𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐓

Guys I just fell into a rabbit hole of Timothée Chalamet fanfics early in the morning !

Uhh I’m dying for like angsty fluff w lee so I was thinking about him w the B1 prompt

Not when I just realized

Lee just realized how much you really meant to him.

Lee (bones and all) x eater!reader

requested by anon.

word count: 687

warnings: attempts of running away

note: i hope this was angsty-fluff just the way you wanted 🪼

find more here: masterlist, Lee (bones and all) master list

The night air was heavy with the smell of wet earth and something else, something darker, metallic, that neither of you would admit to but both recognized. Lee's truck idled a few feet away, parked quietly, headlights slicing through the trees. The two of you stood just off the dirt road, your breathing shallow, your hands shaking at your sides.

You had attempted to escape. You truly had. But Lee was faster. He always was.

You waited for him to sleep, his breathing slow and steady next to you, before you slipped out of the truck. You crept cautiously, not wanting the dry leaves and twigs lying about to give away your footsteps. Your scuffed drawstring bag, stuffed with what little you had to bring—an additional shirt, a canteen of water, a handful of crumpled dollar bills—was thrown over your shoulder as you set foot into the great unknown.

You didn't know where you were headed. Just away. Away from the starvation, from the things you'd done, from the boy who had somehow occupied your whole world.

You'd gone a mile before you noticed his footsteps behind you. Quick, firm.

"Stop," Lee had bellowed, his tone brusque, slicing across the stillness of the woods.

Your heart had raced, but you hadn't turned. Not yet. Not until he slipped his hand around your wrist, tight but not unkind, and stopped you in your tracks. You could have struggled, could have screamed. But you knew he'd never release you without a battle. 

And so here you stood, motionless, suspended between what you had and what still lay between you.

"Where you gonna go?" His voice was gentler than you anticipated, but there was something naked in it, something desperate.

You didn't look at the darkness ahead. "I don't know."

"Bullshit."

You turned, your eyes colliding with his. Even in the dim light, you could sense the fear behind them. Not anger. Not frustration. Fear. And it destroyed you.

"You always knew this wasn't forever," you whispered.

Lee shook his head, moving closer. His fingers curled as if he wanted to touch you but wasn't certain you'd allow it. "I never knew that," he whispered, his voice rough. "I never considered it like that. You leaving—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "You can't leave me now. Not when I just figured out how much you mean to me."

Your chest hurt, as if something in you had been sucked out. You wished to yell at him, inform him that he did not get to do this, to pull you back when it was simple and hold on tight when you attempted to leave.

Instead, you swallowed hard. "You'll be alright."

"That isn't true," he stated, his voice cracking. "You know that isn't true. You're the only one who knows."

Your throat constricted. Naturally, you did know. Who but another Eater would comprehend the hunger, the isolation, the way the world would ever reject you? You and Lee had lived together for so long now, traveling from spot to spot, protecting each other, feeding each other. And you were the one attempting to leave now, as if that was even an option.

"Stay," he begged. "I'll get it right next time. I won't exclude you, I promise.”

You hunted his features for the deceit, but none was there. Only Lee, naked and open in a fashion, ever exposed himself to anyone. You did not want to go; reality seeped into your joints like a wound. You'd only been frightened. Frightened of needing him so intensely.

Your fingers quivered, reflecting his, before you finally bridged the space between you, nudging your forehead against his. Lee breathed shakily, his hands staying at your waist, awaiting the invitation. You granted it by inclining towards him, allowing his heat to anchor you.

“I hate you for keeping me here," you whispered.

Lee released a wheezy, half-laugh, angling his head just so that your lips skimmed. "I'd hate me too."

And despite everything, despite the hunger, the danger, the blood that would always stain both of your hands, you weren’t going anywhere.

changed my navigation again... looks good? need thoughts

Timothée's tiny soulmate

Tiny hands, big love, and a dad wrapped around her finger.

pairings: Timothée Chalamet x Fem!reader

word count: 2.3K

warnings: Fluff, a bit of jerk Timothée for a few moments, childbirth

note: First chapter to my new series.. Girl Dad Diaries !

more here: Girl Dad Diaries masterlist, masterlist

You and Timothée had been married for two years, and today, December 27, just two days after Christmas, was his birthday. A week ago, you found out you were pregnant with his child. It hadn’t been planned, but neither of you was against the idea; if anything, it felt like perfect timing. To surprise him, you wrapped a small, slender box and tied a little bow on top. Inside, you placed five clean, positive pregnancy tests—your quiet, heartfelt way of saying, We’re having a baby. 

You also got him a new iPad for his birthday.

Why not? Right? Were you spoiling him? Maybe just a little. In five days, Timothée Chalamet was getting a brand-new MacBook, an iPad, and, though he didn’t know it yet, a baby. So yeah, you were spoiling him. But if anyone deserved it, it was him.

You woke up bright and early, long before he stirred. The house was still dark except for the faint glow of the Christmas lights strung across the living room, and the soft scent of cinnamon and pine lingered in the air from the candles you'd been lighting all week. Slipping out of bed as quietly as you could, you tiptoed through the house, grabbing your slippers and hoodie before heading out to the garage. That’s where you’d hidden the gifts—you knew he wouldn’t think to check your car.

Moments later, you returned with both boxes in hand. One was a sleek Apple box, the other longer and thinner, wrapped with extra care and a little satin bow. You placed the thinner one 6to the side for now. That surprise would come last.

Carefully, you placed the iPad box on the bed and leaned over him, brushing the hair from his face. You kissed his forehead gently.

"My love," you whispered sweetly.

He groaned in protest, rolling over and tugging the blanket over his head. "Nooo..."

You giggled. "C'mon, birthday boy. Wake up."

He peeked out with one eye. His curls were a mess, his voice groggy. "What time is it?"

"Too early," you admitted, laughing softly, "but I couldn't wait."

He sighed dramatically. "This better be worth it."

You grinned and placed the gift on his chest. "It is. Open it."

He sat up slowly, yawning as he pulled at the wrapping paper. The second he saw the Apple logo, his eyes widened.

"No way..." he murmured. "You got me the iPad, too?"

You gave him an innocent shrug. "I mean, you need something portable for travel. The MacBook is for editing and writing, the iPad is for movies and drawing. Practical, right?"

He just stared at you. "You're insane."

"Maybe," you replied playfully, crawling back into bed beside him. "But I love you."

He leaned over and kissed you, lingering a bit longer than necessary. "I love you more. You really didn’t have to do this."

"I wanted to. You deserve it."

He was already powering it on, a boyish grin on his face. "Okay, yeah. This is amazing. You're amazing. I feel so spoiled."

You smiled to yourself, glancing at the still-wrapped box on the nightstand.

"Oh," you said casually, "there's one more."

He blinked, still distracted by his new iPad. "More? Babe, you already went overboard. What is it, socks? A sweater?"

You chuckled nervously. "Not exactly. Here. Open it."

You handed him the smaller, longer box, wrapped with a delicate little bow. He looked at you suspiciously but took it, tearing the wrapping slowly.

He lifted the lid and stared.

Five pregnancy tests. All positive. All clean. Lined neatly in a row.

His jaw dropped slightly. He didn’t say anything for a solid ten seconds.

"Wait..." he finally breathed. "Are these... are these real?"

You nodded, heart pounding. "I found out last week. I wanted to tell you in a special way. Surprise."

He looked back down at the tests, then up at you, eyes glassy with disbelief. "We're having a baby?"

You smiled, your voice soft. "Yeah. We are."

He let out a breathless laugh, dropping his head into his hands for a moment before looking at you again, overwhelmed but glowing. "Oh my god. I... I don't even know what to say."

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You don't have to say anything. Just hold me."

He pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you tighter than ever.

"This is the best birthday of my life," he whispered into your hair. "A MacBook, an iPad, and a baby? I don't think anything could top this."

You laughed. "Well, don't get used to this kind of treatment every year."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "Too late. I'm officially spoiled for life."

The first trimester was a whirlwind of emotions and adjustments. You cried often—when your jeans didn’t fit, when nothing satisfied your hunger, or just because. Your body was changing fast, and so was your world. Timothée stayed grounded through it all, holding you close when you broke down, whispering soft reassurances. He even cleared out a guest room and began turning it into a nursery—the one with the big window you loved. Inspired by your love for stars, you both chose a space theme, spending countless hours researching baby essentials. Timothée was convinced it was a boy; you secretly hoped for a girl. You decided to wait until the birth to find out.

The second trimester brought a little relief from the nausea, but new aches took over. Leggings became your daily uniform, much to your embarrassment as a touring singer. Still, with Timothée’s unwavering support, you embraced the changes. You announced your pregnancy mid-tour, keeping the details private, and fans adored the mystery. Meanwhile, your craving for cucumbers spiraled—chopped, dipped, and topped with anything you could think of. Timothée kept a cooler of them backstage and even tried your wildest combos. You laughed, nested, your belly grew, and the nursery became a dreamy little galaxy.

By the third trimester, everything was harder. Sleep was a battle of pillows and shifting positions, and you were always too hot, too tired, or too emotional. Swollen fingers forced you to take off your rings—Timothée lovingly put them on a chain around your neck. Performing felt heavier, but fans cheered louder than ever when the baby kicked mid-song. Cravings got weirder, nesting became an obsession, and you repacked the hospital bag more times than you could count. Through it all, Timothée stayed close—singing to your belly, rubbing your feet, and reminding you how strong you were.

You were sore, swollen, and ready. Nervous, but full of love. The best part was just around the corner.

Then, the day finally came when your water broke. The hospital room buzzed with low voices and the steady beeping of machines, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat and the rhythmic sound of your breathing. Hours had passed in a blur of contractions and sweat, your grip on Timothée’s hand never loosening, even when your fingernails dug into his skin. He didn’t complain once. He stayed right beside you, brushing damp hair from your face, whispering encouragements through every cry, every wave of pain.

“You’re doing so good,” he kept saying. “He’s—uh—they’re almost here.” He still stumbled over the pronouns sometimes, trying to avoid guessing, but you could tell he hadn’t fully let go of the idea that it might be a boy.

You were too focused on surviving the next contraction to care.

Then, finally, it happened. One more push, one last scream—and the room exploded into sound. A sharp, high-pitched cry filled the air, and the doctor smiled as she lifted the baby up.

“It’s a girl,” she announced, beaming.

You blinked through your tears and turned to Timothée. But instead of the cheer or the gasp you’d expected, he went oddly quiet.

“A girl?” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

It wasn’t disappointment exactly—not in the way that stung. But for a moment, you saw the flicker in his expression. A beat of surprise. Of recalibration. He had been so sure. Had spoken to your belly like a boy was listening. Had joked about teaching “his son” guitar.

But before you could even speak, they placed her, tiny, pink, wailing, into his arms.

And everything changed.

Timothée looked down at her, and whatever expectation he had crumbled in an instant. His whole face softened, like someone had knocked the wind out of him in the gentlest way. His eyes brimmed with tears as he adjusted his hold on her, already protective, already in love.

“Elodie,” he whispered, like her name had been waiting on his tongue this whole time. “Hi, baby girl.”

Then he looked at you, and though he was clearly trying to be composed, his voice cracked as he admitted, “I thought I wanted a boy. But… she’s perfect. It was always supposed to be her.”

You smiled through your exhaustion, through your own tears, and reached for him, your daughter tucked between you like the softest miracle.

A week in the hospital felt like a slow dream, both calming and surreal. The days blurred into each other in a haze of soft lullabies, nurse check-ins, and the gentle hum of machines that beeped and blinked with their rhythm. Every few hours, someone would enter the room to examine Elodie, check your vitals, ask questions, and smile politely. The food was bland, the lighting too harsh, and the beds not quite soft enough, but none of that mattered. You had her. She was here.

Still, by day seven, you were aching for your home. For the nursery you'd spent months perfecting. For the quiet comfort of your bedroom, your candles, your robes, your slippers. And maybe, selfishly, just a little bit of time without a nurse barging in with a blood pressure cuff when the baby had just fallen asleep.

Timothée was practically bouncing by the time the discharge papers were signed. He packed everything up with the energy of a man who had trained for this moment his entire life. The hospital staff wheeled you down in a chair, your arms wrapped around the infant car seat where Elodie blinked sleepily, her tiny hat pulled low over her forehead. Timothée walked beside you like a proud golden retriever, loaded with bags, snacks, and the biggest grin you’d ever seen on his face.

He double-checked the car seat straps before you left the parking lot. Triple-checked them before pulling out. And then turned in his seat a dozen times during the drive, just to make sure she was still breathing.

When you finally stepped into your home, everything felt different. The air was warmer somehow, the rooms no longer silent but humming with new life. It was like the house had been holding its breath this whole time—and now, with her inside, it finally exhaled.

And from that moment on, Elodie was never far from Timothée’s chest.

You thought you’d be the one who couldn’t let her go, but Timothée became completely, utterly inseparable from your daughter. She was always in his arms, swaddled against his chest in that soft gray wrap he insisted on wearing everywhere. He wore her while making breakfast. While reading. While pacing the living room as she napped. He even wore her while brushing his teeth once. “She likes the vibration,” he shrugged, speaking like he was some kind of baby whisperer.

You joked that you were officially the third wheel now. He didn’t even argue.

Every few hours, when it was your turn to nurse or rock her to sleep, he’d hover just a few inches away. And the moment you were done, he’d scoop her right back up with a breathless, “I missed her.”

You laughed, but you understood. Because watching Timothée fall in love with Elodie was like watching gravity find him again. He melted into fatherhood. The actor, the performer, the dreamer—all of it quieted, softened, sharpened into something tender and fierce. She made him gentler. And braver.

He danced with her often, barefoot in the nursery under the soft light of the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. He’d sway slowly, whispering, “You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, right?” His voice cracked sometimes when he said it. As if he couldn’t believe she was real either.

One night, while you were still adjusting to night feeds and the ache in your body, you found him on the nursery rug with Elodie tucked on his chest. He was humming “Landslide,” eyes closed, tears glistening at the corners. When he saw you, he smiled and whispered, “She likes Fleetwood Mac. She's got taste already.”

He called her his tiny soulmate. You didn’t even mind that he barely looked at you anymore, because when he did, it was usually to say, “Look at her. Just look.”

He was so in love with Elodie that it was almost comedic. One morning, after pulling her gently from your arms, he sat beside you and muttered, “I’d throw myself in front of a bus for her.”

You blinked at him. “You just met her.”

He nodded, serious. “If there was a shooter, I’d use you as a human shield to protect her.”

You stared, speechless.

He gave a crooked little smile. “Don’t take it personally. You had your moment. This one’s hers now.”

But even in all the humor, you could see it. The way she had rewired something in him. His entire world now existed in the space between her breaths.

He wore her in a carrier everywhere: around the house, to the grocery store, even while standing outside in the backyard doing nothing but watching the sky. He kissed her head more times than you could count. He cried the first time she grabbed his finger with intention. He cried harder the first time she smiled.

And you watched it all—this beautiful, chaotic, overwhelming new rhythm of your lives—and thought: We’re going to be okay.

You had your little girl.

And she had the man who would move heaven and earth just to keep her warm.

So good wth😭

Messiah

Navigationˎˊ˗

{𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝} → open ! || requests are usually open unless they get too much, then I will turn them off so that I could finish other requests ! ||

About the blogˎˊ˗

what I do -> write fanfics and on some occasions, headcanons about timothée's characters

what I write about -> Harry Potter, Marauders, Characters played by Timothée, RPF, etc.

P.S. I don't have an upload schedule, but I try to post and make fanfics as much as possible. My stories are best when I am motivated. It keeps the fun and excitement in making these stories when I'm more motivated. :>

masterlist, prompt list

rules and disclaimersˎˊ˗

yes ! → fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, character x reader, mentions of smvt, bl00d/g0re, slow burn, RPF

no ! → smvt, kinks, p3do, non-con

I do not write smut under any circumstances. If you'd like to make a request, you can choose from the prompt list or submit your own idea.

I've received a few disrespectful comments in the past and have chosen to ignore them. I will continue to do so with any future hate comments. Just a reminder, I am a minor, so these kinds of messages are especially inappropriate.

If you don’t like my writing, feel free to scroll past my blog—there’s no need to send hate comments.

DO NOT REPOST OR COPY MY WRITING AND CLAIM IT AS YOUR OWN.

I’m pretty indecisive, so if you notice my blog changing from time to time, it’s just me figuring out which colors I like best hehe!

If you come across my work being copied or reposted, please let me know!

𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤: 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚

╰┈➤𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚈/𝙽 𝙰𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢’𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚍, 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚞𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎-𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚣𝚒𝚎𝚛.

warnings: fluff

[Regulus Black x Fem Avery! reader]

-

As usual, you quietly slipped out of your shared bed, careful not to disturb Regulus, who was a notoriously light sleeper. The hardest part was always getting in and out of bed without making a sound. You tiptoed your way to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and smiled at the sight of the leftover pasta Regulus had made earlier. He was an excellent cook, and his pasta was one of your favorites.

After piling some onto a plate, you popped it into the microwave. You were a pro at midnight snacking, always stopping the microwave just before the loud beep betrayed your secret. Except tonight, something went wrong.

The beep sounded, sharp and intrusive, slicing through the stillness of the night like a wand's hex. You froze, eyes wide, hoping against hope that Regulus hadn’t heard it. But before you could even take a breath, you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps approaching the kitchen.

Regulus appeared in the doorway, his hair mussed and a sleepy frown on his face. “Care to explain why my microwave is having a conversation with the entire flat at—” he glanced at the clock on the wall, “—three in the morning?”

Caught in the act, you froze with your hand still on the plate, a sheepish smile creeping onto your face. "I was hungry," you murmured, your tone equal parts innocent and apologetic, though you knew that wouldn’t fully appease him.

Regulus stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded with sleep, though his expression carried more curiosity than anger. His tousled hair framed his face, and the way he leaned against the doorframe made it clear he wasn’t about to let this go. "Hungry? At three in the morning?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "You couldn’t wait a few more hours until breakfast?"

You shifted awkwardly, twirling the fork in your hand. "Well... waiting didn’t seem like the best option," you admitted, avoiding his gaze. "And... this isn’t exactly new."

His eyebrow climbed higher. "Not new?"

With a resigned sigh, you gestured vaguely toward the fridge. "I’ve been doing this since we moved in. I just—well, I’m usually better at not getting caught. Tonight was... a fluke."

Regulus blinked at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, to your surprise, a slow smirk curved his lips. "So, let me get this straight," he said, his voice tinged with amusement. "You’ve been sneaking into the kitchen, raiding the leftovers, and using my microwave for your late-night escapades—all without me noticing—until tonight?"

You nodded, shoving a forkful of pasta into your mouth to buy yourself time. Maybe if you didn’t say anything else, he’d let it go.

Instead, Regulus sighed, the sound somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement. "You know, most people would just have a proper dinner instead of sneaking around like a thief in their own home."

"I did have dinner!" you protested, swallowing quickly. "I just—didn’t have enough. And your cooking is too good to resist."

He gave you a skeptical look but didn’t argue. Instead, he pushed off the doorframe, walked over to the counter, and grabbed a second fork from the drawer. "Well, you’ve ruined my sleep now," he said, sitting down across from you and helping himself to the pasta on your plate.

You stared at him, baffled. "Wait, you’re not mad?"

"Mad?" He gave you a look that was almost offended by the suggestion. "No. A little annoyed that you didn’t think to wake me up for midnight snacks sooner, maybe. But mad? Not really."

You blinked. "Why would I wake you up? You’d complain."

"Of course I’d complain," he said, his smirk growing. "But I’d still come. Midnight snacks are always better with company."

You laughed, the tension easing as you watched him steal another bite of your pasta. "You’re ridiculous, you know that?"

"And you’re lucky I’m such a tolerant flatmate," he shot back, raising an eyebrow at you. "Otherwise, I might have hexed the microwave by now."

You rolled your eyes, grinning. "Fine. Next time, I’ll wake you. But only if you promise not to steal all the food."

"No promises," Regulus said, twirling another forkful of pasta. "But you’re welcome to try."

As the two of you shared the stolen leftovers, the quiet of the flat felt warmer, cozier. Maybe midnight snacks were better with company after all. Or maybe, you thought with a smirk, it was just the challenge of not getting caught that made it so fun.

He should've won!! (Adrian still did good, congrats to him)

Timothée Chalamet at the Academy Awards on March 2, 2025. 💥💥💥

𝐏𝐀𝐔𝐋 𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒

🌟 = Fluff, 🪐 = Angst, ✨ = mild spice, 🎬 = hurt/comfort

{𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝} → open ! || requests are usually open unless they get too much, then I will turn them off so that I could finish other requests ! ||

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