There’s a lot of Connor x popular and/or cheerleader reader, in other words opposites attract, but can we get one where user is very similar to him? They dress alt, have similar mental health struggles, etc? But maybe they process things differently resulting in them being more bubbly about things verses how he handles things. Maybe they’re like a new kid or smth idk.
Also idk if this prompt works as a SMAU/texts thing but if so please make it one because I ADORE your SMAUs so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so much!!!!
HIIII ily ily ily i’m gonna try to do both for you!! HOPE U LIKE IT😘😘😘😘
———
the first time you see him, he’s slouched against the lockers like the building itself is holding him up. hair falling into his face, nails bitten down, hoodie sleeves frayed enough to look chewed. you’re new, but not new enough to miss the way people’s gazes slide right over him, like he’s part of the wallpaper.
when you catch him looking back at you—really looking, like your presence poked some corner of his mind awake, you grin. not because you’re trying to be polite, or because you want something. just because it’s how your body fills the silence: with too-big energy that sometimes comes off as awkward or uncomfortable. it’s what you’ve trained yourself to do.
he doesn’t smile back. not even close. if anything, his scowl deepens, as though your brightness aimed itself at him on purpose.
later, at lunch, you end up at the same table by accident. the unclaimed one, tucked near the vending machines where the fluorescent light flickers like a dying star. you haven’t really made any friends yet. you peel open your can of iced coffee and say, “this school feels like a hospital waiting room.”
his head tilts, slow, suspicious. “what?”
“sterile,” you explain. “like any second they’ll call my name and tell me i’ve got six months left to live. i mean, i know that’s dramatic, but—”
he interrupts with a huff, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “jesus. you’re fucking weird.”
“so are you,” you say, and sip your coffee.
his brow pulls together. “i didn’t—” he stops, mutters something into the collar of his hoodie, and stabs his fork into the mystery meat on his tray.
you lean an elbow on the table, chin in your hand. “so you don’t have friends?”
he doesn’t look up. “do you?”
you shrug. “not here. not yet. but… i mean, generally? i can make them.”
his mouth quirks, not quite a smile, more like disbelief tugging at one corner. “you make friends. like, on purpose?”
a chuckle and comfortable silence follows.
you glance across the cafeteria, where a cluster of girls in cheer uniforms are gathered, ponytails swishing like they all practiced being magnetic since birth. they’re laughing about something, heads tipped together, bracelets jangling. you don’t mean to stare, but you do.
connor notices. of course he does.
“you want to sit with them or something?” he asks, and it sounds more like a challenge than a question.
“nah,” you say quickly, turning back to him. “they already have each other. and i don’t… fit. i never do.”
for a second he doesn’t say anything, just rolls his fork between his fingers like it’s the only thing tethering him here. but something flickers in his expression—too quick to pin down, like a shadow moving under water.
“yeah,” he mutters finally. “i get that.”
you tilt your head. “you do?”
his laugh is dry, bitter around the edges. “please. you think i’m sitting over here by choice?” he gestures vaguely at the empty seats around him. “if i could do the whole… normal friend thing, don’t you think i would?”
the words hang there. they’re harsher than he means them to be, maybe, but they vibrate with something raw, the kind of truth that leaves your throat sore.
you smile, soft and crooked. “guess we’re both failing at being normal.”
connor huffs, almost amused. he hesitates, then adds, voice low, “but… it’d be nice to feel normal. sometimes.”
the silence stretches long enough that you start to feel guilty, like you peeled something raw open and then left him sitting in it.
so you clear your throat. “okay, uh… pivot. what do you even do? like, outside of school. hobbies, whatever.”
he frowns like you just asked him to recite the periodic table. “hobbies?”
“yeah. you know, the things that keep you alive.” you smile like you’re joking, but you mean it.
he picks at the sleeve of his hoodie, mutters, “i don’t know. music, i guess. bands.”
“what kind?”
“grunge. alternative. like, nirvana, smashing pumpkins. some newer stuff too.”
you perk up. “oh my god, yes. okay, taste. but i also love the classics. like… bowie. the cure. talking heads. i geek out, just a little.”
his eyes flick up, searching. “you… actually listen to that stuff?”
“yeah,” you say, grinning. “what, do i look like a top-40s person?”
he shrugs, defensive. “everyone does.”
“well, not me,” you declare, leaning back. “i’ve seen Star Wars: A New Hope like twelve times. i can quote most of it. do you know how many kids at my old school thought that was social suicide?”
for a split second, you swear his lips twitch. “star wars? seriously?”
“yes, seriously. don’t tell me you’ve never swung a broom around pretending it’s a lightsaber.”
he almost chokes on his drink, trying not to laugh. “shut up.”
“that’s not a denial.”
“jesus,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
the conversation falters for a second—he isn’t used to talking this long, and you can feel him retreating a little, shrinking back into himself. but then you nudge the table with your foot, just enough to make the cans rattle, and say, “well, congratulations. you’re my first friend here.”
he stares at you like you’ve just handed him something dangerous, breakable.
“you’re serious?”
he says it like he’s testing the words for cracks, like maybe you’ll take them back, laugh, admit it was just a joke.
but you nod, steady. “yeah. i don’t… i don’t really do half-serious.”
he blinks at you, and it’s almost alarming, the way his expression shifts. connor murphy, who’s perfected the art of glowering, suddenly looks—unmoored. like you’ve handed him something no one else thought he needed.
“i’ve never…” he starts, then cuts himself off. he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, eyes darting to the side. “forget it.”
you lean in a little, softer now. “never what?”
he swallows, shoulders tense, and it takes a second before he forces the words out. “never had someone just… say that. like, out loud. that they wanna be my friend.” his laugh is brittle, jagged. “most people don’t even wanna sit near me.”
your chest aches. not pity, exactly, but a kind of recognition—the shared ache of being on the wrong side of belonging.
“well,” you say quietly, “they’re missing out.”
he looks at you, trying to figure out if you’re lying. but you don’t flinch or glance away and neither does he.
———
it feels strange, being invited somewhere. not detention, not family dinner, not the kind of forced social interaction teachers try to orchestrate—an actual invitation. your invitation. you’d asked him offhand earlier in the week if he wanted to come over, like it wasn’t a big deal, like you weren’t sure if he’d say yes. connor had shrugged, tried to sound indifferent, but the truth is he’d thought about it every day since.
when connor tells his mom where he’s going, she almost drops the dish towel.
“you’re—going to a friend’s house?” cynthia repeats, too brightly, like she’s afraid she misheard.
connor grimaces. “jesus, don’t say it like that.”
“like what?”
“like it’s a miracle.”
but larry, passing through with a beer in hand, claps him on the shoulder hard enough to make him flinch. “that’s great, son. really great. a girl, huh?”
connor mutters something indistinct, ears going pink.
zoe, curled up on the couch with her phone, doesn’t even look up. “wow. one whole friend. historic.”
“shut up,” connor snaps, grabbing his backpack.
“i mean it,” zoe says flatly. “you’re both total losers.”
cynthia shoots her a sharp look. “zoe—”
“what? i’m not wrong.” she flicks her eyes up at connor finally, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “whatever. have fun with your girlfriend.”
connor groans, storms out before he has to hear any more.
your neighborhood isn’t as polished as his. the lawns are uneven, the paint on some porches peeling; cars sit with dents unrepaired, bikes left rusting in driveways. it’s not bad, just lived-in—messy in a way his parents would cluck their tongues at. and somehow, that makes him like it more.
then you appear, grinning like the sight of him is some kind of win. “you made it.”
“yeah,” he mutters, shifting his weight. “told you i would.”
inside, your room isn’t what he expected. sure, there’s the mess—clothes in piles, notebooks stacked precariously—but it’s alive. posters on the wall (some bands he knows, some he doesn’t), a lightsaber propped in the corner like it’s part of the décor. the space radiates the same offbeat energy you do.
“you can, uh—sit wherever.” you kick a heap of hoodies off the chair.
connor hovers, then sits, stiff like the furniture might bite him.
there’s an awkward beat, the kind that still slips between you sometimes, even now. you clear your throat. “so, do you wanna—like, music? movies? i have Empire Strikes Back on dvd.”
his mouth twitches, reluctant. “you weren’t kidding about the star wars thing, huh?”
“never,” you grin, already reaching for the case.
and he sits there, awkward, unsure, but with the faintest edge of something warming in his chest: maybe this is what it feels like, having a friend.
he takes it all in. the mismatched throw pillows, the half-empty mug of tea on your desk, the way your posters lean just slightly crooked against the wall. the faint smell of incense and old paper. the quiet chatter of traffic outside. it’s not much, but it’s something different—something warm.
he sits there, still awkward, still guarded, but the edges of his scowl soften. he watches you set up the movie, fumbling with the dvd player like it’s an ancient relic, and can’t help but notice how easily you move in your space.
“you don’t have to make it weird,” you say before the credits even roll.
“who said it was weird?” he mutters, not looking at you.
but you smile anyway. it’s small, gentle, the kind of smile that doesn’t need a punchline.
and when Empire Strikes Back begins—opening crawl rolling across the screen—there’s something in him that loosens. not a lot, just a thread, but enough.
you’re sprawled on the floor with a blanket around your shoulders, popcorn bowl balanced in your lap. he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, leaning against the headboard, hoodie sleeves pulled down to his knuckles.
you point at the screen when the music swells. “this part’s iconic.”
he smirks, but it’s quiet, thoughtful. “it’s… not bad.”
you grin wider. “not bad? that’s the least enthusiastic endorsement of the greatest movie ever.”
he shrugs, eyes fixed on the screen. “i don’t know. maybe i just never thought about it like this before.”
and that’s the thing—he’s not just watching a movie. he’s watching it with you. laughing at your commentary, catching your little excited gasps when something happens, letting himself be pulled into the story in a way he hasn’t allowed in years.
somewhere in the quiet of your room, with the credits rolling and the lights low, he realizes he’s making memories he never knew he needed. shared memories with a friend. someone who wants to share space with him, who enjoys his company.
the movie ends. the lights are still low, the credits rolling across the screen. you stretch, blanket falling to the floor, and he shifts his weight like he’s not sure whether to stand or stay.
“you can crash here if you want,” you offer, half-joking, half-serious.
he shakes his head, brushing at his hoodie. “nah. i should go.”
there’s an awkward pause. neither of you are sure how to fill it.
he stands slowly, grabbing his bag. for a moment he just looks at you—not with the guarded scowl he wears at school, but something softer, unreadable.
“thanks,” he says finally. low, quiet. “for… inviting me. for the movie. for not making it weird.”
you grin. “that’s literally my specialty.”
he smirks faintly. then, without another word, he heads toward the door.
when he walks home, the air feels different. heavier, but not in a bad way. it’s like there’s a thread tied somewhere inside him now—something that wasn’t there before tonight.
connor catches himself thinking of you in moments he doesn’t expect—while walking home, when the cafeteria gets too loud, when the sky looks too pale. a thread in the background of his brain, pulling him toward something he can’t name.
he’s out one afternoon when he notices it: a cringey star wars cat poster in a store. it’s ridiculous—a cat wearing a stormtrooper helmet, captioned “meow the force be with you”—and he laughs quietly to himself. not because it’s good, but because it’s so you.
he thinks about it later that night, how you’d probably laugh the laugh so hard. he feels it in his chest. he wants to see it. he wants to see you laugh about it.
his family is noticing too. he’s unaware that he’s deeply infatuated by you.
“you’ve been talking about that y/n girl a lot,” larry laughs.
connor rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the corner of his mouth twitching. “yeah. she’s… whatever. nice. weird.”
zoe snorts from across the table. “sounds like more than that.”
“shut up,” connor says, but it’s not sharp. it’s tired, distracted.
cynthia studies him quietly. “you light up. she’s a good friend, yeah?”
he shrugs, swallowing his food. “yeah. she is. shes, uh, funny. like the other day—she brought in a bunch of weird old notebooks, said she wanted to make a zine. so she did. stayed up all night cutting and gluing. then she brought it in at lunch and just handed it to me.” he smirks faintly. “said it was for me. it’s stupid. but… i liked it.”
larry nods. “so you like her a lot?”
“yeah,” connor says, quick. “she’s cool. she gets it.”
zoe scoffs. “you’ve been saying that every night this week.”
“i haven’t,” he mutters, but he’s smiling now, thinking of another thing she did last weekend. how she dragged him to the park even though it was raining, just so she could take pictures of the puddles. how she laughed when his hoodie got soaked and he complained.
“reminds me of the time—” he pauses. “uh, nevermind.”
but the words slip out anyway. “reminds me of the time she made me watch Empire Strikes Back on a loop because she said it was ‘essential cinematic history.’”
zoe snorts again, cynthia smiles softly, and larry just chuckles, not knowing what to make of it.
and connor, halfway through his mashed potatoes, just nods to himself. because it feels… normal. this thing. talking about you like that. thinking about you like that.
he just thinks it’s what friendship is supposed to be.
he doesn’t know that a similar pattern is forming in your life.
the thought of him creeps in more than it should. at lunch, in class, when you’re scrolling through your phone before bed. even when you try not to think about him, you do.
later, you’re sitting in your bedroom with your two closest friends, sprawled on the floor with clothes and notebooks scattered around—mess you don’t normally care to clean. they’re talking about everything except him—until one of them notices.
“you talk about him a lot,” one says softly, flipping through your notebook.
you shrug, avoiding their eyes. “i guess.”
“like, a lot a lot,” the other adds, grinning.
you smirk, shaking your head. “it’s not like that.”
but even as you say it, you know it’s wrong. it is like that. you think about the way he looks when he laughs, even when it’s small and half-hidden. the way he doesn’t try to hide when he’s uncomfortable. the way he’ll pause mid-sentence to look at you.
you remember last weekend, when he stayed over. how he sat on your bed with his knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves covering his hands, watching you talk about something that made you laugh until you cried. how he just listened without interrupting. how he remembered the little things you said afterwards.
you tell your friends softly, almost to yourself, “he’s… different. he’s not like anyone else i’ve met. and it’s weird because i don’t even know when it happened, but i think about him all the time now.”
your friends exchange looks, smirking. “sounds like you’re in love.”
you roll your eyes, laughing, but there’s a pause in your chest you can’t shake. you don’t know what this is either. you just know you want more of him.
———
you’re lying on the couch in his room, your head in his lap, tangled in his hoodie sleeve. he’s sitting cross-legged, one hand absentmindedly stroking your hair, the other holding a controller, but he isn’t really paying attention to the game.
the quiet hum of the TV and the faint smell of his hoodie fill the air. it’s comfortable. easy. like nothing is expected except this moment.
“you know,” he says suddenly, voice low and soft, “i’m… really glad we’re friends.”
you lift your head just enough to look at him. “just friends?”
he glances at you, smiling in a way that’s warm and slow. “yeah. best friends. i’m so thankful for you.”
you laugh softly, shifting a little so you can look at him better. “you’re such a dork.”
“yeah, but i’m your dork,” he says without hesitation, fingers still threading through your hair. there’s something in his tone—something steady and sincere—that makes your chest tighten, but you shrug it off.
“best friends, huh?” you tease. “so you’re friend-zoning me hard right now?”
he chuckles, shakes his head. “nooo. best friends are different. better. you know that.”
you narrow your eyes at him, smirking. “you sure about that?”
“positive.” his smile widens, like he means it. “i’m thankful for you every day. you get me, and—i don’t know—it just feels right. friends like this don’t happen a lot. and i’m lucky i found you.”
you stare at him for a second, half-smiling, half-annoyed because you think he’s friend-zoned you so bad right now you could cry. but there’s something in the way he keeps stroking your hair, in the softness of his voice, that makes you wonder.
and he just keeps looking down at you, grinning like a fool who doesn’t realise he’s saying something he can’t take back.
you sigh, resting your head back in his lap, and say, softly, “yeah… best friends.”
you lie there for a while, his fingers still tangled softly in your hair. the TV hums on in the background, but your brain isn’t listening.
you keep replaying the conversation. best friends. best friends. best friends. is that all this is?
does he love me?
you bite your lip. no. he wouldn’t say it like that if he did. would he?
he sounded so sure. so… content. like this was everything he wanted. but then—what if that’s just him being oblivious? what if he doesn’t even know what he’s saying?
this is it, isn’t it? this is where it stops. where i’m just his best friend.
you shift slightly, suddenly aware of the warmth of his lap beneath your head. the way his hoodie smells. the gentle pressure of his hand in your hair. the faint smell of weed that always wafts through his room.
it makes your chest tighten. makes your stomach turn in a way you don’t quite recognise.
but you push the thought away. you’ve known him long enough to know better than to make things complicated.
except now it’s complicated.
and you feel… weird. tense. like the air between you has changed.
he hasn’t looked at you in a while, just keeps brushing your hair without saying anything. and you wonder if he even realises what he’s doing.
or maybe—he does. you stay quiet. because whatever this is, you’re not ready to say it out loud.
without warning, as usual, connor says bold things. “my parents think we’re dating.”
you blink up at him. “what?”
“my mom—cynthia. she said it. twice. dad too. zoe, most of all. they’ve been saying it all week.” his voice is casual, but there’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten.
you sit up enough to look at him. “mine too.”
his head jerks up. “what?”
“my parents, my other friends,” you say quickly, cheeks warming. “they tease me about you all the time. they’ve been saying we’re dating for weeks.”
he freezes, the tips of his ears going pink. “what. that’s… they’re wrong.”
“they are, aren’t they?” you say softly, smirking just a little.
he laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “i mean… we hang out a lot. maybe they have a point.”
you stare at him, tilting your head. “so… what do you think?”
he swallows, glancing away. “i don’t know. i’ve never… dated anyone before. but maybe we’d be good at it? i mean… with you, it feels easy.”
you blink at him, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat. “easy, huh?”
“yeah,” he says softly, still brushing his fingers through your hair. “and safe. i don’t know. maybe that’s what matters.”
you shift, sitting up slightly so you can look him in the eyes. “so… you’re saying you’d be curious about it?”
he nods slowly, smiling faintly. “curious. i’ve never dated before. i don’t think you’ve never dated before. maybe it’s something worth finding out.”
your chest twists in a way you can’t hide, and your voice comes out quiet. “yeah… maybe.”
“i really wanna kiss you.” the words slip out quiet, sudden, but somehow heavier than either of you expected.
you freeze. your head still resting in his lap, your fingers clutching at his hoodie without thinking. you blink up at him, half-expecting him to be joking. but his expression is serious—eyes fixed on yours, jaw tense, fingers still brushing through your hair.
“what?” you manage, voice soft, unsure if you heard him right.
“i said,” he hesitates, “i really wanna kiss you.”
your stomach twists, a rush of heat crawling up your neck. “you mean… like… now?”
he shrugs, looking awkward in that way that somehow makes him look more human than anyone else you know. “maybe. i don’t know. i’ve never… done this before.”
you sit up a little more, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “neither have i.”
he swallows hard, eyes darting away for a second before meeting yours again. “but… i think i want to. kiss you, that is.”
your heart is beating faster now, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling a little, though there’s nervous tension in your shoulders. “are you sure?”
“no,” he admits, a small grin tugging at his lips. “but… i’m sure about you.”
you stare at him, breath catching, the air between you charged. he shifts a little closer, like he’s testing the space between you. your heart pounds louder in your ears, and something in you says yes.
and he’s looking at you like he’s about to, like he’s been holding back for a long time.
he swallows, still looking at you, his fingers in your hair loosening. his hoodie feels softer somehow under your touch, and the air between you feels thick.
you shift just slightly, closing the distance without meaning to. his breath catches. his eyes dart to your lips, then back to your eyes.
“are you sure?” he whispers.
you nod, your voice small. “yeah.”
he exhales like he’s been holding it in forever. his hand moves, hesitant, to cup your cheek. his thumb brushes along your skin, and you feel a spark.
he leans in slowly, almost testing you. your eyes flutter closed. his breath mixes with yours.
and then his lips are there—soft, uncertain. barely pressing. like he’s afraid to break something fragile.
you don’t pull away. you let him try again. this time there’s more pressure, more confidence, but still that shy uncertainty.
he pulls back a little, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard. “i—uh… i don’t even know if i did it right.”
you smile softly, brushing your thumb against his cheek. “you did fine.”
he laughs quietly, embarrassed, like it’s both a relief and a new kind of terror. “i guess i just… never kissed anyone before.”
“me neither,” you admit, smiling.
“can i… try again?” he asks quietly, almost shy, like he’s afraid of your answer.
you bite your lip, heart hammering. “yeah.”
his grin is small but nervous, like a kid sneaking into trouble for the first time. he leans in again, slower this time, giving you the chance to meet him halfway. your lips press against his with more certainty.
it’s different now—less hesitant, softer but more daring. his hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer. you let out a small sigh, curling your own fingers into his hoodie, holding him there.
his lips move against yours with more confidence now, still careful, but there’s something hungry in it—something like he’s making up for lost time.
you respond the same way, daring to deepen it, letting your own hand slide to rest against his chest. his breath hitches softly against yours.
when you pull away just slightly, foreheads resting together, he’s smiling shyly but there’s something triumphant in his eyes. “okay,” he says quietly, voice breathy, “that was… better.”
“one more time?” he asks, voice quieter now but with a playful giggle that makes your chest flutter.
you grin, leaning closer. “yeah.”
he laughs softly, like he’s nervously daring himself, and then he’s leaning in again. this time it’s different—more urgent, more certain. his lips press against yours harder, deeper.
you respond immediately, matching him, letting your own hands slide up to rest against his neck, tangling in his hair. he sighs softly into the kiss, like it’s both new and inevitable.
and then—he’s pulling you closer. suddenly, his knees shift, and your whole body is draped against him as he slides you into his lap without breaking the kiss. his hoodie bunches under you, his arms wrapping around you tight.
you feel him shiver slightly against you, his body tense in a way that’s not quite nervousness—more like wonder. his hand moves to the small of your back, holding you steady while his other fingers braid themselves in your hair again.
there’s a trembling in him you didn’t expect. when he pulls back for air, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven.
“shit,” he murmurs softly, voice low, almost to himself. “i… i don’t know how to do this.”
you smile against him, your own breath shaky. “me neither.”
he smiles against you, though it’s nervous and small, and his thumb brushes along your cheek like he’s memorising every line of your face. “then… maybe we figure it out together?”
you nod against him, breath hitching, and he laughs quietly—half laugh, half sigh—before kissing you again.
this time it’s slower, deeper, more deliberate. his hands slide from your back to your hips, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
you shift against him instinctively, letting yourself press closer, the sound of your breathing and his mixing in the quiet of his room.
he leans down a little, whispering against your lips, “are you sure?”
you pull back just enough to look at him, your breath warm and shaky. “yeah.”
he swallows hard, lips brushing yours again, and you feel him shift beneath you—closer, more desperate. the tremble in his hands grows, the way he holds you changes, and you know it’s not just the kiss anymore.
it’s something more. something they’re both on the edge of, without saying it.
he leans down slowly, breath warm against your skin, his lips brushing softly over your neck. you shiver, a quiet gasp slipping out before you even realise it.
his hand moves gently, guiding, careful, as though he’s navigating something fragile. there’s a pause, a hesitation in the air that makes your chest tighten.
your breath catches again, louder this time, and you feel the weight of him—his warmth, his closeness—pressing against you.
the world narrows to just the two of you. his voice, low and shaky, murmurs something you can’t quite make out.
you can’t think, can’t breathe properly, caught between wanting more and being completely overwhelmed.
and then—
he hits the remote by accident, and the sudden blare of the star wars theme cuts through the quiet.
you both jump, hearts pounding, and he freezes, looking like he’s just realised how close you are. his hand lingers in the air for a second before he drops it awkwardly to his side.
you blink up at him, trying not to laugh, and instead let out a breathless giggle. “oh my god,” you whisper, covering your mouth, “you scared me.”
he lets out a nervous laugh, cheeks pink, eyes avoiding yours for just a moment before he looks back at you. “sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “i… didn’t mean to.”
you smile softly, brushing a hand over your own lips. “it’s fine.”
he shifts slightly, still holding you close, and mutters shyly, “guess the universe didn’t want us to go all the way just yet.”
you laugh quietly, resting your head back against his chest. “maybe not.”
the theme hums in the background, the soundtrack to a moment neither of you will ever forget. a new chapter in their lives.
