P🦞

#1 Fellita

[willuver]

˙⋆✮18 ࣪ ˖⋆ she/her ࣪ ˖⋆ ukyt enjoyer ࣪ ˖⋆ W2S ࣪ ˖⋆ WillNe ࣪ ˖⋆ Heinz Baines ࣪ ˖⋆ ATV ࣪ ˖⋆ Arthur Hill ࣪ ˖⋆ Sidemen ࣪ ˖⋆ The Fellas ࣪ ˖⋆ ChrisMD ࣪ ˖⋆ Harry Styles ࣪ ˖⋆ Pop Music ࣪ ˖⋆ Formula 1 ࣪ ˖⋆ Youtube ࣪ ˖⋆ Indie Music ✮⋆˙

dividers by @/cursed-carmine

[teleskinnd]

TUMBLR'S DISCORD SERVER!

⠀︵⠀18+

⠀︵⠀for writers & fanatics

⠀︵⠀you MUST be a regular/active user in the space!

dm me @teleskinnd to verify and join!

[willuver]

join bc I’m in it and yall love me 🤷‍♀️

[peachmd]

CHAPTER 1 — YOUR CAR'S FUCKED ⛐

summary: hungover and post-hookup, you're more than eager to get home. one problem — your car's broken down in a town you've never heard of. lucky for you, there's a mechanic there to help. unlucky for you, he's an asshole.

author's notes: oh my god finally! my first proper long work. i hope you enjoy!! sorry if you dont see much of me after this cuz its exam season. babys first arthur fic xx

Your vision blurs at the edges, little black spots dancing like they’re mocking you. Your head is pounding so hard it feels detached from your body. Your mouth tastes like regret and cheap alcohol, and your stomach flips every time you move too fast, and worst of all, your poor Mini Cooper — newly bought, secondhand — now sputtering on the side of the road at the asscrack of dawn. You’re in the middle of nowhere; just trees and greenery, with maybe a cafe and some smaller shops dotted around. You laugh (and regret it, because your head spikes with pain) when you see horses and cows and sheep. Jesus, you really are nowhere.

You had been at a birthday party the night before, and all you could remember after doing shots was waking up with a man you didn't know. The shame crawls back up your spine just thinking about it. The hurried, half-dressed escape. The way you didn’t even look back, just grabbed your things and left. When your car started faltering through a town you’d never been through on your way to a long journey back home, you were almost in tears. You rifled through the glovebox to find anything — this was a second-hand car, and you hadn’t put anything in the glove yet. You haven’t even had the car long enough to put anything in it. No tissues. No charger. You laugh sadly as you see a pack of cigarettes with no lighter.

“Shit,” you groan, which seems to be the only word you can say before you feel the tears sting your eyes. Your hands drop uselessly into your lap as your chest tightens, that awful, helpless feeling creeping in. 

You reach for your phone, in a flash of supposed ingenuity, before realising it's dead. 

“Fucking grand,” you spit, angry at yourself, because this was surely some sort of divine karma for not opting to round up to 2 dollars at the counter last week.

Checking the car mirror as you wallow in uncertainty, you ponder how the fuck you even got here. Red-rimmed eyes with your smudgy mascara, chapped lips rubbed raw from biting anxiously, and hair all messed up — worse, because you know it’s not just from sleep. Someone else’s hands were in it, tugging, pulling. Anger hits faster than embarrassment this time—sharp, immediate, cutting through the fog in your head. 

Because there they are, impossible to miss. Dark marks scattered along your neck, blooming down into your collarbones, disappearing beneath the neckline of that stupid minidress you didn’t even remember putting on.

Heat floods your face—part humiliation, part frustration, part something uglier you don’t even want to name. You don’t remember asking for that. You barely remember anything at all, and somehow that makes it worse.

You slump back in your seat, blinking hard, the pounding in your head syncing up with the irritation buzzing under your skin.

Arthur’s running late.

Not by much—but late enough that he skips going back for the coffee he left on the counter and just grabs his keys, dragging a hand through his already messy hair on the way out. He can grab one on the way, even if he actually prefers tea, but the only cafe in this town makes it all wrong. The morning is quiet, slightly unnatural way country roads get at this hour. Trees line the stretch ahead, long shadows still clinging to the edges of the road. No real noise except his truck and the low hum of The Smashing Pumpkins fade into the morning.

The café he usually stops at is just ahead. Its faded sign is wearing, a crumbling illustration of a coffee bean, lights already flicking on inside, someone probably turning the machine on behind the counter. He stops on the opposite side of the cafe, kindly dubbed as “Arthur’s spot” by the teenage employee who always opens.

He’s already parking thinking about nothing more complicated than caffeine, when the sound cuts through — not loud enough to demand attention but an uneven splutter. A car that’s trying very hard to keep going and inevitably failing. Arthur eases off the thought of coffee immediately without really meaning to.

Ahead, right beside the café, a small Mini Cooper jerks forward awkwardly, in all honestly, a little pathetically. It hesitates, coughs, then dies. It rolls a little farther before coming to a complete stop in the roadside parking outside the café. Not tucked away, but right in view of the glass windows and the early morning routine inside. Arthur winces and watches it for a beat longer than necessary. Coffee can wait. He’s more of a tea guy anyway. He signals, pulls over ahead of it, and kills the engine.

The air outside is cool and sharp, the crispness in the air indicating autumn’s arrival. Arthur shuts his door and starts walking back. As he gets closer, the Mini comes into clearer view. It's an older car, tired like it's been pushed a little too far and hasn’t had much help along the way. His eyes dart around methodically to see if there’s anything visibly wrong. But one thing perplexes him. The driver is showing no signs of getting out. Just frantically rummaging in the glovebox, another hand on her head.

He stops at the window, lifts a hand, pauses just long enough to register that something isn’t right. Arthur knocks on the glass, then waits.

Two abrupt knocks on your window make you jolt so hard your spine hits the seat, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat. For a second, your brain refuses to process it as real, chalking it up to another fragment of the headache, another symptom of the morning trying to split you open.

Your head turns slowly toward the window. There’s someone there, standing just beyond the glass. You blink, trying to focus properly, vision still unstable at the edges, and the world outside starts to sharpen into shape. A man. Leaning slightly toward the car. One hand still raised from the knock, the other resting loosely at his side. Sleeves rolled, hair messy in that way that looks unintentional but still somehow put together. He’s watching you, not in a way that feels invasive, but in a way that says he’s already figured out something is wrong.

It takes you a second too long to fully register that this is real, that you’re not imagining him along with everything else this morning. Then your stomach drops slightly as you realise you’re no longer alone in the middle of nowhere beside a café you don’t recognise. He taps the glass again, softer, like he’s checking you’re actually conscious. You crack the window just enough to breathe.

The man opens his mouth, but you swiftly cut him off. 

“Look,” you say, your voice rough, thinner than you mean it to be. You drag a hand over your face like you can wipe the whole morning off with it. “It’s been a hard… whatever this is—morning, night, I don’t even know anymore.”

You let out a small, humourless breath, shaking your head slightly.

“I’m not—” you hesitate, swallowing. “I don’t have the energy for, like, conversation right now. Or… anything, really.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. When you glance back up, his expression has shifted. He doesn’t look annoyed or dismissive, just more focused, like he’s adjusting to you rather than pushing against you.

“Alright,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now, steadier. “Fair enough.”

The lack of pushback catches you slightly off guard, and you find yourself looking at him properly for the first time, squinting against the light. There’s no urgency in him. He has a steady sort of presence that feels oddly out of place against everything else about this morning. You actually look at him, and with a sinking heart, you realise he’s hot. Fuck, of course he is. Of course—on top of everything else—this is the moment your life decides to introduce a man who looks like that. You’ve just told him, essentially, to go away, and you’re sitting here looking like a mess.

He doesn’t react to the way you’ve clearly decided to look anywhere but directly at him. If anything, he just shifts his weight slightly, the mystery man giving you space to breathe. God, he probably wants to get away from you as quickly as possible.

“Right,” he says after a moment, glancing briefly toward the front of the car before looking back at you. “Your car’s fucked, or so I think.”

You blink dumbly, taken aback by his words, almost as if he’s commenting on the weather instead of delivering what feels like the final blow to your already disastrous morning. Any lingering chance of being charmed by him slips clean out from under you, gone as quickly as everything else seems to be today.

“Oh,” you say, because what else is there to say to that?

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, a little smile on his face undoubtedly due to your dumbfounded expression.

“Look, it's best if I give it to you straight. Don’t want poor city girl stuck in this place.”

Your grimace deepens, and you’re a bit hurt at his tone.

“Car’s not making it an hour like this,” he says, voice carrying just enough to reach you without him looking back. “You can try, if you want.”

You sigh again. “Do you know where I could go to get it fixed, or even just looked at? I live an hour away, and I’ve never been in this tiny town before.”

He doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, Hot Mean Guy studies the car for a moment, then gestures vaguely over his shoulder with his thumb, the movement casual.

“Yeah,” he says. “There’s a place a few minutes from here.”

Your shoulders drop slightly in relief. “Oh—okay, good. I was worried I’d have to—”

“It’s mine,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

You blink.“…What?”

“Couple minutes down the road,” he adds, tone still even, still carrying that same blunt edge. “Not much else around here unless you feel like waiting a few hours for someone who’ll charge you double and do half the job.”

That shifts something immediately. You look at him properly now, your eyes moving over details you hadn’t fully registered before—the rolled sleeves, the grease on his workshirt under his jacket, the way he carries himself like none of this is unfamiliar.

“I just asked you where to find a mechanic,” you say, dragging a hand over your face again, “while you were standing right there looking exactly like one.”

There’s a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth, subtle but definitely there. “Yeah,” he says. “You did.”

You let your head fall back again with a quiet groan. “Great. Really making a strong impression here.”

He laughs at you meanly, which only makes you feel something in your stomach.

“I’ve got a truck,” he says, nodding once toward the road. “Could  tow it back and save you trying to limp in those shoes of yours.”

He glances at you briefly, then, eyes flicking over your face—not lingering, not soft, but checking. Like he’s gauging whether you’re going to argue, or shut down, or just stand there looking like the day’s already wrung you out. 

You nod with a relieved smile, the kind that comes more from exhaustion than genuine ease, but it’s still something—still better than being stuck here alone with a dead phone and a car that clearly isn’t going anywhere on its own. The tension in your shoulders loosens just slightly as you shift in your seat, as if the decision itself has taken some weight off you. 

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now, like you’re only just catching up to what’s being offered. “That would be… really helpful. Thank you.”

He gives a small nod in return, like it’s nothing out of the ordinary for him, already half-turning his attention toward the front of the car again. There’s no fuss in the way he moves, no dramatics about it.

“Pop the hood for me?” he asks.

You lean forward, fumbling briefly for the latch near your knee. Your fingers catch it on the second try, and there’s a small click as you pull it.

 He smiles, and it catches you off guard more than it probably should. It’s not dramatic or overly familiar, just a small, easy expression that seems to sit naturally on his face as he turns his attention toward the engine. Still, something about it lands strangely in your chest, unexpected enough that your stomach gives a faint, uneasy flip.

He pokes around a little bit under the hood, shifting pieces of the engine slightly as he looks, his attention fully absorbed now in the rhythm of checking, listening, adjusting. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he works that makes it feel less like something is wrong and more like something is being solved, even if you don’t understand any of it.

Inside the car, the stillness starts to feel heavier than helpful. You’ve never been good at sitting in uncertainty, especially not when something is happening just a few steps away that you can’t quite see properly. Curiosity starts to win out over exhaustion.

You open the door carefully, the sound of it breaking the quiet, and step out into the morning air. It’s cooler than you expected, sharp enough that it wakes you up a little more than anything else has so far. You take a moment to steady yourself before walking around to the front of the car.

Arthur doesn’t see you approaching,  focused on what he’s doing, hands resting near the edge of the engine bay as he leans in slightly. Only when he's leaning down to look closely at the engine does he see a pair of pink heels next to his boots. The contrast makes the corner of his lips lift before he’s fully aware of it.

“You didn’t have to get out,” he says, voice even, not looking at you yet. 

You shift your weight slightly, arms folding loosely against the cold. “Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t sit in there anymore.”

And while this mysterious girl hesitates, caught somewhere between exhaustion and reluctant trust, he finds himself watching you a second longer than necessary. He’s intrigued to say the least. You’re a whirlwind, rushing into this sleepy town. The smudgy mascara, red eyes, clearly crying — though Arthur doesn't blame her. An hour away from home, and with a hangover, he’s guessing, and from what he can see, post-party, and his eyes — not purposefully— notice the red marks trail down your collarbones into the tiny dress you’re wearing. Typical, he thinks as he rolls his eyes, just another entitled big town girl rolling through. He’s had his fair share. Though you’re shockingly pretty, he’ll fix the car, send you on your way, and that’ll be the end of it. 

“Do you need a jumper? It’s pretty cold out.”  

Before you can answer, he undoes his zip-up and drapes it around your shoulders. It’s warm from him still, heavier than expected, settling around you all too naturally.

“Here,” he adds simply, already half-turned back toward the car like it’s just part of the process. 

It feels slightly too big, sleeves bunching at your arms, the scent enveloping you, somehow soothing the noise in your head. You hesitate for a second, hands curling loosely into the fabric like you’re not entirely sure what to do with it, but Arthur has already turned back toward the car. And if he notices the way you go still for half a second too long after it settles around you—warm from him, heavy in a way that feels oddly grounding—he doesn’t show it.

Ouch, you think. Does he just give any girl he sees on the side of the road his jumper?

It’s petty, and you know it is almost immediately, especially as you stand there watching him work like you’re the one misreading something simple. It's just fabric over your shoulders because you were cold, and he noticed.

Your gaze drifts past him, past the raised hood and the quiet focus of his hands — lost staring for a second or two — and lands on the small café next door. It’s more charming than you first registered through the fog of your morning—plants along the windows, soft light inside, the faint movement of someone behind the counter who looks barely older than a teenager trying to look awake.

“…sounds like it’s struggling to turn over,” he’s saying to himself — and you find it endearing before you scold yourself— crouched slightly near the hood, voice calm, like this isn’t the worst morning of your life. “Could be the battery, could be—”

“Hey,” you start, your voice a little uncertain at first. You clear your throat, trying again, a bit steadier. “Um—do you maybe want a coffee or tea? From there. It’s… the least I could do.”

Arthur doesn’t answer straight away. He finishes what he’s doing first, like making sure the car is in a stable enough place before he pulls his attention away. When he straightens, he looks over at the café, then back to you. There’s no hesitation in him, just a simple acceptance of the offer.

“Yeah,” he says, roughly. “That’d be nice. Thank you.”

He wipes his hands on his shirt before adding, a little nicer, “Whatever they make there, I’ll take it. Don’t worry too much about it.”

You turn to go, but spin back around with a bite of your lip. “Could I maybe get a name for that cup?”

You’re still standing there in his hoodie, hair slightly windswept from the cold, and Arthur finds—briefly, annoyingly—that his usual annoyance about girls like you doesn’t sit quite as cleanly as it normally does.

Town girls usually come through loud, impatient, half-checked out of whatever place they’ve ended up in. They don’t linger. They don’t look at him like they’re trying to decide whether to trust him while simultaneously acting as if they’ve already decided not to. They don’t stand there wrapped in something that still smells faintly like him, looking like they don’t quite know what to do with the fact they’ve been looked after.

“Arthur,” he adds simply, like it should’ve been obvious.

His attention doesn’t quite snap back to the engine the way it’s supposed to when you turn.

You step into the café and the warmth inside hits immediately, soft and almost disorienting after the sharp morning air, and you’re suddenly very aware of how you must look standing there in the doorway. The bell above the door gives a small, unnecessary jingle that makes you flinch internally more than it should.

The place is quiet in that early-hour way, only half-awake. A teenager behind the counter looks up at you from where they’re half-slumped against the espresso machine, blinking like they’re trying to decide if you’re real or part of their shift hallucination.

You become very aware, very quickly, of yourself.

The hoodie that isn’t yours. The messy hair. The tired face you didn’t get to fix. The fact that you’re still not entirely sure what or who you did last night, and yet you’re now standing in public trying to order coffee like you’re a functioning person. Arthur is outside. Still completely unbothered by the fact that your entire morning has detonated and somehow he’s the only stable thing left in it. That thought lands again, unhelpfully clear now: he does know what he’s doing. Not just with the car, either. With everything, it seems.

Looking at the engine, Arthur doesn’t notice the way the café door swings shut behind you, the soft bell fading into the background. His focus has narrowed again, the rest of the world dimming out as he leans further into the engine bay.

What started as a rough idea has settled into something clearer now, each small check confirming the last. He listens first, head tilted slightly, like the engine might give something away if he’s patient enough. Then his hands follow, steady and deliberate, tracing connections, testing tension, adjusting without hesitation. It’s methodical, logical — exactly what Arthur loves. There’s no frustration in it, no second-guessing. It’s kind of a quiet certainty, like he’s seen this before in a hundred different variations and knows how it usually ends.

He shifts slightly, reaching deeper in, fingers tightening something that had just enough give to be wrong. There’s a pause after, not idle—intentional. He listens again.

Better. Not fixed, but closer. His gaze flicks across the rest of the engine, running through the possibilities quickly now, ruling things out one by one. Whatever’s caused it isn’t catastrophic, but it isn’t something he’s going to fully sort out on the side of the road either. Not properly and not in a way he’d be satisfied sending you off with.

Mystery Girl comes back with 2 coffee cups in hand. You’re closer than before now, two cups in your hands, his hoodie still draped over your shoulders like it’s settled there for good. You must’ve gone to the bathroom and freshened up — no more streaky makeup, just a fresh face.  For a second, he just takes that in—the contrast of it, the way you look a little less like you’re about to fall apart and a little more like you’re holding yourself together. The biggest difference, though, is the slight smile on your face.

His gaze drops briefly to the cups, then lifts back to your face, and there’s something warmer in it than before. Still not chummy, but less distant. “Cheers,” he says, like it’s nothing.

He takes it from you, fingers brushing yours for just a second longer than necessary this time. It’s not enough to be obvious, but enough that it doesn’t feel entirely accidental either. He doesn’t pull away quickly, either. He reads the name on your cup.

“Reader. Nice to put a name to the car.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” you say, a little exasperated,  and this time he’s looking at you properly.

Without the mess of last night on you, you look less frazzled; your kind eyes and your pretty smile are all too captivating. But he snaps out of it. God, he’s only helping out, and clearly you’re just itching to get back, probably to a boyfriend or something. He’s trying very hard to ignore the reddish hickies dotting you. You’re just passing through. Whatever’s brought you here, it isn’t him.

He glances down at the cup, then back up again, something faintly amused settling at the corner of his mouth.

“You went with coffee,” he notes, tone light.

You hesitate, suddenly aware of it. “Was that wrong?”

He shakes his head slightly, a quiet exhale of a smile following.

“No,” he says, “Not wrong. Just means you don’t know me yet.”

He takes a sip, eyes still on you for a second longer than necessary before his attention shifts back toward the car, like he’s giving you space again without fully stepping away.

“I usually go for tea,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

He takes a small sip, more out of habit than anything, then glances back toward the open hood, the practical side of him settling back in.

“It’ll run,” he adds, nodding faintly toward the car. “At least enough to get moving. But I wouldn’t trust it for an hour drive like that.”

He looks back at you then, a little more direct this time, like he’s offering something rather than just stating it.

 “If you’re alright with coming back, I can take it there and sort it properly.”

Mystery Girl bites her lips into a pout, and worry graces her face, making something arise within Arthur before he knocks it off.

“…You’re not going to, like, disappear with my car, are you?” you ask hesitantly.

“Not a great business model,” he says, tone easy. “Hard to run a garage if I start stealing the cars that show up.”

That makes you laugh, a strange, proud feeling purring in Arthur’s chest. The tinkling sound of your laughter goes straight to my head, pocketing it and saving it.

“…Okay,” you say, a little more certain this time. “Yeah. I’ll come.”

Arthur hooks the truck up to your Mini with the kind of efficiency that suggests he’s done this more times than he’d probably admit. The chain clicks into place, the car shifting slightly as it settles behind his vehicle, obedient now in a way it wasn’t an hour ago.

 You keep checking the side mirror, antsy to look presentable, for no specific reason at all. You adjust your hair once, then again, then stop when you realise there’s nothing you can actually fix from here. 

Your eyes are almost magnetically attracted to his hands. His large hand effortlessly steering, sleeves rolled, and veins popping. His forearms are tanned, so tanned. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely, driving steady like the road itself isn’t worth rushing. Arthur’s focused profile sits just ahead of you, jaw relaxed but intent, eyes tracking the road with the kind of concentration that makes it look easy. It’s annoyingly steady. And annoyingly hot.

“...and that’s basically it, I think, once I get to the garage, it’ll be brand new. Well..”

He’s in the middle of speaking to you when it finally registers with him.

“You okay there?” he asks, voice lightly smug but like he’s trying to mask it for your sake.

Your throat tightens slightly, and you cough, a little too quickly, being caught staring so shamelessly.“Yeah,” you manage, immediately too casual. “Fine. Just—road. Distracting.”

Arthur hums once, like he’s not buying it at all, but he doesn’t push. His attention returns to the road, though the corner of his mouth lifts slightly anyway.  

You’re antsy in his car, fidgeting, tapping your fingers against the skin of your bare thigh. The crackling sound of his radio fills the space between you, some old Arctic Monkeys song playing. 

“It’s not far,” he says. “You’ll survive.”

The road narrows as they turn off the main stretch, trees closing in a little tighter on either side like the town is trying to keep this place tucked away. The truck’s engine shifts pitch as Arthur slows, guiding them down. The garage comes into view gradually rather than dramatically—no big signage trying to impress anyone, just a functional building that’s clearly been here long enough to earn its status . The roller door is already halfway up, and there’s the faint smell of oil and metal in the air before you even properly stop.

“We’re here,” he adds, matter-of-fact. “You can wait in the truck if you want,” he says, then corrects himself slightly. “Or come in. Up to you. Just have a seat inside while I get your Mini in here.”

You hop out of his big truck, trying to land carefully in the heels that could definitely roll your ankle. He doesn’t make a thing of it. Just moves around to the back, focus shifting immediately back to the job in front of him. The earlier conversation seems to get filed away somewhere for later—or maybe just not at all.

He unhooks the chain without fuss, the motions efficient and unshowy, like his hands know exactly what they’re doing without needing permission from anything else. Your Mini shifts slightly as it’s freed, settling back onto its own wheels with a quiet weight that makes you realise how dependent you’ve been on his truck getting you here at all.

 “Can I borrow your phone, maybe? I should call my friend, tell her I’m alive.” 

He nods easily. “It's in the jacket I gave you.”

You fish it out, his phone in your hand. The lockscreen is Arthur—same messy hair, same steady expression—but softer somehow, caught candidly smiling. He’s holding a little girl, tucked into him with a familiarity that doesn’t need explaining. She’s laughing, his arm around her. You don’t mean to stare at it for as long as you do, but it holds your attention anyway. He doesn’t look like someone who would end up involved in your kind of morning.

“Is this your daughter?”

He laughs at that, and it’s short, genuine, almost disbelieving, like you’ve just suggested something wildly out of character for him.

“No,” he says, turning his attention back to the road, still smiling faintly. “God, no. That’s my sister. Anyway, the reception’s better inside, might want to call her there.”

You nod and turn to go inside the garage, which captivates you. It’s all brick walls and high ceilings. There are racks and racks of tools—some neatly arranged, others clearly returned wherever there was space at the time. Metal cabinets line one side, drawers half-labelled or not labelled at all, the kind of organisation that only makes sense to the person who lives in it. Old signs hangs on the walls, slightly crooked, faded advertisements and vintage metal plates that don’t match anything else in the room, with huge steel beams within the garage. There are stray gloves everywhere, and tyres stacked up. It’s big enough to swallow you whole.

You quickly dial your friend’s number, waiting impatiently for her to pick up. You start to lose hope after the 3rd ring, same old anxiousness reappearing in your stomach and then —

“Hello?”

Relief hits so fast you finally breathe.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, the words coming out in a rush. “Okay, so basically—”

“Girl? What’s going on? Where are you?”

You let out a small, shaky laugh, dragging a hand over your face as you glance back toward the garage floor again.

“In the middle of nowhere,” you say, only half exaggerating. “My car broke down. I’m at some garage—I don’t even know what town this is. I’m an hour from home.”

“Jesus,” you hear your friend process, “I thought you went home with… um.. what’s-his-face?”

“Yeah,” you cut in quickly, wincing a little. “I did.”

“Oh, my god. Don’t tell me—”

“Save the lecture, I'm annoyed at myself too,” you admit, lowering your voice slightly. “I woke up, left, got in my car, and now it’s dead. Like, fully dead.”

“And you’re safe?” your friend asks, more serious now.

You look back at Arthur, face concentrated as he pulls your car in, eyebrows furrowed together.            

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m safe. There’s this guy,” you add, glancing instinctively toward the open space of the garage. “He’s the mechanic. It’s his place.”

“Is he weird?”

You huff out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“He’s an asshole,” you say, honest without thinking.

“That’s concerning,” your friend replies immediately.

“He’s… blunt,” you settle on. “Almost painfully. But he knows what he’s doing. With the car, I mean.”

“And with you?” your friend teases lightly.

You roll your eyes, even though she can’t see it.

“No,” you say quickly. “God, no. If anything, I think he actively dislikes me.”

There’s a small pause on the line.

“Hot?” she asks.

“…That’s not the point.”

“Oh my god, he is.”

You groan softly, dragging a hand over your face again. “I hate you.”

“You like him.”

“I’ve known him for twenty minutes,” you shoot back. “And he called me a city girl like it was an insult. ”

“Okay, but hot?”

You press your lips together, glancing toward the open garage again, where you can just make out movement—him, probably, still working as if nothing else exists.

"Annoyingly,” you admit under your breath.

Your friend makes a noise of triumph on the other end.

“I’m coming to get you.”

“No, you’re not,” you say immediately. “It’s fine. He said he can tow it to his garage—well, we’re already here— he's fixing it properly. I’ll just wait it out.”

“You sure?”

You hesitate again, then glance down at the hoodie still wrapped around you, at the strange, steady feeling sitting underneath all the chaos of the morning, at the moody man with rolled up sleeves, who’s working meticulously on your stupid car. 

“…Yeah,” you say, quieter this time. “I think I am.”

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about favourite words in a foreign language!!

my favourite foreign words are; Taonga, Whenua, and ejapiro tuna ari. Taonga and Whenua are both words in te reo Māori, Taonga meaning treasured possession, usually referring to Pounamu (cultural jewellery) and family heirlooms!! Whenua is your homeland, your belonging, and birthplace. I was born in Cyprus but Aoteroa/New Zealand will always be my Whenua ❤️🖤🤍 On a lighter note, ejapiro tuna ari means “go jerk off on a cactus” in Guarani and I only know it because my parents bought an international swearing card game for my brother and that was my favourite 😂

please tell me all about your favourite foreign words in the comments and what they mean to you!!

🇳🇿🇨🇾🇵🇾

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about tumblr usernames!!

my tumblr @ is willuver bc Iove WillNE and I didn’t really know what else to use, I sorta went based off of the other popular blogs at the time!!

please tell me where your user comes from & the story behind it because I’m always curious!!

☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️

[ghostwrittenbygrace]

happy st patrick’s day!! 🍀🍀🍀 hope you can get super drunk in the Irish spirit!! 🇮🇪 🇮🇪 🇮🇪

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about books & reading!!

I love books and I love reading, I’ve had a bit of a weird relationship with reading most of my life but I’ve recently learnt to love it again!! my first full adult novel and the one that stuck abit was All The Major Constellations - Pratima Cranse. honestly I defs should NOT have been reading this at 11, my year 8 teacher gave it to me and there were so many dddne topics in there that I shouldnt have learnt about at that time andit lowk left a bit of a scar but I can’t go back and change it now 🤷‍♀️ anyways my fav series is the DC Stars series by Chelsea Curto, fav is def Slap Shot or Hat Trick!! I love smutty sports romance in its entirety tho ❤️❤️ fav tropes are single parent, enemies to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, and age gap romances!! I’m currently reading Wild Eyes by Elsie Silver snd really enjoying it!!

please yap about all your reading thoughts in the comments I’d love to hear about any genre!!

📖📚📖

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad topic is youtube vids!!

I have so many fav yt vuds but my most watched are:

1. willnes mixing prime video

2. sidemen £1000 car challenge

3. sidemen roadtrip from hell

Ik I got the titles wrong but shush 😭

tell me about your faves in the comments!!

📷📷📷📷🎞️🎞️🎞️🎞️

[ghostwrittenbygrace]

୨⎯𝑩𝒊𝒓𝒅𝒊𝒆 ➛ 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒙𝒐𝒏⎯୧

summary: Chris babysits your daughter while you go out for the night with friends | Chris x fem!reader

notes: a cute little part 2 to this! based on this request! posting this from the train after having a horrendous time trying to get home

content: fluff fluff fluff fluff

Chris had always been good with people. 

That much had been obvious from the start. He had an easy warmth about him that made strangers comfortable within minutes and friends fiercely loyal within weeks. It was part of why you’d fallen for him so quickly once you’d let yourself. 

But nothing could have prepared you for how completely and utterly he adored your daughter. 

From the moment she decided he likes him, Chris had folded her into his life with a kind of gentle enthusiasm that made your chest ache sometimes. 

He never tried to force anything. Never tried to act like something he wasn’t. He just… showed up. 

He sat on the floor during playtime even when there were perfectly good chairs available. He listened to her ramble about cartoons and playground drama with the same rapt attention he gave football games. He learned which snacks she liked best and which bedtime story made her laugh the hardest.

And somewhere along the way, he started calling her Birdie. 

You weren’t even sure where the nickname came from. 

The first time you heard it, she had been perched on the kitchen counter, kicking her little legs while Chris cut up strawberries for her. 

“Alright, Birdie,” he had said absentmindedly. “One strawberry at a time, or you’ll feel sick later.”

Your daughter had giggled and taken the bowl from him. 

The name stuck instantly, slipping into his voice naturally.

“How was school today, Birdie?”

“Careful there, Birdie.’

“High five, Birdie.”

Every time he said it, she lit up like a small sun. 

Which was exactly why you trusted him enough to do something that still made your stomach twist slightly with nerves. 

Leave them alone for a night. 

It had taken a few weeks to work up to it. Chris had never pushed you about it, but when your friends finally convinced you to come out for drinks one evening, he had been the first to volunteer. 

“Go,” he insisted. “You deserve a night off.”

“You don’t have to babysit,” you had said immediately. 

“I want to.”

Your daughter had overheard the conversation and clapped excitedly. 

“Chris night!"

Chris grinned at her. “It sure is!”

                                                             * * *

The moment you left the flat, Chris turned to you daughter with exaggerated seriousness. 

“Well, Birdie,” he said, hands on his hips. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

She thought about it very hard. 

“Cookies.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. 

“Cookies?”

“Chocolate chip cookies.”

He pretended to consider the request carefully. 

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose we could make cookies.” 

Her cheer was loud enough that you could probably hear it halfway down the street. 

The kitchen became chaotic within twenty minutes. 

Chris had tied one of your spare tea towels around your daughter like an apron while he attempted to follow a cookie recipe on his phone. The two of them stood side by side at the counter, flour already dusting most available surfaces.

“Okay,” Chris said, squinting at the screen. “It says we need one cup of sugar next.”

Your daughter immediately grabbed the measuring cup and scooped far too much into it. 

Chris laughed. 

“That might be two cups, birdie.”

“It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he said, shrugging, “who am I to argue with the chef?”

She beamed proudly. 

By the time the dough was finished, both of them had flour on their clothes, chocolate chips stuck to the counter, and somehow a small smear of batter had ended up on Chris’s cheek. 

He didn’t notice until your daughter giggled. 

“What?” he asked.

“You have cookie face.”

He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and laughed. 

But the real disaster happened when they were cleaning up after putting the cookies in the oven. 

Chris was cleaning the counters, and your daughter insisted on helping by opening the cupboard underneath for some reason. In the process, her elbow knocked into one of the ceramic bowls sitting near the edge of the counter. 

The bowl tipped. 

Chris lunged for it.

Too late. 

It hit the floor with a sharp crack. 

Both of them froze as they stared at the broken pieces scattered across the tiled floor. Your daughter’s eyes widened slowly.  Chris rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Right,” he said quietly. 

There was a long pause. 

Then he leaned closer to her and whispered dramatically, “We never speak of this.”

She covered her mouth with both hands, giggling. 

“Not even to mummy?”

“Especially not to mummy.”

She nodded solemnly. 

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

They cleaned it up together, still giggling the entire time.

By the time the cookies actually finished baking, the kitchen smelled incredible. 

Chris sat at the table while your daughter proudly presented him with the first cookie. 

“Careful,” he said. “It’s probably still hot.”

She blew on it dramatically before taking a tiny bite.

Her face lit up. 

“Good?”

“The best.”

Chris laughed and took a bite himself. “You might be right Birdie.”

After cookies came the movie. 

Your daughter had chosen an animated film she had apparently watched ‘a hundred times, but Chris hadn’t seen it yet.’

Chris stretched out across the sofa while she curled up beside him with a blanket and her stuffed rabbit. 

He wasn’t entirely sure when she started leaning against him more heavily. At some point during the second act of the film, her head had slowly tipped onto his shoulder, and by the time the credits rolled, she was completely asleep. 

Chris didn’t move. 

Her small hand was still curled loosely around the fabric of his hoodie, and every now and then, she made a soft, sleepy noise. 

Chris glanced down at her, something soft settling in his heart. 

“Good job tonight, Birdie,” he whispered, even though she couldn’t hear him. 

He left the TV playing softly in the background and rested his head back against the sofa. 

Eventually, he drifted off too. 

                                                            * * *

You tried to be quiet when you unlocked the door later that night. 

Your heels were in your hand, and the flat was dark except for the soft glow of the TV in the living room. 

The sight waiting there stopped you in your tracks. 

Chris was sprawled across the sofa, head tilted slightly to the side in sleep. Your daughter was curled against him, blanket tucked around her, and her stuffed rabbit pressed between them. 

One of Chris's arms was loosely draped around her back, like he had instinctively protected her even after falling asleep.

The movie menu screen glowed quietly behind them. 

You stood there for a long moment, your chest tight with emotion and carefully, you pulled out your phone and took a photo.

Then you crossed the room quietly and knelt beside the sofa.

Chris stirred slightly when you brushed your fingers through his hair. 

His eyes blinked open slowly. 

“Oh,” he mumbled, smiling sleepily when he saw you. “Hey>”

You smiled softly back at him again. 

“How was babysitting?”

He glanced down at the sleeping child tucked against him. 

Chris’s expression softened immediately. 

“Best job I’ve ever had,” he murmured. 

Your heart melted completely.

Because watching them like that – your daughter safe and comfortable against someone who cares about her so easily – you realised something.

You found someone who loved your whole little family. 

And judging by the way Chris gently adjusted the blanket around your daughter before drifting back to sleep, he wasn’t planning on going anywhere. 

taglist: @pretendyoucantseeme @williamlenneys @theoreticallythe @thechurchboyniall @urinternetfairygf @luvbuttlestv @lilyyxoii @pookietv @lxzzxebunny @lenneyswhore @wherethezoes-at  @st3viez3 @kislnd @mirrorinthemeadow @calico-lou @loveheart-123 @sdmnpact @smzyyx @arthurtvslover @chair-things @l3nney @aqraxiia @lostdeerinthemist @peachmd @willuver @teleskinnd @rubyrubyrubyrubyahhhhhh @lovingaphroditesworld @traenenimaugeundsalzindenwimpern @sturnsmols @darleneslane @cherribomb910 @aliceinwonderland1111 @trainsleeper @blackbeautyiloveyouso @amelia-styles @liz140569 @ava0609 @ghostedindigo @aanyam123 - send a message or leave a comment to be added <3

[willuver]

grace cooks again and again and again

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about stationary!! what are your favourite kind of stationary items, if you have say a specific pen or brand you like tell me about it!!

I’m really into the Yop & Tom Recipe Books/Journals atm but my fav piece of stationary has been this random ass pen I think I stole from my mum.

whats yourrrrr favourite stationary? yap in the comments!!

✏️🖍️🖌️✂️🖊️🖋️📏📎🧷📐📖📒📋🏷️

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about hobbies!!

I love to craft and read in my spare time, I’m currently working on like 8 crafts but thats because I get distracted lolol I started crafting because my mum crafts and reading came from my brain duhh

please tell me all about your favourite hobbies and how you got into them in the comments!!

🛍️🎀🛒📚🖌️📝🚤🎷🩰🎪

[peachmd-deactivated20260405]

frontman of the band - chris dixon

summary: he's the star of the stage, and your heart.

author's notes: anyone who guesses the inspiration for this gets a kiss from me xx very mild tbh! nothing too detailed but mentions of sex and suggestive scenes, they smoke weed

frontman!chris the first time you met, who introduces himself after a tiny gig in an equally tiny pub, hair sticking up in wild tufts, voice low and teasing. Before the fame, before the stage. “You’ve been staring at me the whole set,” he says, grinning. You stammer, cheeks burning, and he laughs, the kind of laugh that makes you immediately want to crawl closer, even though you barely know him.

frontman!chris writing songs about you. pencil in hand, messy scribbles, trying to capture the thought of you on a page — fruitlessly attempting to capture the complexity of whatever this is. The songs he writes about you end up being the band’s biggest hits: messy, elusive nights, heavy touches, someone who never quite stays till the morning. Fans dissect the lyrics online and speculate endlessly about the mysterious girl the band is singing about.

frontman!chris who doesn't talk to you at all during his tour, leaving you in the dark. You send voicemails, your slurring voice heavy with the ache you can’t help— selfish, maybe, because you know he’s busy, or worse — intertwined with another woman, because you said no labels. After all, nothing should, in theory, obligate him to care, or even to you. And yet, you can’t help hoping he’ll listen, that he’ll hear the tremor in your words and think of you the way you’re thinking of him. Your only updates come from paparazzi pictures of him with an assortment of girls on the streets and in cars.

frontman!chris using your previously mentioned voicemail in his songs. It renders you mortified. The desperate, exasperated tone of your voice, the half-laughing, half-crying words—it’s intimate and raw, and suddenly you’re both exposed and immortalised in the rhythm he’s built around it. It’s twisted with embarrassment — the knowledge that everyone in the crowd is listening to your vulnerability, and it makes your heart ache in a way only he can provoke. There’s pride too, though you’d never admit it aloud. Pride in the way he’s perpetuated this messy, unguarded side of you, the side you normally keep hidden. Pride that he even thinks of you— anywhere, anytime, long after the night you recorded that voicemail. 

frontman!chris showing up to your door the same day he lands after his tour. He slips inside with a kiss on your cheek, a rant about whatever’s bothering him, and somehow you let him in. You watch him move around your space, tossing his bag onto the couch, making himself a coffee too bitter, and it’s ridiculous how normal it feels to have him here—like the distance of the tour never existed. You watch him settle onto your couch, kicking off his shoes, and for a moment, it’s just quiet. Then he nudges your shoulder with his elbow, grinning, and you laugh despite yourself. That laughter, the way it makes him smirk, the way he lets his thumb trace idle circles along your arm — it’s effortless and infuriating at the same time. 

frontman!chris arguing with you in the middle of the street at 1 a.m. It’s cold and rainy, doom and gloom, and usually you would spend in your flat — a movie and disastrous dinner, but the hopes of a quiet night in are stolen away. It’s the kind of argument that starts about something stupid and spirals into everything else you’ve both been avoiding. The rain starts coming down harder, cold drops clinging to your eyelashes, soaking through your clothes. Neither of you seems willing to back down. His hands move constantly when he talks — frustrated gestures cutting through the air while he insists you’re impossible. You fire back just as sharply. At some point, you try to walk away, and his hand catches your wrist before you get two steps. He kisses you then, his tongue stealing your voice and along with it your anger. Your hand slips under wet layers of fabric against hot skin.

frontman!chris who scrunches his face up when you tell him you can’t make it to the show tonight. He looks genuinely disappointed, as if your absence in the crowd will shift the rhythm of the entire night. “Really?” he asks, voice tight, almost pleading, and you hate that even from across the city, he still manages to make your chest ache. Later that night on your timeline, clips are posted, endlessly, of him dedicating a particularly yearning song to you, saying “this is about you, you know who you are.” 

frontman!chris using a picture of you as an album cover. You don’t even realise at first — not until the teaser drops online and your phone starts lighting up with confused messages. The picture itself is grainy, taken on a disposable camera. It’s not recent either; you can vaguely recognise the old hotel balcony it was taken on. Your face is half visible, half veiled by your hair.  You remember leaning forward on your elbows, joint in hand, looking out over the street while Chris messed around with the disposable camera he’d bought from the convenience store downstairs. You rolled your eyes when the flash went off. The image sits stark and deliberate against the album’s dark background, your silhouette soft but unmistakably human. Fans zoom in on it, posting screenshots, speculating endlessly about the girl on the balcony. Some insist she must be a model; others think she’s a symbolic character from the album’s storyline. Later, when you finally see him again, the first thing you say isn’t hello. “Seriously?” you ask, holding up your phone with the album cover glowing on the screen. Chris barely glances at it before looking back at you, completely unbothered. A slow grin spreads across his face, the same one he’s always worn when he knows he’s gotten under your skin.

frontman!chris who texts you at 2 a.m., “You awake?” and somehow you are, scrolling through the screen, heart thudding. He knows exactly how to catch you off guard without even trying. You stare at the screen, torn between irritation and excitement, because he knows exactly how to catch you off guard without even trying. You know if he’s texting you, he’s already halfway here. You sigh, dragging a hand over your face as you swing your legs out of bed. You’re already reaching for the door.

frontman!chris communicating through songs. When he found out you were dating someone else, the notes twisted sharper, the lyrics cutting a little deeper. Each verse, each drumbeat, became a message only you could understand, even if you tried not to. Each verse feels pointed somehow, like a message wrapped carefully inside melody. Lines about late nights and unanswered calls, about watching someone walk away and pretending it doesn’t matter, about a girl who always slips through his fingers right when he thinks he’s figured her out.  

frontman!chris who plays a new song live and watches the crowd carefully, eyes scanning for you, the words dripping with the sting of jealousy and longing. You’re somewhere else, maybe laughing with somebody else, and it makes the music feel both empty and furious at the same time.

frontman!chris who texts you a photo of his messy hotel room, captioned “wish you were here.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway. The bed is unmade, there are empty coffee cups on the nightstand, and a pack of cigarettes, some on the floor. There’s a pull in your chest that makes you ache, a mixture of annoyance and something you can’t quite name. You want to tell him to clean up, to stop tempting you with his presence from miles away, but you know if you do, he’ll just laugh and say, “Then come here, don’t just talk about it.”

frontman!chris who mocks you mercilessly for being dramatic, but then cups your face in his hands when he sees you tearing up. When push comes to shove, or he’s just being fucking mean, the tears sting. He smirks first, rolls his eyes, teases your flustered reaction — “Seriously, are you crying over that?” — but the second he notices the tremble in your lips, the way your eyes glisten, his hands stay. They linger against your cheeks, thumbs brushing softly over your skin like he’s trying to smooth out the ache you didn’t ask him to see. One moment you’re furious, the next you’re leaning into the warmth of his hands, heart hammering because he’s both the cause of your pain and the only person who can soothe it.

Frontman!chris writing a song about the time when you first touched, clandestine and hushed. It's not awfully romantic — the backseat of a car, ungodly hours into the night. The worn leather of your seats creaked every time either of you shifted, cramped in the back, the only sound of high-pitched whines and low groans. When he tries to capture it in a song later — a late night in a beat-up car with a girl with wide eyes— the lyrics make your lips twist upwards. There’s no denying it: the song is sly, tongue-in-cheek, teasingly aware of the mischief you both got away with that night. You still remember the handprints left on the car, sobering you the next morning. 

frontman!chris who praises you in a way that always makes your stomach flip. It slips out of him so easily, like second nature. A quiet, approving “good girl” when you finally stop arguing with him, when you lean into him instead of away, when his hands are intertwined with your hair, lips wrapped around his cock, when you nod yes for another round. It’s a strange feeling, being so pliant, so willing. To see his eyes shine with approval, dark and smouldering, makes your chest tighten, and your knees go weak, like his quiet words have the weight of a command—and you can’t help but want to live up to them, again and again.

frontman!chris watching you squirm as you take him, for the millionth time. You’ve never gotten used to him, still after all these years. His eyes darken with something equal parts pride and hunger, tracing every small movement you make, memorising the way your body bends and shifts. You’ve never gotten used to the way he watches you—like he’s seeing you all at once, every nerve ending, every hesitation, every shiver—and it makes your skin flush in ways you can’t quite control. He fills you up, the burn feeling both pleasurable and painful, and there’s a rush of satisfaction when he whispers “you feel so good” in your ear. When his fingers dip down where you’re most sensitive, and your head falls back with a soft exhale, his smirk only makes you want it more.

frontman!chris and shotgunning.  His eyes flick down to your lips for a second, and he holds your jaw. When he presses his mouth to yours, it’s deliberate, slow—the smoke from his lungs threading through the kiss, warm and slightly bitter, filling the space between you. You taste it on his lips, and the heat of him presses closer, chest against chest, the world narrowing down to this single, intoxicating contact. He holds the kiss just a second longer than necessary, enough to make your knees go weak, before finally pulling back, though his hands don’t move. His gaze catches yours, intense and unrelenting, the corner of his mouth curling into that familiar crooked smirk, as if daring you to tell him off or pull away—but you know you won’t. He’s already won this little battle, and he knows it.

frontman!chris and slow sex. Sometimes the weed makes both of you soft — it makes the sharp arguments a little hazy, a little soft-edged—and replaces quickies in the bar bathroom with unhurried, deliberate kisses, and the quiet press of his hands along your back. The usual teasing fades into something slower, more thoughtful, like he’s taking his time for once instead of rushing headfirst into you the way he usually does. There’s no frantic urgency, no loud declarations, just a real, simmering buildup — a quiet heat that coils in your stomach before finally spilling over. The quiet is heavy but comforting, broken only by the occasional soft murmur of his voice when he says your name, or the faint laugh that escapes when your fingers catch his hair. Even his usual smirk is gentler now, replaced by a look that’s all softness and curiosity, like he’s letting himself feel what he usually masks with bravado.

frontman!chris and his hands. Strong, agile and a little calloused. But mostly, large. They’re the first thing you notice when you’re close to him — the way they move constantly, never still. Drumming on tabletops,  twirling a pen between long fingers when he’s trying to write. Even when he’s talking, his hands are part of it, slicing lazily through the air to emphasise a point before falling back to rest somewhere near you. But when they’re on you, it’s different. A hand on the back of your neck while he leans down to say something in your ear over loud music. His palm slides along your spine when he moves past you in a crowded room. His fingers hook briefly into the belt loop of your jeans to tug you closer. His long fingers inside you, curling in just the right spot. 

frontman!chris with you 5 minutes before he’s meant to be on stage. He whines when you tell him he should go, tugging at your hands as if he could hold time in place. His lips brush yours in slow, teasing kisses, soft at first, then a little harder when he senses you pulling away. His fingers trace the curve of your jaw, slide into your hair, gripping just enough to anchor you. The smell of his cologne—sharp, familiar, and intoxicating—mixes with the faint sweat from the venue, wrapping around you like a tether. “I’ll be fine,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low and urgent, but it’s hollow compared to the way he lingers, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and unrelenting. His lips graze your cheek, your jaw, trying to tattoo himself into your brain before the lights hit. The stage waits, but for these last few heartbeats, you are his only audience.

taglist (pm to be added x) : @lostdeerinthemist @lxzzxebunny

[willuver]

I love ru

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about drink/beverage appreciation!!

I have a coca cola addiction but other than coke I LOVE Tropical/passionfruit Bundaberg (found it in france and jumped for joy), Iced Chocolates, and purple poweraid. honestly I’m such a drinks girly like in the summer I’ll make the best homemade lemonade and just ugh I love drinks. I also used to loveeee passionfruit slushies w tapioca pearls in nz :))

drop your fav drinks and bevs in the comments!!

🍸🍹☕️🍺🥂🍾🍷🥤🍶🥛🧃🧋🍵

[ghostwrittenbygrace]

୨⎯𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕'𝒔 𝒐𝒖𝒕 ➛ 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒙𝒐𝒏⎯୧

summary: you've been dating Chris for a while but he has yet to find out about your daughter | Chris x fem!reader

notes: Happy Friday have a treat! I got bored of my dissertation so I wrote a lil something! so fluffy and cute omg i love writing him with kids! based on this request!

content: single mum!reader, withholding information, fluff

You hadn’t meant to keep it a secret for this long. 

When you and Chris first started seeing each other, it had been casual enough that it hadn’t seemed like something you needed to explain right away. A few drinks after work had turned into spending whole days together, wandering around London or sitting in quiet cafes talking about everything and nothing. 

Somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling casual. 

Chris had a way of doing that without really trying. He was warm and attentive in a way that made it very easy to get used to him being around. He remembered the little things you mentioned in passing. He texted you good morning nearly every day. He showed up early for dates and always walked you to the station at the end of the night. 

And that was the problem. 

Because the more serious things started to feel, the harder it became to tell him the one thing you hadn’t mentioned. 

Your daughter. 

It wasn’t that you were ashamed of her. Quite the opposite. She was the most important person in your life, the centre of your entire world. 

But relationships were fragile things, especially when children were involved. You had learned that the hard way once already.

The father had disappeared almost as soon as the pregnancy started to feel real. Now the only evidence he’d ever been part of your life was the check that arrived in the post every month. 

You refused to let someone else walk into your daughter’s life unless you were absolutely certain they planned on staying. 

So instead of telling Chris right away, you had told yourself you would wait a little longer.

Just until you were sure. 

The problem was that Chris had started noticing things.

He noticed that you never stayed late enough for things to become overnight plans. No matter how much you seemed to be enjoying yourself, you always glanced at the time around ten and apologised before heading home. 

He noticed that every time he suggested coming over to your place, you somehow redirected the plan somewhere else. 

You had excuses, of course. Work in the morning. Early plans. Flatmates.

Chris didn’t push you about it, but you could see the curiosity and disappointment behind his eyes sometimes. 

He just didn’t know what question he should be asking. 

* * *

The evening everything unravelled started badly.

Your babysitter had cancelled barely an hour before your dinner reservation, apologising profusely over the phone while you stood in the kitchen trying to juggle making dinner and taking your daughter’s temperature with a thermometer. 

She had been fussy all afternoon, clingy and tired in that way children get when they’re not feeling well. 

When the thermometer beeped again, the number on the screen made your stomach drop slightly. 

A mild fever. 

“Okay,” you murmured gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We’ll get you sorted.”

Your phone buzzed on the counter. 

Chris. 

You stared at the screen a moment before answering. 

“Hey,” you said, already sounding more tired than you meant to.

“Hey,” he replied warmly. “I’m about to head out. Still meeting at the restaurant?”

You close your eyes briefly. 

“I’m really sorry, Chris. I think I have to cancel tonight.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. 

“Oh. Everything okay?”

You glanced down at your daughter curled against your side, cheeks flushed slightly pink. 

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “Just… stuff came up.”

Chris didn’t sound too convinced. 

“You sound stressed.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though your voice wavered a little. “I promise. I just need to deal with a few things tonight.”

He hesitated.

“Well… call me if you need anything, alright?”

“I will.”

You hung up quickly before he could ask more questions.

About thirty minutes later, there was a knock on your door. 

You frowned from the kitchen, turning the stove off quickly. You weren’t expecting anyone. 

“Coming, you called. 

But before you could walk down the hallway a small pair of feet padded ahead of you. 

“Mummy, I get it!”

“Wait-”

The door swung open before you could stop her. 

Chris was standing on the doorstep, hand raised mid-knock. 

He blinked. 

Your daughter blinked back at him, clutching her stuffed rabbit. For a moment, neither of them spoke, then Chris crouched slightly so he wasn’t towering over her.

“Well hi there,” he said gently, with a smile. 

You arrived at the door just in time to see your daughter tilt her head curiously.

“Hi,” she replied. 

Chris glanced up at you, surprise clear in his expression, but not a hint of anger.

“Well,” he said quietly. “This explains a lot.”

Your face flushed instantly. 

“Chris- I-”

He shook his head gently. “Can I come in?”

* * *

Your daughter had taken an immediate liking to him. 

Within two minutes, she had dragged him into the living room and was showing him every single toy she owned while you hovered nervously in the kitchen doorway.

Chris sat cross-legged on the floor, listening with the same patience he used when you told long stories about your workday.

“-and this one is Mr Bunny,” she was explaining seriously. 

“A very important rabbit,” Chris agreed. 

You watched the scene with your heart in your throat. 

Eventually, he stood and walked into the kitchen, where you were waiting. You immediately started apologising. 

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I just didn’t know how to bring it up, and I didn’t want you to feel like I was hiding something, but I also didn’t want to introduce someone into her life unless I was sure they were going to stick around and-”

“Hey.”

Chris stepped closer, resting his hands gently on your arms.

“You don’t have to apologise.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, uncertain. 

“I just didn’t want you to feel like I lied to you.”

“You didn’t,” he said softly. “You were protecting your kid.”

Your eyes started to water. 

“It’s just… we’ve had people leave us before,” you admitted quietly. “I couldn’t do that to her again.” 

Chris glanced into the living room where your daughter was now colouring quietly at the coffee table. When he looked back at you, his expression had softened even further. 

“She seems like a pretty great kid.”

Your voice caught slightly. 

“She is.”

He smiled faintly. 

“You know… I’ve actually always wanted to be a dad someday.”

You blinked in response. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged lightly. “So honestly… this isn’t a dealbreaker.”

Your heart pounded nervously. “It isn’t?”

Chris reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

“If anything.” He said quietly, “It’s kind of a bonus.”

You stared at him. 

“You mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

His hand slid down to lace his fingers with yours.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he continued. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t even know what you’re signing up for.”

Chris glanced back toward the living room where your daughter was humming softly to herself and he smiled again. 

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Before you could respond, a small voice piped up from the other room. 

“Mummy, can Chris help me colour?”

Chris chuckled softly. 

“Sounds like I’ve already been recruited.”

He squeezed your hand once more before walking back into the living room. 

When you followed, you found him sitting beside your daughter on the floor, carefully colouring inside the lines while she explained the rules of her drawing game. 

For the first time since you’d started dating him, the knot of fear in your chest finally began to loosen. 

Because maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t just found someone who wanted to be with you. 

Maybe you’d found someone who wanted to be part of both of your lives. 

taglist: @pretendyoucantseeme @williamlenneys @theoreticallythe @thechurchboyniall @urinternetfairygf @luvbuttlestv @lilyyxoii @pookietv @lxzzxebunny @lenneyswhore @wherethezoes-at  @st3viez3 @kislnd @mirrorinthemeadow @calico-lou @loveheart-123 @sdmnpact @smzyyx @arthurtvslover @chair-things @l3nney @aqraxiia @lostdeerinthemist @peachmd @willuver @teleskinnd @rubyrubyrubyrubyahhhhhh @lovingaphroditesworld @traenenimaugeundsalzindenwimpern @sturnsmols @darleneslane @cherribomb910 @aliceinwonderland1111 @trainsleeper @blackbeautyiloveyouso @amelia-styles @liz140569 @ava0609 @ghostedindigo @aanyam123 - send a message or leave a comment to be added <3

[willuver]

I love him I love him I love him I love him I love him

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about shopping!!

I love browsing but I’m horrific at buying bc I hate spending money. sometimes I know I need to spend money like on clothes but today I bought lego and strawberries!!!!!!! there’s a shop here called Normal and they sell stuff from NZ/Aus so I really like it there and I spent like €50 last time 😭

tell me all about your fav shops and things to buy in the comments!!

🛍️🛍️🛍️🛍️🛍️🛒🛒🛒🛒🛒

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about animal appreciation!!

my fav animals are cats, dogs, sharks, fishies, pandas, lobsters, ladybugs, jellyfish, hedgehogs, pigs, and butterflies!!

please tell me all about your fav animals in the comments and any fun facts you have about them!!

🐶🐱🐭🐹🐰🦊🐻🐼🐻‍❄️🐨🐯🦁🐮🐷🐸🐒🐔🐧🐦🐥🪿🦆🐦‍⬛🦅🦉🦇🐺🐗🐴🦄🫎🐝🪱🐛🦋🐌🐞🐜🪰🪲🪳🦟🦗🕷️🕸️🦂🐢🐍🦎🦖🦕🐙🦑🪼🦐🦞🦀🐡🐠🐟🐬🐳🐋🦈🦭🐊🐅🐆🦓🦍🦧🦣🐘🦛🦏🐪🦒🦘🦬🐃🐂🐄🫏🐎🐖🐑🦙🐐🦌🐕🐩🐈‍⬛🦜🦢🦩🕊️🦝🦨🦡🦫🐇🦦🦥🐁🐿️🦔

[willuver]

welcome to the splash pad 🐸 !! where my silly little friends can cool down when things get heated!!

todays splash pad post is about MUSICCCC!!!!!!!!

My fav artist of all time is Harry Styles, but I’m really into indie music and indie pop!! fav artist at the moment is Marti Perramon, fav Album is Kissco or AM - Arctic Monkeys. my fav musical is Mamma Mia but my fav soundtrack is Hamilton!! Finally my fav band oat is One Direction but atm is Almost Monday!!

please tell me all about your favourite songs, artists, albums, bands and musicals in the comments!!

🎶🎼🎵🎤🎧🎸🥁🎹🎺🎻🪉🪗🪈🪇🪕🪘