#esdeekid

cheerleader!reader x loser!hollis

𝜗𝜚★──୨ৎ──★𝜗𝜚

monday!

“Again!,” The voice of your cheer team captain bellowed across the expanse of the high school football field, a sharp crack from her hands colliding, “Lucy, your leg isn’t going up high enough - have you gotten your joints checked for arthritis recently?”

The harsh jab at your classmate elicited a gaggle of petty laughter - mainly the other girls doing whatever shallow shit they could to cement their space on the team.

Lucy frowned, pivoting back to her starting position, you and everyone else following suit.

“Six, seven, eight! Lucy, lock the fuck in!”

Half an hour later, and practice had concluded - Chicago’s milky midsummer evening sky bleeding almost cosmic shades of lilacs, pinks, and purples, shrouding the emptying football field in a veil of warm, hazy vibrancy.

Sheening in a layer of sweat, limbs lightly aching from running through the same intensive cheer routine at least fifteen times today, you wanted nothing more than to get your hands on a crisp bottle of Gatorade - the kind where it’s just come out of the refrigerator, bottle clouded with fresh condensate.

God, you felt yourself begin to salivate at the thought.

Not to mention the insane tension headache from having your hair bound in an all-too-tight ponytail, your scalp practically begging for mercy as it threatened a migraine.

You slumped against the lowest foot of the metal bleachers, paint-job splintering - chipped from decades of high school history and thousands of football games.

“See you next practice, girl!” One of the others called out to you, a polite wave following. You waved back, smiling small.

Watching your class and teammates filter out of the pitch one by one, pink Victoria’s Secret duffle bags, slicked ponytails and tinsel pom-poms clad, like an army of glittery soldiers.

You just needed a minute to rest - first double calculus, and then practice - God was really testing you today, it seemed.

You attempted to loosen your hairdo, picking away the cracking film of cheap hairspray you’d plastered over it in an attempt to keep your unruly baby hairs from interfering.

Instead, you ended up creating a series of bumps, arguably making your hair look and feel worse than before, losing some of your silvery nail polish during the tussle.

Your phone vibrated in the pocket of your skort - you retrieve it, now-chipped sparkly nails swiping across your screen.

“wya” the message read, Hollis’ name titling the notification.

It was here, you realised that you’d asked if he could drive you home after practice, and he’d agreed.

And that you’d forgotten.

You curse beneath a strangled breath, reprimanding your shitty memory - frantically tapping in a message, gathering your stuff.

“On my way!”

You hurdled over the bleachers, lightly jogging off the pitch and towards the parking lot.

There it was, your favourite method of transportation for the three days a week where you and Hollis’ school schedules aligned: a baby blue 2014 ford with a significant dent on the bonnet from a road accident, that his mom refused to let him file an insurance claim for until he had his own form of stable income.

If any of your little cheer friends saw you clambering into Hollis Frazier’s beat up little fishbowl car, you most likely would be bombarded by judging looks and stunned stares.

Hell, he knew, too. The potential suicide you imposed upon your social status by even being in his vicinity.

He found it cute that you hadn’t considered, nor cared for it. That’s one thing you two had in common - a distaste for any sort of conformity, you both just were set on achieving your goals, even if it meant rubbing elbows with a few bad apples and interesting characters.

As usual, the shabby vehicle blared out the most penetrating bass frequency you’d ever heard; like it were a tiny, portable club with an engine.

The music, though muffled and unintelligible lyric-wise, reverberated out across the entire desolate parking lot out the front of your high school - you swore you felt the concrete slightly shake beneath your feet as you got closer to the car.

He made sure to turn the music down from full to halfway maximum before you swung open the car door.

You popped the trunk first, aged hinges groaning as you lifted it open, tossing your duffle and backpack inside, grabbing your spare zip-up you’d forgotten in his trunk from last time.

You walked around to the passenger side, pulling the door open - but not with too much force, you were always worried that one day, you’d accidentally pull too hard and rip the handle completely off, and his mom probably wouldn’t let him fix that either.

“Hey, I’m so sorry,” you panted, rushing to put on your seatbelt, “I completely forgot.”

Hollis was distracted, rolling what appeared to be a blunt in his lap, grinder and papers spread out across the dashboard.

His hair - which he’d recently impulsively bleached to a pale blonde, was shoulder-length, slightly hidden by his half-up hood, cascaded over his face as he worked, fingers intricately crinkling the end of the blunt like he was practicing narcotic origami.

“S’all good.” He muttered, having finished rolling - placing the finished product in an empty cupholder, gathering and chucking the supplies in his glovebox.

Hollis spent most of his time waiting for you while you recuperated after practice rolling in his car - despite this, he never smoked while driving - if anything, he was strictly against it.

“How was practice?” He asked, shifting the car into reverse, the gears grinding loudly, competing with the soft baseline of the playing lo-fi CD - which he’d burned himself.

“Like usual,” you sighed, lifting your legs onto the fabric seats, crossing them - your knee occasionally knocked Hollis’ hand as it rested over the gearstick as he drove, but he didn’t mind.

“- Sophia being a cunt towards Lucy, making little bitchy comments about our formation ‘n stuff. The usual.”

He nodded, peeling out of the parking lot, wrist draped over the steering wheel.

“How was class today?” You lean back in your seat, which he’d left slightly reclined, just how you liked it.

The car halted with a weary mechanical croak at a set of red lights, Hollis using the intermission to quickly skim across his lock screen notifications.

“Didn’t go.” He admitted, a guilty smirk across his face - he knew you’d reprimand him, “- Ended up staying with Nate at his place - working on some stuff.”

When the light turned to amber, he quickly placed the phone on your thigh - having plugged in the aux cable while you were busy drawing little stick figures on his misted windows.

Soundcloud was already open, compiled playlists he’d made listed across the screen for you especially to pick through if you’d wanted.

He always let you have aux whenever he gave you lifts - never telling you what to play, nor giving any suggestions - every time you’d press him to contribute, he’d shrug, answering with something along the lines of ‘play whatever, I don’t care.’

“One day they’re gonna get fed up with your shit ‘n kick you out, Holli.” You remind him for what feels like the thousandth time, frowning as you begin to scroll through his phone, queuing songs.

Fingers lightly drumming against the steering wheel to the current baseline, he huffs amusedly.

“Not if I get there first.” He answers playfully, taking a corner a little sharp, your shoulder bumping against the window panel.

“Shit, my bad.” He apologised, significantly slowing his speed, “Underestimated that.”

You laugh, readjusting yourself.

“You’re good.” You accept his apology, “- You planning on dropping out for real?”

He shrugs in typical Hollis fashion, the comfortable silence interrupted by the soft ticking of an indicator, “Maybe.”

You weren’t sure if he was truly still debating his decision, or if he was keeping you in the dark about it because he thought you’d never let him live it down if he ended up dropping out to pursue music, only to potentially fail.

Hollis had never really been an academic achiever. His attendance represented that - skipping classes like it were a hobby, typically using the time at Nate’s house where they made music together.

Because of his absence, nobody really acknowledged him whenever he did occasionally show - Hollis only had a handful of friends, and he was happy with what he had.

Obviously people had gotten word of his aspiring music career and taunted him in the halls, but he never seemed bothered.

Once you were pleased with the song lineup you’d curated on his phone, you slotted it back into the central console - now on your own phone.

“Been added to another house party group chat.” You announce, “Lucy’s hosting. Wanna come with me? It’s on Friday.”

Hollis keeps his gaze ahead, eyes occasionally flitting to his side mirrors as he drove, occasionally crunching the gears whenever he shifted them too heavy-handed.

“You usin’ me for a lift?” He joked, “Dunno if I can play taxi w’you all the time.”

You scoff, unfolding your legs from beneath you as they’d began to cramp - dropping them into the footwell.

“Obviously not.” You assure, “God forbid I want my best friend to come to a party with me.”

Hollis wasn’t opposed, but he never hung around at these parties you dragged him to for long - often displeased by the music and the type of personalities that they attracted - almost getting into a physical altercation last time, when a guy barged into you a little too hard, sending you staggering backwards.

It ended up with Hollis enduring a black eye that lasted around two weeks along with a series of threatening texts from the guys’ jock friends threatening to jump him, but you appreciated the effort.

“I’ll think about it.” He replied sheepishly, “Might be hangin’ out with Roman ‘n Nate that day.”

“Of course.” You jab, unserious, “You guys hold each others’ dicks when you pee too?”

He laughs airily, muttering a ‘fuck you’ or something similar, before reaching his free hand into the centre console, grabbing his half-smoked pack of cigarettes.

He fumbles for one, discarding the battered packaging where he’d gotten it once he’d successfully pulled out a cigarette.

While coming to another stop at another set of lights, he placed the cigarette between his parted lips.

He lifted his hips upwards slightly in his seat, in order to gain better access to the pockets of his sweatpants, retrieving a lighter.

Rolling the window down slightly, he lit the cigarette - exhaling away from you.

Like it were common courtesy, he routinely offered it to you - to which you’d always decline, paranoid that picking up smoking would catch you up someday, and you took your physical health seriously, being a seasoned dancer slash varsity cheerleader.

The previous song ended, Lorde’s distinct voice slowly emerging out of the flimsy sound system, plastic parts rattling at the impending jump of the bass, even if it was slight.

The pixelated screen read, “A WORLD ALONE - LORDE”.

You loved this song.

“I love this song,” Hollis commented, “Been fuckin’ with Lorde since forever.”

It was true - you vaguely remembered him putting you on to Buzzcut Season last summer during a balmy summer afternoon as he drove you through the suburbs, windows rolled all the way down as you leant out of the window, coastal breeze whipping your hair, sandy, salt-coated skin sticking to the seats.

You both sat in a content silence, the whirring, mechanical sounds from the car mixed with the music creating a tranquil frequency that made you somewhat sleepy, now resting your head against the window, jaw chattering every time he drove over a bump in the road.

You yawned.

“Want me to take you straight home?” He double-checked, as you’d often take detours to the nearest 7/11 for post-practice snacks, sometimes even Nate’s house.

The hangouts at Hollis’ house had become less frequent following the conflict between him and his mom regarding his future and how he was to manage it - both butting heads when it came to career paths.

Hollis’ mother, who only wants the best for her eldest son, pleaded for him to continue and graduate high school - Hollis, on the other hand, protested that high school was nothing but a form of confinement for him, and that he wanted to pursue his true passion: music.

After weeks of tension, they compromised: Hollis could drop out of school and pursue music, but he couldn’t live under her roof - not until he had a reliable source of income, proving his devotion and his ability to be independent as a upcoming young adult.

He’d basically moved in with Nate by this point, and it was often where he took you when you wanted to spend more time together - yet, whenever Nate offered to show you what they’d been working on, Hollis was apprehensive.

Almost secretive, the way he’d only play the first ten seconds of a two-minute track, deliberately skipping over multiple soundbars where vocals were inserted.

You’d never really questioned it, just assuming that he wanted to save his work until it was polished enough to be uploaded onto streaming networks, some sort of big reveal that he was keeping under wraps from you and everyone else.

“Please, ‘m so fucking tired.” You confirm, absentmindedly beginning to peel off clusters of your lashes, sticking them to the back of your phone case for now.

Sometimes, when clearing out his car, Hollis would find the odd one - knowing it was your doing. Most of the time, he’d throw them out along with everything else left behind by him and his friends.

Sometimes, he’d leave them discarded in their random place - stuck to the handbrake, dangling off the seatbelt, tacked to the seats.

Roman would often make some crude mark about Hollis ‘finally letting a bitch in the whip’ upon finding them, to which Hollis would often disregard the comment.

As the mouth of your driveway neared, Hollis turned the music down again - you lived in a gated community filled with families, who tended to report and complain even the slightest of noise past seven.

Pulling into your private driveway, he cut the ignition, engine gargling to a stop.

He silently got out the car, cigarette now half-smoked between his lips as he crossed over to the other side of the car, opening your door for you.

As you clambered out, he was already at the trunk - slipping your bags over his shoulders, preparing to walk you to your door.

Accepting his act of chivalry, you padded behind him tiredly, rubbing at your makeup-caked lids, beyond eager to melt it all away with a scalding hot shower.

Once you reached your porch, Hollis stepped aside, bags resting at his feet while you searched your zip-up pockets for your keys you’d slipped in earlier.

“I’ll let you know about Friday.” He muttered, flicking the cigarette into a nearby hedge, making sure it landed somewhere your parents wouldn’t see, “Can pick you up, probably won’t stay long enough to drop you back though.”

You nod, pushing the door open with your foot once you’d gotten it unlocked.

You turn to him, extending your arm to give him an appreciative hug for yet another a free ride, that was technically out of his way - considering he didn’t even go to school that day.

Hollis wasn’t exactly touchy - often keeping to himself, settling for an occasional dap-up or fist bump, rarely a timid finger-brush as you exchanged items in his car or shared food and drink, an unexpected bump of your thigh or knee against his knuckles whenever you crossed your legs in the seat of his car.

That was it, typically. He was more of a quality time sort of a guy - acts of service - that’s what he brought to the friendship.

You, in all your extroverted, glittery, girlish glory, were big on physical affection and words of affirmation - evening out your dynamic.

He reluctantly reciprocated the motion, embracing you - frame slightly rigid, like he was unsure where to place his hands upon you, aware of your strict parents and their ring doorbell actively taping you both.

If they even got a glimpse of you getting handsy in any way with Hollis, your father would most probably hunt him down and string him up in your backyard.

The stoner, lousy future high school drop-out, deluded wannabe rapper who they were certain was set on corrupting their only kin.

He knew your parents didn’t approve of your friendship - scowling whenever they saw his car squeal into their driveway, spitting up their perfectly-stoned paving, projectile pebbles pelting at the paintwork of their own expensive vehicles.

They’d flinch every time they heard his tires screech on his way out, paired with the god awful music that would bleed out of every crevice of the rickety vehicle.

That’s what happens when you refuse to pick your daughter up from her after school extracurriculars, I guess.

Arms draped around his neck, his silver chain cool against your exposed skin from your half-zipped hoodie and your .. minimal cheer uniform as it pressed into you.

Slender arms draped in heavy-ply fabric rested loosely around your upper body, shy and unconfident, yet wanting to return the same level of friendliness.

You placed an innocent kiss upon his cheek to seal your gratitude, before unfurling yourself.

You lean down, scooping up the bags from his feet before he could swat your hand away, pursing his lips as he watched you heave them onto your frame.

“Thanks, Holli!” You call over your shoulder sweetly, ponytail slightly whipping as you pivot towards your door, slipping inside.

Hollis nodded curtly, a docile, faint smile tugging at his pointed features as he backed away.

When he finally arrived at Nate’s, he beelined for his room - sparking up the blunt he’d rolled in the car while waiting for you, smoking it out on the patio while Roman and Nate played Mario kart inside.

Hood pulled up, slouched in a flimsy plastic lounge chair he was almost too tall for, blunt tilted between two fingers, he scrolled on his phone.

Like it were a habit, after replying to a recent instagram reel you’d sent him, he opened your profile - beginning to scroll through copious amounts of highlights and posts that he’d seen over a million times before.

Between tokes, he’d flick through your various stories - mirror selfies of you, your cheer friends, classmates. Photo dumps of recent parties, family reunions, extracurricular fundraisers, girls holidays.

You were the epitome of popular - high school royalty, and yet, you didn’t seem to care much.

You reaped the benefit, took the cream of the crop as it came, but you never took it too seriously.

In a twisted way, he liked how you put your reputation, how you were perceived in your snooty little cheer friends’ heads just to hang out with him sometimes, on the line.

How you, all doe-eyed, wispy lashed, freshly-manicured and flouncy in your pleated, pristine, overpriced cheer uniform, hover around him like a relentless moth, he a beam of light you were unable to stay away from.

He revelled in your company, silently. Scouring your instagram as if he were reminding himself that you were real, and that you were sprawled in his passenger seat only moments before, seats practically drenched in your signature body spray, lash clusters adorning his car interior.

He paused on a picture of you - slightly pouting into the camera, hair curled at the ends, eyes glistening under the amber low light of a popular bar you and your cheer friends frequented, using the fakes he’d provided to you that you barely had to ask for.

Finishing the blunt, he shut off his phone - heading back inside, phone shortly pinging after with yet another stupid instagram meme you’d sent him.

They were rarely funny, but he loved the fact that you kept sending them to him, and probably only him.

Now, he had to break the news to Roman and Nate that he couldn’t hang on Friday anymore, and to prepare emotionally for another one of these shitty house parties you knew he’d never say no to, if you were in attendance.

Hollis quietly slipped into Nate’s bedroom, to which Roman and Nate had gotten bored of Mario kart, deciding to huddle around Nate’s Mac on his bed instead, shuffling around audio files on one of many premature projects.

Hollis recognised his own vocals immediately, instantly curious as he pulled his hood down, settling on the bed beside Nate.

“What’s goin’ on?” He asked, watching Roman casually import and reorganise multiple audio files, tailoring synths and baselines accordingly.

“Nothin’ much. Jus’ playing ‘round.” Roman commented, “Nice to see you too, by the way.”

Roman handed the Mac and a pair of battered headphones back to Nate, who slipped them on.

Nodding his head approvingly, Nate grinned, removing the headphones and offering them to Hollis.

“Bro, this shit is insane. You sound fucking great - you need to hear this.”

Hollis, skeptical, took the headphones, waiting for Nate to lean over and press play on the laptop.

The audio came to life, gracing Hollis’ ears with a series of melodic, electronic synths and layered digital sounds and instrumentals, the strong vocal hook striking him immediately.

Hearing his own voice will never not feel slightly strange, but he had to admit; this was fucking good.

Humming to the opening lyrics, head nodding to the baseline, he glanced over to an anticipating Nate and Roman, shit-eating grins wiped across their faces like two men who knew they’d won.

It was only when the main chorus began - the one he and Nate had spent hours recording and editing yesterday - that Hollis stilled, reliving the lyrics he’d basically torn out of his soul - that Nate and Roman were blissfully unaware of regarding their emotional resonance.

Girl, I love you like a sister

Cross my fingers when I’m with you

Hold back a smile ‘til my teeth hurt

You’re in the bleachers

I’m in my room

. ˖ ꒰𑁬 ♡ ໒꒱ ˖ .

A/N

hiii!! this was another silly little impulsive drabble thingy. was listening to sister and was like wait.. what if.. and yeah. this was born!! lmk what u guys think.. as per..

also happy early new-year! I’ve given up eating twelve grapes under the table. God has humiliated me enough this year. I only seem to attract the devil incarnated.

CW: fluff, established relationship, cutie cutie rommula, not proofread, xtra lazy writing oopsies

bf!rommulas who is so freaking loud and yaps all the time no matter what

bf!rommulas who gatekeeps his makeup/hair products just for you to later show them on live

bf!rommulas who’s lowk musty…

bf!rommulas who cried in your arms when mexico lost the world cup

bf!rommulas that you successfully rage bait every time you text him his own stupid ass lyrics

bf!rommulas who u cant take anywhere cuz he’s always acting tf out

bf!rommulas who’s fans tore you tf up for following blissfulperc30 after summer smash

bf!rommulas who let’s you do a full beat on him and ends up actually wearing it out

bf!rommulas who let’s you paint his nails

bf!rommulas who giggles at your unfunny jokes even when no one else does

bf!rommulas who wouldn’t leave you stranded at the airport

maz talks!: didn’t feel like making a banner for this dirtbag who only wore 3 pairs of underwear throughout almost the entirety of his tour… also sorry mya bear ik ur scared of lil ol rommula

my taglist!

* = angst ** = smut

everything else is usually fluff or buildup to one of those 3 :)

nettspend :

texts w cheaterISH!nettspend - pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8, pt 9, pt 10

down bad - pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7

meet me in richmond - intro

thinking of you - pt 1, pt 2

oneshots - in my room*, say please**

headcanons - cuteness aggression, nsfw alphabet**

rommulas :

texts w rommulas - pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8, pt 9

oneshots - showing out, late nights, the security guard

headcanons - jealousy**, nsfw alphabet**

esdeekid :

she's loving my demeanor - pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5, pt 6, pt 7, pt 8

festival flutters - pt 1, pt 2

headcanons - spoiled rotten, nsfw alphabet**

oneshots - what they don’t know

conceal :

texts w conceal - pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4, pt 5**, pt 6, pt 7** , pt 8, pt 9

headcanons - nsfw alphabet**

2hollis :

oneshots - birthday boy

headcanons - nsfw alphabet**

nate sib :

headcanons - nsfw alphabet**