#there's just the best that you can hope for and it's not fair | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tacobacoyeet · 2 days ago

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nothing (but love) for you | t.d., p.z., a.d.

part 1 | part 2

a/n: THIS IS AN AU!! tashi does NOT get injured and patrick is ALSO at stanford. scenes that you recognize from the movie are inspired by the original screenplay, so they may not be exactly as you remember. this is the longest thing i've ever posted on tumblr and i kind of hate but but i also kind of love it. this is NOT the end of the story, part 2 is in the works! i hope you all enjoy!

warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, a lot of anger, suicide mention, unspoken feelings, manipulation, tashi duncan is mean (i'm sorry)

“Fuck.”

That’s the only thing Art Donaldson manages to utter when he watches you step onto the court, modestly waving at the crowd. He almost didn’t notice Tashi. He wouldn’t have, honestly, if it weren’t for the way the crowd’s volume seemed to multiply when she entered. Technically, she was the whole reason he was there—well, Patrick all but dragging him back to the stands after their doubles win, both boys with glass trophies in one hand and lukewarm hot dogs wilting slightly under the Atlanta sun in the other.

Patrick talked about Tashi like she hung the moon and the fucking stars. To be fair, she deserved it. She may as well have. “You don’t get it, man. You’ve never seen her in person. She’s in another league.”

“You mean her game?” Art’s brow furrowed. He didn’t understand why Patrick was talking so animatedly about this girl.

“No. I mean she’s the hottest woman I’ve ever seen.”

The boys watched you and Tashi nod at each other across the court. They were too far up to see the way your lips quirked into a smirk as you locked eyes with the girl—an unspoken promise of what was to come. I mean, she was your best fucking friend. Of course, you’d see her tonight. You were sharing a hotel room.

Your number 4 ITF World ranking wasn’t far from her number 1. It was barely visible in the way you two rallied, that neon yellow ball flying across the court fast enough to give any particularly attentive crowd members whiplash as they attempted to follow it, necks craning.

Both boys could feel their shorts growing tighter with each little grunt that escaped you and Tashi. The swish of your tiny skirts, the sweat trickling down your faces, the eyes you’d make at each other after a particularly nasty move. There was far more happening on this court than just a tennis match. No… this was a scene crafted by the hands of Aphrodite and Nike themselves.

You took set 1.

Tashi took 2 and 3.

It’s after the filthy spin you send Tashi’s way to win set 4 that Patrick’s hand flies to Art’s thigh, gripping it tightly. “Holy shit,” he remarks like he can’t believe his eyes. “I take it back. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Art moves his trophy to hide the uncomfortable tent in his shorts. “Yeah. This isn’t even tennis, anymore,” he breathes out.

Patrick’s eyes are locked on the court. “Fuck, no,” he scoffs like Art has just said the stupidest thing in the world. “Dude, this is porn.”

The same thought is running through both boys’ minds later that night as they watch you and Tashi on the dance floor. Her royal blue dress flies out around her as you twirl her, her silky brown waves tickling your face as she playfully grinds against you. Her face is plastered on the Adidas branded banner on one side of the party, hanging above a decorated table with her singles trophy, which is sat directly in between yours and her glass doubles trophies, your medals hanging on either side. Your runner-up trophy is there too. Just off to the side, so as to not mess up the symmetry. Of course.

“She’s gonna turn her whole family into millionaires. They both will,” Patrick remarks as he takes in the banner. Adidas Celebrates the Champions of Tomorrow. “I’m surprised Y/N is even here. I’d kill myself before I showed up to a party after losing a match like that.”

Art lets out an unamused scoff. “Shut up, man. If I can be at your parties every time you beat me, then there’s no reason for Y/N not to be here. She played like a beast. It was anyone’s game. And she took the loss so… graciously.”

“Oh, she took something, for sure. I thought they were gonna kiss after the last set,” Patrick remarks.

It wasn’t a totally outlandish suggestion, honestly. When Tashi sent that final hit, the ‘killer backhand’ that sent the tennis ball bouncing just barely in the corner of the white lines, far too fast for you to calculate, the whole crowd was expecting you to smash your racket. Cry. Curse her and her family into generations beyond her time. Not for you to both cross to the center of the court, pressing your foreheads together for a split second to whisper something the audience would never hear. Not a show of sportsmanship. Of companionship. Of love.

Art snorts. “You’re a freak.”

“Yeah, and Y/N’s a model citizen. They’re both pillars of the community. I’d let either of them fuck me with a racket. Probably both.” Patrick’s back to watching you and Tashi dance with each other. Now it’s you who’s jokingly twerking on her, both of you all smiles and girlish giggles. He doesn’t spare Art a glance.

A little while later, you’re taking a breather in a secluded corner of the party while Tashi takes pictures with her trophy. You let out a quiet, grateful breath as the cold, bright orange soda coats your dry throat. You sigh as you feel the carbonation crackle its way through you, but your moment of solace is interrupted when you notice two boys approaching you, an air of attempted swagger surrounding them that’s almost as artificial as the fruit flavoring in your drink.

They try to introduce themselves, voices stumbling over their own names, but you stop them.

“I know who you are,” you reply, a timid yet level smile on your face as you shake their sweaty hands. “Zweig? And… Donaldson?” your brow furrows as you clarify their names, a little apologetic that there was a delay in your recollection. “Fire and Ice, right?”

“Oh my god.” Art looks like he could die on the spot.

Patrick keeps his cool. “In the flesh.”

You smile at his response, opening your mouth to ask a question— but Tashi approaches from behind you, beating you to it.

“Which one’s which?”

“What do you think?” Patrick’s countering her question before it’s even fully out of her mouth. A beat passes. You make awkward eye contact with Art across the crackling gaze that Tashi and Patrick share. It makes you itch.

“So, you two are—”

“Both of you—”

You look down at the grass for a moment, an awkward chuckle escaping you as your voice overlaps with Art’s. “Go ahead.”

“I was just gonna say that you two were fucking incredible, today.”

“Thank you,” Tashi replies before you can choke something out, a hint of surprise flashing behind your eyes. He was the only person who had praised both of you. At least, without your half being a backhanded compliment, or an afterthought of a comment wrapped in a pity-colored bow.

“No, really,” he pipes up again. “It wasn’t even, like… tennis. I mean, I felt bad for you.” There it was. He knows he probably shouldn’t have said it, but you brush it off easily.

“Oh, don’t,” you let out a short chuckle. “I’m only here to be her faithful doubles partner and for the leftovers from her brand deals.” You gently nudge Tashi’s shoulder with your own. She smiles at your comment, shaking her head a little as she tugs you a little closer to her. All four of you look back up at Tashi’s poster as one of you tries to think of something to fill the awkward silence.

“So,” you manage to spit out. “Stanford this fall, right? For both of you?”

Patrick smirks at that. You weren’t lying about knowing who they were. “Yeah, how’d you—”

“They mentioned you. Both of you, when I was accepting my offer. Same for Tashi.”

“You’re not going pro?! Why?” Patrick looks away from you and back to Tashi, his eyes bugging out of his head. That one stung. A little.

She’s opening her mouth to respond, but she’s interrupted by her father pulling her away for more pictures. “Later,” she mutters with a clipped smile at the two boys, trailing her fingers down the inside of your wrist as she lets go of you.

You make small talk with the boys for as long as you can, but it’s not easy trying to talk to them when it’s obvious that they're more focused on Tashi than you. At least, Patrick was. You chat politely with them for a little while longer before you manage to think up a good enough excuse to get away. Art isn’t even able to spit out a proper goodbye, he’s too busy staring at you, desperately trying to burn every pore, every molecule of your face into his memory. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t doing the same to him.

For some reason, they linger. Well, you know the reason. She's the one who allows the four of you to be lazing on the beach. You stare wistfully at the cigarette perched between Patrick’s fingers, the smoke curling around him and teasing you. Tashi gave him the same look she used to give you when he offered one. She refused for both of you. Not that you would have said yes—that was a non-negotiable when you two became doubles partners. Smoking was a thing of the past, for you. Except for when you managed to sneak away from her.

“So, why are you so obsessed with going pro?” Tashi asks Patrick.

“I’m not. You’re just obviously good enough to go. Probably both of you. So why not?”

A thin smile crosses your face. “Tennis isn’t forever. I’d like to have skills beyond hitting a ball with a racket.” You cross your ankles, legs stretching across the sand. “If it’s such a big deal to you, then why aren’t you going pro?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, shoving the quiet blonde next to him. “His fault. I’m gonna go pro as soon as I can, though. Hitting a ball with a racket is a great way to avoid getting a job.”

Tashi’s firing a retort before you can even register his comment. “See, that’s your problem. You think tennis is fun. Screwing around, expressing yourself. It’s why you’ve still got that serve.” She says it with such disgust, that it gives you flashbacks to all those times she’d involuntarily start coaching you. Every comment about your focus, your forehand, your emotions. It haunted you. But it made you better. She made you better.

“It works,” Patrick replies, shooting a smirk at Art. He looks away, his eyes locking with yours.

“Yeah, but you’re not a tennis player. You don’t even understand what tennis is.” Tashi’s firing back at Patrick and even though he seems to be welcoming it, you can’t avoid the second-hand embarrassment. You shoot Art a meaningful look, as if to say, we’re not both like this. He grins.

Patrick’s leaning toward Tashi now. “What is it?”

She looks over at you. “A relationship.”

“Is that what you two had today?” Art tilts his head to the side as he asks. Cute.

You grin at him. “Of course.”

“We were actually playing tennis,” Tashi adds. “We understood each other completely. So did everybody watching. It was like we were in love—”

You tense. She doesn’t miss a beat.

“—Or like we didn’t exist. We went somewhere… really beautiful, together.” You’re both looking at each other, now. Art and Patrick stare. They can’t decide if this passing moment is too awkward for them or if it’s the hottest thing they’ve ever seen.”

Art speaks. “How long have two been�� together?”

You flinch a little. Tashi laughs. “We’re not.”

There’s another beat as both boys visibly sag with relief.

“I should probably get going before my parents come looking for me,” Tashi says. She stands, looking down at you. “You coming?” It’s phrased like a question, but you know it’s actually an order. You stand as well, brushing the sand off of yourself.

“It was nice meeting you guys,” you smile at the boys. “We’ll see you at Stanford, I guess.”

You start walking away, but you’re stopped as Patrick calls out to you. “Wait! Do you guys have Facebook?”

“Yeah, here—” you reach for your phone, but Tashi is quick to grip your wrist.

“What?” She raises an eyebrow at him.

“He’s trying to ask for your number. Which is what I’m also doing… right now,” Art chimes.

“You want both of our numbers?” You ask.

“Very much so,” he replies.

“We’re not here to home-wreck,” Tashi says.

You look at her. You wanted their numbers. At least Art’s. You were still trying to get a feel for Patrick.

“We don’t live together,” Art replies.

Patrick’s quick to add. “It’s an open relationship.”

“Also, Patrick has a girlfriend.”

“I don’t,” he glares at Art. “Come hang out with us later. They put you up at the hotel in Flushing, right? We’re in room 206.”

“Don’t you guys have a final tomorrow?” You can’t help but ask. “Shouldn’t you be, like, preparing, or something?”

“Eh,” Patrick replies. “We both know how it’s gonna go.” Art glares at him. You know exactly how he feels.

Tashi smirks at them, amused by the interaction. Her hand hasn’t left your wrist. “Goodnight.”

It’s later that night that you and Tashi are sitting in a little circle with Art and Patrick on the floor of their messy hotel room. Tashi gave you a little speech, on the way, about why you couldn’t give them your Facebook just yet, and how you needed to make them sweat. You weren’t stupid, you didn’t need her to explain it. But you let her, anyway. You always melted at the tone she’d take with you, the softness in her gaze as she’d teach you. It meant she cared. About you. Not just tennis. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

Art passes one of the Budweiser cans over to you before you ask another question. You’d been there, chatting idly for at least 30 minutes, not to mention the extra seconds that you and Tashi spent giggling outside their door, listening to them scramble around after you knocked.

“So, how’d you guys meet? Preschool? Mommy and Me classes? You seem close.” You sip the lukewarm beer, resting against the back of the bed.

Art and Patrick look at each other, laughing. “The Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy,” Art replies, a poorly hidden eye-roll accompanying his mocking tone.

“Bunk-mates since we were 12,” Patrick adds. Cute. “You never thought of doing anything like that?” he asks, his eyes flitting between both of you. “I mean, you had to have met somewhere.”

“The free tennis camp our local high school offered when we were in elementary school, actually,” you reply. “We didn’t grow up in the boarding school tax bracket.”

“Yeah,” Tashi adds. “And neither of our parents would’ve wanted us coming of age in a place like that.”

“Why?” Patrick asks. “What were they afraid of?”

You shoot him a look, gesturing around at the four of you. Everyone laughs.

The awkwardness starts to fade after that, and soon enough, you find all four of you in an animated conversation, two empty beer cans on the floor between all of you. You’re having a laughter-filled chat after Tashi tells the story of your first kiss, the way you were so scared, so nervous the whole time. You laugh about it, now, but you’d be lying if you didn’t feel a little twist in your throat every time she told the story, portraying you like a stupid little duckling who could barely stand on your own feet without her help. That’s not how it was. That’s how Tashi liked it, though.

Art interrupts the peals of giggles with an idea of his own. “We should play a game.”

“Like what?” you ask, the grin still on your face.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, looking around the room. “Like… spin the bottle. Or spin the ‘beer can’, I guess.”

“Dude,” Patrick knocks him on the shoulder. “We’re not 12.”

“No, let’s,” Tashi interjects. “That’s cute.”

Tashi’s approval shuts Patrick up immediately, and then one thing leads to another, and then all of a sudden Art and Tashi are making out while you and Patrick are directly across from each other. She’s devouring him, towering over him on her knees as she cups his cheek, his back arching as he bends to her touch. His hand slides gently down her thigh, gripping just under the hem of her shorts to pull her closer. Patrick rips his gaze from them for a moment just to look at you. He doesn’t bother to conceal the tent in his shorts. He’s itching.

“Do you want to—”

Tashi’s too occupied with Art for you to bother asking her for permission. “Please.”

And then you’re in his lap, the quietest of whimpers escaping you as he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth before slipping his tongue into your mouth, exploring like he’s on a mission. He’s not slow or gentle by any means. It’s like he’s trying to kiss his way through you, like he’s the river forming the Grand Canyon, finding each little crack, each little thing that makes you gasp against his lips, molding you into a mess just for him, your hips helplessly grinding against his.

You’re so lost in him that you almost don’t notice that Art and Tashi have detached, and the blonde boy is now laying wet, sloppy kisses up your throat, along your jaw, inching closer and closer to mash his lips against Patrick’s. Tashi tugs your face away from Patrick so she can lock her lips onto yours, and you melt into her. It’s familiar. She tastes like the sweat lingering on your skin after every evening of running drills together. She tastes like every stone-cold comment she’d make about your form, your serve, your skill, that she’d throw in between kisses. She tastes like marschino cherries and 88% dark chocolate. She tastes like your entire fucking life. Because she’s always been there. She always will be. She never wants you to know a life without her—not because she loves you, not because you’ve spent nights behind closed doors, begging her to tell you that her feelings weren’t all in your head—but because you were good. At tennis. Good enough to be her partner, good enough to give her a real fucking challenge. But never good enough to win. Never good enough to win her.

Tashi stops Patrick before he can slide his hand past the waistband of your shorts, pulling you up from his lap gently.

“Okay,” you whisper under your breath, chest rising and falling a little heavier than normal. “Well, goodnight.” You wave awkwardly at both boys, because what else are you supposed to do when you're being dragged away from a potential foursome?

“Wait!” Patrick says. “What about your numbers?”

Surely she’d let you now, right? Wrong.

“I told you,” Tashi says. “We aren’t homewreckers.”

Art locks eyes with you. “Please.”

The level of desperation in his voice matches the one in your chest. You want him just as bad.

Tashi looks at you, and then back at them. She laughs.

“How about this? We’ll be at your match tomorrow. Whoever wins can text me.” She shrugs as she says it. It hits you in the gut. Now that she was getting famous, being wanted… what were you there for? Other than to make her look better, more untouchable?

You watch as Art’s shoulders drop, while a bright smirk lights up Patrick’s face.

“You can beat him,” you mutter softly, your eyes on Art’s. “You should.” You almost don’t want to say it, because it’s not you that they’re vying for. It was never you. Not for brand deals and endorsements, not for the match-winner predictions, not for anything.

“Are you saying you want me to?” He asks.

“She’s saying you’re not getting my number if you don’t,” Tashi replies.

“Well, what do you want?” Art asks, his eyes flitting between both of you.

You sigh, answering for Tashi. The same thing she would say to you every time you asked why she didn’t want you. “She wants to watch some good fucking tennis.” Tashi misses the disdain in your voice as you say it. Art doesn’t.

With one last condescending “goodnight,” from Tashi, she’s dragging you out of their room. The moment the door slams shut, though, you’re tugging her arm, pressing your ear up to the door.

“Remember when you said you’d let me win?” Art’s voice is muffled through the door.

“That was a lifetime ago,” Patrick replies. You can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

“But what about my grandma?”

“I hope she has a fucking stroke.”

There’s a low thud, followed by a pained groan from Art. You and Tashi grin at each other.

It’s later that night when you’re in your hotel room, Tashi’s slow breathing being the only noise filling the small space. Your fingers were still coated in her, the taste of her still on your lips. She never would’ve shown it to them, but she was just as wet as you were after leaving the boys’ room. The moment you were back in your own room, she was pulling you down, coaxing your head between her thighs.

“My girl, aren’t you?” She murmured, her fingers carding through your hair. You moaned against her in response, lips latched to her clit as you worked your middle and ring finger in and out of her. “So sweet. You know, if you put this much effort into practicing your tweener, maybe you would’ve won, earlier.”

You pretended like you couldn’t hear her. She laughs at her own words—the thought of you actually beating her was a pipe dream.

You adjust your fingers to find that sweet, spongy spot inside of her, the one that always makes her let out the softest little whimpers when you hit it. It’s the only time you ever feel like you’re the one in charge. But you both know that she still is. Neither of you needs to say anything about it. It’s evident in the way that you eat her out until she’s exploding on your tongue, and she reciprocates by saying, “Don’t forget, we’ve got court time tomorrow morning at 6,” before she rolls over and turns the lamp off before falling asleep.

It was always like this. You’d do anything for Tashi. Every time you got on the court with her, every time you locked eyes or fingers or lips, you fell for her all over again. She’d parade you around like you were her cute little puppy, but she always knew exactly where the line was. She molded you into being hers, but she was never yours. Tashi Duncan didn’t belong to anyone. You used to admire her for it—her free spirit, her determination, her power. But… too much of anything is bad. Admiration becomes resenting. But, maybe Art and Patrick would be good for you guys. It would help to step outside the box that was just you and her, right?

---

The Stanford Athletics Cafeteria is buzzing with the usual lunchtime noise—clattering trays, the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from a table full of exhausted athletes. You and Art are sitting at your usual spot near the window, halfheartedly picking at your food, waiting.

Tashi and Patrick are late. Again.

You know exactly where they are. Running drills. Tashi had dragged Patrick to the courts before the sun was even up, and he’d gone willingly, just like always. Patrick had that kind of energy—relentless, restless, always moving toward the next high. And Tashi? Tashi never stopped. Never slowed down. Not for you, not for anyone.

Art stabs a fork into his salad, expression a grin playing on his lips. "I give them five minutes before they storm in here like they just discovered the cure for cancer."

You breathe out a short laugh, stirring your drink with your straw, eyes flicking toward the cafeteria doors as if willing them to appear. It’s always like this—waiting. Waiting for Tashi to be finished with whatever she deemed more important than you. Waiting for Patrick to fall into step behind her like a well-trained soldier. Waiting to see if today is the day something shifts. If she sees you sitting here and realizes what she’s about to do.

The doors slam open, and like clockwork, they’re here.

Tashi walks in first, her expression sharp, jaw tight. She’s still dressed in her practice gear, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, sweat cooling at the nape of her neck. Patrick follows a second later, far less affected. He’s buzzing, the post-drill high still clinging to him, sweat dampening the collar of his shirt. He slides onto the bench next to Art, stealing a fry off his plate without hesitation.

Tashi drops into the seat across from you with a dramatic sigh, leaning back like she’s trying to keep herself from physically vibrating with irritation. You don’t even have to ask before she launches into it.

“This is a waste of my time.”

You glance at Art, already bracing yourself. Here we go.

Tashi gestures vaguely with her hand, like the entire concept of college athletics is beneath her. "It’s too fucking easy. The competition? Not even close to what we’re used to." She scoffs, shaking her head. "The only matches that are even remotely worth playing are our practices."

Patrick, as expected, nods along. “Yeah, I mean—duh.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "We could be playing at a whole different level right now. The only thing keeping us here is, what, some obligation to a school that’ll replace us the second we’re gone?"

Tashi points at him. “Exactly.”

You frown, stomach twisting. Art just crosses his arms over his chest.

Then Tashi delivers the real blow: “So if we win the championship this year, I’m going pro.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Patrick grins like he’s just won the lottery. "Fuck yeah. Let’s all do it." He leans forward, excitement radiating off of him. "Seriously, why wait? We win, we go pro. The four of us."

You and Art exchange a look. “No way,” you say at the same time. Art lets out a short, incredulous laugh.

Tashi blinks, her head tilting slightly. She wasn’t expecting that. Not from you.

“What?” She laughs, but there’s a thin layer of confusion beneath it. “Come on, Y/N.” She leans forward, all charm, all ease, like she can just fix this with a few well-placed words. “This is us. It’s what we’ve always wanted. It’s what we’re supposed to do.”

You hesitate. Because that’s exactly how it’s always been. Tashi decides, and you follow. No questions asked. No hesitation. But this time, you shake your head. “Not yet.”

Tashi’s smile tightens. "Why not?"

You exhale, feeling the weight of the moment settling over you. “They recruited all four of us. We can’t just bail after one semester.”

Tashi gives you a look. “Yes, we can.”

Patrick scoffs. “Y/N, come on. You could easily go pro right now.”

It’s meant as a compliment. It doesn’t feel like one.

Art leans back in his chair, expression unreadable. “You’re really just gonna leave?”

Tashi shrugs. “Yeah.”

And that’s when it really hits you.

She doesn’t even care that this means you won’t be together anymore—not just as a doubles team, but as… you and her. This is the first time since you were kids that you won’t be at her side. And she’s fine with it.

Maybe she always assumed you’d follow her. Maybe she just never thought about you at all.

But instead of letting it go, she shifts—just slightly, just enough for you to feel it. “I mean,” she continues, tilting her head, her voice softening into something almost pitying, “I get it. The pro circuit is brutal. You have to be able to keep up. And, you know—” she waves a hand vaguely in your direction, “—you still have some weaknesses you need to work on.”

Your stomach drops. “Excuse me?”

Tashi shrugs. “I mean, your second serve still isn’t aggressive enough. And your net game—” she clicks her tongue, shaking her head like she’s disappointed in you. Like she’s coaching you. “It’s probably better for you to stay, actually. You wouldn’t want to get out there and just… flounder.”

The air in your lungs turns sharp like it’s been knocked out of you. Art visibly tenses beside you. Even Patrick stops chewing, sensing the shift in the air. You stare at Tashi. Really stare at her. And for the first time in your entire life, you wonder if you’ve been blind this whole time. Because she’s doing it on purpose. She couldn’t convince you to follow her, so now she’s making sure you question yourself instead. She doesn’t like that you didn’t just fall in line. She doesn’t like that for once, you said no. And for the first time, something different sparks inside you.

Not admiration. Not longing. Not even resentment.

Something closer to rage.

That night, you’re in Art’s dorm room, the air thick with something unspoken. He’s already on you the moment you sit on the bed, hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs pressing into your skin like he’s mapping out every inch of you. It’s familiar—effortless in a way that doesn’t need thought.

Except you’re not here, not really.

His lips find the curve of your neck, dragging slow and warm along your pulse. His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingertips teasing over your ribs. “You good?” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing against your skin.

You hum in response, but it’s absent, distracted. Your mind is still in the cafeteria, still locked on Tashi’s voice, the way she had said your name like she pitied you.

Art pulls back slightly, studying your face. “You’re thinking.”

You blink, snapping out of it just enough to meet his gaze. “No, I’m not.”

He scoffs, trailing a hand down your spine, fingers pressing at the small of your back, urging you closer. “You are. You get all stiff when you’re thinking too hard.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but he’s not wrong. You are stiff, not melting into his touch the way you usually do.

Art leans in again, pressing a kiss just below your ear, voice dropping lower. “What’s in your head, Y/N?”

You sigh, tilting your head slightly, giving him better access without thinking. “Nothing.”

His teeth scrape lightly against your skin, not quite biting, but enough to make you feel it. “Liar.”

You exhale, pressing your hands against his chest, pushing him back just enough to look at him properly. He’s watching you with that same unreadable expression from earlier—except now, there’s something else. Something heavier.

“She needs you where she wants you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking a slow, lazy line along your hip. “She doesn’t like that you said no.”

You go still.

He waits, watching it sink in. Watching you process the thing you’ve been avoiding since lunch.

Your throat tightens. “And you? Where does Patrick need you?”

His fingers flex against your waist, just for a second. If you weren’t looking, you might’ve missed it.

“Wherever he puts me.” There’s no bitterness in it. No anger. Just fact.

Your stomach twists, something ugly settling in your ribs. Because you get it. Because you’ve spent your entire life letting Tashi decide where you belong, too. You swallow hard, fingers curling against his chest. “You don’t mind?”

Art doesn’t answer. Instead, he shifts, pressing you back against the mattress, his weight settling over you, warm and solid. His mouth finds yours, slow but insistent, like he’s trying to pull you out of your own head, to drag you back here—to him. And for once, you let him. The dim glow from his desk lamp barely reaches the bed, casting long shadows along the walls. It’s easy, this—familiar in a way that doesn’t require thinking.

“You’re being a hypocrite,” you murmur against his lips after a while. “I know what you’re going to tell me. That I’ve spent too much of my life holding her up.”

He rolls his eyes at you, but there’s nothing malicious about it. “You have a martyr complex. A terrible one.” He’s staring down at you with an incredulous smile.

You scoff, a smile playing at your lips. “You need to quit reading my notes from my psych class. And you need to stop trying to diagnose me when you’ve spent the last, what, 6 years? 7? Letting yourself lose to Patrick.” You poke at Art’s chest, pressing your finger directly to his heart. “He wants a fight from you, you know? He wants to feel like he’s being challenged.”

Art’s face hardens for a moment. He clearly didn’t want to hear about it. “Shut up,” he murmurs, bringing his lips down to your collarbone. “Just shut up. You need to stop thinking. And talking. And perceiving me. I hate when you go all psych major on me.”

You laugh, but you listen anyway, letting him tug your shorts off of you. He’s pushing your shirt up, his hands, calloused from years of white-knuckle grips on tennis rackets, grazing the skin of your stomach. He trails his lips from your face down your neck, sucking in marks along the swell of your breasts—a spot where nobody will see them, but he’ll know they’re there. He’ll know he has you somehow.

It doesn’t take long before both of your outfits are strewn around his room. He’s kneeling between your legs, now, holding your thighs on his hips as he teases your entrance. His tip is red, weepy. You’d probably make a joke about how it’s ‘Stanford red,’ tease him for being needy, if you were paying attention. But you aren’t, and he can tell. He’s not offended, not in the slightest. But he’s worried that you’ll overthink your way into a spiral, and the last thing he needs is his girlfr—someone he cares about going off the rails. So he’s grabbing your chin gently, forcing you to look at him, to see him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, forehead creasing as he frowns at you.

“Yeah?” you ask, a little lost.

“Hold on to something, okay?”

“Wh—fuck!” You can’t ask him what he means, because he’s ripping a cry out of you as he stuffs himself in you, balls-deep. He groans at the sight of your tight, greedy pussy swallowing him, the way he fills you like you were custom-made just for him. He gives you two slow thrusts before he’s ramming into you like a jackhammer. He knows better than to go slow and soft, this time. He knows that if he does, it’ll give you enough time to think. He’s trying to fuck the thoughts out of you, now. The only thing he wants you to think about is him.

He’s precise. He knows exactly how to position himself so that his tip is hitting your g-spot with almost every thrust, the slight curve of his dick giving him the perfect angle. The hand he has on your chin adjusts so that he can slide his index and middle finger past your lips. He had to keep you quiet somehow. It’s not like you could get away with being loud when the walls of his dorm were that thin. Patrick’s room was just across the hall, after all. You groan around his fingers, swirling your tongue around them, sucking them like you’re trying to brand his fingerprints on your tongue.

“You’re so pretty,” he mutters, his pupils blown as he takes in the sight of you. “So fucking sexy. Too beautiful to be disrespected like that,” he says. He catches himself as soon as he says it, but you don’t even bother to respond, too lost in the way his hips slam against you.

It’s not long before the noises leaving your mouth are growing more frequent and less comprehensible. He takes that as the sign to pull his fingers from your mouth and bring them to your clit instead, rubbing with enough fervor to get your hips involuntarily bucking underneath him. You gasp his name as you hurtle over the edge, your cunt squeezing around him. It’s enough for him, too, because it’s right after that that he pulls out, pumping himself as he comes on your stomach, painting you with the evidence of his desire.

After a few moments where the only sounds in the room are both of you trying to catch your breath, you’re the first one to speak. “I’m gonna ask you something, and I need you to be honest.”

Art turns his head to look at you, still breathless, his fingers trailing lazy circles on your bare hip. “Jesus. Do you ever stop thinking? Or is giving me a heart attack something that turns you on?”

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your knee. “Just answer me.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face, but the corner of his mouth twitches up. “Fine. Shoot.”

You take a slow breath. “Why’d you actually say no about going pro?”

Art freezes for half a second. It’s barely noticeable, but you feel it. His fingertips are still on your skin, his chest rises and falls a little too evenly—like he’s bracing for impact.

You press on. “Because I don’t get it, Art. Patrick is your best friend. We all—” you hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “We all have each other. In every possible way. So why are you staying?”

He exhales sharply, like he was hoping you wouldn’t push this far. “Not everything is about—”

“Sex?” you cut in. “I know. That’s exactly my point.” You sit up slightly, resting on your elbow so you can look at him. “It’s not about that. It never has been. So what is it? Because you know you’d hold your own out there. You’d rather die than let Patrick keep that edge over you forever. So why?”

Art is silent for a long moment, staring up at the ceiling. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because if I go, I lose everything.”

You frown. “You wouldn’t lose—”

“Yes, I would.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so you’re face to face. “Patrick and Tashi? They’ll survive without me. They already are. You saw it before I did.”

You hesitate, throat tightening. Because he’s not wrong.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You think Patrick needs me? He doesn’t. Not like he used to. He doesn’t ask me to come over first, anymore. He checks for you and Tashi. And if we learned anything at lunch, it's that Tashi definitely doesn't need anyone.

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come.

Art sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I stay, I get to hold onto this—us—for a little longer. If I go…” he exhales, looking away. “I don’t know what’s left for me.”

You stare at him, heart hammering. Because there it is. The thing neither of you have ever said out loud. Your voice is softer when you speak again. “You don’t think I’ll follow them.”

Art’s eyes flick back to yours. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

You swallow hard. “That’s why you stayed.”

A beat of silence. Then, finally, he nods.

And for the first time, you don’t know whether to feel grateful or guilty.

---

“And now, your 2002, 2005, and 2006 NCAA Women’s Tennis Champions… Give it up for STANFORD TENNIS!”

The air inside Taube Family Tennis Stadium is thick with noise, the kind that thrums in your chest, rattles in your teeth. Stanford’s home crowd is loud, a sea of red and white, feet stomping against the bleachers in a deafening rhythm. The banners are already preemptively celebrating, a massive GO CARDINAL! stretched across the upper deck.

It’s suffocating.

You shift in your seat, heart lodged somewhere in your throat as you watch Tashi bounce on the balls of her feet, rolling her shoulders back, twirling her racket in one hand like it’s an extension of her body. Across the net, Sally What’s-Her-Name stands still, eyes locked on her, gripping her own racket tight. She’s good. Really good. She wouldn’t be here otherwise. But she’s not Tashi.

No one is.

Tashi is coiled tension, electric, barely contained. The first serve is brutal, a 121 mph bullet down the T-line that Sally barely gets her strings on. The return floats too high, and Tashi pounces, stepping inside the baseline and crushing a forehand winner down the line.

Stanford’s crowd erupts.

Patrick lets out a low whistle from beside you, shaking his head. “Fucking lethal.”

Art, arms crossed, just exhales sharply through his nose.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to. Because the match plays out exactly how you knew it would. Sally fights, but Tashi smothers her. Precision, power, instinct. Every angle cut off before Sally can react. Every ball sent screaming off Tashi’s racket, clipping the lines with surgical accuracy. It’s like watching a lion toy with its prey, drawing it out just long enough before going for the throat.

Sally is desperate, but Tashi barely looks like she’s trying. She’s in complete control, dictating every point, making the girl run until her legs are gone. Until her breath is ragged. Until she’s broken.

Sally manages to steal a set. Barely. But Tashi? She smiles. Like she enjoys it. Like she wants the fight.

By the time the third set rolls around, it’s inevitable.

It ends, fittingly, on a backhand winner, because of course it does. Because Tashi Duncan loves a clean kill. She barely watches as the ball paints the line, untouched. The second it lands, she already knows.

Game, set, match—Duncan.

She doesn’t fall to her knees. She doesn’t drop her racket. She just exhales, tilts her head back, and grins.

The stadium erupts.

She turns, finally, and for the briefest second, her eyes lock onto yours. The grin widens. Not a thank-you, not a see-that? Not even a simple acknowledgment of this moment, this win, this final nail in the coffin of what you had.

It’s a challenge.

You swallow hard.

Patrick yells something beside you, but you don’t hear it.

Because the thing is—you don’t just admire Tashi Duncan, anymore.

You want to beat her.

It’s dark outside when Tashi steps into Patrick’s unlocked dorm room. She’s not at all surprised by the scene as she enters: you on all fours, Patrick fucking into you from behind as you choke yourself on Art’s cock. Patrick’s the first one to notice her entering, his grip on your hips tightening just enough to get you to glance up.

“Took you long enough,” he remarks, his eyes sweeping over her with a lazy, shameless grin on his face.

“Interviews,” she shrugs. “And I needed a shower.” She strips as she replies, tossing her clothes in a small pile on the floor. She strides over to the other side of the bed, watching the way Art’s eyes flutter shut, his fingers tugging at your hair as your head bobs on him.

“Up, Y/N,” she softly clucks. You don’t listen. “Y/N,” she says again, her tone a little more firm. “I said up.”

You pull your mouth away from Art for a moment, eliciting a groan from him as you look at her. “I’m busy, Tashi. You can wait your turn.” You don’t mean to say it with as much sass as you end up conveying, but it happens. Probably because it’s how you actually feel.

A frown crosses her face. Patrick’s eyes widen a little, and he doesn’t stop his thrusts, but they slow significantly.

“That’s not how this works,” Tashi says. “You’re not the one calling the shots, here.”

“First time for everything, right?” you reply, keeping your eyes on her as you lick another stripe up Art’s shaft. “Pat, you can keep going. No need to stop.”

Tashi’s gaze burns your skin as she watches you pull your eyes away from her, your mouth working Art even harder than you were before. Patrick’s still a little shocked by what he just saw, but he listens, slamming back into you at a more moderate pace.

“Such a good girl,” Art murmurs, his fingers streaming through your hair. To Patrick and Tashi, it’s just general praise—an in-the-moment statement about how good you’re making him feel. But you and Art know the meaning behind his words. Sure, your mouth feels like heaven on him. But he’s talking about the words that came out of your mouth.

Tashi steels herself—she’ll deal with you later. She kneels on the bed, capturing Patrick’s lips in a long, sloppy kiss. Once she’s had enough of him, She’s forcing the three of you to adjust so she can position her cunt directly above Art’s face. He keeps one hand tangled in your hair, and he snakes his other hand around Tashi’s thigh to pull her down onto his mouth.

She comes on his tongue, instead of yours. You can’t decide if you feel more guilty or more relieved that for once, she was being forced to settle instead of you.

---

About a month later, it’s late. The kind of late when campus is quiet, the world outside your dorm window humming low and distant. The sheets are still tangled around your legs, the residue Tashi’s sweat and perfume clinging to your skin. The smell of your sin lingers in the air. It makes your stomach turn. She sits on your bed, one leg tucked under the other, bare shoulders glowing in the dim light—like she always does. Like she owns it. Like she owns you.

“The press release goes out tomorrow morning,” she says, voice smooth, casual. Too casual. Like this isn’t gutting you. “About me leaving Stanford. I got a wild card spot. But I wanted to tell you before you saw it in the news.”

You don’t look up from your phone. If you do, she’ll see it. The anger burning low in your stomach, the betrayal clawing at your ribs. “This isn’t news.”

Tashi’s head tilts slightly, just enough that you catch the shift in her expression from the corner of your eye. “What?”

“You told me forever ago. That day at lunch, remember?” You finally glance at her, your voice deliberately even. Empty. “This isn’t new information.”

She blinks, and for the first time in a long time, you see it—that flicker of something uncertain, something almost lost. “Right,” she says after a beat, running her tongue over her teeth. “I just thought—” She stops herself, and exhales sharply through her nose. “I thought you’d have something to say.”

You shrug, shifting slightly under the weight of her stare. The sheets rustle, cold against your skin. “What do you want me to say?”

Tashi doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she watches you, eyes sharp, searching. “You’re pissed,” she accuses, but there’s an edge to it, like she’s testing you, waiting for you to crack.

You stretch your legs out in front of you, feigning nonchalance. It’s all muscle memory now, this performance. “I’m not.”

Her jaw tightens. “You don’t have to act like you don’t care.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Why? Because it makes you uncomfortable?”

Tashi shifts, leaning in slightly, her voice dropping. “Because it’s bullshit.”

You don’t flinch. Don’t fold. Just hold her gaze, steady and unyielding. “You wanted this,” you say simply. “You’ve always wanted this.”

Tashi’s lips press together, her fingers curling into the fabric of your blanket. “That doesn’t mean I wanted—” She stops short again, her throat bobbing as she swallows. “Never mind.”

You could push. You should push. You want to sink your teeth into it, tear it apart until there’s nothing left but the truth. But you don’t. Instead, you exhale, turning your attention back to your phone. “Congratulations, Tashi.”

It’s dismissive. Final. A lie.

And for the first time, you leave her with nothing to say.

-------

tagging: @kimmyneutron

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authortelevision · 2 days ago

Text

george, the hockey player: chapter one ₊˚⊹♡

words: 2,747 ✦ .ᐟ

♯┆ george clarke slow burn, university au, hockey george

you start university in bristol as a film student and meet a hockey player who will change your life completely

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁౨ৎ. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The train ride to Bristol had been a mix of nervous excitement and mild existential dread. The city, with its hilly streets and graffiti-covered underpasses, felt like a place where something big could happen. But right now, all that mattered was getting through move-in day without looking like a complete disaster.

You haul your suitcase up the stairs of your new flat, already regretting bringing so many decorations. The shared kitchen is a mess of half-opened suitcases, stacked IKEA crockery, and the awkward small talk of strangers who will, apparently, be your new best friends.

A girl with pink-streaked hair and round glasses glances up from where she’s struggling to assemble a drying rack. “Oh, thank God. Someone else who looks just as lost as I feel.”

You laugh, setting your bags down. “Completely lost. Do you need help with that?”

“Please. It’s like IKEA’s playing a cruel joke on me.” She grins. “I’m Lily, by the way. I do history, unfortunately.”

You introduce yourself just as the front door swings open and two more people walk in, dragging boxes. One of them, a guy with messy brown hair, lets out an exaggerated sigh. “This is it. Our prison for the next year.”

“I hope not.” says a voice from behind him.

The four of you quickly exchange introductions, and you learn that the negative voice is Matt who is studying Economics, and the other is Sam, taking Biology. Within ten minutes, you’re all gathered in the kitchen, swapping stories about where you’re from and who packed the weirdest thing (Matt wins with his five-kilo bag of protein powder). It’s surprisingly easy, the awkwardness fading fast.

Then, Lily claps her hands together. “Okay, so Freshers’ Fair is happening today. We need to go.”

Sam frowns. “That’s the one where all the societies try to recruit you, right?”

“Exactly. It’s essential. Free stuff, maybe a few weird clubs, and we can all pretend we’re super well-rounded people.”

You weren’t sure if you had the energy after lugging all your stuff around, but the idea of seeing what Bristol Uni had to offer was tempting. Plus, it beat sitting in your empty room.

“Alright,” you say, standing up. “Let’s go get bombarded by enthusiastic second-years.”

————

The Student Union building is packed, a sea of students weaving between booths with banners ranging from “Join the Debate Society” to “Quidditch Team Tryouts This Weekend!” Every few steps, someone shoves a flyer into your hands, promising everything from cheap cocktails to life-changing friendships.

Lily gets dragged away almost immediately by a group advertising a Feminist Reading Club. Sam disappears in the direction of the Rugby stall, while Matt, despite his initial complaints, is deep in conversation with a Chess Society rep.

That leaves you wandering alone for a bit, taking it all in. The Hockey Society booth catches your eye, but only cause there’s a crowd gathered around it, and a bunch of sporty-looking guys are chatting with possible members. You consider stopping, but hockey isn’t really your thing.

Instead, you find yourself drawn to a quieter stall tucked between the Art Society and the Drama Club. A banner reads “Photography Society – Capture the Moment”, and a student with a camera slung around their neck waves at you.

“Hey! You interested in photography?”

“I mean… kinda?” You glance at the sign-up sheet. “I do film, so I guess I already mess around with cameras.”

The student grins. “That’s basically half of it. We do sports photography, exhibitions, and the occasional trip. No pressure, though.”

It sounds like exactly the kind of thing to make friends you need. Before you can overthink it, you pick up a pen and sign your name.

By the time you regroup with your flatmates, your bag is full of leaflets and your group decides to escape the chaos and grab something to eat. The campus cafés are packed, so you settle for the Student Union bar, where the tables are sticky, the nachos are cheap, and the music is just a little too loud for a casual conversation.

Matt dumps his bag of free society merch onto the table with a dramatic sigh. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”

He pulls out a ridiculous amount of random freebies like stress balls, lanyards, a frisbee, and even a reusable coffee cup with Bristol Uni Quidditch Team printed on the side. Sam snorts. “Did you even sign up for Quidditch?”

“No, but they were giving out free stuff, and I’m not an idiot.”

Lily rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. She turns to you, seeing your tote bag. “So, what made you go for Photography Society?”

You take a sip of your drink, considering. “I think I just wanted something creative that wasn’t coursework, you know? Something fun, no pressure.”

She nods. “Good call. I was considering the Creative Writing Society, but then I overheard a guy saying they only discuss ‘serious literary work,’ and I feel like I’d get kicked out for writing fanfiction.”

“That sounds insufferable,” you say with a laugh.

“What about you, Sam?” Matt asks. “You looked way too invested in that rugby stall for someone who claimed they definitely weren’t joining a sports team.

Sam shrugs, looking vaguely guilty. “Okay, maybe I’ll go to tryouts. I haven’t played since school, but it might be fun.”

“You just want an excuse to go to the sports socials,” Lily teases.

He smirks. “And what if I do?”

The conversation drifts into plans for the rest of Freshers’ Week—pub crawls, club nights, and the dreaded 9am introductory lectures no one is ready for. It’s strange how quickly everything is falling into place, like the awkwardness of earlier has already faded into something more natural.

Eventually, you all decide to head back to the flat, the evening air crisp as you make your way across campus. Bristol feels alive at night, students spilling out of bars, the hum of conversation echoing down cobbled streets. The streetlights cast long shadows, and for a brief moment, you pause to take it all in.

Lily nudges you. “You alright?”

You nod, smiling. “Yeah. I think I am.”

————

The next morning, you wake to the sound of footsteps in the hallway and the faint clatter of someone making something in the kitchen. For a few seconds, you forget where you are, then the unfamiliar ceiling and the plain white walls bring you back to reality. Your new life at university has officially begun.

After forcing yourself out of bed, you shuffle into the kitchen, where Lily is perched on the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie, her pink-streaked hair all over the place. “Morning,” she says between bites.

“Morning,” you mumble, grabbing a mug and searching for the kettle.

Matt wanders in next, still in his pajamas. He blinks at you both. “We should’ve made a pact never to speak before noon.”

Lily laughs. “Good luck with that. We’ve all got a welcome meeting at ten, I’m not sure where yours is but mine is in the Oliver building.”

Right. The dreaded introductory stuff. You groan internally but force yourself to stay optimistic. First years always say it’s useless, but there could always be something important about the university you wouldn’t know about.

After breakfast, you grab your bag and head out with Lily, who insists on walking with you even though the history department is in a completely different building. “Moral support,” she says dramatically as you weave through the crowds of students trying to find their way around.

The film department is tucked inside a modern glass building that looks sleek and intimidating. Inside, the lecture hall is already filling up, the hum of conversation blending with the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. You slide into a seat near the middle and pull out your laptop, trying not to look as awkward as you feel.

A few minutes later, a girl with short curly hair and a nose ring drops into the seat next to you. “Hey, do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m Ava,” she says, setting her laptop down. “Film Studies?”

You nod. “Yeah, first year.”

“Same! What kind of films are you into?”

That kicks off an easy conversation, by the time the lecturer finally arrives and starts their speech about “the power of storytelling in visual media,” you and Ava have already bonded over your mutual love of indie films and your shared distaste for pretentious film bros who only talk about Pulp Fiction.

The lecture itself is mostly introductions—professors explaining what to expect, a few awkward icebreakers with the people sitting nearby, and a long-winded speech about academic integrity. By the time it’s over, your brain is buzzing, and you’re more than ready to escape.

“Wanna grab coffee?” Ava asks as you head out of the building.

“Definitely.”

The two of you make your way to the campus café, where you spot Sam and Matt sitting by the window, deep in conversation. When they see you, Sam waves you over.

“How was your lecture?” Matt asks as you slide into the seat across from him.

“Long.” You take a sip of your coffee. “What about you?”

“Boring. I already regret choosing Economics.”

Ava laughs. “Wow, you’re all so motivated.”

“Oh! This is Ava, by the way, we both do film studies.”

As the conversation continues, it starts to hit you, this is your new life. New friends, new routines, new experiences waiting just around the corner.

————

By the time the sun sets, the nerves of the first day have been replaced with something else entirely: anticipation, excitement, and the lingering feeling from the vodka shots you definitely shouldn’t have taken so quickly.

Your flat has changed into pre-drinks. The tiny kitchen table is covered in half-empty bottles, discarded mixers, and the remnants of an intense game of Ring of Fire. Someone’s put on a ridiculous throwback playlist, and now everyone is shouting the words to Mr. Brightside like it’s a national anthem.

You’re sat on the counter, legs swinging, cradling a drink you don’t need but don’t want to put down. “Okay,” you announce to no one in particular, “I think I might be a tiny bit drunk.”

Lily cackles from where she’s trying to apply eyeliner on a very uncooperative Matt. “No shit. You’ve been swaying for, like, ten minutes.”

You blink, realizing that the floor does seem to be moving slightly. “That’s just because I’m—” You wave your hand in the air, trying to find a reason. “—graceful.”

Sam laughs, throwing an arm around you dramatically. “You’re gone.”

But the night is young, and there’s only one destination in mind—Lola Lo’s. Everyone has been hyping it up since you arrived, promising neon lights, questionable cocktails, and the kind of night you’ll only half remember.

After one final shot (a terrible idea in hindsight), you all spill onto the street, voices loud and laughter echoing down the road. The walk to the club is only fifteen minutes, but your brain seems to have abandoned all sense of coordination.

Somewhere along the way, you trip over nothing and stumble into Lily. “Okay,” she says, catching you, “I think we need a pause.”

You find yourself plopping down onto the curb, the cold pavement grounding you slightly. Sam sits next to you, amused. “You know they’re not gonna let you in like this, right?”

You groan, resting your head on his shoulder dramatically. “I know.”

Matt crouches in front of you, squinting like a concerned doctor. “Alright, what’s the game plan? We can’t have you getting turned away at the door.”

Lily laughs. “We could walk in first and pretend we don’t know them.”

You gasp, offended. “Betrayal.”

Ava, who has been quiet up until now, holds up a bottle of water she somehow smuggled out of the flat. “Here, drink this. Try to look less… like this.” She gestures vaguely at you, which is fair.

You take a sip then make a face. “This isn’t gonna work in time.”

Matt nudges your shoulder. “Alright, let’s problem-solve. How do we make you look sober?”

“Serious face,” you declare, straightening up and attempting your most responsible expression. It lasts about three seconds before Sam bursts out laughing.

Lily wipes away fake tears. “Oh yeah, that’s gonna fool the bouncers.”

You groan, dramatically falling back onto the pavement. “Okay, new plan. I’ll just live here now. The curb is my home.”

Ava rolls her eyes but helps you up anyway. “Nope. We’re getting in that club. You’re gonna drink water, act normal, and stop being a liability.”

You let them half-drag, half-walk you down the street, still giggling. Maybe you won’t get into the club. Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow with no recollection of this conversation.

Somehow—somehow—you make it past the bouncers.

Lily had given you a very serious pep talk before you reached the front of the queue: “No swaying. No giggling. And for God’s sake, don’t say anything stupid.” You had nodded along, doing your absolute best to channel the energy of someone who had only had one sensible drink and definitely wasn’t clinging to Sam for balance.

Miraculously, the bouncers barely look at you before waving you inside, and suddenly, you’re in.

Lola Lo’s is everything people hyped it up to be, neon lights glow under bamboo decor, the music vibrates in your chest, and the air smells like a mix of fruity cocktails, sweat, and regret. Your flatmates disappear into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of the dance floor, still slightly overwhelmed.

But there’s one thing you do know, you need another drink.

Stumbling your way to the bar, you lean against the counter, blinking up at the bartender like focusing really hard will make you seem more sober. “Can I get a—” You pause. What did you want? A cocktail? A vodka and coke? You squint at the menu, as if the words will rearrange themselves into the perfect choice.

Eventually, you just blurt out, “A rum and coke, please,” and slap some cash onto the bar, feeling very responsible.

The bartender hands you your drink, and you turn around. Too fast.

Because the next thing you know, your arm collides with someone, and suddenly, your entire very full drink sloshes forward, spilling straight onto them.

“Oh shit—”

The guy flinches, looking down at his now-soaked shirt. “Oh, for fu—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply before looking up at you.

And that’s when you see him properly.

Tall, messy brown hair, sharp features softened by the kind of face that probably gets away with way too much just by smiling. But right now, he’s not smiling, he’s staring at you, stunned, as cold rum and coke drips down his front.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, hands flying to your mouth. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine—”

“No, no, it’s not fine!” You grab a handful of napkins from the bar and start patting at his chest, which is definitely not helping, because now you’re basically rubbing the mess into his already ruined shirt. “I didn’t mean to—oh my God, I’m such an idiot—”

He lets out a breathy laugh, finally grabbing your wrist gently to stop your attempts at fixing the situation. “Hey—hey, it’s fine. Seriously.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed, and suddenly, your brain catches up with what’s happening. You just spilled an entire drink on a very attractive guy and are now borderline manhandling him in a drunken panic.

This is not how the night was supposed to go.

“I’ll buy you a new drink,” you blurt out.

He smirks. “What, for me or for you?”

You open your mouth, then shut it. That was a fair question.

Before you can respond, Lily appears out of nowhere, looking between the two of you with sharp amusement. “What the hell did I miss?”

The guy chuckles, shaking his head. “Your friend just redecorated my shirt.”

Lily glances at you, then at the napkins still clutched in your hand. Then she grins. “Oh, this is fantastic.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Kill me now.”

But when you peek up, the guy is still looking at you, not annoyed, not pissed off, but amused. Like this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all night.

“I’m George” he says, still smiling.

George. You’ll keep that in mind.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁౨ৎ. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

author notes:

hello everyone !! sorry i’ve been gone for so long !! i’ve been very busy with uni life and have kind of abandoned this account !! but i’m back and i’ve decided to bring my uni life into this new slow burn i have !!

I KNOW THAT GEORGE DIDNT GO TO BRISTOL BUT I DIDNT KNOW ENOUGH ABOUT HIS UNI TO WRITE ABOUT THAT ONE !!

much love x

#george clarkey #george clarke #italianbach #arthur hill #chrismd #arthur tv #georgeclarkey #george clarke fics #university

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scoupsakakitty · 3 days ago

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Pieces of Us | idol!Hyunjin x Reader | angst, fluff

The sky was painted in a gradient of soft oranges and pinks, a subtle reminder of the setting sun. But for Hyunjin, the world had suddenly turned gray, as though the colors had drained from it in an instant.

You stood before him, a heavy silence enveloping both of you. The air was thick with tension, the words neither of you wanted to say pressing down on your chest. You’d tried to be gentle, tried to explain why things between you two weren’t working, but the message hadn’t been received the way you had hoped.

“I think we should break up, Hyunjin,” you whispered, almost afraid of the words coming out of your mouth. You could feel your heart racing in your chest, every beat louder than the last, but your decision was firm. You couldn’t keep pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t.

His eyes widened as if he hadn’t expected it. “Wait—what?” His voice cracked slightly, and for a moment, you could see the vulnerability in his eyes. It was fleeting, but it was there. “Y/N, no… I don’t understand. I thought… I thought everything was fine.” He took a step toward you, his face a mix of confusion and desperation. “We can work through this. Please, don’t leave me.”

The words stung, but you knew deep down it was time. You’d tried for months, tried to hold on to something that had started to fall apart long ago. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him, but sometimes love just wasn’t enough to patch over the cracks.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I’ve tried, Hyunjin. I really have. But we’re just… not right for each other anymore.”

He shook his head, refusing to accept it. “No, Y/N, this isn’t how it ends. You can’t leave me. I… I can change. I promise, I’ll do whatever it takes.” His hands reached out, as if begging for something he wasn’t going to get. You could see it in his eyes: he was a wreck, barely holding it together, and his pride was shattering.

But this was the hardest part. You had to do it. You had to let go.

“You don’t understand,” you said softly, feeling the pain of the words as you spoke them. “You’re asking me to stay in something that isn’t working. That’s not fair to either of us. We need to move on.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Hyunjin’s face twisted in anguish, his breathing shallow. Then, without warning, he snapped. “This is bullshit, Y/N! You’re just pretending. You don’t really want to leave me. I know you don’t!” His voice raised, the anger in it catching you off guard.

You flinched, but you didn’t back down. “I’m not pretending. I’ve made up my mind.”

He let out a bitter laugh, his lips curling into a sneer. “You think I’m just going to let you walk away like this? You think you can just leave me behind?”

The words cut deep, and you could feel the sting of them. But you knew he was speaking out of hurt, out of fear. He didn’t want to admit the truth: that you were really leaving.

“I’m sorry, Hyunjin,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “But this is what’s best for both of us.”

He stood still for a moment, his body rigid, as if he was trying to come to terms with the reality of the situation. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, but his pride wouldn’t let them fall.

“Fine,” he spat out, the words laced with venom. “Go. But don’t expect me to beg. Don’t expect me to change.” His voice cracked at the end, betraying the anger he was desperately trying to keep contained. He turned away from you, his fists clenched at his sides.

You couldn’t stop the tears from welling up in your eyes. This wasn’t how you had imagined it would end. But it was done. You had made the hardest decision of your life.

As you walked away, you could feel his eyes burning into your back, a silent plea you could no longer respond to.

Days passed, and life moved on, but Hyunjin was stuck in a spiral of his own making. The band was on tour, but even in the midst of performing, the constant ache in his chest never left. He wasn’t himself anymore.

At first, he tried to keep up appearances. He smiled for the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and performed with all the energy the fans expected of him. But inside, he was falling apart. The bandmates noticed it, of course. Felix, always the perceptive one, was the first to address it.

“Hyunjin, man… Are you okay?” Felix asked one night after a show. They were all hanging out in the lounge, but Hyunjin had barely touched his food. He sat slouched in the corner, his eyes unfocused, as if lost in a place none of them could reach.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Hyunjin muttered, his tone flat.

Felix wasn’t convinced. “You’re lying, Hyunjin. I know you. You’re not fine.”

Hyunjin glared at Felix, the usual warmth of their friendship replaced by coldness. “I’m fine, Felix. Just drop it.”

But Felix didn’t. “If you’re so fine, why do you look like you’re about to explode?”

The question hit too close to home. Hyunjin stood up abruptly, slamming his hand down on the table. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

The room fell silent. The other members exchanged nervous glances, but no one dared to speak. They all knew what had happened, but they didn’t know how to help him.

Hyunjin’s temper flared as he stormed out of the room, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. How could they all be so calm while he was dying inside?

Weeks passed, and Hyunjin’s behavior grew more erratic. The once charming, charismatic Hyunjin was replaced by someone colder, more aggressive. He picked fights with the other members, lashed out at anyone who dared to challenge him. He started drinking more, throwing himself into meaningless distractions just to avoid the gnawing pain in his chest.

But nothing worked. He couldn’t outrun his feelings for you, no matter how hard he tried.

Late one night, after another argument with the members, Hyunjin found himself alone in his hotel room. The silence was deafening, and his mind raced. His thoughts kept circling back to you.

“She’ll come back,” he whispered to himself, though even he knew it wasn’t true. He said it as if trying to convince himself, but deep down, he knew you were gone for good.

The door to his room opened suddenly, and Felix stepped in. “Hyunjin…” he began, his voice soft but firm. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’re not fine, and it’s eating you up.”

“I don’t need your help, Felix,” Hyunjin snapped, standing up to face him. “I don’t need anyone. I don’t need her.”

Felix wasn’t intimidated by Hyunjin’s anger. “You’re hurting, man. I get it. But this isn’t the way. You have to face the pain, not hide from it. You can’t just keep pretending you don’t care.”

The words hit Hyunjin harder than he expected. Felix was right. He had been running from the truth, trying to bury his feelings with anger and pride. But it wasn’t working. It never would.

“I… I miss her,” Hyunjin admitted, his voice cracking. He sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. “I don’t know how to let her go, Felix. I just… I can’t.”

Felix sat down next to him, offering a silent but supportive presence. “You don’t have to let her go right away. But you can’t keep hurting yourself like this. It’s not fair to you.”

Hyunjin nodded slowly, finally letting the tears fall. He didn’t care if anyone saw him cry anymore. He was done pretending.

Months passed, and Hyunjin slowly began to heal. It wasn’t easy, but he was learning to live with the pain. He took the time to reflect on his past mistakes, on what went wrong with you. And as much as it hurt, he knew that letting you go was the right thing to do.

It was a warm summer evening when he saw you again. The chance meeting was unexpected, and it took him by surprise. He hadn’t seen you in months, but the moment he laid eyes on you, the flood of emotions came rushing back.

You were standing at a coffee shop, your back to him as you ordered a drink. His heart skipped a beat, but he didn’t run away. He didn’t hide from the feelings anymore.

“Y/N,” he called, his voice shaky but steady. You turned to face him, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The weight of the past hung between you, but there was also a sense of something unspoken—a mutual understanding.

“Hi, Hyunjin,” you said softly, offering a small but genuine smile.

“I… I’ve missed you,” he confessed, his voice low. “I know I wasn’t perfect, and I know I hurt you. But I’ve changed. I’m trying to be better.”

You studied him for a moment, searching his eyes for any hint of dishonesty. But there was none. “I’ve missed you too,” you admitted. “I didn’t want to leave, Hyunjin. But I had to.”

“I get it,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “But if you’ll let me, I’d like to try again. Slowly. No promises. Just… I want you in my life, even if it’s just as a friend.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you nodded, the weight lifting off your shoulders. Maybe this was the start of something new. Maybe it was the beginning of healing for both of you.

And as they say, time heals all wounds. Hyunjin knew it wouldn’t be easy, but with you by his side again, even if it was just a small step forward, he felt hopeful.

The future was uncertain, but for the first time in months, Hyunjin believed that maybe, just maybe, he would be okay.

#stray kids x y/n #stray kids x you #stray kids angst #stray kids ff #stray kids fluff #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader #straykids #stray kids #hyunjin #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x y/n #hyunjin x you #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin fanfic #hyunjin angst #hwang hyunjin

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jonquilyst · 2 days ago

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Day 12 - Elimination Ceremony

Welcome Team Odyssey to your first ever elimination ceremony! After six entire challenges without a single loss, you were bested by the vocal talents of Team Integrity, and now that there's no Team Success to provide that 2nd place safety padding, it means it's (at long last) loser-woser-ville for you!

Who will be the first contestant to leave Team Odyssey? I can tell on all of your faces that after being safe from elimination for so long, I bet you thought this day would never come!

But invincibility is always temporary, my friends. After all, there will only be 1 winner of this competition. So, without further ado, let's get on to the votes!

The following contestants are safe:

Marilyn, Nite, Raylan, Touma, and Ziggy

The votes were all over the board, with different folks voting for different contestants. However, there was a single contestant who ended up receiving 1 more vote than the rest. That contestant is either Minato or Tomiko. The result is under the cut:

The contestant eliminated from Total Drama Sims is...

MINATO MATSUDA

Today's Confessional: Touma Reid Beasley

"Nooo! Minato! Why did it have to be you? Why did they vote for you? This is so not fair... You were literally the light of the entire team! You're so funny, talented, a-and amazing! Ooohhh! When the comeback challenge comes, you need to win, okay? A-And I promise, buddy, that I'm gonna try my best to stay in the competition so that we can rock it out in the merge! I promise you, Minato, I'm gonna give this team a piece of my mind! They had no right to vote you off. You didn't deserve it! A-And...!"

"I'm sorry, the producers are telling me that I need to wrap this up if I'm just gonna ramble about the same thing... I'm gonna miss you, Minato. I really hope you come back!"

@nakasumi-sims @ravingsockmonkey @aliengirl @bloomingkyras @kari-sims

@kissalopa @ethicaltreatmentofcowplants

#TDS3 #Touma Reid Beasley by nakasumi-sims #Minato Matsuda by ravingsockmonkey #Marilyn Moore by aliengirl #Raylan K. Rodriguez by bloomingkyras #Tomiko Moriyama by kari-sims #Nite Crowe by kissalopa #Ziggy Skint by ethicaltreatmentofcowplants

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thequietkid-moonie · 3 days ago

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Stuck in this world due an emergency

[ ONE-SHOT, World traveler!reader ] [ Twisted Wonderland ]

× Implied that reader is Yuu/mc

A little vague buuuut i love SO SO SO SOOOO MUUUCH THIS PROMPT!!! And i loooove twisted wonderland too sooo this was perfect <333

I may just write more about this scenario in the future sooo i hope people love this as much as i did!

The way you have left the last world you were in was far from ideal, a really big and messy battle was about to start and you needed to leave as quick as posible, even if the problem wasn't against you it was way too important for the people in that world and staying would mean to be part of the story of the planet, and that should only happen if is a world you are willing to risk your life for

As a world traveler you have to be ready for this kind of emergencies to happen, knowing how to act and what to do, still things just seemed to be from bad to worst when your own device to travel broke when trying to escape, leaving you without another option than take a risky move when a misterious carriage with black horses apeared out of nowhere and was quickly making its way towards were you where, it was suspicious but it would be the best way to leave this world as fast as posible, so swallowing your anxiety and holding tightly your bag with your belongings, without much of a second thought you got inside of the carriage and left the world

Normally, when traveling somewhere new you had to study a bit about the place and make sure you would be able to don't look suspicious, keeping a low profile was a key for a world traveler, however that plan was quickly throw out of the window when you opened the door of the misterious and sofocating place you where trapped on only to interrupt what looked an important ceremony by falling loudly on the floor along with a cat-like creature

With all the eyes on you the anxiety quickly took over you, you were trying to come up with a plan, or at least an excuse, as quick as posible just to be interrupted by your unexpected companion, screaming something about becoming the best and demanding to be accepted in the school, unintentionally dragging you in the mess since everyone assumed you two came together (after all, you two got out of the same coffin)

As if the situation couldn't get worst a fight quickly started, the cat-like creature started to make everyone furious, almost as if he was being paid to do it, and quickly ereasing any posibility for you to make the transicion from world to world peacefuly and smoothly like you used to

Not satisfied with it live itself just seems to enjoy with your new problematic state because, somehow, in the way from a misterious carriage to a coffin your bag went missing (you wouldn't be so reckless or so idiotic to forget what you need to your journey in another world so it must be somewhere in this world, making a mental note to search for it later), having nothing that could help you mimic the magic they use to don't be vulnerable nor reveal your identity as world-traveler, leaving you helpless, being the cat-like creature who just seem unable to stop complaining your only posible source of protection

At the end, once the caos was settle enough you had no other option than accept the not so fair deal the headmage of this misterious school offered to you and the cat-like creature (who you soon find out was called Grim), after all it was for the best interest of the three to work together, deciding to do your best in the sake of your safety and the dignity you still have right now and accept the job as janitor, determinated to do the best you can

Being stuck in a house that looked like it could fall at any time with ghosts as roomates was definetly not the worst it could have happened, and, sincerily, after the mess in the ceremony was better than you could have imagined! And no matter how much Grim complained (about everything) for both it was best to stuck in this situation together, at least this way you wouldn't be completely vulnerable or alone until you manage to find your belongings, and he was only accepted in the school because he was stuck with you too so he had no other option neither

The moment you were able to lay down in the bed, in your new dorm, having your new friend at your side already fast sleep, you found yourself replaying the events of today, cursing the stars for the fiasco it was being having to leave one world in such a rush just to get in other in the worst way posible, but, after everything that happened your couldn't help but still hold some hope that things would go more smoothly from now on

A hope that would soon be crushed into pieces when you found yourself befriending the most caotic people who just seem unable to stop getting in troubles, accidentally dragging you in their problems and in the dangerous mysteries of this world and its magic

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twist x reader #disney twst x reader #x reader #x gn reader #video games x reader

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halletheromantic · 2 days ago

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Two Peas in a Pod | harry styles x reader | part 1

once upon a time, you and harry were two peas in a pod. however, physical distance turns emotional, and the two of you lose each other once harry becomes a part of one direction. years later, your paths intertwine.

Word Count: 2,079

Notes: Be sure to check the TPiaP Masterlist for information on tropes and more about the story! If you're interested in being on the Taglist or if you have a request, feel free to comment or leave an Ask. Happy Reading!

“I can’t believe you made me sit through Princess Diaries 2. Again.” Harry groaned, stretching his legs across the sofa, purposefully bumping one into yours.

“What can I say? Chris Pine is an angel in this movie.” You smirked.

Harry was leaning against your shoulder—a common occurrence at your movie nights—but he pushed you away at your words. “You have horrible taste. Ever since you liked Barney when we watched him at six.”

“Hey! At least I didn’t have a crush on DJ from Full House.”

Harry picked up the pillow next to him, throwing it at your face. You ducked easily, grabbing it and smacking him back.

“Hey! Not fair!” He said, and you giggled uncontrollably.

Soon, pillows began to fly in the air as the two of you began a war. Harry got you in the stomach multiple times, but when you buried him completely with your pillow on the sofa and declared yourself the winner, the fight ended.

Your laughs finally subsided as the two of you leaned back on the sofa, your legs tangled with Harry’s under the blanket you were sharing.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow.”

The wide grin on his face faded, his sea-colored eyes turning sad as they met yours. “Me too.”

Tomorrow, your best friend (from the fateful day in kindergarten when you beat him in tag) was going to be auditioning for the X-Factor. He was a talented singer, and chances were that he wouldn’t be coming home, instead, following his new journey as a singer. 11 years of friendship made it just a bit hard to separate.

“You’d better text me.”

A small smile grew on his face. “Why would I not?”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Because you might get famous and get too busy to talk to the people from home.” You played it off as a joke, but this was a deep worry laced within your gut.

But Harry could read you like a book. His grin faded, and his eyes became sincere. “I would never get too busy. Not for you. You’re my best friend. Nothing will ever change that.”

It was an odd moment of vulnerability breaking into the well-honed banter you typically had, but it was the last day you’d see your best friend before he left, so you let it happen. “Promise?”

He took your hand. Squeezed it. “Promise.”

“Good. Because you’re going to be getting zero sleep starting from tomorrow. I’ll be texting you at all hours of the day—wherever you are.”

He groaned again. “Of course you will.” But a small smile grew on his face as you leaned your head on his shoulder, cuddling in comfortable silence.

The two of you fell asleep on the couch, tangled in your blanket. The next morning was an early one, and you both woke up at Anne’s soft reminder.

“Harry? You need to get ready to go, love.”

A soft ray of sunlight fell onto the two of you as you rubbed your eyes. You had fallen asleep on Harry’s chest, and his arm was wrapped around you lazily. With the two of you, there was no such thing as personal space. You hoped it wouldn’t change when he left.

“I’m coming,” he rasped, and you groaned, shifting to the side as he stretched and got off the sofa, flicking you on the head as he went to his room to get ready. You glared daggers at his back, but there wasn’t much you could do since he was already gone.

“Honey? You okay with toast for breakfast?” Anne caught your attention, and you nodded. Of course, she saw the troubled look in your eye, and she quickly bustled over to you, sitting down.

“You’re going to miss him.”

You nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “A bit. It’s just—I know he’s going to do well, and be successful, and even if he visits home, nothing will be the same.” Quickly, you blinked, sniffling. “Sorry. You’re his mom. I shouldn’t be feeling like this while you're so put together.”

Anne quickly brought you into a hug. “Honey, you have every right to feel this way. The two of you are two peas in a pod. You’ve never been apart. We’re all going to miss him, but it will all be okay. And for the record, I cried earlier this morning, too," she whispered, making you laugh a bit.

You nodded, wiping your tears as Anne gave you one last squeeze, heading back over to the kitchen. At that moment, Harry came out of the bathroom, wearing his X-Factor outfit that you and Anne had helped him pick out yesterday, and gave you his bright smile, his dimples popping out. You couldn’t help but smile back—to you, it was always contagious.

The car was packed, and Anne and Gemma were in the front. The back door sat open, but you and Harry were still on his porch, the chill morning breeze blowing his hair haphazardly. You chuckled as you imagined Gemma smoothing it down before he auditioned.

He looked at you. “Any last words of advice?”

“Don’t mess up.”

He laughed, and before you could cry, you quickly brought him into a warm hug. His arms immediately went straight to you, holding you tight. You heard his sniffle—almost identical to yours—and laughed, pulling away.

“It’ll be okay. We’ve got texts. And emails.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

You look into his eyes, and there they were—sad, excited, and happy all at once. He opened his mouth, looking right at you, about to say something, but quickly closed it, shaking his head.

“I’d better go before I’m late. Don’t miss me too much!” He grabbed your hand, squeezed it, then rushed back to the car, shutting the door behind him after climbing into the backseat.

“Says you!” You called after him, waving goodbye as the car tore away.

You took a deep breath. It will all be okay.

Harry’s audition had gone well, he had said in an email. He was selected to be part of a band—One Direction—and they would begin writing their own songs, being managed by an official label. The four other boys were friendly, apparently, and they had become fast friends.

His emails were frequent, almost daily. You anticipated their arrivals, itching for new updates on his life. They were always filled to the brim with something eventful. There was never a free moment, it seemed, for him.

Your return emails felt empty. You ended up realizing that your life outside of Harry was almost non-existent to you. Although you played hockey and wrote your stories, your activities were not as time-consuming or emotionally impactful as the moments you spent with him. Random school romances or a sports injury seemed like nothing compared to his grandiose descriptions of meeting famous people.

And, as you had predicted, One Direction became huge. They were a rapid internet sensation, and as a fanbase began to collect behind Harry, his emails began to get more sporadic. Days in between emails turned to weeks, and soon, they were simply just here and there.

Although he visited home, it was never announced, and it was never matched up with your own schedule. Once, he visited for a few days while you were out of the country. Another time, you were at a funeral for the one night he came as a surprise.

You missed him a lot—especially after the days he visited home and you never got to see him. But soon enough, you learned to have your own life, and days without him became less painful. You grew closer to your hockey team, got your first boyfriend, and pushed yourself in your academics. You never forgot Harry; he was always lingering in your mind. But at some point, your close friendship with him was more of a distant memory, and even writing an email with these updates felt too hard.

His emails to you ended two years after they started. The band had just released another album, and it was even more popular than anything before. Of course, you listened to all the songs, smiling at Harry’s voice, settling at your computer to type up how much you loved the songs. But scrolling through your page, you realized that the last time the two of you had communicated was months ago. The last two emails were yours—the final one being your good news of getting into your dream university. He had never responded.

Now, he was on his own path, and so were you.

Sighing, you logged out of your email and turned off the computer.

The two of you had diverged, and it was time to accept it.

Years passed; life went on. You attended Cambridge and majored in International Relations and Creative Writing. Writing had always been your passion, and you loved focusing on inter-country politics, so your academics kept you busy and invested.

You graduated at the top of your class, and soon, you became a published fantasy author. You dipped your toes into the romance genre, writing a novel about childhood friends growing up in the countryside becoming lovers, and it became a huge hit. Soon, you were a well-known, renowned author, and you began writing with a large publishing company.

While following your dreams, you visited your home often. You were always attached to your small community, and you’d often spend a weekend sitting with your own parents, Anne, and Gemma (if she was available) for an outdoor lunch or dinner. Though the questions were often directed to everyone, they landed on Harry at some point, and you were once again reminded of your childhood friend.

Harry. The boy who had now become a man—one you hadn’t seen in seven years. You had never once come home at the same time he did during his breaks. He had separated from One Direction two years ago, and had recently published his debut album. You wouldn’t tell him, but you listened to it. Listening to his voice, singing lyrics that sounded so strongly like words directly from his mouth—it was enough to make you cry.

And you actually did, once Sweet Creature came on. You had never fathomed that Harry would write songs about you, but you were sure this one was. Running through the garden, your stubborn fights—the lyrics were simply your childhood experiences. Now, it was always on repeat.

And every time you heard his name, saw his face on the internet, heard his music—you missed him.

But he probably wasn’t even thinking of you anymore.

You were coming home one more weekend. You had written another novel, this time a fantasy, and it had gone viral on social media. It was a big hit, but it began to receive some hate from extremists for including too much diversity. It was all too much for you, and when your mother invited you home for a weekend, you knew you couldn’t pass up the offer.

So, you took a train back to your small town from London, brimming with anticipation. Sweet Creature began to fill your airpods, and a smile grew on your face as you reminisced upon your times with Harry. Although he didn’t—wouldn't—remember you, you would never forget how wonderful he made your childhood, no matter how untouchable he was today. His old email address was most likely inactive by now, too.

All too soon, the train reached its station, and you walked all the way to your home. Voices collected from the backyard, and you grinned in excitement. It seemed that Gemma and her parents were over. It would be fun to hear about their life updates.

You opened the back door, and your mum turned at the sound. “Dear, you’re back!” She rushed to give you a warm hug, and you all but melted in your mother’s arms. “How was your trip?”

“It was good! It’s so nice to see you Mum, I missed you more than you know.”

“We all missed you here. Come say hi to everyone else.” She took your hand, bringing you over to the rest of the bunch. You looked around to find all your siblings dispersed and talking, but a captivating laugh grasped your attention.

You knew that laugh.

Disbelieving, you turn around to find Harry Styles himself, talking to Gemma, a full grin on his face, his dimples grooved into his cheeks as she made a joke.

Your eyes widened, and Gemma’s gaze landed on you. “Y/N! You’re back!”

But your eyes were fixed onto Harry’s. He turned to look at you.

“Y/N.”

#part two coming soon #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #one direction fanfiction #one direction x reader #harry styles #harry styles fluff #harry styles x reader writing

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ametistacollinsworld · 18 hours ago

Note

Oh if I, a simple baker boy may, can thou ask for Oblivious! Gender neutral Reader x Very Flirtatious!Goob in which Goob suffers, trying to get Reader to blush, or even…Fall in love?!

Oh how scandalous of me >:3c such a sneaky one I am!

💫🧡🩵Oh Oblivious Reader my beloved!��🧡💫

Thanks for the request! Hope u like itt!! Gobbie Goob boy!! <3

You've always been very close to the Craft brothers, even considering them your best friends in Gardenview.

Scraps has always been a very friendly and kind toon to you, and her brother, Goob, wasn't much different from her, always being a sweetheart.

For as long as you can remember, Goob has always been very nice to you, not that he wasn't nice to others, of course.

But one thing you noticed is that Goob always seemed to try to include you in everything he and Scraps did, which you thought was very adorable of him.

Not to mention that he could sometimes be very clingy and affectionate for no particular reason, which you didn't mind too much, always appreciating the extra affection.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You were washing the many plates and cups from the breakfast dishes as a favor to Sprout, wearing one of the kitchen aprons and humming softly to yourself.

You were washing another one of the dishes when you suddenly felt a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist, as well as a small kiss on your cheek, making you let out a small giggle.

"Goob? What are you doing, you big goofball?" You asked softly with a smile, continuing to wash the dishes as if it was no big deal. Goob doing things like this were already very common for you anyway.

"Enjoying the beautiful view up close. You always manage to look beautiful doing anything… not fair." Goob spoke softly, resting his cheek against your shoulder, seeming to stop and watch you.

You hummed softly at the words, turning your head and giving him a smile.

"Well, I'm sure you don't have to try either, since you're absolutely adorable just the way you are." You said with a smile, giving Goob a kiss on the forehead and then turning to continue washing the dishes, feeling his arms loose around your waist.

"Goob? Are you okay?—" You tried to ask, but when you looked in his direction, he was already walking out the kitchen door, leaving you with a confused face wondering what had happened.

Goob had his back leaning against the wall as he covered his extremely flushed face with both of his hands, thinking about your sweet words and how you had kissed his forehead.

"Ughh… am I that bad at this?" Goob spoke in an embarrassed tone to himself, trying to keep the thought of your lips away as he walked away from the kitchen.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Day after day, Goob tried to flirt with you, trying to make you blush with the hope that you would fall in love with him.

But of course… you never seemed to notice his efforts.

Poor Goob, poor toon boy in love with (Y/n) who doesn't despise him, but is just very oblivious to the cute little craft's loving actions.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

You and Goob were drawing and doing arts and crafts together in his and Scraps' room, while his sister was too busy helping Brightney to join in on your little art session.

You were drawing with crayons while Goob seemed to be making something using colored pieces of paper, scissors, and crayons.

You were so distracted by drawing your drawing that you didn't even notice Goob approaching you, finally gaining your attention when he softly touched your shoulder and quickly hid something behind his back.

"Yeah, Goob? Do you need anything, buddy?" You asked softly with a smile on your face.

Goob seemed to swallow hard, giving you a small nervous smile with flushed cheeks before taking out what he had hidden behind his back, finally revealing a large colorful heart cutout that seemed to have a small message written in crayon in the center.

"For me?" You asked curiously, only earning a small nod from him, who just pushed the card a little further towards you for you to take, which you did, taking the card carefully and starting to read.

On the card was written:

"Are you an artist? Because you're really good at drawing me in."

"Awwww! That's adorable, Goob! You're such a cutie pie!" You exclaimed with a big smile, going towards him and giving him a big hug, which he froze, but soon hugged back slowly, giving a small soft sigh, giving a little smile.

"Someday... maybe…" Goob whispered to himself, burying his face against you head as you rested your face against his chest.

Maybe someday he'll be able to make you realize his feelings for you…

Until then, let's keep drawing with crayons and making origami hearts together. <3

#dandy's world x reader #dandys world x reader #dw goob x reader #dandys world goob x reader #dandy's world goob x reader #dw goob #dandys world goob

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81pastrys · 3 hours ago

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Grid Flirt

Part 8 / 13

Summary— The next race comes up and Horner refuses to let her qualify for the race

Warnings— Christian Horner. That’s the warning.

A/N— the next one is fun let me tell you.

Series List

After summer break we’re back in a paddock and I’m hesitant about the next race already. I look at charts and statistics from Maxs side. I can’t race for McLaren yet and not only am I mad about it, Horner is pissed.

Practices went alright. Not the best results, but to be fair I think Horner is still fucking with my car. Qualifying comes up and he tells me I’m not going on the track. “What are you talking about?”

“You aren’t qualifying, and you aren’t racing for my team again.”

“Surely you can’t do that?” I say looking to my manager.

“I can do what I want, it’s my car and it’s my team.” He shrugged. “You aren’t a part of it.”

“Really?” I ask. “Then why didn’t you get your reserve driver to replace me the rest of the season?”

“FIA wouldn’t let me.” He admitted. “So now I’m starting you back of the grid and powering you out of the race entirely.”

“Points out for you.” I scoff. “I’ve been top 10 this entire season so far.”

“I’m willing to take that sacrifice.”

“Fine then, fuck you.”

I walk to my dad’s pit and wish him luck and explain a bit of what happened. Then I head to McLarens pit and hang out there. “What are you doing here?” Brown asked smiling.

“Horner doesn’t want me qualifying, nor racing.” I say. “So I have nothing else to do.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re spending time with us!” He said. “How legal is it, what he’s doing?”

“No clue, my dad has never heard of anything like this either.” I shrug. “He’s out of points not me, I was for gaining points for constructors.”

“Well, we won’t do that to you.”

“I hope so.” I laugh. “No I think he’s just upset I called him off, and got another contract so fast.”

“We see your results and believe you’re worth working with so, he can shove off.”

I laugh and thank him watching qualifying, seeing my last name on the bottom with ‘no time’ Lando and Oscar qualify in top 5 and return the cars. They get out tired and exhausted. I congratulate them and walk to my dad’s pit again.

“Hello mi flor.” My dad said. “P8 for me and P12 for Stroll.” He smiled.

“I know!” I say. “You did good out there papi!”

“Thank you mi hija.” He said hugging me. “Go talk with Horner hm?”

“Yeah I guess.” I whine.

I walk to the RedBull pit and congratulate Max. “Why didn’t you qualify?” He asked, concerned and like a brother.

“Horner told me I couldn’t.” I shrug it off.

“So you’re starting at the back?” He asked.

“He doesn’t want me racing, I suppose he’ll let me go out for a few laps and then pull me in.”

“How are you so calm about all of this?” He asked fuming.

“I already gave him a piece of my mind a month ago Max, what else can I do?” I say, whining slightly.

“Fight for what you can?” He said. “If he isn’t putting a reserve out there, and you aren’t out there the points will plummet.”

“He understands and doesn’t care.” I say. “Maybe you can talk him into it, but no promises.”

Max scoffs and pulls Horner to the side. After about 15 minutes they emerge and Horner looks more mad than before. “I don’t want her winning more on my team Max, the answer is no!”

“Horner are you a fucking nut?” Max asked. He gained my attention. “The points will plummet, your team will go to shit!”

“Max, you’ll win the drivers championship, who gives a fuck if we lose the constructors?”

“You will, she’s always top 10 gaining you points.” Max said. “We still have 12 races, you need her scoring you points or you’ll be a laughing stock.”

“I’ll talk it over, but I don’t want her racing under my team.”

“That’s fucking childish.” Max said walking to me, grabbing my wrist and leading me to the back of the paddock. “He’s unreasonable.”

“Max, I don’t care to race.” I reassure him.

“Well then whats the point of you being a driver if you aren’t fucking driving?”

“If he’s doing this to ruin my career, it won’t work.” I say. “I can train harder, I can do the practice laps.”

“That’s not enough and you know it.” He said. “You just don’t want to accept it.”

He hugs me and I have no emotion anymore, if Horner wants to be a prick, then let him. Max is right, no matter how hard I train and how many practices I do, it isn’t really racing.

After a few hours Horner agrees to let me race. He just doesn’t want me winning. I can clearly leave that to Max. Doesn’t mean I won’t try.

Will she win? 👀

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softnwonderful · 23 hours ago

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SFW Alphabet: Echo - The Bad Batch

Pairing: Echo x Gn!Reader Word Count: 3.2k Rating: General Audience Warning: mention of break up, kissing and cuddling, insecurities and negative thoughts, bad eating habits and sleep disorders. (let me know if I should add something)

Author's Note: Not really sure everything is on character but, oh well, that's what fiction is for.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Oh, he’s the sweetest in the most subtle ways possible, even if his ways of showing love are more emotional than physical. Quality time is very important for him, so you two always plan things to do together in between missions. They don’t even need to be big and elaborate activities, sometimes having a nice dinner and then going for a walk under the night sky is more than enough. He will also listen to you talk about anything for hours, and he won’t just sit there and blackly stare at you, he’ll ask questions, give you his advice and engage in conversation in a way that shows you he cares; his goal is to make you feel heard and understood by acknowledging your aspirations, likes and opinions the way you do with him. There’s nothing more important to him than getting to know you over and over again.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

He’s rather an introvert person, so if you’re planning on being friends with him, you’re going to have to approach him first. The only other alternative would be that the rest of the Batch somehow realizes he’s interested in you and they decide to do the talking for him to help him out with introductions. In any case, it’ll take a while for him to open up and become comfortable with the relationship. Now, once he decides that you are trustworthy and begins to unfold, you better take really good care of that trust.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He’s pretty hesitant about it. He doesn’t dislike the idea, it’s somewhat the opposite of that; he sees it as such an intimate thing to do with someone, that he shies away from the vulnerability that goes with it. It makes him feel exposed in a way that scares him, because letting your guard down comes with the risk of getting hurt, and he’s been through a lot already and suffered more than enough. However, if you are patient with him (trust me it’ll take a while) and respect his boundaries, the comfort of feeling loved will win over the fear of getting hurt and he’ll give in to your touch.

Eventually you’ll find out that he absolutely adores being the little spoon.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

He honestly never even considered settling down as an option, until he met you, that is. With such a dangerous lifestyle as a trooper first and a rebel second, the probabilities of falling in love with someone willing to risk it all to live by his side seemed super low. But the moment you two got together he realized that maybe settling down didn’t look the same for everyone. He learned to appreciate the domesticity in the little things: The smell of the cheap coffee you had for breakfast every morning, your clothes scattered all over the room you both shared, the warmth you left on your side of the bed when you woke up earlier than him.

When it comes to the house chores, he’s always willing to help in anything he can, but of course some things are more difficult for him; his scomp link is not necessarily practical for doing stuff like dishes or folding laundry. However, he does enjoy cooking and doing general cleaning a fair amount, so he usually takes care of that.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

He wouldn’t, at least not right away. Whatever the situation was that led to him even considering the idea of a break up, he would let it linger, desperately hoping it would work itself out over time and eventually things would go back to normal. But of course it didn’t, because that’s just not how relationships work. You might have tried talking it out over and over again without really finding a long-term solution to the problem, and now you both find yourself ignoring the elephant in the room, delaying an inevitable end.

He’s pretty bad at good byes, but he’s also the most mature of the Batch, so once you split it’ll be in really good terms with just the right amount of talking to clear things out. But you will be left with an extremely bitter sweet feeling inside and you should know you won’t be seeing each other in a pretty long time, that’s the one thing he asked from you; having you around would hurt too much and he needs time to heal.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

In case you haven’t noticed yet: he’s BIG on commitment. He’s never been in a relationship before meeting you, and that’s mainly because he “dates to marry”, except he doesn’t really care much for marriage as a concept, so it’s more like a “dates to live happily ever after without necessarily being legally bonded to each other because that would be counterproductive with them being deserters wanted by the empire and all that” kind of situation.

The point is that, if he chose you as a partner is because he’s serious about it. So serious that he had to stop himself from proposing to you withing the first few weeks of being together, he was about to do it, but after a brief talk with his brothers they convinced him to at least wait a few months (to be fair he was in love with you way before asking you out, so it was not necessarily an impulsive decision).

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Super. He’s gentle and deliberate with both he’s actions and words, he might be a little bitchy towards some of his brothers sometimes, but never to you. He’s a very introspective person, so he’s used to thinking before speaking and choosing his words carefully.

After Skako Minor it took him a while to get used to his prosthesis and was pretty reluctant to let other in his personal space; he was scared to somehow lose control of his new limbs and accidentally hurt them. And even has he got more use to them and gained confidence, he remained determined to be extra careful with them.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

I think we’ve already established how he feels about physical touch: it’s not a matter of like but rather a matter of trust. So even though he pretty much never hugs anyone, with you and his brother he makes some exceptions. When it comes to the rest of the Batch, he’s not affectionate but will tolerate a hug if they initiate it (Wrecker, we are talking almost exclusively about Wrecker). But when it comes to you, he’ll go as far as to stand very close to your body and wait for you to get the hint. Once you do and wrap your arms around him, he will reciprocate (big step).

He does have a tendency to be a lot more loving in the morning; when he hasn’t fully woken up yet, still wearing any loose clothes he slept with and the warmth of the bed stays lingering on his body. He likes to drag his feet around the Marauder with drooping eyelids until he finds you in the kitchen, so he can hug you from behind until you finish making breakfast.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

We already talked about how, when it comes to relationships, he goes all in. But in this case is a little different for two reasons: first he's more of an "actions are louder than words" type of person, so he'll prove you that he loves you before he ever put’s it into words. And second, even if he is dying to tell you how much he loves you (I mean, the man would’ve proposed to you in a matter of weeks if it weren’t for his brothers) he’d probably chose to put it in different words. Saying things like “I’m crazy about you” or “I can’t get enough of you” seam more devoted and genuine to him than just repeating the same three words over and over again.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Ok so, Jealousy is a complex emotion that comes from insecurities: you see something that makes you self-conscious, you feel sad or even scared, that turns into anger and you project that anger onto yourself, your partner or a third person involved. Echo gets stuck in the “sad” stage.

It doesn’t happen that often, but when it does, he internalizes it. All the negative voices in his head try to convince him that he's not good enough for you; that you’d be better off with anybody else. He tends to go very quiet when those feelings cloud his thoughts, but you’ve learned not to force him out of that headspace and give him time, you know he’ll reach out when he’s ready to talk. Of course, when that eventually happens, you’ll make sure to shower him in as many praises as you can come up with to wash away every single insecurity that lingers in his mind.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Such a tender kisser, he likes to take his time. He rarely goes for rough or hungry kisses, but he does love intense long make out sessions along with some cuddling. He also tends to leave soft pecks all over your face: your forehead, temples and cheekbones are his favorites.

You’ve recently noticed that, even though he’s very responsive to kisses all along his body, there’s a spot that’s especially sensitive: his collarbones. Every single time your lips start descending down his neck, his breath gets caught in a whine the moment they caress that particular place.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He usually loves them... from afar. Nothing personal, he’s actually surprisingly good at taking care of them if he has to, it’s just that they don’t tend to be really good at respecting personal space or general boundaries, and it takes energy away from him to put up with that; he still things they’re adorable though.

He also never really considered starting a family himself, but if he gave him some thought it probably wouldn’t seem like the best idea, at least not until war is over and he’d successfully settled down in a safe place to raise your kids. And even so, he’s already been a parental figure for Omega and the entirety of the Batch for a long time, so he might have had enough of it by now.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Ok this is getting long so let's make the answers shorter

When you’re not in a rush because of some mission, he likes to take his time and let his body wake up on its own. Still, he doesn’t tend to sleep till late. Even before he opens his eyes, he reaches out looking for your presence by his side, if you didn’t wake up spooning already. He likes to cuddle for a few minutes, snuggle until his body stops feeling so heavy, to then let you go so one of you can get up and prepare breakfast.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them)

Getting ready for bed, off course. Usually, you get enough action during the day with some new job or helping around the island, so the moment the sun begins to hide, the weight of the working day sets on his shoulders. All he can think about as soon as he takes a step on the ship, is to take of his armor so you can help him clean and oil up his joints before getting to bed.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

At first, he won't share anything about himself, just the bare minimum. But as you gain his trust, he'll begin to reveal more. As soon as he begins to tell some anecdote about his past it feels like when a butterfly lands on you; you hold your breath, too worried to scare it away and ruin an unusual moment. And whatever que tells you, you’ll cherish that memory for the rest of your life.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He’s the second most patient of the Batch, after Hunter. He might have specific people he’s less tolerant towards, but generally speaking not many things get to his nerves enough to get an aggressive reaction out of him. The one thing that never fail to rile him up is injustice or anything related to it (and someone hurting his loved ones).

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Oh, he’ll remember; he’ll remember stuff even you forgot about yourself. He's pretty observant in general, so he even recalls details that you didn’t explicitly tell him, like your usual order when you eat out or your preference in books (he tends to use this knowledge to surprise you with small presents or a ready meal after a long day even if it not a special date or anything).

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Inspired by @leenathegreengirl’s art

It happened during your first month on Pabu, and the town was organizing an annual festivity. It included typical dishes, decoration and dances of the island. All of you had to dress accordingly as a sign of respect to their culture and so you had to asked for borrowed clothes. You weren’t together yet and Echo thought that night was perfect to finally ask you if he could be your boyfriend. Neither of you had seen each other wearing anything that wasn’t your usual armor before, so when his eyes landed on your body looking so elegant and graceful, he got so shy he almost backed down from the proposal.

He ultimately did it. First, he asked you for a dance, and when the music slowed down, he leaned your bodies together to whisper the question into your ear.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He knows you well enough to be aware of your loyalty and abilities, so honestly, he doesn’t feel the need to protect you much. Of course, he gets anxious when you get yourself into a particularly dangerous situation, but he’ll never get in the way unless you ask for help or are in obvious distress.

As for him, he expects the same treatment in return, though he wouldn’t mind you being a little protective.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

As much as he can in each context. If he has time and resources to plan a nice date, he’ll take care of every detail, make sure dinner is ready and get you a little present to go with it. But even in situations where you cannot give yourself such pleasures, he’ll try his best to make you feel as loved as possible.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He neglects his diet a lot. It’s not like he does it on purpose or anything, he just forgets to eat sometimes. He may not even realize how long it’s been since his last meal until his hunger turns almost debilitating. It hasn’t reached the point of having big consequences on his health, but you still worry about him; so you’re determined to share as many meals as possible to hopefully check up on him. He seems to be doing a lot better.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Tries his best not to think about it too much, but it's not that simple. He became quite insecure about his appearance after Skako Minor, adapting to a body that didn’t feel like it belonged to him was not easy, and it was hard for him to recognize his own reflection sometimes. With time he got used to it and his perception of himself improved, regaining some confidence and not thinking so much about his looks.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Absolutely. If he were to lose you, he’d probably fall in a depressive pit for a while, those that leave you feeling empty even after you got out of it. It would take a long time, and support from his brothers, for him to be fully functional again.

(i don’t feel like getting much into it tbh)

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

He watches holonet soap operas for the drama only, picked up gardening during their time on Pabu and his spirit animal is a raven.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Some general thing he doesn’t like are: medical equipment, sand (it gets in his joints), cold weather, snakes or any other reptiles, spicy food, also not the best fan of darkness.

He cannot stand superficial people or those without a sense of justice.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

(i now realize i might have misunderstood the prompt?)

His sleeping habits are messy to say the least. Insomnia, sleep paralysis, night terrors, you name it. Poor Echo has suffered from sleep disorders pretty much since war started, and they only got worst since Skako Minor happened. They come and go with time, but they never fully disappear, he might have a few days or up to a week with not many interruptions but they eventually come back. Luckly you two discovered that sharing a bed helps a lot, your warmth and presence by his side serves as an anchor that allow him to let his guard down a little. But even if that doesn’t do it, he knows you’ll be there to hug him through the early morning hours when he can’t sleep a wink or to comfort him when he wakes up in the middle of the night after a bad dream.

That's it for now, let me know if you'd like me to write any other character. Likes and comments are always appreciated!

#the bad batch #tbb #star wars #echo tbb #sfw alphabet #tbb echo x reader

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