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hischiersgirl · 7 days ago

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SNOW DAY GABE PERREAULT

— event masterlist !

pairing: fem!reader x gabe perreault

summary: amid a surprise snowstorm, you and gabe ditch class to revel in the magic of a wintery afternoon

warnings: none? a kiss

wc: 1.59k

notes: fic seven of twelve! my schools quad always gets filled with students playing in the snow whenever we get good packing snow so i was inspired!

The lecture hall was stifling, the hum of the old radiator competing with the monotone drone of Professor Reed’s voice. Outside, the world had transformed into a wintry wonderland. The snowstorm had rolled in unexpectedly, cloaking Boston in a thick, glistening layer of white snow. Through the oversized windows that lined the classroom walls, you could see the quad alive with movement — students bundled in scarves and hats, laughing as they flung snowballs, crafted lumpy snowmen, and flopped onto the snow to make angels.

But the day hadn’t started like this. The morning had been a mess of chaos, the storm catching everyone off guard. Your dorm’s radiator had decided to rebel, clanging like a gong and waking you hours before your alarm. You had run out of Keurig pods, forcing you to brave the cafeteria lines for an overpriced latte. By the time you trudged into the lecture hall, your boots were soaked, your socks damp, and your mood sour.

Now, though, watching the snow fall in fat, lazy flakes, some of that tension eased. The world outside looked magical, like something pulled from a holiday postcard. You weren’t the only one distracted. The entire class seemed mesmerized by the scene outside. It felt like a cruel punishment from the universe that you had to be in class when the storm had brought in the perfect snow for fulfilling childhood activities.

Gabe sat next to you, his hand resting lazily on the edge of the desk, fingers tapping an absent rhythm. His notes were untouched, his pen spinning idly between his fingers. A few stray flakes of snow clung to the dark strands of his hair, melting into droplets as the lecture dragged on.

You could feel his gaze on you before you turned your head. Gabe had leaned back in his chair, angling himself toward you. “You’re not even paying attention,” he whispered, a teasing edge to his tone.

You shot him a playful glare. “Neither are you.”

He smirked, the kind of grin that always made your heart skip a beat. “Fair. But what do you say we blow this off and go outside?”

Your heart skipped, but you shook your head almost immediately. “I can’t, and you definitely shouldn’t,” you whispered back, careful not to draw the professor's attention. “Your coach will kill you if he finds out you skipped class.”

Gabe’s grin widened, becoming the kind that always seemed to unravel your resolve. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. C’mon, it’s just one class.” He nodded toward the windows, where someone had just tossed a snowball that exploded into a puff of white against a tree trunk. “That could be us out there.”

You bit your lip, torn between reason and the giddy pull of spontaneity. “I don’t know… it’s risky,” you muttered, but the way your voice wavered betrayed your hesitation.

He leaned in closer, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of his cologne, warm and woodsy. “C’mon. It’s perfect out there. We’ll just be a couple of anonymous college kids enjoying the snow. No one’s keeping tabs.”

You rolled your eyes at that but couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto your face. “Fine,” you relented, your voice hushed but decisive. “But if we get caught, you’re taking the blame.”

“Deal.” Gabe was already shoving his notebook into his backpack, his enthusiasm infectious.

The two of you slipped out as unobtrusively as possible, your backpack slung over one shoulder as you followed Gabe down the carpeted steps of the lecture hall. Every creak of the door felt deafening in the quiet of the room, but no one seemed to notice — or care.

The moment you stepped outside, the cold hit you like a crisp slap, but it was refreshing after the stuffy air inside. The snow crunched beneath your boots, and the air smelled clean, like it had been scrubbed by the storm. Gabe stretched his arms out wide, tilting his head back to let the snowflakes land on his face.

“Now this is more like it,” he said, turning to you with a boyish enthusiasm that made your chest tighten.

The quad was alive with energy — students shouting, laughing, and slipping over patches of ice as they reveled in the unexpected snow day. Your eyes drifted to a patch of undisturbed snow near the edge of the quad, far enough from the chaos to feel like your own little corner of the world.

“Let’s build a snowman,” you suggested impulsively, already trudging toward the spot.

Gabe chuckled as he followed, the crunch of his boots echoing yours. “Is that what you’ve been daydreaming about in class? Snowmen?”

“Maybe,” you said, crouching to scoop up a handful of snow. It was light and fluffy, perfect for packing. You pressed it between your gloves until it began to hold its shape, rolling the snowball across the ground to start the base of the snowman. It grew heavier as it gathered more snow, and Gabe reached out to help you roll it. His hands overlapped yours briefly, the warmth of his gloves radiating through yours.

The snowman grew steadily, a lopsided yet endearing figure of three uneven spheres. Gabe hunted down twigs for arms, going to a shoveled path and grabbing rocks to form the eyes and mouth.

The pair of you stepped back, admiring your creation in front of you. You tilted your head, examining the nearly crumbling midsection and the crooked smile. “I think we’ve got ourselves the ugliest snowman in Boston,” you said.

“Ugly? Nah,” Gabe said, crossing his arms with a satisfied grin. “He’s got character.”

You laughed, the sound carrying over the crisp air. As you stood back to admire the snowman, the air around you seemed to hum with the particular magic of fresh snow and stolen moments. The snow continued to fall gently, frosting the snowman’s lopsided head. Gabe bent down and swiped at the snow near his feet, packing it into a firm ball with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times before.

“What are you—”

Your words were cut off by the soft thump of snow hitting your arm. You stared down at the mark it left on your jacket, then up at him, wide-eyed. He was already laughing, holding another snowball, poised to throw.

“Oh, you’re so dead,” you said, stooping quickly to gather your own ammunition.

His grin was infuriatingly smug as he darted to the side, narrowly avoiding your first throw. “Gonna have to do better than that,” he teased, lobbing another snowball that missed you by inches.

What began as playful back-and-forth quickly turned into an all-out war. Gabe ducked behind the snowman for cover, peeking over its lopsided head to hurl snowballs that sailed dangerously close to your face. You retaliated with a perfectly aimed shot that exploded against his chest, sending a puff of white powder flying.

“You’re ruthless!” he shouted, his laugh ringing out over the quad.

“You started it!” you shot back, your sides aching from laughing so hard.

At one point, he charged toward you, snowball in hand, and you shrieked, turning to run. The snow made it impossible to get far, your boots slipping as you tried to escape. Gabe caught up easily, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you back into his firm chest.

“Gotcha,” he said, his breath warm against your ear.

You squirmed in his hold, twisting to face him, your cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion. “Truce?” you asked, breathless.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly debating. “Only if you admit I won.”

“Never,” you said, laughing.

His grin softened, and for a moment, the world seemed to still around you. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair, melting against the heat of his skin. He looked down at you, his hazel eyes alight with something you couldn’t quite place but that made your stomach flutter all the same.

“Fine,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost serious. “I guess I can live with a tie.”

You smiled, leaning into his warmth despite the chill in the air. “Good choice.”

He didn’t let go right away, and you didn’t mind. The quad had grown quieter as the evening settled in, the golden glow of the campus lights reflecting off the snow. You didn’t realize you were leaning closer until his gloved hand reached up, brushing a stray snowflake from your cheek.

The kiss was soft, tentative at first as if testing the waters. Then it deepened, the warmth of it chasing away the cold that clung to your skin. When you finally pulled back, the world seemed brighter, sharper, like the snow had taken on a new sparkle.

You looked over at your snowman, its crooked grin somehow more endearing in the dim light.

“I think he needs a name,” you said softly.

“Hmm.” Gabe tilted his head, pretending to consider. “How about… Gerald?”

You snorted. “Gerald? That’s the best you’ve got?”

He shrugged, his arm still draped around you. “He’s got a distinguished vibe. You can’t just name him something basic like Frosty.”

“Fine, Gerald it is,” you said, laughing again.

The two of you stood there for a while longer, the cold creeping into your fingers and toes but the warmth of his presence keeping you rooted in place.

“Totally worth skipping,” you murmured, echoing his earlier words.

Gabe glanced down at you, his smile soft and genuine. “I told you.”

And for once, you didn’t mind admitting he was right.

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hischiersgirl · 28 days ago

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𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧ʷˢ²

in which will's arm becomes your canvas in the moments you need it most.

warnings; anxiety, bullying (pre-school), BRIEF mention of parents fighting, but other than that, pure fluff. if you can think of others, please don't hesitate to let me know!

You had met Will Smith in pre-school. On the first day that you had stepped inside the classroom, you had been captivated by his blond hair and blue eyes. His hair had been neatly cut, safely tucked behind his ears, while his eyes matched perfectly with his charming smile. Even at four years old, he had you wrapped around his finger.

You didn't get the chance to talk to him, however, until the winter of that school year. You had always been the anxious type, finding it hard to reach out and speak to your classmates. So, you didn't. Ultimately, that led to a group of boys catching you on the slide, alone, during recess one day. It was a typical Massachusetts day for that time of year - a white blanket of snow enveloped the state, and the ice on the ground was as smooth as glass. But in that moment, none of that had mattered. A brown-haired boy in the group had approached first, asking the question everyone wanted to know the answer to.

"Why don't you talk?"

Those words stung. It wasn't like you didn't want to. It just felt like your mouth was zipped shut and someone had thrown out the key to unlock it every time you tried to speak.

So, naturally, you didn't answer.

A few moments later, another boy stepped forward, "Aww, is the little baby too afraid to speak?"

You took a deep breath, trying to gather yourself, but it was clear that you weren't going to get out of this one easily. Despite your observation, you carefully hopped off of the slide you were perched on and turned your back to the boys as you attempted to walk away. You had only made it a few steps when you felt a hard shove from behind - one that made you fall face first onto the ground. Your face burrowed itself into the thick layer of snow that had blanketed the ground, the cold powder stinging your face. You tried to burrow into the safety of your heavy winter coat, but not even that worked.

You could hear the muffled laughs of the boys behind you, one shouting, "Mute freak!" and the other shouting, "Scaredy-cat!" Suddenly, however, a third voice had joined the conversation. The voice was both recognizable and unrecognizable to you, both comforting yet oddly familiar. That was enough for you to gather the strength to look up from the ground.

"Leave her alone!"

It was Will.

His neatly-trimmed blond hair had grown shaggy over time, the wisps of it curling at the nape of his neck. A white winter hat was covering the rest, but you could almost see the way it was curled at the top of his head. A flame of anger was dancing in his usually icy blue eyes, and his smile was no longer charming, only frustrated.

He shoved the two boys back, but not hard enough for them to fall to the ground. That didn’t matter, however. Will had the upper hand - he had a few inches on both of the boys, which meant that in their eyes, he towered over them. Without any other words being spoken, the two boys ran off in fear, occasionally looking back only to find Will glaring at them as he carefully walked over to you.

As he approached you, he offered a compassionate smile, one that would’ve made you feel better if your face wasn’t going numb from the snow. He grabbed your hands and helped you sit up, his gloved hands immediately going to gently brush the snow off of your face.

You flinched in surprise, but the soft material felt comforting against your rosy cheeks. He glanced at you as if to ask if it was okay for him to continue, and you nodded softly. Once he was done, he wiped his snow-covered gloves on the material of his puffy coat - no doubt one his mom made him wear - and offered a gentle hand to help you up off of the ground.

“I’m William, but I go by Will,” he smiled, his hand lingering in yours until he knew for sure that you were safely off of the ground. When he let go, your hands immediately went to fumble with the hem of your hoodie in both anxiety and relief.

You weren’t sure what, but something washed over you, and timidly yet undoubtedly, you raised your voice.

“I’m Y/N.”

And that was the first time you talked to one of your classmates. That classmate just happened to be Will Smith.

As the year went on, you and Will grew inseparable. He continued to be the only classmate you talked to, but he didn't seem to mind. Everyone around you wondered why Will received your special treatment, but the truth of the matter was that he was the only one who made you feel safe. He never judged you for your anxiety, but instead welcomed it because even at four years old, he knew it was apart of you.

Later in spring, you were having a particularly bad day when Will handed you a pack of markers. He had recently turned five, a milestone you were still waiting on, and he received the package of colored ink as one of his gifts. He opened the table's cubby to reveal some coloring books, but as he placed them down, he felt your hand grab his wrist.

Without a word, you had taken the cap off of a light blue marker and began drawing a flower on his skin. Will hesitated for a moment, but when he took sight of your face, he could see the way your eyes visibly drained of worry as you traced the ink. So, naturally, he continued to let you do it.

Little did you know that that tradition would last for fourteen years.

Even at 19, the tradition of drawing on Will’s skin had become second nature, something neither of you ever questioned anymore. He constantly had markings on his skin from you, but he didn’t mind. It was a quiet way for you to find your balance in waves of emotions and for him to remind you that you were never alone.

It had been a long day for you. You had come over after a family dinner that had left your nerves frayed, your usual quietness amplified to the point that Will could tell something was wrong the second you walked in. Now, hours later, you sat on his bed, your legs cocooned into your chest as if that would provide you with any sense of comfort. Your mind was racing with more bad thoughts than good. The faint glow of “Ratatouille” illuminated the room through the screen of Will’s laptop, but neither of you seemed too interested.

Will glanced at you, catching the way your knees were pulled up to your chest, your fingers picking at the hem of your sweatshirt like they had the first time he met you. Without a word, he reached over to his desk, opened his top drawer, and grabbed the same pack of markers that had been sitting there since you were kids — the ones he had received for his 5th birthday — and held them out to you.

You glanced up at him slowly, your eyes meeting his blue ones. The flames of worry dancing in them almost matched the yellow marker you had grabbed from him. Will leaned back against his headboard, watching you through half-lidded eyes. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said softly, his voice breaking the silence but not the calm.

With the marker in your hand, you forced arm down until his wrist was stretched out in your lap. You were focused, your brow furrowed in that familiar way as you worked on filling the empty space of his skin with tiny, intricate designs.

You didn’t look up, the marker stilling for only a second before continuing its careful strokes. “Just thinking,” you murmured, the words barely audible over the scratch of ink against his skin. Will sighed softly, gently grabbing your chin with his free hand to get you to look at him.

“About what?”

You hesitated, your hand pausing again. Your eyes flickered up to meet his, and for a moment, you looked like you might change the subject. But then you sighed and went back to drawing, your voice low, “Dreams, I guess. The future. If my parents stop fighting. If I’ll ever feel… well, less like this.”

Will didn’t need to ask what this meant. He’d been your best friend long enough to know—this was the restlessness, the anxiety, the weight you carried in moments like these. Hell, it was the weight you carried all the time. He watched as you traced another flower on his wrist, your hand steady despite the storm you clearly felt inside.

His heart broke, but he didn’t falter.

“You will,” he said simply, the steadiness in his voice making you chuckle slightly.

Your lips curved into the faintest smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes, “You make it sound easy.”

Will smiled softly, the compassion he’d always held for you radiating through him, “It’s not. But you’ll get there,” he said, leaning forward just enough so that your knees touched. “And until then, you can keep putting your dreams on me.” He tilted his head, gesturing toward the growing garden of flowers and stars you were creating.

You let out a soft laugh, the sound warming the room. It was the first time Will had heard you laugh all day, “Dreams?“

Will shook his head, his grin small but sincere, “These are the outlines of what’s in your head, Y/N/N — your dreams, your worries, all of it. You’ve been doing it since we were five years old.”

You laughed, your eyes meeting his again, “But what makes you think they’re my dreams?”

“They constantly change,” he explained, a wisp of his blond curls falling in front of his eyes. He looked exactly like the four year old you had met on the playground that winter day. “When we were six, you drew rocket ships because all you wanted was to be an astronaut. And when we were 11, I constantly had drawings of cats and dogs on my wrists because you wanted to be a veterinarian. And last year, you drew the Boston College logo over and over again because you wanted me to be happy at B.C.”

“And what about my worries?”

“They remain more steady, but I don’t mind carrying them for awhile,” he whispered softly, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear.

Your marker stilled, and for a moment, you just looked at him, your chest feeling a little lighter in a way only Will could manage. Then, with a soft smile, you added one last detail to the sunflower you’d been working on—a tiny heart at the center.

“You’re so corny,” you said, placing his arm back in his lap.

Will smirked, lifting it to admire your work, “And you’re the one who just drew a heart. Who’s corny now?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped out. You tucked your legs under you, leaning back against the headboard beside him. He might’ve been corny, but he meant more to you than you could ever know,“You’ll always be my favorite sketchbook, you know.”

Will nudged your shoulder lightly, the marker still in his other hand, “And you’ll always be a flower on my skin.”

Neither of you said anything else after that, the room settling into a comfortable silence. But the outlines of your dreams stayed etched on Will’s arm, just like they always would.

a/n; this might be one of my favorite works that i’ve ever written. i hope you guys enjoyed this as much as i did!

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