Timothée Chalamet x fem!Reader
Since he was the second most voted for in the poll, here’s a little story for those who wanted one about him.
It was almost midnight in Manhattan, and the city hummed like a lullaby. Cars whispered down 5th Avenue. Someone’s jazz record bled through the thin walls next door. In Y/n’s bedroom—four floors up in a crooked pre-war walk-up—her window was cracked open just enough to let in the June air and the scent of cigarettes from the alley below.
She heard the creaking of the fire escape. But she didn’t flinch, because she knew that sound like the thrum of her own heartbeat.
A second later, a shadow climbed into her window. Skinny jeans, hoodie, messy brown curls that clung to his forehead from the summer sweat and maybe something else—tears, maybe.
"Timothée?" she whispered, sitting up in her bed, her silk sheets slipping off one shoulder like a scene from a movie they weren’t allowed to be in.
Just let the screen door squeal as he pushed it open, stepping into her little bedroom like he lived there, and collapsing onto her bed. His arms wrapped around her waist without asking. As he buried his face in her stomach, curling into her like a small child, like her body was the only home he had left.
“Timmy…” she whispered, as she ran her fingers through his hair, soft and damp, the way he liked it. “What happened?”
His breath was hot against her cotton tank top. He smelled like rain, subway metal, and mint gum. She didn’t ask again. Not yet.
He whined, just a little, a sound that cracked her chest. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You don’t need anywhere else,” she whispered. “You have me. You always have me.”
Outside, sirens screamed down the avenue like a warning. But inside, time stopped.
Timothée clung tighter. “I hate that I can’t be with you during the day. I hate your parents. I hate that they think I’m a joke.”
She kissed the top of his head. “They don’t know what love is. They forgot. That’s not our fault.”
“I got rejected again. From that callback I told you about.”
“I’m tired of wanting something so badly and being told I’m not enough.”
Y/n pulled him up gently so their faces were close, foreheads pressed together in the moonlight like a prayer. “You’re more than enough. You’re everything.”
His lips trembled. “Why do you believe in me so much?”
“Because I saw the way your hands shook when you held that script. Because you cry during sad movies and write poetry on napkins and recite Shakespeare on the L train like you’re in the Globe Theatre. Because you were born for this, Timothée. And because I love you.”
She felt him smile, just a little, against her cheek.
“I love you more,” he whispered, like it hurt.
Then, almost shyly, he climbed into her lap, curling against her like a cat seeking warmth. She let him. Held him. Let his weight crush the air out of her lungs and didn’t complain once.
Outside, the moon hung heavy over the city like it was watching them.
Inside, he fell asleep with his ear over her heart and her fingers tracing the map of his back.
And somewhere between the buzz of streetlights and the sound of sirens in the distance, the girl in love with a boy her parents didn’t approve of decided she’d marry him someday. On a rooftop. Barefoot. With wildflowers in her hair and the whole city below them like a fairytale.
The hours passed like melted sugar, slow and golden. By 3 a.m., the room was filled with soft shadows and his quiet breathing. The kind of stillness that only lives between lovers and secrets.
Y/n lay awake, watching the ceiling and brushing the backs of her fingers over Timothée’s spine like she was painting stars into his skin. He stirred occasionally, mumbling incoherent little things.
But she didn’t answer. She just kissed his temple and held him tighter.
Around 4:17, he woke up—barely—his lashes fluttering like moth wings, and whispered, “Will you still love me if I never make it?”
Y/n didn’t hesitate, she didn't have to. “I’ll love you if you’re just the guy who reads me plays in bed. I’ll love you if you become a legend. I’ll love you if you work at the record store forever and never leave the city.”
He looked up at her then, his eyes glassy and boyish, and smiled so small it nearly broke her.
“That’s the only kind of famous I wanna be,” he said. “The kind that matters to you.”
She laughed, soft and sleepy. “You’re already a star to me.”
They stayed like that—half-tangled in each other, half-awake and whole-hearted—until the sky outside her window began to blush pale pink.
Birds chirped on the fire escape.
Downstairs, the deli opened. A dog barked somewhere far away.
And Timothée reached for her hand beneath the covers like a child afraid of thunder.
“Let’s run away one day,” he whispered. “Just me and you. Let’s leave all the people who don’t understand and go somewhere with big skies and nobody asking what we’re going to be when we grow up.”
She smiled, and placed a kiss to his knuckles. “We’re already everything we need to be.”
He didn’t answer. Just pulled her close again and tucked his head into the curve of her neck, like he could crawl inside her ribs and sleep next to her heart.
And outside, the sun rose slowly over Manhattan, but inside, it was still midnight, and always would be—just for them. The hour of secret relationships, fire escapes, and a boy who dreamed too big, and the girl who dared to believe in him anyway.
