About me: I go by Sunflower, I'm 22 years old, an English Literature graduate, I'm Scottish and a Sagittarius!
Who I write for: ilia malinin, Mikhail Shaidorov, amber glenn
What I will write: smut, fluff probably not angst but if you want to send something in go for it!
What I won't write: non-con, most dub-con (intoxication meaning 🍃 and somno is okay), incest, fauxcest, really detailed asks like you've already written it yourself lol, most mental/health disorders (I simply do not know enough or have not experienced enough to do anything like that justice)
Warning if there is anything I don't like or want to write about in your ask it will just be deleted with no warning x
Anons I currently have: 💤, 🦦
Also I only write headcanon style and if you're lucky a simple blurb! This is my blog and writing is unpaid labour!!
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Why Did Zverev say for the past couple years he’s felt like the third guy when the third guy has been Novak and the 4th guy has been bensheltonjackdraperholgerrunelorenzomussettitaylofrritz?
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Summary: After a heartbreaking loss in the Indian Wells final, you try to disappear, until Jack finds you and reminds you that losing doesn’t make you any less worth staying for.
Word Count (roughly): 2,019
all photos from pinterest ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢
The “desert” felt cruelly still. It was strange, you thought, how a place so alive just hours ago, roaring crowds, flashing cameras, the sharp rhythm of tennis balls cutting through dry air, could fall into such quiet so quickly.
Indian Wells always did that. One minute, it was everything. The next, it was over.
You sat alone in the player’s garden, still in your kit, your racket bag slumped at your feet like it had given up before you had. The sky was dipping into gold, the kind of soft California sunset people romanticised.
You didn’t. Not today. Because today, you had lost. The final. Your first Indian Wells final.
You swallowed hard, blinking at nothing in particular. You’d shaken hands, smiled politely, done the ceremony, answered the press questions like a script you’d memorised years ago. “I’m proud of my run.”
“She played better today.”
“I’ll come back stronger.”
All true. None of it helped.
A breeze passed, light but enough to make your fingers curl tighter into your sleeves. Across the grounds, you could still hear distant echoes of another match, louder, bigger.
Men’s final. You didn’t need to check the schedule. You already knew who was out there. Jack Draper, you hadn’t watched. Not properly.
You couldn’t. Not when your own loss was still sitting heavy in your chest, like something unfinished.
But you’d caught glimpses, on screens in the locker room, in passing conversations, in the way everyone kept saying his name with that careful edge of expectation.
He might actually do it.
You pulled your knees closer to your chest, resting your chin on them.
“Didn’t think I’d find you here.” Your breath hitched. You turned your head, and there he was.
Still in his whites, shirt slightly damp, hair messy in that way that meant he’d been running his hands through it too much. A towel hung loosely around his neck, his racket bag abandoned somewhere else entirely.
He looked, not victorious, not yet. Just him. Jack gave you a small, tentative smile as he stepped closer. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
You frowned slightly. “Shouldn’t you be—” you gestured vaguely toward the stadium “—busy?”
He shrugged, dropping down beside you without asking. Close enough that your shoulders almost touched. “Match hasn’t started yet.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Delayed,” he said, leaning back on his hands. “Something about scheduling. Gives me time to—”he glanced at you, softer now “—check on you.”
Your chest tightened. “I’m fine,” you said automatically.
Jack didn’t argue. He just tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet way of his. You hated that look. Because it always meant he saw through you.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “You look it.”
You let out a weak breath that was almost a laugh. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not,” he replied gently.
Silence settled between you, but not uncomfortable. Just full. The kind that held things you weren’t saying.
“I watched,” he added after a moment.
You stiffened. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.”
You looked down at your hands. “Then you saw.”
“I saw you fight like hell,” he said immediately.
You shook your head. “I lost, Jack.”
“Yeah,” he said simply.
That made you glance at him. No sugarcoating. No empty reassurance. Just truth. And somehow, that made it easier to breathe.
“I was so close,” you whispered. “I could feel it. Like, like it was right there, you know? And then it just…” You exhaled sharply. “Slipped.”
Jack didn’t interrupt, and he didn’t rush you. So you kept going.
“I hate that this is what people will remember. Not the matches before. Not how I got here. Just that I couldn’t finish it.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, “Do you remember my first final?”
You frowned. “Which one?”
“Exactly,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. You huffed a quiet laugh despite yourself.
“People don’t remember losses the way we think they do,” he continued. “We remember them. We carry them. But everyone else?” He shook his head. “They move on faster than we give them credit for.”
You looked at him, really looked this time. There was something in his expression, something steadier than usual.
“You’re not scared?” you asked softly.
“Terrified,” he admitted. That surprised you.
Jack let out a breath, running a hand through his hair again. “Every time I step on court, there’s this voice in my head telling me I’m about to mess it up. That I’ll disappoint everyone. That I’ll prove every doubt right.”
Your chest tightened. “Then why do you still go out there?”
He glanced at you. And smiled. “Because it’s worth it.” Simple. Certain. You swallowed.
“I don’t know if I can do that again,” you admitted quietly. “Get that close and…” you trailed off.
“Lose?” You nodded. Jack shifted slightly, turning toward you fully now.
“You will,” he said.
You frowned. “That’s not very comforting.”
“I’m not trying to comfort you,” he said, almost amused. “I’m being honest.” You rolled your eyes lightly, but there was no real bite to it.
“You’ll lose again,” he continued. “And it’ll hurt. Probably just as much as this. But you’ll also win again. And that?” He nudged your shoulder gently with his. “That’s worth sticking around for.”
Your throat tightened. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”
A pause. Then, softer, “But you don’t have to go through it alone.”
You looked at him. Really looked. And suddenly, the noise in your head, the doubts, the disappointment, the what-ifs, felt just a little quieter.
“You have a final to play,” you murmured.
He groaned softly, leaning his head back. “Don’t remind me.”
You smiled faintly. “Go,” you said after a moment. “They’re probably looking for you again.”
Jack didn’t move. “Yeah,” he said. “In a second.”
Another pause. Then, “Will you watch?”
The question caught you off guard. You hesitated. “I don’t know if I can,” you admitted.
He nodded, like he expected that. “Okay,” he said simply.
No pressure. No disappointment. Just understanding. But then he added, “I’d like it if you did.”
Your heart did something stupid at that. You exhaled slowly, looking out at the fading light. “Maybe,” you said.
Jack smiled, softer this time. “I’ll take maybe.”
He pushed himself up, brushing his hands off before grabbing your racket bag and setting it properly beside you.
“Don’t stay out here too long,” he said. “It gets cold.”
You snorted lightly. “It’s the desert, Jack.”
“Exactly,” he shot back, already stepping away. “Unpredictable.”
You watched him go. Watched the way he rolled his shoulders, like he was trying to shake off nerves you now knew were there.
Watched as he disappeared back toward the stadium. Back toward the match. Back toward everything that scared him. And still, he went.
You didn’t mean to watch. You told yourself you wouldn’t. But somehow, your feet carried you toward the players’ lounge. Toward the screen. Toward the match already underway.
You stood in the doorway at first. Then took a step inside. Then another.
Until you were sitting, eyes fixed on the screen despite yourself. There he was. Under the lights. Focused. Intense. Moving like everything depended on it. Maybe it did.
Your chest tightened as you watched him miss a shot, his jaw clenching, frustration flashing across his face.
Terrified, he’d said. You saw it now. Not weakness. Not doubt. Just fear. And the choice to play anyway. Set by set, point by point, you stayed. Even when it got close.
Even when it looked like it might slip away. You stayed. Because maybe that’s what this was, not about winning or losing, but about staying.
It was late by the time it ended. The crowd roared, loud enough that you could hear it even from outside as you stepped back into the night air.
You didn’t know who’d won. Not yet. But your heart was racing like you’d been out there yourself.
You leaned against the railing, exhaling slowly. “You stayed.”
You turned. Jack stood there, breathless, eyes bright, hair damp with sweat. And, he was smiling, wide and real.
Your own smile broke through before you could stop it. “You won,” you said.
He nodded, almost disbelieving. “Yeah.”
For a second, neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward.
And before you could overthink it, you wrapped your arms around him. He froze for half a heartbeat, then hugged you back, tight, like he meant it.
“I’m proud of you,” you murmured into his shoulder.
He let out a soft breath. “You too.”
You pulled back slightly, frowning. “I lost, remember?”
He shook his head. “You made it to the final,” he said. “On one of the biggest stages in tennis.” He met your eyes. “That’s not losing.”
Something in your chest shifted, not fixed, not healed, but lighter. “You watched,” he said.
“I did.” He smiled again. And this time, it felt like something shared.
The same desert. The same tournament, different endings. But somehow, still standing in the same place, together.
Later, when the lights dimmed and the noise finally faded, you found yourself sitting beside him again. Quieter now, calmer.
“You know,” you said, glancing at him, “next time I make a final here—”
“When,” he corrected.
You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “When,” you amended, “you’re not allowed to disappear before your match to check on me.”
He laughed softly. “No promises.”
You nudged him. “Seriously.”
He looked at you for a moment. Then, “Okay,” he said. “But only if you promise something too.”
“What?”
“That you won’t run away after.”
You hesitated. Then nodded. “Deal.” Jack smiled.
And for the first time since the match, you believed it, that there would be a next time, that you’d come back.
That this wasn’t the end of anything. Just part of it, and somehow, that made all the difference.
⋆˚꩜｡
this was a request
tennis tag-list: (just for jack: @jo-grace) @rosesanddiaries @cem3tarygat3s @xliliths @melxdigz
Summary: A patron flirts with you at work, but Nick crushes his dreams.
Content: language, suggestive/sexual comments, alcohol, semi-educated motorcycle talk, public makeout, Nick turns out to be a good lil pretty boy
update: I just realized I did use “ma’am” once for reader but that is the only gendered term sorry! 🥲
Word count: 3k
I’ve been insanely busy with prepping to move recently but I finally got around to finishing something!
This feels pretty random and not at all what I thought it was going to be when I started but at this point I just wrote shit and don’t feel like reworking it so hopefully someone out there likes it lol if it sucks don’t tell me
The noise of the bar has grown on you over the years. You never thought you would like it—the clientele, the energy, the backbone it forced you to grow—but this place has become home.
The crack of the balls on the pool table cuts through the Disturbed song playing in the speakers, followed by a bellowed laugh. It gets disrupted by a glass hitting the bar top, then the ding of the bell over the front door.
You lift your gaze from the beer tap that pours a light lager into the glass in your hand, meeting the smile of an older man clad in leather and denim. His beard and mustache almost obscure it and his eyes never show much, but you know him well enough to know he is having a good day. And if that didn't tell you, the wind-whipped look of his thin ponytail gives it away.
"Hey, Cary!" You call out over the noise with a grin.
He grunts and lifts his hand in a wave. "Evenin,' kid."
By now, you know how long each tap takes to fill a pint. In the spare couple of seconds you have, you watch the door again to see if it will open, but it stays closed.
"No Eric today?" You ask.
"Nah, he's got the wife's parents in town," Cary answers and shrugs off his heavy leather jacket.
"Yikes," you reply with a laugh and hand the pint to one of the other patrons a few chairs down. "Let him know I'm praying for him!"
The gruff man chuckles as well and nods. "Will do."
He greets another man at a booth by the dart board, bald and covered in fading American traditional tattoos that are revealed by his sleeveless flannel. The cracking vinyl of the seat probably opens up more when he slumps down into it.
By the time he tosses his jacket over the back of the booth, you are already walking to them. You snag the cap of a fresh Miller Lite with the bottle opener tied to a belt loop of your jeans, popping it off and tucking it in your pocket.
"Thanks," Cary says when you set the bottle on the table.
"Keep 'em coming?"
"You met this guy?" The other man jokes, pointing to Cary and laughing a little. "Just put him on my tab."
"Yeah, then I'll pay it all when we leave." Cary laughs. "Cheap ass."
You chuckle with them and start to inch back towards the bar. "As long as someone's paying!"
Their conversation falls into the camaraderie of the room as you head to your usual spot. You grab a few empty bottles and pint glasses as you go, using every bit of finger, hand, and arm space possible. There is only a 'Thank you' here or there, which bothered you in the beginning with this job. But it doesn't faze you now that you know every middle-aged man, unbothered wife or girlfriend, and grandfathered-in young guy here loves you.
The rumble of another approaching motorcycle splits through the closed doors as you wash the glasses you retrieved. You step away from cleaning for a minute to wipe down a couple of tables and take payment from the group of mid-30s men at one side of the bar, then head back to dry everything.
When the bell chimes, you glance over and see a man walk in with that look on his face that screams 'Wow, I've never been in a biker bar before.'
He is clad in full, clean-cut, stiff riding gear. All black other than some white detailing, backpack slung over one shoulder, shaggy brown hair messy from the Ruroc helmet clutched in his hand.
"Welcome in!"
His eyes shift to you and they linger for a second before he smiles a little. You have already turned around to put glasses away when he starts walking to the bar.
"Thanks.”
The voice fits him, gravelly and somewhat low. It checks out when you look at him, his dark blue eyes and the tattoos peaking out at the base of his neck.
When he sets his helmet on a stool and then sits on the seat next to it, you raise your eyebrows.
"Taking up one of my seats for your helmet?" You ask, smirking a little. "That'll cost you $5."
He raises his groomed eyebrows right back at you. "Is that so?"
"Yeah. That's a tip I could've made."
The realization settles and he nods slowly, smiling like he finds the joke genuinely amusing.
"That's a good tactic," he says.
"The first-timers learn fast," you answer. "What can I get you?"
"IPA. Your pick," he replies while taking off his gloves, revealing a couple more partial tattoos.
You are already reaching for a glass, but still ask, "Draft?"
"Please." He smiles.
The sunset sends glaring yellow light through a space in the window blinds, flashing in your eyes as you move around. You fall into your usual rhythm. Fill the glass, run his card, hand over the drink. Then you walk away to make sure everyone has new drinks and water and snacks.
After a quick round of checking in, you're back and refilling the coolers.
"I'm Kade."
You turn and look up to see the newcomer leaning onto the bar with his arms crossed under him, a lingering smile on his face.
You give him your name and extend your hand to shake. He gives you a lighthearted grip in return.
"Nice day out there," you say, leaning into conversation so he doesn't feel awkward and lonely.
"Perfect, actually. Little bit of a tailwind, mild, a few clouds," he answers dreamily and shakes his head. "I saw the forecast and had to take a trip just to ride."
"Not from around here then?" You ask.
He smirks a little. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"Careful," you tut, but smile nicely anyway. "I got a lot of dads in here."
Kade chuckles and looks around, seeming to move on from the comment. "This a busy night for you?"
You shrug and tell him, "They all blend together in the season. Might be a little busier, but I've worked much crazier on my own."
"So you run the place?"
"Hell no, that would be a little much for me. I just make drinks and take everyone's money."
"I can imagine you bring in quite a bit," he says, a suggestion settling under it.
"Comes and goes," you sigh to dismiss the comment.
The sense of being in a situation you should avoid starts to build up, so you walk away to make another round. You refill a few drinks before ending up back where you were, almost alone with Kade other than the two regulars a few seats down from him.
"You really do know everyone here," he announces.
"I've only had three years to get to know them," you answer sarcastically.
"You ride?"
"Only in the backseat. I prefer being able to control the temperature of my everyday transportation."
He shakes his head and grins. "It's not so bad once you get used to it."
You look over his gear pointedly and smile back apologetically. "Says the guy in all black who rides around on a mobile grill."
"To be fair," he says through a laugh, "my bike goes fast enough to kill some of the heat."
At that, you roll your eyes. "Oh, you're one of those."
"One of what?"
"You think your bike is so cool because it's fast."
He smirks. "No, I know it's cool because it's a Yamaha R6."
"I hate to break it to you, dear, but this is not a sports bike kind of joint," you answer lightheartedly.
Before he can answer, the doors open with a bell chime that quickly gets drowned out by laughter. The sound sends relief through your body, warmth down your spine, and you don't even have to look to see who it is.
"Oh shit! Davis, it's Tool night!" You hear the shout through all the chatter, followed by a few cheers and greetings.
Your smile grows before you can stop it, but you have to at least try to keep doing your job.
"Anything else I can get for you? Or should I close you out?" You ask Kade.
He looks like he is thinking and eyes how you brace your hands on the bar. Then, that traveler's glint appears. It is the hopeful look of a man who has no idea who you are.
"How about your number? I'll gladly take a backpack," he finally says.
Your eyes flit behind him and you almost laugh, but try to protect his ego and just smile empathetically.
"You're barking up the wrong tree," you tell him.
The rejection doesn't quite make it to him.
"Oh, come on. Why not? I promise I'm responsible," he tries again.
The swinging half door that separates the bar from the rest of the room swings open with a creak, and then hands are snaking around your waist. Warmth covers your torso and your back, the smell of wind and leather surrounding you. And with your eyes still on the hopeful patron, lips press into your temple, your cheek, then your neck.
"Hey, baby," Nick greets you, lips close to your ear and the grin evident in his tone.
The deep blue eyes of the newbie lock on your boyfriend who has tugged you tight against his body and laid a clear territory without even knowing it. Then, he looks at you, deflated.
You point back at Nick. "Sorry, I've already got one."
Nick seems to realize now that you are in the middle of doing your job, as if he had no idea you were with a customer before he waltzed back here and started attacking you. It is a fairly normal occurrence, but he insists he doesn't interrupt you on purpose.
"Oh, hey man. Welcome in, I'm Nick!" He says cheerfully, oblivious to the situation.
With no hesitation, Nick offers his hand to Kade. You take in his messy brown hair, the euphoric smile that sticks on his face, the leather vest hanging on his shoulders, and enjoy the second to appreciate how insanely hot he is.
The guy who just tried to hit on you hesitates for a second, then forces a smile and shakes your boyfriend's hand.
Based on the way both of their knuckles lighten in color, you wonder if maybe they do know what just happened.
"Kade," he says to Nick. "Thanks."
"That your R6 out there? I didn't recognize it. We don't usually get the sport guys in here," your boyfriend asks, chuckling.
"Yeah, that's me," Kade answers.
"Sick, man. Can't beat a Harley, but those are still cool as fuck."
Kade seems to bristle a little and glances at you, then back at Nick. "I mean, I kind of can beat a Harley."
"If you two are gonna measure, could you do it outside?" You interrupt.
The comment gets Nick's attention and he looks at you curiously, then at Kade, then back at you. It takes a second for the dots to fully connect.
Then he laughs. "Oh! Damn, I timed that good, didn't I?"
"Pretty perfectly," you tell him.
"Okay, well, I'm gonna go touch tables for you so you can wrap this up in peace," Nick says to you, then turns to Kade. "Sorry, man. Definitely not beating the Harley on this one, but there's probably a single bartender at Bobcat's down the freeway eastbound."
You are trying not to laugh when Nick walks off, tossing his vest on the back counter and grabbing a rag to go clean.
The amused smile on your customer's face from before is gone. He pushes the almost empty glass closer to you and grabs his wallet from his bag.
"Definitely don't go to Bob's. Half those people don't shower more than twice a week," you tell him.
He smiles awkwardly. "Thanks."
He hands over cash and you open the till drawer. "Change?"
"Keep it," he says and tugs on his gloves, sliding off the seat. "Help your boyfriend buy a better bike."
The animosity makes you chuckle. "I'll tell him he should get that Ninja 10R just for you."
"Okay, I'm gonna go before you insult me even more," he answers, but you catch the hint of playfulness that dulls the edge of his words.
"Ride safe," you tell him.
He grabs his helmet and waves with the other hand. "Let me know if you ever decide to trade up."
"Oh, I won't!" You call after him, both of you smiling as he makes his way out.
You only have time to make sure the others at the bar are taken care of before Nick is back and your lips are crushed against his.
His fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, pulling you in until there's not even enough space for a sheet of paper between you. A laugh slips out of your lips at how eager he is, but it doesn't stop him.
Nick loves to prove a point when some random guys comes in and flirts with you. He knows you don't need to be reminded how obsessed he is, but he likes to make sure.
After he shuffles you backwards and with the help of a jump, he hauls you up onto the shorter counter on the back wall. His body is slotted between your legs, which hook around his waist, and he holds you in a near suffocating kiss. The heat of his lips has you panting and gasping for air, but maybe some of the warmth in your face is because he is making out with you where the whole Friday evening crowd can see you.
But you very quickly decide you don't care. This isn't a normal workplace where you will get reprimanded, and everyone here has accepted you as their own. They would deal with a lot just to keep you because you didn't run off with your tail between your legs week one. Once you got to know them, they were all big teddy bears, and they had the fear of God put into Nick the second he started making moves.
A whistle comes from somewhere behind Nick, so you hold up your middle finger and choose to ignore it.
When Nick slows, he has that cocky smile on his face. "Everyone just loves to come here and flirt with you? Huh?"
"It happens, like, once every couple months!" You argue.
"Every couple weeks, you mean."
You pull him in again and grin against his lips, unable to help yourself. "Stop talking,"
He hums in amusement and keeps kissing you, hands starting to slide up higher into dangerous territory. The rough skin of his hands and fingertips sends heat and chills through you in waves, then they start teasingly slipping under the waist of your jeans by just a few centimeters.
"I'm gonna come back there and get my beer myself if you guys are just gonna shove your tongues down each other's throats!"
The kiss is destroyed by both of you grinning in amusement.
You uncross your ankles and press your hand into Nick's chest, then shove him back. He groans, but gives in because he knows better than to push it with you. Even when he is high one adrenaline and wind from a ride and all he wants to do is dive headfirst into you, he knows you don't let him get in the way of work if you're alone.
He grabs your sides to help you down as you hop off the counter. You make to brush past him when you see Cary leaning against the bar, watching with raised eyebrows.
Before you even get two feet away, Nick's hand lands a half-hearted slap to your denim-covered butt that makes you jump.
Should you have expected it? Probably, but you still turn and glare at him while you head for the cooler of Miller.
"You know," Cary starts, and you turn to see him watching Nick with narrowed eyes, "you're gonna regret that when you're bent over some day and you feel like a bolt of lightning just went up your ass and down your leg."
"Oh, don't worry. He knows the risks," you say as you hand over the opened bottle and smirk, glancing at your boyfriend whose face starts to drain of color.
Cary looks between you both for a second, then chuckles quietly and nods in approval. Nick looks horrified before the older man even walks away.
"Why would you say that?" He asks, wide-eyed.
"What?" You reply and walk closer to lower your voice. "You don't want anyone to know how familiar I am with you bent over?"
Nick's eyes dart around at the room behind you like he thinks someone will hear.
You grab Nick's chin and turn his head towards yours again, his eyes locking on yours. The claiming fire that had been smoldering in them earlier is different now, more desperate despite how he tries to keep a straight face. But you know you would feel his heart racing if you checked.
"They're all missing out if they haven't tried it, though. Aren't they, pretty boy?"
His breathing falters and he nods a little.
"What was that?" You ask, taunting.
"Babe —."
"Hmm?"
He looks around again, as much as you'll let him, then brings his eyes back to yours and lets another smile peek through.
"Yes, ma'am," he mutters.
You hum and bring your lips around to his ear, dipping a little lower to leave a soft, teasing kiss on his neck.
"Good boy. Now go have fun with the guys and maybe I'll let you pick what we use tonight if you behave."
There is a glimmer in his eyes when you pull back, and he nods enthusiastically before leaving you to work in, well, not quite peace.
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