❝ soulmates are just one big, dumb theory, right? ❞
In which lovesick!nerdjo has secretly crushed on art student!reader since he met you in the last year of his bachelor's, protecting his rejection-fearing ass under a big ‘love is too plebian for me’ persona. He doesn't like you? No, no; he hates the idea of liking someone who doesn’t like him back in that all-consuming, cosmic-soulmates-destined-for-each-other, yin-needs-yang kind of way that he does.
ㅤwc ──── 3.7k
ㅤcws ──── pure fluff, unrequited -> requited love, pining, Satoru's a bit of an ass but he doesn't mean it, kiss scene so awkward but so cute, may have errors because I suck at proofreading
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So many girls have rejected him by now (you didn’t hear this from me), sometimes solely because of the fact that he’s simply too intense.
He wants love at first sight, the explosive chemistry, the we're-meant-for-each-other kiss, the knowing feeling at the center of his heart that he’s gonna be your husband one day and have five kids with you.
Crazy how a man can yearn for love so much, feel so much, and yet spend most his time cooped up in a stuffy lecture room enduring an uninspiring drawl from a pale-faced professor.
When he’s not suffocating in a physics lab or lonely classroom, or loitering in the halls with his best friend, he’s slipping back to his sulky dorm room to claim a moment of silence because god — nothing disturbs him quite like noise.
Satoru’s been so sensitive to noise, since he was little. Always perceived as a drama queen, or a diva, or a crybaby; but it truly gets to him.
He can’t stand it; the chatter, the birds, the city’s groans, a clank of silverware, a bad laugh, heels on brick. It causes his precious genius thoughts to disperse, and worse, pulls him out of his carefully-plotted daydreams of finding his one and only.
And what a coincidence that the idea of his soulmate happens to have your features, your hair, your walking gait, your laughter, your poetic way.
When I tell you that he’s been tormented from the moment he met you, it’s an understatement.
Head of white ducking the moment he caught sight of you, he walks straight backwards from the aisle you’re in, and hurries over to his best friend for reassurance.
“She’s over there.” Satoru points, whisper-shouting.
Baby blue eyes unblinking at Suguru, who is skimming through a fat calculus textbook.
A smooth voice replies, “Then go talk to her. She’s friendly; Shoko introduced me to her last week.”
“What! And not me?!”
Suguru mumbles, “... you tend to trash-talk the arts department, so I can see why...”
“—bitch, I love poetry!”
“Name one poet, Satoru.”
“Rachmaninov.”
“No.”
“Tchaikovsky?”
Suguru gawks. “Are you joking, or do you actually not know any?”
“Like you do!” Satoru hisses.
“T.S. Eliot, Allen Ginsberg, Sylvia Plath...” Suguru lists off.
“Whatever, just—! The only poet I give a damn about is that one over there. Look, look! She was carefully crafted by angels, I swear to god!”
His best friend starts snickering, and Satoru grows frantic when he sees you heading for the library’s exit.
If you walk through that big wooden door, it’s impossible. It’s just impossible. He can’t fathom it. He’s got to introduce himself to you in that we-accidentally-bumped-into-each-other kind of way, it mustn’t seem like it’s on purpose — god, no!!
“You and Shoko fucking suck; I’ll introduce myself to her!”
“Go-go loverboy! I’ll be watching from here and laughing at you when you mess up, baby boy.” Suguru leans on his palm, eyes lidding at the hopeless romantic physicist.
Like a shy ghost, Satoru cranes his neck to get a good view of you, inching closer to your aisle with caution.
His heart hammers in his chest. Heat starts rising up through his body. Breathing hitching, stomach twisting — what kind of high-schooler reaction is this? Hell, did he even ever feel this way as a teenager?
Now, it’s peculiar at best to find a science student in the poetry section, and offensive at worst, because who are they to trespass on such sacred artistry?
With the way Satoru clumsily enters the aisle, it’s the latter. Those imposing, polished Oxford shoes are not making a good name for him. Neither is his upturned nose.
Why can’t he act any other way? He frustrates himself. It’s like his true self is trapped under this character he’s been playing since childhood. Truthfully, if anyone bothered to dig as deep as Suguru, they would find that he’s not haughty at all; actually, he’s rather amiable, in his opinion. Yeah, he’s got a nice smile, too. Very charismatic, very charming, in his opinion. And prodigiously intelligent — oh.
Satoru’s observing you, the way your fingertips drift across the shelf like a sweet caress before you finger out a wedged-in book. If only it was like in the movies; he’d love to show off his height and make your heart tick a little faster by pulling down a book that’s too out of reach for you. But that looks like it’s not gonna happen.
Stiffening like a statue, Satoru becomes aware of how coldly mechanical he seems and slackens his shoulders a bit, adopting a slight hunch as he sinks his trembling hands into his pockets.
Nothing is more impossible than this, trying to approach you.
What’s he so scared of? Why can’t he still his hand, why can’t he cool his blush?
Satoru inspires one long, deep breath, and exhales it shakily through his flared nostrils.
Just do it.
He approaches.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” you return, as any ordinary friendly stranger would.
Fuck.
He didn’t really plan past that. Now it’s all improvisation. And Satoru is a by-the-book kind of boy, not one improv bone in his body.
He tilts his head, “Dos-to-yev-sky?” — he pronounces — “Who’s that?”
“My favorite Russian author. Do you read?”
He responds, insulted, “Of course I read! Have you ever seen a calculus textbook? Could double up as a weapon. That thing is thick.”
You let out a laugh.
You let out a laugh and it makes his whole chest swell in triumph. He made you laugh, albeit very softly and over a poorly executed heat-of-the-moment joke — but this is good. This is very good.
He made your face light up when it was hanging so low; marriage should come in a few months time (sorry, he’s insane).
ㅤ⋆
And that was it; that was all it took for the story to begin. From then on, flames burst in his soul, and he always thought of you, from the bleak morning to his insomniac night.
But it’s only like that from his perspective; you’re complaining every day about Snooty Satoru and, as reciprocation for him talking-down your fellow artists, cussing out the entirety of the science department.
You may not be enamored, but he is.
It just doesn’t make sense, how his affection comes out as insults — he pushes you further away when really he wants to loop his arms around you and reel you into his warm chest.
His soul paws at you like a cat paws desperately at a closed door to open and let it in to the warmest room – and yet he acts completely aloof when actually stood before you, when his aphrodite appears in the flesh.
The boy's insufferable, pompous. Stiff like palm tree, swaying as awkwardly as one, too, in the breeze of your attention that he honestly can’t handle.
With the way his heavenly blues gleam behind those horn-rimmed glasses like you’re the only girl in his world, it's hard not to feel something tremble under your chest for the boy even if he mocks you at any given opportunity.
His charming dimples, so sweet on his cheek. Hands dainty yet enormous. Tallness made awkward with his poor posture.
It’s easy to hate him, and he’ll claw at any bit of your attention that he can get – so he fuels the fire, metaphorically slathers himself in gasoline and lets a lighted match drop to his feet.
Yes, just like that; hate him more more more until you accidentally fall miserably and irredeemably in love just like he has. Burn like he does, like a star, quaking and quivering for just one touch, just the traipse of a hand across his cheek, the brush of thigh against thigh, the artistic kiss.
Oh, it goes south so quickly; in a few months of knowing each other, he hits you with the "You're not my type." – he blurts it out stupidly and clamps his mouth shut in regret immediately, but his pride won’t let him correct his own bullshit.
So you believe you’re not his type — that’s fine, I guess, even if it squeezes your heart a little — but then you catch those violent blues casually clipping frames of your silhouette every chance they can. Then you find him seeking you out after every lecture, hair tousled from fisting at it throughout his draining lectures.
“Lunch? On me?”
“Sure, why not.”
It always goes like that; he says something painful, then rectifies it through gestures. Quality time. Pokes at your cheek all through lunch, gains attention from green-painted girls and boys when he slithers closer to you and steals a kiss of your cheek as a joke.
Oh, yeah, sure; ‘a joke’. Like a kiss doesn’t mean a million things.
And he's painfully nonchalant about feelings.
Right, like he reiterates; “Relationships are honestly? — sooo beneath me. I'm career-focused, that's why I'm top of the class, that's why I'm going to get somewhere in life—”
—that’s why he’s going through a mid-youth crisis over you, that’s why he’s totally unable to rub the visions of you out of his tired eyes at 1 AM when he's slaving over a due-tomorrow assignment from hell.
He can’t get you off his mind, or your lips, or the daydream of pushing his on yours and eating you up like it’s all he was meant to do, like he’s just a pathetic little bug chasing your glorious, heavenly shadow.
Love is beneath him, poetry is a waste— but oh then why is he scribbling poetry in the margins of his physics textbook, in imitation of your prose?
Every line is for you.
In your eyes I find home.
It’s like spring every time we meet.
And winter when I’m alone.
He’s an insufferable know-it-all, to the point he’s been nicknamed Hellish Hermione – but beneath his those lenses you can almost see the very moment he slips from this curated persona into something more like himself, something endearingly nerdy, childishly enthusiastic.
That’s when he drops his guard and begins spouting quantum-babble.
And wow, for someone who ‘doesn’t need company to be happy’ he sure as hell smiles big when you sit there and listen to him talk mathematics to you.
It’s like his way of flirting, you know? When he tells you ‘every quark flavour there is its antiquark’ he’s hoping you interpret it as “everybody has somebody’ and when he says ‘I want to be the anti-strange to your strange quark’ by that he’s actually saying ‘I love you’ – doesn’t make sense, does it?
Well, when has a physicist ever made sense except to other physicists, anyways...
He lights up so much that he nearly begins to glow, nearly vibrates as he sits cross-legged in his seat while he yaps your ear off about quantum-blah-blah.
Who cares about the polymaths that changed the world? Does it really matter to learn about theories that haven’t even been proven? Why worry that the universe might not be locally real?
Dunno.
But it matters to him. It’s his whole world, and he’s sharing it with you; that’s why you listen intently and why he relishes in your attention.
The stars matter as much to him as your pretty face does.
It’s as important to see them in the sky at night in their respective positions as it is for him to see you every morning on the dewy-grass quad before class. Every. Morning. Without fail. It’s his thirty minutes of heaven before hell.
Yes, you only ‘happen’ to visit his dormitory because you’re on good terms with his best friend, but when Suguru leaves the room, for some reason you fall into harmony with Satoru. Effortlessly so.
He’ll kick two feet up on his faux-wood desk, curl a pencil on his upper lip, and try to not-so-subtly show off his V-line by shifting his short sweater just a little further up his abdomen.
He’s silly.
Worse.
He has no idea how to communicate his feelings.
It’s like they get tangled and knotted by the time he translates them into words.
You’re realizing that more and more as you get to know him.
Yes, he scoffs at you; he scoffs at you more than anyone has ever scoffed at you in your life, when you don’t understand Euler’s theorem, when you don’t know the names of any of the great science daddies.
In fact, he goes so far as to ridicule your degree choice and bashes the entirety of the arts department as ‘daydreaming losers with the audacity to squander their daddy’s money’.
But then he’ll pause in apologetic silence before drawing a curious gaze to your sketchbook, and – with audacity – plop down on the dewy grass, nearly on top of you with how close he keeps, practically poking his nose in your spread-open sketchbook.
“What’s new? Show me. Ooh, I liiike this one.” – against your wishes he’ll pluck it right out of your hands and skim the pages like he’s grading them – “Good, very good. You’re improving. Nice shading. Foreshortening needs a little work, though. Wait, is that supposed to be me? Why have you titled it ‘the campus anus?’...? Oh you think you’re funny, huh? — what are these annotations?! LANKY?! FLAT-ASSED?! — Oh, big chest? Handsome face? Hehe. You doll. C’mere and smooch me already— owowowow. Sorry. Okay. No kiss for Toru. I get it. You prefer Suguru’s fat ass, is that it? Well, for your information, I have a bigger c—OWWW, MY HANDSOME FACE!”
ㅤ⋆
This mad scientist so casually drops an invitation to his birthday party.
That “Come if you want to. Or don’t. ’S cool either way.” was said with a shrug, without eye contact, yet the stifled strain in his voice crisply underlined his feelings.
He really really really really really really wanted you to come to his birthday party.
Suguru’s palming at Satoru’s back, soothing the big crybaby who pouts – yes, pouts – that “She’s not coming. Why! I invited her... does she not like me? I give up on this game. I feel stupid. She must think I’m an asshole. Oh my god...”
He spirals further, another ten minutes passing by in which Shoko and Suguru and Nanami all band together to calm down the drama queen birthday boy.
Then the relief in the air is nearly palpable they hear a knock at the door.
Then Satoru is no longer curled up on the couch.
Then he’s springing to life like a flower freshly bloomed. “DON’T OPEN THE DOOR I’VE GOT IT I’VE GOT IT — how do I look, is my hair okay? Fuck. Okay.”
You’re greeted with a froggy smile. A pair of blue eyes blown so wide open that the whites show all around the irises. Pupils dilated, like he can’t get enough of you.
Just like that, it’s like his soul is desperately sucking on yours through a straw. You’re his object of sincerest, adoring obsession for the rest of the night. What are his friends snickering in the kitchen about? Who knows. Who cares. He’s got you all to himself. He’s gonna shamelessly hog all your attention.
You give him his gift; a tiny square piece of paper on which you’ve carefully drawn Satoru as a frog.
“N’aw you were thinkin’ of me, huh? Didn’t I tell you... gifts are against the rules. What is this? Oh. Real funny. I do not look like a fuckin’ frog.”
His heart throbs. It actually fucking throbs.
Why are you so soft, so sweet? He can hardly relish in it enough, how you spent time drawing him – fuck, that means he was on your mind the whole time the pencil pressed to that paper. He felt like some sort of triumphant parasite, worming into your mind despite being nothing but a brat for semester after semester.
The next time you visit Satoru and Suguru’s dorm to return a borrowed book, you see your drawing pegged on the physicist’s strangely artistic string, along with the accumulating photos of you and him.
Huh. Funny, isn’t it? The duo that’s made it in the books as ‘worst enemies’ has made all these memories together.
And they’re smiling in every photo...
ㅤ⋆
He's hot on bragging about being top of his class, claiming to be lightyears ahead of every one else.
Then the baby blue-eyed prodigy visibly deflates the moment you’ve got to leave for class.
“I’m coming, too. Yeah, I wanna see what you nerds get up to in art school – gonna get freaky about Monet. Relax, I won’t get kicked out. Why would I be embarrassing! Okay. I’ll hold my tongue. Just for you.”
He got kicked out.
Your professor nearly let it slide until she heard his trumpeting laugh from the back of the classroom, so painfully loud that she ordered him out instantly.
So much for incognito.
The whispers started from then.
Rumors that you and Satoru were a thing.
ㅤ⋆
You’re rounding the pound at the center of the quad, furiously arguing about the rumors and furiously blushing at one another and furiously trying to close to distance between each other to the point you’re rubbing shoulders.
“I say we give the people what they want. We should make out.” he suggests — is it really a joke this time when he looks so longingly at your lips?
“Satoru, you’re sooo cringe.”
“Only when I open my mouth! Promise ’m not a lousy kisser. Just gimmie a chance, please? I’ll only steal one — one kiss of those pretty lips and I’ll stop bugging you.”
“Fine then.”
Oh fuck.
He didn’t expect to get this far.
He thought his rejection was nigh.
What fluctuation in the universe could have caused this?
Golden hour spills over the green expanse of the campus quad, koi quivering in the pond at the center where you and Satoru idle.
He has to bend down. Not just lean over a little — no; he has to assume the most egregious, spine-torturing posture ever just to meet you at your level. His back already carries that dull ache from sitting shrimp-arched over in the computer room for most the day.
For him, it felt like it took 3-5 working days to reach you.
And when he connected his lips to yours? Magic happened.
Yes, he bumped noses awkwardly. Yes, he was close to clashing teeth with you, like this was his first kiss all over again except minus the braces.
But the way he stroked at your cheek and cupped it in the palm of his gentle hand and held you like you were made of porcelain, it sent goosebumps down your skin in a way you haven’t felt in years.
Soft and quivering, his lips melded to yours.
And so what if he whimpered a little?
It was sweet. It was innocent. This was Satoru at his most vulnerable; lips connected with the love he’s sought out like a lonely puppy.
His heart is leaping. Stomach twisting. Heat scalding his cheeks and pinching at the very tips of his ears, as he tilts into the kiss to deepen it.
And my god, when he does that — when he kisses you just so right like that — it feels like the whole world stills to a quiet halt at last.
The noise of the world isn’t rattling his brain anymore. His thoughts are not dispersing. He’s focused.
His hand trembles softly upon your cheek, like he’s scared if he presses into you too hard that you will recoil at his intensity. He’s been locking that part of himself away. But now? It’s much too close to bursting forth from him.
But he breaks when he feels you deepen the kiss, pressing up on him chest to chest to the point he swore he could feel how hard your heart was beating.
His arms engulf you so softly, so carefully. It’s just the soft smacking of lips, tiny breaths inspired in between, and his warm breath mingling with yours.
Perfect. Your lips feel perfect. A kiss has never felt this right before.
The sun’s watching, clouds too, maybe one or two students passing by spare a dull curious glance. But nothing else exists to him right then but you; you’re the only real thing in his mind.
The universe that he’s been wracking his brains trying to figure out, scratched his head over, theories he’s been chasing since he was a kid, they all melt away because finally the theory of finding a soulmate is proven when he kisses you.
And it’s funny to you. Just that morning you were hardcore debating if romance died with the last great poets.
But lo and behold; it was alive on a physicist’s lips.
He lets out a boyish chuckle when he releases you from his lock, eyes alive with affection as he stares down at you, penetrating right into your soul.
Something is shimmering in those blues.
“I think I just had a eureka moment.” he admits.
“What, a little kiss enlightened you?” you tease, palming at his chest. “I thought all this was ‘beneath’ you?”
His hands come to a rest at the rise of your hips.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice lowering, “soulmates are just one big, dumb theory,”
God knows what causes him to blurt out this cheesy line, and many poets shed a tear from the heavens out of sheer pain at it;
“but y’think I could steal a few more kisses off ya ’till I can prove true love exists?”
“Satoru, you’re so cringe.”
“But you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Wait, really?! You do?!”
You smack at his chest and break away, “Honestly!”
His grin is massive, spanning ear to ear. With his index finger, he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“Theory: proven.”
You’re walking away, voice raising;
“You fuckin’ nerd!”
“But you’re into nerds!”
“UNFORTUNATELY.” you yell, now halfway across the quad. “Now stop following me, I’m going to class. See you later.”
“For a date?” he hopes, “I’ll spoil you!”
“No way!”
“Yes way! We’re soulmates! I’ve just proven it!”
“NERD. GOODBYE.”
ㅤan ──── A bit of an unexpected fic that I wrote overnight. I said this on my prof!Gojo fic (18+), but i have a deep fondness for physics students, or anyone who likes debating physics at 3 AM. I have a story based on a physics student and an artist that focuses on soulmate theory, so writing this made me feel a bit emotional and I realized that I have not written much of my own stories. Oh well!! I hope this was a fun read 💗
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The first time, you don’t even notice until you hear boots behind you, steady, familiar. Not close enough to crowd you, not far enough to pretend it’s coincidence. When you glance back, he lifts his chin once in greeting, eyes already scanning the street like it’s habit.
You slow down without thinking. He matches it.
Neither of you says a word.
After that, it keeps happening.
You’ll leave the mess hall with your hands full and somehow he’s already there, taking the heavier box without asking, nodding once like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’ll sit down somewhere quiet and a moment later there’s a mug of tea set within reach, how he knew exactly how you take it, you’re not sure. You don’t remember telling him.
Simon never hovers. Never crowds. He just… fills the empty spaces.
When something breaks, he fixes it before you even realize it’s broken. When someone raises their voice at you, Simon doesn’t step in, he just steps closer. It’s enough. It’s always enough.
You start to expect him.
Not in an entitled way. In a way that feels like muscle memory.
Sometimes you talk. Mostly you don’t. He listens like every word is being carefully stored away, filed somewhere safe behind those quiet eyes. When you trail off, unsure, he waits. Never rushes you. Never finishes your sentences.
If you look cold, his jacket is suddenly around your shoulders. He doesn’t make a show of it, just drapes it there and looks away like he’s embarrassed by his own kindness.
At night, you’ll find him outside your door under the excuse of “checking the locks.” He doesn’t come in. Doesn’t linger. Just makes sure you’re safe before disappearing back into the dark.
And then one day, someone asks, half-joking, half-curious
“So… you and Riley?”
You open your mouth to deny it.
But Simon is already there, standing close enough that your arms brush. Close enough that his presence feels like a constant, solid thing at your back. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t look at them.
He just says, quietly,
“Yeah.”
It’s not a confession.
It’s not a declaration.
It’s a fact.
And when you reach for his hand later, no words, just fingers brushing, he hesitates for half a second before curling his hand around yours like he’s been waiting for permission all along.
Neither of you ever say I love you.
You don’t need to.
It’s in the way he follows you.
In the way he helps without being asked.
In the way you both move through the world already certain you’re not alone anymore.
Mattheo Riddle could have anyone. Literally anyone.
Girls practically throw themselves at his feet in the corridors with whispering giggles, batting lashes, slipping notes into his robe pockets like they’re being coy. He shuts them down with the same bored flick of his wrist every time. Low, clipped “Not interested” or the sharper “Spoken for” that makes them scatter like startled pixies. He’s attractive in that dangerous, unfair way. Sharp jaw, dark curls that fall just right, eyes that promise trouble and deliver it, and he’s cocky enough to know it. Mean enough to enjoy watching them squirm.
Yet somehow, against every law of logic and self-preservation, he chose you.
And Merlin’s sodding beard, you are infuriating.
Case in point: right now.
He’s trying—actually trying—to do something uncharacteristically romantic. A little midnight detour through the damp, torch-lit underground tunnels beneath the castle, leading to that forgotten alcove with the glowing moonlit vines he discovered last term. He even pocketed a small velvet box earlier and he's paying for even mentioning a surprise. The plan was simple: quiet walk, your hand in his, maybe a smirk and a murmured “shut up for once, yeah?” before he pulls you close against the stone wall and kisses you stupid.
With a low, long-suffering groan that echoes off the damp stone walls, Mattheo throws his head back and stops dead in his tracks. The sudden halt sends you careening straight into his broad back like a poorly aimed Bludger—oof—your face planting right between his shoulder blades with all the grace of a startled Pygmy Puff.
You don't even pause for breath.
“—and then Lavender was like, ‘Oh my Merlin, his hair is so shiny,’ and I was like, ‘Girl, it’s literally just Sleekeazy’s, calm down,’ but honestly if I had hair that behaved I’d be insufferable too—wait, are we lost? This tunnel looks exactly like the last one. Did you Apparate us in circles just to mess with me? Because if so, rude, but also kind of—”
Mattheo spins on his heel so fast his dark curls whip across his forehead. He pins you with the stare—the one that could make sixth-years wet themselves and seventh-years reconsider their life choices. Torchlight flickered across his sharp features, carving shadows under those dangerously hooded eyes, making him look every inch the brooding heir people whispered about in the common room.
You just beam up at him. Full wattage. Eyes sparkling like you’d personally invented joy and decided to share it exclusively with him. Completely oblivious, or pretending to be, that you’d been monologuing nonstop since he dragged you out of the dormitory twenty minutes ago.
“Princess,” he says, voice low and gravelly, the word dripping with equal parts exasperation and something dangerously close to fondness. “Please. This is supposed to be relaxing. Nice. Quiet. Romantic, even—if you can manage five bloody seconds without turning my skull into a beehive.”
Your bottom lip wobbles immediately. Just a fraction. Eyes going suspiciously glassy in the dim light.
Mattheo’s jaw clenches so hard you can practically hear the teeth grind.
This. This was exactly what he means.
Annoying as hell.
One second you’re chattering like a caffeinated house-elf, the next you’re pulling the wounded-puppy eyes that make something in his chest twist painfully. He hates it. Hates how it works every single time.
He drags both hands through his hair, tugging at the roots like maybe pain will restore his sanity. “Merlin’s saggy left—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Don’t. Do not start crying. I swear to Salazar, if you cry right now because I told you to shut up for once—”
Your eyes well up faster. One fat tear slinging to your lower lashes like it's auditioning for a tragic romance novel.
He stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the tear, like maybe glaring will make it evaporate.
You sniffles. Tiny. Pathetic. Devastating.
“Fuck,” he muttersunder his breath. In one fluid motion he closes the distance, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other thumbs away the traitor tear before it can fall. His touch was rough-edged but careful—always careful with you, even when he pretended otherwise.
“Why are you being mean to me?” Your voice comes out smaller than usual, barely above a whisper. All the bubbly chatter stripped away until it’s just this fragile little thing. “I’m just excited to spend time with you.”
Mattheo’s chest physically aches at the sound of it. His loud, unstoppable, never-shuts-up girl reduced to a quiet mumble. Your wide eyes lift to his all trusting and glassy, still somehow hopeful even after he’s just spent the last five minutes trying (and failing) to shush you. Like you genuinely believe he might say something that finally snaps the thread and makes you stop talking forever.
He hates that look. Hates that he put it there.
“Baby—” The word slips out softer than he means it to, rough edges sanded down by guilt. He exhales hard through his nose, then reaches for you before he can overthink it. One hand cups the back of your head, guiding you gently forward until your cheek presses against the warm crook of his neck. Your hair smells like vanilla and whatever stupid floral shampoo you insist on using, and it hits him like a hex straight to the sternum.
“I know,” he murmurs into the top of your head, voice low, almost wrecked. “I know. You’re right.”
Your arms come around his waist automatically, clinging like you’re afraid he’ll push you away again. He feels the tiny shudder in your shoulders, the one you always get right before you start apologizing for existing too loudly, and it makes something ugly twist behind his ribs.
He pulls back just enough to tilt your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes again. Those stupid, trusting eyes that look at him like he’s the sun instead of the walking disaster everyone else sees.
“I just—” He drags his thumb along your jaw, slow, deliberate. “I want to get us to where we’re going without tripping over a root because I’m too busy listening to you explain why Luna Lovegood’s conspiracy theories are actually canon. I can’t focus when you’re being… you.”
Your lip wobbles again, but you try to hide it with a tiny, watery smile. “I can be quiet. Promise. I’ll zip it. No more talking. Silent as a grave. You’ll forget I’m even here—”
“No.” The word comes out sharper than he intends. He softens it immediately, cupping your face in both hands now, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he’s trying to erase the dampness there. “No. Never be quiet.”
You blink up at him, confused.
He lets out a short, helpless laugh and rests his forehead against yours again.
“Merlin, you’re killing me here.” His voice drops, rough and honest in a way he usually only lets out when it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world is asleep. “You’re the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met. You talk too much, you walk into walls when you’re excited, you narrate your entire life like it’s a bloody radio play, and half the time I don’t even know what you’re on about.”
Your brows pinch together, waiting for the but.
“But,” he says, quieter now, almost reverent, “you’re my favorite person on the entire fucking planet.” The tunnel goes so still you can hear the distant drip of water somewhere deeper in the stone.
He brushes his nose against yours once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
“So don’t you dare go quiet on me,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over yours without quite kissing you yet. “Not even for a second. I need the noise. I need you being loud and ridiculous and impossible to ignore. It’s the only thing that keeps the rest of the world from feeling like static.”
A fresh tear slips free anyway. He catches it with his mouth this time—soft, barely there, tasting salt and you.
Then he pulls back just enough to smirk, that familiar wicked edge creeping back in because if he doesn’t tease you soon he’s going to do something embarrassingly soft like drop to his knees and beg.
“Besides,” he adds, voice dipping into that low, suggestive drawl he knows drives you mental, “if you’re quiet, how am I supposed to hear all the filthy little things you say when I finally get you alone in that alcove? Can’t have that, can we, princess?”
Your mouth parts on a tiny, shocked laugh and just like that, the spark flickers back into your eyes.
“There she is,” he mutters, satisfied, pressing one last slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty little menace.”
He laces your fingers together again, tighter this time, and starts walking once more, slower now, like he’s in no real hurry.
“Keep talking,” he says over his shoulder, smirk audible even in the dark. “Tell me why Nargles are definitely real and why I should care. Loud as you want. I’m listening.”
You hesitate for half a heartbeat.
Then you squeeze his hand, take a shaky breath, and launch right back into it. Your voice still a little wobbly, but gaining strength with every word.
“—okay so first of all, the mistletoe thing is NOT just decorative, it’s literally a Nargle repellent, and if you think about it—”
Mattheo rolls his eyes so hard the torchlight flashes across them. But his thumb keeps stroking over your knuckles in slow, steady circles.
Some cute fluff prompts/scenarios for ur OTP ships !!!
They're at a lake in summer, and one pushes the other in.
Sneaking into a party neither of them were invited to and pretending to be related to everybody there
blanket forts. That's it. Put them in a blanket fort.
'Wait no you can't cry because then I'll cry and-- oh shit you're crying.'
A is talking animatedly about something they REALLY love and B is pretending to listen and they're genuinely trying to, they swear, but how could they concentrate on anything else when A has that light in their eyes?
Alternatively: A is talking animatedly about something they REALLY love and B is sat there taking notes because A's interest is their interest now too.
hair washing. most intimate thing ever. softest thing ever. im a sucker for hair washing.
'I hate you.' (jokingly) 'No, you don't!' (softly) 'No, I don't.'
At a wedding, they're dancing together, both of them pretending the ceremony has been thrown for them, not the real bride(s)/groom(s)
LET THEM HAVE A PILLOW FIGHT !!!! GOOD LORD BRING BACK PILLOW FIGHTS !!! BONUS POINTS IF THEY'RE KISSING BY THE END OF IT !!!!
Finding out that their friends all bet on their relationship
A seeing B interact with kids for the first time and just thinking. I'm so done for.
'I think I'm in love with you.' 'Did you mean to say that out loud?' 'Ah. Shit.'
[midday, after a long night/injury, A is just waking up for the first time.] 'Welcome back to the land of the living.' (groaning, barely awake, words almost indecipherable) 'Don't you land of the living me.'
Stealing the blanket !!! in bed !!! on the sofa !!! wherever !!! just tell me !!! which one is the blanket stealer !!!
A tracing the outline of B's face gently with their fingertips at night, believing them to be asleep- they're not, and it takes all the self-restraint B has in them to hide their smile.
Imagine going to sleep next to Gojo. There's nothing spicy going on; the two of you are far too exhausted for that. Right now, it's just the two of you lying next to each other, relaxed, comforted, and ready to drift off to sleep in each other's presence.
You roll over and catch Gojo staring at you, his bright blue eyes acting like a nightlight in the dark, their crystalline beauty boring into your very soul. It's off-putting, but at the same time, absolutely stunning.
You blink once, twice, and smile.
"What'cha giggling about?" Gojo teases, reaching over and tucking an strand of hair behind your ear.
"You, silly," You laugh, snuggling impossibly closer to him.
"What am I doing that's got you cracking up?" He presses, a goofy grin breaking across his face.
"You look so creepy, staring at me in the dark," You all but cackle in return.
"What?" Gojo gasps, half amused and half mockingly offended. "I'm not creepy!"
"Well....you kinda are?" You tell him. "Your eyes make you look like a cursed doll or something."
"Now you're just being mean," Gojo pouts, turning away from you. "fine, I won't look at you then."
"No, I never said I didn't like it," You say, hurriedly. "your eyes are gorgeous, Satoru, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings."
Gojo answers you with a haughty little "hmph" and refuses to look over at you again. You try to grab him by the shoulders and turn him, but Infinity is preventing you from doing so. Defeated, you slink back over to your side of the bed and sigh disappointedly.
"Alright, Satoru, you win," You grumble. "I admit defeat."
Gojo is still silent, but you figure you can win back his affections with breakfast in bed tomorrow. Satisfied with your plan, you nestle against the pillows, sight, and try to fall asleep. It's only a few minutes before you feel a shift in the bed and an arm wrap itself around your waist. Curious, you open one eye and take a peek.
Gojo's ridiculously bright eyes are staring back at you, and a sweet smile is spread across his face.
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summary: It was very easy to distract him while working on his History of Magic homework. Especially if a focused Remus Lupin is sitting right in front of you, in the dim light of the library.
—“Can you look at this question? I couldn't do it."
You handed the thick book in front of you to Remus, trying to whisper to avoid getting caught by Madame Pince. As Remus slided his chair slightly towards you and pulled the book in front of you, your attention had already turned away from the question.
In the dim light of the library, Remus's face was softer than usual, its lines were more prominent. As you read the writings, you watched him frown slightly, rest one hand on his cheek, and the pencil in the other hand spin rhythmically between his fingers.
That serious expression he put on when he was just focused...
You completely forgot the question. Because Remus Lupin was strangely too attractive when he thought about it.
The silence was prolonged.
The rustling of the old pages, the soft whispers from the distant shelves, and those small, thoughtful murmurs that escaped Remus' lips filled the room:
“Hmm... No, it's not like that...”
Then he suddenly raised his head. "Okay, I found it."
You straightened up reflexively "How?"
Remus pointed to the lines in the book with the tip of his pencil, with that usual calm, instructive tone in his voice: "the date here is not wrong, but the order of events is mixed. That's why you must be confused."
There was a mischievous relief on his face as he spoke. When you looked at him and smiled involuntarily, Remus paused.
—“What?”
You shook your head from side to side, you couldn't hide the grin on your lips. "Nothing."
Remus narrowed his eyes slightly. "You are making fun of me”
"No."
"Yes, you do”
You leaned forward slightly over the table. Lowering your voice, you whispered as if you were telling a secret: "It's just... You look so cute when you think about it."
Remus's hand remained in the air. The pen between his fingers stopped spinning. The tip of his ears turned flame red in seconds. Instantly.
As you leaned back with a triumphant maner, Remus fakely cleared his throat. "...I was just trying to solve the question."
"I know."
"I was serious."
"I know that too."
Remus tried to close the book as if he wanted to hide the redness on his face. "Good, I'm not helping then."
“No, no, okay! I'm sorry," you quickly grabbed his arm. He was giggling silently.
Remus tried to hide that little, warm smile that grew on the edge of his lips, but he couldn't.
When you saw this surrender of him, you put your jaw on your palm and started watching him again. The frowning his eyebrows, his grip on the pen, his slightly biting his lower lip while thinking...
After a while, Remus felt the intense gaze on him and slowly raised his head.
His eyes met yours directly.
"... What's up this time?"
Without any shame, you answered honestly: "I'm watching you."
Remus froze for a few seconds. Then one of his tired but warm enough to melt his smiles spread on his face.
i’m thinking reader and him doing a photo booth together, super squished up in the seat (her lowkey half ontop of him). him all awkward
first kiss!! maybe they’ve been dating, or maybe they’re friends and she’s finally shooting her shot
thank you !! i love ur fics
Thank you so much for requesting some fluff!! I loved this!!
Kurt Kunkle x Fem!Reader.
wc - 1.3k
Dragging Kurt along to the funfair hadn’t been easy. He whined about how he wasn't a teenager anymore, how he should be working as it was halloween, driving these people home instead of being here and pretending to like candied apples. But then you’d grabbed his hand and pulled him through the crowd, and all other thoughts had been forgotten.
Kurt rolled his eyes outwardly, but his heart was thumping in his ears the whole time you pulled him through the funfair. You stopped at the first game you came across, one of those completely rigged ring toss games, but he only watched with affection as you put two dollars down in front of the worker, who was aptly dressed as a vampire, and he handed you three rings. Kurt folded his arms as he watched you hop into your throwing stance, letting out an amused exhale at the concentration in your face, and the way that your tongue poked out as you aimed the first ring. It almost landed, but bounced off at the last second. As did the second ring. And the third. Kurt expected you to be upset, or at least disappointed that you didn’t win a prize. But then you shrugged, your smile just as bright as before.
You also failed at the next four games. One where you had to throw balls at cans that definitely weren’t glued down, another where you had to hook a little duck onto the end of a ridiculously long and hard to control pole, that one you won a little watermelon flavoured candy, which you gave to him. There was another one where you had to throw balls again, but this time at some little, freaky clowns that were supposed to fall backwards. Technically, Kurt thought you should have won that one, because the thor one did go down before it popped back up, but the man working the stall shot him a glare when he opened his mouth, so he stayed quiet and gave you a small, sympathetic smile. The last game was a shooting game. You had to fire a BB gun at targets shaped like Ghostface from Scream, you got four out of five before the game stopped itself. Kurt actually did speak this time.
“Hey man, that’s not fair. She didn’t have enough time.” He gestured at the little figures that were wobbling their way back upright.
“Time’s the name of the game.” The worker said unenthusiastically, not even glancing up from his phone.
“Kurt it’s fine, lets just go play something else.” You said, reaching for his hand but realising it was already in his pocket.
The worker looked up as Kurt placed the money in front of him. “I’d like a go.” He said, swallowing as he felt your eyes on him.
“Sure. Whatever man.” The worker said, pocketing the note and handing Kurt a BB gun.
Kurt aimed the gun at the little figurines, and took down five of them in less than thirty seconds. You blinked at him, watching the way his eyes were trained on the little moving figures, the way his arms moved quickly to aim at each one.
“Kurt!” You grinned excitedly.
Kurt cleared his throat and handed the gun back to the worker with a shaky hand. He took it and gestured at the wall of prizes that only contained stuffed animals. Kurt smiled at you nervously as you glanced over the options.
“Take your pick.” He said, standing next to you with his hands in his pockets. His eyes weren't on the selection of stuffies however. They were on you. The way your eyes glowed in the neon bulbs, the way the October chill had prickled the hair on your arms, the way your hair hung in a loose ponytail. You were looking at one at the top, a big panda. He reached up and grabbed it for you, the stuffie was soft in his hands. He handed it to you with the least nervous smile he could manage, watching as your eyes lit up.
“Thank you.” You grinned, tucking the panda underneath your arm and grabbing his hand again to pull him through the crowd. This time, he didn't drag his feet.
He almost protested when you got to the Ghost Train, but then saw the little pout on your face when he opened his mouth, and rolled his eyes and agreed begrudgingly. The ride itself wasn’t scary. It had an old animatronic werewolf that leaned over you, a statue of Frankenstein’s monster, and another animatronic of a farmer holding a chainsaw. It wasn’t the ride that had his heart racing. It was the way you were both crammed into the seat. Your thigh pressed against his, your fingers next to his on the arm bar, your shoulder flush against his, and the way you looked in the dim purple and red lighting of the ride.
When it finally came to a stop, he got out first and turned to help you out, offering you his hand and catching you when your shoe got stuck on the edge of the cart. You giggled and jumped out, using his hands to leverage yourself.
After sharing a stick of cotton candy, which Kurt insisted you ate most of, you were heading through the last parts of the fair, both deciding to skip the big ride that wobbled on its structure every time it ran, when you saw a little photobooth. You grabbed his hand again, tugging him towards it.
“You go first.” You said, opening the curtain and ushering him inside.
“Uh, there's not really enough room for both of us..” He said once he was sitting on the little bench.
“Well, make room.” You said. When you slid in though, you could see what he meant. You lifted back up and shifted closer, your leg basically over his knee.
“Okay, how many photos does it take?” You asked, squinting your eyes to read the small text by the button.
“Three.” Kurt answered, his voice a little strained from having you practically half in his lap.
You nodded and pressed the button, and a little cartoon duck appeared to count down for the first photo. You held up a peace sign and smiled, tilting your head towards Kurt’s. Kurt lifted his hand with a peace sign too, and smiled awkwardly as the flash went off.
The countdown to the next photo started and you turned to look at Kurt, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and leaning in to kiss his cheek. This had been your plan all along. Your friend and her boyfriend came to this fair last week, and took the cutest photos, and you had the idea to make your move on Kurt like this. You did have the biggest crush on him after all.
Kurt completely froze when your lips touched his cheek and the flash went off, his eyes wide and confused. When you pulled away, he turned his head to look at you, but you didn’t move back, his breath caught when your eyes dropped to his mouth. The little duck started to count down again, but neither of you were paying attention this time. Kurt leaned forward hesitantly, and you met him half way, his eyes fluttering closed as your lips met his, the flash went off, but neither of you cared. His lips slotted against yours clumsily, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to be kissing you. His hand hovered at your waist but didn't touch.
When you pulled back, he leaned back in for a moment before straightening up, and looking at you with wide eyes.
“Wha-”
“I like you.” You said, cutting him off before he could finish.
“I-.. uh.. I like you too.” He stuttered, his eyes darting between yours like he was trying to make sure this was real. You smiled, and the photo strip printed. The three photos framed by a border of pumpkins, and an enthusiastic “Happy Halloween!” at the bottom.
You picked it up and you both looked down at it. Your first kiss captured in all its perfectly awkward glory. And this time when you took Kurt’s hand to lead him back through the fair, his fingers slid between yours like they belonged there.
Lando Norris x gf!reader (though gender isn’t specified and reader is set as a model idk)
summary: Lando Norris wants his girlfriend to move in but doesn’t have the nerve to ask directly, so he starts dropping subtle (and not-so-subtle) hints. She starts catching on.
warnings: none that i can think of. it’s just pure tooth-rotting fluff.
A/N: FIRST WRITTEN FIIICC RAAHHH!!! i’ve had this in my drafts (off tumblr) for weeks. i don’t put my writing many places so this is special 😇 i hope y’all don’t hate it because i kind of love it errmmmm ANYWAYS enjoy! happy reading 🫶 p.s. can one of y’all give me prompts, i’m so lost rn. my asks are always open ♡︎ LOVE U BABIES MWAH 💋
Lando was acting suspicious again.
Not in a cheating way. No—he was still very much the golden retriever boyfriend who texted goodnight with a heart and a photo of his feet hanging off the hotel bed. But suspicious in the “I’m clearly hiding something but I think I’m being slick about it” kind of way.
You first noticed it when you came back from Milan. You’d just wrapped a runway show and all you wanted was to crawl into Lando’s ridiculously oversized bed and not speak to another human for at least twelve hours.
Instead, you walked into his closet to steal one his hoodies, as you usually did, and found your clothes—folded. Color-coded. Already in there.
“You reorganize now?” you asked, raising a brow as he leaned against the doorframe, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he grinned. “It’s practical.”
“Is it?”
“You’re here, like, half the time,” he shrugged. “Makes sense.”
“Except I have a place five minutes from here.”
“Which you barely use.”
He wasn’t wrong. Still. Weird.
—————————————————————————
The next time, it was the bathroom.
A whole drawer. Toothbrush, hairbrush, your favorite moisturizer, that one serum you can never find in the UK—he’d somehow gotten it shipped from Paris. Though, he was Lando Norris, you should’ve expected it.
You squinted at him when you found it.
He shrugged again. “I know your skin freaks out if you switch products. Thought I’d help.”
“I could’ve brought it myself.”
“Yeah, but this way, you don’t have to.” His grin widened. “Aren’t I the best boyfriend ever?”
“You’re something,” you muttered, though your cheeks flushed all the same.
—————————————————————————
But then there were his socks in your designated drawer. Your shampoo replaced by full-sized bottles of his favorites. His phone charger always “accidentally” ending up in your purse. A second key to his flat mysteriously showing up in your handbag, like it walked there itself.
You weren’t dumb. He was doing something. Slowly. Subtly.
But he wouldn’t say it.
Not once did the words “move in” pass his lips. You knew because you’d started counting how many days he danced around it.
Seventeen.
Seventeen days of hints and nudges and one very suspicious IKEA receipt.
So naturally, you decided to make him squirm.
—————————————————————————
“Baby,” you called one afternoon, holding up a pair of his boxers from your laundry basket. “Why is your underwear here?”
Lando peeked up from his phone, lying on the sofa with his feet draped over the armrest. “We share laundry now. Efficient, no?”
“You’re not even here half the week.”
He smirked. “Yet my socks keep ending up in your drawer. Funny, that.”
“Funny…” You narrowed your eyes. “You planning on invading more drawers, Mr. Norris?”
“Just testing the waters,” he said smoothly, like it wasn’t a completely weird thing to say.
You sat beside him, kicking his legs off so you could steal his spot. “You know, normal people ask their girlfriends to move in with them.”
“Is that so?”
“Mhm. It’s this crazy concept called communication. You should try it.”
Lando turned his head, giving you that boyish smile—the one that got him out of trouble and into most people’s hearts. “And if I were to ask you… what would you say?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I get full control of the bathroom cabinet or not.”
“You already have it!”
“Then maybe I’d say yes.”
He grinned, looking relieved. “So, hypothetically… if I didn’t want to ask because it’s terrifying and what if you say no and break my poor fragile heart—”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“—hypothetically, would it be okay if I just kept sneakily merging our lives until one day you wake up and realize we already live together?”
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “That’s literally what you’re doing.”
“Subtlety is a skill.”
“No, it’s avoidance.”
He poked your knee. “It’s a love language.”
“Yours is physical touch and being annoying.”
“And yours is pretending you don’t like when I’m annoying.”
You smiled then, small and soft. The look in your eyes not less amused, but now accompanied by complete fondness and love. “You’re right.”
“I usually am,” he said, full of himself.
You nudged his shoulder. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
He blinked. “Do what?”
“Move in.”
His mouth dropped open for a second. “Wait—you’re serious?”
You shrugged. “You said it, didn’t you? I already basically live here. Might as well make it official.”
Lando stared, like he didn’t believe you. “You want to move in with me? Like… permanently?”
“I’ve tolerated your snoring for over a year. I think I can handle the rest.”
He laughed, pulling you into his arms, half crushing you in a hug, peppering every inch of your face with kisses. “You have no idea how happy you just made me.”
“I think I do,” you said against his chest. “You’ve been plotting this since December.”
“Okay, maybe I’ve had a Pinterest board since November—don’t judge.”
You groaned. “Oh my god. You’re ridiculous.”
“I just wanted it to feel like home. Like ours. Not just mine.”
You pulled back to look at him, my expression softened. It always seemed soften with him. “It already does, Lando.”
His eyes softened, voice gentler. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Because I already ordered us a matching towel set.”
