#watching the world from the sidelines had nothing to prove

[aropride]

im going to start sobbing audibly

[thelonelynindroid]

When the fucking shuffle hits you with Phoebe Bridgers Sidelines on the DAY you're watching geothermal escapism

[jonathanbyersphd]

[catsmical]

saw an itafushi edit to sidelines. i KNEW it was their song but GOD

[slutzforbueckers]

sidelines

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

warnings: fluff(maybe a little angst)

synopsis: in which paige works her way into your life and you have a hard time letting her in. based on sidelines by phoebe bridgers.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

you used to live on the edges of everything—emotionally bulletproof, untouchable in that numb, untethered way people envy until they realize how lonely it is. you didn’t care how people perceived you, if they did at all. you threw on your hoodies and sweats, your hair a mess on your head, because you didn’t care, because you had nothing to prove.

you weren’t afraid of anything. not really. not the slow leak of time, not being broke, not even failure. you’d already done that dance—started college once, flunked out, moved home, drifted. life was just something that happened around you while you stood there, hands in your pockets, watching the waves crash. you watched life from the sidelines, watching everyone fall in and out of love, smile like the world was made of candy and rainbows.

none of it interested you, the fake smiles and relationships that never lasted. you liked being alone for the most part, but sometimes you wished you could step into the real world, have someone admire you like you were the most perfect thing to ever walk planet earth.

but you were too caught up in watching everyone else that you didn’t notice her watching you. paige noticed you even with your hoodie pulled over your head, eyes trained to the ground to avoid eye contact with anyone, she noticed you. you intrigued her for some reason, she wanted to know you, wanted to know your mind, your thoughts, why you walked like there was a grey cloud hanging over your head.

she noticed you, and she couldn’t stop noticing.

you always sat in the very back of class, headphones in until the professor started, backpack still zipped, notebook barely touched. that’s when she came in, you watched her stumble through the heavy doors and scan the room like it was her first time being here. the professor gave her a shake of his head and turned back to the chalkboard.

paige made her way up the stairs and took a seat next to you. your eyes met hers for a brief moment before you turned away, and for the first time paige’s heart skipped a beat. as the lesson dragged on she stole quick glances your way, watching as you doodled rather than write down what was being said. you noticed her watching, could feel it when her eyes darted to the side of your face, but you didn’t say anything. it was new, being watched the way you watch others, but it was sort of nice.

you pressed down on the paper with too much force and your led snapped. a frown tugged at the corners of your mouth as you shook your pencil and it didn’t make noise, signaling there was no more led. that was your only pencil and maybe paige knew that because she slid hers towards you without thinking twice. you looked up at her, longer this time, but you didn’t take it—not yet.

“im sure you need that.” you muttered, looking down at the pencil then back to her.

“nah, i’ll just get the notes from you later.” she shrugged. she knew you hadn’t been writing anything down, nothing important anyway, but she was making conversation, opening the door into your life.

“good luck with that.” you snickered, taking the pencil and going back to your drawing.

paige smiled at that—an actual, lopsided smile that made her cheeks flush just a little. it wasn’t much, but it was the first time you’d said more than two words to anyone in that class, and it was to her. that meant something. at least, she hoped it did.

you twirled the pencil between your fingers, more focused on that than the diagram the professor was explaining on the board. your eyes flicked to paige once more, catching her mid-glance. her face didn’t falter. she didn’t look away, didn’t pretend she hadn’t been watching you again. instead, she leaned back in her seat and gave you the smallest nod, like she was silently saying, yeah, i’m looking. so what?

it disarmed you more than you wanted to admit.

after class, you packed up slower than usual. headphones looped around your neck instead of blasting your ears, and you were hyper-aware of the way paige stood up and didn’t rush off. she lingered, waiting. maybe for you, maybe not, but something in you wanted to believe it was for you.

“we should—“ she stopped herself, rethinking her choices, but then you looked up at her—eyes curious and cautious all at once. “we should study together. maybe we can figure things out together—this class, i mean.”

you should’ve said no, everything in your body told you to say no. that letting people in only ever led to disappointment, that golden girls like paige didn’t talk to people like you unless it was for a bet or a laugh or a project grade but something in her voice—steady, casual, not forced—sounded like truth and you agreed.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

the library smelled like paper and quiet and that faint, sterile cold of too much air conditioning. you hated it here—too bright, too clean, too many people pretending they had their shit together. but you were sitting across from her at a small table, tucked away in the back corner, pretending to read the same paragraph of your textbook for the third time in a row.

she hadn’t said much since you sat down, just smiled at you when you arrived, asked how your day was, then went back to highlighting with the kind of focus that made you feel like you were the one being studied.

you couldn’t stop staring at her, the way she kept tucking her hair behind her ear, even though it never stayed, the soft way she chewed the corner of her pen cap when she was deep in thought, the subtle creases between her brows when she squinted at something on the page. you wondered if she was actually confused, or if she was pretending to be just to spend time with you.

the thought made your stomach twist in a way you didn’t have a name for.

“so,” she said suddenly, sitting back and stretching, arms over her head, hoodie lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of her waist. “are you actually following this, or are you just good at pretending?”

you blinked. “i’m following like… sixty percent of it.”

she laughed—this soft, genuine sound that made your chest ache. “that’s about fifty-nine percent more than me.”

you let out a breath of a laugh, more surprise than amusement but the sound brought a smile to her face anyway. “didn’t realize you struggled with anything.”

she raised a brow. “wow. you think I’m good at everything?”

“don’t get cocky,” you said before you could stop yourself, eyes flicking down to your textbook. “just figured the school golden girl would’ve figured out how to cheat the system by now.”

she was quiet for a beat. you glanced up, immediately regretting it—but she was smiling. not offended, not smug, just smiling at you like you’d said something honest and interesting and worth hearing.

“you know, most people try really hard to impress me,” she said, voice light, but her gaze sharp.

you shrugged. “maybe that’s your problem.”

her smile widened, but she didn’t fire back. just leaned in a little, elbow on the table, chin in her palm. you looked down at your notes, suddenly aware of how much your hand was shaking. she didn’t say anything else, just let the silence settle between you. you tried to focus after that, you really did, but her presence—her attention—was louder than any textbook could compete with. and somewhere between reviewing your notes and listening to the scratch of her pen, something in your chest cracked open, just a little.

“why me?” you asked suddenly, not looking up. “out of everyone in that class, why’d you wanna study with me?”

she didn’t answer right away, just sat there, still and quiet.

“because you’re different.”

she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it didn’t mean everything. you didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t say anything. just nodded once, small, and flipped the page in your book even though you hadn’t finished the last one. paige didn’t push, didn’t tease, but she stayed.

and for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

the rain had started sometime after sunset, soft and steady against your apartment windows, the kind of sound that made silence feel safer. you hadn’t meant for her to come over—not really. it was one of those “we should study later” things, tossed out casually at the end of class like it didn’t matter, like you hadn’t been thinking about her every other minute since the library.

but now she was here, sitting on your bed with her hoodie sleeves pushed up, thumb absently scrolling through her notes while you paced your tiny bedroom like the walls were closing in. you couldn’t sit still, not with her here in your space, not with the way her presence filled the room so easily, like she belonged.

you ran a hand through your hair, messy and unbrushed, same hoodie you’d thrown on this morning still clinging to your frame. “sorry it’s not, like… pinterest-worthy in here.”

paige glanced up, her lips quirking. “i like it. it’s real.”

you scoffed under your breath, tugging at your sleeve. “that just means it’s messy.”

she didn’t respond, just kept looking at you, and you hated how that made you feel—exposed, soft, like she could see every thought bleeding through your skin. you moved onto your bed, kneeling beside her and studying her face. things had gotten real between you two, too real for your liking, it scared you.

“i don’t get it,” you said quietly. “why you keep showing up. why you… like me.” the room stopped spinning for a moment. paige closed her laptop and set it aside, reaching out and pulling you into her lap, you let her. “i mean,” you laughed, but it came out hollow, “i’m not exactly a prize. i’m a little fucked up, if you haven’t noticed.”

“i’ve noticed,” paige said, and your heart stumbled. “but that doesn’t scare me.”

“i spent most of my life feeling like I wasn’t in it,” you said, voice low, like you were confessing something sacred and she listened to every word. “like I was watching through a glass wall. everyone else just… fit. and I was the weird one. quiet, detached, too much or not enough at the same time. i never really belonged anywhere.”

paige’s hands found their way around your waist and you let her, you didn’t move away. “so when you say things, when you look at me like i’m something worth noticing—i don’t know what to do with that.”

paige didn’t speak right away, she just held you tighter, arms wrapping around you with a kind of gentleness that made your chest ache. her forehead pressed lightly against yours, her breath mingling with yours in that narrow space between.

“you don’t have to do anything with it,” she murmured. “you just have to believe it’s real.”

you closed your eyes, willing yourself not to cry, not to crack open right there in her lap—but you felt the way her thumb moved along your back, slow and grounding, like she knew you were on the edge of unraveling.

“it’s just hard,” you whispered. “letting someone in when you’ve spent your whole life thinking no one would stay.”

“i’m not going anywhere,” she said, like it was the easiest promise in the world. “you can try to push me away, and yeah, maybe you will sometimes. but i’ll still come back.”

you looked at her then, really looked—at the soft pink of her lips, the raw honesty in her eyes, the slight wrinkle between her brows when she was being serious. she wasn’t just saying it, she meant it.

your fingers curled into the front of her hoodie, tugging her in closer before you could stop yourself. “what if I don’t know how to do this?”

“then let me show you,” she whispered. “let me show you how it feels to be wanted.”

and then she kissed you. not like it was something casual or curious, but like it mattered. like she’d been waiting for this, like she’d been ready for you—every rough edge, every broken part, every wall you hadn’t known how to tear down.

her lips were warm and patient against yours, and you kissed her back with something that felt a little like hunger and a little like surrender. your hands slid up her chest, burying in her hoodie as she held you steady in her lap, her fingers curling into your sides like she never wanted to let go.

the kiss deepened slowly, rhythm lazy and full of unspoken things—hope, longing, the quiet fear that maybe this was too good to last. but for now, in the soft lamplight of your bedroom with the rain still falling outside, it felt safe.

you pulled away just enough to breathe, eyes fluttering open to find hers already on you.

“i don’t know how to be someone’s person,” you confessed, voice raw.

“you don’t have to be,” paige whispered, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “just be you. that’s the only person I came here for.”

and that was when it hit you—not all at once, but in small, sharp pieces: she wasn’t trying to fix you. she wasn’t afraid of what scared everyone else away, she just wanted to know you. you leaned in again, kissed her softer this time—slow and grateful and full of the weight you’d carried for too long. and when her arms closed around you again, you let them.

you let her because for the first time, maybe ever, someone wasn’t asking you to change.

“don’t push me away.”

she was asking to stay.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

watching the world from the sidelines

had nothing to prove

til you came into my life

gave me something to lose

[youronebraincell]

I just know that Sofia uses sex as a grounding technique. The only way she can truly calm down is being skin to skin with her girlfriend. Kissing her, looking deep in her eyes. Generally being very possessive and close to her. She’d be very verbal and talkative during sex. Talking about how stressful her day was, how she’s feeling, her fears, her worries. They’re all laid bare into her woman’s bare skin until it all washes away and all she can think about is the angel kissing her and telling her it’s all going to be okay. That she’s here and she’s never leaving Sofia

Sofia and me

Sofia Gigante x Fem!Reader

Warning: spoilers for the first five episodes of The Penguin, angst, implied homophobia, mild fluff, reference torture/abuse, smut, spit as lube, strap-on, rough sex, masturbation, minor voyeurism, sustaining injury, possessiveness, floor sex, tribbing, cunnilingus

Word count: 2915

Sofia comes home.

Though she kept it well-hidden, Sofia was extremely anxious most if not all of the time. With the stress of the foundation and being the daughter of mob boss Carmine Falcone, you were the only thing that kept her sane.

Then she got sent to Arkham.

You didn’t see or talk to her for over a decade, but not for the lack of trying. Carmine forbade you from going to Arkham by ‘kindly suggesting’ that Sofia take this time away to work on herself until she’s all better. It didn’t surprise you.

He had never approved of your.. close relationship with his only known daughter.

But then he passed away.

You and Alberto were able to file for an appeal for Sofia’s release. The judge that previously handled her case was found unresponsive in his chambers a week before Carmine’s death.

You saw this as an opportunity to get a new judge, someone who wasn’t on Carmine’s payroll, to review the case. It didn’t take long before Sofia was exonerated and released back into society.

Sofia was different.

The light in her eyes had dimmed. Her smile, once so bright and blinding, had become faint and bittersweet. Every response, every move she made seemed premeditated.

Sofia stayed at your place. You didn’t think it would be good for her to go back to the Mansion so soon. To your surprise, Alberto agreed.

You didn’t mind that he stuck you with two of his guards stationed outside of your apartment in the process. All that mattered was that you had Sofia.

You gave her space even though it was the last thing you wanted. Sofia must’ve had the same thought because on her first night in your apartment, you awoke to the sound of her settling beside you on your worn-out couch, her breath soft and even against your neck. She kept her hands to herself. You did the same.

Yet when morning came, her arm was draped over your waist and your hand was close to her chest. When your eyes fluttered open, you saw big brown eyes staring right at you.

“You still snore.”

You let out a laugh.

The corner of her mouth tugged upward into a smile. It was small, but you didn’t care.

It was progress.

But then.. then Alberto died.

Sofia completely unraveled. She moved back into the Mansion and took you with her.

You watched as the family, especially that fuck Johnny, sidelined her, treating her like she was nothing more than an inconvenience instead of the only living Heir to the Falcone empire.

(Un)fortunately for you, this caused sex with Sofia to improve greatly. Not that it wasn’t already out of this world before, but it was different. It was like she had something to prove now and she had to do so by working her fingers inside of your wet cunt, her teeth grazing against your collarbone.

You were the outlet for her frustration.

Like now at her brother’s memorial.

It didn’t matter where you were. She’d pull you aside, find somewhere private and then eat you out or fingerfuck you to the brink of insanity while ranting to you about whatever asshole or shitty situation upset her this time.

When you came for the second or third time, your legs a little shaky, she cleaned her fingers with her lips and tongue. She held your gaze as she proceeded to wipe them on your dress.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You were rewarded with a chaste kiss on the lips before she told you to clean yourself up and meet her back inside. You didn’t care that she made you feel like a whore when she left.

You were hers. Solely and unconditionally, hers.

If a whore was what Sofia wanted,

then a whore you would be.

You were reading a book late in the night as you waited for Sofia to come to bed when the double doors were thrown open, startling you and making you drop your book in your lap.

Sofia closed the doors behind her and made her way over to you, her heels clacking against the polished wooden floor. “Take off your clothes.”

You stare at her, your mouth slightly agape.

“Now, Y/N!”

You closed the book and set it on your nightstand before pulling your shirt over your head and lifting your hips to take off your panties.

You were more than a little concerned, but also really turned on by your girlfriend’s commanding tone. A gush of wetness left your cunt as you thought about what she was gonna do to you.

Sofia took off her dress, her bra and panties following soon after. She let her hair down and opened the walk-in closet.

When she came out, she looked down as she adjusted the harness of the strap-on around her waist. A black dildo stood out between her legs.

Your jaw dropped as you marvelled at the size.

Sofia eyed you with a hint of irritation as she walked towards you on the bed. “Close your mouth. I won’t be needing that tonight.”

You closed your mouth.

You moved to sit in the middle of the bed before spreading your legs. Sofia was on you in a matter of seconds, her mouth ravishing yours as she laid you down. Her hand slithered down to see if you were wet enough. She pulled away, breaking the kiss. She watched your reaction as she slipped her middle finger into your cunt.

You tried to suppress a groan, but she noticed.

“Don’t do that. I need to know if I’m hurting you.”

She spat into her hand and rubbed her spit along her length before pressing the tip against your entrance. You shivered with want.

She spread your lower lips with her fingers. Her eyes never left your face as she pushed her cock inside of you, watching every microexpression from the furrow of your brows to the slight tremble of your bottom lip. It was bigger than the dildos she used on you in the past. This one was stretching you out in a way that was almost too much for you to handle. Almost.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding when she bottomed out. She gave you a moment to get adjusted to her size.

You put your hand on her shoulder, but quickly pulled it away when you touched her scars.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt me.”

You looked up at her.

“Go on.”

Hesitantly, you brought your hand up to her shoulder. You grabbed onto it. You brushed the pad of your thumb along her scars in a back and forth motion, a frown forming your lips. “I’m sorry..”

“No. None of that, okay? The past is in the past.”

Still, your jaw clenched at the torture and abuse Sofia was subjected to at the hands of her father.

It relaxed as you let out a surprised gasp when Sofia pulled back and thrusted her hips forward.

She spent the rest of the night and better part of the morning fucking into you with reckless abandon as your velvety walls clenched around her faux cock orgasm after orgasm after orgasm.

From what she was saying, the family wanted to send her away to Italy. Assholes.

Then there was something about her being suspicious of Oz..

It was hard for you to keep up as she fucked you well within an inch of your life.

Sofia seemed content with the barely coherent hums you gave her every now and then.

You dragged your nails down her back when you came for the umpteenth time. You hid your face in the crook of her neck, whimpering as another orgasm washed over you like a crashing wave.

You heard her panting lightly next to your head.

You felt raw and empty when she wordlessly pulled her cock out of you. Your walls clenched around nothing, immediately missing the warmth and stretch that the toy provided.

You tried to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling as you laid sprawled out on the bed.

You closed your eyes.

When you opened them, you turned your head towards the sound of uneven breathing and saw Sofia masturbating, the strap-on long abandoned. Her eyes were glued to the ceiling like she was planning something in her head.

You turned to lie on your side so you could watch.

Her neck strained when she tilted her chin up. You could tell she was close. She inhaled sharply and suppressed a groan when she came, her eyes still trained on the ceiling. She breathed out.

Then she turned to look at you.

Your fingers danced on her upper arm, slowly making their way to her face. You tapped her temple. “What’re you thinking?”

“You need to go to a hotel for a couple days.”

You brushed the end of her brow. “Okay.”

You didn’t question her. You never did.

Sofia smiled and took your hand from her face to press a gentle kiss to your palm.

“Grazie, bella.”

She set you up in a hotel suite just outside of Gotham with one simple instruction: don’t leave the room. Two guards were stationed outside to make sure you didn’t defy her.

On one of those mornings while you were eating a breakfast sandwich in bed, you saw the news of what happened at the Falcone Mansion.

You saw Sofia talking to Chief Mackenzie just outside the Mansion before going in. The camera panned to Gia being taken away in a beige van.

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

You jump out of bed and put on a shirt and some sweats before opening the front door.

One of the guards, a tan woman about an inch or two taller than you, stepped in front of you.

“Get out of my way.”

“I have direct orders to keep you here, ma’am.”

“I don’t care. I need to see Sofia.”

You tried to move past her, but she continued to block your path. The other guard didn’t bother stepping in. His phone rang. “Shit. It’s the wife.”

“Go. I got this.”

The man walked away from the suite, his receding footsteps growing quieter and quieter. The woman made sure he was out of sight before pushing you back into the suite by force.

You stumbled backwards and fell flat on your ass. The back of your head made contact with the edge of the footboard. You cried out in pain.

The guard didn’t seem to care. “You will stay here until Miss Falcone says otherwise.”

She left you on the floor, the door slamming shut behind her as she made her exit.

You stood up and went to the fridge to get something cold for your head. You take a soda can from the back of the fridge and press it against the bump forming on your head. You wince when the cool metal touches your scalp.

A few hours later, the woman came in unannounced to tell you they’ll be taking you back to the Mansion. She handed you some painkillers. “For your head.”

You stared at her, your eyes ablaze with fury.

Much to your irritation, she cracked a smile. “We leave in ten. That should give you enough time to look.. presentable for Miss Falcone.”

Your nostrils flared as she left. Bitch.

You put on an emerald green, one-shoulder evening dress. You contemplated putting your hair in a bun, but decided against it last minute.

You didn’t need Sofia asking questions.

The drive to the Mansion was spent in silence.

When you arrived, you walked behind the guards and entered what you called ‘The War Room.’

Sofia was standing at the head of the table with Johnny sitting on her right. You watched in awe as she spoke. You hung on to every word.

Johnny told her to take it easy.

You rolled your eyes.

You flinched when she shot him in the head.

Silence enveloped the room.

She blew a raspberry then continued speaking as if nothing had happened. She opened a duffel bag and dumped stacks and stacks of cash onto the table. Nobody dared to move. Not even when she urged them to take what’s rightfully theirs.

“Come on, guys,” You said with a smile, sauntering over to your girlfriend. “Dig in.”

Sofia wrapped an arm around your waist. “You heard her, ladies and gentlemen. Have your fill.”

Two dozen greedy hands reached out to grab what they could before it was all gone.

“Not you.”

The woman who kept guard at the hotel froze, her body bent over slightly on the table.

“Put it back.”

The woman emptied her pockets and put the stacks back on the table.

“Everyone else, continue.”

The table was cleared in seconds.

Sofia’s eyes never left the woman standing across from her with her fists clenched at her sides. “You hurt the woman I love when you were supposed to be protecting her. I can’t let that stand.”

The woman swallowed nervously.

“Since you were such a loyal soldier to my father, I will give you the benefit of a doubt and let you leave with your head still attached to your body.”

The woman didn’t need to be told twice.

She turned on her heel and left the room.

Sofia’s grip on your waist tightened, her fingers digging into the fabric of your dress hard enough to bruise the covered skin that lay underneath.

“First person to kill her gets ten grand.”

The two of you didn’t witness the chaos that erupted as you left the room beforehand.

She took you into her father’s study and closed the doors. Her eyes raked over your face. “You weren’t gonna tell me.”

You pursed your lips. “I was being difficult. She was just.. doing her job.”

She reached behind you to asses the damage that had been done to the back of your head. Her heart ached at the bump she felt. “Hurting you is not one of the requirements.”

She pulled her hand away when you winced.

You looked at her.

“You killed your family.”

“I did.”

“You orphaned Gia.”

Sofia pressed her lips together. “I did.”

“Did it feel good?”

“Yes. It did.”

You threw yourself onto Sofia, surprising her for a split second before her surprise morphed into something else. Something more inviting.

You found yourself lying on your back in front of the lit fireplace. Clothes were literally torn off and ripped apart by Sofia’s needy hands.

You moaned into her mouth as you grinded your cunts together, sloppily and unrestrained. Your hardened nipples rubbed against hers. Your tongue submitted to hers as they danced inside your mouth to a rhythm only the two of you knew.

She bit your bottom lip when you reached down and cupped her ass, urging her on. You welcomed the taste of your own blood on your tongue.

A thick strand of saliva connected your lips together when she broke the kiss.

“You’re so gorgeous when you’re like this, bella;”

Sofia leaned down to nip at your earlobe.

“Spent, barely hanging on,”

Her tongue licked the shell of your ear.

“But begging for more.”

She kissed you again. You both orgasmed simultaneously, moaning into each other’s mouths while getting down from your highs, your hips bucking wantonly to chase after each other.

When you broke apart for air, you pushed her down so she was the one lying on her back.

“I haven’t seen you in days,” You said as you made your way down her body. You stop inches away from her cunt. “Care to bring me up to speed while I eat you out, Miss Gigante?”

Sofia loved the way her new name rolled of your tongue. “Only if you put that tongue to good use.”

“Don’t I always?”

You ate out Sofia as she told you what you had missed, your mouth and tongue working overtime to satisfy the woman you loved.

Oz betrayed her (surprise, surprise), Julian ‘saved’ her after the Maronis ambushed her and then she killed him before killing the Falcones.

You listened intently to each and every word.

Your bodies were covered in thick layers of sweat by the time the two of you were finished.

You had your head on her chest. You drew meaningless patterns on her arm and stomach while her fingers played with your hair.

“Thank you, Y/N.”

You looked up at her. “For what?”

“Everything, I suppose” She looked deep into your eyes. “You could’ve abandoned me a handful of times, but you didn’t. Which is more than I could say for my family. May they rest in peace.”

You tried not to smile at that.

“Now that Berto’s gone, you’re all I have.”

She cupped your left cheek, her thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth.

“I love you. I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life. Hopefully, I’ll never have to find out.”

You weren’t stupid. There was an underlying threat to her words. Of course there was.

There was no forgetting what Sofia was. Even when you were putty in her arms like you are now, you knew what she was capable of when crossed.

Still, you gave her a genuine smile. “I love you too. Even if you accuse me of snoring which I don’t.”

Sofia let out a loud laugh.

You caved three seconds in and laughed with her.

[2crtz]

⊹₊⟡⋆ MY KNIGHT, SHINING.

CHARACTERS: capitano x f!readers

WARNINGS: sfw. SYNOPSIS: with flower arrangements showing up at your doorstep from an anonymous sender, you’re curious who this admirer was and why they are being so secretive.

WORD COUNT: 1.699  A/N: i disappeared for 6 months and came back writing for my man. nothings changed

Watching the knights gleaming in their armor in preparation for their jousting battle, you've been captivated by the clamor of blades sharply hitting against each other.

Standing on the sidelines, your eyes fixed upon the men dressed in steel, your heart raced, sending a surge of adrenaline through your veins as their blades shyly miss their opponents vital points.

One knight had captured your sights, infiltrating your thoughts. He stands out from the rest, tall and proud even among his opponents. The undefeated, the one whose strength seemed a shadows of the Gods, The Captain.

Seeing him face his rivals, effortlessly using his strengths to take them down left you utterly infatuated in this dangerous sport. You cleared your schedule to watch him, canceling plans and devoted your time for him.

When you weren't spending majority of your time out watching knights, you found solace in your quiet home library, immersing yourself in romance novels. Other times, you were out with friends.

As you were rereading a favorite novel, a sudden knock at your front door shattered you from the fantasy world in your head, abruptly pulling you back to reality. Closing the book and walking to answer, you found that no one was standing there.

Confused, you slowly shut the door, but something caught your eye. Opening it fully once again, you noticed the bouquet of flowers sitting on your doorstep. Bending down, you carefully pick them up.

Inspecting the strange gift, you found no note or any hint who might've sent them.

"Who could've sent me these?" you murmured to yourself, carrying the bouquet to the kitchen to place them in a vase. No one had shown an interest in you before, which made this gift all the more puzzling.

No matter the reason, you happily accepted the present with a smile and displayed them in the windowsill for all to see.

────

The flowers continued to show up, week after week, always on the same day and at the same time. No name was ever attached, just a mysterious gift, leaving you to wonder who could be behind them.

It got to the point that you've began to stalk near the window, waiting for the person to show. One day, you got close enough to catch the delivery man.

"Do you know who sends these?" you asked , carrying the flowers.

The man merely shook his head, his expression neutral. "I do not. The sender requested to remain anonymous."

There goes that.

At this point you doubted you'll ever know who sends you these beautiful arrangements.

────

As the season transitioned to spring, you found yourself confined in your home most days from the pollen. Allergy season proved to be utterly rude, causing you to miss out on your favorite activities, in particular, the one that involved knights.

However, the flowers did manage to brighten your days. But it wasn't until this particular arrangement arrived that you finally saw a note tucked underneath the petals. As you read the words, your eyes widened, and your heart skipping a beat.

The note read-- "I have missed seeing you in the stands"

A viewer? Commentator? or even-- no, it cannot be.

A knight?

Who else could possibly see you in the stands? Without any solid evidence, you could not pin-point who in the world might've written you this, or even sent these flowers all along.

With the thought of figuring out who've sent you your presents, going to the fights was the key to your mystery.

By the end of the week, you found yourself in the stands, eyes keen and mind clear of solving the missing piece of this puzzle. The weather in Khaenri’ah was warm on this day, nothing but a slight breeze to cool off the bystanders, waiting— anticipating— for the knights to ride out on their houses.

As the day went on and the fight coming to a close, you sat in your seat disappointed that you could not find who have sent you the flowers. Perhaps all you needed to do was ask the knights, however the thought sent shivers down your spine.

There was no way you could face the knights without fan-girling.

The crowd grew thin, only you and some who were chatting amongst their friends. You stared off into the sky, tired of this mystery. This person had to make themselves known or you’ll lose your mind.

Standing up from your seat and walking out the arena, your footsteps were loud— and sounded clucky?

Those possibly could not be your steps. Peering your head over your shoulder, you saw a figure, all in black whose height reached the heavens.

It was a knight, but not any knight— it was him.

Your eyes widened as his figure grew larger in your sight, his pace quickening. “Miss— please wait.” his tone was deep, causing multiple reactions to occur within your body.

A confusing feeling of confusion and delusion brewed. Why on earth would The Captain follow you, and is he the mystery sender?

My admirer…?

In no possible simulation or alternate universe.

You paused in your step and turned your body towards him, not being able to face him. “Yes?” your tone was quiet, barely capable of finding your voice.

The slowly he approached, towering over you. “I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Looking up at him, a slight smile growing. “Oh, yes. It was very entertaining. I am quite fond of the sport.”

He chuckled, eyes lowering to the floor before back into yours. “Yes, I am aware.” Oh, so he's aware that you're into the sport?

You continued to ponder over the thought of the if. What if he is him.

Capitano took note of your pause and decided to speak up. "I hope you liked the flowers. It had become slightly difficult finding new flowers to gift you."

And just like that, you felt your heart skip another beat, the air that was once help hostage in your lung being forced out of you, and you stood there, feeling like you were living in a dream.

With your lips parting slightly, tongue finding the courage to move and respond to him, you felt yourself speechless.

Never once have you thought a man would have you search for the right words, but how can you? The man before you had been in the silent chambers of your mind, always lingering, haunting your every thought.

The silence stretched between you until you felt your words stumbling out. "The flowers, they were your gift?" Eyes looking everywhere but his helmet. How blessed you felt for the barrier between you.

"Were they not to your liking?"

"No-- I mean yes, but why?" Your voice wavered, not wanting to misinterpret this, to spin a false narrative. The last thing you wanted was to be painted as a fool.

The knight answered without hesitation, his voice a low rumble. "You have captured my attention." He lowered his head, as if he amused himself. You could almost hear the unspoken laughter in his voice.

Beneath that metal helmet, you imagined his lips curling upwards, etching his face with a smile.

"Watching you in the stands," He began, tone dropping, "that gleaming look in your eyes, on the edge of your seat as you witness every clash of my sword, is what drives me for success." When he lifted his face, all that were visible were his eyes, one glowing a cerulean gleam.

Your gaze traced the broad lines of his armored form, lingering on the way his weight shifted subtly towards you. You studied him, watching every movement, until you noticed the faint twitch in his gauntleted hand, fingers flexing as if they ached to close the distance between you.

The realization sent a flush in your face, he burned to touch you, to feel you beneath the tips of his finger.

"If I may," he murmured, tone slipping into something warmer as his fingers reached to the hem of his helmet. With deliberately long upwards tilt, revealed the curve of his lips, exactly how you imagined. "would you do me the honor of granting a knight his good luck kiss?"

A laugh escaped you before you could stifle it. "Your next match isn't until tomorrow."

"Practice kiss." He leaned closer to your face, his voice getting softer. His scent infiltrated your senses, causing a short high, getting you addicted to his presence.

His lips barely ghosting yours, pausing before he could place them upon yours. "My dreams have become reality from this moment alone." He confessed, words grazing your mouth like a prayer. Covered hands slowly brought to the lining of your jaw. "I would strip every garden in this kingdom bare if it meant I have even a drop of your affection."

"Then make your dreams a reality." This newfound confidence buzzed within you, words that were bolder than you. You tilted your head upwards, an invitation for him.

"Gladly."

No hesitation. No knightly decorum. Just a starving man ready to devour his meal.

His kiss was soft, not a crushing demand of a warrior, but one that was devastatingly tender.

The fairytale that you've created in your head was slowly unraveling in reality. The journey of figuring out the culprit, stalking them down, and rendered the search futile was what you had expected, but being kissed by The Captain, Capitano, the man who's strength shadowed the gods, was not.

And yet, you found yourself relishing his taste. You barely had time to melt into the kiss before the warmth of his mouth slowly drew away, leaving a cool absence.

The steel of his helmet was slid back into place, shielding his smile from you. He took a step back, standing large before you. The dying sunlight glinted off his armor like a promise.

"Be in the stands tomorrow. I intend on finishing our unfinished business." His voice carried the weight of a vow.

And like that, we was gone, leaving you breathless while your skin still humming where he'd touched you. The words coiled low in your stomach, bringing a child-like smile to your face. Tomorrow, you'll watch your knight crave another victory for you.

do not edit, modify, or republish.

[norrisradio]

SOMETHING TO LOSE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "Watch the world from the sidelines / Had nothing to prove / 'Til you came into my life / Gave me something to lose" - Phoebe Bridgers, Sidelines

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x f!reader | ᝰ WC: 1.5K ᝰ GENRE: established (secret) relationship, reader is an F1 Academy driver ᝰ WARNINGS: car crash, mentions of injuries (i swear everyone is okay) ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this has been dying in my wips for close to three weeks now. i'm still not entirely happy with it bc i fear i may have lost the plot but! when lando wins in monaco, you finish writing the fic (disclaimer: this was locked and loaded pre-race) ꨄ requested by @piastriprincess ! MWAH lily I hope you like this and I'm sorry it took so long <333

Lando Norris has never been one to sit still – especially not when something, or someone, starts to matter.

He’s always been motion. Quick hands. Quicker mouth. Jokes on standby, pace in reserve. He thrives in the blur of it all: the champagne spray, the scent of hot tires and hotter pressure. But not that day. Not the day he first saw you. 

You were plastered to the back wall of a McLaren media mixer, looking like you’d rather be at the dentist’s office than under the buzz of fluorescent lights and clinking glasses. Rookie year in F1 Academy, fresh out of British F4, a rising star in a room full of planets. You still walked like your racing boots didn’t quite belong on marble floors. You hadn’t said much – until you did. 

And once you did, Lando couldn’t stop listening. 

He’d wandered over to Andrea mid-joke, only to do a cartoonish double take when you said something dry and sharp that made even the famously stone-face team principal snort into his drink. 

You caught him looking. He smiled, eyes bright. You didn’t smile back. Not right away. 

But then you did.

And that was that. 

The first time he showed up at one of your races, no one questioned it. The golden boy of McLaren at a junior formula race? No brainer. “Just supporting the sport,” he’d said, offering a shrug and a picture-perfect grin. But his hands fidgeted with the corner of his pass as you climbed into the car. 

He;d planned to stay for a few laps. Maybe post a story. Instead, he stood trackside until the final lap, heart in his throat, as you surged from midfield like a firestorm and snatche P1 with a bold dive on the inside. 

When he saw you later – sweaty, grinning, champagne-soaked – he caught your wrist just before you disappeared into a sea of orange. 

“Congrats,” he said, then leaned in and whispered, “Don’t make me look bad in front of Oscar again.” 

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers stayed tangled with his. 

No one really knew. 

There were whispers, of course. A blurry photo snapped through a fence in Jeddah: two figures walking side by side behind the hospitality units, her head tipped back in laughter, his hand brushing hers for a heartbeat too long. A clip from a fan vlog in Zandvoort: you ducking into the McLaren motorhome during lunch and emerging fifteen minutes later with your race suit half peeled and your hair different – mussed, somehow, like someone had run their fingers through it. 

Twitter and Reddit and TikTok all had their theories, but that’s all it really was. Speculation, mostly. Nothing confirmed. Nothing with teeth. 

Oscar knew, obviously. 

He gave you a slow, pointed once-over every race morning you turned up yawning and pink-lipped, Lando not far behind, hoodie half zipped and smirking. 

“Sleep well?” he’d ask, deadpan. “Like a rock,” you’d shoot back, not even looking up from your phone. 

The grin Lando tried to bite back would always give you both away. 

Oscar would sigh, sip his tea, and mutter something about undignified behavior before 9AM before disappearing into the garage. 

In Singapore, Lando showed up to the garage with a blooming mark just under his ear, shaped like a bite. 

The PR team nearly passed out. 

He didn’t blink. 

You’d warned him in the back hallway. Low voice. Sharp nails pressing into the thin cotton of his race tee. 

“I will call your mother,” you hissed, eyes narrowed. “Please do,” he said, with that stupid, crooked grin he reserved only for you. “She’s been meaning to catch up with you.” 

You shoved him against the wall. He kissed you stupid anyway. 

The secrecy was half the thrill. The glances across garages, the messages that vanished like smoke, the way he’d text you a single orange heart after a podium. 

The secrecy wasn’t about shame, or hiding. It was about keeping, holding. You weren’t his for the internet. You were his in the quiet. His in the stolen hours. 

And then– Miami. 

You’re on the back half of the grid, a downside of an epic qualifying. “You’ll carve through them,” Lando had murmured into your shoulder that morning, the sheets still tangled around your legs. 

“You better watch,” you warned, grinning into his neck. “I always do,” he replied, voice low, hands gentle. 

He should’ve been preparing for his own qualifying. Instead, he’s trackside again, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, chewing his lip raw as your formation lap begins. 

Lap 5. 

Chambers doesn’t brake. You don’t have time. 

It happens in the blink of an eye – a flash of carbon fiber, the ugly crunch of contact, your car spun out into the gravel like a paper plane. The garage goes silent. Lando stops breathing. 

The screen doesn’t switch angles. The marshalls run. A puff of smoke billows upwards. Your car stays quiet. Still. 

Landos’s fingers curl tight around the fabric of his hoodie, strangling the MCL logo. 

And then–

Your voice. Faint, garbled. But yours. 

“I’m okay. That-uh. That hurt like a bitch. But I’m okay.” 

He chokes on air, clutching the table to make sure his legs don’t give out. 

Will glances over at him, reads everything in Lando’s pale face, and throws him a subtle thumbs up. It’s enough to keep him upright. Barely. 

He almost doesn’t make it to Q3. 

Will’s screaming something in his ear, – “Head down Lando, PUSH!” – but all Lando can think about is the moment your head hit the headrest. The static in your voice. The way your car didn’t move for four whole seconds. 

You’re already in the hotel room by the time he gets there. He doesn’t bother knocking – the door opens before his knuckles can touch the smooth wood. 

You’re standing on the other side of the threshold like you’ve been waiting. One hand on the knob, the other at your side. Like you know, somehow, that he needs this. That he’ll come apart if you make him wait one more second. 

There’s a bruise blooming across your elbow, faint enough to miss from a distance. Your hair is damp. You’re wearing one of his shirts. It hangs off your frame, soft and lived-in and safe. 

And your eyes – tired. But gentle. 

“I’m okay,” you say, and your voice is soft. Honest. 

You are okay. But he’s not. 

He steps into you before the door even finishes swinging shut. Arms wrap around your waist too tightly, his hands clinging like he doesn’t trust you to stay upright. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and breaths, really breathes, like its the first clean inhale since you went spinning across that track. 

A sound claws up his throat: half-sob, half-breath, raw and wrecked. “I thought-” his voice breaks. “God, I thought-” 

The rest won’t come out. The image is too fresh, too sharp: your car turned sideways, gravel flying, comms gone silent. 

You don’t tell him it’s alright. You don’t tell him he’s being dramatic. You just hold him, gently carding your fingers through his curls. 

He kisses you like it’s the only thing he remembers how to do –  lips brushing your temple, your jaw, the line of your throat, your wrist. Each one is a question he doesn’t dare ask aloud: Are you still here? Are you real? Are you mine? 

“Be more careful,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, voice hoarse. 

His eyes are red. His lashes are wet. 

“I know,” you murmur, thumb brushing his cheek. “I know.” 

That night, he curls around you like a question he’s too afraid to answer – one arm locked around your waist, the other wound beneath you, clutching at the fabric of your shirt. His face presses against your back. He counts every breath you take. 

Sleep doesn’t come easily. Not for him. 

But he says like that til morning anyway, holding you until his arms fall asleep. Because now, he knows what it feels like to imagine a world without you in it. 

And he won’t let himself forget. Not so he can worry – but so he can make damn sure he never takes you for granted again. 

When the morning light begins to slip through the curtains, you roll over slowly, still aching but alive. You blink at him through sleep-hazy eyes. 

“Hi,” you whisper, voice rough from sleep. “Happy race day.” 

Lando smiles for the first time in what feels like years – a real one, lazy and boyish. Relief softens him, round sout the sharp edges of his fear. 

“Hi,” he breathes. 

“I’m starving,” you mumble. 

He huffs a laugh, presses a kiss to your forehead. “Waffles and cartoons before I head out?”

You nod against the pillow, blow him a kiss as he stumbles out of bed for the room service menu. 

And just like that, the weight begins to lift. Not all at once. Not completely. But enough. 

Enough to believe that the world is still turning. 

Enough to believe you’re still his, still within reach. 

[screamofdespair]

Heiji Hattori as a Symbol of Creative Paralysis in the Detective Conan Franchise

For over two decades, fans of Detective Conan have watched Heiji Hattori grow from a charismatic rival to one of the series most beloved characters. And yet, even after more than 1000 episodes/chapters and 28 movies, Heiji remains treated as a side character, a "special guest" brought in occasionally to keep things going, but never fully integrated into the narrative core. This long-standing neglect is not just a missed narrative opportunity, it is a symptom of a deeper issue : the systematic creative paralysis caused by corporate control and capitalistic logic within the anime industry.

Heiji's Narrative & Wasted Potential

Heiji Hattori was introduced as a bold and brilliant counterpart to Shinichi Kudo, the perfect rival, partner, and narrative foil. He had all the potential to become a co-protagonist : two detectives in different regions solving cases in parallel, crossing paths, exchanging ideas, and deepening the world-building of the series. His charisma, his dynamic with Conan, his investigative style, everything was in place. Fans expected growth. Instead, Heiji became a glorified guest star. One or two episodes/chapters per year. No central role, no major investigations, no real evolution, nothing 'meaningful' since the end of his actual guest star phase, and all of it framed under the banner of a character written mainly to serve a forced romantic purpose. It’s gotten to the point where even the voice actors were tired. Despite the potential, he's used like a collectible taken off the shelf for an event, then put back into storage. They had a second ace detective in their hands and chose to keep him in the background, often by undermining his defining traits, reframing him as comic relief rather than allowing him to grow as a central figure. Takahiro Okura, the scriptwriter for some of the Detective Conan movies, stated that Heiji and Kazuha should be integrated into the main cast. Their absence, he implied, weakens the possibilities for deeper world-building. And ironically, now that the romantic subplot between Heiji and Kazuha has finally been resolved, their presence in the story risks shrinking even further if you ask me. Gosho and the writers might face a "what do we do with them now?" dilemma, instead of expanding their role meaningfully. From now on, Heiji could, alone, really take the spotlight, with Kazuha kept in the background or left out, out of fear that the story might move too fast and exhaust their new narrative potential too soon. And honestly? Why not. But that’s exactly the issue, it’s narrative cowardice. Having Heiji show up in more cases from now on, on his own, only proves they could’ve done it way earlier, and more naturally.

Corporate Logic Over Character Development

Heiji’s sidelining isn’t a creative accident. It’s a structural decision. The anime production committee composed of Yomiuri TV, TMS Entertainment, TOHO, Shogakukan etc, operates under a system where storytelling is subservient to profit optimization. Every narrative change is weighed not for artistic merit, but for its impact on merchandising, ratings, and continuity. Allowing Heiji to evolve into a regular would mean more writing, more arcs, and the risk of narrative progression. But that goes against the system’s core priority : endless repetition. This gives the anime/movies (especially the movies), and by extension the committee, a real influence over the manga’s pace, tone, and long-term direction. Aoyama may hold the pen, but the committee holds the cage. Lately, even some of Aoyama’s editors, under possible pressure, have either changed their stance or started aligning with the corporate mindset behind the series. This is not creativity, this is content management. And when your movies are making over ¥15 billion annually, why bother investing in a character like Heiji? Why develop new narrative structures, when you can keep him shelved as a “special guest” card. If you resolve arcs or elevate side characters, you bring the story closer to its natural ending and shortening a profitable franchise’s lifespan is commercially unacceptable. Even worse : while it would be entirely possible to use Heiji in non-canon filler episodes, giving the spotlight to his character without touching the core narrative, the producers still refuse to do it. Not because it would be difficult, but because it contradicts their conservative, product-oriented philosophy. They could plan episodes in advance, hire talented guest directors, build something fresh around Heiji but they won't. Because in this philosophy, innovation is not a priority. Stability is. What’s even more funny is that this could actually make people want to get back into the anime, and it would probably work really well. You’d get a bit of everything : a break from the usual artistic routine, different scriptwriters/directors/animators than usual, like i said earlier. A good example of that is the mini-series of Eri’s Courtroom. By limiting Heiji’s appearances through quotas, they’ve turned him from a character into a controlled asset, something to be managed, not developed.

The Endless Loop : Why the Story Can’t Move Forward & Its Creative Limitations

Detective Conan isn’t built to evolve. It’s built to circulate. The anime and movies generate billions of yen annually. Shogakukan, a major player in the Japanese publishing industry, has a clear economic interest in maintaining Conan as a permanent fixture, not as an evolving story, but as a cultural product. This isn’t just a franchise. It’s a dependency. The series fuels manga sales, spin-offs, licensing deals, and annual blockbuster films. The spin-offs, ironically, show how low the creative bar has fallen : despite fresh angles (Zero's Tea Time, Hannin no Hanzawa), they are underfunded and underanimated. The production circle is tightly controlled, with a limited pool of animators and almost no injection of new artistic energy. There’s no new blood injected in, just veterans like Yasuichiro Yamamoto (the series director), who have been carrying the weight of Detective Conan’s production since the very beginning. Animation Producers like Keiichi Ishiyama admitted in interviews that the system is so rigid that missing a single delivery deadline can jeopardize the entire production and push the studio to the brink of collapse. Another issue is the lack of creative freedom for the movie directors : even when someone tries to bring something fresh, like the director of Movie 27, Chika Nagaoka, who wanted to portray Heiji in a more mature way in the movie, the idea was swiftly overridden by Gosho Aoyama himself. Not necessarily because he disagreed, but because the philosophy demands consistency over innovation. That said, some animation producers, distinct from the executive producers or committee stakeholders, of course, do try to bring in talented animators, scout the competitive freelance market, and elevate the quality of key sequences. Without them, Detective Conan would be visually dead. These individuals still fight to inject life into a tightly controlled environment. But they operate under a passive restriction : the 'best' animators rarely want to work on a project so artistically suffocating (the shift to digital in Gosho’s drawings, or the gradual redesign of the anime’s character models = creative limitation, which became increasingly bound by consistency over experimentation). There’s almost no space for personal style. Even when talented directors are hired, like the director of Movie 22, Yuzuru Tachikawa (formerly of Mob Psycho 100) or Movie 25, Mitsunaka Susumu (from Haikyuu!!), their unique directorial style is barely visible. The films are cleanly produced, but the soul of the director is absent. Anyone can direct a Detective Conan movie. The role has become factory work, everything is controlled from start to finish, and the director no longer has access to any real source of creative input. The brand overrides the artist. Popularity of the manga > More money to be made > More content to be produced > Tighter deadlines and overworked studios (Gosho inclued) > Drop in quality but the money keeps coming in > A system of ultra-comfort settles in, no risk, no urgency to evolve > A never-ending cycle.

Capitalism Embedded in the Narrative

This is what i mean when i say capitalism over storytelling. Characters like Heiji are not written, they are managed. Narrative arcs are not planned, they are rationed. The goal is not to tell a story but to preserve a revenue stream. Even the script decisions are shaped by what’s safest for the committee. In contrast, look at Toei’s handling of One Piece. Despite being a massive commercial franchise, it invests in high-caliber animators, embraces experimental visuals and respects the momentum of the source material. It doesn’t just protect the brand, it elevates it. Conan does the opposite : it freezes its own world out of fear.

A Point of No Return?

Is it too late for Conan to change? Realistically, yes. The franchise has become a full-loop economy. The story can’t end, but it can’t move forward drastically either. Heiji Hattori, a character who should have been a second protagonist, remains trapped in guest status, even as his storylines are technically resolved. The worst part? That resolution doesn’t open up new narrative space. It shuts it down. The couple is canon now. It's great, but It’s hard to expect anything surprising going forward. I keep a sliver of hope, but honestly, it feels unlikely.

So yeah, Heiji Hattori is more than a sidelined character. He’s the symbol of everything the franchise could have become, and refused to. In trying to protect the illusion of a never-ending world, Detective Conan has built a prison for itself. Not out of lack of love. But out of fear of loss. The fear of losing control over a profitable system, fear of disrupting a carefully maintained commercial balance, fear of ending the formula that guarantees returns.

[edamameiyok]

the sidelines (megan skiendiel x reader)

"watching the world from the sidelines, had nothing to prove. til' you came into my life, gave me something to lose."

synopsis: megan doesn't know much about the universe, but she does know she is very lucky to exist at the same time as you. tags: angst, a few fluff moments here n there. lots of talk abt philosophical things lol an: just want to put out there that this is not a REAL portrayal of the people mentioned in this fic. all events are fictional and are for entertainment purposes only. CW: reader has a medical condition. wc: 5333

⏯ now playing: sidelines - phoebe bridgers

Megan Skiendiel doesn’t know much about the stars and constellations. The amount she knows is only the Zodiac. She had basic knowledge of the subject and if anyone were to ask her about the different signs, she thinks she’d be able to give a decent description of them. She knows astronomers have provided their concepts of the constellations and storytellers well before her time have given them a meaning that many people have changed as those stories were passed down. Megan loves the stars. She can’t point out the shapes they form and she doesn’t know any of those stories, but she loves to stare at them. 

She wonders as she stares at you in class, if you ever think about the stars. She wonders if you knew about the constellations and their stories. 

She thinks, you probably do. You look like you do. 

The class you two share is Intro to Philosophy. 

It’s a required subject and to Megan, it’s a bit boring. A lot of reading that even her accommodations couldn’t help her manage. She doesn’t care to know what Socrates thinks about good versus evil, and she wasn’t even paying attention when they talked about Plato. She does know that you’re a good student. She often watches as you write notes quickly, listening to every word your professor says. You participate often, always raising your hand and giving an answer that didn’t make a lick of sense to Megan, but it always ends up being praised by their professor. The Chinese girl sometimes thinks about picking at your brain, wondering what other bit of knowledge it holds. But that requires her to interact with you. 

So, she sits at her desk and shyly glances at you during the lecture. She hopes for the day you forget a pencil and may need to borrow one from her. 

It ends up not being a pencil you need, but the notes from class on Thursday. 

She lies, telling you she also was not in class that day. In reality, she was too busy sulking over the fact you weren’t there to take notes. Even if you were, she still wouldn’t have anything to provide. She wasn’t much of a notetaker, she just hoped for the best on the exam. You look at her, a bit disappointed. When you turn back around in your seat, Megan couldn’t help the frown forming on her lips. It was her first real interaction with you and it was so short. She is about to look back down at her notebook but you turn around again, a sheepish look on your face. “Can I borrow a pencil? Sorry, I’m a mess today.” Her eyes light up, immediately nodding. She hands you the only pencil she had and you smile at her, grateful. “Thanks, Megan.” You turn back around, continuing what you were doing, unaware of how red Megan’s cheeks were. 

You knew her name. 

The most surprising thing about you is that you’re always five minutes late to class. 

With how prepared and diligent you are in the classroom, it shocks her every time you enter the room mid-lecture. You would walk in, an unreadable expression on your face as you walk toward your desk that is in front of Megan. She watches you put your stuff down and notices how you’re never in a hurry to unpack your notebook and pencil. It’s as if you were taking everything one step at a time, your mind checking off the boxes as you move throughout your day. Megan zones out, just looking at you. She widens her eyes when you turn around in your seat, handing her the pencil you were given last week.

You smile at her gently and whisper, “Sorry. I forgot to give this back to you.” Megan looks at the pencil, taking it from you. She bites her lip to try and contain the huge smile that wants to form. She looks at you and wonders if you notice the hearts in her eyes. She whispers, “Thank you.” You nod in response, turning back around to finally grab your notebook and pencil. 

It was all simple, really. But Megan’s heart skips a beat every time she thinks about you smiling at her. 

At one point during the lecture, her head finds the table comfortable, and falls asleep. She feels a light tap on her shoulder at the end of class and she slowly raises her head, confused. She looks around the room for the culprit and her tired eyes catch a glimpse of you exiting the room. She rubs her face with her hands and curses herself internally for falling asleep in class. She begins packing up her stuff, grabbing her laptop and blank notebook. Underneath her notebook were a couple of papers Megan had never seen before. She picks them up, trying to decipher what it was. She realizes they were the notes for today’s class. 

At the top was the date, your initials, and the subject for today’s lecture. 

Megan hates reading but she reads your notes about Existentialism like they were assigned to her. 

In her defense, it was assigned. It just wasn’t her work. And she most definitely will not be opening her philosophy textbook to get a better understanding. She finds your handwriting very neat, easy to read. She thinks the way you cross your T’s and write your Y’s is adorable. On the sides, you write your own formulation of the information. It was as if you were talking to yourself, having your own conversation inside your head. On the very bottom of the page, in dark red ink, lays a question that makes Megan’s brow furrow. 

‘Why do I exist?’ 

She hands you back your notes two days later in class. You smile at her softly, taking the notes from her. “I hope those were helpful.” Megan nods. She notices you wearing glasses today and she loves when you wear glasses. “They were so helpful. Thank you so much, Y/n.” You smile even wider at her, a chuckle escaping your lips. You say, “I hope they weren’t too messy, sometimes I get ahead of myself.” She shakes her head and gestures to your notes with an impressed look on her face. “No, they were so easy to understand, trust me.” You smile at her words, standing up to continue packing up your stuff. Megan stands awkwardly as she watches you, not knowing what else to say. She wants to continue talking to you but there is only so much to say with the little to no information she knows about you. 

When you finish packing your stuff, you put your bookbag on, giving her one more glance. You wave, “I’ll see you next week, okay?” Before Megan could respond, you turned away, walking out of the classroom. She sighs. 

A lightbulb goes off in Megan’s head one day when she looks down at her blank notebook during class. 

She looks up and sees you packing your stuff up. She stands, leaning over her desk to tap on your shoulder. You turn to look at her and she notices the tired look in your eyes. She almost decides against asking you the question on her mind but she wills herself to be brave. She takes a deep breath, asking, “Can I… Use your notes again?” You look down at her blank notebook and chuckle, looking back up at her with a raised eyebrow. “Fell asleep again?” Megan shakes her head, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment. She replies, “No I just. I’ve never been a notetaker…” She looks down, feeling silly. She continues, “I have… I’m dyslexic. So, it’s kind of hard sometimes.” She knows it’s a bit ridiculous to use that as a way to talk to you but she has been feeling desperate the last few days. 

There’s a pull toward you. It’s gravitating. 

She looks up and sees you digging through your bag. She bites her lip when she watches you pull out of your notebook, handing it to her without a second thought. “Here. You can take it after every class from now on, okay?” Megan shakes her head and takes the notebook from your hands. “No, that’s okay. Just today.” She says shyly but you wave her off, zipping your bookbag. You swing it over your shoulder as you reply, “No, every time. It’ll motivate me to take better notes.” You wink at her before waving goodbye. “I’ll see you on Thursday, Megan.” She waves back, feeling frozen in place as she watches you exit the room. She looks down at the notebook in her hands and squeals quietly. 

Apparently, absurdism was the topic of conversation in today’s class.

She reads through what you’ve written and she decides she hates the concept of this theory. It’s dark, pessimistic. Megan didn’t like the idea of the world not having meaning. And she can’t help but ask her own questions to counter the philosophers’. Why is it so absurd to add meaning to everything? Isn’t it human nature? To live with meaning, to find purpose in everything you do? How could you live life without the drive to find purpose? It was ridiculous. And Megan is glad you felt the same way. On the sides, like always, were your own thoughts and criticisms. She giggles at the frowny faces you drew, the poorly drawn thumbs down in response to a quote made by one of the fathers of absurdism. 

She stares at a sentence you wrote down. It sits with her as if the weight of it also affected her in some way. 

‘I have meaning. I have a purpose.’

She walks into the classroom on Thursday with your notebook in her hands. To her surprise, you were already at your desk. She walks up to you with a teasing smile. “You aren’t late today.” Her statement makes you laugh– a genuine laugh that makes you throw your head back. She places the notebook down on your desk and you look at her with a twinkle in your eyes. “Yeah. Just wanted to make sure I get everything for you.” Megan feels her heart beat rapidly in her chest. You came to class on time for her. A month has passed in the semester and you changed your habit for a complete stranger. 

The words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them, “Can I get your number?” Her cheeks burn with embarrassment but the kind smile you give her eases the anxiety. You nod, pulling out your phone and handing it to her. “I was going to ask you after class today but you beat me to it.” Megan tries to keep her cool, nodding frantically. She puts her phone number into your contacts and saves it under the name, ‘Megan from Philosophy.’ She hands your phone back to you. “I agree with your notes,” She says quietly, she continues, “Like, your sidenotes. I agree with them and… I was hoping we could talk about it?” There’s a hopeful look in Megan’s eyes. She hopes she isn’t coming off as desperate, that’s the last thing she would want from this interaction. 

You open your mouth to respond but your professor walks in. Megan quickly walks to her seat, her cheeks still burning. She berates herself internally for being so weird. At some point during the lecture, she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket. She pulls it out subtly, checking the notification. She smiles widely at the message on the screen. 

You texted her: “Let’s do it. I’ll text you after I’m done with classes today.”

You text her: “Absurdism. Thoughts. Go.” 

She replies: “I think everyone has a purpose. Like, I think that’s what makes life so much fun.”

You text her: “Yes. Yes. I agree 100%.” 

She replies: “Absurdism is absurd!!!!”

She texts again: “Sorry. That was stupid.” 

You reply: “You said what you said.” 

You text her again: “Absurdism was created by cowards. I love making meanings out of everything.”

And again: “Do you wanna go to the library with me tomorrow?”

She replies: “Yes.” 

Megan meets you in the library.

She finds you already sitting at a table with your headphones on. You’re typing on your laptop, clearly zoned in on the assignment you were working on. Megan approaches you slowly, not wanting to startle you. She sets her stuff down and pulls out a chair in front of you. When she sits down, you finally look up from your laptop with a tired smile. You take your headphones off, setting them on the table. “Hey there,” you say softly. Megan waves at you before pulling out her laptop along with her notebook and pencil case. Your eyes light up at it. It had the Sanrio characters on it, all of them wearing cute little ballpark hats. Megan watches as you pick it up, analyzing it with bright eyes. “This is so fucking cute.” Your statement makes the Chinese girl laugh. 

She would have never taken you as a Sanrio person.

You set it down, an adorable smile still on your face. It makes Megan melt at the thought of you liking such cute things. She wonders what else you like, she wonders what kind of music you listen to. She wonders if you have any thoughts on the secrets the universe may hold. 

She settles for asking you what kind of music you like. It’s less of a mouthful. 

Conversation with you is easy. She finds herself laughing at everything you say, smiling during all of your stories. In return, Megan shares bits and pieces of herself with you. She tells you about about her friends on campus, how she chose her major. Megan shares things with you that she hasn’t talked about in a long time. After rambling for so long, she would pause to look at you, as if scared you had become disinterested. But you keep your attentive gaze. The same smile you had before stays on your lips. Megan felt seen by you, a feeling she doesn’t get often. After two hours, you two finally decide to work on your assignments. 

Megan looks at you as if you created the stars, handcrafted them, and placed them all over the sky with purpose. She looks at you as if you hold all the answers to the world. She only met you this semester but she can’t help but feel she has known you her entire life. You’re unaware of her staring as you check the time on your watch and for some reason, Megan chuckles. It catches your attention, making you look up to see the Chinese girl attempting to cover her small smile with her hand. You look at her curiously. “What’s so funny?” She points at your watch, her tone playful, “Do you forget to put that on when we have Philosophy class?” 

She notices the way your cheeks redden. You look away, rubbing the back of your neck. “I’m… Well, usually, on the days we have Philosophy…. I have to go to the school clinic right before,” you clear your throat before continuing, “I have a heart condition.” Megan’s heart drops to her stomach at your words and she immediately begins to feel bad for the joke she previously made. You notice her expression and shake your head. “It’s nothing serious. Don’t worry, honestly.” 

Whenever you’re late to class, Megan now finds herself worrying about you. 

Today, she watches you walk into class looking more tired than usual. She tries not to overanalyze you but she can’t help it. Her eyes follow you until you sit down. You don’t even reach down to pull out your notebook and pencil, simply putting your head down on the desk. She looks at you and she wishes she could ask how your appointment went. She wants to ask what you do at the clinic. But she isn’t sure if she was there yet with you. Everything with you so far has only been surface level and she wants so much more than that. Megan looks up at the board and sees a question written on it:

‘Is happiness the answer?” 

Megan leans back in her seat. For the first time since the semester started, she takes the time to listen to her professor. 

At the end of class, Megan walks over to your desk. She taps you on the shoulder and you look up with wide eyes. You sit up immediately, rubbing your face with your hands. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” The apology tumbles out of your mouth quickly. You’re about to say something else but Megan places a note in front of you on your desk. Written on it was the question from earlier and you stare at it in confusion. You whisper, “Is this what we did today?” You look up at Megan again and she smiles warmly. She nods, “I actually paid attention today. Wanna walk with me on the quad and I can explain it to you? I don’t know how good I’d be at it but–” You stand up, grabbing your bag. You look at her with a twinkle of excitement in your eyes and it makes Megan’s heart beat quickly in her chest. 

Oh, to make you look at her like that again. Forever, maybe. 

You two make a habit of discussing the topic of the day after class now. 

Megan finds you fascinating. The way you articulate everything so passionately, the way your brain makes connections to previous things told in the lecture, everything about you was so profound. 

Today was a Thursday and you find yourselves lying on the grass on the quad. 

Megan looks at you as if you were the only thing worth paying any attention to. She counts the freckles on your cheek, she loves the way your lips curl into a smile when you have a funny thought to share. She still thinks about asking you about the stars and constellations but she isn’t sure if it’s the right time yet. This moment with you was hers, and she wants to stick it in a locket as a keepsake forever. Without looking at her, you speak up, “You know the real question I’d like an answer to?” She smiles, whispering, “What?” 

“Does pineapple belong on pizza?” Megan giggles loudly, not expecting that question from you. She covers her mouth, her eyes turning into crescents as she continues laughing. For some reason, the randomness of it makes her stomach hurt with laughter. You join her, your cheeks hurting as you smile widely. As you both finally calm down, she glances at you again, a playful look in her eyes. “Are you being serious?” You nod, furrowing your brows, “Megan. I’m being very serious. These are the real questions those stupid white guys needed to ask.” 

The Chinese girl laughs again, her hand finding your shoulder to brace herself. She smiles at you with her whiskered dimples, responding through her giggles, “Those stupid white guys… It’s always a stupid white guy.” You nod in agreement, looking back up at the sky. At some point, you shifted closer to Megan, your shoulders touching. Megan’s breath catches in her throat when you turn your head towards her again, your noses only inches apart. You whisper, “So, does it? Pineapple on pizza?” She lets out a breathy laugh, her eyes looking into yours. Her fingertips brush against your hand and she wants more than anything to connect them. To feel that spark of electricity she knew would be there. Your skin is soft and she wonders if you’ve thought about her like she thinks about you.

“I think it does.” 

You scrunch your nose, sitting up from the grass. She watches as you grab your bag and she can’t help but laugh at your dramatics. “Y/n!” She says through her giggles. You bite your lip trying to contain your smile as you stand to your feet. Megan copies your actions, a wide smile on her face. When she grabs your wrist, she proves herself right. There’s a spark that sends shivers down her spine and when you turn to look at her, she wonders if you feel it too. 

She tilts her head, her eyes softening as she asks, “Can I wait for you at the clinic next week?” 

There’s a silence between you two. Her hand is still around your wrist and your eyes speak silently to each other. You blink at her as if waiting for her to take back what she said. But she doesn’t. She waits, patiently for an answer. 

You nod, replying, “My appointments are always at 9:30 AM, Tuesdays and Thursdays.” 

Next Tuesday Megan is sitting on the bench in front of the school clinic at 9:15 AM. You stop in your tracks when you see her, your eyes wide. You didn’t think she would actually come. Megan stands up from the bench when she notices you, waving excitedly. 

She doesn’t know this, but your thoughts run wild. The grip you had on the straps of your bookbag loosens and it scares you. 

She texts you: “How are you so smart?” 

You reply: “I’m not that smart. Philosophy is just interesting to me.” 

She texts you: “I need your brain.” 

You reply: “I like your brain.” 

She texts you: “I don’t think like you do.” 

You reply: “But I like the way you think.”

You text her again: “What is your favorite thing to do?”

She replies: “Dancing. And making music.”

She texts you again: “How about you?” 

You reply: “Being alive.” 

You text her again: “I also really like going on walks.” 

When you walk out of the clinic on yet another Thursday, Megan stands outside with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cup of match in the other. You look at the green drink with raised eyebrows, “Is that matcha?” She nods, forcing it into your hands. “Yeah. I looked it up and even though it doesn’t have as much caffeine as coffee, it still gives you the energy you need.” You look at her, still confused. Megan sighs, walking ahead of you. She doesn’t want to look at you as she talks, “You said you’re always so tired after your appointments but you can’t drink too much caffeine so… I thought that would be the best alternative,” She continues, feeling her cheeks burning with embarrassment, “I know some people hate matcha but I don’t know. If you hate it just let me know so–” She feels your hand on her arm. You spin her around, wrapping your arms around her tightly. 

She widens her eyes, not responding at first. She stands awkwardly for a moment in your arms, her hand clutching her coffee cup. After her mind finally catches up to her, she hugs you back, her arms around your neck. She buries her face into your shoulder, the scent of whatever perfume or cologne you put on filling her senses. She notices how warm you are, hugging you even tighter. You whisper, “Thank you, Megan.” She can’t help but notice how vulnerable you sound. Your voice was hoarse and there was a tinge of sadness to your tone. Megan was never the best at words, so she just held you. After a while, you finally pull away, your eyes glistening with tears. 

You had been crying. 

Megan reaches up and wipes your cheeks with her thumbs. She asks, “You’re not a matcha person, are you?” You laugh shakily. You sniffle as you shake your head but you still bring the cup to your lips, sipping the drink. You grimace but you quickly wipe it away, hooking an arm around Megan’s neck as you continue walking to class. By the time you get to class, you finish your matcha. You throw away the cup with a satisfied smile on your face. 

“Is memory enough to prove existence?” 

You and Megan sit with each other in your apartment, staring at the question for your essay. You look at her as if asking what she thought about it. She raises her hands in defense, “Don’t look at me. You’re the one who actually likes this class.” You roll your eyes, chuckling. You lean forward, grabbing your laptop off of your coffee table. “I never said I liked the class. I said I think philosophy is interesting.” She scoffs and gives you a pointed look, “That’s the same thing, isn’t it?” You shake your head and lean back against your couch. You stare at your computer screen, deep in thought. Megan leans her shoulder against the couch, propping her head up with her hand. She studies you like she always does. She smiles as she watches your glasses begin to slide off the bridge of your nose. 

She reaches over and fixes them. She asks, “Well, yes or no? Is memory enough?” You quickly respond as you type something on your laptop, “Yes, of course it is.” You look away from the screen, your brows furrowed and your lips pursed. “But I don’t think I agree enough to write like 5 pages about it…” You groan, closing your laptop shut. You shift your body, mimicking the way Megan sits. You both look at each other in silence, not saying a word. It isn’t until you snort, covering your mouth as you laugh. Megan looks at you, giggling, “What?!” You shake your head, zipping your lips as if what you thought about was confidential. Megan swats your arm, glaring. 

“Wait! Tell me!” You shake your head again, shrugging your shoulders. Megan feels her cheeks heat up. From the first moment she heard you speak in class, she wanted to know every single thing that went through your head. She wanted to know if you often thought about the universe like she did. She watched you from afar for months and she would be damned if she didn’t get to be inside your head just this once. She launches herself at you. She only intended to grab your shoulders, but instead finds herself toppling on top of you. 

She widens her eyes, looking down at you. She’s sure she is as red as her hair and she knows she should get off but you don’t make a move to push her either. You just stare at each other, wide-eyed. She breaks the silence, her voice shaky, “Do you know anything about the stars and constellations?” She says it so quickly that you almost don’t understand her. You tilt your head, an amused smile on your face. You reach up and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear as you whisper, “What?” Megan giggles nervously, she looks away from you for a moment, biting her lip. When she looks back at you, she takes a deep breath. “Do you like. Know anything about the stars and constellations? Like… What they mean and stuff.” 

You look up at her, a warm smile on your face. You say, “I don’t actually. Do you?” 

Megan shakes her head, her smile getting wider as she responds, “No. Not at all.” She glances at your lips and whispers, “I’d like to learn though.” She looks up from your lips to your eyes. Your hand reaches up to cup her cheek, not breaking her gaze. As Megan’s eyes flutter close, as she leans in closer, you whisper, “We can learn together.” 

She texts you: “How many pages do you have now?” 

You reply: “Megan it has only been 30 mins.”

She texts you: “Well I have 3 so.”

You: reply: “Me when I’m a liar.” 

She texts you: “Yeah I like lying.”

She texts you again: “At least I don’t have to write the whole five pages.” 

You reply: “Two, right?”

She texts you: “Yeah. You’re a loser.” 

You reply: “Try asking for my notes tomorrow, Ms. Skiendiel.” 

She texts you: “I will literally fail the class without you don’t do that to me.” 

But, you don’t show up to class. 

And you don’t answer her texts asking where you are. 

She usually meets you outside the clinic but today you had an early appointment at 7:30 AM and you had to beg her to not show up. You told her to get rest and that you’d see her in class. 

But you aren’t in class. You were nowhere to be found. 

Megan doesn’t know the topic for today. All she could think about was you. 

Your grip was always on the handle of a suitcase. It waited to be packed and loaded into a car to go to its next destination. You always found it easier to be the first one to leave. Staying in the same spot for far too long always puts you in distress. When you were younger, you always groaned and wept about standing in the grocery line with your mother. The days when you were able to frolic amongst the dandelions in the springtime were your greatest memories. Your soul was vibrant yet quiet at the same time. 

Quiet enough for you to sneak out the back door. So quiet, you were always able to leave without a trace. It was less painful that way– to leave. 

When you were told about your condition, it didn’t phase you much. You saw it as another way to live your life with no strings attached. You were okay with never leaving a mark on this world. As long as it left an impression on you, you were satisfied. Sure, college weighed you down but you treated it as a side quest. The real adventure was what life had ahead and you were ready more than anything to take it into your hands and call it your own. You planned to coast through college, give your best in everything you did, and leave without a footprint to say, ‘I was here.’

The funny thing though, is that you didn’t take into account that you would meet someone like Megan Skiendiel. 

And then suddenly leaving became hard. The thought of never seeing her again made your body go cold. 

The grip on the handle of the suitcase loosened. Every time she looked at you, you felt like you were in a field of dandelions. Perhaps if you made a wish right now on one, its rays would whisper her name, almost pleading. If you could plant yourself anywhere, it would be wherever she was. That night in your apartment, as you looked at her, you realized you had found an answer. 

The proof of existence was being loved. And there was one thing your condition couldn’t take from you– the ability to love someone back just as much. 

Megan doesn’t fail the class. 

In her essay, she writes about you. She could have written an entire book about you but she settles for the 5 pages. She writes about you and your ideas of the world. She writes her essay as if she had been paying attention the entire time. She remembers your sidenotes, the little drawings next to them. She mentions the irony of how being alive was one of your favorite things to do.

When she gets her essay back, at the top right-hand corner is an ‘A+’ written in red ink. 

She smiles. She doesn’t care what those white guys say, this was enough to prove you exist. 

Megan Skiendiel still doesn’t know much about the stars and the constellations. But she does know that you didn’t either. Out of all the questions she had this semester, she’s glad that was the one she got the answer to. And with all the answers she was given, that one was her favorite.

a/n: i took a philosophy class last quarter, can yall tell? lol n e ways. hope u all enjoyed, lmk what u think!

requests are open

[drunkinyourbenz]

DIE FOR YOU

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 watch the world from the sidelines, had nothing to prove, till you came into my life, gave me something to lose. — sidelines ; phoebe bridgers

୨ৎ bodyguard!billie eilish x princess!reader

୨ৎ summary: you were the crown princess of your kingdom, raised to be elegant, poised, flawless, and a perfect balance of kind and calculating. your whole life was planned out for you, it had been since you were born. there had never been any other option, you were the future ruler of your kingdom, and you were expected to act like it. but sometimes, things happen that you can’t control—and before you know it, you’re faced with a choice that may result in betraying your family, your kingdom, and your people.

୨ৎ content: listed per chapter. smut, fluff, and angst.

୨ৎ warnings: this series includes: period typical homophobia, smut, family issues, angst (anything heavy will be labelled for each chapter), arguments, forebidden love

୨ৎ note: hi my babiesss <3 here's a little series i've been working on for youuu... hope u like her cause she's my baby fr.

00. moodboards

00. intro & playlist

01. chapter one

02. chapter two

03. chapter three

04. chapter four

05. chapter five

06. chapter six

and so on...

୨ৎ taglist: (comment on this post or any of the chapters to be added or removed!)

@47lake @st0nerlesb0 @n0vabug @darkside-0f-the-sun @asterisk-eyes @amara-eilish @dragoneyelashart @greenbttrflyy @bilswifee @tan1shere @asothinking @ilovealiceosemann @chrissv4mp @lovelyy-moonlight @cantlandonmyfeet @jayjaywetforbils @karaaeilish @billiesbabygirll @g0ldwingedwildfl0w3r @eloiseluvsbillie @averagelobotomyenjoyer @hkkuugu @ash198458 @youmademefeel @jennaswifey

[illyrian-dreamer]

Make a bargain with me

Rhys x reader angst/fluff one shot

Summary: Your unrequited love for your High Lord has seen you distancing yourself not just from Rhys, but the entire inner circle. Rhys is concerned, and confronts you.

Word count: 2.2k

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You shifted uncomfortably under Rhys’s stare, keeping your eyes fixed the night’s horizon, still with anticipation of starfall that was yet to begin.

“What’s going on Y/N?” he asked softly. 

He had sprung you from your hideaway. It was stupid, really, to think you could escape him, or that he wouldn't follow. 

Tonight on Starfall, when your family and friends were drinking and laughing and toasting to a better year ahead, you had held yourself back, observing from the sidelines, longing to partake as you had each year before.

But things were different now, you were different. It had been a stressful year to say the least – too many losses, too many sacrifices made on missions that you couldn’t come to terms with. Choices made, last words said – the turmoil of your mistakes was a constant loop in your mind, each of your missions weighing heavier than the last, a little piece of you left behind on along the way.

And where you would usually confess or turn to your family for the support you desperately craved, it was all skewed by the devastating, gut-wrenching love you had developed for your High Lord.

You wondered what your friends might say – their snorts and sorry smiles as you dreamed of a life with not just any High Lord, but the High Lord of the Night Court, who was only just finding his feet. 

It was only shy of a decade since Rhys lost his sister and mother, leaving the male to wade through the trenches of grief alone, which were only deepened by the weight of responsibility as he assumed position as High Lord of the Night Court. You hadn't known him before he recruited you to the inner circle, but in your few years of working for Rhys, he had aged, maturing into his title and proving himself as a true and honest leader.

And in those years, not once had you seen him take to a lover or celebrate romance in his life. You knew that your love for Rhys would be nothing more than an imposition – a burden for him to manage in a world where he was not ready to love again, especially not someone like you. 

But concealing your feelings had a very true affect in physicality – you were plagued with guilt, rigid  by unrequited, unconfessed love practically bursting to come out. Skittish manoeuvres to avoid his touch, aloofness at times where you were known to share and console – you had done excellent work to distance yourself from Rhys, and with it the rest of the inner circle. 

Even the blatant probing by Cassian to open up, or gentle suggestions from Azriel to join them on flights went politely declined as you assured them you were fine. And the times where your work was too much, when you needed to tell your High Lord the burdens you were baring and seek comfort from him as a friend – instead you bottled it up, unsure of what you might confess and afraid of the very real affect of someone who was not yet ready to love. 

Rhysand had been particularly observant tonight. Your own behaviour was predictable as of late, but after the first bashful glances to the ground, reddened cheeks where you used to bite back, and the distant, distracted manner in which you watched on – you felt watchful violet eyes on you all evening.

The tipping point had been Rhysand’s speech, a glass of auburn liquid raised high as he spoke to his sincere care and affection for each of you in his circle. He was thankful for all of you, for being the self-made family he could have only ever dreamed of having. But as he spoke to each of the members, starting with his second-in-charge, followed by Mor, Cassian then Azriel, you had slipped from the room before he could get to you. 

Because in that speech - he had shown that he still loved, just not in the way that you craved. And if you had learnt anything through both your career at the Night Court and from Rhys himself – it was that happiness could be stolen in an instant. 

So you fled, heart thumping as you craved fresh air – overwhelmed with cyclical thoughts and foolish amounts of fae wine. 

After a polite ten minutes, Rhys had followed, finding the flattened patch of roof you often sought out after long missions, now stripping you bare under his gaze.

“Y/N?”

“Hm?”

Rhys winced with worry. “I asked what’s going on with you?”

You forced a small smile, keeping your breathing as even as you could. You were trained to stay calm when interrogated, but somehow this was harder than some of the life threatening circumstances you had endured. It was almost laughable.

"Nothing at all," you forced your eyes to his, your stomach dropping at his beauty.

Rhys’s face remained concerned, completely unconvinced. 

“Is it work?”

“No.” A half-truth.

Rhys nodded, a sense of relief that his court was not to blame.

A few moments of silence, you were burning from within, cheeks flushing yet again. You allowed for a moment to imagine his reaction if you were to tell him. Imagined his face as you confessed your feelings for him – your High Lord, your employer. How ridiculous and wildly inappropriate. 

Your face flushed a deeper pink at the shame of it. Rhys’s eyes dotted to your cheeks, not missing a thing.

He leveled a look at you. “You can always be honest with me.” You felt a gentle caress on your mental shields, and it was an instinct you cursed yourself for to seize them higher at his touch.

You moved your eyes back to the horizon, sighing with frustration. He was here, he cared – perhaps you could just, try?

“How did you do it?” you asked ominously, a pained frown pulling at your brow.

Rhys shifted at your question, brows raising in surprise. “Do what?”

You cleared your throat. “How did you let yourself love again, when you know how quickly it can be taken away?”

Rhys nodded slowly, violet eyes softening with understanding.

“Would you believe me if I said it was easy?” he replied.

You gave a small laugh, looking down at your hands. “No, actually.”

“Well it was.”

Another beat of silence. 

“Opening my home to all of you, creating this family is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, because it was meant to be.”

You nodded back. You would never tell him how easy it is for you to fall in love with him too. How quickly it had happened, how natural it felt for you.

“I would risk everything I have to have to keep you all safe and content, even just for one more day.”

His words struck you. Risk – there was too much to lose.

“I would risk everything I have for anyone I love, I think,” he continued. “I know that now, that it’s important to let go of what I can’t control, and let myself risk it all.”

He loved your family so dearly – it felt traitorous to indulge in the idea that your love could evolve past the sincere platonic form that it took now. You were greedy, spoilt.

“But that doesn’t just apply to my love for my court.”

Huh?

“As you know, anyone I care for is automatically a target beyond Velaris. My brothers, Mor, Amren.” Rhys paused. “And you.”

You looked up at him, his violet eyes unreadable as stars winked in their depths.

“I don’t want you to risk what you have for me,” your voice was barely a whisper, and you wondered if he sensed the deeper implication of your words.

Rhys wore a soft, sideways smile as he spoke. “You are well worth the risk.”

You were sure he could hear your fastened heart, no longer able to conceal your feelings. For a year your secret had lived at the tip of your tongue, threatening to ruin everything you had. It was too much to bare.

Silent tears started to run down your cheeks.

Rhys’s eyebrows clenched in concern, and he stepped towards you, reaching to brush them away with a stroke of of his cool fingers. You tried to step away, turning your face in shame – but he held your shoulders, a gentle hand pulling your chin to face him.

Violet beheld you again, and you forced yourself to not look away. Maybe you could face him, face your truth. Maybe, you could be as brave as him.

“You are so beautiful, Y/N,” Rhys said softly, his hands cupping your face as he brushed away your tears. “I don’t think I need to tell you that I’m very fond of you.”

Your heart thrummed, pulsing with instinct. Say it, out loud, risk it! it seemed to shout.

You bought your hands up to his, holding them as you took a deep breath.

“And I am fond of you.”

Rhys’s face lit up as stars twinkled in his eyes. He was devastatingly handsome, and the smile that pulled at his sharp cheek bones threatened your knees to buckle.

You couldn’t help the tears that kept running. You were given in, risking it all, and there was no coming back. 

Rhys leaned in close to your face, his fresh scent filling the air around you. He placed a gentle kiss on each of your tear stained cheeks before licking the salty liquid from his perfect lips.

You stared at him in awe, his beauty enveloping your view.

“Fond, on my behalf, is an understatement,” he murmured, tilting your chin upwards to him. 

A gentle hand snaked behind your back, pulling you against his body. The feeling of him softly pressed to you made you throb, and you continued to stare up at his face, unable to hide your own shock. 

He brushed your hair behind your ear, before cupping your jaw.

“So beautiful,” he said again, before leaning down and placing his lips on yours gently.

The kiss was soft, more attentive than you had ever experienced. You succumbed to it, letting your body relax into his hold as he pulled you in closer with the arm at your back, strengthening to hold your knees truly gave out at his touch.

You own arms naturally made their way to his hair and neck, trying to pull yourself closer.

Rhys chuckled into the kiss, inhaling as he traced his tongue along your lips, asking for permission.

A moan escaped you as you gained Rhys his entrance, his tongue sliding sensually over yours.

Your skin was alight, senses heightened and perked as every part of you ached and begged to never let go.

But a guilty conscience had Rhys pulling away from your lips, a small smirk pulling at your frustrated moan.

“Y/N,” he straightened, suddenly more serious. “I didn't come here to only confess my affection.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” you hummed, fingers on your mouth as your lips tingled with his lingering touch.

When Rhys chuckled, you swore it pleased the Gods.

“The others are just as concerned as I am. You’re withdrawn, proper sleep has escaped you for months, and–"

Your mouth twitched, before you flew up to plant a quick peck on his lips, silencing him. “And what of you, High Lord? How much do you burry in that head of yours? It is hard to know how much to burden onto you, when you are already dealing with so much.”

Violet eyes danced between yours in thought. “Make a bargain with me.”

Your brow quirked. “Pardon me?”

“Promise me, to share the things with which you need support so you may not burden them alone. And I will promise to do the same.”

“Rhys,” you breathed, honoured yet anxious at the vulnerability weaved into a bargain such as that. “Do you know what you’re asking each of us to confess?”

Rhys smiled, shaking his head. “With conditions, of course. This will be for those things that you know you shouldn’t keep to yourself, the truths you know the other would want to help with.”

You couldn't help the grin that pulled at your cheeks. “You’re mad.”

Rhys flicked your nose. “I know what it is to rot from within, Y/N. And in a world of magic and power and darkness, I will not let you burden it alone.”

“Rysand…”

Rhys all but moaned, pulling you in for a searing kiss. “Say yes,” he murmured against your lips.

With clenched eyes, you nodded, aware of the itching sensation on your neck as Rhys enveloped you with another kiss, the etching of your bargain searing to your skin. 

A gentle talon stroked at your mind then, hinting with sensuality.

You opened your eyes, forcing your shields down for the first time in years. 

Rhys growled as he entered your mind, pulling you flush against him as he kissed you deeply. And as the night sky became alive with iridescent streaks of light, the beginnings of starfall went neglected as you and Rhys explored a world of your own.

--------

AN: Hello dreamers, I just had to get out a one-shot, and I had a few requests to write for the most handsome High Lord! I sincerely hope you liked this, I haven't done a one-shot in a HOT minute!! So glad to be back with them. Comment to join my main tag list anytime, MWA!

[solxamber]

Has anyone requested: Diasomnia, 3, hurt/comfort yet? If not may I request it?

Strength to Believe || Sebek Zigvolt

For the Holiday Event! || Prompt: "I'll always be here" ; Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Sebek's sword sliced through the air with relentless precision, yet his expression remained taut with frustration. The training grounds, bathed in the golden light of dawn when he started, were now drenched in the pale glow of moonlight.

He had been practicing the same intricate moveset for hours, his determination unyielding despite the clear strain on his body.

From your spot near the sidelines, you watched him with unwavering focus. You'd been there the entire day, offering cheers, water, and snacks at intervals, though Sebek barely acknowledged your presence.

"Don’t overdo it, Sebek," you’d called earlier, only for him to reply, “I must master this, for Master Malleus deserves no less than perfection!”

As the hours stretched on and fatigue set in, his strikes grew sloppier, his movements less precise. Even so, Sebek pushed himself forward, the fire of his ambition refusing to dim.

It was nearing 3 a.m. when he finally executed the sequence flawlessly. His blade danced through the air, his footwork aligned with perfect grace. When he stopped, chest heaving, the realization that he’d done it slowly dawned on him.

“That was incredible!” you exclaimed, rushing to him with a wide grin. Before he could react, you wrapped your arms around him in a jubilant hug. “You did it, Sebek! I knew you could!”

Sebek stiffened in your embrace, his cheeks warming at your proximity. As he looked down at you, exhausted and flushed but beaming with pride for him, something unfamiliar twisted in his chest.

He replayed the day in his mind—the times he dismissed your encouragements, brushed off your care as unnecessary, simply because you were human. Yet you had stayed. You had believed in him.

“Why?” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Hm?” You tilted your head up at him, still smiling.

“Why have you stayed here all this time?” Sebek asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost vulnerable. “I… I have not been kind to you. I’ve called you ‘just a human,’ dismissed your words, and yet… you stayed. You cheered for me. You believed in me.”

Your expression softened, and you reached up to cup his cheek. He froze, wide-eyed, as your thumb brushed against his skin.

“Because I care about you, Sebek,” you said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I know how hard you work, how much you want to prove yourself. I’ll always be here to support you. No matter what.”

Your words struck him like a blessing, one he felt deeply unworthy of. His throat tightened, and for once, he had no retort, no haughty remark about his devotion to Lord Malleus. Instead, he swallowed hard and nodded, his usual bravado replaced by quiet gratitude.

“…Thank you,” he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. “For believing in me. For staying.”

You smiled, your fingers brushing his cheek once more before you dropped your hand. “Always,” you promised.

Sebek let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with his hours of training. As he looked at you—your tired yet radiant expression, your unwavering support—he felt an unfamiliar warmth take root in his chest.

And for the first time, he wondered if his greatest strength wasn’t just his swordsmanship, but the person who stood beside him, believing in him when he struggled to believe in himself.

Masterlist

[formulakracing]

i. girls like u - t.w.

pairing: reserve female!driver x toto wolff

word count: 2.1k

warnings: morally gray individuals, slow burn, sexual content (intercourse), allusions to sexual content, cursing, marijuana use, references to alcohol use, lots of power imbalance, questionable boss x employee dynamics, light toxicity

a/n: ok this is my semi-return to tumblr after a writing hiatus. this fic is loosely based off of you by the 1975 and several blackbear songs. sorry if this shit is ass. i promise there is more world-building to come in the next chapters (it's been a while since i've wrote somethin' longer than 500 words) lemme know if y'all like it! i missed y'all! <3

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆:

“aren’t you tired?”

fingertips brush along your back, light and gentle. stirring, you blink, stifling a yawn and you nuzzle into the warmth. 

it’s inviting, your lids drooping the moment the tip of your nose brushes along heated skin. a plush comforter shrouds your body, limbs entwined. watery rays of light peek in through drawn blinds, promising of dawn. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆:

“you wore me out. of course i’m tired.”

there’s a rumble in his chest, adam’s apple bobbing as he chuckles, “no, that’s not what i meant.”

“then what did you mean?” bringing your chin upward, your gaze locks with his. 

he flinches slightly at the harshness of your inquiry, a crimson hue tinging his cheeks, “i-i don’t really know. i-i guess i meant to ask if you were tired of watching everyone compete from the paddock. don’t you want to race as well?”

don’t you want to race as well? 

of course i do. every single fucking grand prix i pray that i’ll finally get a chance to be behind the wheel. 

to prove to everyone that i’m just as worthy of a competitor as lewis or george. that i am capable of finishing a race. 

i pray that i finally get a chance to prove that i’m a champion. 

inhaling sharply, your head falls, avoiding any sort of eye contact, “i mean, yeah. of course i want to race. i want to compete just as much as you do, max.”

“i’m sorry if–”

“it’s fine,” you murmur, finding your body clinging to him, head nestling into his chest underneath the covers, “can we just go back to sleep or–”

he exhales, lips connecting with your temple. they trail along your brow bone, placing gentle kisses all the way down to your cheeks, “you know we can’t. it’s qualifying today.”

“right.” your jaw clenches, “there’s nothing more important than qualifying.”

“hey,” fingers grasp your chin, “are you okay?”

“yup,” you nod, “i’m great.”

concern lingers, swimming in his icy blue depths. his tongue darts out, swiping along his lower lip, “you and i both know that’s a lie.”

shrugging, your lips pucker, “maybe i’m just not looking forward to watching everyone chase their dreams while i’m forced to sit on the sidelines.”

in that moment, you sense his demeanor shift. max softens, his muscles relaxing as a hand cups your cheek, thumb caressing your cheekbone, “you know, we could change that.”

your heart thuds, pounding as blood roars in your ears, “how?”

he leans in, his mouth nearly millimeters from yours, “i could pull some strings.”

“and how would you accomplish that?”

max’s voice is low as he continues, his tone laced with a dominance that you rarely heard beyond radios, interviews, or press conferences. it was quite the contrast than the max you were used to. it had you absolutely reeling, scrambling to maintain your composure as a shiver ran down your spine.  

“i could speak with christian, put in a good word for you. there’s a lot of change that’s going to come within these next few months. checo hasn’t resigned quite yet. the contract isn’t finalized there’s still time to get you in at red bull.”

“y-you would do that for me?”

the dutch driver nods, a little too fervently. 

“i would do anything for you.”

there was a sincerity in his words, almost as if it was a promise. a sure one, at that. a promise brimmed with a passion that you could only describe as one emotion. 

love.

you had him right where you wanted him. 

max verstappen, three-time world champion of formula one, was right at your fingertips. the dutch assassin was poised and eager, ready to fire as soon as he was given the word. 

all you had to do was say yes. 

that’s all you had to do. utter those nine words. 

i want to be with you at red bull. i want to be in that second seat.

yet, there was one thing holding you back.

well, more so a culmination of things. 

one, there was that ever-present gnawing, nagging feeling. the guilt was slowly eating you alive, threatening to spill your precious secret at any given moment. two, there was that fear of the unknown. what would happen if you managed to pull this off? would you truly be happy at red bull or were you just trying to worm your way to the top? would that shiny trophy really be worth it if you weren’t fulfilled? 

and well most importantly, the third aspect of it all. would you be able to keep up the facade that you were just friends with max verstappen? it was only a matter of time before your relationship with the dutch driver would come from the shadows and into the light.

it was so much easier to keep things under wraps when no one paid attention to you. 

“max,” you begin, “maybe we should–”

the shrill ring of his phone pierces through the air. leaning over, he plucks the device off the nightstand, grimacing as his eyes scan the contact. 

“it’s christian.”

“what time is it?” you press, “surely it’s not that la–”

“baby, it’s well past eight.”

“shit.” you shoot up, peeling the comforter off, “why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

max follows in suit, shoving a leg through his pants, “cause we were in the middle of an important conversation. i wasn’t going to just interrupt you to tell you i had to leave. that wouldn’t have been fair to you!”

“right,” you scoff, throwing on a hoodie, “you don’t have to act like i’m more important than racing. you live, breathe, eat, and sleep formula one. and i understand tha–”

lips collide with yours, the kiss nearly sucking the breath out of your lungs. it’s fiery, blazing with hunger as your knees buckle. max pulls away, panting ever so slightly. 

“don’t you ever fucking say that. you hear me?”

“yes.”

shaking his head, he makes his way across the room, smoothing out a wrinkle in his jersey before slipping on a shoe, “you mean the world to me. we can talk more about this later, but i really have to go. christian is blowing up my phone asking where i am. fuck. i really hope that no one sees me. do you have a hoodie or something i can borrow?”

crossing over to your makeshift closet, you file through the hangers, pulling a garment off. tossing the sweatshirt to max, you can’t help but giggle at his haphazard state. 

his blonde locks are all over, clearly ruffled from a long night. his clothes are wrinkly, bunched up from being thrown to the floor. the only saving grace is his red bull cap, along with the hoodie you just provided. 

however, the moment he sees the embroidered logo, he rolls his eyes. 

“really?”

“just make sure you take it off before you see christian. and put on some deodorant when you get the chance. you stink,” wrinkling your nose, you blow the dutch driver a kiss as he waves you off. 

yet, he catches the airborne smooch, returning the gesture, “i’ll text you later baby. i lo– i have to really go now. have a good day, all right?”

“i’ll try my best,” you reply, buttoning a pair of jeans, “you know i won’t be doing much.”

“goodbye love!” his voice carries down the hall as he exits your motorhome, the sound of the door echoing throughout the space. 

well, so much for making progress.

there’s a buzz in your pocket, stealing your focus for just a second.

fishing your phone out, your brow furrows. no one really contacted you in the mornings. well, unless it was an emergency or an urgent matter. 

it was a text message, from a sender you were well acquainted with.

it was none other than sir lewis hamilton. eight-time world champion. one of the greatest athletes of all time. 

who just happened to be your fellow teammate. well, fellow teammate and best friend.

who knew that formula one contracts came with a package deal like that?

where art thou, sweet girl? i fear that our team principal is going absolutely mad because you are running very behind. pls hurry before he starts going in on me for being on my phone during a team briefing. 

your thumbs glide across the screen, crafting a careful response.

sorryyyyyy. running late per usual. perks of being in the reserve, right? i’ll be there in like five minutes. 

the reply was instant, phone vibrating once more.

hurry up. toto is pissed. 

gritting your teeth, you shove your phone back into your pocket. luckily, you had packed your go-bag for race weekends the night before. well, before you got preoccupied with max. slipping on a heavier coat, you push through your bedroom door, making your way down the hall. 

exiting your motorhome, you spin on your heel, throwing up the hood as you navigate through the endless maze of the paddock. 

you would think after six months you would know your way around by now.

members of the crew and hospitality chirp greetings and good mornings, earning a mumble here and there in response. graciously, you accept a wellness shot from one of the hosting staff, in hopes that it would perk you up just a tad. 

eventually, you nudge open the door of the briefing room, keeping your head ducked as you settle into your designated seat, lewis spotting you. from across the space, he shoots you a thumbs up, paired with a precious grin, dimples and all. 

the second you slide on your headphones, a voice floods your ears.

it’s brassy and gruff, thick with annoyance, brimmed with that accent you were all too familiar with. 

“good morning, hase. i’m so glad that you could take the time out of your busy schedule and join us this morning.”

it was none other than toto wolff, team principal of mercedes amg petronas.

your boss. 

looking up, you notice him to your far right, perched in his seat. his gaze is lasered in on you, almost piercing. with his brows furrowed and lips wound tightly shut, you couldn’t quite distinguish the emotion plastered across his features.

was it anger? disappointment? sheer and utter regret?

“good morning, toto,” you grumble, heat flooding your cheeks as snickers bubble up from all around.

“as i was saying,” toto clears his throat, “i think that we need a new approach for the remainder of the weekend. clearly george isn’t feeling up to par, so we need to explore our options.”

“i could drive,” george russell, your other teammate coughs, “i want to ra–”

“i don’t think pushing you to your limit is an intelligent idea,” toto cuts in. the words are firm, the team principal continuing, “let’s face it, with ferrari and mclaren in the mix this season, we are desperate for points. we need to make a strong move this weekend or else we are going to fall behind. even more so than we already are.”

the voices trail off as your mind wanders, your focus dissipating by the second. typically, you never paid too much attention to the briefings anyway. after all, they did not pertain to you. they usually were directed at the engineers, strategists, george, and lewis. 

not like you needed to really pay attention too closely. you were just kind of there. a body in the room.

the backup plan. 

fuck, did that absolutely torture you. so much potential wasted. all of your blood, sweat, and tears poured into nearly two decades of racing just to end up fiddling with a loose thread of your hoodie as a room full of men bickered about who would fill a fucking seat. 

some fall from grace this was. the 2023 formula two champion reduced to a reserve driver simply because no other team would take her. 

after all, you couldn’t really complain too much. this was the life you chose. you were the one who ultimately made the choice to sign to mercedes for a two-year contract. 

after all, it was your dream to drive for mercedes.

“here’s what we should do,” toto’s voice seeps into your headphones once more, snapping you out of your dazed state, “we should utilize our reserve driver. what is the point of having a reserve driver and not utilizing her?”

“toto,” bono’s voice chimes in, “i’m not sure if–”

“bono,” the fierceness in lewis’ tone takes you aback, “this is what’s best for the team. as a whole. we cannot give it our all if we don't have healthy drivers.”

“george,” toto turns to the british driver, “what do you think? do you have any input?”

“i don’t disagree,” george shrugs, the words hoarse, “i want to be healthy for saudi arabia.”

“then it’s settled,” the team principal shifts towards you, his lips curling into a smug smirk as his arms fold across his chest.

“i think that it’s time for our little hase here to really show us what she is capable of.” 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆:

taglist: @sweetjellyfishland @ts1m1kas @bxuzi @racecardilfs

lemme know if you would like to be tagged for future chapters! <3

[its-avalon-08]

hello could I please request a Fernando x driver reader long one shot.: maybe where she’s Jules Bianchi or Sennas daughter and the whole trope of she fell first but he fell harder. It seems like he hates her or what ever lots of angst but then lots of fluff in the end please I’m dying for some nando stuff

The One That Got Away (Until She Didn’t) (fa14)

✦ pairing - fernando alonso x female!reader

✦ genre - enemies to lovers, angst, bianchi!daughter!reader, cute, fluff,

The roar of engines filled the paddock, drowning out any attempt at conversation. To Y/N Bianchi, that sound was home. She’d grown up hearing it from the sidelines, watching her father, Jules Bianchi, carve out a name for himself on the track. Now, it was her turn. And she was determined to do more than just live in her father’s shadow.

Y/N had proven herself time and time again in the lower categories, earning her place on the Formula 1 grid not as Jules’ daughter, but as Y/N Bianchi—talented in her own right. But there was one person who didn’t seem to care. One person who, no matter what she did, kept his distance. Cold. Detached. That person was Fernando Alonso.

She felt his eyes on her now as she adjusted her helmet before practice. His gaze was always there—burning holes into her, yet never engaging. It wasn’t admiration or respect. No, it was something darker. Disdain, maybe? Contempt?

Fernando Alonso, two-time world champion, one of the most experienced drivers on the grid, and the man she had admired since she was a child, seemed to hate her.

She wasn’t naive. She knew how the paddock worked. The comparisons to her father were inevitable, and she could deal with that. But Fernando’s icy attitude toward her went beyond mere skepticism. It was as though her very presence was an insult to him, a constant reminder of something she couldn’t quite understand.

“I don’t get him,” Y/N muttered to her race engineer, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling in her chest.

“Hm?” he asked, distracted as he went over the car’s setup for the session.

“Alonso,” she clarified, stealing a glance across the garage. Fernando was deep in conversation with his own team, but for just a second, his eyes flicked toward her, narrowing slightly before he turned away. “He acts like I don’t belong here.”

Her engineer chuckled. “Fernando’s like that with everyone. Don’t take it personally.”

But it was personal. She could feel it in the way he ignored her, never acknowledging her efforts on the track, never offering even a nod of recognition. Every interaction—or lack thereof—felt like a rejection. She’d tried to talk to him once or twice, but each time, he’d brushed her off, offering nothing more than curt one-liners before walking away.

But despite it all, Y/N couldn’t help the way her heart raced when he was near. She hated herself for it. Admiring someone who clearly couldn’t stand her? Pathetic. She’d spent her entire life learning how to shut out doubt, how to ignore the voices that told her she wasn’t enough. But with Fernando, it was different. His silence cut deeper than anyone’s words ever could.

Later that afternoon, the team debrief ended, and Y/N found herself lingering in the paddock, stretching the muscles in her neck after a long day of practice. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow over the scene, and most of the other drivers had already left. Except for Fernando.

She saw him leaning against the wall near his motorhome, scrolling through his phone, his face cast in shadows. Something in her snapped. The tension had been building for months now, and she was done pretending she didn’t notice his cold shoulder. She was done feeling like she had to prove herself to him.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N strode over, her boots scuffing the gravel beneath her feet. Fernando looked up as she approached, his expression unreadable, as usual.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone indifferent, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of annoyance.

Y/N crossed her arms, standing just a few feet away from him. “Why do you hate me?”

Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Hate you?” He pushed off the wall, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I don’t hate you.”

“Really? Because that’s sure what it feels like.” Her voice wavered slightly, but she held her ground. “Every time I’m near you, you act like I’m some kind of nuisance. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me unless you’re judging me. So what is it? Do you think I don’t deserve to be here? Or is it because I’m Bianchi’s daughter and that makes me some kind of charity case?”

Fernando’s expression darkened. “Careful, Y/N.”

“No,” she shot back, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’m tired of being careful. I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you. What’s your problem?”

For a moment, Fernando said nothing. His eyes flicked over her face, and something unfamiliar passed between them—an emotion she couldn’t quite place. Regret? Anger? No, it was something else. But before she could process it, Fernando spoke, his voice colder than she’d ever heard it.

“You think I care about what you do?” he asked, stepping closer. His presence was overwhelming, and she fought the instinct to step back. “You’re not special, Y/N. You’re just another driver, trying to make it. If you think I’m here to validate you, you’re wrong. I don’t owe you anything.”

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. But instead of backing down, she lifted her chin, defiance burning in her chest. “I never asked for your validation. I just wanted to understand why you go out of your way to make me feel like I don’t belong.”

Fernando’s jaw tightened. For a split second, it seemed like he wanted to say something else, something real, but then he simply turned away, shaking his head.

“Get used to it, Bianchi,” he muttered before walking past her, leaving her standing alone with nothing but the sinking feeling in her chest.

As Y/N watched him walk away, frustration and confusion swirled within her. Whatever was going on between them—whatever tension was brewing beneath the surface—it wasn’t just in her head. But as much as she hated to admit it, Fernando Alonso was an enigma she wasn’t sure she’d ever unravel.

And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t ready to give up trying.

she tried yet another time.

“Do you have a problem with me?” Y/N stormed into the hospitality suite after another cold interaction.

Fernando didn’t look up from his cup of coffee. His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the mug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She stepped closer, her voice cracking slightly. “Every time we’re in the same room, you act like I’m a ghost. Is it because of my father?”

At that, his head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Don’t bring him into this.”

“Why not? That’s what it is, right? You think I’m just trying to ride his coattails?” She was shaking now, all the pent-up emotions spilling out. “I’m not him, Fernando. I never will be. But I’m here because I’m good at this—because I deserve it. I’ve done everything I can to prove myself, to you—”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he cut her off sharply, his voice low but dangerous. “I’m not your judge.”

“Then why do you treat me like I don’t exist? Like I’m nothing?”

There was silence. Fernando’s eyes darkened, the usual stoicism replaced with something… deeper. Anger? Pain?

“You don’t understand,” he finally muttered, standing abruptly and walking towards the door.

Y/N’s heart pounded. “Then help me understand.”

But he left without another word, leaving her standing alone, her heart heavier than ever.

time skip

Weeks passed, and the tension between them only grew. Y/N found herself dominating during races, yet her mind constantly swirling with thoughts of him. Every shared glance felt like a knife to her chest, but she couldn’t stop the feelings that had taken root deep inside.

Then, in one race, disaster struck. Y/N crashed. It wasn’t her fault, a freak incident, but the world spun around her as she crawled out of the wreckage, bruised and shaken. She couldn’t escape the memories of her father’s crash, the fear bubbling up.

She sat in the medical room, waiting for clearance, when Fernando stormed in.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he spat, eyes blazing with an intensity she’d never seen.

Y/N looked up, tears already welling in her eyes. “I didn’t—”

“You could have gotten yourself killed!” His voice broke, and that’s when she realized—he wasn’t just angry. He was scared.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, unsure if she was trying to convince herself or him.

“No, you’re not.” His hand came up to grip the back of his neck, the strain clear in his posture. “You’re reckless, Y/N. Just like him.”

The mention of her father felt like a slap. “Don’t you dare—”

“You think I’m pushing you away because I hate you?” He stepped closer, voice shaking. “It’s the opposite. I care too much.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“You… you’re everywhere,” he continued, pacing now. “Every time I see you on the track, I think about how easily things can go wrong. About losing you. And I can’t—” He stopped, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I can’t lose you the way I lost him.”

Y/N’s heart raced, disbelief washing over her. “But… you’ve been so distant. You acted like you didn’t care at all.”

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “That’s because I’m a coward, Y/N. I thought if I kept you at a distance, I wouldn’t have to feel… this.”

She swallowed, her voice barely a whisper. “Feel what?”

Fernando took a deep breath, his hands dropping to his sides in defeat. “I’ve been falling for you since the day you arrived, but I was too damn scared to admit it.”

Y/N blinked, frozen in place. “You… you’re in love with me?”

“I didn’t want to be,” he admitted, his voice soft now, almost broken. “But I am. And every time you’re out there, I’m terrified.”

She stepped closer to him, her heart aching for the man in front of her. “You never had to push me away, Fernando. I’ve been in love with you for months.”

He looked at her, something shifting in his expression—like he’d finally allowed himself to feel everything he’d been holding back. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because it seemed like you hated me.”

He laughed, the sound bitter. “I could never hate you, Y/N.”

Without thinking, she closed the distance between them, her hand finding his. “Then don’t push me away anymore. Let me in.”

Fernando hesitated, but then, with a sigh of surrender, he pulled her into his arms, holding her like she might disappear if he let go. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “I’m so damn sorry.”

She buried her face in his chest, tears of relief spilling down her cheeks. “You’re forgiven.”

time skip

From that day on, everything changed. The tension between them melted into something warmer, something real. Fernando was no longer the distant figure she’d admired from afar; he was hers, fully and completely.

They spent their days sneaking moments together in the paddock, quiet confessions whispered in between practice sessions. He would steal kisses when no one was looking, his usual stern demeanor softening only for her.

“You’re impossible,” she teased one evening as they sat on the balcony of their hotel room, watching the sun dip below the horizon.

“And yet, you love me,” he smirked, pulling her closer.

Y/N smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “I do.”

Fernando’s arm tightened around her, his voice low but full of emotion. “You fell for me, Y/N. But I fell harder, you know?”

She chuckled. “Maybe. But I'm catching up.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, the weight of the world no longer pressing on either of them. “I’m never letting you go.”

And for the first time, Y/N believed him.