In The Blink Of A Crinkling Eye // Matt Smith

In the Blink of a Crinkling Eye // Matt Smith

Word Count: 2.8K

Fem Journalist x Matt Smith

{This is truly just the longest meet cute because they’re my favorite thing to write}

Warnings: None besides cursing and use of Y/N; smut in part two

“Clover, no!” you chastise, rushing to grab the puppy who’d somehow escaped the holding pen your team built. You’d wanted to be a journalist for as long as you could remember but this wasn’t quite what you’d imagined yourself doing–wrangling puppies while waiting for your interview subjects to arrive. 

“She’s a clever one, isn’t she?” you hear a deep, amused voice say from behind you. 

“I wouldn’t give her too much credit, I’m sure Daisy and Willow helped her out” you reply, your eyes unexpectedly meeting curious hazel ones. “Is everything okay?”

His brows furrow, “Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”

You glance down at your phone, holding the wriggly puppy closer to your chest to avoid a kamikaze situation. “Because no one’s due on set for another half hour.” 

“I can leave if you’d like,” he offers, his smile turning uncertain. 

“No, of course not” you shake your head, offering your free hand to him, “I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Matt, lovely to meet you. I couldn’t resist coming out to get some extra time with these little guys” he grins, releasing your hand only to hold his palms up. “Clover, right?”

“Yes, she’s litter mates with Willow and Daisy,” you reply, pointing them out in their pen after handing Clover to him. “And then there’s Leo, Frankie, and Gertrude. They’re all from different litters, the last of their siblings in the shelter.”

“Poor little things” Matt coos, gently placing Clover back where she belongs before reaching down to grab one of the strays.

“Wait, no not her” you jump in, scooping Gertrude into your arms before Matt can. 

“Is she nippy or something?” he asks, head quirking in confusion. 

“No, I think I might be taking her home today. I wouldn’t want you to get too attached.” 

Matt throws his head back in laughter, “Hazards of the job I suppose?”

“Kind of” you shrug, gently stroking Gertrude’s soft fur. “My roommate’s been begging for a pet for months now and little Trudy here is just too sweet.” Seemingly in response, the little dog lifts her head to briefly lick your chin before settling in for a nap in your arms. 

“Now that is too precious,” Matt says, smiling softly and retrieving his phone from his pocket. “Want me to take a photo?” 

“I’m sure I look a mess, I’ve been running around all morning” you laugh.

“Nonsense, you look great. Trust me, you’ll want this–smile!” he cheers and you laugh looking into the camera. “Gorgeous” he compliments and you ignore the swoop of your stomach. 

“Let me see” you request, moving to his side as he angles his screen towards you. You’re pleasantly surprised to see that while you look flushed from running around, your hair and makeup have miraculously stayed in place. “Aw, doesn’t she look too cute? All tuckered out already.” 

“What’s your number? I can forward you this if you’d like” he offers and you do something you’ve never done before–flirt with a guest.

“If you wanted my number you could’ve just asked from the get go” you tease, eyes flicking up to meet his.

His smile curls up higher on one side, “Well you see, now I’ll have your number and this beautiful photo for your contact.”

“Well played then” you reply, listing off your number for him. You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket but don't move from his side. 

“How long have you been working with Buzzfeed?” he questions, turning to face you directly. 

“A little over a year, it’s certainly a unique place to have landed.” 

“You don’t like it” he replies instantly and your eyes widen.

“I didn’t say that…”

“But it’s what you mean, no?” he pushes, not breaking eye contact. 

“Why, are you aiming to take my job?” 

He chuckles and shakes his head, not offering you a way out except to answer the question. 

“I’m a writer. So, ideally one of my books or screenplays end up in the right hands. Or, if not, I’d really like to do print work. Spending lots of time with someone, or a group of someones, and writing a more in depth piece about their process, the work, whatever. Like, we got the screener for the first half of this season, right? You know how many questions I want to ask about the cinematography or an acting choice, or a certain shot? Instead, we have these cutesy questions prepared.” 

That makes him laugh but you feel vulnerable, exposed after offering so much to a stranger, especially one you’re meeting at work. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t professional of me. I really do appreciate this job.” 

“Hey, no apologies. I’m the one that asked, aren’t I? I appreciate your honesty.”

You nod, a slightly awkward silence descending between you. Matt breaks it by leaning down to pick up Leo who promptly bites his finger. 

“Shit, are you okay?” you ask, biting your lips to repress the laugh bubbling up in your chest. Matt’s face is the portrait of shock and outrage even though you can tell Leo’s teeth barely broke his skin. 

“I think I’m alright” he replies, seriously inspecting his finger and a little giggle escapes your mouth. His eyes leap up to yours and his frown deepens at the amusement he sees on your face. “Well, go on then.”

At his begrudging permission, you burst into laughter settling a now grumpy Gertrude into her pen. You make your way back to where the first aid kit is, your sides turning sore from laughter that won’t cease. You wave Matt over and he morosely makes his way to you, plopping down in the seat you direct him towards. 

“I’m sorry” you offer as you sit opposite him, unzipping the bag. “It’s really not even that funny but now I just have the giggles.” 

“You’re forgiven, if only because your laugh is the most joyous sound I’ve heard all day.”

His compliment does what his annoyance couldn’t–rips the laughter from your throat. You gaze into his eyes, expecting to see jest but find none. “That’s kind of you.”

“It’s the truth.”

A different kind of tension simmers in this silence. “May I?” you request, reaching for him. His calloused hand lands in yours and you lean closer, inspecting the tiny cut on his pointer finger. You pull an alcohol wipe from the kit and wrap it as gently as you can around his cut before quickly replacing it with a bandage. “Good as new.” 

“You could look into nursing you know” he responds gently and you meet his intense gaze. The moment seems to stretch eternally with you lost in the green and brown shades of his eyes. A door slams open, jarring  you two apart and making you realize you’d been holding onto his hand just as it slips away. 

“Looks like it’s show time” you force a smile as you stand. “Think you can manage with this grievous injury?”

He returns your smile, nodding, “I think so but have the medics on standby just in case.” 

***

Luckily, the interview goes smoothly, jokes being made all around at Matt’s injury and another round unleashing when he’s nipped again while filming. As you drive home, Gertrude beside you, you work to convince yourself you’d been imagining things. That Matt had simply been friendly and naturally charismatic, not that there’d been any kind of spark. And that he most definitely hadn't lingered after you’d thanked him and his castmates, eyes boring into your back, before finally following them out onto the New York City streets. And you certainly weren’t still lost in those thoughts as you placed the wiggly puppy in your roommate, Sage’s, arms. 

“She’s perfect, isn’t she?” 

“She almost got swept up by Matt Smith” you joke and her eyes widen.

“I forgot that was today, how was it?”

“Good, everything went smoothly.” 

“...but?” 

“But what?” 

“But why does your face look like that?”

“Fuck you, it was a long day.” 

“Bullshit” she argues and you glare at her. “I’ll wait.”

“I was just deluding myself that’s all.” She waits expectantly and you sigh, throwing up your hands. “I had myself half convinced that Matt Smith tried to sweep me up.” 

“Tell me everything.” 

And you would have, if your phone didn’t buzz in your pocket. Sage pointedly rolls her eyes as you pause the conversation to check your phone just in case it’s a work issue. Your heart drops which must’ve reflected on your face because she’s beside you, reading over your shoulder, a second later.

Hi it’s Matt

Well, you know that obviously. 

I mean to ask, are you free tonight? 

“Tell me everything right the fuck now Y/N/N or I swear to God.” You quickly fill her in, all while attempting to decide what to do. “Just answer, see why he’s asking.”

“Wouldn’t it be a conflict of interest?”

The look Sage shoots you could melt steel, “Respectfully, you primarily do puppy interviews at Buzzfeed. Answer him.” You couldn’t argue with her logic even though you wanted to.

I just got home but have nothing in the books. Why do you ask?

Would you want to meet with us at a pub near our hotel? Everyone loved working with you. 

Who’s everyone? 

You do love questions, don’t you? 

Emboldened by having a screen between you, you allow him to see you’d read the message on What’s App but don’t type a reply. Within a moment, he begins typing again:

All of us, but especially me. 

One condition

Anything. 

I can ask you about the Harrenhal sequences

Off the record of course

That’s all? You shouldn’t be thinking so small. 

I want to make sure I have you in my thrall a bit more before asking for your banking information. 

Can we compromise with drinks on me?

Text me the place and time and I’ll see if I can make it

***

“I knew you were bullshitting us.” Fabien cackles from beside Matt, who rolls his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time already tonight.

“Lay off him, Fabs, he’s about to be stood up after all” Olivia replies, doing a terrible job of hiding her own laughter. 

“It’s only half past. She’s a New Yorker, it’d have been weird if she showed up exactly at 9…maybe she’s nervous?” Emma offers. 

“What, about meeting up with the Great Matthew Smith for drinks?” Fabien retorts and even Emma can’t fight their smile at his expense. 

“Thank god I have you lot to keep me humble” Matt grumbles, getting up and stalking over to the bar to get another round. He sighs to himself, scrubbing his hands down his face as he waits for the bartender to mix his drink. 

He knew it had been a bad idea to text you. You were simply being professional and he’d unfairly pushed you into meeting up for a drink. It had been Emma’s idea to have the whole group there so it felt less like a date, sensing his unease about asking you out directly. Their advice was much more helpful than Fabien’s goading and Olivia enthusiastically endorsed Emma’s plan if only to be able to snoop.

He grabs his drink and begins heading back to the booth when your distinctive laughter makes his steps briefly falter. Nerves flood his system and he rolls his eyes at himself. You're acting like a schoolboy, he chastises but he can’t help himself. He feels drawn to you in a way he hasn’t felt to anyone else in a long, long time. As he rounds the corner, his eyes find yours immediately. Unsurprisingly, his friends have placed you right beside his vacant spot which he is both grateful for and exacerbated by–again, so secondary school of them all. 

“Hey, you made it!” he exclaims as he sits beside you. 

“I’m sorry I’m a bit late, Sage took far too long at the petstore getting Miss Trudy’s supplies. Oh, wait, how’d you know I love vodka crans? What a gentleman” you grin, plucking the drink from his hands and taking a deep sip. 

“Just another thing we have in common, it appears.” 

“In addition to?” 

“Our love of dogs, of course.”

“Ah, if only the dogs loved him back” Olivia goads and you let loose another glorious giggle. 

“How are your wounds doing?” you tease, eyes sparkling in the dim light. 

“Fine for now but I may need a skilled medic later to assist with bandage changes.”

“I suppose I could help if you can’t find anyone with the proper training.” 

“Very generous of you, Y/N.” 

“I aim to serve. Also, here, I wouldn’t want to actually steal your whole drink” you acquiesced, sliding the drink into his waiting hand. He lifts the glass to his mouth, taking a long sip while your eyes bore into his. You have such an unflinching way of appraising people, remaining present even while nothing’s being said, and he’s entranced by this. 

“I don’t mind sharing,” he replies quietly, gently grasping your hand and easing the glass back into it. He doesn’t release your hand or your gaze and, for once, his friends around the table are silent which he would’ve previously believed to be impossible. He faintly hears Emma and Olivia excusing themselves to the restroom as Fabien chugs his beer just to go refill it. 

“We really cleared the table, huh?” Your faint words barely reach him despite your closeness. 

“All the better if you ask me” he replies, heart thumping at the grin his comment earns. 

“Do you do this often?” you ask, head tilting and eyes sharp. 

“Do what?”

“Charm women you meet in your line of work?” 

He can’t fight the smile that splits his face–he could banter with you for eternity, he fears. “No, of course not. I have a reputation to uphold after all.” 

“What reputation?”

“Are you implying my gentlemanly reputation doesn’t proceed me?”

“Are you implying you’re of such stature I looked into you before today?” 

“I’d assumed you were good at your job but you can correct me if I’m wrong.” 

“I am excellent at my job” you retort, eyes narrowing dangerously. 

“Well, then what’s my reputation?”

“You’re a classic Scorpio.”

“What?” he asks, genuinely perplexed. He notes the smirk that quirks your lips–you’d intended to throw him off his game. Well played, then.

“Scorpios are charming, easily pulling people into their orbit. But they also tend to be deep thinkers who hide behind that charisma to keep everyone at a distance despite being surrounded by people.” 

He could hardly catch his breath–have you truly seen through him so easily? “Meaning?”

“Meaning that despite being in this business for decades, not much is actually known about you. Glowing comments from everyone who’s ever worked with you, surface level reporting on a few previous public relationships, but nothing of much substance despite the countless interviews and press junkets you’ve done over the years.” 

“Does that bother you?”

“No, it intrigues me. But it also makes me weary.” 

“Why’s that?” he questions, heart sinking. 

“I may not be doing groundbreaking work right now but I value my career. So much of this business, and publishing, is based on word of mouth, having people speak well of you from previous projects. I’d hate to think this was a fun game for you when it could ruin my credibility.” 

He chuckles to himself and your eyes flash. “They had to convince me to ask you out.”

“What?” you recoil at his words and he desperately wants to pull you back to him.

“I knew from our conversation earlier today you have ambitions and I’d never want to come between you and them. You’re insightful and have a sharp mind, I’m sure your writing reflects that. But they convinced me I was just giving myself an out so I wouldn’t have to risk your rejection.”

Your head tilts at his words, eyes appraising him in a way that lays him bare before you. “I think you were right,” you acknowledge. “But so were they.” 

He couldn't tear himself away from you if he tried. He can only guess what’s going on in your head but your eyes reveal how countless thoughts are flowing behind them, calculations being drawn up, quick decisions being made. 

“I love this song” you say quietly, throwing back all but a swallow of your shared drink, which you then offer to him. “Dance with me?”

He holds your gaze as he slowly consumes the last bits of vodka before extending his hand. “It would be my pleasure.”

So, I clearly am incapable of writing a brief meet cute but I can’t help myself. I have loads of ideas where this could go so any feedback would be much appreciated! I’ve never written for actors before but I hope y’all enjoyed 🫶🏻

babygirl coded 🎀

touch-starvation needs to be written with emphasis on the starving part. you are hungry to be touched. so hungry that even the very taste of it makes you nauseous. it has been long since anything has ever touched you, ever fed you - that your body has grown more used to that gnawing emptiness more than anything else. it's better for you to be held, to eat but it makes you sick to try. you know

Broken Chords: Slow dancing in a burning room

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: I don't even know what to say, I couldn't not write it.

Summary: the morning after their night together, Andrew and Y/n struggle to deal with the aftermath of their tattered relationship.

Warnings: Angst.

Read part one here.

She's up before he is. Y/n actually thinks she can remember every time he’s woken up before her; usually on her birthday or sometimes on their anniversary – when he remembers it – to make her breakfast and tea. Outside of those days though, she can count on Andrew waking up at around nine or ten in the morning – unless he’s going for a swim with his buddies.

And even then, when he gets back at seven, just because he knows it’ll annoy her, he’d strip down to his boxers and get back into bed next to her, smelling of the sea and pressing his salty body as close to hers as possible. He’ll stay there until he convinces her to get into the shower with him, which never really took that much effort at all.

Bringing herself back into the moment, Y/n carefully extracts herself from Andrew’s embrace and sits up against the headboard. Gathering the sheets over her chest, she watches him sleep; the even breaths keeping his lips parted ever so slightly, the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders and the hair strewn over his face. Because Andrew’s always been a fairly strong sleeper, she doesn’t think much of it when she reaches over to move a few messy strands away from his cheek, letting the back of her fingers linger near his jaw.

She misses that; being the only person he’d let get that close. Touch his face, hold his hand, taste the whiskey right off his lips.

Y/n used to think she'd do it forever. Or at least, for the rest of their lives. But she knows Andrew well enough to know that it probably isn’t in the cards for them. Every time they’re together, it takes everything in her being to remember that the pair of them aren’t exactly compatible – sometimes love isn’t enough.

Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much you feel, or how deeply you feel it, it just isn’t enough. The compromises start feeling like a chore and the sacrifices become another way to punish yourself.

After ghosting her thumb along the top of his cheek, Y/n finally pulls her hand away. A quick glance at the clock mounted to the wall proves that she’s long missed her flight, but of course, she doesn't mind if it means soaking up a couple more hours with him – and delaying the inevitable.

The hurt in his eyes. The promises that it won’t happen again. The way he doesn’t let her hand go, even as she’s walking away, so the very tips of their fingers are touching until they're literally out of each other’s reach.

That last kiss until the next one, the one that neither of them wants to break because in that moment, the just the thought of not doing it again is far too much.

The inevitable; getting on that plane and going home. Crying in the shower and then stripping the sheets off her bed because they make her think of him.

But in the essence of delaying the inevitable, she doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Shoving the blanket away, Y/n slips out of bed and snatches Andrew’s shirt from the night before off the floor. The fabric is silky and cool as it settles on her shoulders, and the hem falls past the middle of her thighs. She closes up a few buttons and then rolls up the sleeves so they aren’t swallowing her hands up before stealing away to the bathroom to quickly freshen up.

By the time she emerges from the small, adjoining bathroom, Andrew has turned onto his stomach and stretched an arm out to the vacant spot on the bed. The sheets are even more of a mess then before and she’s barely resisting the urge to get back in next to him; tuck herself under the weight of his arm and feel warmth rise up in her chest when he pulls her against his own.

Though, when another cautious step forward consequents her accidentally kicking his pants from the night before, Y/n stops to look at them on the floor. There’s something sticking out of the pocket, she can see enough of it to peak her interest but not enough to know what it is. So she picks it up.

A picture.

She sucks in a sharp breath upon seeing the image, immediately recalling exactly when it was taken. London; October 5th, 2019. Though, considering what they’d gotten up to that night, it could have very well been the earliest hours of October sixth.

Sinking to the floor, she presses her back to the side of the ottoman near the foot of the bed. Everything about that night is so clear to her; the energy radiating off him right before the show, the roughness of his denim jacket when he’d draped it over her shoulders as they walked back to the car that would take them to the hotel. The taste of his mouth; whiskey, and something sweet.

The sound of his voice every time he said, “tonight’s gonna be special.”

In retrospect, October fifth – or sixth – was really the night that changed everything. The beginning of the end.

“Morning.” Y/n jumps a little when Andrew’s voice startles her out of her little trip down memory late. She must’ve been lost in thought for a while, because when she glances up at him, the mess of his hair has been remedied by long, tired fingers and he’s pulled on his boxers.

“Morning,” she mumbles, looking down at the picture again, “I didn’t realize you still had this."

Andrew shrugs, sinking down onto the floor in front of her, “its been right where you left it.” I’ve been right where you left me, he wants to add, but holds his tongue. He watches intently as she traces the pad of her thumb over the image of them on a hotel room sofa, with plastic cups filled with booze in their hands and her half-sat on his lap. God, the weight of her in his arms; he’ll do anything to make that a staple of his life again.

“I thought you were gonna propose that night,” she elicits softly, head still bent.

“What?” He rasps, furrowing his brows.

Y/n shakes her head, feeling silly about it all these years later. “You kept saying that it was a special night.”

“I meant-”

“I know what you meant now,” she swallows harshly, “and I know you –I knew you. So I should've known better. But I was so…..caught up in wanting that with you, I guess I’d hoped you changed your mind.” He’d always been so clear that marriage, and maybe even kids, wasn’t something he was very interested in, and for years Y/n had convinced herself that she loved him more than she wanted either of those things.

But then her friends started getting married and having babies, and suddenly, and ache in her yawned open. Was she really going to miss out on half her life for a man who shied away from talking about her after they’d been together for almost three years.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Andrew slumps his shoulders, “we could’ve gotten through it, you didn’t have to leave–”

“Well I definitely couldn’t stay,” Y/n cuts him off, tone harsher than she intends, “it was never gonna work out, Andy. We were never getting past that.”

“It was just a misunderstanding,” he re-emphasizes.

“It was more than that,” when she looks up at him again, her eyes are shining and her lips are shaking ever so slightly, “I want something from you that I am never going to get.”

“Why isn't it enough to just be with me?” He asks, long fingers ghosting the side of her face in a touch so heavy it almost isn’t there.

A soft, almost silent scoff breaks her lips and Andrew notes the shine of fresh tears in her eyes. “Would it really be that bad?” Her gaze shifts as she searches his eyes, “Being married to me,” Y/n clarifies in a wounded, hushed tone, “Would it really be that bad?”

Pulling his hand away, Andrew scrubs it over his face, “its not like that,” he promises, “I just don’t get why its important to you.”

Okay, so maybe not anything.

“Why isn’t it important to you?” And just like that, they’re having the same fight they had two years ago, when she said she he couldn’t wait and he’d told her that it didn’t matter if she did. He’s never understood her obsession with marriage, the way Andew sees it, he’s committed to her in every way that matters, getting married will only make things difficult.

Scrubbing his hand over his mouth, Andrew leans back into his chair, “Because I know that I wanna be with you right now, and that’s enough for me. Look,” he suspires heavily, “marriage is tough. Besides people get married all the time and then just get divorced two years later-”

“And some people stay married for fifty years,” Y/n counters defiantly, “so what the fuck is your point?”

“I’m just saying; that might not be us,” he stands and takes a couple steps back to lean against the small round table near the window. When Y/n’s response isn't anything more than an irritated scoff and a glance towards her right, Andrew relents, “maybe I should go.”

“Yeah, you should,” she agrees with haste. She doesn’t look at him as he snatches his pants off the floor before disappearing into the bathroom. The minute shuts the door, though, a hitched sob leaks off her lips and Y/n has to press her hand to her mouth to quiet them. Trying –and failing– to contain her tears, she looks at the picture again and its hard to wrap her head around the fact that the man holding her there, whose arms she’d felt safest in, is the same one seemingly determined to break her heart.

God, she misses him.

Oddly enough, the only comfort she wants at the moment is his. It must be the most visions cycle to be caught in; have him inflict the pain and then seek him out to dress the wounds.

Y/n doesn't know how long she stays there, or how long Andrew lingers in the bathroom, but its long enough for her tears to slow and her legs to start feeling tingly.

At least he's here right now, something in the back of her mind urges. And she doesn't want to leave things the way they are.

Pushing off the floor, Y/n discards the picture on the unmade bed and pads over the bathroom door. “Andy?” Her knuckles hit the cool wood without much force, and after three brief taps, she pressed her cheek to it. “Can I come in?”

She hears the tap turn on and then off again, followed by a brief rustling and then; “yeah.”

He's at the sink, and despite the white hand towel strewn on the counter, his face is still damp and his eyes are red rimmed. His slacks are on the counter too, and it takes a minute before he looks away from his reflection in the wide mirror to regard her. “I thought you might want your shirt back,” she shrugs, fingers fiddling with the top button.

“Yeah, you can just….” He trails off when she starts undoing the buttons, and upon realizing that she isn't wearing anything underneath, he sucks in a sharp breath.

“I'm gonna take a shower,” she hums, as his shirt slides off her shoulders and billows to the tiled floor. Briefly tipping her chin to meet his gaze, Y/n moves past him, her shoulder brushing his arm.

She slides the door closed, but it doesn't make much of a difference considering it's made of totally transparent glass.

“Fuck,” Andrew drags his lower lip through his teeth. Part of him wants to pick up his clothes and leave; if going back to her after the reception was bad, then this is just down right toxic. But she’s upset, and so is he, and she’s usually the only person he wants to be around when he feels like that.

He thinks there’s a physical pull as he approaches the glass door. Ridding himself of his boxers, he steps into the shower and outstretches his arm to invite her against his chest, and Y/n steps into his embrace. Her arms go around his middle and she presses her cheek to the center of his chest and Andrew smoothens his hand over her wet hair. “I was supposed to be made for you,” Y/n professes softly, “I could’ve sworn it.” Andrew can feel the difference between her tears and the water raining down on them. They’re warmer, they feel like acid on his skin.

Besides, it doesn’t seem right to leave things on a sour note.

What if it really is the last time? It probably won't be, but he doesn't want to leave it to chance.

He doesn't want to leave at all.

He doesn’t know what to say to her; sometimes it feels like she is made for him. The shape of her body is practically molded to fit his, but it's so much more than that. Its the way she laughs at his worst jokes, the way it feels when she runs her fingers through his hair. He’s written songs for her – no other woman has ever been as much of a muse as Y/n has. Its in the small things; like how her laugh is one of his favorite sounds and they like the same kind of wine.

Its in the biggest things; like how he can only stand to have her around when it feels like everything is falling apart around him – or coming together.

Bending his head, Andrew kisses her hair. “I’m sorry,” he utters, realizing, for the first time, that she’s just as caught up in that tangled mess as he is;

they’ll always go back to each other, because there’s nowhere else to go.

fanfiction is so beautiful because what do you mean i can read the same characters falling in love 92737389 times in different scenarios and not get tired of it.

For those who needed to hear it today