Aug 19, 2025
He was a sk8r boi
He said, "See you later, boy"
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He was a sk8r boi
He said, "See you later, boy"
CLUELESS ⋆౨ৎ˚ —NRK bonus part
a story based off this one ✿ It’s the late 2000s, and your stupid boyfriend has officially messed up one too many times. After dumping him (again), you’re determined not to take him back, unless… he begs?
pairing: bf!riki x fem!reader
contains: fluff bickering kissing playful and lwk childish relationship teasing begging 💒
💭vaeh’s note: I love their dynamic so much omg and mind you I’m not even into all that begging but this may have awakened something in me
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
‧₊ ♪˚⊹ 𝗵𝘦 𝘸𝗮𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝗸𝘢𝘁𝘦𝗿 𝗯𝘰𝘆, 𝘴𝗵𝘦 𝘴𝗮𝘪𝗱,
"𝘀𝘦𝗲 𝘆𝘰𝘂 𝗹𝘢𝘁𝘦𝗿, 𝘣𝗼𝘺"
A lot of fanart depicts Tim Drake as preppy and I understand why.... but let's bring back skater boy Tim Drake!!! Band tees, baggy jeans. Cut up shirts, layered shirts!!
Do not ask me which comics these are from. I've collected them as I've read... I don't remember
You know i love a good close up. This handsome skater boy shows how i like it! Perfect shot perfect socked feet
DUMB TRICK PROLOGE 00
Tags: skater!Rommulas x skater!reader, friends to rivals to lovers, bickering. No nsfw for now
A/N: lowkey forgot I had this in the drafts😅 but I watched “mid 90s” a bit ago and got inspired to write about skater!rommulas. Hope yall r still here after my break but ima try to post more;) hope ya love it!
WC: ~2.5k
⋆♱🛹 𔓎☣︎
It starts before anyone calls him by his real name.
Back when he’s still just “Rommulas” in Sharpie on a board, scratched out and rewritten like five times because someone always messes it up. Back when he doesn’t really talk much unless he has to, and even then it’s usually just a shrug or something low like “yeah” or “whatever.”
You don’t know him yet. Not really. You’ve seen him though. Everyone has.
He’s always around the shop, leaning against the counter like he lives there, hoodie half zipped even when it’s hot. Sometimes he’s outside with a board, not even skating, just sitting on it, watching everyone else like he’s studying them or something. People say he’s good, like actually good, but he doesn’t show it off. Not like the others.
And you are not exactly part of it either.
You come around sometimes, mostly because there’s nothing else to do and the park nearby is always packed with kids who think they’re better than they are. The shop’s different. It’s quieter in a weird way, even when it’s loud. Like everyone’s in on something and you’re just barely outside of it.
At first, you don’t care. You tell yourself that, anyway.
You’ve got your own thing. Your own crew, kind of. Not really skaters, more like people who hang around them. You borrow boards sometimes, try stuff, eat it, laugh it off. You don’t take it seriously. That’s what you say.
But the truth is, every time you’re there, you notice him.
Rommulas. Roman.
You don’t know which one to call him yet, so you don’t call him anything.
The first time you actually talk to him is not even supposed to be a thing.
You’re outside the shop, sitting on the curb, messing with someone’s board you probably should not have taken. It’s not yours, but nobody’s claimed it for like ten minutes, so whatever.
You try a kickflip. You don’t land it. You don’t even come close.
The board flies out, hits the pavement loud, and you almost eat it, catching yourself last second with your hands.
“Damn.”
You laugh it off, brushing your palms on your jeans like it didn’t hurt.
“Maybe don’t do that.”
The voice is right behind you.
You turn, already annoyed, ready to snap something back, but it’s him. Roman.
He’s just standing there, not even looking mad, just kind of there. Hands in his hoodie pocket, one shoulder dipped like he’s leaning on nothing.
You roll your eyes anyway. “Didn’t ask.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t say you did.”
You grab the board, set it down again. “I got it.”
“Yeah?” he says, flat. “Looked like you didn’t.”
You shoot him a look. “Why are you watching me?”
“I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
He tilts his head a little, like he’s thinking about it. “Okay,” he says. “I am.”
Something about that makes you more irritated than if he had just denied it.
“Creepy.”
“Or you’re just bad,” he says.
You scoff. “Better than you.”
That gets a reaction. Not big, but enough. His mouth twitches like he almost smiles but doesn’t.
“Alright.” He steps closer, nodding at the board. “Go again.”
You hesitate for a second, then set your feet. You don’t want to, but now you have to.
You try again. Same result.
The board shoots out, you stumble, catch yourself.
Silence.
You don’t look at him this time. “Shut up,” you say before he even says anything.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
He lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Nah.”
You glance up at him. He’s still watching you, but not in a mean way. Not exactly. More like he’s waiting.
“Your foot’s wrong,” he says.
You roll your eyes again. “Thanks, coach.”
“I’m serious.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Clearly.”
That does it.
You stand up, facing him now. “Why do you even care?”
He shrugs again. He does that a lot. “Don’t.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
You stare at him, trying to figure out if he’s messing with you. He doesn’t look like it.
“Whatever,” you mutter, grabbing the board and stepping back on.
“Front foot more angled,” he says, like he didn’t hear you. “And don’t jump so early.”
“I said I don’t need—”
“You do though.”
You glare at him. He just looks back.
It’s quiet for a second, like neither of you wants to move first.
Then you sigh. “Fine.”
You adjust your foot, just slightly. “Happy?”
“Try it.”
You do.
This time it’s not perfect, but it’s closer. The board actually comes up, rotates halfway right, and you land one foot before stepping off.
You freeze for a second, surprised.
“See?” he says.
You look at him, annoyed again because he’s right. “Still didn’t land it.”
“Yeah, but you almost did.”
You don’t respond. You just set up again.
And again. And again.
He stays there the whole time. He doesn’t say much, just small things. “Wait longer.” “Keep your shoulders straight.” “Don’t rush it.”
It’s annoying, but it works.
After a while, you finally land one. Not clean, not pretty, but both feet on, rolling for like a second before you step off.
You grin without meaning to. “Yo.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
You look at him again, catching your breath. “Don’t think this means anything.”
“Didn’t say it did.”
You pick up the board, handing it back to him. “Oh, this yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Should’ve said something.”
“You were using it.”
You pause. “Okay?”
He shrugs.
You don’t really know what to say to that, so you don’t.
“Whatever. Thanks, I guess.”
“Don’t mention it.”
You turn to go, heading toward the shop, but then he calls out.
“Hey.”
You glance back. “What?”
He nods at you. “You’re not that bad.”
You narrow your eyes. “Shut up.”
He smirks, just a little. “Just saying.”
You flip him off without thinking. He laughs, low and quick.
And that’s it.
That’s the first time.
After that, it’s different.
Not in a big way. Nobody suddenly introduces you or anything. You’re still just someone who shows up sometimes. He’s still him.
But now there’s something. Like a line got drawn.
You notice him more, and he notices you too. Not always directly. Sometimes it’s just catching him looking when you land something, or when you fall, or when you’re arguing with someone about stupid stuff.
And yeah, you argue a lot. Mostly with him.
“Your stance is still off.”
“Your face is off.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Neither do you.”
He snorts, and you hate that you like that sound.
“You’re pushing mongo.”
“No I’m not.”
“You literally are.”
“Okay, and?”
“It looks bad.”
“You look bad.”
“Yeah, but I skate good.”
“Debatable.”
“You gonna try that again or just stand there?”
“Shut up, I’m thinking.”
“You don’t think when you skate.”
“Oh, and you do?”
“Yeah.”
“Liar.”
It becomes a thing.
People start noticing.
“Y’all always like this?” someone asks once, laughing.
“Like what?” you shoot back.
“Like that.”
You both say nothing. Roman just shrugs. You roll your eyes.
“Mind your business.”
But it’s not just arguing.
There are moments. Small ones.
Like when you eat it hard trying something stupid and he’s the first one there, grabbing your arm, pulling you up.
“You good?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve been worse.”
He looks at you for a second longer than necessary, then nods. “Alright.”
Or when he lets you borrow his board without making a thing out of it.
Or when you sit on the curb again, not talking, just watching everyone else, and it’s not awkward. It’s normal.
Still, you’re not friends. Not really.
You don’t hang out outside the shop. You don’t know much about him.
Just bits. Like how he doesn’t talk about his family, how he stays out late, how he’s better than he lets on.
And he doesn’t know much about you either. Just enough to push your buttons.
“You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Then do it.”
“It’s a dumb trick.”
“You’re a dumb trick.”
“That’s not even—whatever. Just do it.”
You hesitate. He watches. You hate that.
So you go for it.
You fall hard.
He winces.
You sit up, laughing it off, even though it hurts.
“Told you,” you say.
“Told me what?”
“That it was dumb.”
He shakes his head. “You almost had it.”
“Yeah, almost.”
He steps closer, offering a hand.
You look at it for a second, then take it.
He pulls you up easy.
You don’t let go right away. Neither does he.
It’s only a second.
Then you both drop it like nothing happened.
But something did.
People start picking sides, joking about it.
“Y’all either gonna fight or date,” someone says one afternoon.
You both react instantly.
“Fight.”
“Fight.”
At the same time.
You glance at each other. He smirks. You roll your eyes.
“See?” he says.
“See what?”
“You agree with me.”
“Once. Don’t get used to it.”
He laughs again. That sound.
You hate it. You don’t.
It keeps building.
Whatever it is.
Neither of you says it out loud, but it’s there in the way you look at each other, in the way you push each other, in the way neither of you walks away even when you probably should.
One night, it almost turns into something else.
You’re both outside, later than usual. Most people are gone. Just a few stragglers, but they’re not paying attention.
You’re trying something again, something harder this time.
You’ve been at it for a while, missing again and again.
You’re tired. Frustrated.
“Just land it,” he says.
“Wow, great advice.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You set up again.
Miss.
The board shoots out, hits the wall.
You kick it, harder than you mean to.
“Fuck.”
He watches you.
“You’re rushing.”
“No I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Why do you care so much?”
The question comes out sharper than you expect.
He pauses, then shrugs, but slower this time.
“I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do.”
Silence.
You step closer, not even realizing it.
“You’re always on my case.”
“Because you don’t listen.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.”
“Then stop trying.”
That hits.
You stare at him. “What?”
“If you’re not gonna actually try, then why are you even doing it?”
You scoff. “Who are you to say that?”
“I’m just saying.”
“No, you’re not. You’re acting like you know everything.”
“I don’t.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
He steps forward too now.
Close.
“Then prove me wrong.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Then do it.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“Then stop being—”
“Say it.”
He hesitates.
You lean in slightly.
“Say it.”
“Scared.”
There it is.
You push him. Not hard, but enough.
“Shut up.”
He doesn’t move back.
“Make me.”
The words hang there.
Everything goes quiet.
You both know this isn’t just about skating anymore.
You’re close. Too close.
You can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes flick down for a second.
You don’t breathe. Neither does he.
For a second, it feels like something’s going to happen.
Then someone calls from inside.
“Yo!”
The moment breaks. You step back first.
“Whatever,” you mutter, grabbing your board.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now.
You don’t look at him. You just leave.
After that, things change again. Not completely. But enough. There’s more tension now. Less joking. More something else. You still argue. Still push each other. But it feels heavier. Like you both know where it could go. And you’re not sure if you want it to. Or maybe you do. And that’s worse.
That’s the thing about the beginning. It doesn’t feel like one. It just feels like a bunch of small moments that don’t mean anything. Until they do. And by then, you’re already in it. Whether you meant to be or not. You still won’t call him Roman. Not yet. And he still calls you out every chance he gets. But now, when he looks at you, it’s different. And when you look back, you don’t look away.
This is before anything real happens. Before it gets messy. Before it turns into something you can’t ignore.
This is just the start. And neither of you knows what you’re about to do with it. But you will.
Eventually.
Just not yet.
⋆♱🛹 𔓎☣︎
Permanent taglist: @myliifeisamess @natesibsdih
Comment 4 taglist or permanent taglist;)
⋆♱🛹 𔓎☣︎