steals your breath. “This,” you repeat quietly. The word feels too small for what it represents.
This afternoon.
This place.
This peace.
You.
“You don’t need permission,” you say, your voice steady even though something inside you aches. Thomas shakes his head slowly. Firmly. His mouth presses into a thin line. He taps the notebook once, then lets it fall shut. Some things, you realize, can’t belong on paper.
Then a sound escapes him, low and rough, pulling from deep within. Not a word. Never a word. Just frustration. Pain. Effort. His hands clench into fists against his thighs, knuckles pale. His shoulders tense as if bracing for impact, from the world, from himself, from the inevitability of loss.
“What is it?” you ask gently.
He tries to answer. You see it, the way his throat works, the way his lips part as if forcing sound through something that won’t give way. What comes out is broken, breathy, unfinished. The effort seems to exhaust him.Immediately, he turns away, shame reflected in his posture.
“Oh, Thomas,” you whisper, your heart aching. He drags a hand over his face, pressing hard on his forehead as if trying to push the feeling back inside. His breathing quickens, shallow and uneven. This isn’t anger. It’s not even sadness. It’s restraint cracking under its own weight.
You wait.
You don’t crowd him.
You let the moment breathe.
After a while, he opens the notebook again. His handwriting looks rougher now, slanted and uneven. I don’t want to ruin you. The words weigh heavy in your chest. “You’re not,” you say instantly. “You never have.” He shakes his head again, more violently this time. His pencil presses down hard enough to nearly tear the page. Everything I touch breaks.
Something inside you breaks instead. You shift closer, slowly, allowing him time to pull away if he needs to. He doesn’t. You don't take his hand, not yet. You just rest yours nearby, close enough for him to feel your warmth. He stares at the small space between your fingers, breathing shallowly.
After a moment, as if it costs him everything, his pinky brushes against yours. It’s barely there. It feels like trust.
The sun dips lower, the light fading into amber. The air cools. Somewhere nearby, a bird takes flight, its wings beating sharply against the quiet. “I don’t care how long,” you say softly. “I just care that we’re here now.” He looks at you then, really looks. His eyes are dark and filled with something raw, fragile, and afraid to hope. Not tears. Something deeper.
When it’s time to leave, neither of you acknowledges it. You walk back together toward the road, steps slow, as if trying to stretch the distance. At the edge, where the dirt becomes gravel, Thomas stops. His hands fidget at his sides, restless. He hesitates, then leans forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours.
It isn’t a kiss. It isn’t a goodbye. It’s an apology. And a promise he doesn’t know how to keep. When he pulls away, he turns and walks without looking back. You stand there long after he’s gone. The silence settles deep into your bones, revealing something painful and true:Some silences aren’t empty.
E’s Notes: They are just little babies be gentle with them. I'm seeing y'all in the role of Mrs. Grace , just trying to get them together.
Chapter 16 -"Midnight’s Kiss"
Morning had come far too quickly. You awoke with the memory of that kiss still warm on your lips soft, hesitant, trembling. One breath you were lying in bed staring at the ceiling, and the next you were curled on your side, replaying every second of last night with a helpless, dizzy ache.
The way Thomas had leaned in, so slow, like the world might break if he moved too fast. The way his hands had stopped hovering in the air, unsure if he could touch you.
The little noise he made in his throat was fear or need or both.And then the kiss itself that was short, soft, meaningful, the kind that settles deep in your chest and won't leave.
But now, bathed in the pale morning light, the warmth twisted into something sharp. Because you didn’t know what it meant to him. Or if it terrified him. Or, in case last night had been a mistake in his eyes. Your stomach ached with the not-knowing.
Downstairs, your mother moved through the kitchen with tight, clipped motions, opening drawers a little too hard, shutting cabinets with the heavy-handedness of someone chewing on her own nerves.
You barely tasted your breakfast. Every time you swallowed, the knot in your throat got tighter. You left early, unable to sit still. The walk to school felt longer than usual, the road stretching endlessly, your mind restless and loud.
You kept looking for him.
But Thomas was nowhere to be found. Not behind the Miller fence where he sometimes idled away morning hours. Not along the church steps. He was not on the dusty track leading from his family home. With each open stretch of road, your heart went down that much lower.
By the time you were already at the school doors, the ache in your chest had grown into something heavy and trembling.
He was already in class. He sat with his head hunched so small that it almost hurt to look at him, while his hair fell forward in a dark curtain, hiding most of his face. His bandana was pulled slightly higher today, tucked carefully behind his ears-as if to disappear even more.
His shoulders tensed when you entered. He didn’t look up. Not even when you overtook him. Not even when you sat down. Your breath caught, shallow and tight, because the silence wasn't like yesterday's comfortable quiet-it felt cold, wrong, full of sharp edges.
Was he ashamed?
Of the kiss?
Of being seen?
Of wanting something he was convinced he couldn't have?
Your pencil remained unmoved for most of the lesson. Between classes, the hallway roared with life, lockers slamming, voices bouncing off the walls, the thick smell of chalk dust and cafeteria grease hanging in the air. You stepped carefully, trying not to get swallowed by the crowd.
Then you saw him.
Just ahead.
He moved slowly, hunched, as if not to take up space. Someone bumped him hard from behind. He didn't react. But you did, your whole body tensed as if the shove had landed on you instead. You quickened your steps.
His hand brushed yours when you passed through the narrow part of the hall. Barely more than a whisper of warmth, it was the faintest touch. But he flinched. Not away from you, you knew that deep down.He recoiled like a boy terrified of being witnessed wanting something.
You swallowed hard and whispered,
"Hi."
He froze. For one second, no more than one second, he raised his eyes to yours. Far enough to catch the confusion there, and something softer beneath it-something fragile and shaking and scared. Then he hastened away, his head bent down, his gait irregular.
You stood in the hallway, your heart breaking in small, quiet pieces. In a word: no. The air was too tight to breathe.
After school, you walked straight to the library, the only place where things ever made sense.
Mrs. Grace looked up at the creaking of the door, her eyes warm with a knowing look.
“He’s been waiting awhile,” she whispered, never cruel. Your pulse skittered. He was sitting at your table, back rigid, hands resting motionless on his notebook. He didn't look up when you approached. Didn't move, either. Just sat there like he was bracing for something.
You sat down beside him, careful not to scrape the chair. The silence was thick. Finally, in a voice barely above a breath, you asked.
“Did I… do something wrong last night?”
He tensed right up. Like the question hit him somewhere old and hurting. His hand trembled and his pencil began to quiver. He scribbled, then hesitated, scratched it out, wrote again. His breathing came without regularity, as though he could not quite find enough air.
When he finally pushed the notebook towards you, the words were small and uneven : I don't know what to do. Your heart cracked open. Because it wasn't rejection. It wasn’t regret. Fear. Confusion. A lifetime of not knowing what affection was.
“Thomas,” you whispered, your voice shaking, “the kiss was okay. I'm not mad at you. I swear." He didn't look at you, but his shoulders sagged an inch, just enough to let you catch the release of tension. He sat and wrote again, this time more slowly.
Was it good?
Your breath left your body all at once. “Yes,” you whispered, because anything louder would've broken the moment. “Yes. It was good.” His hand shook. His chest rose with a trembling inhalation, like he didn't believe you, not because he doubted you but because he doubted himself.
You reached out, your hand barely brushing his wrist. “You’re good,” you said softly. “You’re… good.” His head tilted just a little, as if he couldn't make out the words, but wanted to.
Then he wrote another note-smaller, hesitant: ARE YOU SAD? Your eyes pricked. “You noticed?” you whispered. He nodded once, stiff but certain. “I just…” You swallowed
“I thought you hated me today." His whole body jolted. His head shook violently no, no, no like the very idea caused him pain. He snatched the pencil. Scared you hate me. Your breath hitched. There was softness filling your chest, so suddenly that it almost knocked the air out of you.
You didn't touch him-not fully-but your knee brushed his under the table, and it lingered there. He didn't move away. He leaned just closer, his sleeve brushing yours, a warm presence at your side.
You walked home together.
Not talking.
Not touching.
But closer than you'd ever walked before. He would catch glances at you every so often, small and fast, like his eyes were darting away before you could catch him.
At one point, he lifted his hand; the fingers stretched toward yours……and then curled them back again, afraid. You feigned not to see, thus allowing him space for retrying another day.
The sun dipped low, and the sky glowed soft gold. The cicadas hummed. The world felt suspended-caught in that delicate place between fear and hope.
At your gate, you turned to him. He hesitated. Then tapped your wrist gently with two fingers, a silent call for your attention.
You almost imagined he would again lean in slow, tentative, as he always was around you. His fingers twitched as if wanting to reach out for you. But he didn't. Not yet. Instead, he stepped back, eyes still finding you in flickers, and walked away slowly, shoulders tight but turned back three times before he reached the end of the road.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t solved. But it was something. Something fragile and beautiful and real. Something worth following into tomorrow.
Summary: On a tense Friday night, suffocated by rumors and your mother’s tightening control, you slip out of the house in search of the one person the world insists you should fear. Under moonlit quiet and trembling honesty, you and Thomas finally find each other again.
Setting: Small Texas Town , Late Summer Night, 1955,Back roads, fields, and the old Hewitt barn
Characters: Thomas Hewitt (teen), Fem!Reader, Reader’s Mother (mentioned)
Themes: Forbidden comfort, intimacy in secrecy, found solace, soft firsts, courage, emotional vulnerability
E’s Notes: Thank you for loving soft!Thomas as he deserves. Also I’m sorry in advance for all the yearning and moonlight, I don’t control it, it just happens.😗💕Also even I'm impressed by how fast I wrote this.
Chapter 15: The Rumor Mill
"Some secrets feel like freedom.”
Friday night hung heavy over the house, thick with the kind of silence that made you feel watched even when no one was in the room. You’d been lying on your bed for hours, staring at the ceiling as the events of the week replayed in painful loops. The stares. The whispers. The way people at school seemed a little too delighted to tear apart something they didn’t understand.
The way your mother seized upon those rumors, twisted them, used them as another reason to control where you went and who you were allowed to care about. Her accusations had stung like salt, but what stayed with you most, achingly, relentlessly ,was the memory of Thomas’s eyes avoiding yours, his shoulders hunched like he expected you to flinch away from him.
You hadn’t.
You wouldn’t.
But you hadn’t been brave enough to tell him that. Your room felt too tight, the walls breathing down your neck. Outside your window, the moon cast a pale, milky ribbon across the yard, and something inside you shifted, the same instinct that had pulled you toward him since the first day he sat behind you in class, quiet and bruised by the world.
You sat up slowly, heart pounding, as if your body had already decided before your mind caught up. You slipped into a sweater, pulled on your shoes, and crept into the hall with careful, silent steps. Your mother’s radio murmured through her closed door, a soft, tinny country song masking your escape.
You hesitated, breath caught in your chest, but she didn’t stir. The back door groaned faintly when you pushed it open, and you winced, waiting for her sharp voice to slice the silence. Nothing came. When you stepped into the night, the air felt colder, sweeter, almost cleansing.
You shut the door behind you, heart racing, the danger of being caught making your pulse thrum harder. The world outside was wide and quiet, humming with crickets and distant wind through the dry brush. The road to the barn stretched out before you like a secret path the moon had carved just for this moment.
Each step loosened something in your chest. You walked fast at first, then slower, as if the night itself were urging you gently forward. The barn came into view, faded and old, the wood silvered under moonlight.
And somehow, you already knew he was there.
A presence more familiar than your own heartbeat. A silhouette leaned against the fence, broad shoulders slumped, head bowed like he was bracing for something painful. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t pacing—just waiting. For what, he probably didn’t even know.
Your breath trembled.
“Thomas…?”
He straightened in an instant, the motion sharp enough to cut. Even in the dim blue light, you saw the flash of startled worry in his eyes. He took one step forward, then stopped, large hands twitching at his sides like he didn’t know if he was allowed to reach for you.
You walked toward him slowly, the gravel crunching under your shoes in small, deliberate sounds. The tension in his shoulders changed, tightening first, then softening, like the sight of you brought relief too big for him to mask. When you stopped right in front of him, just close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his chest, he inhaled deeply, the sound shaky and uncontrolled.
“I’m not ashamed of being with you,”
you whispered, and his whole body went completely still.It was as if the world paused—no crickets, no wind, no sound except the raw, uneven breath he dragged in.
His chin trembled. His hands clenched, unclenched, the movement so fragile for someone built like stone. He made a sound then, a low, quiet, aching noise that wasn’t quite a word but carried all the meaning he couldn’t speak. You reached up and took his hand gently.
His fingers froze under yours, warm and calloused, trembling like he’d forgotten how human touch was supposed to feel. When he finally squeezed back, the breath he released shook through his entire body.
“I missed you,” you said softly.
He dropped his gaze for a second, overwhelmed, then leaned in until your foreheads nearly touched. His breath warmed your lips, uneven and intimate. One of his hands lifted hesitantly toward your cheek. He paused, giving you time to pull away, to reconsider but when you leaned into his palm, he inhaled sharply, like the gesture hurt and healed him at the same time.
Then he did something he almost never did.
Something private.
Something vulnerable.
With slow, trembling fingers, he reached behind his head and fiddled with the knot of his bandana. He hesitated, eyes flickering with fear, and for a moment you thought he might drop the idea entirely. But then the knot loosened, the cloth dragged down, and the lower half of his face came into view—the scars, the soft shape of his lips, the parts of him the world had mocked into hiding.
He looked away the moment it fell.
As if expecting disgust.
“Thomas…” you whispered, a tenderness rising up your throat so quickly it almost hurt. Your hand came up, cupping his jaw gently, your thumb brushing over his cheek. His eyes flew back to yours, wide, startled, almost frightened by the softness of your touch.
“You’re beautiful,” you said, steady and certain.
At that—he broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
But his breath fractured. His shoulders trembled. His hand tightened around yours so carefully, as if he were afraid of hurting you even in his desperation. He tried to speak, to say something but the sound died in his throat. He fumbled for his notebook, flipping it open with shaking hands, scribbling frantically until the pencil nearly snapped.
When he turned it toward you, the words were jagged, uneven, written with the urgency of someone who needed you to know: you’re prettier.
That was what undid you.
Your forehead leaned against his, your breath catching. He tilted slightly, watching your lips with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache. Slowly,so slowly, he leaned in, tilting his head, giving you every chance to stop him.
You didn’t.
Your lips brushed his soft, warm, trembling. A single heartbeat.
A quiet question.
A promise he didn’t know how to voice.
You kissed him back, tender and steady, the kind of kiss that didn’t need to be long to be meaningful. His hand came up to cup the back of your neck, careful and protective, but he didn’t push the kiss further, didn’t dare ask for more.
He pulled back first, breath unsteady, eyes shining with disbelief. Quickly,almost shyly he retied the bandana, as if afraid he’d shown too much. But the moment didn’t break. You were still looking at him the same way.
Warm.
Certain.
You took his hand again. He breathed out a sound so soft, so relieved, it barely existed but you felt it brush against your skin like gratitude. He walked you halfway home, his steps slow and protective, his fingers laced with yours.
When you finally slipped away toward your back porch, he remained under the oak tree, staring after you with one hand pressed against his chest, as if holding your kiss there so it wouldn’t fade.
You didn’t see him turn to leave but you felt him stay there long after. Like a shadow that cared for you. Like a heart learning how to hope.
currently reading: scappy little nobody, anna kendrick last song: seigh ride, ella fitzgerald
last film: death becomes her
last series: smallville
salty, savory, or sweet?: sweet
tea or coffee?: coffee
working on?: my fics for dickkory week!
★ currently reading: rereading to kill a mockingbird
★ last song: starman by david bowie
★ last film: call me by your name
★ last series: misfits
★ salt, savoury, or sweet: savoury
★ tea or coffee: 100% coffee
★ working on: part 4 of my nightwing!chris au
no pressure tags (sorry if you've already been tagged): @lilyyexe @sturncoast @vanllacupcake @bigbootylatinasposts @thechratt-twins @jessalynnight @vvia00 @eyesonmattyb @pepsipoet + anyone else who wants to join!
if you ever feel weird about leaving a comment on an old fic, just know that anytime someone comes along and starts leaving comments on my older fics (*especially* if they leave a comment every chapter as they're reading) I get legitimately giddy. especially if it's my favorite fic. like just know that I spent most of today kicking my lil feet in the air and waiting for the next comment to appear in my inbox
Summary: The quiet comfort you found with Thomas begins to crack under the weight of other people’s voices. Whispers twist into stares, stares into cruel assumptions, and the rumor mill turns against you.
E’s Notes: —this is meant to make you ache with empathy.
Chapter 14 : Wildflowers
You step into the school building and immediately notice the shift. The hallways are the same ,buzzing with chatter, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against linoleum, but it feels smaller, suffocating.
The air tastes thick, as if it’s holding its breath. Heads turn toward you, flick away, and the faintest smirk curls on someone’s lips before they look down. You grip your books a little tighter and move faster, forcing your feet into rhythm, trying to disappear into the crowd.
By second period, the whispers start.
Not all at once, just snippets that float to your ears and sting. Someone behind you gigg Miles too loud. A notebook snaps shut when you glance back. The floor creaks under hurried footsteps that make your stomach clench. And then, unmistakable, it reaches you.
“Saw her by the creek with him. Handin’ him somethin.”
“Bet it was more than a pencil.”
The laughter that follows is quick, sharp, and then smothered by the teacher’s scolding. You keep your head down, pencil hovering over your notebook, unable to focus. It’s just talk, you tell yourself. Talk dies out.
But it doesn’t.
It lingers in the air, weaving through the hallways, wrapping around you like a cage. By lunch, the whispers have multiplied, their intent twisting sharper, sharper each time. Mary Beth, a friend that you once shared everything with, sits across from you, trying to fill the space with mundane chatter, but her eyes keep darting to the tables around you, where groups of classmates lean in, murmuring behind cupped hands.
“You oughta be careful,” she whispers finally, voice low, almost shaking.
“About what?” Your throat feels dry. She swallows.
“About him. They say he’s been followin’ you home. That you… like him.”
Your stomach twists, a hot, hollow ache that spreads across your chest. “That’s not true,” you snap, the words sharper than you mean. She flinches. “I know,” she murmurs, but the voice trembles.
“It don’t matter what’s true. It’s what people think.”
Each glance, each whisper, each stifled giggle makes your chest tighten further. You force yourself to eat, but the cafeteria food tastes like ash. Your hands shake slightly as you pick up your fork. You want to hide, to disappear, to run away and never come back. By the time the final bell rings, the rumors have grown legs and teeth. People claim they’ve seen you and Thomas holding hands behind the gym. Some swear he’s been leaving things at your house.
You move quickly through the hallways, keeping your gaze on the floor. But the eyes follow. The whispers trail you. On Main Street, the whispers reach even the grown-ups. Mrs. Calloway, standing on her porch with the butcher’s wife, points discreetly, speaking just loud enough for you to hear.
“That Hewitt boy’s trouble. If she’s mixed up with him, it’s her mother I pity.”
Your chest tightens further. You keep your head down and march forward, boots scraping the dusty sidewalk. The sun is too bright, the air too heavy, your arms too empty. When you finally reach home, the house feels smaller than ever. The smell of lemon polish and your mother’s perfume hangs thickly in the air, making your stomach turn.
You step inside quietly, hoping to slip by unnoticed, but the moment you cross the threshold, her voice cuts through the silence. “Close that door and get in here.”Your stomach drops, a stone in your chest. You obey, moving slowly toward the kitchen, where she stands rigid against the counter, a folded newspaper beside her like a weapon.
“I went to the grocer today,” she begins, voice low but sharp. “Do you know what I heard?”
You shake your head, voice caught in your throat.
“That you’ve been keeping company with that Hewitt boy. That you’ve been seen together again. Is it true?”
“He’s just my friend,” you whisper, voice thin. “Friend,” she repeats, voice cracking, hard at once. “Do you think I’m blind? That family’s cursed. Filthy. The whole town knows it. You think I’ll let my daughter throw her future away for a boy like that?”
You flinch.
“You don’t even know him.”
Her hand slams on the counter. The sound vibrates through your chest. “Don’t talk back! I know enough. I know what happens when girls start thinking they can fix broken boys. When they forget their place.”
Your lips tremble.
“I just… I want to be his friend.”
Her shoulders stiffen, hands gripping the counter. Her voice softens just enough to make the sting worse.
“You’ll end it. Whatever this is. You’ll stay away from him. Do you hear me?”
You nod, silent, because arguing feels useless. Her words slice through you: warnings, threats, judgment, fear. Each one lands with perfect precision, leaving you hollow.She turns away, rubbing her temple.
“You’ll understand one day. Life doesn’t give kindness to those who can’t see danger. You’re too young, too naive."
You feel your chest tighten, tears prickling.
“I’m not naive. I… I can see.”
“Not enough,” she snaps. “Not enough to survive. Not enough to protect yourself. You’ll regret ignoring me.” You swallow hard, shoulders shaking. The room feels smaller, heavier. Every corner seems to press down on you.
You turn silently, retreating to your room, closing the door gently behind you. Moonlight slants across your floor, cutting stripes through the darkness. Your sketchbook lies on your desk, half-finished drawings staring up at you, blank lines waiting to be filled.
Your pencil hovers over the paper, but the ideas won’t come. The echoes of the day, the whispers, the stares, your mother’s words, press into your mind. You sink to the floor, back against the wall, eyes fixed on the pale light filtering through the curtains.
The quiet is suffocating and protective at once. The night hums outside, crickets, wind through dry grass, but it feels like someone else’s world.Somewhere deep down, a spark refuses to die.
For now, you let the tears come, slow and steady, until your chest aches, until your throat is raw, until the silence of your room becomes the only place that feels safe.You whisper his name, soft and trembling, into the shadowed corners of your room, hoping he might hear it somewhere, somehow.
Somewhere, beyond the judgment, beyond the fear, you cling to the fragile promise that kindness can exist—even when the world seems determined to chrush.
Helloooo I was wondering it I could request a matchup with marauder/Harry potter characters. No pressure at all I was just hoping that if you had time you would consider doing one. :)
I'm 18 I use they/them pronouns but am okay with he/they pronouns. I am bisexual. I'm 5’6” and a ginger. I have shoulder length curly hair and hazel eyes that are mostly green and amber. Personality wise I'm someone who is pretty loud And outgoing. I have trust issues but most people can't tell because I cope with them by telling everybody everything about me. Aka oversharing. My mood changes quite frequently and kinda unpredictably(I have bpd). I care a lot about people and when I care about someone it takes a lot for me to stop. My love languages are words of affirmation and doing things for people. I like to make up weird stories and lore with people but tend to abandon my hyperfixations fast.
As for the detailed info: I like to crochet, read, knit, cook, scroll on pinterest(if that counts) and collect things like a crow. I like tea and having conversations that bounce every direction where both people interrupt each other and it's okay because they care, gummy worms, sharks, poetry, when people do kind things for no reason, large comfy blankets while its really cold in my room, math, scarecrows, the color pink, green and BEARDED DRAGONS OMG. I don't like bigots, Donald Trump, change, black coffee, people who interrupt me out of meanness/disrespect, small dogs and candles that are too wide so the wick burns out before the candle is gone. I really like to talk to my friends, write poetry, sing loudly while cleaning and cooking, speak out against bad authorities, follow good authorities, sleep(unless I'm drunk then sleep is the most terrifying thing ever), math if no one's forcing me, help my friends through their Own issues, try to identify mine, stick and poke and art. I don't know what kind of habits you are looking for so here are some that are just kinda all over the place: when I'm painting I tend to use my hand as a partial canvas. It doesn't matter if I have a canvastpallet or not, the paint ends up on my hands. Rolling my thumbs because they get sore, asking my friends if they're sure they're okay after they say they are and no matter what they say asking if they need anything. Forgetting to brush my teeth twice a day. Saying I love you when hanging up the phone. Writing Love letters I don't give to people.
Onto partner information: I really like it when my partner gives me attention. I want to do cute things like getting matching cars themed Keychain or build a bear frogs. I want to go out at midnight just to drive around while I'm half asleep. I don't want to talk while we drive either. I want to sit and listen to music and watch the city lights. If you need anything, come to me and ask for something. Words of affirmation because of intense abandonment issues. Kinda possessive but not in the creepy or controlling way. Calls me cute nicknames. Things I dislike: not willing to communicate. Blames everything on themselves. Blames everything on me. Doesn't listen to consent. Gaslights me. For some side notes. Most of my friends are convinced I'm autistic I'm not sure about it. I do pretty well in school. I tend to dumb myself down in front of people because it's easy to cope through that. I get kinda jealous but won't talk about it.
Thats all I think. If you would also like to give me a marauders kinnie I would appreciate it but I know this isn't what this is. I've just been struggling to find one.
I ship you with…
🔥 Sirius Black 🔥*
he noticed you long before you noticed him — your laugh cutting through the noise in the common room, bright and unrestrained
you didn’t even have to try; he was intrigued from the start — something about your energy felt real in a world full of facades
he loved that you were loud and open, but he could see through it too — the way you sometimes used words to hide what you were really feeling
he never called you out on it, just quietly offered a grin and said, “You can talk to me when you’re ready”
you became fast friends, trading witty remarks and late-night snacks in the common room
Sirius loved your oversharing — he’d listen, laugh, and sometimes get serious, saying, “You know, that’s actually kinda beautiful.”
he’d join your random conversations that bounce everywhere, and somehow keep up with you effortlessly
he’d tease you for your little crow-like collections but secretly help you find more trinkets to add
you’d crochet him scarves and gloves, pretending they were “just practice,” but he’d wear them every winter without fail
he’d love how you always show care — the way you ask, “Are you sure you’re okay?” — it would make his chest ache in the best way
your room would be his favorite place: dim lights, warm blankets, music, and your laughter echoing against the walls
he’d drag you out on spontaneous nighttime adventures — quiet drives if you could, or sneaking around the castle after curfew
you’d both sit in silence sometimes, just watching the world move while a song plays in the background
Sirius would love your chaos — your sudden bursts of energy, your mood swings, your quick wit — he’d never get bored
he’d give you the attention you crave without making you feel needy for it — always calling you by some stupidly soft nickname like “sweetheart” or “trouble”
he’d be protective, not possessive, but if someone hurt you — his temper would show in a heartbeat
he’d admire your fire when you speak up against unfairness, always telling you, “You’ve got more heart than half this bloody school.”
Sirius would never let you dumb yourself down — he’d brag about your intelligence to anyone who’d listen
you’d write him little letters or poems you never meant to give him, but somehow he’d find one, grin, and tuck it in his jacket pocket
he’d reassure your abandonment fears with his actions more than words — showing up, staying, choosing you every time
the two of you would have your own little world — built from laughter, music, and the quiet understanding that you both needed someone who truly saw you
and when he tells you he loves you, it’s not in a whisper — it’s loud, like a declaration, like he’s proud to love you and wants the whole world to know-
