#a bitter hate-filled rivalry

[greengoblinswifey]

Between Takes- Nicholas Chavez x Actress!Reader

summary— you and Nicholas Chavez navigate a tumultuous on-screen rivalry that evolves into a passionate off-screen romance. amidst teasing banter and sizzling tension, a rehearsal kiss blurs the lines between acting and reality.

warnings— enemies to lovers, unprotected sex, oral(f receiving), L bombs, fluff, established relationship.

You and Nicholas play rivals in a popular Netflix show. Your characters are constantly butting heads, with heated confrontations in almost every scene. The fans love the tension, and it’s one of the key dynamics of the show. Behind the scenes it’s the same, but there’s an undeniable spark between the two of you, though neither of you admits it. You’ve developed a bit of a love-hate relationship on set, filled with teasing, sharp comments, and banter that everyone assumes is just your way of staying in character though sometimes it gets overbearing.

One day, after a particularly intense scene, you find yourself doing an interview for a popular entertainment magazine. Sitting across from the interviewer, you try to maintain your composure, but the thoughts of Nicholas linger.

“So, how’s your chemistry with your co-star, Nicholas?” the interviewer asks, a teasing glint in her eye.

You chuckle, rolling your eyes slightly. “Honestly, working with him is like wrestling a bear. He’s arrogant, sometimes late, and way too confident for his own good. The edits are getting to his head.”

The interviewer laughs, and you realize you might have said a bit too much. But it’s all in good fun, right?

“And what about those heated confrontations you have on screen? Are they as fiery off-screen?”

You smirk. “Oh, absolutely. We love to argue. I think it’s half the reason the show is so popular and we’re able to make the show as real as possible.”

The interview ends, and as you step out, you see Nicholas leaning against a wall, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“So, I heard your little interview. Arrogant, huh?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You cross your arms, feigning indifference. “What can I say? It’s a talent of yours.”

“And what about that kiss scene we have to rehearse today? Think you can handle it?” His voice drops lower, a challenge hanging in the air.

You raise an eyebrow, feeling a rush of excitement. “Please. I’m not the one who needs to worry about handling it.”

As the day progresses, you can’t shake the tension in the air. During a break, Nicholas corners you in the hallway. “You know, I didn’t appreciate what you said in the interview,” he says, his voice low and serious.

You smirk. “I thought we were just having fun. Can’t handle a little friendly competition?” His gaze sharpens, and he steps closer. “It’s not just competition, is it? There’s something more.”

“Like what? A deep-seated desire to kiss my rival?” you reply, your voice laced with sarcasm.

But beneath the teasing, you both feel it, an electricity that has been building over time.

“You might just find out how good I am at kissing,” he says, smirking again, and your heart races at the thought.

The real shift happens during a major storyline arc where your characters have to share a kiss, something neither of you expected. As you both prepare for the rehearsal, the tension is palpable.

When it’s time to kiss, the world around you fades away. The rehearsal kiss is intense, full of the chemistry that’s been simmering beneath the surface. Your heart races as his lips touch yours, igniting something deep within. It’s a spark you’ve both tried to ignore, but now it feels undeniable.

As the kiss breaks, you both stand there for a moment, breathless. “Well, that was, unexpected,” Nicholas says, running a hand through his hair, his usual confidence wavering.

“Yeah, I didn’t think it would feel like that,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Nicholas takes a step closer, the air thick with unspoken words. “So, does this mean we’re not just bitter ‘enemies’ anymore?”

You chuckle softly, a smile creeping onto your face. “I guess it depends on how we handle the rest of the season.”

Nicholas smirks, leaning in slightly. “I can handle a lot, trust me.”

“Oh, I bet you can,” you reply, your voice playful but laced with flirtation.

The banter continues, but the teasing has a new edge to it now, hinting at the deeper connection you've both begun to acknowledge. The lines between acting and reality blur, transforming your playful rivalry into something far more passionate.

As you navigate your way through the show, the tension between you escalates both on and off the screen. The two of you find excuses to be near each other, whether it’s rehearsing lines or grabbing coffee between takes. Each moment feels charged, filled with unsaid words and lingering glances.

One evening, after a long day on set, you find yourselves alone in your trailer. Nicholas is leaning against the door, a mischievous grin on his face.

“You know, I think the show would be much better if we had more moments like that kiss,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“What are you suggesting? We start kissing off-camera too?” you shoot back, your heart racing at the thought.

He steps closer, closing the distance. “Maybe we should. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s watching.” You feel your breath hitch as he inches closer, the teasing in his eyes replaced by something deeper.

“Okay, then. Show me what you’ve got,” you challenge, heart pounding.

Nicholas leans in, capturing your lips again, and this time it’s not just for the cameras. It’s heated, passionate, and everything you’ve both been holding back. In that moment, you both know that the rivalry has turned into something much more complicated, and exciting. As you pull away, breathless and wanting more, you can’t help but wonder what this means for both of you moving forward.

A couple of weeks pass, and while your relationship deepens, it remains primarily physical with lots of kissing but no further progression. As the season approaches its finale, excitement and uncertainty linger in the air.

The end of filming party is at a lively club, filled with cast and crew celebrating the end of a successful season. Music pulses through the air, laughter and chatter surround you as you enjoy the night. You and Nicholas are together, and the playful touches become more frequent. He brushes his fingers against your arm as you talk, igniting warmth in your skin.

As the night goes on, you find yourselves in a corner booth, drinks in hand, laughter spilling between you. Suddenly, Nicholas pulls you closer, his hand resting on your thigh.

“I can’t believe we actually made it through that entire season without killing each other,” he jokes, his voice low and teasing. You lean in, a smirk on your lips. “I think I’ve managed to tolerate your presence.”

He raises an eyebrow, his expression playful yet serious. “Tolerate? Is that all? Because I think we both know it’s more than that.”

In a moment of spontaneity, you lean forward, capturing his lips in a heated kiss. The atmosphere around you dims, and all you can focus on is the way his hands grip your waist, pulling you closer. Gasps and laughter surround you, but you’re lost in the moment, oblivious to the eyes of the other guests.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathless, and a mixture of surprise and excitement dances in the air.

“Looks like we’re the talk of the party,” you say, glancing around at the surprised expressions on your co-stars’ faces.

“Let them talk. I don’t care,” he replies, his eyes dark with desire.

You share a lingering look, and before you know it, the night wraps up and you’re making your way back to your hotel room together. On the way, Nicholas receives a call for a quick interview about the season’s finale.

“I just have to say a few things. You good with that?” he asks, glancing at you.

“Yeah, go ahead,” you reply, your heart racing as he steps aside to take the call.

As he speaks, you catch snippets of what he’s saying.

“I just want to take a moment to say how much I admire my co-star,” he says, his tone sincere. “She’s incredibly driven, intelligent, and truly talented. I feel honored to have shared the set with someone as smart and passionate as her.”

You can’t help but smile, warmth spreading through your chest at his words. He finishes up the call, walking back toward you, a proud grin on his face.

“What did I miss?” he asks, wrapping his arm around you as you walk into the hotel.

“Just a little praise from your biggest fan,” you tease, leaning against him.

You both enter your hotel room, and the atmosphere shifts again, the earlier tension returning.

“I really appreciate what you said in that interview,” you admit, your voice softening.

Nicholas steps closer, a serious look in his eyes. “I meant every word. You’ve impressed me in ways I didn’t expect.”

Without another word, you lean in, kissing him deeply. The kiss ignites something fierce between you, and suddenly, he’s all over you, hands roaming, breath hot against your skin.

“I want you so bad,” he murmurs against your lips, his desire palpable. “I’ve been aching for you.”

Your heart races as you pull back slightly to meet his gaze, desire burning in your eyes. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

Nicholas pulls you in for another kiss, his hands gripping your waist as he backs you against the wall. The kisses become frantic as you lose yourselves in the moment, and soon enough, you’re moving to the bed.

Clothes are shed in a frenzy, and as you tumble onto the soft sheets, Nicholas takes his time exploring every inch of your body. He kisses a path down your stomach, sending shivers down your spine. When he reaches your core, he takes his time, skillfully working you to the edge. “You taste so good,” he whispers, his breath warm against you.

You’re surprised at how skilled he is with his tongue and he makes sure to use it to plunge inside you, drawing the sweetest moans from your lips. Your hands grip his hair and you grind against his face, his groans against your pussy making you shiver and squirm. The world melted around you, all you could focus on was the pleasure he was making you feel,

You feel the wave of pleasure building, and as you climax, you gasp his name, feeling your body quake beneath his touch.

Afterward, you’re both a tangle of limbs, breathless and glowing. Nicholas wraps his arms around you, holding you close as you catch your breath.

Once the haze of passion begins to settle, he looks deep into your eyes. “I want you to be my girlfriend,” he says, sincerity etched in his features. You smile, feeling a rush of happiness. “I’d love that.”

After a passionate night together with Nicholas eating you out, you both navigate your way through the press runs filled with playful touches and stolen kisses. Finally, the season premiere arrives, and excitement buzzes in the air.

As you both prepare for the red carpet, butterflies flutter in your stomach. You glance at Nicholas, who looks stunning in a tailored suit. He catches your gaze and smirks, making your heart race.

“Ready to blow everyone’s minds?” he asks, his confidence radiating. You roll your eyes playfully. “As if I’d let you steal the spotlight.”

The two of you step onto the red carpet, and a hush falls over the crowd as cameras flash. The buzz is palpable as reporters and fans whisper, remembering the long-standing rumors that you and Nicholas didn’t get along.

You strike a pose together, your bodies instinctively leaning into one another. “You both look amazing!” a reporter shouts. “Can you tell us about your chemistry?”

Nicholas glances at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s just as fiery off-screen as it is on-screen. Isn’t that right?” You nod, smirking. “Let’s just say it’s been a wild ride, but we make it work.”

As the cameras continue to flash, Nicholas takes your hand, pulling you closer. Suddenly, he leans in and kisses you, catching everyone off guard. Gasps and cheers erupt from the crowd, and the whispers of shock turn to delight.

“What’s this? Are you two an item now?” another reporter calls out, excitement in their voice.

You break the kiss, breathless but grinning, and glance at Nicholas.

“Guess we just made it official,” he says, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

You both continue down the red carpet, posing and kissing, basking in the spotlight as the rumors of your on-set rivalry dissolve into cheers of support.

During interviews, the two of you take turns praising each other, the chemistry undeniable. “She’s incredibly talented,” Nicholas says, his voice full of admiration. “I’m lucky to have her as my co-star.”

You blush at his words, feeling warmth spread through you.

“Nicholas has this incredible drive. It’s inspiring to work alongside him,” you reply, your smile wide.

Then the moment of truth arrives during a live interview when a reporter asks Nicholas how he feels about this new development in your relationship.

“I feel... I feel amazing. She makes me happy,” he says, his expression earnest. Then, almost as if he’s caught up in the moment, he blurts out, “I love her.”

Silence falls for a split second before your eyes widen in surprise. He blinks, realizing what he just said. “Uh, yeah, I love you,” he repeats, a mix of disbelief and affection in his voice.

“You do?” you ask, your heart racing. He nods, sincerity flooding his gaze. “Yeah, I really do.”

You’re momentarily taken aback, but then a smile spreads across your face, and you lean in, capturing his lips in a kiss as the crowd coos and cheers.

“I love you too,” you whisper against his lips, and everyone around you erupts in “Awws!”

The premiere ends on a high note, filled with excitement and love. As you both head back to the hotel, the energy is electric.

Once inside your hotel room, the door closes behind you, and Nicholas pulls you in for a passionate kiss.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are tonight,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands caressing your waist.

You shiver at his touch, feeling desire surge through you. “And you’re absolutely irresistible.”

Nicholas grins, his eyes dark with hunger. “I want you, all of you.”

With urgency, you both shed your clothes, losing yourselves in the heat of the moment. As he pulls you onto the bed, he worships your body with soft kisses and sweet words.

His pumps his cock a few times before rubbing the glistening tip on your wet pussy before slowly pushing in.

“You feel so good,” he breathes, his lips trailing down your neck. “You’re everything I’ve wanted.”

You moan softly, feeling the heat rise between you.

“And you’re all mine,” you reply, looking into his eyes with fierce determination.

You gasp his name as he starts to rut into you softly, his forehead on yours and you stare into each other’s eyes. He was your entire world, everything faded away as you felt his cock brush you cervix and his fingers reached between your bodies, rubbing your clit slowly.

With a shared understanding, you both fall into a rhythm of passion, bodies moving in perfect harmony. His hands explore your curves as he whispers sweet nothings, making you feel cherished and desired.

“You’re so so beautiful baby, I love you, you’re everything to me.”

The words almost bring you to tears but the constant brushing of his cock against your g spot made you focus more on the pleasure you were feeling. “Fuck I’m gonna cum baby, I need you to cum with me, cum around my cock okay?” You nodded frantically feeling the overwhelming feeling of being near your release.

As you reach your climax, everything around you fades, and all you feel is him, his voice, and the intimacy of the moment.

Afterward, you lay entwined, breathless and content. Nicholas brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze softening.

“You’re incredible. I’m so lucky to have you,” he says, kissing your forehead.

You smile, feeling a deep sense of love and belonging. “And I’m lucky to have you.”

In that moment, you both realize that you’re not just co-stars anymore; you’re partners, and this is just the beginning of your journey together.

[mysunshinetemptress]

I Hate Her

Leah Williamson x Reader

*I Hate Her Universe

Warnings: idk what this is but I’ve re written it five times so…

You and Leah are like oil and water, never mixing, always repelling. she couldn't stand you, and you can't stand her.

Your a second choice, an after thought, Leah thinks to herself unlike her, who's captained the young lionesses countless times.

She's a cocky bitch, a complete and utter asshole, you think to yourself. if you don't fit in her circle you're not good enough and you definetly don't fit.

You've fought against eachother forever for the same position, for the same chance and only once have you unwillingly shared it but with Sarina Wiegman now in charge of th lionesses you have both found yourselfs sharing an awful lot more.

The stale air of the locker room hung heavy, thick with the unspoken rivalry that crackled between you and Leah.

Leah sat at the far end, flicking through her phone searching for songs. Her laughter echoed across the room as she chatted with the other girls, a tight-knit group You'd never quite managed to penetrate. You were relegated to a corner, lacing up your boots quietly.

“Second choice,” the thought echoed in your head, a bitter mantra you’d been repeating since that stupid game at the olympics.

Leah, the golden girl, the darling of the Lionesses. And you? Just… you, always a step behind you thought to yourself as you watched her.

The metallic click of Leah’s boots on the floor punctuated the silence that had fallen after her laughter subsided. She turned, a casual flick of her hair sending a few strands cascading down her shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, landed on you in your corner. A flicker of something – not quite disdain, but certainly not warmth – crossed her face before she looked away.

You tightened the laces of your boots, knuckles white. The bitterness in your mouth tasted like bile. The Olympics. A tournament you’d both poured your heart and soul into, only for Leah to be the one to get the praise, the one to be plastered across every social media. You’d played your part, you started every game, played the majority of minuted, but it was always, Leah, never you.

A heavy sigh escaped your lips. You had to focus. Sarina’s training sessions were brutal, demanding every ounce of your concentration. Dwelling on Leah wouldn’t help. But it was hard not to when her very presence seemed to fill the room, a constant reminder of everything you weren’t, of everything you stupidly wanted to be.

You stood, stretching your legs, trying to loosen the tension that had settled in your muscles. Your gaze drifted back to Leah. She was now surrounded by a small group of players, their heads bent together in hushed conversation. You caught a glimpse of a shared joke, the eruption of giggles that followed. It was a world you weren’t privy to, a club with a strict membership policy, and you were firmly on the outside.

A sharp whistle pierced the air. Sarina had arrived. The chatter died down, and the team began to gather in the center of the room. As you walked towards the group, you felt Leah’s eyes on you again. This time, there was a hint of something else in her gaze, something you couldn’t quite decipher. It wasn't the usual dismissive glance, but something more… calculating?

The training session was intense, a relentless series of drills and scrimmages designed to push you to your limits. You found yourself paired against Leah more than once, the familiar rivalry igniting a fire within you. You matched her tackle for tackle, pass for pass, determined to prove yourself.

During a brief water break, you stood apart from the main group, catching your breath. You felt a presence beside you and turned to find Leah standing there, a water bottle in her hand.

"You know you're supposed be a professional the least you could do is play like one."

The words hung in the air, sharp and laced with the familiar sting of Leah’s thinly veiled insults. You stared at her, chest heaving from the exertion of the training session, the cool water suddenly feeling like ice in your stomach.

“Excuse me?” you managed, your voice tight.

Leah took a swig from her bottle, her eyes never leaving yours. “Don’t play dumb. You’re always so… hesitant. Like you’re afraid to actually commit.”

A surge of anger, hot and immediate, flared within you. “Hesitant? I’m not hesitant. I’m playing smart.”

“Smart?” Leah scoffed, a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes. “Or are you just scared of making a mistake? Of looking bad?”

You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. “I’m not scared of anything.”

“Then why do you always hold back?” Leah challenged, taking a step closer. “You have the talent. Everyone can see it. But you never fully utilize it. You’re always playing second fiddle.”

The words struck a nerve, hitting too close to the truth. The “second choice” mantra echoed in your head, louder than ever. You wanted to scream, to tell her that she had no idea what you were going through, that her constant jabs were chipping away at your confidence. But you held back, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Instead, you met her gaze, your own eyes hardening. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile played on Leah’s lips. “And when will that be? When Sarina finally benches you for good?”

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the break. Leah turned to rejoin the group, tossing her water bottle to a teammate. As she walked away.

"Second Choice" it was all you would be and as you started the first match of the international break on the bench it felt evermore real.

The bench felt cold, the plastic unforgiving against your thighs. The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, a soundtrack to someone else’s story. You watched the match unfold from the sidelines, your gaze fixed on the field, but your mind was a whirlwind of Leah’s words. Second choice. Hesitant. Scared. They echoed in your head, a relentless chorus.

Every time Leah touched the ball – a precise pass, a commanding tackle, a driving run – the sting of her words intensified. She was everywhere, orchestrating the play, leading the team, basking in the adoration of the crowd. You clenched your jaw, trying to suppress the wave of resentment that threatened to engulf you.

The first half ended with the score still level. As the players trudged off the pitch, Sarina’s gaze swept across the bench, finally landing on you. “Warm up,” she instructed, her voice crisp and businesslike.

The second half began, and you were finally on the pitch. The game was fast-paced and physical, with both teams battling fiercely for control. You threw yourself into every tackle, chased every loose ball, determined to make an impact.

You found yourself in a one-on-one situation with an opposing forward, her eyes locked on the goal. You anticipated her move, intercepting the pass with a clean tackle. The ball bounced to your feet, and you didn't hesitate. You drove forward, weaving through the midfield, your eyes scanning the field for an opening.

You spotted a Hempo making a run down the wing and threaded a perfectly weighted pass through the defense. The crowd erupted as your teammate slotted the ball into the back of the net. The roar was deafening, a wave of pure elation washing over you.

You're exstatic letting out a yell getting ready to embrace the forward only to be stopped by. body crashing into you and pulling you toawrds them in celebration but as fas as it comes its gone.

You stumbled back a step, blinking in surprise, before realizing it was Leah who had collided with you, her arms wrapped tightly around you before shes gone again nearly all the way back beside Mary her head dropped in embarssment.

The fleeting embrace, the briefest moment of physical contact, had sent a jolt of unexpected warmth through you. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving you slightly disoriented and more than a little confused. Leah’s hasty retreat, her downcast eyes, suggested embarrassment, not camaraderie. The naive hope that this was a turning point, a thawing of the icy relationship, began to crumble.

The post-match atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. The locker room was abuzz with chatter, players replaying key moments of the game, congratulating each other on the win. You sat quietly in your corner, replaying the assist in your mind, the surge of adrenaline still coursing through your veins. It had been a good play, a crucial contribution to the victory. But the lingering image of Leah’s brief hug, followed by her immediate withdrawal, overshadowed the moment.

Leah was surrounded by her usual group, their laughter echoing across the room. You caught snippets of their conversation – inside jokes, shared memories, a world you weren’t part of. The familiar sting of exclusion pricked at you.

The feeling of Leah's brief hug didn't leave you. It was a phantom sensation, a warmth lingering on your shoulders long after she’d pulled away. You kept replaying the moment in your mind: the sudden impact, the brief pressure of her arms, the almost hesitant way she’d pulled back, her eyes darting downwards.

It's not the only time she finds a reason to touch you briefly, to place her hands on you protectivly especially during training. Leah always finds away to have a hand on you, it send a shiver down your spine every time and everytime you think its a crack in hatred she has towards you she proves you wrong.

Leah’s touches became more frequent, more deliberate, but always followed by a sharp, cutting remark that negated any hint of warmth.

During a drill focused on defensive positioning, Leah’s hand landed squarely on your lower back, guiding you into position. The contact was firm, almost forceful, and sent a shiver down your spine. But as soon as she removed her hand, her lips curled into a sneer. “Honestly, you move like you’ve got lead in your boots. Try keeping up.”

Another time, during a scrimmage, you went in for a tackle, misjudging the timing. Leah, arriving a split second later, collided with you, her shoulder bumping against yours. She steadied you with a hand on your arm, her grip surprisingly tight. For a fleeting moment, her eyes met yours, and you saw a flicker of something that looked almost like concern. But it vanished in an instant, replaced by her usual icy glare. “Clumsy as ever,” she muttered, pulling her arm away as if your touch was contagious. “You’re lucky I was there to stop you from making a complete fool of yourself.”

The pattern was consistent. A touch, a brief moment of physical contact, followed by a verbal jab designed to sting. It was as if Leah was deliberately toying with you, offering a momentary connection only to snatch it away, reminding you of your perceived inferiority.

The physical contact became a source of anxiety. You found yourself tensing up whenever Leah was near, anticipating the inevitable touch and the subsequent insult. You started to avoid being near her as much as possible, a difficult task given your shared position and Sarina’s tendency to pair you together in drills.

One particularly grueling training session pushed you to your breaking point. During a high-intensity scrimmage, you and Leah found yourselves battling for possession near the sideline. You lunged for the ball, stretching your leg as far as it could go. Leah, arriving at the same time, her foot colliding with yours. A sharp pain shot through your ankle, and you cried out, falling to the ground.

Leah immediately crouched beside you, her face etched with concern. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice surprisingly gentle. She reached out to touch your ankle, her fingers brushing against your skin.

For a moment, the usual tension between you seemed to dissolve. You looked into her eyes and saw genuine worry there. But then, as other players gathered around, her expression hardened. She pulled her hand away, her voice regaining its usual edge. “Honestly,” she scoffed, “it’s always something with you. Can’t you even take a simple tackle?”

The pain in your ankle paled in comparison to the sting of her words. You pushed yourself up, ignoring the throbbing pain, and limped off the field. The concerned look on Leah’s face had vanished, replaced by a mixture of annoyance and disdain. It was clear that any momentary concern she had felt was fleeting, easily overridden by her ingrained dislike for you, and you couldn't help the way your blood boiled because of it.

You sit in the phsyio room, rolling your ankle back and fourth as they assess if you can play in the upcoming fixture agaisnt Sweden. You have to be able to play against Sweden.

The physio gave a tight-lipped nod. "It's a sprain, nothing broken. You'll be sore, but with ice and rest, you should be able to play against Sweden. Just don't overdo it in training."

Relief washed over you. Sweden. It was a crucial match, a chance to prove yourself, to finally silence the nagging voice of self-doubt. You couldn’t let a little sprain keep you off the pitch.

As you stepped out of the physio room, you almost collided with Leah, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. You froze, a mixture of surprise and apprehension tightening your chest. You hadn't expected her to be there.

"It's not broken." She says looking down at your foot, this weird feeling grows in your stomach as you stare at her.

"Shame, we would have done better without you."

The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken tension. Leah’s words, the feeling you once had is gone before you can even tell what it is.

“Leave me alone” you retorted, trying to mask the confusion swirling within you. But she doesn't she follows you down the hall towards your room.

"To busy trying to prove yourself, trying to prove you're not a second choice."

Leah’s words hung in the air, a cruel echo of your deepest insecurities. You stopped walking, turning to face her, the anger simmering beneath your skin threatening to boil over. “At least I have something to prove,” you retorted, your voice low and dangerous. “You’ve already been handed everything on a silver platter.”

Leah’s eyes flashed, a spark of genuine anger igniting within them. “Handed? I’ve worked just as hard as you, if not harder,” she hissed, taking a step closer. “Don’t you dare minimize my accomplishments.”

“Oh, I’m not minimizing anything,” you countered, meeting her gaze head-on. “You’re talented, I’ll give you that. But you also have the media eating out of the palm of your hand. Every mistake you make is brushed under the rug, while I have to fight tooth and nail for every scrap of recognition.”

Leah scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Oh, poor you,” she mocked. “Always the victim. Maybe if you spent less time whining and more time focusing on your game, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

The words were like a slap in the face, a brutal reminder of your perceived shortcomings. You clenched your fists, nails digging into your palms. You wanted to scream, to unleash all the frustration and resentment that had been building up inside you for so long. But you held back, taking a deep breath to compose yourself.

"I'm not in the mood to fight you right now Leah...I-I don't care that i'll never live up to you....I-I don't ever want to be an asshole like you."

A flicker of something – hurt? – crossed Leah’s face, but it was gone so quickly you almost doubted you’d seen it. She turned away, pacing a few steps down the hallway before turning back to face you, only she doesn't say anything she just stares at you as you walk away.

You don't see Leah after that, both of you making the conscious decision to not look let alone run into eachother but you can't avoid eachother forever especially not during a match.

You're starting along side the blonde, it's not the first time its happened (And it won't be the last) but still it sends a weird felling through you.

The pre-match tension was palpable. The roar of the crowd, a sea of yellow and blue, vibrated through the stadium. You stood in the tunnel, the cool air a stark contrast to the nervous sweat prickling your skin. Beside you, Leah stood ramrod straight, her gaze fixed ahead, a picture of focused intensity. You avoided looking at her, your stomach twisting into knots.

As the teams walked onto the pitch, the roar intensified. You took your position, the familiar feel of the grass beneath your boots grounding you slightly. You glanced over at Leah, who was exchanging a few words with a teammate, a small smile playing on her lips. The sight of her relaxed demeanor only amplified your own anxiety.

The opening minutes were a blur of frantic passes and desperate tackles. The Swedish team pressed high, their energy relentless. You found yourself in a tight battle in midfield, trying to win back possession. A stray pass bounced towards you, and you instinctively reached out, controlling the ball with a deft touch. You looked up, searching for a teammate, and saw Medo making a run down the wing. Without thinking, you threaded a perfectly weighted through ball, splitting the Swedish defense. Medo latched onto the pass, her pace taking her clear of the last defender. The stadium held its breath as she took a touch and then, with a powerful strike, slotted the ball past the keeper.

The roar that erupted was deafening. You felt a surge of adrenaline, a wave of pure elation. It was a perfect assist, a testament to your vision and passing ability. You turned to celebrate, a wide grin spreading across your face. Leah, her face flushed with excitement, was running towards you, her arms outstretched.

You turn back ready to reset only to be met with a quick nod of approval from Leah, you nod back your stomach turning as a bubble of anxiety spreads through it.

Sweden push high and fast, everytime you seem to clear the ball they are back knocking on the door, and everytime you come up agaisnt Fridolina Rolfo, she's amazing and you're sure you'll be buzzing about playing against her as soon as the match is over but right now she won't leave you alone.

"Surpried they started you today, you're more of an 88th minute sub." she says shoving you slightly as you push back trying to defend a corner.

It's late in the second half, with the score still 1-0, Sweden launched a desperate attack. A dangerous cross was whipped into the box, and a Swedish forward rose above the defense, heading the ball towards goal. You instinctively threw yourself in front of the shot, blocking it with your chest. The impact winded you, but you managed to clear the ball away.

You crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. The wind had been knocked out of you, and a sharp pain radiated through your chest. You closed your eyes, waiting for the pain to subside.

Frido scoffs "Probably the best save of your career, shame you're still how do you say...second choice."

Frido gets pushed asied quickly after as you curse at yourself for letting it get to you.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You opened your eyes and saw Leah kneeling beside you, her face etched with concern. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice laced with worry.

You managed a weak nod, sucking in a breath "Fine." you push yourself up and walk back to your position ready to go again, the faster this restarts the faster its over.

The match is nearly over when it happens , theres nothing you can do but watch your running across coming to close Frido down just outside of the box when Leah appears sliding perfctly to catch the ball as Frido falls just over her.

Leah scrambled to her feet, her eyes flashing with a mix of triumph and adrenaline. She quickly distributed the ball before the ref calls time as Frido shouts for a free and shouts out in swedish with distain.

Your stomach twists again as you catch Leah staring at you as you clap the fans and walk around the pitch before dropping your head and heading down the tunnel.

[sweetblinginrose]

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖗,

(OS Eddie Munson x fem!reader geek)

summary: Rival Dungeons and Dragons reader who has a tournament and ends up without clothes. Oops…

word count: 6,6k +

warnings: obv +18, rivalry, unprotected sex, asphyxiation, bad language, cumming inside, female masturbation, culilingus.

a/n: hey lol, i wrote this half asleep so idk how it turned out, i'll see if it's any good or not later, so if there is something wrongly translated or that you don't find makes sense, pls let me know, hugs!

oh and don't copy my idea, it's my own huh 🦄

masterlist

part 2 !!

━━ ✧♡✧ ━━ ✧♡✧ ━━ ✧♡✧ ━━

The Sith Order.

All the members of the Hellfire Club and your group, The Sith Order, maintained a cordial and mutually respectful relationship, with the exception of the tense rivalry between you and the opposing leader, the insufferable Eddie. You hated him so much, especially now that you had bet your grand dice, which your brother had given you as a gift.

The abandoned cabin loomed like a shadow among the trees of the forest, a forgotten refuge that now housed your group of friends and your imaginary adventures. Inside, the air was filled with a smell of dampness and earth, a constant reminder of nature reclaiming its space. The once cozy and lived-in furniture was now covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs that wove complex patterns in every corner.

The sofa, your throne, was worn out, with upholstery torn in several places, revealing the crumbling yellowed foam at the touch. Dark stains of time adorned the fabric, and every time you moved, a cloud of dust rose like a sigh from the cabin itself. Sitting there, on your stomach, with a furrowed brow and crossed arms, you couldn't help but feel the rough and cold texture of the sofa against your skin, a reminder of your recent defeat in the game.

Around you, the tables wobbled on uneven legs, their surfaces scratched and marked with circles from past glasses. The faded and torn curtains hung sadly from the windows, allowing dim light to filter in and illuminate the dust particles in the air. The floor creaked under the weight of footsteps, and each floorboard seemed to tell a story of abandonment.

In this space, time seemed to have stopped, and every object told the story of a better past now eclipsed by neglect and desolation.

You felt as if a storm was brewing inside you, a mixture of frustration and challenge that consumed you as you sat on the sofa. The defeat in the friendly game was a thorn in your pride, a small battle lost in a war that seemed to extend beyond the game of dragons and dungeons. The rivalry with the Hellfire Club and its leader, Eddie, was the real dragon to be defeated, and every thought of him fueled the flames of your resentment.

Eddie, with his arrogant smile and his ability to bring out the best in his players, had become the antagonist not only in the game, but in your mind and life. You imagined him, with his tousled hair and carefree attitude, as the perfect villain for your campaign, one who seemed to enjoy every time his group came out victorious. The idea that he might consider your defeat as a point in his favor was unbearable.

While your friends continued with the campaign, laughing, stressed, focused, and rolling dice, you immersed yourself in your thoughts, planning your next move. It was not just a matter of winning a game; it was a matter of honor, of proving that your group could overcome any challenge, even the infamous Hellfire Club. Determination began to replace frustration, and although you still felt the bitterness of defeat, there was now a new goal on the horizon: to defeat Eddie and prove that your group was the best in the fantasy game.

But... were you really prepared for tonight?

...

Eddie, with a sly smile and a spark of malice in his eyes, steps forward to greet you in the lair of the Hellfire Club, the basement of the institute, the setting of countless campaigns and now the battlefield of your latest challenge. As the girls from your club gather in the space, filled with detailed maps and meticulously painted character figures, Eddie focuses on you, his most formidable rival.

"Welcome, oh great 'Mialee!'" he exclaims with an exaggeratedly theatrical and ironic tone, making a reference to the elven mage character to underline his mockery. "I hope your spells are as sharp as your tongue this time, and that your strategies are less predictable than your expressions of defeat."

You can feel the gaze of the others on you, some with complicit smiles and others with cautious curiosity. Eddie continues, not missing the opportunity to poke at your pride: "I hope you brought your Dragon Crystal Die, because something tells me you're going to need all the luck you can get."

The lair resonates with the stifled laughter of the club members, and although you know that Eddie's words are part of the rivalry game, you also feel that each joke is a challenge to your skill and determination. With a firm gaze and unwavering resolve, you prepare to show that this battle will be different, that this time, Eddie will be the one left speechless at the end of the night.

"You are living proof that not everything that glitters in a treasure is gold, and in your case, it's not even copper," you say, challenging him as you look him in the eyes. With a confidence that resonates in every word, you confront Eddie, your eyes shining with the reflection of the candles that illuminate the basement. "I hope you haven't forgotten your part of the bet, Eddie," you say with a firm and clear voice that cuts through the tension in the room. "That Orb of Entwined Destinies you so proudly show off will be mine before the moon reaches its zenith."

The Orb of Entwined Destinies was a perfect sphere of dark crystal, with a core that seemed to contain a miniature nebula, ever-changing and slowly rotating. It was more than just an object for Eddie; it was a symbol of his ability to manipulate probabilities and destiny within the game.

The mention of the orb makes Eddie's smile falter for a moment, a crack in his facade of confidence. You know you have hit a sensitive point, reminding him that you are not the only one with something valuable at stake. "Get ready, Eddie," you continue, "because when I'm done with you and the Hellfire Club, that orb will be the trophy of The Sith Order, and your luck will change forever," you spit, leaving the boys dumbfounded, unlike his group of friends, as they were used to this kind of speech.

Lucas, with a carefree smile and a tone bordering on disbelief, tries to lighten the atmosphere that has built up in the room. "Come on, guys, don't you realize? It's just a dumb bet, right? There's no need to turn this into an epic battle or something..." he comments, his voice a thread of sanity in the tapestry of rivalry unfolding before him.

However, his attempt to lighten the mood is quickly quashed by a severe look from both leaders, who in a rare moment of unity gesture to him with a stern gesture and an almost synchronized "Shh!" The seriousness of their bet is not something they are willing to downplay, even with Lucas' playful interjection.

The battle between The Sith Order and the Hellfire Club unfolds in a fantasy world woven with the magic of dragons and dungeons, but the tension is as real as the beating hearts of the players. The room, illuminated by the flickering light of the candles, has transformed into an epic battlefield where each roll of the dice resonates like the clash of swords.

The Sith Order bravely faces the challenges posed by Eddie and his Hellfire Club. The dice roll on the table like distant thunder, dictating the fate of heroes and villains alike. You, The Sith Order, with characters ranging from cunning rogues to powerful sorceresses, maneuver through traps and puzzles that Eddie has crafted with malicious skill. The battle intensifies, with each strategic move and each spell cast adding layers to the unfolding narrative. Your characters fight hordes of infernal creatures, cross dark abysses, and decipher ancient codices to unravel the secrets that will lead them to victory.

As the night progresses, a tie seems imminent. The Hellfire Club has countered every attack, every plan, with a precision bordering on the supernatural. But you, with your leading character, are not willing to give up. With a mix of cunning and a bit of luck, you roll the dice for one last masterful play. Silence fills the room as the dice roll, dancing on the edge of the abyss between victory and defeat. Finally, they settle, and the numbers they show are the harbinger of a tide change. Your play has been successful, overcoming the defenses of the Hellfire Club and securing an unexpected triumph.

Eddie, with a look of genuine astonishment, acknowledges the victory of The Sith Order, albeit reluctantly. You, with a smile of satisfaction, accept the Orb of Entwined Destinies, now rightfully yours.

Amidst the euphoria of victory, one of the girls from your group, with a contagious smile and an overflowing energy, suggests an idea that captures everyone's attention. "How about we celebrate with some pizzas? It would be great to relax and enjoy the moment," she says enthusiastically.

The idea is met with a mix of nods and smiles. It is a comfortable and familiar proposition, a perfect way to lower the intensity of the night and simply enjoy each other's company. Everyone, except you and Eddie, seems to agree. The tension of the battle still clings to you, and the idea of sharing a table with Eddie and his club, even in a neutral and friendly environment, is something that you find hard to accept, just like Eddie.

However, aware that rejecting the offer could be seen as poor sportsmanship, both of you reluctantly agree with a gesture of resignation. "Fine, but only because I'm hungry," you murmur, trying to hide your reluctance behind a practical excuse. Eddie nods silently, his serious expression revealing his reluctant agreement.

And so, with victory still fresh and emotions running high, the group sets off to share a meal that promises to be as full of flavor as it is of interesting dynamics.

The night has slipped into a soft twilight when everyone, now relieved of the tension of the game, finds themselves in Eddie's van. The space is filled with laughter and the sound of bottles clinking together. "Cheers!" the group shouts for the sixth time, raising their beers in the air in a toast that has become a ritual.

Eddie's van, with its worn seats, stickers, dirt, and windows displaying the world passing by at high speed, has become a temporary sanctuary of camaraderie. With each new "Cheers!", the barriers between The Sith Order and the Hellfire Club seem to dissolve a little more, erased by the alcohol and the shared joy. Or so it seems...

Eddie's van snakes along the road, a lonely path flanked by the silhouette of trees gently swaying under the starry sky. In the front seats, silence between Eddie and you is a marked contrast to the bustle that reigns in the back, where the rest of the group sings enthusiastically game anthems, interspersed with laughter and the sound of opening beers.

You, with crossed legs and a beer can resting in your hands, get lost in contemplation of the nature that unfolds before your eyes. The moonlight bathes the landscape, transforming each tree and bush into dancing shadows that play hide and seek with each turn of the road.

Eddie, with his attention focused on the road, drives with a slowness that seems to respect the shared silence. His profile stands out against the occasional glow of distant street lamps, and although you are together in the cabin, an abyss of unspoken words stretches between you.

"Hey..." Eddie's voice breaks the silence, a word hanging in the air that seems to wait for permission to continue. He does not look away from the road, as if fearing that a moment of distraction could reveal more than he intends.

You turn your head towards him, an eyebrow arched in a mixture of surprise and curiosity. It is strange, this attempt at conversation. Outside the game, words between you have been as scarce as leaves in winter. You have never crossed more than strategies and challenges, and now, this attempt at dialogue seems as out of place as a barbarian in a library.

The tension between you is palpable, a taut thread that is woven with each kilometer the van devours. What words will follow that "hey"? Will it be an attempt at a truce, or perhaps the prelude to another challenge? Time seems to stand still as you wait for Eddie to continue, and in that moment, the van is not just a moving vehicle, but a space where two rivals might, just maybe, begin to see each other as something more.

"No... no, nothing. Forget it..." he murmurs softly, not taking his eyes off the road, but now looking more tense, sighing.

You decide not to insist, but this time not averting your gaze from those long locks, but discreetly examining them for some kind of response.

Eddie's van glides to a smooth stop in front of a caravan. As he turns off the engine, Eddie's expression transforms. The seriousness that marked his face during the journey gives way to a genuine smile, an open invitation to continue the night in a space that is as much a part of him as the game they both love. "Come on, guys! The party continues at my place!" he exclaims with enthusiasm, his voice resonating with the promise of more laughter and memories to be created. "We can drink as much as we want, and if anyone's interested, there's weed too. My uncle works nights, so we have the place to ourselves."

Friends and friends respond with a chorus of approval, their stumbling steps and complicit smiles sealing the tacit agreement to extend the celebration. One by one, they enter the caravan, a cozy space illuminated by dim lights and adorned with mementos from trips and caps. A bit messy, but cozy.

You, with a mix of caution and curiosity, are the last to cross the threshold. Your eyes meet Eddie's, and for a moment, the outside world fades away. Eddie closes the door behind you, a simple gesture but loaded with meaning. You stand there, still, remembering the unfinished conversation, the words that Eddie left hanging in the air.

Feeling the weight of the night and the looks charged with unanswered questions, you decide to join the group that has settled in the caravan. You grab a few more beers, your hand brushing against the cold surface of the can, and sit at one end of the narrow sofa from where you can observe the scene. Eddie, on the other hand, seems different tonight. The usual arrogance that characterizes him has given way to an unusual stillness, almost reflective. Was defeat the cause of this change? Or was there something deeper behind his silence?

With each passing minute, glances between you meet like swords in a silent duel, full of questions that neither of you dares to voice aloud. After an hour of this game of looks, you feel the need to escape, if only for a moment, from the intensity of the atmosphere.

"Where is the bathroom?" you ask, your voice strangely formal in the relaxed atmosphere. Eddie points to a small hallway at the back, and you get up, navigating the space filled with laughter and conversations until you reach the bathroom.

Inside, you find yourself facing the mirror, your reflection returning an image of someone who seems to be on the border between two worlds. You wet the back of your neck, not wanting to ruin your makeup, and step out, feeling refreshed but still restless.

As you pass through the narrow exit of the bathroom, you collide with the partially open door of Eddie's room, and curiosity gets the better of you. You discreetly peek inside, your eyes scanning the space that is so intimately his. The room is adorned with posters of rock bands, metal, clothes everywhere, magazines scattered on the floor, and action figures of fantasy heroes, a mix of passions that reveal facets of Eddie that you had never considered. On the bed lies an open diary with scribbles and handwritten notes.

Eddie, with his carefree smile, leans against the doorframe, watching you with curiosity as you try to process the mess. "What are you doing here?" he repeats, his voice gentle but clearly amused by your confused expression. The scent of marijuana is evident, and his eyes, although red, gleam with a mischievous spark. He seems not to mind in the least your presence in his personal sanctuary. You feel like an intruder in an unknown world, every object in the room telling a story that only Eddie knows. However, he, with that calm bordering on indifference, gestures for you to enter. "Come, I'll show you my collection," he says casually, and suddenly, the place transforms. What was chaos before now seems like an art gallery, each hanging T-shirt, each vinyl, and each magazine clipping is a piece of his identity. He guides you through his space, narrating anecdotes of concerts and trips, his voice a thread weaving a tapestry of lived experiences.

The initial embarrassment fades away, replaced by fascination at discovering the depth of Eddie's personality. And as he shares his world with you, the messy room becomes a map of his personal universe, a place that, despite the disorder, now makes sense.

As you survey the room with your gaze, something catches your attention and takes your breath away: a proudly displayed B.C. Rich guitar hanging on the wall.

It is a red and shiny beauty, with its aggressive shapes and air of mystery, a piece that any metal lover would desire. Your heart beats with excitement, not only because of the surprise of finding such a treasure in Eddie's room, but because metal is your passion, one of the many things you have in common with Eddie without even knowing it, a detail he is unaware of.

He notices your excitement and, with a mischievous smile, takes down the guitar and hands it to you. "It's all yours, at least for now," he says with a wink. You hold it in your hands with reverence, feeling the weight of the wood and the coldness of the metal.

With shyness but moved by the emotion, you ask Eddie to play something. He shrugs, regretting the lack of an amplifier, but he is not discouraged. With a mischievous smile, he starts "playing" the guitar silently, mimicking the sounds with his mouth. It's a parody, but there is something about his attitude that invites you to play along.

"Come on, guess which song this is," he challenges you, as he moves his fingers in the air and imaginary sounds of a song fill the room. You concentrate, trying to follow the rhythm and melody that Eddie creates. The silent notes seem to come to life, and suddenly, you recognize it. It's 'Time Is Right' by Whitesnake.

Laughter fills the room as you guess it, and Eddie nods approvingly. "I knew you were one of mine, babe," he says, and in that moment, the guitar is not just an instrument, but a bridge between two souls who share a hidden passion for metal and many other things.

A blush creeps up your cheeks, an unexpected warmth that takes you by surprise. The word "babe" resonates in your ears, a term so casual and yet, loaded with an intimacy you did not expect. It feels as if you are inside the pages of one of those erotic books your mother used to read in secret, where the protagonists, initially at odds, end up wrapped in a story of love and rough sex.

Eddie's gaze has become more intense, his eyes no longer just reflecting the reddish glow of a pot smoker, but also a different glow, deeper, provoked by your presence. There is something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel like you are the only person in the world at that moment, but at the same time, as if he is undressing you.

You find yourself returning his gaze, unable to look away from his eyes. There is a connection, an unspoken understanding that seems to transcend words. And while a part of you wants to laugh at the situation, at how absurd it is to feel like a character in a pornographic novel, you cannot deny the electricity in the air, that spicy tension that hangs between the two of you.

Eddie takes a step towards you, his proximity overwhelming, and although he does not say anything more, he doesn't need to. Words are unnecessary when the looks speak for themselves. And in that instant, in that messy room that smells of marijuana and freedom, you understand that sometimes, real life can be as surprising and exciting as the stories hidden within the pages of a book.

After that moment, the room seems smaller, as if the walls had closed in to witness the silence shared between you. You decide to break the tension with a nervous smile and a change of subject. "Hey... what did you want to ask me before, you know, in the van?" you ask, stuttering slightly as you feel Eddie's scent filling your nostrils.

Eddie leaned against the threshold of the door, just inches away, watching your lips adorned with an intense crimson and your lined eyes attentively. "Ah, that..." he wondered, feigning forgetfulness. "I think I wanted to say something about Dungeons and Dragons, right?" he inquired with irony, biting his lip as he laughed and crossed his arms.

None of this compared to the fantasies you had with Eddie. Let's admit it, you had imagined countless similar scenarios, all related to the game and its protagonist, Eddie. You had wished for him to touch you in the same way he caresses his guitar. You wanted to be that fucking guitar.

"I don't think I want to talk about that right now..." you whispered, slowly moving closer to Eddie, who raised an eyebrow and smiled widely, catching your hint.

"Well then, if you don't want to listen to me, why don't you shut me up?" he whispered near your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. He grabbed your belt, holding your short denim skirt, forcing you to be pressed against him. "I said, why don't you shut me up..."

Eddie played dirty even outside of his character. He wanted you to take the initiative, perhaps to mock you or further feed his ego, but you wouldn't allow that to happen. With confidence, you ran your tongue over your lips and approached his neck, whispering, "I don't plan on silencing you. I enjoy listening to you and narrating each campaign..." This excited him, caressing your shoulder and getting closer, causing your breasts to press against him, eliciting a reaction in his groin. "Then, shut me up. I know you've wanted to since you met me," you whispered, trying to provoke him, with some success.

He responded by pushing you against the wall, trapping you between it and his body, placing his thigh between yours and gripping your waist tightly, feeling the coldness of his rings against your bare skin. "What I've wanted since I met you is to fuck you on the Harken map, so that your screams scare away the undead lurking there..." he muttered with a deep voice, softly kissing your collarbone, causing a sigh to escape your lips. With captivating slowness, Eddie guides his lips to yours, each movement deliberate and filled with anticipation. When they finally meet, the kiss is like an explosion of fire, burning and passionate. His lips sink into yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless, and his tongue boldly slides in to explore every corner of your mouth from the very first moment.

As your lips entwine in a sensual dance, his hands find your breasts with a firmness that surprises and excites you at the same time. The pressure of his hands cupping your breasts sends a wave of pleasure through your body, making you involuntarily shudder at the intense and unfamiliar sensation. You never expected this reaction, but you find yourself completely captivated by the desire that Eddie awakens in you, leaving you craving more of his passionate touch.

Eddie suddenly stops, his fingers noticing the absence of the bra he expected to find. A mischievous spark shines in his eyes as he looks at you with a mixture of surprise and desire. With a naughty smile on his lips, he whispers in your ear in a seductive tone, "Wow, looks like the girl comes with nothing...," murmuring with a hoarse voice, his warm breath sending shivers down your naked skin. His comment, though bold, is imbued with an irresistible sensuality that makes you blush and feel even more drawn to him. It feels like you're in a scene taken straight from one of those forbidden novels your mother used to find in the library, but this time, you're the protagonist, enveloped in the heat of shared desire with Eddie.

With expert dexterity, Eddie deepens the kiss, intensifying each brush of his lips against yours. As his tongue explores yours with unrestrained passion, his thigh slides and exerts pressure between yours, finding its way under your denim skirt, lifting it almost completely, hitting just that sensitive spot that makes your whole body react instantly.

"Mhmmm..." an involuntary moan escapes your lips as you feel the perfectly placed pressure of his thigh against you, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You feel the need to ride that leg. You were very wet at that moment, so the touch was making you even wetter.

He moves it with precision between yours, creating a delicious friction that awakens sensations that make you gasp against his lips. Each movement is calculated, designed to provoke maximum pleasure, as his thigh finds that sensitive spot on your body, sending waves of excitement through you.

"You've got me so hard..." with a throaty whisper, he makes you aware of the effect you have on him, sending a thrill of excitement down your spine. His warm breath against your lips only increases the intensity of the moment. You feel your heart pounding hard as you let yourself be carried away by the passion swirling around you. Then, with seductive skill, he leans slightly down, his strong hands gripping the bottom of your thighs to open you up and wrap around his waist. The change in position allows his bulge to press directly against your underwear, which is exposed by the previous lifting of your skirt. A wave of desire surges through your being as you feel his prominence brushing directly against your sensitive and swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure that seem to electrify every fiber of your being.

The movements of his hips are precise and deliberate, each delicious brush torturous while engulfing you deeper into the abyss of pleasure. The sounds of your ragged breathing blend with the seductive whispers and soft moans escaping between hot kisses. You are completely at the mercy of the passion Eddie unleashes in you, lost in the whirlwind of overwhelming sensations that threaten to consume you completely.

The barely contained moan escapes your lips between kisses as you feel Eddie's gentle hip movement, a movement that sends you soaring to the heights of pleasure. Still with your thighs tightly wrapped around his hips, you give in to a wild and passionate kiss, with an intensity that defies any limit.

The kiss becomes a whirlwind of unabated passion, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly as you let yourself be carried away by the overwhelming sensations. Amidst the heat of the moment, you feel Eddie release one of your legs, changing the dynamics of the position and making you feel his bulge even more. Now, in this new position, the contact with his clothed cock is even more evident, causing you to instinctively arch your hips towards him, seeking more contact, more friction. You feel his hands grip your buttocks firmly, aggressively pressing you against his jeans, as if he is eager to feel you even closer.

The brushes and hip movements become increasingly intense, a symphony of pleasure that seems to have no end. You are completely immersed in the moment.

"Mmhm... fuck..." Between moans escaping your lips, accompanied by the sensual movements of your hips, Eddie suddenly stops, only to turn off the bedroom light and then guides you, still with your body on top of his, to his disheveled bed. He places you on your back on the tousled sheets, and positions himself above you, burning desire reflected in his gaze as he begins to explore your neck with hot kisses and licks. Each touch of his tongue against your skin awakens an electric sensation that makes you tremble with pleasure. His expert hands play with your nipples from inside your top, squeezing and teasing them while his thighs continue to exert delicious pressure on your intimate area, making you gasp with each movement, holding onto his back.

Slowly, your rival moves down your body with controlled impatience, licking and kissing your abdomen eagerly before quickly lifting your top and leaving you exposed before him. His lips find your breasts, and he kisses and licks them with devotion, as if they are the most delicious thing he has ever tasted. His long hair sometimes gets tangled in his face, but when you start gently tugging on it for pleasure, he moves away, leaving behind an incredibly enticing scene that makes you arch your hips forward instinctively.

While Eddie continues to lavish attention on your breasts, his hands begin to explore above your underwear with his ring finger, stroking gently from top to bottom. "Do you like it like this?" he asks between kisses and licks, asking you with a husky voice if you're enjoying yourself, establishing an intimate and desire-filled dialogue that only increases the sexual tension between you. "Or is it better like this?" he increases the speed of his touch.

Your silence prompts Eddie to grab your chin firmly, his fingers exerting a dominant and sexual pressure as he forces you to look into his eyes. When you finally respond to his question with an intense gaze, he slowly releases you, going back down to give attention to your body. His lips find your panties, and he kisses and licks them eagerly, soaking them with his saliva mixed with your own excited wetness.

With precise and deliberate movements, Eddie slowly pulls down your panties, placing soft kisses on your inner thigh as he slides them down your legs. Once he has removed your panties, his eyes meet your exposed, naked, and wet pussy, and he can't help but feel his cock throbbing with an unprecedented intensity, eager to satisfy the burning desire between them. You feel incredibly exposed under his heated gaze, but Eddie sees you as a work of art, a sight that excites him to the limit. Without wasting time, Eddie gives you a generic lick to your wet pussy, spreading your lips with his fingers to access your exposed clit directly. An overwhelming moan escapes your lips at the wave of pleasure that courses through your body, but Eddie quickly covers your mouth, whispering that you can't moan to avoid being heard in the common area where the others are.

With a mischievous smile on his face, Eddie realizes that the loud music has concealed any sound that would have revealed their activities in the bedroom. With your mouth still covered, he delves into the task with renewed eagerness, licking and sucking your clit with an intensity that makes your body arch in response. Each suck and each lick sends waves of pleasure through you, taking you to the edge of ecstasy over and over again. Your hips move instinctively in response to the overwhelming pleasure, but Eddie firmly controls them, maintaining a rhythm that takes you closer and closer to the precipice of pleasure. With an expert hand, he begins caressing your abdomen, slowly descending until reaching your clit, parting his mouth for a moment to touch it with his fingers before inserting two of them without any prior preparation.

The sudden stimulus causes your eyes to roll back, and your thighs tighten with force from the pleasure that overwhelms you, arching your back and moving your hips towards the direction of the long-haired person. In a short time, Eddie goes back to action, losing himself between your thighs as he continues moving his fingers with unwavering determination.

He continues like this for a few minutes, not stopping for a moment, until you feel that you're about to reach climax. You grab his hair with incredible strength, almost burying your fingers in its roots, urging him to continue, feeling like you're about to burst in his mouth. But just as you're on the edge of orgasm, he pulls away from you, leaving a thread of saliva mixed with your wetness as a separation between his mouth and your pussy, leaving you in a state of uncontrollable anticipation and desire.

Eddie, eager to satisfy his burning desire, hastily fumbles with his zipper and unleashes his erect cock, ready for action. Eddie's cock, although of average size, has a peculiarity that sets it apart: a curved shape that gives it a unique and distinctive appearance. Its thickness is notable, and the veins that run along its length add texture to its look. The skin that covers it has a pink tone, with a reddish hue indicating the excitement that engulfs it. A slightly glistening liquid adorns its tip. It is an image that reflects virility and desire, a promise of intense pleasure about to be unleashed.

"How does this look, huh?" he moves it, noticeably sensitive, gently rubbing it against your clit, giving you a mischievous look as if he's playing a game with you. Without warning, after lightly masturbating it, he quickly and decisively inserts it into you, completely surprising you and leaving you breathless. "Mhmmm..." he sighs deeply, as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, arching his head backward. From the very first second, he begins to thrust into you with a dizzying rhythm, penetrating you deeply over and over again. You are overwhelmed by the intensity of the pleasure that engulfs you, unable to articulate a single word as you completely surrender to the wild thrusts of the guy. Each thrust hits your insides with overpowering force, sending waves of ecstasy through your body.

Despite the initial discomfort from the lack of preparation, you find yourself immersed in a whirlwind of sensations that make you lose track of time and space.

You writhe under him, unable to hold back the moans that escape your lips as you completely surrender to the frenzied pleasure that consumes you. Although it hurts, you can't help but enjoy every thrust, every touch of his skin against yours ignites a burning fire inside you.

He grabs you by the neck with a firm but dominant hand, stopping any sound that could escape your lips. His warm breath brushes against your ear as he whispers with a husky and authoritative voice, "Shut up." The words, loaded with desire and determination, send a shiver down your spine, leaving you breathless and obedient to his command. You are completely surrendered to him, unable to do anything but obey his orders as you let yourself be carried away by the frenzied passion that burns between you. The orgasm that you had almost experienced less than a minute ago begins to resonate through your body again, but the intensity of Eddie's thrusts makes you feel like you're on the verge of a great climax. You are completely overwhelmed by the avalanche of sensations that envelop you, unable to resist the tide of pleasure that drags you into an endless abyss of ecstasy. Your increasingly intense and uncontrolled moans blend with the background music, creating a symphony of pleasure and ecstasy that fills the room. Eddie, releasing his hand from your neck, begins to hit your thigh and butt with a mixture of desire and unbridled passion. As he continues to thrust into you with force, his lascivious words fill the air, whispering in your ear with a deep and seductive voice.

He tells you how much he has wanted to fuck that pussy of yours, expressing his most intimate desires with an exciting crudeness that makes you shiver with pleasure. He calls you a slut with a tone of desire and adoration, celebrating your sexuality and the way you grip his cock with every thrust. Those words, charged with lust and desire, only increase the intensity of the moment, pushing you closer to climax with each word that comes out of his mouth.

You can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, every thrust of Eddie sending waves of pleasure through your body. He perceives it too, thanks to the way your pussy grips his cock, and he lets out a guttural grunt of satisfaction. You're on the edge of the abyss, about to let the ecstasy completely envelop you, while Eddie's lascivious moans and words push you towards the most glorious climax you've ever experienced

You feel the ecstasy completely enveloping you, a overwhelming wave of pleasure that shakes you to your core. Your walls contract tightly around Eddie's cock, squeezing with an intensity that makes him moan with pleasure. "Damn, you're so tight..."

Your body trembles uncontrollably, your eyes rolling back in your head as a guttural groan escapes from your lips, louder and more heartbreaking than ever before.

However, before you can fully recover from your orgasm, Eddie aggressively grabs you by the throat again, his expression a wild mix of concentration, excitement, and a hint of anger. With notable abruptness, he continues fucking with a renewed ferocity, as if taking revenge for something, but this time he has absolute control. The sensation of being taken with such force awakens a wild fire inside you, a overflowing passion that mixes with pain and pleasure in a symphony of indescribable sensations. You are completely immersed in the erotic game between you and Eddie, each thrust taking you further into the abyss of shared desire.

Thegame is now tied, each one taking the lead at different moments. You feel Eddie moaning with an unusual intensity, sensing that he's about to reach climax. You want to warn him not to come inside, but your throat is blocked by Eddie's firm hand, keeping you from articulating any words. A slight shiver runs through his body when he perceives your attempt to communicate your desire, but it's too late.

With a few final shaky thrusts, Eddie gives in to the avalanche of pleasure, releasing his hot and trembling liquid inside you. You accept his release without reserve, watching Eddie's expression as he does so. His face shows an unusual vulnerability, with arched eyebrows and a lost look somewhere in the room. His slightly parted lips release his moans of pleasure, and his hands grip your hips tightly, as if clinging to you for support.

After Eddie releases his liquid inside you, he slowly retreats and lies down by your side. Both of you remain staring at the ceiling, and suddenly, a nervous and uncontrollable laughter overwhelms you. Eddie looks at you strangely and asks what's happening. Between laughs, you respond that you just imagined that all of this was one of his campaigns, a kind of joke or experiment designed to test your limits and reactions. The surprise on Eddie's face turns into a knowing smile when he realizes that you have disarmed the tension of the moment with your humorous comment. Both of you give in to laughter, releasing the accumulated tension and sharing a moment of complicity after the unrestrained passion you just experienced together. It's an unexpected and light ending to an intimate and passionate encounter.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Bound by Affection Part 2

Emperor Geta x healer!reader x Emperor Caracalla

Warnings: Fluff, rivalry between siblings, Caracalla being sick and more himself from the movie

Authors Note: this is now based off of what we see pretty much in gladiator 2. I know the first one wasn’t the Geta and Caracalla we know, but this one is more like the Geta and Caracalla We know now

Masterlist | Previous 

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+  

The balance within the palace was fragile, each day bringing new challenges that deepened the complexity of your relationship with the two emperors. The shifts in their behavior were subtle at first, but you noticed the cracks forming beneath the surface.  

Caracalla’s once-boundless energy had waned. He still sought your company, his charm as sharp as ever, but there was a heaviness in his steps, a pallor to his skin that he couldn’t hide. His free-spirited nature was giving way to moments of brooding reflection, his illness creeping into every aspect of his life.  

“Don’t fuss,” he muttered one evening as you pressed a cool cloth to his fevered brow. His voice was weaker than usual, though he tried to mask it with a smirk. “You’ll spoil me, and then I’ll never let you leave.”  

“You’re in no position to argue,” you replied softly, brushing damp curls from his forehead.  

He sighed, his hand catching yours and holding it in place. “If you leave, the palace will turn to stone, and I’ll be the first to crumble.”  

The vulnerability in his voice broke your heart, and you leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Caracalla.”  

Across the palace, Geta was changing too. The carefree, charming young man who had once filled the halls with laughter now carried himself with a quiet strength. He had taken on more responsibilities, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the tension brewing around him.  

One afternoon, as you found him in the library poring over scrolls, you couldn’t help but notice the shadows beneath his eyes.  

“You’ve been working too hard,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.  

He looked up, his hazel eyes softening at the sight of you. “Someone has to, especially now.”  

“You don’t have to bear it all alone,” you reminded him.  

He reached for your hand, his touch grounding. “I know. You’ve been my anchor through all of this. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  

---  

The turning point came one fateful evening when the three of you sat in the palace gardens, the scent of jasmine heavy in the air. Caracalla leaned heavily against you, his energy waning despite his efforts to hide it. Geta sat across from you, his posture straight, his expression unreadable.  

“I hate this,” Caracalla muttered, his frustration palpable. “Being weak. Being watched. Every moment, people waiting for me to fall.”  

“No one’s waiting for you to fall,” you said, your voice gentle but firm.  

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, though the anger in his voice faltered as he looked at you. “Not you.”  

Geta’s gaze shifted between you both, his jaw tightening. “You’re not weak, brother. You’re just human.”  

Caracalla scoffed, though there was no real venom in his tone. “And you? Are you human, Geta? Or have you already ascended to perfection?”  

The jab hung in the air, but Geta didn’t rise to it. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice steady. “I’m doing what I have to, for Rome and for us. I suggest you do the same.”  

Caracalla’s laughter was bitter. “Spoken like a man who’s never felt the weight of mortality.”  

You squeezed Caracalla’s hand, drawing his attention back to you. “You’re both carrying different burdens, but that doesn’t mean you have to face them alone. I’m here for you—for both of you.”  

Geta’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the tension dissolved. “You’re too good to us,” he murmured.  

---  

As the weeks passed, Caracalla’s condition worsened, his sharp tongue and unpredictable moods becoming more pronounced. There were days when he barely left his chambers, his illness sapping him of the vitality he once wielded so freely.  

Geta, meanwhile, grew more composed, his presence a calming force in the palace. He had stepped into the role of leader with a grace that belied his youth, though the strain was evident in the quiet moments he shared with you.  

One evening, as you found yourself alone with Geta in the gardens, he finally let his mask slip.  

“I’m losing him,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.  

You placed a hand on his arm, your touch steadying. “He’s still here, Geta. And he needs you now more than ever.”  

“I’m not sure I’m strong enough,” he confessed, his hazel eyes clouded with doubt.  

“You are,” you said firmly. “I’ve seen it in the way you’ve cared for him, for Rome, for me. You’re stronger than you know.”  

He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around you as though you were his lifeline. “Don’t let me fall, amica mea.”  

“You won’t,” you promised, your voice muffled against his chest. “I’ll hold you up, just as you’ve held me.”  

---  

The palace was a different place now, the once vibrant halls shrouded in a somber quiet. But amidst the challenges, the bond between you, Geta, and Caracalla grew stronger, forged in the fire of shared struggles.  

Caracalla, even in his weakened state, refused to let go of his playful charm entirely. On one rare good day, he cornered you in the library, a mischievous glint in his eyes.  

“Tell me,” he said, leaning against the table, “what did I ever do to deserve someone like you?”  

“You mean besides being endlessly stubborn and impossible to deal with?” you teased, earning a weak laugh from him.  

“Exactly,” he said, his grin faltering as he looked at you. “You could have walked away a hundred times by now, but you stayed. Why?”  

“Because I care about you,” you said simply. “Both of you.”  

“And we’ll never let you regret it,” Geta said, stepping into the room and resting a hand on your shoulder. His calm presence was a stark contrast to Caracalla’s fiery energy, but together, they balanced each other—and you.  

As you stood between them, you knew that despite the challenges ahead, your bond was unbreakable.  

---  

The empire was shifting. Whispers of discontent stirred in the Senate halls, and the weight of leadership pressed heavily upon the two brothers. With each passing day, the strain on their relationship grew, their once-shared camaraderie fraying at the edges.  

Caracalla’s illness worsened, his temper becoming as unpredictable as a storm. His moments of charm and levity were fewer, replaced by bouts of frustration and melancholy. Yet, in his rare good moods, he was still the same man who could make you laugh with a sly comment or warm your heart with a fleeting touch.  

Geta, meanwhile, was transforming before your eyes. The carefree dreamer had hardened into a composed and calculating leader, his every action measured and deliberate. His affection for you remained constant, but his moments of vulnerability became rarer, hidden behind a mask of imperial duty.  

---  

One night, you found Caracalla in his chambers, staring out at the city. The soft glow of oil lamps illuminated his pale features, and the tremor in his hands as he gripped the windowsill did not escape your notice.  

“Caracalla,” you said softly, stepping into the room.  

He didn’t turn, his voice bitter as he spoke. “The city sleeps, unaware of how fragile it all is. They praise us as gods, but look at me. A god who can’t even stand without trembling.”  

You approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re no less powerful because of this illness. Your strength isn’t just in your body—it’s in your spirit, your will.”  

He turned then, his dark eyes searching yours. “And what happens when the will fades too? When all that’s left is a hollow shell?”  

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over his skin. “Then you lean on the people who love you. You’re not alone in this, Caracalla. I won’t let you face it alone.”  

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the vulnerable boy he once was peeked through the cracks. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured. “Too good for either of us.”  

---  

Geta, ever the steadying force, had thrown himself into his duties with relentless determination. He spent long hours in the Senate, navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics with a sharp mind and unwavering resolve.  

You found him late one evening, still seated at his desk, scrolls and reports spread before him. His head rested in his hand, exhaustion etched into his features.  

“Geta,” you said gently, setting a cup of wine beside him. “You need to rest.”  

He looked up, his hazel eyes weary but warm as they met yours. “There’s too much to do. Rome doesn’t wait.”  

“Rome needs you strong, not burnt out,” you replied, taking his hand and tugging him away from the desk.  

He allowed you to guide him to the couch, his resistance half-hearted. “You’re the only one who can talk sense into me, amica mea.”  

“And don’t you forget it,” you teased, earning a faint smile from him.  

As he leaned back, his head resting against the cushions, you sat beside him, your fingers brushing through his curls. He closed his eyes, his shoulders relaxing under your touch.  

“Sometimes I envy him,” he admitted quietly, his voice almost lost in the silence of the room.  

“Caracalla?” you asked, surprised.  

“He still has you to distract him,” Geta said, his tone tinged with sadness. “I’ve buried myself so deeply in this role that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to just be... me.”  

“You haven’t lost yourself,” you assured him. “You’ve grown, yes, but the man I care about is still here, behind all the responsibility. And I’m not going anywhere, Geta. You don’t have to face this alone.”  

He reached for your hand, holding it tightly. “You’re my light in all of this. Without you, I’d be lost.”  

---  

The tension between the brothers reached a boiling point during a Senate meeting. Caracalla’s fiery temper clashed with Geta’s calculated calmness, their differing visions for Rome threatening to tear them apart. You intervened before their argument could escalate further, pulling them aside into a private chamber.  

“This has to stop,” you said firmly, looking between them. “You’re both fighting for the same thing—a stronger Rome. You’ll never achieve that if you keep tearing each other down.”  

Geta’s jaw tightened. “He refuses to see reason. His impulsiveness endangers everything we’ve worked for.”  

Caracalla scoffed, his tone biting. “And your obsession with control makes you blind to anything outside your narrow vision.”  

“Enough!” you snapped, startling them both. “You’re brothers. You’ve been through too much together to let this divide you.”  

They fell silent, their gazes turning to you.  

“I love you both,” you continued, your voice softening. “But I can’t watch you destroy each other. You’re stronger together than apart. Find a way to make this work, for Rome and for yourselves.”  

The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, and slowly, they both nodded.  

---  

That night, the three of you sat together in the gardens, the tension from earlier giving way to a tentative peace. Geta poured wine for all of you, his movements precise and deliberate, while Caracalla leaned against you, his head resting on your shoulder.  

“We’ll find a way,” Geta said quietly, his hazel eyes meeting yours.  

“We will,” Caracalla echoed, his voice laced with determination.  

You smiled, hope blossoming in your chest. Despite the challenges ahead, you knew that as long as you stood together, you could face anything.  

--- 

The palace had become a volatile place, the air thick with unspoken tension. Caracalla’s illness, far from softening him, had hardened his demeanor. The playful charm he once wielded so effortlessly had given way to a sharper edge, his words cutting and his temper volatile. He moved through the halls like a storm, demanding absolute loyalty from those around him.  

You found him one evening in the atrium, pacing like a caged animal. His tunic hung loosely on his frame, a testament to his deteriorating health, but his eyes burned with a fierce intensity.  

“Caracalla,” you called gently, stepping into the room.  

He turned sharply, his expression unreadable. “What is it now? Come to lecture me, like Geta?”  

You took a cautious step forward, your voice calm. “I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here because I care about you.”  

His laugh was bitter, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Care? You care for a dying man who can barely command his own body, let alone an empire?”  

“You’re still the same man I’ve always cared for,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze.  

He stepped closer, his dark eyes searching yours. “Then prove it. Stay by my side. When they whisper about my failures, remind them who I am.”  

“Caracalla,” you murmured, reaching out to touch his arm.  

He caught your hand, his grip firm. “Do you love me?”  

The rawness of his question took you by surprise. “Of course I do,” you replied without hesitation.  

His expression softened, if only for a moment, before the hardness returned. “Then don’t pity me. Stand with me as my equal, not as my nursemaid.”  

---  

Geta, on the other hand, had become a beacon of stability in the chaos. His calm, measured approach to leadership was a stark contrast to Caracalla’s fiery unpredictability. Yet even he could not mask the strain of their growing rift.  

You found him in the Senate chambers late one evening, his head bowed over a map of Rome. The room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face.  

“Still at it?” you asked, stepping beside him.  

He looked up, his hazel eyes weary. “Someone has to clean up the mess he leaves behind.”  

“Geta…” you began, but he shook his head.  

“I’m not blind to what’s happening,” he said quietly. “He’s slipping, and I can’t reach him. Every decision he makes pushes us further apart.”  

“He’s scared,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.  

Geta sighed, leaning into your touch. “Fear doesn’t excuse recklessness. Rome can’t survive on fear alone.”  

“You’re both stronger together,” you reminded him. “Find a way to bridge this gap before it’s too late.”  

He reached for your hand, his grip warm and steady. “I don’t know if it’s possible anymore. But for you, I’ll try.”  

---  

The fracture between the brothers reached a breaking point during a meeting with the Senate. Caracalla’s impatience boiled over, his temper erupting as he dismissed the senators’ concerns with a wave of his hand.  

“Enough!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. “I am not here to beg for your approval. I am Rome. You will follow my commands or face the consequences.”  

The room fell silent, the senators exchanging uneasy glances. Geta, seated beside him, spoke calmly. “They are not your enemies, Caracalla. They are our allies, and we must treat them as such.”  

Caracalla turned to his brother, his expression cold. “Allies? They are vultures, circling for scraps. Don’t mistake their flattery for loyalty.”  

The tension was palpable, and you intervened before the situation could escalate further.  

“Enough,” you said firmly, stepping between them. “This isn’t the time or place for this.”  

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to you, his jaw tight. “Stay out of this.”  

“I won’t,” you replied, your voice unwavering. “You’re brothers, not enemies. If you tear each other apart, Rome will fall with you.”  

Geta rose from his seat, his tone measured but firm. “She’s right. We can’t afford to let our differences destroy everything we’ve built.”  

Caracalla’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, his silence speaking volumes.  

---  

Later that evening, you found Caracalla in the baths, his expression distant as he gazed at the water’s surface. You sat beside him, the silence between you heavy.  

“Do you ever wish things were different?” he asked suddenly, his voice soft.  

“All the time,” you admitted.  

He turned to you, his vulnerability laid bare. “I don’t want to lose him, or you. But I don’t know how to stop this spiral.”  

“You start by trusting us,” you said, taking his hand in yours. “We’re not your enemies, Caracalla. We’re your family.”  

He nodded slowly, his grip on your hand tightening. “I don’t deserve you.”  

“You deserve more than you think,” you replied, leaning closer.  

---  

Meanwhile, Geta sought solace in your presence, his moments of vulnerability growing more frequent. One evening, as you shared a quiet moment in the gardens, he spoke of his fears.  

“I’ve always admired him,” Geta confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “His fire, his determination. But now, I wonder if that fire will burn us all.”  

“It won’t,” you said firmly. “Because you’ll be there to temper it, just as he tempers your reserve. Together, you balance each other.”  

He looked at you, his hazel eyes filled with gratitude. “And you balance us both. Without you, I don’t know where we’d be.”  

---  

The path ahead was uncertain, the weight of their roles as emperors pressing heavily upon them. Yet, as the three of you stood together, you knew that love—complex and imperfect as it was—would be your guiding light through the storm.  

---

The shift in Caracalla’s demeanor had grown sharper, and the palace felt it. He moved with a predator’s confidence, his steps echoing through the halls as servants scrambled to avoid his gaze. Power radiated from him, but so did a sense of chaos. His illness, now a public secret, didn’t weaken him in the eyes of others—it made him all the more dangerous, as if compensating for his failing body with sheer force of will.  

In stark contrast, Geta embodied a quiet stability. Where Caracalla demanded, Geta negotiated; where Caracalla ruled by fear, Geta sought respect. Yet even he was changing, his patience thinning under the weight of his brother’s antics and the empire’s demands. The only thing that kept their growing animosity from boiling over was you.  

---  

One evening, Caracalla summoned you to his private quarters. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the brazier in the corner. He stood by the window, gazing out at the city with a glass of wine in his hand.  

“Do you know why I called for you?” he asked without turning around.  

“I have an idea,” you replied, keeping your tone light.  

He turned then, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Do you?”  

There was an edge to his voice, a challenge in his gaze. You stepped closer, undeterred. “You’re testing me.”  

He smirked, the expression both cruel and amused. “I test everyone. Why should you be any different?”  

“Because I’m not just anyone,” you replied firmly.  

He set the glass down, closing the distance between you in a few swift strides. “No, you’re not,” he said, his voice low. “You’re the one thing in this entire empire I can’t control, and it drives me mad.”  

Your breath hitched as his hand came up to cup your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. “But I don’t want to control you,” he continued. “I want you to stand beside me. To remind me that I’m not just a tyrant, even if that’s what they all see.”  

“You’re more than that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.  

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your temple. “Stay with me tonight. I need you.”  

---  

Across the palace, Geta sat alone in the gardens, the cool night air doing little to soothe the storm within him. When you found him, his expression was distant, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.  

“Geta,” you said softly, sitting beside him.  

He didn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on the fountain ahead. “I envy him,” he admitted after a long silence.  

“Why?”  

“He takes what he wants without hesitation,” Geta said, his voice laced with bitterness. “Meanwhile, I hesitate, I overthink, and I lose. Not just power, but… you.”  

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. You reached out, placing a hand over his. “You haven’t lost me.”  

He turned to you then, his hazel eyes filled with a mixture of hope and doubt. “Haven’t I? Every time I see you with him, I wonder if there’s any room left for me.”  

“There’s always room for you,” you said firmly, leaning closer. “You and your brother may be opposites, but you both have a place in my heart.”  

His hand tightened around yours, and for the first time in days, a faint smile crossed his lips. “You’re the only thing that keeps me grounded in all of this.”  

---  

The tension between the brothers finally erupted during a council meeting. Caracalla’s temper flared as he dismissed one of Geta’s proposals with a wave of his hand.  

“Your caution will be the death of Rome,” Caracalla sneered.  

“And your recklessness will destroy it faster,” Geta shot back, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.  

The senators exchanged nervous glances, clearly uncomfortable with the brewing conflict. You stood at the edge of the room, your heart pounding as the argument escalated.  

“This isn’t about Rome,” Caracalla snarled, stepping closer to his brother. “This is about you wanting to prove you’re better than me.”  

“I don’t need to prove anything,” Geta replied, his calm façade cracking. “Your actions speak for themselves.”  

“Enough!” you interjected, stepping between them. “This is not the time or place for this.”  

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to you, his anger momentarily replaced by something softer. “You’re defending him?”  

“I’m defending both of you,” you said firmly. “You’re brothers. If you can’t find a way to work together, Rome will tear itself apart.”  

Geta’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “She’s right. We need to set aside our differences.”  

Caracalla hesitated, his pride warring with his affection for you. Finally, he sighed, stepping back. “For now.”  

---  

That night, the three of you sat together in the atrium, the tension from earlier still lingering but softened by the shared bottle of wine. Caracalla leaned back against a column, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering light, while Geta sat beside you, his presence steady and comforting.  

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we weren’t emperors?” Geta asked suddenly, his voice thoughtful.  

“All the time,” Caracalla replied, surprising both of you. He looked at you then, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “But if I weren’t emperor, would I still have you?”  

“You’d have me no matter what,” you said, your voice filled with conviction.  

“And me?” Geta asked quietly.  

You turned to him, taking his hand in yours. “Always.”  

Caracalla smirked, though there was no malice in it. “She’s too good for us, Geta.”  

“Maybe,” Geta replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.  

As the night wore on, the three of you sat in comfortable silence, the weight of the empire momentarily forgotten. For now, you were just three souls bound by love, trying to navigate a world that demanded too much of all of you.  

Previous 

Hope you enjoyed it! Please consider liking and reposting! – Midnight💜 

[luvsferrariss]

˚⟡˖ ࣪. ʚ 💌 ɞ who said that I hate you? - OO1

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Synopsis: S/n, the rookie in Formula 1, challenges sexism in the sport, facing criticism, intense rivalries, and false accusations. Amid fierce disputes with Charles Leclerc and unexpected support, she fights to prove her talent.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Charles Leclerc x Female Reader! Red Bull Driver

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ warnings: Heavy sexism, fake news (??), Charles being a complete jerk, and angst. Let me know if I forgot anything.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ Author’s Notes: This was supposed to be a short story, but I got carried away and had to split it into two parts. If you guys like it, I’ll post part two tomorrow! English is not my first language, so there might be some mistakes, sorry 🤍

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ part two here! ✨

Formula 1 has always been a male-dominated sport, but who said that would stop rookie S/n from claiming her place? No, giving up was never on her list of options.

You’ve spent your whole life hearing that you would never make it into Formula 1, that you could never compete on equal footing with a man. But when you finally signed a contract with one of the top teams on the grid, you realized the biggest challenge wasn’t on the track—it was the people who wanted to see you fail.

Among those people was Charles Leclerc, one of the most beloved drivers among fans. Charles hated the attention you were getting, convinced that everything you did was just marketing and nothing more. He made sure to make that clear, with interviews filled with sharp remarks and intense on-track battles.

To Charles, S/n was nothing more than a lucky rookie. To S/n, Charles was just another jerk trying to bring her down—like so many before him.

“S/n, are you okay? S/n, if you’re alright, just answer!” Your engineer’s panicked voice echoed through the radio just as your car crashed into the tire barrier.

Everything happened in a blur. You had been fighting for the lead on the final lap against Charles Leclerc, and suddenly, you were struggling against your aching body to get out of your wrecked car.

“I’m fine. Just sore, but I’m fine,” you responded firmly as you stepped out of the cockpit.

Adrenaline still coursed through your veins. You kicked the car hard before shrugging it off, trying to calm yourself. The medical team rushed over, but you simply nodded and got into the rescue vehicle, removing your helmet and letting out a long sigh.

Back at the garage, you waved briefly at your trainer and went straight to your private room.

You threw your helmet into a random corner, kicked the couch, and collapsed onto it. The TV in the room replayed the crash. Anger boiled inside you. Without thinking, you got up and stormed back to the garage, determined.

“Do you have any idea what you just did, S/n?! You could have been seriously hurt… or worse!” Your PR manager, Adele, exclaimed as soon as she saw you walk in. Your trainer, Steve, and your public relations assistant, Bree, rushed to you.

You looked down at your race suit, still covered in dust. You brushed it off lightly, but nothing could erase the bitter taste of defeat burning in your throat.

“That clueless idiot is entirely to blame! He threw me into the wall on purpose! Did you see how he closed that corner?! Asshole.” Your voice dripped with indignation.

Steve and Bree immediately agreed, but Adele sighed, running a hand down her face.

“S/n, you can’t afford to lose your head over him. The media is already waiting outside, and I can guarantee they won’t go easy on you,” Bree warned, her voice calm.

You huffed, closing your eyes for a moment before facing them.

“Sorry, guys. But this time, I won’t stay quiet.”

The paddock sweltered under the scorching sun, and the sound of cameras clicking was deafening. You adjusted your team cap, trying to hide the simmering rage.

In front of you, a journalist held out a microphone with a smug smile.

“So, S/n… Do you think that crash was due to incompetence or inexperience?”

Your jaw tightened, but the journalist continued, not even bothering to mask his sarcasm.

“I mean, a lot of people were already questioning your place in Formula 1. Isn’t it obvious now that this sport just isn’t for you?”

You clenched your fists, trying to keep your anger in check. But before you could respond, a firm voice cut through the air:

“Excuse me, are you planning to ask serious questions and act like a professional, or are you just going to keep up this ridiculous circus?”

You turned to see Max Verstappen standing beside you, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

The journalist tried to laugh, taken aback, but Max didn’t back down.

“If any other driver had crashed, you’d be analyzing the data, not mocking them. But of course, it’s easier to tear down a woman than admit she has talent.”

A lump formed in your throat—not from weakness, but from gratitude.

“If you want to talk about who deserves to be in Formula 1, start by actually analyzing things properly. But I suppose real journalism is too hard for you,” Max finished, pulling you away from the journalist, who stood speechless.

When the interviews finally ended, you leaned against a wall near the exit.

“Thanks, Max. I don’t think I’ve ever been at a loss for words before.”

He smirked.

“It’s alright, S/n. Look, I know what it’s like to be criticized. Not like you, of course. It must be even harder for you… Society is still so sexist. But you’re strong. You’ll get through this.”

He draped an arm over your shoulder.

“And since I was so nice, how about you buy me an ice cream?”

You laughed, finally feeling some of the pressure and anger fade away.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

( . . . )

Just minutes after you left, the same journalist who had humiliated you was now grinning at Charles—the one responsible for your crash and disqualification. The contrast was brutal.

“Charles, what a race! You mastered the corners brilliantly and proved once again why you’re one of the best on the grid. How does it feel to be such an inspiration to aspiring drivers?”

S/n watched the broadcast while picking up her ice cream. Max had been smiling at you, but as soon as he saw your expression, his own smile faded. Your muscles had already tensed in anger. The way Charles smiled and basked in the praise made your blood boil.

“Well, I think some drivers need to understand track limits better. But… it’s all part of the learning process, right?” Charles spoke modestly, but his tone carried clear provocation.

You felt your entire body tremble. How dare he act like a hero after what he had done?

Max, standing beside you, whispered:

“S/n, don’t do anything. This is exactly what he wants.”

He gripped your arm, worried about what you might do next, and pulled you away from the shop.

You took a deep breath, but every word from that reporter felt like a knife sinking deeper into your skin.

Minutes later, Charles approached you in the corridors, hands in his pockets, wearing a smug grin.

“Are you okay, princess? That was quite the accident… Shame you couldn’t keep the car under control.”

S/n clenched her jaw, fists tightening. Every fiber of her being screamed to punch him right there.

But she held her ground, her voice a cold, sharp blade.

“Careful, Charles. Because when I win, there won’t be any excuses left to save you.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving him speechless.

When you reached your motorhome, Adele was waiting for you, pacing back and forth.

“Hey, Adele! What happened—” Before you could finish speaking, she pulled out her phone and showed you a news article.

“S/n under suspicion: FIA investigates possible data manipulation in the rookie driver’s car.”

Your eyes scanned the words, your heart pounding. A lump formed in your throat. It was a lie. A dirty, planned lie…

You felt your fingers trembling.

Lando came up behind you and read the headline over your shoulder.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” Lando said, frowning. You jumped at his sudden presence and immediately turned to face him.

“They want me out of the game,” you murmured, pure anger in your voice.

You walked into the motorhome and threw yourself onto the couch, running a hand over your face, exhausted from all the accusations.

( . . . )

Two weeks had passed since your confrontation with Charles, and finally, it was another race weekend. You smiled as soon as you stepped into the paddock—nothing could shake you here.

Everything was perfect. You were in a great mood, and everything felt in perfect harmony.

As you made your way to your team’s garage, you suddenly felt someone grab your arm before you could step inside.

You stumbled, but someone caught you. Looking up, you saw Lando, his hand on his chest as he tried to catch his breath.

“Lando! What happened? Why did you drag me here?” you asked, laughing at his reaction.

The worried expression on his face made your heart skip a beat.

“S/n, did you check social media today?” Lando asked, and you shook your head.

“No, why?” You asked, looking at the phone in his hand.

Frowning, you grabbed the phone, your eyes darting over the bold headline on the sports website:

“SCANDAL IN FORMULA 1: S/N INVOLVED IN AFFAIR WITH COMMITTED TEAMMATE”

“Internal team sources reveal that rookie driver S/n isn’t just trying to make a name for herself on the track but also off of it. According to exclusive reports, S/n has allegedly been having an affair with her teammate while he was still in a relationship with his now ex-girlfriend, who is pregnant!

The secret relationship has supposedly caused numerous arguments within the team, with rumors that tensions in the garage became unbearable after a confrontation between the ex-girlfriend and S/n. Some team members, speaking anonymously, claim that the driver’s performance has been questioned because she has allegedly been receiving internal favors to keep her seat.

Moreover, speculation has arisen that her closeness with her teammate may be influencing certain strategic decisions in her favor, raising doubts about the legitimacy of her season results.

The FIA has yet to comment on the matter, but the negative backlash is growing on social media. Has S/n used Formula 1 not only to prove her skills but also to climb the ranks through scandal?”

“WHAT?!” you shouted, and Lando quickly covered your mouth.

You felt your blood boiling in your veins. Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears. You reread every sentence, every disgusting lie, and the anger inside you grew into a suffocating knot in your throat.

“This is absurd,” your best friend said in a low but furious voice. You looked at him in desperation, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your body shaking with fear.

“What kind of sick joke is this, Lando?” You stared at the phone in your hand. “Who would have the audacity to make this up?! How the hell am I ‘influencing strategic decisions’ when they barely trust me to change my tires at the pit stop?” Your voice was low, but Lando looked at you worriedly, already knowing you well enough to see that you were on the verge of an outburst.

“Whoever did this wants to destroy you, no matter what. First, that ridiculous accusation about the car’s data, and now this?” Lando leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

“And the worst part is that people are going to believe it!” you said, deadly serious but clearly terrified.

“S/n, I know you want to explode right now, but we need to think about what to do. They want to destabilize you.” Lando spoke, and silence fell over the place. You weren’t just angry anymore—you were sad, upset. You wanted to cry.

You took a deep breath, but it felt like you couldn’t get enough air. Your eyes returned to the phone, where the article was already going viral. In the comments, a flood of toxic messages appeared:

“Knew she wasn’t actually talented.”

“Women in F1 always end up making headlines for the wrong reasons.”

“Of course, it had to be a woman. Getting ahead the easy way.”

“Shame on the sport. Who’s protecting her?”

That was the final straw for you.

Your chest ached. Not from weakness, but from a deep sadness that made your body tremble.

Lando noticed.

“This isn’t just about destabilizing me, Lando! This is a direct attack on my reputation! They’re basically saying I’m only here because I slept with someone?! This is disgusting!” Your voice cracked, and tears started streaming down your face. You had never broken down like this in front of anyone. Your legs gave out, and Lando noticed, rushing toward you and pulling you into a tight hug.

“You can’t let them win, S/n. You’re not alone, okay?” Lando murmured, running a hand through your hair.

“Why, Lando? Why do they hate me so much? I never did anything to these… assholes, I swear! I may be explosive, but what did I ever do to them?” you sobbed, your voice failing. Your best friend was always there for you, and you were grateful for that.

( . . . )

“What the hell is this!?” Max bursts out, furious, as he storms into the meeting room where you, the team leader, and the PR team are gathered.

You still felt the sadness burning inside you when the door swung open forcefully. Your teammate, Max, rushed in, his eyes blazing with indignation. Right behind him, Kelly, his girlfriend, clutched her phone tightly, as if ready to smash it.

“Oh, so you saw the ridiculous nonsense they’re spreading too? Welcome to hell.” You sigh, your tone calm. Everyone stares at you, surprised. They expected you to be angry—or worse.

Max ran a hand through his hair, visibly upset.

“I saw it, and it’s unbelievable! Who has the audacity to make up something like this? I’m still with Kelly, and now they’re trying to turn this into a scandal?” Max says, sitting down beside you. Kelly joins him, and despite her frustration, she offers you a reassuring smile.

“This is so ridiculous it’s actually offensive! As if I would end a relationship over a stupid rumor!” Kelly says, clearly frustrated with the situation. She looks at you, her expression softening when she sees the emptiness in your eyes. “I know you would never do something like this. Just because you’re a woman working in a male-dominated field doesn’t mean you have to sleep with someone to earn your place. Whoever wrote this deserves to be sued.”

An unexpected tightness grips your chest. After everything you had endured that day, hearing Kelly defend you instead of accusing you was a relief you didn’t even know you needed.

You offer a small, tired smile and meet her gaze.

“Thank you for believing in me,” you whisper, and she smiles back.

“The problem was never you, S/n. The problem is people who refuse to accept that a woman can be great at what she does without relying on anyone,” Bree, your PR assistant, speaks up, and you let out a deep sigh.

Max nods in agreement.

“Exactly. They want to destroy S/n’s reputation because they know they can’t beat her on the track,” Max finally says after a long silence. He takes a deep breath, grabs his phone, and starts typing. “I’m shutting this down right now.”

Within seconds, his Instagram post is already going viral:

@maxverstappen: “Just to be clear: the rumors about S/n and me having any kind of romantic involvement are completely false. Kelly and I are together and doing great, and this attack on S/n is just another disgusting attempt to discredit her. Enough with the fake news. Respect the sport.”

Kelly follows suit, posting a story:

@kellypiquet: “Let’s get one thing straight: S/n has NEVER disrespected me or Max in any way. This story is just another example of how women in sports are attacked for no reason. Grow up.”

( . . . )

After the fake news scandal, you expected Charles Leclerc to use it against you, but to your surprise, he remained silent. No provocative comments, no sly remarks in interviews. He just watched you from a distance, as if analyzing your every reaction.

Charles truly didn’t feel comfortable mocking this kind of situation—not after everything he had witnessed.

Then, the day after the media chaos, when you were alone in the garage reviewing race data, he appeared beside you, casually leaning against the table.

“So… what’s it like being the most dangerous woman in Formula 1?” Charles asked sarcastically, but without the malice he once had.

You narrowed your eyes, already expecting a jab. You were used to his teasing.

“Listen, Charles,” you said, stepping closer, “if you’re here to make jokes, you can turn around and leave. I’m not in the mood.”

Charles crossed his arms, but his gaze lacked the arrogance it usually carried.

“Relax, hothead. I’m not here to fight. I just… wanted to see how you were holding up,” Charles said, scratching the back of his head. You hesitated for a moment, confused.

Charles was asking how you were?

“As if you care,” you spat, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms.

Charles shrugged.

“I’m not going to lie—I enjoy messing with you. But I know what it’s like to have the world call you a fraud.”

Your eyes widened, surprised by his admission.

“You? The media’s golden boy? Ferrari’s prodigy?” you mocked, and he rolled his eyes.

“The media chooses who to attack. Today, it’s you. Tomorrow, it could be anyone,” Charles said before walking away.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel immediate hatred for Leclerc.

( . . . )

After the false news spread, the journalists still hadn’t let go of S/n. Now, more than ever, she was the main target. During a team event, a persistent reporter started pressing her with loaded questions.

“S/n, do you think your involvement with Max could affect your career in the long run?”

The reporter’s words instantly irritated you.

“I’ve already said there was no involvement. That’s a lie.” You responded confidently, keeping your anger in check.

But he just smirked, still trying to provoke you.

“But rumors always have some truth to them, don’t they? Maybe it’s just a matter of admitting it…”

Before you could snap, Charles appeared by your side, resting a casual yet protective hand on your shoulder. You glanced at his hand, then at him, then back at his hand. You raised an eyebrow, confused.

“Interesting… you ask very specific questions for someone who has no proof of anything.” Charles stared directly at the reporter. The journalist hesitated, and Charles continued. “Formula 1 is a competitive sport, but it seems like you’d rather turn it into a cheap reality show.”

You were surprised. It was the first time Charles had publicly defended you or had any interaction beyond provoking you.

When the journalist finally gave up and walked away, you turned to him, suspicious.

“Okay… what was that?” You asked slowly, still looking at his hand on your shoulder. Charles pulled it away, made a face, and wiped it on his clothes.

He shrugged.

“You already have enough problems. You don’t need an idiot like that making it worse.”

You stared at him, trying to figure him out.

“You hate me. Why are you helping me?”

Charles held your gaze a second longer than necessary before smirking.

“Who said I hate you?” He said and then walked away, leaving you more confused than ever.

( . . . )

After Charles’ unexpected defense, the dynamic between the two of you became dangerous territory. You started noticing how often he was around—sometimes teasing, sometimes protective, but always testing your limits.

Then, during another press conference, Charles defended you again. Lando and Max exchanged glances before looking at you, waiting for your reaction. You stared, mouth slightly open, completely lost. You turned to Lando and murmured:

“What was that?”

Lando just shrugged, looking even more confused than you.

That really sent some intrusive thoughts your way.

At the paddock gym? He was there, running on the treadmill next to you.

In team briefings? He made a point to sit close and throw in snide remarks.

At sponsor events? He joked about how you had to smile for journalists who clearly hated you.

And the worst part? He never crossed a certain line.

One night, after a mandatory team dinner, you were walking back to the hotel when you heard footsteps behind you. You turned abruptly—there he was, hands in his pockets, walking casually as if it was nothing.

“Are you following me now?” You rolled your eyes.

Charles gave you a slow smirk, completely unfazed by the accusation.

“Relax, hothead. I’m not that obsessed with you. We’re just heading to the same place.”

He said it so casually, making sure to emphasize the nickname he had given you, something he always did when you were alone.

You crossed your arms, suspicious.

“Right. And you just happen to always be where I am lately? And what’s with that nickname?”

Your arguments didn’t bother him one bit—unlike you, who desperately wanted answers.

He shrugged.

“Coincidence. Or maybe I just like seeing you get worked up.” He clicked his tongue. “And the nickname? It’s just a fact. You’re really stressed all the time, S/n.”

You narrowed your eyes. You wanted to hate him completely, but something about his calm, teasing demeanor made your blood boil in a different way.

And the nickname? He wasn’t wrong.

So you turned on your heel, walking briskly toward your room.

You didn’t want to think about him. You didn’t want to be around him.

That was it.

Avoid him. You told yourself.

[somewhereincairparavel]

The fandom's bias and tendency to wanting to agressively associate EVERYTHING with Percy and getting upset when a character isn't associated with him really taints their view on actually significant relationships, and it ruins Percy's canon character tbh.

I came across a video edit appreciating Jason and Nico's friendship, and the comments were just filled with people raging on how Percy should've been included instead of Jason because he was "much closer friends" to Nico than Jason was. It's appalling how much ppl can turn to a blind eye when it comes to Jason.

People hate Jason SO much in this fandom that they literally refuse to admit that Nico canonically considered Jason as his first ever friend, not Percy (this is literally said in Tower of Nero, by the way)

You guys are seriously so hell bent on wanting to take away every little thing jason had that makes his character meaningful, simple to give it to percy when it isn't even necessary. Doesn't percy have enough good characterization already? Why deprive Nico of a genuinely good friendship? Jason spent time and effort to make Nico comfortable and succeeded in earning nicos trust. He taught nico to never push people away and not to be ashamed of being himself, Isn't that beautiful? Why do people get salty abt that so much? Because of course, it's about appreciating Jason for once, and not Percy, isn't that it?

My perspective on Percy and Nico is that, they were never really "close" to begin with and never ended up being close either, and that's okay. Percy tried his very best to be a brother to Nico, but they somehow always had tension with eachother because of Nico's internal turmoil of idolizing and crushing on Percy whilst simultaneously associating him with Bianca.

Sure, they talked it out a little in the end, but I'd like to think that some tension would always be there, because they started off at the wrong foot, and there was too much bitterness and resentment to come in their dynamic. And them never actually being close "brothers" makes their dynamic very significant and authentic. In the end, Nico acknowledged that Percy was a good person, and I like to think that's the farthest they've ever gone in their dynamic. They both are on amicable terms but the awkwardness still being there is very realistic, the weight of Bianca's death would always be associated with Percy to Nico, and it's neither of their faults. That adds SO much to their angsty dynamic, why get so upset about it when it's such an integral, and meaningful part of the story? Nico and Percy not being close friends shows how complex character relationships can be.

Percy doesn't have to be close with everyone just because he's the main character, it really deprives him of actually meaningful connections. The fandom forcing him to be buddy buddy with everyone simply because they HAVE to associate Percy with anyone and everyone, and getting angry that Jason is closer to Nico than Percy is, is just really weird.

Why do people feel SO threatened about Jason all the time that they have to get all defensive and suppress his connections by dragging Percy into videos that doesn't even have to do anything with him? I swear y'all are creating this whole Jason/Percy rivalry thing because you cannot bear to see someone rival Percy, and you want Percy to be the only powerful/good person in the books.

Let other characters befriend eachother without trying to insert Percy in there all the time.

Percy and Nico would never be like Reyna and Nico, or Jason and Nico, and that's completely fine. I like them better that way. You can't be best friends with everyone. That's just how life works.

[sxcretricciardo]

Jealousy, jealousy…

you and Lando have been messing around for quite a while now when feelings start to rise in you. What happens when he brings a certain blonde along the paddock?

•

The hum of the engine filled your ears as you adjusted your gloves, the roar of the crowd faintly audible over the buzz of the paddock. Formula 1 had always been your dream, and being on the grid was nothing short of extraordinary. But amidst the high-octane rush of racing, something—or rather, someone—had taken up residence in your thoughts.

Lando Norris.

It started harmlessly enough: late-night texts about race strategies, a few too many drinks at celebratory dinners, playful banter that turned into lingering touches. What began as an unspoken friends-with-benefits arrangement had spiraled into something far more complicated for you.

You were falling for him.

But Lando? He seemed as carefree as ever, his cheeky grin never faltering. That was until Magui Corceiro entered the picture. She wasn’t just stunning—she was magnetic, the kind of woman who could walk into a room and have everyone’s attention without trying. And now, it seemed, she had Lando’s.

The tension between you and Lando simmered as the season progressed. He’d parade Magui around the paddock, her laughter echoing in your ears like a mocking melody. Every glance they exchanged felt like a stab to your chest. You hated how jealous it made you. You hated her.

Your frustration bubbled over one day during a team press conference. Magui had been lingering nearby, chatting animatedly with some reporters. You couldn’t help the sharpness in your tone when asked about your rivalry with Lando.

“Rivalry?” you scoffed. “It’s more like a game of who can distract themselves more outside the car.”

The room went silent. Lando shot you a sharp look, his jaw tightening. You regretted the words instantly, but the damage was done.

Race day came, and the air was electric with anticipation. The battle for first place had narrowed down to just two contenders: you and Lando. The grid was alive with tension, the smell of burnt rubber thick in the air. You felt it in every fiber of your being—the need to prove yourself, to beat him, to show him what he was missing.

The race was a blur of high-speed turns and daring overtakes. It came down to the final lap, the roar of the crowd deafening as you pushed your car to its limits. You crossed the finish line mere milliseconds ahead of Lando, claiming victory. The elation was overwhelming, a rush unlike any other.

As you stood on the podium, champagne spraying into the air, you couldn’t help but steal a glance at Lando. His expression was unreadable, a mix of pride and something else you couldn’t quite place. You brushed it off. Tonight, you were celebrating—and you didn’t need him to do it.

Hours later, the club was alive with music and laughter as you celebrated your victory. Your team had rented out a section, and you basked in the attention, dancing with abandon. The beat of the music and the rush of victory were enough to drown out any lingering bitterness.

Until he showed up.

Lando’s entrance was impossible to miss. His presence seemed to command the room, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on you. He didn’t hesitate, weaving his way through the throng of people until he was standing right in front of you.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your tone sharp.

“Celebrating your win,” he said, his voice calm but his eyes betraying a storm of emotions. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” you echoed, stepping closer. “You, Lando. You’re my problem.”

“Me?” His eyebrows shot up in mock disbelief. “What the hell did I do now?”

“Oh, don’t act clueless,” you snapped. “You’ve been parading Magui around the paddock like she’s your prize, and now you show up here like nothing’s wrong?”

His jaw tightened, his usual playful demeanor replaced with frustration. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? You’re acting like a jealous child.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I’m not jealous.”

“Yes, you are,” he shot back, his voice rising. “Every snarky comment, every glare—it’s written all over you. Just admit it.”

“Why should I admit anything?” you countered, your voice trembling. “You made it clear I’m just some… convenient distraction to you.”

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a softer, more vulnerable tone. “Is that what you think? That you don’t mean anything to me?”

You faltered, your anger giving way to uncertainty. “What am I supposed to think, Lando? You’re with her.”

“I’m not with her,” he said firmly. “Magui and I… it’s not like that. It was never like that.”

“Then why—”

“Because I didn’t know how to deal with this!” he interrupted, his voice raw. “With us. With you.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “What do you mean, ‘us’?”

“I mean I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I see you, I want to be near you. And every time I’m not, it’s… unbearable.”

“Lando…”

He stepped even closer, his hand brushing against yours. “You’re more than just a distraction. You’re… everything. And I was too scared to admit it.”

The words hung in the air between you, the weight of them sinking in.

“Then why push me away?” you asked, your voice cracking.

“Because I thought you didn’t feel the same,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “And because I knew that if I let myself feel this… there’d be no going back.”

You hesitated for only a moment before closing the distance between you, your lips crashing into his in a kiss that was equal parts anger and desperation. He responded instantly, his arms wrapping around you as the world around you disappeared.

Back at your hotel room, the tension that had been building for months finally exploded. The door barely shut behind you before Lando pressed you against it, his hands framing your face as he kissed you deeply.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured against your lips, his voice husky.

“Then stop talking,” you replied, tugging at his shirt.

He chuckled, but there was no hesitation as he pulled it over his head, revealing the lean, toned body you’d tried not to notice during countless race weekends. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, slipping under your shirt to touch bare skin.

You fumbled with the buttons of his jeans, your fingers trembling with urgency. He groaned as you finally succeeded, his lips never leaving yours as he guided you toward the bed.

Clothes disappeared in a blur of movement, leaving nothing between you but the heat of your bodies. Lando’s touch was both gentle and possessive, his hands mapping every inch of your skin as if trying to memorize you.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he hovered over you.

“I want this,” you breathed, your hands tangling in his hair. “I want you.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He moved against you with a rhythm that was both deliberate and intoxicating, his kisses trailing down your neck, your chest, every part of you he could reach.

You lost track of time, the night a haze of pleasure and whispered confessions. He whispered your name like a prayer, his voice trembling with need.

“I’m sorry,” he said at one point, his forehead resting against yours as you both caught your breath. “For everything. For not saying it sooner.”

“It doesn’t matter,” you replied, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. “You’re here now.”

“Always,” he promised, his lips brushing against yours.

The rest of the night was a symphony of desire and tenderness, every touch and kiss a silent declaration of the feelings you’d both been too afraid to voice. By the time the first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, you lay tangled together, the weight of your confession lifting like the morning mist.

For the first time in months, everything felt right.

[keisgirl]

2.0 ; miya atsumu

pairing; atsumu miya x reader

wc; 5k

is being miya atsumus clone the best thing in the world, or will she find a way to carve out her own identity on the volleyball court?

you grew up with the miya twins, tangled in the mess of their rivalry and camaraderie, always in the middle, always keeping up.

they called you the girl version of atsumu, from the moment you first stepped onto the court. same position, same drive, same reckless grin when you won. number seven stitched onto your back like it was meant to be there. you were quick, sharp, loud-mouthed, just like him.

and they never let you forget it.

"oi, girl-tsumu," atsumu would call, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "yer servin’s slippin’. ya gonna let me take the crown this year?"

"dream on, miya," you'd shoot back, flicking his forehead hard enough to make him whine. osamu would snicker, always watching the two of you go back and forth, never stepping in—just there to witness the chaos.

as kids, it was fun. as kids, it felt like being part of something bigger than yourself, like belonging. you bleached your hair when he did, let the color burn your scalp just to prove you could. you matched him beat for beat, dive for dive, living in the shadow he never meant to cast but did anyway.

but then you grew up. and suddenly, it wasn’t as fun anymore.

because when atsumu got praised, you got compared. when atsumu won, you were just second place, the girl version of him, as if you weren’t your own person. the name ‘miya’ carried weight, and even though it wasn’t yours, they tied it to you like a leash. you thought you could be his equal, but all they saw was an echo.

“yer too sensitive,” atsumu says one day, after you snap at a teammate for calling you ‘atsumu with a ponytail.’

your hands curl into fists, nails digging into your palms. “maybe yer too blind.”

atsumu blinks. “huh?”

“yer too blind to see that i ain’t you.”

the words hang in the air between you, sharp and cutting. you see the moment he realizes, the moment he pieces together every forced smile, every tense laugh, every time you swallowed down the bitter taste of second place.

his mouth opens, but you don’t wait to hear whatever he has to say. you just turn and walk away, wondering if you’ll ever stop being a reflection.

suddenly, you don’t play volleyball anymore.

suddenly, you’re not inarzaki’s genius girl setter.

suddenly, you have black hair.

suddenly, you don’t feel like yourself.

suddenly, you don’t talk in class.

suddenly, you’re first in grades, not in physical education.

suddenly, the girl who used to be on the court screaming at her teammates is now the one sitting in the back of the classroom, silent, unnoticed.

and people start to notice.

your teachers hesitate before calling your name, expecting the loud, confident voice that used to answer so easily. your classmates steal glances at you when tests get handed back, murmuring about how you’ve replaced your talent for setting with perfect grades. the volleyball team stares at the empty space on the court where you used to stand, the absence of your presence a hole they can’t seem to fill.

osamu, usually unbothered by everything, nudges atsumu one afternoon. “ya talk to her lately?”

atsumu scoffs, crossing his arms. “she’s the one avoidin’ me.”

“yeah?” osamu raises an eyebrow. “or maybe ya just never noticed how much she hated bein’ ya shadow.”

atsumu doesn’t have a comeback for that. because deep down, he knows. he just never thought you’d actually leave. never thought you’d change so much, that the fire in your eyes would be replaced with something distant, unreachable.

so one day, he corners you after school, standing in front of your desk before you can escape.

“what the hell’s goin’ on with ya?” he demands.

you don’t look up from your notebook. “nothin’.”

“bullshit,” he huffs, grabbing your pen and tossing it onto the desk. “ya dyed yer hair, quit the team, don’t even look at me no more—how the hell is that nothin’?”

you sigh, finally meeting his gaze. there’s something tired in your expression, something he’s never seen before. “it ain’t sudden, ‘tsumu.”

and that’s what scares him the most. because if it wasn’t sudden, then that means it was happening all along. and he just never saw it.

“i left alive, but at the same time, i felt like atsumu miya, ya know?” you murmur, voice quieter than he’s ever heard it. “like i wasn’t myself. i was just... you.”

atsumu stiffens, his breath catching.

“besides,” you continue, leaning back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. “the girls’ volleyball team can manage just fine. it’s not like we ever made it to spring high anyway.”

third year. the last year.

atsumu feels the weight of your words settle deep in his chest. there’s something final about them, something irreversible. and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know how to fix it.

atsumu tries to ignore it at first.

he tries to act like nothing’s changed, like you’re still the same person who used to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, the one who used to bicker with him over who had the better toss, who used to swear up and down that one day, you’d be the setter people remembered most from inarizaki.

but he can’t ignore it. not when you won’t even look at him, not when every interaction between you now feels like he’s talking to a stranger.

he watches from the court, gaze flicking to the empty space on the benches where you used to sit. back when you stayed after practice even if you didn’t have to, back when you’d drill him on his serves and let him rant about whatever was on his mind. back when he never had to think twice about where you’d be—because you were always there.

except now you aren’t.

he lasts a month before he finally snaps. before he marches into your classroom after school, ignoring the way your classmates whisper as he looms over your desk.

“we’re talkin’. now.”

“no, we’re not.”

atsumu’s jaw clenches. “yer bein’ real difficult, ya know that?”

“not my problem.”

his patience wears thin. “what the hell happened to ya?”

you exhale through your nose, flipping a page in your notebook like he isn’t standing there, like he isn’t practically shaking with frustration. “i grew up, atsumu. maybe ya should try it sometime.”

“bullshit,” he hisses. “growing up don’t mean abandoning everything ya cared about. ya loved volleyball.”

“yeah? well, maybe it didn’t love me back.”

that shuts him up. because he doesn’t know what to say to that—doesn’t know how to argue against something so heavy, so full of something he doesn’t understand.

his fists tighten at his sides. “ya really just gonna throw it all away?”

“what’s left to throw away?” you mutter, finally looking up at him. and there’s something in your eyes, something hollow and tired and so unlike you that it makes his stomach twist. “i was never really playin’ for myself anyway.”

he swallows hard. “that ain’t true.”

but you only shake your head, gathering your things before standing, brushing past him like he’s not even there.

“if it ain’t, then why did it feel like i had to disappear to be seen?”

and atsumu has no answer for that either.

“ya got it bad,” osamu remarks one afternoon, watching atsumu glare at his untouched lunch.

atsumu scoffs, stabbing his chopsticks into his rice. “shut up.”

“yer miserable,” osamu continues, undeterred. “and ya know why.”

atsumu doesn’t respond, just shoves a bite of food into his mouth like that’ll stop his brother from talking. it doesn’t.

“always hoverin’ around her, always lookin’ like a kicked puppy when she ignores ya.” osamu shakes his head, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “if ya ask me, it’s kinda obvious.”

atsumu scowls. “nothin’s obvious.”

“except that ya like her.”

he nearly chokes on his food. “what?!”

osamu raises an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed. “oh, come on. ‘tsumu, ya been in love with her since we were kids.”

“yer talkin’ shit.”

“am i?” osamu leans back, arms crossed. “then why does it bother ya so much that she’s not playin’ anymore? why can’t ya let it go?”

atsumu opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. because as much as he wants to deny it, the truth is sitting right there, laughing in his face.

he’s spent years trying to outrun it, masking it with teasing and rivalry, with stupid fights and mindless competition. but now that she’s gone—now that she’s slipping further and further away—he realizes that osamu’s right.

he’s always been in love with you.

he finds you after school, waiting outside the gates, hands shoved into his pockets like it’s just another day.

“what now, atsumu?” you sigh, stopping in front of him.

he exhales sharply, staring at you like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle he should’ve figured out years ago. “yer right,” he says finally. “i never saw it.”

you blink, caught off guard. “saw what?”

“that i was losin’ ya,” he admits, voice quieter than usual. “that ya weren’t just my reflection. that ya were yer own person this whole time.”

there’s something vulnerable in his face, something raw, and it makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.

“i don’t want ya to disappear,” he continues. “not from volleyball, not from me.”

you hesitate, searching his expression for any sign of insincerity, but all you find is honesty. and maybe a little desperation.

“i dunno if i can go back to the way things were,” you murmur.

atsumu nods. “then let’s make somethin’ new.”

he’s close now, closer than he’s ever been, and suddenly, you’re not just thinking about volleyball, about rivalry, about anything other than the fact that atsumu miya is looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.

“i mean it,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “i don’t want ya to just be the girl version of me. i want ya to be my girl.”

your heart stumbles in your chest, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re standing in his shadow. you feel like you’re standing beside him.

and this time, you let yourself smile.

atsumu had already confessed.

it had been awkward and kind of messy, because he’s atsumu and of course it was, but it was real. undeniable. a moment so big and sudden that it left you standing at a crossroads with no map, no clear direction except the weight of his words anchoring you to the present.

so you said yes.

not just to him, but to volleyball. to trying again.

except trying again means stepping back into a world that’s always seen you as someone else’s shadow. and no matter how much you want to believe that things will be different this time, it’s hard not to slip back into old habits.

“damn, ya even move like him.”

it’s a passing comment from a teammate, said with no real bite, but it still sticks. the way it always does. the way it always has.

you shake it off, try to ignore it, but the more you play, the more you notice it too. the way your hands twitch into the same mannerisms, the way you call plays with the same sharp confidence, the way your presence on the court starts to feel less like yours and more like his.

and maybe that wouldn’t bother you so much if you hadn’t fought so hard to be something else.

“what’s goin’ on with ya?” atsumu asks one day, watching as you linger in the gym long after practice has ended.

you don’t turn to face him. “nothin’.”

“bullshit.”

his footsteps echo against the polished floors, stopping just behind you. you know he’s waiting for you to talk, but you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to explain the creeping feeling of losing yourself all over again.

“i just…” you exhale, gripping the ball in your hands. “it’s stupid.”

“it’s not.”

he says it so easily, so confidently, like it’s a fact. and that alone makes something tighten in your chest.

“everyone still sees me as your copy,” you admit finally. “i don’t know how to play without fallin’ back into it.”

atsumu is quiet for a moment, and then, gently, he reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist, thumb brushing against your pulse.

“then stop tryin’ to be different from me,” he murmurs. “just play like you.”

your breath catches.

because you never thought of it that way before. you’d spent so much time trying to prove that you weren’t just another miya atsumu that you forgot to figure out who you actually were.

“easier said than done,” you mutter, but there’s no real bite to it.

he grins. “yeah, well, lucky for ya, i happen to be an expert at bein’ myself.”

it’s stupid. it’s so stupid. but it makes you laugh anyway, and when he leans in to steal a kiss, you let him, because for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re drowning in someone else’s reflection.

you feel like you.

playing like yourself, as it turns out, is just playing like him.

but that’s okay, you think. because this time, you’re not fighting against it—you’re making it your own.

and maybe that’s why, for the first time in inarizaki’s history, both the boys’ and girls’ teams qualify for spring high.

It happened fast. one practice game, then another, and suddenly, the tickets are in your hands, the realization sinking in. you’re going to spring high. and apparently, word has spread fast enough that university scouts are interested in watching you play.

but that’s a thought for another time.

because right now, you’re in a gym, tying your freshly bleached hair back into a ponytail, watching as atsumu scowls at you like you personally offended him.

“what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

he gestures vaguely at your head. “yer tryin’ to steal my look.”

“please,” you scoff. “if anything, i pull it off better.”

“ya wish.”

“i know.”

before he can throw a comeback, osamu saunters over, phone in hand, suna right behind him.

“oi, oi,” suna muses, tilting his head as he looks between you and atsumu. “this is gettin’ kinda creepy.”

osamu hums, nodding. “y’know, we always joked about ya bein’ the girl version of ‘tsumu, but now? now yer just his clone.”

“take a picture,” suna says, already pulling his own phone out. “this moment deserves to be remembered.”

“yer both the worst,” atsumu grumbles, but he doesn’t move away, and neither do you.

because as much as you roll your eyes, as much as you pretend to be annoyed, there’s something warm about the way osamu adjusts the camera angle, about the way suna snickers under his breath before snapping the photo.

it’s a moment that feels like childhood and the future all at once—like proof that, no matter what happens, you’ll always have this. always have them.

spring high awaits, but for now, you let yourself enjoy this. let yourself smile as suna shoves the phone in your face, as atsumu ruffles your hair, as osamu mutters something about how he’ll use this to embarrass you both later.

it’s stupid. it’s so stupid.

but it’s yours.

spring high is everything you expected and nothing like you imagined.

the energy is electric, the anticipation thrumming under your skin as you step onto the court. it’s bigger than anything you’ve ever played in before, and yet, it doesn’t scare you. not this time.

maybe because you know you belong here. maybe because, when you glance at the boys' court in the other venue, you know he’s there too.

it’s funny. for so long, you hated being compared to atsumu. hated the way people called you his copy, his shadow. but now? now you don’t care. because you’re not his copy—you’re his equal.

but not everyone sees it that way.

on the way to the restroom before your next match, you overhear them—two university scouts talking in hushed voices.

“she plays just like miya atsumu,” one says, almost amused.

something tight coils in your chest, the words digging under your skin, itching like an old wound. but before you can turn away, the other scout hums thoughtfully.

“or maybe,” they say, “miya atsumu plays just like her.”

that gives you pause. because for the first time, it isn’t a comparison meant to diminish you. it’s a statement that acknowledges you—your skill, your presence, your worth.

and suddenly, the tension melts away, replaced with something lighter, something almost giddy.

you hold onto that feeling as you return to the court, and later, when you catch atsumu during a break between matches, you can’t help but tell him about it.

“guess what i heard?” you start, rocking back on your heels as he tilts his head at you.

“somethin’ dumb, probably,” he says, deadpan.

“nah,” you grin. “somethin’ real nice, actually.”

you pause for effect, then smirk. “some scouts said i play just like miya atsumu.”

he scoffs. “duh.”

“but,” you add, savoring the moment, “the other scout said maybe miya atsumu plays just like me.”

that makes him pause. his brows lift slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching up as he considers your words. then, after a beat, he huffs a laugh, reaching out to ruffle your hair.

“‘bout time someone got it right.”

when you step onto the court again, you play the way you always have—with precision, with instinct, with a fire that matches his in every way. you don’t have to fight against it anymore, don’t have to deny the way your movements sync up, the way your presence commands the game just like his does.

it’s a hard game. the best teams in the country are here for a reason. but you push through, setting perfect balls, making impossible saves, throwing yourself into every point like it’s the last one you’ll ever play.

and then you win. not the whole tournament—not yet—but the match, the one that guarantees you another game, another chance to keep going.

when you walk off the court, chest heaving, jersey damp with sweat, there’s someone waiting for you near the sidelines.

“ya looked good out there,” atsumu says, arms crossed, a stupid grin on his face.

“you too,” you reply, shoving his shoulder as you walk past.

but he catches your wrist, spinning you back around before you can go. there’s something in his eyes, something different. something you’re still getting used to.

“yer the real deal,” he says, softer this time. “not just ‘cause ya play like me. ‘cause ya play like you.”

your heart stumbles in your chest, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in this massive stadium, the rest of the world fading away.

then he grins again, tugging you closer, voice dropping to a teasing whisper. “but i gotta admit, we do look good together.”

“oh my god,” you groan, yanking your wrist free. “don’t make me regret bleachin’ my hair.”

he laughs, easy and warm, and when you walk away, you don’t have to look back to know he’s still watching.

because this time, you’re not walking alone.

nevermind, spring high is chaos.

it’s sweat and exhaustion, adrenaline and pressure, the deafening sound of the crowd screaming for a win. it’s the last chance for third-years. it’s everything and nothing at once.

the boys’ team blazes through their matches, tearing down opponents like it’s their only purpose, and you do the same. for the first time in your life, you’re not just keeping up with atsumu—you’re standing beside him, in your own court, your own battlefield, chasing the same dream.

but dreams don’t always end the way you want them to.

it happens fast. the boys make it to the finals, just like everyone expected them to. but across the net is karasuno. an unpredictable team, a team that shouldn’t have even made it this far, a team that plays with something reckless and untamed in their veins.

it’s a war. point for point, neither side gives in. atsumu is sharper than ever, his sets perfect, his serves cutting through the air like a weapon. you winced when his set was a bit off then sighed when osamu reached it. but on the other side, there’s hinata. and kageyama. and something about them just doesn’t break.

and then, just like that, it’s over.

inarizaki loses.

for a moment, there’s only silence. then the reality crashes down, the weight of it pressing against their shoulders. suna looks pissed but resigned. osamu looks torn between frustration and acceptance. and atsumu—

atsumu is staring at the scoreboard, jaw clenched, hands in fists, like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping through his fingers.

you don’t say anything, don’t try to tell him it’s okay, because you know it isn’t. so instead, you wait until the crowd thins, until the interviews and formalities are over, until he’s finally sitting in the hallway outside the locker room, staring at the floor.

“it wasn’t enough,” he mutters when you sit beside him.

“it never is,” you say.

he laughs, but it’s hollow. “yer not gonna tell me we did great?”

“nah,” you lean back against the wall. “you wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

he exhales, sharp and tired, then turns his head to look at you. you meet his gaze, steady and knowing, because you’ve both lost before. you’ve both fought for something and had it slip through your fingers. you know what it feels like.

but you also know that this isn’t the end. not for him. not for you. not for any of you.

“yer up next,” he finally says, nodding towards the girls’ side of the tournament. “ya better win.”

“duh.”

and maybe that’s enough. for now.

because even in the aftermath of loss, there’s still the next game. still the next step. still the future waiting for both of you.

and you’ll be ready.

when you step onto the court for the semifinals, the crowd stirs. whispers ripple through the stands.

“number seven…? looks exactly like that number seven on the boys’ team.”

“they play the same too, don’t they?”

“no, she’s sharper, her feints are cleaner.”

“nah, atsumu’s serves are better.”

“but she’s fast. like—really fast.”

you hear it all. you always have. but this time, it doesn’t weigh as heavy. this time, when you glance towards the stands, atsumu’s sitting there with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face like he already knows you’re about to shut them all up.

and you do.

by the time the match is over, there’s no more comparisons. no more questions. you make sure of it.

you blaze through sets, direct plays with the precision only someone like you can manage. the semifinals are grueling, the longest, most exhausting game you’ve ever played. your body aches, your lungs burn, but you don’t stop—because this is your last year. your last chance. and you won’t let it slip away.

when the final whistle blows, you don’t even register it for a second. you’re staring at the scoreboard, at the impossible score, at the realization hitting you like a tidal wave.

inarizaki’s girls’ team made it to the finals.

before you know it, you’re being tackled, arms wrapping around you, voices screaming in your ears. your teammates are crying, laughing, shaking with disbelief. and when you finally glance towards the stands, atsumu is on his feet, cheering louder than anyone else.

“she’s good.”

“she’s atsumu’s twin.”

“nah,” the voice comes from a coach sitting close to the court, watching you with interest. “maybe atsumu is hers.”

when you hear it, your lips twitch into a smirk.

later that night, you tell atsumu, smugly, playfully. he groans, ruffling your hair even though it’s already messy from the match.

“shut up.”

“not my fault you got overshadowed.”

“yer my girlfriend, you should be nice to me.”

“i am nice. i let you sit next to me.”

he flicks your forehead, but his grin is unmistakable.

and maybe—just maybe—that’s the best part of all of this.

not the wins, not the competition, not even proving yourself.

but knowing that no matter what, you and atsumu will always be standing next to each other, pushing each other forward, even if the world only sees one shadow.

but the night after the boys' loss is quiet, too quiet. (maybe cause they got lectured after being praised)

even with the weight of victory on your shoulders, you can feel the air around you, heavy with disappointment. the inarizaki boys were supposed to go all the way, to take the championship, to cement their names in history. instead, they lost. and no matter how well they played, no matter how hard they fought, the sting of it is still fresh.

atsumu hasn’t said much. osamu is silent, suna is brooding, and the rest of the team is lost in their own thoughts. but even with all that, they still show up for you. still cheer for you. because you made it. because the girls' team, the brand-new, barely-established girls' team, is in the finals.

“yer gonna win,” atsumu says that night, his voice hoarse from shouting during your semifinals. he leans back against the wall in your hotel room, arms crossed, eyes sharp. “yer gonna bring back that trophy.”

“you sound so sure,” you murmur, stretching out your leg, wincing slightly.

his gaze flickers to you, narrowing. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing.”

it’s a lie. your knee has been screaming at you since the second set of the semifinals, but you didn’t say anything. didn’t let it show. you don’t have time to be injured. not now. not when you’re one game away from winning it all.

atsumu watches you for a second longer, then sighs, ruffling his hair. “don’t push too hard.”

“i always push too hard.”

he lets out a breath, something almost like a laugh. “yeah. i know.”

later that night, as the team settles in, as exhaustion weighs down on everyone, you stay awake. staring at the ceiling. feeling the dull ache in your knee, feeling the pressure settle on your chest. you think about everything that’s led you here, about the hours, the sacrifices, the moments of doubt and frustration.

and then you think about tomorrow.

one more game.

one more chance.

and no matter what, you’re going to take it.

the finals.

the first set is smooth, clean. you send a perfect toss to your wing spiker, and they score. your movements are fluid, precise,muscle memory carrying you through. you can feel the weight of every pair of eyes in the gym, hear the murmurs in the crowd.

“number seven…?” someone whispers the same phrase heard multiple times again. “looks exactly like that number seven on the boys’ team.”

atsumu’s name is everywhere, floating through the stands. comparisons, expectations, judgments.

second set, things start slipping. your sets are a little off, the timing just a fraction of a second late. you don’t miss, but you don’t feel right, either. the moment the ball leaves your hands, you can feel the weight of atsumu and osamu’s stares from the stands. especially atsumu’s.

third set. you send a toss too far, forcing your spiker to stretch for it. you grit your teeth. something is wrong.

you dump the fourth ball yourself, surprising the blockers, earning a point. but your team is still trailing by three.

fifth set. you go for a quick set to your middle blocker, jumping–-

pain. your knee gives out mid-air.

you don’t hit the floor hard, but the moment your knee buckles, the entire gym gasps. you wince, not in pain, but in frustration, in disgust. because you already know what comes next. you can already hear atsumu’s voice in your head, his inevitable lecture. he cares—he always does—but the competition is bigger than that. and you? you didn’t even last the first full game to three.

as the referee calls for a timeout and your coach rushes over, you swallow hard, forcing yourself to sit up. you don’t want to look at the stands, don’t want to see the expression on atsumu’s face. you already know what it’ll be.

but the game isn’t over yet.

and you sure as hell aren’t done.

“you’re done.”

atsumu’s voice is sharp, cutting through the noise of the gym like a blade. he stands (spawns??) in front of you, arms crossed so tightly his knuckles are white. there’s a fire in his eyes, something between anger and worry, something barely held back.

“no, i’m not.” your voice is steady, but your body betrays you. your knee screams when you try to straighten up, the weight of your stance unsteady, but you refuse to let it show. not to him.

“yer knee just gave out,” atsumu says, voice rising with frustration. “you can’t even stand properly, dumbass. ya think yer gonna play like that?”

“watch me.”

he scoffs, running a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. “yer so goddamn stubborn. do ya even hear yourself? ya wanna wreck yerself for this one game? ya wanna throw away everything ya worked for, all for what?”

“you wouldn’t back down.”

the words are like a slap. atsumu flinches. his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. for once, he has nothing to say.

so you press on. “if it were you, you’d keep playing. you wouldn’t give up just because of some stupid knee pain.”

his hands curl into fists at his sides. “yeah, maybe i would. but that ain’t the point.”

“then what is?” you snap, stepping closer. “you don’t get to lecture me about pushing myself when you’ve done the exact same thing! you don’t get to stand there and tell me to stop when you never have!”

his jaw clenches. “it’s different.”

“how?!”

his voice finally cracks. “because i ain’t watchin’ someone i care about destroy themselves in front of me!”

the words hang in the air, heavy, suffocating. your breath catches in your throat.

the gym is too loud, the echoes of sneakers squeaking against the floor, the sound of the crowd buzzing in your ears. and yet, all you hear is him.

you swallow hard. “i’m playing.”

atsumu exhales sharply, shaking his head, something like defeat flickering across his face. “yer impossible.”

“and you talk too much.”

he lets out a dry laugh, bitter and frustrated, but he doesn’t stop you. he just mutters, “fine. go. see how far ya get.”

so you do.

the deuce drags on. and on. and on.

34-34. then 35-34. then 35-35.

you can hear the announcers losing their minds. you can hear the crowd buzzing, the tension so thick it makes the air feel heavy. no one is backing down. no one is letting up.

every muscle in your body screams. your legs are barely holding up. every time you land, the pain ricochets up your knee like a gunshot, but you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek and keep going. keep setting. keep pushing.

38-38. then 39-38.

one more point.

one more chance to finish this.

your hands tremble as you wipe your palms on your jersey, blinking back the tears blurring your vision. not from emotion, not from frustration—from pure, unbearable agony. you can’t feel your legs anymore. your arms are heavy, your body is screaming, but you refuse to stop. you refuse to let it end here.

atsumu’s voice echoes in your head.

“ya wanna ruin yourself for one game?”

“yer impossible.”

you take in a shaky breath, shaking his voice out of your mind. you have to focus.

the next serve flies over the net like a bullet. your libero gets under it, barely keeping it up. you sprint forward, nearly stumbling, fingers reaching for the ball��

you set.

perfect.

your spiker jumps, swinging, hitting clean, sending the ball crashing into the court on the other side.

40-38.

match point.

but you don’t get to celebrate.

because the moment the ball hits the ground, the moment the whistle blows, your legs give out.

you collapse.

the world tilts, your vision spinning, the sounds around you muffled and distant. you barely register the hands grabbing at you, the voices shouting your name. all you can feel is the burning in your lungs, the numbness in your legs, the tears slipping down your cheeks, unchecked, unstoppable.

you don’t know if you won. you don’t know if you lost.

all you know is that it’s over.

[sillylittlespam]

please please please let me get what i want (lord knows it would be the first time)

leo valdez x reader , hate at first sight , girl who’s nice to everyone but you , enemies to lovers , miscommunication , hurt and no fluff (not yet!)

summary : you and leo started out on bad terms, and you remained on bad terms while you both occupied the argo ii. after the argo ii crashed into an island and sent you flying off the deck and tumbling into the ocean don’t laugh it’s not funny, you lost your favorite necklace in it’s sandy shores. of course, you blame leo even though you know it wasn’t intentional. so, tired of this nonsensical rivalry, leo decided to make things up to you. but they don’t turn out the way he expected.

authors note : this was written with the deftones version of the song in mind, but either will work honestly

also! this plot was inspired by a reel i saw on insta, but i can’t remember or find who it was! if you know, please comment and i can credit her :))

warnings : some swear words, i use fuck once and a couple others

part 2 coming soon :))

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“What are you doing, (y/n)?” Percy stopped just before the waves hit the sand, watching as you waded around in knee-high water with your shoulders hunched over as you stared at the water and sand below you.

You looked up at him, your eyes still squinting and the rest of your face scrunched with worry, “I lost my necklace while we were landing because of Valdez’s inability to fly the boat he built.”

Your pointed tone was directed to the Latino who had been walking on the beach a few feet behind Percy. Being in earshot, Leo stopped in his tracks, various pieces of metal scraps tucked under his arm and numerous tools gripped in his calloused hands, “What kind of shit are you talking now, (l/n)?”

His tone held its usual bitter spite, but it also had a hint of something else. Exhaustion. His precious Argo II had crashed onto this gods-forsaken island mere hours ago, yet it felt as if he had spent years trying to find out what the hell was wrong with it so they could get back in the sky. His eyes ached with exhaustion and he couldn’t tell if his limbs felt heavy or if it was just the dozens of pounds of metal he was carrying.

“I’m not talking shit,” you shot back with far too much confidence for someone who was using her feet to comb through the continental shelf under the waves, “You crashed the boat. It’s your fault I flew off of the deck and into this water. Therefore, it’s because of you that my necklace fell off and I can’t find it.”

Leo, who had opened his mouth to shoot back some half-hearted response while you were speaking, fell silent. You were right. It was his fault.

Anyone who had been around you at all knew how much you loved that necklace. It had been a gift from your godly parent when you were claimed a few years ago, and you never took it off. You grasped the pendant in your palm when you felt anxious, and the majority of your outfits coordinated with its colors.

And now it was lost somewhere in the sand, and you may never find it. All because of him.

You were still staring at him, and your eyes narrowed in response to his lack of response. You hummed once, something that usually made Leo furious, but this time it felt like a slap in the face. You turned your attention back to the murky water you stood in, and Leo knew that the conversation was over.

Percy watched you for a few seconds, his eyebrows raised as you continued to go further and further into the translucent ocean. Finally, he turned his attention to Leo who still stood behind him, watching you.

“Hey, McShizzle Man, you okay?” he asked, concern filling his attempt at a casual tone.

Leo, who finally managed to pull his eyes away from you, nodded, a forced smile coming back to his face, “Perfectly fine, man. Nothing to worry about.”

He knew that Percy wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t really care.

“I found this stuff in the forest,” he said, nodding to the pieces of metal he held under his arms, “Not to jinx our luck, or anything, but I think it’s from my dad. I’m going to take it to Festus and see what I can do.”

Percy nodded, and Leo cursed him for having such a good poker face. As the dark haired boy opened his mouth again, Leo found himself nervous for what he might say. 

“Awesome. You need anything?”

“Nah, man, I’m good. Thanks, though.” He would have walked away right there and then if Percy hadn’t looked like he wanted to say something else.

“Leo,” the older boy started out much quieter, his inflection already making Leo wish he was halfway across the beach, “That’s not your fault.”

He didn’t need to say or do anything for Leo to know that he was referring to the girl in the water who was mumbling nonsense about a stupid dragon.

“I know,” he said weakly, his eyes falling to the ground.

“The fact that you built an entire flying ship in like, three months is crazy impressive,” Percy said, his green eyes practically staring into Leo’s soul, “Don't beat yourself up because one thing went wrong.”

Leo swallowed, nodding, “Thanks, Percy.”

The boy nodded in response, and Leo finally left the beach.

It was only when he was on his back with a wrench in his hands that he allowed himself to dissect everything. The overall conclusion was that this was not looking very good for him.

First, he had made a joke about your godly parent when he first met you that did not go over too well, then he didn’t react too positively when Rachel spewed out green gas and said you were to go on the quest to California to retrieve Percy, and then he accidentally attacked Camp Jupiter, and now he lost your favorite necklace.

The first and the third events were excusable. In his mind, they were able to be taken completely separate and had no connection to his inability to get along with you. But when putting all four events together, he was beginning to understand why you didn’t like him so much. 

As someone who experienced a large amount of bullying growing up, whether it be about him being poor, in foster care, or having an accent, it caused him physical pain in his chest to think that he might have been bullying you. And while he may not have been, if he didn’t change things very quickly, there would be no denying it.

It was rather unfortunate, the way things worked out. Upon first meeting you, Leo thought you were very pretty. He thought your eyes were very enchanting and that your hair was majestic, and overall he was mesmerized with how you looked. Unfortunately, when Leo gets tongue-tied, he tends to say whatever comes to his mind first. It was completely understandable that you were offended, and he wanted to immediately take it back. But it was too late. He had already made a horrible first impression, and you were not so kind to him after that.

When you had been chosen to go with them to California, Leo didn’t react too positively. It wasn’t as if he pouted, or anything. He would never pout. He may have rolled his eyes as Chiron made the announcement to the camp, but at the moment he didn’t think that was too bad.

Attacking Camp Jupiter was NOT his fault. He was possessed by an Eidolon, which was cleared up. End of story. You still liked to bring it up.

It wasn’t that Leo wanted to constantly bicker with you. In fact, he found it exhausting having to respond to every insult you threw at him. He would never say it out loud, but he wished that the two of you were friends. He saw the way that you had heart-to-heart conversations with Percy and Annabeth, some of your childhood friends, and the way that you threw around jokes with Piper, and how you were quick to form a bond with Jason, Frank, and Hazel, three people who you literally just met. You had a great relationship with everyone on the Argo II except him, and he hated it. All he wanted was for you to look at him and smile, the way you do with your eyes sparkling and your head tilting just a bit to the side. 

Leo did not have a very good track record when it came to girls. It had never really been a problem until he found himself enamored with one, and incapable of doing anything about it. But something in the back of his mind knew that he wasn’t going to give up with you. All he needed was a way to get on your good side.

As the revelation came over him, the metal nut he had been working with fell on his forehead. He shot up from under his work station, nearly smacking his head hard enough to knock himself out.

But that didn’t matter, because he knew what to do to fix everything.

He was going to find your necklace.

“Oh my Gods, Percy, thank you!” You exclaimed as you threw your arms around the green eyed boy. Percy, however, had a puzzled look on his face as he hesitantly returned the hug.

“Uh,” he started, his eyes flickering over to Annabeth, who shared his confusion, “What did I do?”

“My necklace. You found it,” you said, pointing to the familiar chain that now hung around your neck, “Thank you so much!”

Percy blinked, trying to figure out if he was being pranked or not, “Yeah, no problem.”

See, it really was no problem because he didn’t do it.

You might as well have been skipping with how joyful you were as you walked away, your hair flowing in the wind like Aphrodite was on your side she was. Leo pouted watched from afar, his hair still damp and his teeth clenched with frustration.

Fucking fantastic.

He had spent all night searching through that goddamn shoreline, praying to his father or Aphrodite or any other god or deity who would take pity on him that he found that damn necklace. And you thought Percy did it.

Leo had nothing against Percy. The guy was a great leader and an even better fighter. But at the moment, Leo despised the man. How dare he take credit for Leo’s hard work.

“You should tell her it was you,” Leo flinched at the sound of a voice behind him. Turning around, he found Nico di Angelo in his teen angst glory watching him with a strange look on his face.

“What?” Leo asked, caught off guard.

“You should tell (y/n) that you found her necklace for her,” Nico repeated, this time slower, as if he were speaking to a young child, “I think she would appreciate it more if she knew that you were the one who did it.”

“How do you figure that?” Leo was intrigued. He hadn’t spoken to the son of Hades much, and this was the first time he had approached Leo instead of the other way around.

Nico shrugged, “You’ve made it very clear that fire doesn’t mix with water. So she would know that there was more effort and intent behind it, since you don’t have Percy’s water magic shit.  And she would like you more.”

Leo’s eyes narrowed, “What makes you think I want her to like me?”

Nico tilted his head and gave him a look that made Leo feel foolish for even asking, “Leo Valdez, I just watched you spend hours last night digging through the sand for her necklace. You don’t do something like that for someone you hate.”

A silence fell over them as Leo processed what Nico had just said. From what he could gather from Nico’s few days on the Argo II, he was pretty close with you. Before Leo could remember that Nico actually knew what he was talking about, he decided  that he didn’t care whether you liked him or not. Leo just wanted to clear his conscience. 

So what if he liked seeing you happy? So what if he felt a pit forming in his stomach when you hugged Percy? You should’ve been hugging him. You should’ve smiled at him. You should’ve-

“You’re not an idiot, Valdez,” Nico yawned, his hand coming up to rub his bloodshot eyes, “So don’t be stupid.”

“Where are you going?” Leo asked, his eyes following the boy as he turned to begin walking away.

“It’s time for my nap.”

“It’s not even noon.”

“You’re not in a place to judge me right now, Valdez.”

Leo cursed himself, realizing Nico was right. As much as he didn’t want to, he had to confess that he had been the one to find your necklace.

But would you believe him? And how would he even do it in the first place? It’s not like he could casually drop the news over dinner. Pull you aside during one of your “meditation walks” which was just a fun way to say your cooldowns so you didn’t punch someone?

He had to figure it out, and soon.

[iceman-kazansky]

Can you write Seb x driver!reader where driver wins race after race and wins the championship and becomes red bulls prodigy and basically Seb is jealous of her and he basically hates her but she’s kind to him and everyone so he ends up falling in love with her

Little Miss Sunshine 

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙· ̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

Requested by: Anon 

Request: ^^

Pairings: Sebastian Vettel x F!RB!Driver!reader 

Warnings: Seb is a bit of an ass at first (as per request,) typical red bull menace era Seb. Y/n utilized. Kissing. Getting drunk. Angst to fluff. No Danny ric to RB and Hamilton doesn't win WDC that year (for the plot.)

Word count: 5295

A/n: AHHH OMG I LOVED THIS REQUEST! GIGGLED AND KICKED MY FEET WHEN I GOT THIS! Hope you enjoy this :):) P.S. Sorry this took so long, Life got quite hectic haha

Taglist: none (if you'd like to be on my taglist, there's a link to the form at the bottom of the post! :] )

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙ ＊*• 

You had smiled awkwardly at Sebastian when you’d first met him, given him a little wave and greeted him rather shyly. It wasn’t your first year in Formula 1, of course, though, you’d come from a cheaper team, one that hadn’t had a streak of winning like Red Bull. So, naturally, you were a little timid of the new environment and determined not to let your team down or have a sour relation with your teammate.

You were standing in your race suit, your white balaclava pulled over your head as you adjusted your helmet before climbing into your car.

Sitting in the new vehicle had never felt this nerve-wracking. Already, all of their eyes were on you and their expectations were high. You were nervous, eaten to the core by the fear that you might disappoint your new team on your maiden grand prix for them. 

Without further ado, you shoved those thoughts down and went through the routine of starting your car. The engine roared to life and emitted a low purr. Carefully, you steered your car out of the garage, entering the pit lane.

After the formation lap, you'd taken your position at your spot on the grid, lining up midway through the lineup. Around you, the roar of the new v6 engines filled your ears as the lights began igniting.

As the lights went out and you pulled ahead of a few other drivers, you managed to keep up your pace, chasing Sebastian for the entire session.

On your maiden Red Bull race, you'd placed an impressive P2, second none other to teammate Sebastian Vettel.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙ ＊*• 

The previous race wasn't where your success stopped. Not at all. Last grand prix, you'd placed below Sebastian, something you considered a result of your lesser driving skills compared to the 4 time world champion. Yet, it wasn't long before you found yourself surpassing him on many occasions. 

You placed higher than him many times, scoring podiums nearly every race. And Sebastian didn't like that he was being out-driven by his new teammate. It left a sour taste in his mouth. 

He began to resent you. He loathed the fact that you were new to this team, to Red Bull, a group so closely-knit because of him. The constant reminder that you had penetrated the family-like racing team he had worked so hard to make closer, was impossible to forget when you –in his words– paraded around the paddock with your bright, easy smiles and kind words. He hated the way you smiled so cheerily, sun rays woven between pearly teeth that portrayed a constant warmth. Your smile seemed to never stop shining and it made Sebastian even more bitter about the situation.

Maybe it was silly. A stupid rivalry. But Sebastian was stubborn and he very much liked winning. He liked being dubbed ‘the best’ 4 consecutive years. And you were taking that away from him. He hated you for it.

It was a particularly bad race for Sebastian. Or, atleast, he'd call it bad. He hadn't placed nearly as high as he'd hoped and it made him angry. You on the other hand, had unsurprisingly placed first, which extended your lead over Sebastian and only increased his frustration.

He climbed out of his car, sweating heavily and anger hot as lava beneath his skin. You followed suit before making your way over to him where he stood. He groaned as you approached, his rage boiling.

“That was a tough race, Sebastian,” You said to him, a small, friendly smile on your face, “You did good.”

Something in the way you smiled at him while you said that made him frustrated and irritable. “Save your sympathy for someone who wants it,” He spat angrily, eyes hardened to a glare.

Sebastian didn't miss the small frown that found its way to your lips, and he found himself feeling a small tinge of something in his chest. It almost frightened him at the peculiar nature of the newly discovered feeling.

“I was just being nice,” You replied in a quieter, much sadder tone, “Sorry.”

As you turned and walked away without another word, Sebastian watched. The German driver knew he should do something. Say something. Call you back and apologize. Yet, his mouth remained glued shut and his eyes locked on your retreating form.

“Fuck,” He cursed to himself, a frustrated hand coming up to run through his sweaty strands of hair.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙ ＊*• 

It was race day again and already, Sebastian wasn't in a good mood. The previous argument had gone forgotten by him and his anger resurged. You'd out-everything'd him. Out-qualified; Out-lapped; Out-fastest lapped; You'd out-raced him entirely, scoring yourself pole position to start the race off.

Sebastian was a few grid spots back. It wasn't his finest performance over the past few days, he would admit that much.

His eyes were locked on the red lights above the grid that slowly began their count.

1..

The first one ignited.

2..

The second light burned a bright red, and Sebastian tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

3..

The third set of lights turned on. Sebastian began to rev his car's engine by pressing his foot on the gas.

4..

The fourth pair of lights lit up, and Sebastian could feel his anticipation growing. He wasn't going to let you win again today. He had to place higher than you.

5..

Finally, the fifth pair of lights blinked on. Sebastian subconsciously squeezed the steering wheel, eyes locked firmly on the red lights as he waited almost impatiently.

The lights all extinguished, and all the cars surged forwards as the race began.

Sebastian was fighting tooth and nail as he moved his way up the race standings. He raced behind you now, your car's tail end visible not far ahead. 

You were driving spectacularly. You pulled corners with professional precision, accelerating out of them with the help of ERS to propel you forward, your car following a unique racing line all with a feel that came natural to you.

Sebastian was pushing his car to the limits as he caught up to you, using all of his ability to keep up and attempt an overtake. You were quick to defend when he moved over slightly to pass, your car zipping in front of him to effectively block his path.

It made him angry and want to take first place from you even more. Sebastian just barely managed to get to a point where he was wheel-to-wheel with you on a straightaway. Yet, a corner with a decreased radius was rapidly approaching as your fight for first intensified.

Your car pulled to the outer edge of the track as you followed the perfect racing line into the turn, Sebastian almost parallel with you. The German driver knew he needed to brake soon and get into a better racing line to complete this corner, but he was too caught up in the fact he was neck and neck with you, fighting for first and he didn't want to pull away and give up.

At almost the same time, your cars slowed coming into the corner, and Sebastian steered sharply into the turn as the track narrowed. 

It all happened in a flash. One minute, both of you were racing around the corner, determined to obtain first place and refusing to allow the other to simply have it, and the next, Sebastian's car, which was going a little too fast as it rounded the bend at the same time yours did, veered straight into the side of your car. The impact sent both of you skidding out of control. Your car spun a few times, tossed straight off the track and into the gravel before smashing into the barrier, Sebastian's following the same track, only slightly ahead of yours.

The German's head was pounding as he came to a stop, a nauseous feeling collecting in his stomach. Only when his eyes laid on your similarly crashed car did he feel a strange sense of panic. Fighting against his restraints, he quickly unbuckled himself, scrambling out of his car once he'd shut it off. His feet had barely hit the ground before he had taken off running towards your crashed car.

It didn't take long to reach you, and when he did he was met with what appeared to be a very disorientated you, who groaned, your helmet pressed against the back of your seat. He reached over to shut off your car when you hadn’t already. His nerves were through the roof, panic running icy-cold through his veins. “Are you okay?” He asked, trying to keep his voice calmer than he really felt. When you didn't answer immediately, he asked again, “Y/n, are you okay?”

You groaned in reply, your helmet turning slightly to face him, the object obscuring your face from him. “I'm okay. Are you okay?”

Sebastian blinked a few times in confusion. You were the one still sitting in the car, and asking if he was okay? “Yeah, I'm fine.” He replied after a minute, baffled.

A sigh of relief left your lips and Sebastian imagined one of your signature smiles finding its way onto your face. 

In a strange moment of what he would call brain-fog, but in reality was clarity, Sebastian felt comforted by that thought. However, he was quick to force that feeling back down to the deepest, warmest pits of his heart and soul. Shoving back down that tiny bit of himself that felt warm and fuzzy at the mention of your name. That tiny bit he never wanted to confront because a part of him knew what it meant.

You got out of your car after that, unbuckling your harness and climbing out. Marshals had arrived on scene and before you knew it, they were giving both of you rides back to the paddock.

When you got back to the Red Bull Garage, both of you had pulled off your helmet and your balaclavas. Sebastian still felt stubbornly bitter, but underneath all that was a strong sense of guilt. He knew it was his fault both of you crashed. Yet, when he looked at your face for the first time since you'd both spun out and hit the barriers, he didn't see anger. He saw a soft smile and a warm look present on your face.

Sebastian didn't understand. Why weren't you angry at him? He was the reason why you both crashed, and he'd subsequently gotten both of you disqualified from the race entirely. Any other person would've been fuming, spitting fire from an angry tongue and steam rolling from their ears. Yet, why weren't you?

For a moment– a split second– Sebastian felt his bitterness ebb away. There was this growing tingling in his chest, and he could feel his stomach knotting itself as it thrashed in turmoil. He found himself staring at you, his anger and so-called loathe of you forgotten, now replaced by a feeling of warm fondness. Again.

The German shook his head to clear those thoughts and feelings. This was the second time today this had happened. What had gotten into him?

The moment for Sebastian didn't last long as soon enough your team principal came out and had a stern talking to both of you, but overall you both got let off easy.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙ ＊*• 

It was the finishing night of another race week again. One of the many breaks in the season was starting and everyone was in good spirits. Especially Sebastian, as for the first time in awhile this season, he came out with an impressive P1. After a few interviews you were finally free and you went back to your hotel room, feeling particularly exhausted and more than ready for this break.

You opened the door, pulling off your shoes with sluggish movements. The moment your head hit the pillow, you fell into a deep sleep, your body more than happy to receive its much-needed rest.

It was the middle of the night when your phone rang, stirring you from your sleep. You groggily read the contact: Sebastian. Why was he calling you? “Hello?” You yawned into the speaker, using your free hand to wipe your eyes, hoping to wake yourself a bit.

“Hiii,” Sebastian slurred, his voice unusually cheery, “how are you?”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. It was obvious now that he was drunk. “I’m good, how are you? What’s up?”

“I’m gooood,” He replied, and you noticed the stretching out the syllables of his words when he talked. “Nothings up, I just wanted to talk to you.”

You hummed. “Okay. You’re drunk. Do you need a ride?”

Sebastian was quiet for a few minutes, the only sound being a hiccup, followed by a soft, “Yeah..” 

Sighing, you had already started to get out of bed, getting ready to go pick up Sebastian. “Where are you? I’m coming to get you.”

Once Sebastian managed to spit out his location through his slurred speech, you were on your way. Pulling up to the boisterous club, you noticed Sebastian standing outside on the sidewalk.

You parked and climbed out, knowing damn well he'd need help if he really was anywhere near as drunk as he sounded over the phone.

Sebastian smiled when he noticed you, something you were definitely unaccustomed to after these past months. What surprised you even more was his arms wrapping around your waist as he took upon his drunk self to hug you. 

“Have you always looked this nice?” He asks as he pulls away, and you are forced to shake off the shock of the clinginess when he compliments you.

“Good to see you too,” You say, chuckling in embarrassment at his words, his unnatural actions not going unnoticed by you. “Here, let's get you into the car.”

Sebastian, lucky for you, wasn't one to fight the idea of going back to the hotel and almost eagerly followed your instructions. Your hands guided him in as he plopped unceremoniously down. Watching from the open door, you observed Sebastian struggling with his seatbelt, trying hard to click it in securely but failing miserably. Sighing, you bent over and did it for him before closing the door and crossing the car to get in the driver's seat again.

As you began driving, you imagined the car ride to be quiet, but Sebastian had other plans.

“Thank you for driving me,” he hiccuped, starting the small talk easy.

“It's no big deal,” You replied, glancing at him in the passenger seat. You were a little shocked to find him looking right back at you, his gaze shamelessly wandering your features.

“Look, I'm sorry for being really mean all the time,” Sebastian said suddenly, breaking your distracted train of thought. 

“It's okay,” you replied, gazing back at the road. He was drunk and you weren't sure if his words were as true as they would've been had he been sober.

“But it's not okay,” Sebastian hiccuped, “You're nothing but nice to me and I'm always so angry with you. Don't you ever get upset with me?”

You swallowed a little nervously, staring out the window. When you'd first joined Red Bull at the start of this season, you'd heavily admired Sebastian, but over time your opinion of him was altered through his harshness.

“I..” You mumbled, unsure how to state your view without possibly offending him, “Sometimes.”

Sebastian took a long time to respond after that, and the silence seems to shove you into the spotlight. After an awkward momentary pause, you find yourself blurting out your true feelings to Sebastian in a desperate attempt to end this silence that eats you up. He wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning, anyway. “I just wanted to be as good as you. I saw someone who was a great racer, and I strived to be like that. But then, when I did get to that level, I was met with nothing but resentment. And I'm not even sure I know why.”

More silence. The only noise is the sound of the car as it drives and you wish nothing more than the radio to be on to take away some of these unpleasantly long pauses.

“You probably think I hate you,” Sebastian slurred finally. From your peripherals, you saw him hang his head in shame and sit forward again.

That took you off guard. Through his harsh words, his angry glares, and the countless times he'd displayed his very obvious disdain for you, he'd made it clear that he did hate you, and quite vehemently. If not hate, then a strong distaste. Hell, you were partially certain you’d remembered him saying something in a press conference once. Now, drunken and lost from his wits, he was telling you he didn't feel that at all? That his appearance was not as it seemed all this time? “You don't..?”

“Me? Hate you? No. Quite the opposite, actually.” Sebastian exclaimed, drunken head snapping up to meet your gaze.

Oh.

A beat of silence. A confession that feels like a mouthful too big to swallow. “What?” You ask, mind spinning with what he could possibly mean. 

“I don't hate you,” Sebastian repeats. “Not anymore.”

This doesn't make sense. None of it does. Why does he tell you this now? And here, of all places? “Not anymore?” You repeat, a plea for him to elaborate.

“No,” he sighs, “I've been so stupid.. and stubborn. You threatened my reputation as the best Red Bull driver and I really didn't like that.. And, you were always so.. nice. So kind and cheery all the time. The cameras seemed to be attracted to you, you were press eye-candy and they took full advantage of that. I envied how carefree you were and how much you stole the spotlight off me. How perfect you seemed.”

For a minute you forget he's drunk. Forget that maybe he might not mean a word of this. That he's so out of his wits that he probably doesn't know what he's saying. And it's blissful when you do. To live in ignorance and take his words as they seem. The inebriated lack of clarity he experiences not once crossing your mind, even for just a moment. You allow yourself to think he means it.

“I–” you mumble, not entirely sure what to say, “What made you change your mind?”

Sebastian didn't speak right away, but you could see the way his face portrayed the internal battle he fought. “When I crashed into you and you didn't move. Not an inch.” He pauses, gulping before continuing on quietly, “I thought I’d killed you. I got out of my car the quickest I've ever before and fought to get to you. Something told me I had to see if you were okay. I'd never been so scared in my life.”

His admittance was something unexpected. You wanted to believe him, a small voice in your mind whispered repeatedly ‘drunk words are sober thoughts.’ Now, in your mind, you wonder what he could have possibly meant when he said he didn’t hate you, instead claiming to have felt something ‘quite the opposite.’ What was that opposing thing? It made you wonder if that soft twinkle in his eyes when he looked at you was just your imagination, or if it was really something to consider.

Silence settles like death over the car. Maybe it’s your lack of response, but it doesn’t matter because soon enough, you’re pulling into the hotel parking lot and helping Sebastian back up to his room.

It’s quiet as you lead him down the long hallway, passing many rooms before finally stopping at his door. He uses a keycard to unlock it, and he stumbles in as soon as he does. You walk into his hotel room, bringing him to his bed. You leave for a minute, going to the bathroom to grab the garbage bin and filling a glass with water from the sink. “Here,” You say, extending the glass to him, “Drink this,” You pause, setting the bin on the floor by the bed, “And use this if you need to throw up any time in the night.”

Sebastian nods, finishing up his glass of water.

You sigh, heading to the door and deciding your work is done. “Goodnight Sebastian,” you say to him.

“Goodnight Y/n,” He replies and you leave.

In your own room, you lay restless for a while, pondering everything Sebastian said to you, and for a minute, you like to believe something has changed. That this feeling in you is real and things are really different than they were.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙ ＊*• 

Months pass from that night, Sebastian never brings up the topic. Yet, things don’t fall back to how they were. You haven’t had any quarrels with the German since then. His words, albeit not at the front of your mind, still ring in your ears from time to time. By now, It’s the end of the season- The last race. And, you’ve won.

The feeling of parking your car at the first-place marker and climbing out onto its long body, hearing the crowds shouts of congratulations while the full weight of your accomplishment began to set in, produced an indescribable emotion. The jumps of joy you denied fighting against as you shouted and screamed in a disbelieving glee, your feet leaving the ground as you leapt around in a craze. As soon as you stepped off your car, you’d jogged across the tarmac and leaped at the fence, straight into the warm embrace of your team. Their acclamations washed over you while they patted your back and shoulders in celebration. When you had finally separated from your team and found yourself walking that short bridge- which, in comparison, had felt much longer and slower than it really was and stepped onto the podium for first place, the sounds of the crowd below you roaring in celebration, their loud cheers filling the air and ringing loud in your ears, made you realize they were cheering for you. As you stood in front of the world, on display, the national anthem for your country playing proudly for the winner, you could feel tears of joy start to well in your eyes.

You’d done it. You’d won the World Drivers Championship. The first female driver in history to ever win a WDC, and you had done it. Through years of hard work in karting as a child, pushing yourself all the way up into the formulas, you had accomplished it. When you’d made your debut into Formula 1, you could hardly believe it then. You never imagined you’d have made it this far into the sport. Of course, you’d dreamed of winning a WDC, as every other driver did. Ever since you were in karting it had been an unimaginable feat you always reached for, striving to one day achieve. A feat many drivers never got a glimpse of. To be dubbed the greatest in Formula 1 was something unbelievable. But here you were, standing atop the podium, being handed the first place trophy of the season’s final grand prix, securing your position as the World Champion. A constant reminder in your mind of ‘you were the champion- the best,’ made your happiness only increase. 

As you held the trophy in your hands, lifting it high over your head, you let the tears fall. There was a wide smile of joy plastered across your face, stretching from ear-to-ear. You held the trophy in the air, a silent echo of your words that screamed ‘I’ve won’ being conveyed through the simple act.

Eventually, you set down your trophy, careful not to break it, the champagne bottle now held in your hands as you popped the cork. You felt the sticky spray from the other podium members as they pelted you with the bubbly drink, while you took a short turn blasting either of them with the liquid. After a moment, you turned and faced the crowd, shaking the bottle and shooting champagne over them with a smile on your face. 

Suddenly, there was a wet feeling of champagne being poured over your head, soaking your hair and running down your race suit, it had you turning to face the other podium winners, one of them being none other than your teammate Sebastian Vettel. He was smiling broadly at you, holding his champagne bottle above your head, dumping the rest of the yellow liquid over you in congrats. You couldn’t care less about it, rather enjoying the celebration more and more as it progressed. You still could hardly believe the fact you’d won the WDC.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙ ＊*• 

The 2014 Red Bull team went out to party that night, the whole group hitting one of the team members' houses that was coincidentally not far from the location of the last grand prix, upon arrival, booze was promptly handed out.

You, on the other hand, strayed from partaking in the drinking of alcohol. Tonight was your celebration night, and you much preferred to spend it remembering rather than drunk off your wits.

You'd found yourself seeking an isolated place. Somewhere to go to regain your thoughts, almost as if you were relishing in your own victory but with silent regard.

There was a peacefulness on the quiet balcony that made admiring the sky easy. High above your head, the night sky stretched across the horizon like a blanket. Stars looked like pin pricks amongst the great ebony expanse. There was a slight chill to the evening air, but not one great enough for you to retreat back into the mansion. Inside, the party raged on, with loud music blasting loud enough you could hear it from your place on the balcony.

The sound of the sliding balcony door opening caught your attention. Reluctantly tearing your eyes away from the beautiful night sky, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Sebastian.

“Hello,” He greeted, “Whatcha doin’ up here?”

Sebastian was drunk. That much was obvious with the messy onslaught of slurred words and the slight stumble in his step as he joined you in leaning on the balcony.

“I wanted some time alone.” You answered. It wasn't a lie. You really did get away purposefully to be alone.

“Why? It's your party,” he hiccupped, his drunken gaze swimming with confusion.

You sighed. Yes, it was your party, but you just wanted to be alone for a bit to truly celebrate your victory without a full-blown party. “I know it’s my party.” 

Sebastian didn’t say anything after that, instead choosing to just stand silently beside you. Naturally, your gaze was drawn back to the sky, but this time Sebastian joined you.

The moon was a creamy ball of light against the charcoal of the sky, shedding its milky rays on the both of you and illuminating your faces beneath its glow. There was a gentle stillness to it all, a serenity to the scene, with the only sound being the whisper of the wind as it danced near-silently through the trees in the yard. The warmth from Sebastian lingered on your bare arms, his own skin so close to your own.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” you said, admiring the stars.

Sebastian merely hummed, and it caused you to glance at him. His eyes weren’t to the sky, instead, they were transfixed on your figure.

You turned to stare into his eyes, neither of you broke the contact. You could’ve sworn you’d seen a twinkle of warm fondness in his gaze. No, actually, you were certain you had. 

The shared glance had sparked something within you. A shift that altered the feelings you experienced. Maybe it was all just a hoax. Confusion. But not even you could deny the whispered nothings screaming that maybe what you felt was most definitely something. Something scary. Daunting. Both too scared to traipse through the thick hazy smoke that stung the eyes and invaded every sense, but what neither of you knew was that cloud was protecting the hot embers and warm flames from within. The parts of them that yearned for each other deeply. However, everything was on the verge of coming undone.

You'd hardly realized you and Sebastian subconsciously closed the gap between each other until you felt the warmth of his booze-ridden breath fan your face. With that train of thought, your gaze had lowered to his candy-coloured lips. It took you a minute to process your action, and it was only another second before your gaze returned to his eyes embarrassedly.

Sebastian doesn't seem to notice– or mind– the longing look. His hand reaches up to brush a piece of hair from your face, and you can feel your stomach erupt in swarms of butterflies at the act. He doesn't let his hand fall, instead it moves to tentatively cradle your cheek.

Sebastian leaned in even closer, his lips just above yours. You didn't miss the lingering stare he left on your lips for a little too long. You knew what was about to happen if you didn't move soon. Something deep inside you had you glued to your spot. And for a moment, a split second, the realization that maybe you wanted this struck you.

“May I kiss you?” He whispered, soft slate blue eyes meeting yours, gaze gone unbroken with the sheer intensity of the moment.

Warm fondness rises through you, bubbling softly in your chest. Apprehension courses through your veins, hot like lava to warm your skin despite the late November chill. You won't deny Sebastian the right to kiss you, because deep down you know you want this. You need this. Forever since you'd met him, you've yearned for clarity, for him to draw that line in the sand. To you, this would either spell it out for you or leave you second guessing everything. And that was a risk you considered worth taking.

“I won't say no.” You replied at last, solidifying everything on your end. A wide range of emotions run through your veins, but you don't feel an ounce of regret or unwillingness to taste and feel his lips on yours.

That's all the permission he needs, as he closes that gap to press his lips to yours.

His lips are tender, gentle and soft in a way that makes your knees wobble and your chest tighten. Sebastian's other hand finds its way to your hip, his fingers curling into your skin. 

You find he tastes faintly of liquor, a reminder of his previous drinking. Yet, part of you chooses to ignore it. He wants this too, right?

Your head spins as you stand frozen to the spot, lips linked together. Sebastian inevitably pulls away for air, and you find yourself chasing his lips for a short moment. He notices, a soft smile gracing his features while his hand slides from your cheek to rest on your neck as he pulls you in for a second kiss.

The second kiss ends with both of you pulling away. Sebastian rests his forehead against yours, and it takes a while before you open your eyes again. 

Your breaths mingle in the air between each other, soft smiles present on your faces. High above, the moon observes in awe.

“Will you go out to dinner with me?” Sebastian asks.

Nodding, you reply, “Only if you promise to remember this when you're sober.”

The German’s grin widens, “I don't think I could forget.”

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙ ＊*• 

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ || ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ || ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠! 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

[mrsfancyferrari]

Could you maybe make an AU with Carlos? Kind of a Romeo and Juliet vibe where they’re both royalty and aren’t allowed to be together but w a happy ending?

Happy Ever After

Anon: Could you maybe make an AU with Carlos? Kind of a Romeo and Juliet vibe where they’re both royalty and aren’t allowed to be together but w a happy ending?

Song: Love Story by Indila

Author’s note: Hey anon! I'm not used to the story of Romeo and Juliet so please bear with me! Please like, reblog and share this! <33

Word count: 8.6k

MASTERLIST - F1

Once upon a time, in the kingdom of Aragonia, nestled between towering mountains and winding rivers, lay a land of unparalleled beauty and prosperity. The kingdom was a tapestry of lush, verdant landscapes, where rolling hills were adorned with wildflowers that danced in the gentle breeze.

Majestic castles, their spires reaching towards the heavens, stood as a testament to the kingdom's rich history and the ingenuity of its people.

The citizens of Aragonia were a proud and industrious lot, known far and wide for their skilled craftsmanship and unwavering commitment to their community.

From the bustling marketplaces in the heart of the capital city to the quaint, charming villages that dotted the countryside, the people of Aragonia lived in harmony, their days filled with the laughter of children and the rhythmic hum of daily life.

At the center of this enchanting kingdom stood the grand palace, a sprawling edifice of gleaming marble and intricate stonework.

Here, the wise and benevolent ruler of Aragonia presided, guiding the kingdom with a steady hand and a deep understanding of the needs of his people.

Under the watchful eye of the monarch, Aragonia flourished, its reputation for prosperity and innovation spreading far beyond its borders, drawing in visitors from near and far who marveled at the beauty and wonder of this truly remarkable land.

Princess Y/N, known for your grace and beauty, was the eldest daughter of King Alfonso VII. You had inherited your father's intelligence and compassion, making you a beloved figure within the kingdom.

Prince Carlos, on the other hand, was the youngest son of King Ferdinand III. Despite his noble status, he possessed a rebellious spirit that drew him closer to the commoners.

King Alfonso and King Ferdinand were embroiled in a bitter feud that threatened to tear the kingdom apart. The two monarchs harbored deep-seated animosity towards one another, stemming from long-standing political and personal disputes.

This toxic rivalry manifested in a climate of tension and distrust, with the two men constantly vying for power and influence. The tension between them spilled over into their respective families, creating a rift that only served to exacerbate the already precarious situation within the kingdom.

As the conflict escalated, the people of the land found themselves caught in the crossfire, uncertain of their future and the stability of the realm. . . .

"Princess Y/N, are you ready for the party?" your servant asked you as you stared out of your oval-shaped window, revealing the endless sea and the docks.

"Yes Matilda, I am ready," you muttered.

You were not. You hated going to these parties that your father organized. The grand halls filled with nobility, the endless chatter about alliances and politics, and the constant pressure to present yourself as the perfect princess made you feel suffocated.

You'd rather stay here and watch the sea forever, losing yourself in the gentle rhythm of the waves and the distant calls of the seabirds.

As you reluctantly turned away from the window, you couldn't help but sigh. The ocean had always been your sanctuary, a place where you could dream of freedom and adventure far from the palace walls.

But duty called, and you knew you had to uphold your role, no matter how much it pained you.

Adjusting your gown, you took a deep breath and steeled yourself for the evening ahead, wishing that one day you might find a way to escape the gilded cage that held you.

Your father expected you to charm the guests, forge new alliances, and perhaps even catch the eye of a suitable suitor. He had always emphasized the importance of these gatherings for the kingdom's future, and he relied on you to play your part perfectly.

Despite your own desires, you knew that failing to meet his expectations could have serious repercussions for both you and the realm.

The thought of potential suitors filled you with a mixture of dread and resignation. You longed for a partner who understood your love for the sea and your yearning for freedom, rather than someone who only saw you as a pawn in their political games.

Yet, you knew that such a romantic ideal was unlikely in your world, where alliances were forged not by love but by necessity. . . .

"Carlos! Are you sure this isn't going to get us into big trouble?" Mercutio whispered as the three of them pushed through the overgrown garden of the Alfonso family.

Carlos grinned, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Relax, Mercutio. I've done this a dozen times before. The Alfonsos are too busy celebrating to notice a few extra guests," he replied confidently, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

"Besides, we blend in perfectly. Just act like you belong, and no one will question a thing."

Benvolio, trailing behind them, chimed in, "He's right, Mercutio. Remember last summer when we crashed the mayor's gala? We even got compliments on our outfits!" He adjusted his mask and smoothed his clothes, trying to muster up some of Carlos' bravado.

"Let's just have fun tonight. What's the worst that could happen?"

The garden was a labyrinth of lavishly manicured hedges and vibrant flowerbeds, with twinkling fairy lights strung overhead that cast a magical glow on the scene. Stone statues of mythical creatures peeked out from behind dense shrubbery, and a grand marble fountain stood at the center, its water sparkling like liquid diamonds.

The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming jasmine, adding an enchanting allure to the evening.

"Just blend in," Carlos finally whispered before slipping into the crowd, his movements fluid and confident. Mercutio and Benvolio exchanged a quick glance, then followed suit, mingling seamlessly with the other revelers.

The sound of laughter and music enveloped them as they made their way toward the heart of the celebration, hoping their disguises would hold up under the scrutiny of the Alfonso family and their guests.

Carlos was dressed in an elegant black suit adorned with intricate gold embroidery, his mask a matching black with delicate filigree that framed his eyes.

Mercutio wore a deep blue velvet coat with silver accents, his mask resembling a Venetian masterpiece with feathers that added a touch of mystique.

Benvolio, opting for a more understated look, sported a dark green ensemble with subtle bronze details, his mask simple yet sophisticated, giving him an air of quiet confidence.

Carlos, Mercutio and Benvolio all arrived at the mansion, eager to have a good time. As they mingled with the guests, no one had any idea that they were from the rival Ferdinand family.

They blended in seamlessly, sipping drinks and chatting merrily, their true identities hidden from the unsuspecting crowd.

The three friends revelled in the freedom of being anonymous at the party. They could let their guard down and truly enjoy themselves, without the constant tension and rivalry that existed between their family and the Alfonso.

For once, they were able to forget the long-standing feud and simply live in the moment, dancing and laughing without a care in the world. . . .

"Everyone! Please give your full attention to King Alfonso and his daughter, Princess Y/N who make their appearance tonight!" The announcer stated, catching everyone's attention and the room came to a silent halt.

The grand hall was adorned with opulent chandeliers that cast a warm, golden glow over the elegantly dressed guests. Rich tapestries depicting scenes of royal triumphs hung on the walls, and an orchestra played softly in the background, adding to the regal atmosphere.

At the top of the imperial staircase, a majestic red carpet led straight to the throne, where King Alfonso and Princess Y/N stood in their resplendent attire.

King Alfonso, a striking figure with a commanding presence, wore a robe of deep crimson velvet trimmed with gold embroidery. His crown, encrusted with precious gemstones, rested regally upon his silver hair, which added to his dignified look.

His piercing blue eyes surveyed the room with a mixture of authority and benevolence, and a jeweled scepter in his right hand glinted under the chandelier's light, symbolizing his unchallenged power and leadership.

Princess Y/N, standing gracefully beside him, was the epitome of elegance and poise. Your gown, a masterpiece of delicate lace and satin in shades of royal blue, shimmered with every movement.

A tiara of diamonds and sapphires adorned your flowing locks, complementing your serene and captivating beauty.

Your eyes, a brilliant shade of green, radiated warmth and kindness as you acknowledged the gathered guests, while your calm demeanor and gentle smile hinted at the wisdom and strength that lay beneath your refined exterior.

Carlos and his friends were at the buffet, eagerly sampling the lavish spread of delicacies when the announcement echoed through the hall.

While his companions barely glanced up before returning to their plates, Carlos found himself captivated by the sight of you. Your graceful presence and ethereal beauty held him spellbound, making it impossible for him to look away.

The sparkle of your tiara and the gentle warmth in your eyes seemed to draw him in, as if you were the very embodiment of a fairy tale come to life.

As his friends continued their animated conversation about the best dishes at the buffet, Carlos remained rooted to his spot, his gaze fixed firmly on the princess.

He felt an inexplicable connection, a magnetic pull that made the noise and bustle around him fade into the background.

In that moment, nothing else mattered; all he could see was you, and all he could feel was the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, you might notice him amidst the sea of faces.

The first dance came soon after the announcement, and Carlos knew it was the perfect chance to make his presence known. As the music started, couples began to fill the dance floor, but Carlos's eyes never left you.

Gathering his courage, he approached with a respectful bow, extending his hand. "May I have this dance, Princess?" he asked, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside him.

You smiled warmly, recognizing the sincerity in his gaze, and placed your hand in his.

As you both moved gracefully to the rhythm, the world seemed to blur around you. Carlos felt a sense of belonging and purpose, each step affirming the connection he felt.

In your presence, the grandeur of the ballroom faded, leaving just the two of you, sharing a moment that neither would soon forget.

"What is your name?" you asked, your voice as melodious as the music enveloping the room. Carlos hesitated for a brief moment, the truth perched on the edge of his tongue.

"My name is Charles," he lied. A slight tremor in his voice betrayed his nervousness.

You tilted your head slightly, a curious glint in your eyes as you continued to dance. "Charles," you repeated, testing the name on your lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Tell me, Charles, what brings you to our celebration tonight?"

Carlos swallowed hard, determined to maintain his composure. "I came with friends," he replied, gesturing subtly towards the buffet. "But now, I am grateful for this unexpected opportunity to dance with you, Princess."

Carlos and you danced gracefully before your father, the King. As the music came to an end, your father gave you a pointed look, signalling that it was time to separate and greet another potential suitor.

You leaned in to Carlos and whispered, "Meet me in the west garden in an hour."

Carlos' eyes widened momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure. "I'll be there," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

You made your way through the throng of guests, exchanging pleasantries with the various noblemen and women who sought your attention. However, your mind was focused on the upcoming meeting with Carlos.

As the appointed hour approached, you slipped away from the main festivities and hurried to the west garden. Carlos was already there, waiting for you under the moonlit sky.

"You came," You said, relief evident in your voice.

"Of course," Carlos responded, taking your hands in his. "I couldn't bear the thought of not seeing you, even if it's just for a moment."

"Carlos, I... I don't know what to do. My father expects me to entertain these suitors, but that's not what my heart wants me to do."

Carlos squeezed your hands gently, his eyes searching yours. "Sometimes, we must follow our hearts, even if it means defying expectations," he said, his voice filled with quiet determination.

"I know it might be difficult, but you deserve to be with someone who understands you, who cherishes you for who you are, not just for your title."

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of your father's expectations and the longing in your heart. "But what if my father never approves? What if he forces me to marry someone else?" you asked, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

Carlos stepped closer, his grip on your hands firm and reassuring. "Then we'll find a way to be together, no matter the obstacles. Love is worth fighting for, Princess. And I promise, I will fight for you."

"But how, you've only met me today," you started, your voice tinged with skepticism.

"It's something called love at first sight, Princess," Carlos teased, a playful smile dancing on his lips. "From the moment I saw you, I knew there was something special about you. It's not just about the title or the expectations—it's about the connection we share, even in such a short time."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words, but doubt still lingered. "But what if this feeling fades? What if we regret defying everything for a chance that might not last?"

Carlos' expression grew serious, his eyes locking onto yours with unwavering intensity. "Feelings like this don't fade easily, Princess. Genuine connections are rare and precious, and I believe ours is one of them. We owe it to ourselves to explore this, to give our hearts a chance to truly know if it's real."

"Okay," you replied shyly, a blush rising to your cheeks. No one has ever spoken to you like this before; it has always been about fulfilling duties and consummating the marriage.

Your entire life, you were taught that love was secondary to alliances and obligations, but Carlos' words stirred something deep within you—a hope that maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than duty.

Carlos' eyes softened as he noticed your hesitation. "This world we live in often binds us with chains of duty and tradition. But sometimes, those chains need to be broken for us to truly live. Let me prove to you that what we have is real. Let me show you a world where love and happiness aren't just dreams but possibilities."

His words carried a promise, a vow that resonated with the unspoken desires in your heart.

You nodded, unable to speak any more, tears welling up in your eyes. Carlos' hand gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "Thank you for trusting me," he whispered, his voice filled with sincerity and warmth.

He leaned in and placed a tender kiss on your cheek, the simple gesture sending a shiver down your spine. His lips lingered for a moment, and you closed your eyes, savoring the unexpected comfort and reassurance his presence brought.

As he pulled back, his eyes never left yours, a silent promise passing between you.

In that moment, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you standing together against the backdrop of an uncertain future.

You took a deep breath, feeling a newfound strength and determination blooming within you. With Carlos by your side, you felt ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, confident that love, for once, would guide your path.

"Should your first job to court me be to kiss me on the lips?" you teased, a playful glint in your eyes. Carlos chuckled, the sound light and full of promise.

"If that is what the princess desires," he replied, his voice low and husky.

He leaned in slowly, giving you ample time to pull away if you wished. But you didn't; instead, you found yourself closing the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a soft, tentative kiss.

The kiss was gentle, almost hesitant at first, as if both of you were savoring the moment's significance. Then it deepened, becoming a silent conversation of shared hopes and unspoken dreams.

When you finally pulled away, your heart was racing, and you saw the same exhilaration mirrored in Carlos' eyes.

"Consider it the first of many," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "Because this is just the beginning of our journey together."

Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions, a blend of excitement, nervousness, and an overwhelming sense of belonging. The kiss had unlocked a floodgate of feelings you had kept hidden for so long, and in that brief, magical moment, you felt truly seen and understood.

As you gazed into Carlos' eyes, you knew that whatever lay ahead, you would face it together, strengthened by the bond you had just forged.

"How will I communicate with you?" Carlos whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You smiled softly, your fingers tracing the outline of his jaw. "We'll find a way," you replied, your voice steady with conviction. "Whether through letters, messages, or the silent understanding we share, we'll always be connected."

Carlos nodded, his eyes filled with trust and determination. "I believe in us," he said quietly, his hand gently squeezing yours.

"Princess Y/N! Where are you?" you heard your maid, Matilda, yell out your name, her voice carrying a mix of urgency and worry.

You turned towards the sound, your heart sinking slightly at the reminder of your duties and the world that awaited outside this intimate bubble.

"I think that's the sign to leave, but don't worry, I'll be here tomorrow," Carlos said, letting go of you reluctantly. You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips.

"Promise?" you asked, your eyes searching his.

"Promise," Carlos replied, his gaze unwavering.

With one last lingering look, you turned and began to walk towards Matilda's voice, feeling Carlos' eyes on you until you disappeared from view. . . .

"Matilda, you saw who I was with, am I right?" you asked, staring out of your window as the evening sun cast long shadows across the room.

"Yes, Princess," Matilda replied, her voice hesitant but clear.

"Do you recognize him?" you pressed, turning to face her, your curiosity mingling with a touch of apprehension.

Matilda nodded slowly. "Yes, I do. He is the youngest child of our rival, King Ferdinand's child, Prince Carlos."

A gasp escaped your lips, and you felt a mix of shock and confusion grip you. "Prince Carlos? But how... why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Matilda's eyes softened with understanding. "I didn't want to alarm you, Princess. I saw how happy you were. But you must be careful; our kingdoms have a complicated history."

Your mind raced with conflicting emotions.

If Prince Carlos had lied about his identity, how could you trust anything else he had said

The promise he made to you felt sincere at the time, but now, doubt gnawed at your heart. What if his intentions were not as pure as you had believed?

The weight of the revelation pressed heavily on your shoulders, and the once-clear path ahead now seemed clouded with uncertainty.

Yet, there was a part of you that wanted to believe in the connection you had felt with him. Despite the rivalry between your kingdoms, there had been moments of genuine warmth and understanding in your conversations.

Could it be possible that he, too, wished for peace and a way to bridge the divide?

You knew you needed to tread carefully, but the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there could be more to his story than deceit kept a small flame of optimism alive within you.

Your heart ached with the weight of uncertainty. "Matilda, what should I do?" you asked, your voice trembling.

Matilda stepped closer, her expression filled with empathy. "Princess, you must tread carefully. Confront Prince Carlos and seek the truth. But remember, matters of the heart are never simple, especially when they are entangled with the affairs of state. Trust your instincts, but also be prepared for whatever truths may come to light."

A whirlwind of emotions swirled within you—fear, hope, and a lingering sense of betrayal. Matilda's words echoed in your mind, urging you to confront Prince Carlos yet cautioning you to brace for the truth.

Your heart beat erratically, torn between the desire to uncover the reality and the dread of what that reality might reveal. . . .

"Good morning, Princess," you heard Carlos say as he emerged from behind a bush, his mask still on from yesterday.

You were in your garden, the same place where Carlos had left you last night. His presence startled you, but you quickly composed yourself, determined to face him.

"Carlos," you began, your voice steady despite the turmoil within.

His eyes widened in surprise at the sound of his real name, betraying a flicker of vulnerability. "I see you know the truth," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret.

"I need to know the full truth. Why did you hide your identity from me?"

His eyes flickered with a mixture of guilt and resolve as he stepped closer, the morning light casting shadows across his masked face.

"I never intended to deceive you," he said softly.

Slowly, with deliberate movements, Carlos reached up and removed his mask, revealing a face that was both strikingly handsome and etched with sorrow. Your breath hitched at the sight, your heart skipping a beat as you took in the chiseled features and the intense eyes that had once seemed so distant.

It was as if a barrier had been lifted between you, and for a moment, the world around you faded into the background.

"I feared that revealing my true identity would ruin the connection we had built. Our fathers have a long history of conflict, and I didn't want that to stand between us. But now, I realize that honesty is the only way forward. I hope you can understand and find it in your heart to trust me once more."

You took a deep breath, letting his words sink in. "Carlos, this isn't just about our fathers' past. It's about the trust between us, the foundation of any relationship," you said, your voice trembling slightly.

"You should have told me the truth from the beginning. How can I be sure there aren't other secrets you're hiding?"

Carlos looked down, his expression a mix of shame and determination. "I understand your hesitation, but I promise you, there are no more secrets. I want to build a future with you based on honesty and trust. Please, give me a chance to prove myself," he implored, reaching out to take your hand.

The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of deceit, but all you saw was sincerity and a deep longing. "Carlos, this isn't going to be easy," you said, your voice softening.

"Trust has to be earned, and it will take time for me to fully trust you again. But I want to try. I want to believe that we can overcome this, together."

Carlos's eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope. "Thank you," he whispered, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "I promise I will do whatever it takes to show you that my intentions are true. No more secrets, no more lies. Just us, facing the world together."

You nodded, feeling a cautious optimism bloom within you.

The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, you both felt that it might just be possible to forge a future built on a foundation of truth and mutual respect.

"Good," you muttered, cupping his face to place a kiss on his lips.

The kiss was tentative at first, as if testing the waters of this newfound honesty. But soon, it deepened with a mutual understanding that this was the first step towards mending what had been broken.

Pulling back slightly, you looked into his eyes, seeing the determination etched in his gaze.

"Well," you said with a playful smile, "if we're going to start fresh, maybe we should celebrate with dinner tonight. How about you cook for me? I've been dying to taste your famous paella."

Carlos chuckled, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. "Ah, my culinary skills, eh? You know, I only bring out my best recipes for special occasions. But for you, I think I can make an exception."

"You'd better," you teased, giving him a light nudge. "And don't think you can win me over with just food. I'm expecting some serious effort on your part."

Carlos grinned, his confidence returning. "Challenge accepted. Just wait, by the end of the night, you won't have any doubts about my commitment to us."

You both laughed, the tension easing as you basked in the warmth of this new beginning, ready to face whatever came next, together. . . .

Carlos couldn't help but sneak another glance at the grand Alfonso mansion as he crept through the garden, his heart pounding with excitement and nerves.

"Are you sure about this?" he whispered, finally reaching the veranda where you stood waiting.

"Absolutely," you whispered back, a smile playing on your lips. "I've thought about it, and I don't want to waste any more time. If we're going to build a future together, let's start now."

Carlos took a deep breath, looking deep into your eyes. "Then let's do it. Let's get married. I'll make Friar Laurence wed us tomorrow."

You nodded, feeling a rush of exhilaration. "Yes, Carlos. Let's take this leap of faith together. No more doubts, no more hesitation. Just us, united in a promise to face everything hand in hand."

"Until tomorrow, princess. I can't wait to make you my wife," Carlos said, kissing your knuckles.

Your heart raced as his warm lips brushed against your skin. The way he looked at you, with such adoration and longing, sent shivers down your spine. You knew in that moment that there was no one else you'd rather spend the rest of your life with.

"I can hardly contain my excitement," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "The thought of becoming your wife fills me with such joy."

Carlos smiled, his eyes sparkling with love. "Then it's settled. Tomorrow, in front of all our loved ones, I will make you mine forever." He brought your hand to his lips once more, sealing the promise with a tender kiss.

As he reluctantly pulled away, you already felt the loss of his touch. But the knowledge that soon you would be bound to him for eternity filled you with a sense of peace and belonging.

Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

The next day, under the cover of dawn, you and Carlos made your way to Friar Laurence's small chapel. The early morning light filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the stone floor.

Friar Laurence stood at the altar, a knowing smile on his face as you approached. "Are you both ready to take this step?" he asked softly, his voice filled with warmth and understanding.

Carlos squeezed your hand, his eyes never leaving yours. "Yes, Friar," he replied with unwavering certainty. "We are ready to start our life together."

You nodded in agreement, feeling a swell of emotion rise in your chest.

Friar Laurence began the ceremony, his words a soothing balm to your anxious heart. As you exchanged vows, the world outside seemed to fade away.

Friar Laurence started, "Carlos and Y/N, I now pronounce you husband and wife. May your union bring an end to the conflict between your families."

Carlos said, his eyes never leaving yours. "Thank you, Friar Laurence. With this marriage, I hope my father and Y/N's father can find peace."

"As do I, Carlos. Our love will show them that there is a way forward, beyond this senseless feud."

Friar Laurence smiled, "I pray that your marriage will be the first step towards reconciliation. May God bless you both."

For those precious moments, it was just the two of you, bound by love and the promise of a future together. . . .

Later that afternoon, Carlos met with Mercutio in the secluded garden behind his family's estate. The air was filled with the scent of blooming roses and the gentle hum of bees.

Benvolio, ever the jester, was the first to speak. "Carlos, you look like a man with a secret. Do tell, what has you so radiant today?"

Carlos couldn't suppress his joy any longer. "My friend, I have wonderful news. This morning, Y/N and I were married in Friar Laurence's chapel."

Benvolio's eyes widened in surprise. "Married? So soon? But what about the feud between your families? Do they know?"

Carlos shook his head, a determined look in his eyes. "Not yet, but we hope that our union will be the catalyst for peace. We believe that our love can end this senseless conflict. Now, more than ever, we need your support and discretion."

However, he is soon stopped when he sees Tybalt Alfonso, Y/N's cousin, there arguing with Mercutio. The tension in the garden was palpable, cutting through the serene atmosphere like a knife.

Tybalt's face was flushed with anger as he pointed an accusing finger at Mercutio. "What are you doing here, Montague?"

Tybalt spat, his voice laced with venom. "This garden is not for the likes of you."

Mercutio, ever the provocateur, smirked and replied, "Oh, Tybalt, must you always be so dramatic? We're simply enjoying the lovely weather. Besides, Carlos invited us."

Carlos stepped forward, trying to diffuse the situation. "Tybalt, please, this isn't the time for old grudges."

Tybalt glared at Carlos, his eyes burning with fury. "You dare refuse my challenge?" he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "We are sworn enemies, and you will face me in combat!"

Carlos held up his hands, his expression calm and resolute. "I cannot, Tybalt. You are like family to me. I love you as a brother, and I will not raise my hand against you."

Tybalt's brow furrowed in confusion, his anger momentarily tempered by the unexpected response. "What madness is this?" he demanded.

"We have been at odds for years, and now you claim to love me as kin?"

"It is no madness, Tybalt," Carlos replied evenly. "My heart has changed, and I see now that our feud has been a foolish and pointless thing. Let us put aside our differences and embrace as family."

Tybalt's jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists. "You mock me with your words, Carlos," he growled.

"I will not be swayed by your honeyed tongue. The time for talk is over - draw your sword and fight, or be forever branded a coward!"

"I cannot believe you refuse to fight like a true man," Mercutio spat, his eyes narrowed in frustration as Carlos once again declined the challenge.

"Do you not have the courage to face me on the battlefield?"

Carlos averted his gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. "I mean no disrespect, Mercutio, but I have no desire to engage in such violence. Perhaps we could resolve this matter peacefully."

Mercutio scoffed, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Peaceful? Bah! You dishonour yourself and all those around you with your cowardice."

He stepped forward, his chin raised defiantly. "If you will not fight, then I shall take your place and show you how a true warrior conducts himself."

Before Carlos could protest, Mercutio had already turned to face Tybalt, his sword drawn and his stance ready.

"En garde, Tybalt!" he called out, his voice ringing with a mixture of anger and excitement. "Let us see who is the better swordsman!"

Tybalt and Mercutio drew their swords, the blades gleaming in the sunlight as they began to duel.

The sound of steel clashing against steel echoed through the streets as the two men traded fierce blows, their movements swift and precise.

Sensing the escalating tension, Carlos attempted to intervene, stepping between the combatants in a desperate bid to stop the fighting.

However, Tybalt, blinded by rage, lashed out with his sword, aiming to strike Carlos but instead catching Mercutio in the chest.

Mercutio cried out in pain as the blade pierced his flesh, crimson blood spilling onto the cobblestones. He staggered backward, his own sword slipping from his grasp as he clutched at the wound.

Tybalt, realising his mistake, hesitated for a moment, his expression a mix of shock and regret.

The brief pause was all Carlos needed to seize Tybalt's sword arm, wrestling the weapon from his grip and forcing him to the ground. Mercutio, his strength fading, collapsed to his knees, his laboured breaths echoing in the stunned silence that had fallen over the scene.

Mercutio drew his final, shuddering breath, his body racked with agony. He turned to his friend Carlos, pain etched across his face.

"Alas, dear friend, I fear my end is nigh," Mercutio said, his voice barely above a whisper. "This wound, it burns like fire, sapping my strength with every passing moment."

Carlo grasped Mercutio's hand, tears welling in his eyes. "Speak not of such things, good Mercutio. You shall recover, I promise you."

Mercutio managed a weak smile. "Nay, Romeo, my time has come. Promise me, promise me you'll not forget me." Romeo nodded solemnly, a single tear cascading down his cheek.

"I shall never forget you, my dearest friend."

Carlos's heart ached with unbearable sorrow as he held Mercutio's hand tightly. "Your memory will live on in my heart forever, Mercutio," he vowed, his voice breaking.

With a final squeeze, he watched helplessly as the light faded from his friend's eyes. . . .

Carlos felt furious at Tybalt for killing Mercutio. The death of his dear friend had left him overcome with rage.

How dare Tybalt take Mercutio's life in such a callous manner? Carlos seethed with anger, his fists clenched as he replayed the tragic events in his mind.

In that moment, all Carlos could think about was avenging Mercutio. The thirst for retribution burned within him, clouding his judgment.

He knew he had to confront Tybalt, to make him pay for this heinous act. Carlos was determined to ensure justice was served, no matter the cost. His grief had morphed into a fierce, unyielding desire for vengeance.

Carlos scanned the area, his eyes narrowing as he searched for Tybalt. The coward had fled, leaving chaos and heartbreak in his wake. Carlos's rage intensified with every passing second, knowing that Tybalt had not only taken Mercutio's life but had also escaped without facing the consequences of his actions.

The thought of Tybalt's cowardice fueled his resolve, and he vowed to track him down, no matter how long it took or how far he had to go.

Determined and unwavering, Carlos rose to his feet, his mind singularly focused on his mission. He would hunt Tybalt to the ends of the earth if necessary, driven by a mix of grief and fury.

The streets that once seemed familiar now felt like a labyrinth he had to navigate to find his enemy.

As he moved forward, each step was a promise to Mercutio: justice would be served, and the pain inflicted upon his friend would not go unanswered.

Carlos and Tybalt found each other in the dimly lit alleyway, the tension between the two palpable. They circled one another, eyes locked, hands gripping their weapons tightly.

Without warning, Tybalt lunged forward, his blade slicing through the air. Carlos parried the attack, the sound of steel clashing against steel echoing through the narrow passage. The two men traded blows, their movements quick and precise, each one trying to gain the upper hand.

The fight raged on, neither man willing to back down. Tybalt's attacks grew more frenzied, his desperation fueling his strikes.

Carlos, however, remained calm and focused, his counterattacks landing with devastating precision.

In a final, desperate attempt, Tybalt made one last lunge.

But Carlos was ready, and with a swift, decisive movement, he plunged his blade deep into Tybalt's chest. Tybalt's eyes widened in shock, and he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Carlos stood over Tybalt's lifeless body, his chest heaving with the adrenaline of the fight. The rage that had fueled him moments ago began to ebb, replaced by a heavy, somber silence.

He glanced up at the darkened sky, a sense of emptiness washing over him as he realized that, despite his victory, the void left by Mercutio's death could never truly be filled.

Realising what he has done, Carlos fled in a panic. The weight of his actions overwhelmed him, and he knew he could not face the consequences.

The Prince arrived on the scene, his expression grave.

With a booming voice, he declared, "Carlos, your crimes for killing Tybalt are unforgivable. You are hereby banished from Aragonia, effective immediately. You must leave our lands at once and never return, lest you face the full extent of our justice."

Carlos trembled, knowing there was no arguing with the Prince's decree.

You crumpled to the floor, the news of your cousin Tybalt's death and your husband Carlos' banishment hitting you like a tidal wave. Tears streamed down your face as you clutched the letter that had delivered such devastating news.

The room seemed to spin, and you felt an unbearable weight pressing down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe.

The love you had for Carlos was now intertwined with the grief and anger over Tybalt's demise, leaving you torn and shattered.

Days turned into nights, and the sorrow did not relent. You wandered through your home, haunted by memories of happier times, now tainted by the tragedy that had befallen your family.

Friends and family tried to console you, but their words felt hollow, unable to bridge the chasm of pain that consumed you.

The future seemed bleak, and you struggled to find a way forward, questioning how you could ever rebuild your life with the two most important people ripped away from you.

Each moment brought a fresh wave of anguish, the love for Carlos clashing violently with the grief and anger over Tybalt's death. You found yourself trapped in an endless cycle of longing and resentment, unable to reconcile the two.

At night, when the world was quiet, the memories of Carlos's gentle touch would surface, only to be shattered by the haunting vision of Tybalt's lifeless body, leaving you torn between the man you loved and the cousin you had lost.

"Y/N! Open the window door!" you heard someone too familiar say at your balcony at night.

You were about to sleep when you ran to the balcony to see Carlos, your husband who was supposed to be banished from the kingdom for killing your cousin.

"Carlos, what are you doing here?" you asked, opening the window for him, still angry for his actions.

"Y/N, my love, I had to come back. I couldn't live without you," Carlos pleaded, his eyes filled with desperation.

"I know what I did was wrong, but I did it to protect you. That cousin of yours was a threat, and I had to eliminate him."

You shook your head in disbelief. "Protect me? By murdering my own flesh and blood? Do you have any idea what you've done? You're a wanted man, Carlos. If they find you here, they'll kill you."

"I don't care about that," he said, reaching for your hand. "All that matters to me is you. I love you, Y/N, and I'll do whatever it takes to be with you."

You pulled your hand away, your heart torn between your love for Carlos and the weight of his actions. "Carlos, you have to leave. This is madness. I can't protect you, and I can't be with you, not after what you've done."

"They didn't tell anyone but your cousin killed Mercutio," Carlos muttered.

"What? That can't be true," You exclaimed, your heart racing. "My cousin would never do such a thing!"

Carlos shook his head solemnly. "I'm afraid it is true. I was there, I tried to stop them. They were trying to cover it up. I'm sorry I killed Tybalt but it was justice for Mercutio,"

You felt a sense of disbelief wash over you.

"Tell me everything, Carlos," you demanded, your voice trembling. "I need to know exactly what happened that night."

Carlos took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "It all started when I was telling Mercutio about our marriage. Tybalt suddenly came out of nowhere and challenged us to fight. Tybalt lost his temper and attacked him. I tried to intervene, but it was too late. When I saw Mercutio fall, I knew I had to act."

You could see that Carlos wasn't lying through his eyes, which made you feel even worse. You walked further into your room, your hand on your face, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions crashing over you.

Carlos followed you, quietly closing the window behind him to ensure no one would hear your conversation.

"Y/N, I know this is difficult to accept, but I had no choice," Carlos said softly, his voice filled with regret. "I couldn't let Tybalt get away with what he did to Mercutio. Our friend needed justice, and I couldn't just stand by and do nothing."

You couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for Carlos, despite the anger and betrayal still burning within you. The room felt suffocating, the weight of the truth pressing down on you both.

"Y/N, I didn't come here to discuss bloodshed and the past," Carlos said, his voice steadying as he took a step closer to you.

"Then what did you come here to discuss?" you asked, leaning against the nearest wall to face him, your eyes searching his for answers.

"Us," he muttered, looking down at the floor. "We haven't really consummated the marriage, have we?"

Your breath caught in your throat, the intensity of the moment overwhelming you. "Carlos, this isn't the time," you whispered, trying to hold back the storm of emotions. "Our lives are in danger, and all you can think about is us?"

Carlos raised his eyes to meet yours, determination etched in his features. "Yes, because despite everything, I love you. And I need to know if there's still a chance for us, if you still love me too."

You stood there, stunned by his confession. The love you once felt for Carlos was now tangled with the pain of recent events. "Carlos," you began, struggling to find the right words.

"I don't know if I can just forget everything that happened. Mercutio's death, the feud—it has all changed us. But I can't deny that a part of me still cares for you."

Carlos took another step closer, his eyes softening. "Then let that part guide you," he pleaded. "We can find a way through this, together. We can honor Mercutio by trying to build something better, something that isn't marred by hatred and violence."

You searched his eyes, longing to believe in the possibility of a future where love could triumph over the shadows of the past.

"Y/N, I want you," he said, his voice low and husky.

You looked up at him, your heart racing. You wanted him too, but you were still scared. . . .

"I don't know if I'm ready," you said, your voice trembling.

Carlos took a step closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll be gentle, I promise," he said, his fingers tracing the outline of your face.

You looked up at him, and in that moment, you knew you couldn't resist him any longer. You took a deep breath and nodded, and Carlos led you inside.

As soon as the door closed behind you, Carlos pulled you close and kissed you, his lips hot and demanding. You responded eagerly, your body melting against his.

He started to undress you, his hands skillfully removing your clothes. You stood there, trembling with anticipation, as he kissed every inch of your body.

When he reached your breasts, he took one nipple into his mouth and sucked, his tongue swirling around it. You let out a moan, your body responding to his touch.

He continued to explore your body, his hands and mouth leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When he reached your pussy, he spread your lips apart and started to lick and suck, his tongue delving deep inside you.

You let out a loud moan, your body writhing with pleasure. He continued to lick and suck, his fingers joining in to stimulate your clit.

You felt an orgasm building inside you, and you grabbed onto Carlos's head, pulling him closer. "Don't stop," you moaned. "Don't stop."

He didn't stop, and soon you were crying out in pleasure, your body shaking as you came hard against his mouth.

When you finally came down from your orgasm, Carlos stood up and kissed you, his tongue delving deep into your mouth. You could taste your own juices on his lips, and it only turned you on more.

He reached down and pulled out his cock, and you could see the desire in his eyes. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he entered you in one swift motion.

You let out a loud moan as he filled you up, your body adjusting to his size. He started to thrust, slowly at first, and then faster and harder.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. You could feel another orgasm building inside you, and you urged him on.

"Harder, Carlos," you moaned, "harder."

He responded by thrusting even harder, his cock hitting your G-spot with every stroke. You let out a loud cry as you came again, your body shaking with pleasure.

Carlos continued to thrust, his own orgasm building. He let out a loud groan as he came, his hot cum filling you up.

You collapsed against him, your bodies slick with sweat. You kissed him, your tongues intertwined, and you knew that you had made the right decision.

"Let's run away together," you muttered breathlessly, your lips still tingling from the intensity of your kiss.

Carlos looked into your eyes, his face softening with a mixture of surprise and tenderness. "You mean it?" he asked, his voice filled with hope and disbelief.

You nodded, feeling a surge of certainty wash over you. "Yes, let's leave everything behind and start fresh, just the two of us."

Carlos smiled, a glimmer of excitement flickering in his eyes. "I’ve wanted this for so long. We can go anywhere you want," he said, caressing your cheek. "Paris, Bali, or even a small cabin in the mountains. As long as I'm with you, nothing else matters."

You kissed him again, your decision cemented by the passion you shared, ready to embark on a new journey together.

"You stay here and rest, and I'll pack for you," he said, sitting up with a playful smirk. "I've gotten a good eye for fashion, you know."

You laughed, feeling a sense of relief and exhilaration wash over you. "Oh really? I'd love to see your choices," you teased, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

Carlos stood up and began gathering clothes and essentials, his movements quick and efficient. "Trust me, you'll look amazing in everything I pick," he said confidently.

You watched him, a smile playing on your lips, feeling a newfound sense of freedom. "I can't wait to see where this adventure takes us," you murmured, your heart swelling with anticipation.

Carlos turned to you, holding up a sundress and a pair of sandals. "How about this for our first stop in Paris? It's perfect for a romantic stroll along the Seine," he suggested with a wink.

You giggled, nodding your approval. "I love it! And maybe a hat to go with it? We don't want to look like typical tourists," you added with a playful grin.

He chuckled, placing the outfit in the suitcase. "Consider it done. And for the mountains, I've got just the thing—cozy sweaters and boots for those chilly nights by the fireplace," he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

You felt a rush of warmth and affection, knowing that no matter where you went, as long as you were together, it would be perfect.

"Here's to new beginnings," you said, raising an imaginary glass, and Carlos joined in, the two of you basking in the glow of your shared dreams and the promise of endless possibilities. . . .

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, Matilda burst into your room, her face pale with panic.

"Where are you?!" she screamed, her voice trembling with fear. She tore through the room, throwing open the closet doors and rifling through drawers, but all she found was an empty suitcase and a note left behind.

Matilda's hands shook as she unfolded the note, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting. "Dear Matilda, I've decided to start a new chapter with Carlos. I hope you understand. Please don't worry about me; I'm finally following my heart. Love, [Your Name]."

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she knew deep down that you were doing what was best for you. She took a deep breath and whispered, "Be happy," sending her silent blessings to wherever your adventure was taking you.

Matilda took a moment to collect herself, then resolved to support your decision despite her initial shock. She decided to focus on her own journey, finding solace in the thought that you were finally pursuing your happiness.

Matilda knew that breaking the news to your family would be difficult, so she opted to tell a little white lie.

Over breakfast, she calmly explained to your parents that you had taken a spur-of-the-moment business trip and would be out of touch for a while.

"It's a great opportunity for her," she said, forcing a smile. "She didn't want to worry you with the details but assured me she'd be back soon."

Your parents exchanged concerned glances but ultimately trusted Matilda's explanation. As the days turned into weeks, she continued to cover for you, providing updates and reassuring them that you were doing well.

Deep down, Matilda felt the weight of the secret she was keeping, but she knew it was what you needed.

She found strength in the hope that one day, you would return to share your incredible journey with everyone. . . .

[ghstyles]

Series:

For Worse or For Worse: (complete)

Marriage of convenience

Summary: In the world of fame and fortune, image is everything. Music sensation Harry Styles never expected to cross paths with her again—the childhood friend he was taught to despise. But she becomes the perfect candidate when his team convinces him that a marriage to an “ordinary” woman could boost his public image. Struggling under the weight of debt, she reluctantly agrees to his cold, transactional offer: one year of marriage in exchange for financial freedom.

Four months in, the arrangement is nothing short of a battlefield. Trapped in a loveless, tension-filled marriage, Y/N fights to survive the ruthless world of wealth and scrutiny, while Harry wrestles with the resentment and defiance ingrained in him by his mother. Forced together by circumstance but divided by years of bitterness, they toe the line between hatred and something far more dangerous. Because the real question isn’t whether they can survive the year. No, it’s whether they’ll make it out unscathed.

One shots:

His Angel: (ongoing)

Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry

Summary: Your life is pretty normal with classes, exams, coffee runs, and late-night cramming sessions. Everything is exactly what you’d expect for a college student. Well…except for your boyfriend. The one who settles business disputes with bullets. While most girls are dating frat guys or baristas, you somehow end up with Harry, the cold, ruthless boss of a powerful criminal empire. He’s dangerous, intimidating, and not the kind of man you bring home to meet your parents… but with you? He’s frustratingly soft.

Between dodging rivals, dealing with his overprotectiveness, and trying to convince him that no, intimidation is not a valid negotiation tactic for group projects, your life is anything but ordinary. Love might be blind, but it’s also definitely armed and dangerous.

Blurbs:

Windows facing: (ongoing)

Fratboy!harry

Summary: By sophomore year, Y/N’s gotten used to the chaos. Specifically, the chaos coming from the frat house directly next to her apartment. Ever since move-in day freshman year, her bedroom window has faced his: Harry Styles. Loud, shirtless, smug, and apparently hell-bent on ruining her peace.

Their window wars have become tradition: insults yelled across the alley, lights flicked on at 3 a.m., and a rivalry that keeps the entire floor entertained. But somewhere between the late-night fights and sarcastic truce offerings, something unexpected begins to grow

She was supposed to hate him.

He was supposed to be a joke.

But their windows aren’t the only things opening.

· · ─────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Taglist is open :)

- please let me know if you want to be on the general tag list or for a specific story

[questionablecuttlefish]

What are your thougths on sg lc?

Thoughts? I have no thoughts, only 🩷❤️.

Ok, thoughts, um...

Seriously, I am not a diehard magical girl fan, but SG Lightcannon is just PEAK. It's a simple trope done well, the childhood friends with contrasting personalities navigating the stormy shoals of teenage drama and fighting evil by Starlight.

Lux is the optimistic, conscientious but uncertain young Heroine leader struggling with the weight of responsibility on her shoulders and Jinx is the hothead maverick tsundere Lancer who doesn't gel with the team or care much about the mission but is ferociously devoted to a special someone who may not fully understand how she feels.

With the lore implication that if Jinx ever fully breaks from the team she could risk succumbing to darkness, that it's her deep devotion to for Lux that holds her to the light.

And the implication in her bio that Jinx became a Star Guardian in order to protect and stay with Lux is just achingly romantic. It might be just a LITTLE gay to take an eternally binding oath to fight in a magical girl war for your totally-platonic-childhood-bestie, am I right?

And the music video is so ludicrously sapphic. Lightcannon existed as a ship before Star Guardian but SG kicked the ignition and launched it into the stars.

And then, I think, Riot panicked about people shipping their poster girls so hard they had to throw Ezreal in just to "NO HOMO HONEST" and I fucking hate it.

Star Guardian Ezreal pretty much exists just to fulfill a shallow Tuxedo Mask role he doesn't earn and that's it. He's just there to kill the ship, he has no role in the story other than this, no personality, no background, far less character than any other Ezreal in other skinlines with far less lore meat than Star Guardian.

It's just so transparent. He's just there to be Lux's comphet maybe-boyfriend, and they don't even commit to that - the two exchange one flirty dialogue that is interrupted by a jealous Jinx during the camping story and never actually interact again, despite the occasional art crumb.

Any other developments are left to the imagination or never actually happened. Jinx interacts with him more, and they fight as a decent team in the Twilight Star battle, so they seem to have buried whatever rivalry they might've had, but SG Ezlux and the potential love triangle never actually amounts to a story.

As far as I'm concerned, suqling's half-finished SG comics are the true canon filling in the blanks and I'll leave it at that 🩷❤️

Star Guardian 2022 then promptly threw it all out the window, replacing Lux's team with Kai'Sa's without ever giving them any closure, not on their mission, on the Lux/Ezreal/Jinx love triangle, or even on the characters' survival.

It was so abrupt and so stupidly vague that half the fandom thinks Star Guardian Lux is dead or petrified into a statue somehow based on the trailer showing her transferring leadership role to Kai'Sa and one throwaway line in the visual novel about Kai'Sa 'not wanting to end up a statue like Lux.'

You'd be forgiven for thinking it, but, no, Lux explicitly sent Nilah to look out for Kai'Sa's team and her statue is a commemorative statue built in the square after Zoe's defeat, and Jinx is out there flying around in LoR with some of their team members rescuing SG Gwen from a space kraken.

There's crumbs that Lux might have ascended into some higher station and that's why she's not in the story anymore but it's so absurdly vague, again, there's nothing concrete to go on.

So if the story of Star Guardian Lux and her team just ends there, it's a missed opportunity, and I'm still mad about the stifling of the lesbian subtext.

I want to like 2022 SG's characters, but all I can see is how Lightcannon's story was stolen from them and given to Kai'Sa/Akali, and yes, I am bitter.

SG Lightcannon tiptoed so SG KaiKali could fly.

[sasheemo]

When We Collide

Chapter 8

Chapter Summary: By the lake, after a very tough day, things start to inevitably shift. Playful exchanges give way to unspoken truths and revelations, while you and Agatha begin challenging the expectations that once defined you.

Word Count: 2.5k

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

An indefinite stretch of time passes in the quiet of the forest, enough for Agatha’s tears to dry, her trembling to subside, and the puffiness around her eyes to ease. You both sit beside the lake’s edge, her hand still in yours, warm, solid.

A quiet reassurance in a world that suddenly feels different, as if the rules have shifted without warning. Neither of you pulls away, as if you’ve silently agreed to hold onto this small moment for just a while longer.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it gives space for thoughts that have been dormant. Thoughts that, over the past two days, have surged to the surface like waves, eroding everything you once believed.

The idea of holding her hand would have seemed ridiculous, maybe even repulsive, if you’d imagined it just a couple of days ago or any day before. But now, sitting here, feeling the gentle press of her skin against yours, you realize how little you actually know about her.

You can’t help but think of the way you’ve always viewed her as an opponent, someone you were supposed to face off against someday. The entire coven expected it, assumed that as the daughters of two of the most powerful witches, you’d inherit the bitterness and ambitions of your mothers. They’d built up an entire narrative around you and Agatha, as if rivalry was etched into your bones. And so, you’d accepted it, allowed their stories to fill in the gaps, to shape the way you thought about her before you even knew her.

How strange, you think, to have hated her without cause, simply because you were told to. You realize, with a pang of guilt, that you’ve never given her a chance. And, looking at her now, you wonder if she’s ever truly hated you either.

With her hand in yours, the absurdity of it all hits you. Hard. 

Here she is, not a rival, not some looming threat, just a girl sitting beside you in the quiet of the forest. A girl who has suffered, who hides her own pain and frustration behind a tough exterior. How much of her sharpness, her defiance, has been carved out of her by the coven’s expectations, by the endless reminders that she is Evanora’s daughter? And how much of your own distance from her has been a shield, a way to avoid the inevitable comparisons, the pressure to be someone you’re not?

The resentment you thought you felt, that you assumed was mutual, feels hollow in the face of this silence.

The rivalry, the supposed hatred… all a farce now. You’ve been characters in a story that wasn’t even yours, bound to roles that you never chose. You wonder what things would have been like if no one had ever told you to hate her. If circumstances had been different, if your lives hadn’t been shaped by the ambitions and fears of others, would you even have disliked each other at all?

You find yourself looking at her, studying the lines of her face, the way her gaze is now fixed somewhere far off, as if she’s lost in her own thoughts.

And in this moment, it’s impossible to hate her.

Agatha’s hand shifts in yours, a subtle movement, almost unconscious, and the gesture draws your attention back to the red burns along her wrist. The sight stirs something fierce in you, a flash of anger that’s quick and unbidden, simmering beneath your skin. The idea of anyone, especially Evanora, leaving these marks on her is somehow infuriating.

It’s as if Agatha senses the shift in you, the unspoken intensity of your thoughts. Her head turns slowly, her gaze meeting yours, and for a moment, something quiet yet charged passes between you. You can see a hint of question in her eyes, but you release her hand before she can say anything.

Without a word, you lean forward, dipping your hand into the cool lake water and letting it pool in your cupped palm. Murmuring words in a language older than any of the trees around you, you allow the magic to flow, a quiet warmth emanating from your hand. You watch as the water shimmers, faintly glowing with energy. Then, carefully, you pour it over Agatha’s wrist, watching the marks fade, the raw, reddened skin smoothing out until there’s no sign of what had hurt her.

Agatha’s expression is unreadable as her eyes are fixated on her now-unmarked wrist. “Thank you…” she murmurs, her voice soft, as if gratitude is a foreign language she’s still learning to speak.

And then she stands, the suddenness of her movement leaving you momentarily disoriented. You blink, half-wondering if you’ve done something wrong, until she extends her hand, her fingers open in a silent invitation. Hesitating only for a moment, you take her hand, and she pulls you to your feet with a strength that surprises you.

Now, standing, you find yourselves closer than you expected, close enough to see the shards of ice in her irises and the way her dark hair catches the light.

As she releases your hand, you realize the silence has stretched on too long, and you break it with the first thought that comes to mind. “I… I’m actually glad you didn’t volunteer.” you say, the words slipping out before you can question them.

Her voice casual but carrying a hint of amusement as she replies to you “I didn’t volunteer because, frankly, the whole thing is pointless. They’re just men, a few hunters sticking to their own side of the forest. They’re hardly a threat to anyone here.” She pauses, her lips quirking in a wry smile. “Besides, your mother practically jumped at the chance. I think she would’ve volunteered herself twice over if she could.”

You blink, her words hitting you like a splash of cold water. “She… wh-what?!”

Agatha raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your reaction. “Excuse me, but…weren’t you there, too? How did you miss that?” There’s a look in her eyes, a mix of confusion and barely restrained laughter, as if she’s trying to figure out how you could possibly have missed the whole scene unfolding.

You open your mouth, then close it, scrambling for a response. You can’t exactly admit that you were too distracted staring at her to catch a word of what was being said. Her gaze sharpens, clearly noticing how you’re having a hard time coming up with an answer to such a simple question, and her smirk widens. “Aw was someone… daydreaming?” she teases, her tone edged with curiosity.

You scowl, fighting the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “I had other things on my mind.” you say defensively, though you know it sounds weak.

“Other things, huh?” Agatha’s voice is low and teasing, her eyes glinting with amusement. “More important than listening to your own mother announce she was going to lead the group? I’m curious, what could possibly have been more interesting than that?”

You shift uncomfortably, trying to deflect. “I just…didn’t think it was worth paying attention to.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You really are something…”

You don’t reply, but as the humor of the moment fades, a realization settles over you. Strangely, you don’t feel worried about your mother’s departure. In fact, the thought of her leaving for a few days brings a wave of relief, like a weight lifting off your shoulders. With her gone, you’ll be free of her relentless critiques and expectations, free to spend time at home, or in the forest, or however you please.

But almost as quickly, another thought takes root, a darker one. The only reason your mother would jump at something so trivial would be if she had her own agenda, some scheme to satisfy her endless hunger for power. A sense of dread settles over you, sharp and sudden.

“She’s going to kill them, Agatha. She is going to kill the hunters.” you say, your tone grave.

Agatha’s brow furrows slightly. “Why would she even bother?”

“You don’t know my mother.” you reply, glancing away, a bitterness creeping into your voice. “All she thinks about is power. This is just another way for her to prove herself, to show off to the coven.”

Agatha nods, her expression turning thoughtful. “Then I guess that for both of our mothers there’s always some angle, something they’re trying to gain.” She pauses, a flicker of frustration crossing her face.

You nod, sensing the understanding in her words. Even though, it’s still a bit a strange to think that, despite everything, the two of you see things the same way. “Yeah, I’d say so. She’s probably going out there looking for a fight, just to make herself feel strong, taking it out on some weak men.”

As if sensing the tension and wanting to lighten the mood, Agatha’s mouth curves into a grin, and the playfulness returns to her gaze. “Still…” she says, arching an eyebrow “You said you were glad I didn’t volunteer. Should I take that as some kind of compliment?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no mistaking the faint smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I think I will.” she replies, her tone casual but carrying a hint of mischief.

“Please.” you huff, “I was just worried about the forest. It could really use a break from your purple.” you add, a teasing yet gentle smile spreading across your lips.

For a second, you worry you’ve pushed the joke too far in light of recent events, a tiny flicker of doubt tugging at you as you wait for her reaction.

But then Agatha gasps, bringing a hand to her chest in a theatrical display of mock outrage, her mouth falling open in exaggerated shock.

You stifle a laugh, rolling your eyes at her display. But as her hand drops and her expression settles, you catch her gaze lingering on you, her eyes glinting with something that looks almost like approval.

“Bold of you.” she murmurs, her voice soft as a faint smile plays at the corner of her mouth.

You feel a strange warmth spreading underneath your skin at her playful and almost challenging expression. There’s a small, unexpected comfort in seeing her slip back into her usual sarcasm, the teasing edge to her words a familiar part of the mask she wears. It’s hard to believe that only moments ago she was the image of pain, raw and exposed, as if the weight of the world had almost crushed her. But here she is, standing again, slipping back into the familiar armor of her wit and resilience. Agatha Harkness, you realize, is so much stronger than her magic.

As you find yourself watching her, a question slips out before you have time to second-guess it. “Agatha, are you… ok?”

The second the words leave your mouth you almost want to slap yourself. 

‘After everything that’s happened today, that’s what you ask?!’ you scold yourself. It truly feels ridiculous, like trying to sum up a storm with a single raindrop.

For a moment, she seems unfazed, as though she might deflect or offer some sarcastic reply. Then, her gaze softens just enough for you to understand. She does’t answer, not verbally at least, the layered question hanging between you.

You decide not to push it. She’s been through more than enough in the past hours, and you’re beginning to see just how much it costs her to share her feelings and let anyone glimpse that vulnerable side of her.

Glancing up at the sky, you realize the evening has begun to settle around you, a breathtaking full moon growing brighter with each passing minute. Time has passed quicker than you realized, and the thought hits you that it must be close to dinnertime. You remember your mother’s instructions to be home in time for supper, an order you promised to obey.

You sigh in disappointment before another thought occurs to you, sitting uneasily in your mind. She’ll have to go home too, back to Evanora. The idea unsettles you, stirring a quiet worry you’re not sure you can ignore.

“Are you heading back soon?” you ask, the question more tentative than you intended. The thought of her returning to that house, to Evanora’s shadow, makes you feel oddly protective, even if you can’t quite voice it.

Agatha’s eyes narrow just slightly, as if she’s read the concern in your expression. She shrugs, her tone lighter than you’d expect. “I suppose so.” she says, but there’s a weight to her words, something lingering beneath the surface that she doesn’t elaborate on.

And suddenly, you wish you could keep her here just a little longer, away from whatever awaits her there.

You think the conversation has ended as the silence stretches, half-expecting Agatha to turn and leave. Yet somehow, neither of you can bring yourselves to move, to turn away, not after everything you’ve just shared. The weight of the whole day seems to settle over you both, rooting you in place.

You clear your throat, trying to summon the resolve to say goodbye. “I should go… my mother’s expecting me.” The words feel heavy, reluctant, and you hate how much you don’t want to leave.

Agatha keeps her gaze steady, her expression composed, as if the idea of parting doesn’t faze her. “Of course. You’d better get going then.” She shrugs lightly, adding a casual wave, “I’ll see you around the village. When it happens.”

There’s a forced ease in her tone, a practiced nonchalance that barely hides what you sense, that she doesn’t want this moment to end any more than you do.

You linger for a heartbeat, searching for something else to say. “If you… if you need anything, you know where to find me.” you offer, your voice softer than you intended. And before she can respond, you turn and walk away, your steps firm as you force yourself to keep moving, needing to get away before you change your mind.

But just as you take those decisive steps to put some distance between you, Agatha’s voice reaches you in a barely audible, almost hesitant whisper. “Thank you for… caring.”

The words stop you dead in your tracks, a chill washing over you as you freeze mid-step. Your pulse quickens and you find yourself torn, suspended in a heartbeat of indecision, caught between the urge to pretend you didn’t hear her and the pull to turn back. You hesitate, breath shallow, feeling her soft voice tug at something deep inside you. 

Finally, giving in, you turn.

And there she is, her gaze already fixed on you.

[mmavverickk]

I personally have always felt that, on Jason's end, the rivalry he bad with Percy was done to like meet the expectation of his role S a son of Jupiter. He doesn't even know how to have a genuine rivalry because he's all in his head.

I dunno I might be talking outta my ass

i understand how it comes across that way. honestly, that's probably how rick wrote it. "well these two are kids of the big three, gotta put some tension there."

he clearly didn't think about percy and jason as three-dimensional characters that could have a rivalry grow naturally between them. he thought a rivalry would just be a flat plot point and made something up.

the rivalry should have been jason trying to fill percy's shoes at CHB for months, and still falling short because he's not thinking of percy as a person who can't be replaced rather than just an empty leadership role that needs to be filled.

the rivalry should have been jason learning that percy became praetor after spending less than a week total at CJ—he was literally on a quest 90% of the time. no matter how much he helped in the battle at the end of the book, jason wouldn't think he'd truly earned his position. earning a praetorship, jason would think, takes years of work, not a week.

the rivalry should have been percy remembering how bitter he really is towards the gods as he recovers his memory, percy realizing that CJ deadass has an entire child army, fully sanctioned by the adults in new rome, and realizing that those adults are just as bad as, if not worse than, gods who would send children on life-threatening, world-saving quests, and the only person he can really take that repressed anger and bitterness out on is jason.

the rivalry should have been jason hearing how flippant percy is when talking about these deities that they're meant to worship, how much he insults them and how impertinent he can be without consequence, and he simultaneously envies how much percy's able to get away with and hates how disrespectful he is.

we should have seen roman leader jason, groomed from his toddler years by the legion and lupa herself, who leads a structured, militaristic camp that prioritizes the safety of the many over the safety of the few, bashing heads with greek leader percy, who went from being an outcast to growing into leadership because he wanted to save as many people as he could.

we should have seen jason's envy of the fact that percy had a mother. we should have seen jason's jealousy over how much percy's father loves and values him. we should have seen jason's heartbreak that this self-important, standoffish, disrespectful jerk has the brotherly relationship with thalia that jason's desperate to have.

we should have seen so much more of these two characters that made them seem less like legendary heroes and more like the traumatized teenagers they are.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Tension

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Rating:General Audiences

Warning: Fluff, heavyyyyy angst, arguring, happy ending

Category:F/M

Fandom:Seventeen (SVT)  (boyband)

Relationships: !idol Dino x !idol f reader

Summary: What happens when you are the only girl member of svt, but you only but heads with Dino....

(I wanna establish that y/n has been a member since the beginning as a pr stunt, but the fans liked have a girl member in the group)

Trope : work frenemies

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Hiiiii everyone who is reading! Welcome to the thirteenth installment of my new mini series called "Oi! Not this again!" They do not have to be read together or in order! I hope you all enjoy!

It started like any other day—a regular Tuesday morning with Seventeen rehearsing, voices overlapping, the faint smell of sweat and cologne filling the room. Everything was in motion, and yet I found myself anchored to the spot, glaring at Dino. Our usual standoff, fueled by some unspoken rivalry, like clockwork.

Ever since I joined the team, there was this weird tension between us. It wasn’t that we hated each other. No, hate is clear-cut, direct. This was… messier. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to punch him or kiss him, and that uncertainty scared me.

“You’re not in sync,” Dino snapped, cutting through my haze, as if sensing my thoughts. He turned to me, his eyes sharp and critical. “Again.”

I rolled my eyes. He was always so damn nitpicky about the choreography, like he had something to prove. To me. To himself. To the group. I wasn’t sure which.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” I shot back, my voice harsher than intended. “I’m doing fine.”

“You’re dragging the rest of us down,” he spat, not even trying to hide his frustration. His jaw clenched in that way that made my stomach twist. Why did he have to look so good when he was angry?

“I’m not dragging anyone down,” I retorted, stepping forward, close enough to see the slight sheen of sweat on his brow, the rise and fall of his chest. “Maybe if you stopped micromanaging everyone, we’d get through this faster.”

His lips twitched into something like a sneer, and for a second, I thought he was going to say something cruel, something that would sting. But instead, he just scoffed and turned away, muttering under his breath, “Whatever.”

I hated this. The constant back-and-forth, the biting comments, the way he got under my skin. It was exhausting, and yet, I couldn’t stop. There was something about Dino—something infuriating and magnetic, like we were stuck in this endless dance of tension, neither of us willing to give in.

The rest of practice passed in a blur, with Dino’s words ringing in my ears. I was distracted, my focus shattered. It didn’t help that every time I caught a glimpse of him, my heart did this stupid flip, like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to beat faster in anger or something else entirely.

By the time rehearsal ended, I was done. My muscles ached, my head throbbed, and I just wanted to get out of there, away from him, away from this. But of course, fate had other plans.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the silence of the empty studio, and I froze, my hand hovering over the door. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want to look at him.

“What do you want, Dino?” I asked, my voice cold. Distant. It was easier that way.

“You’re still mad,” he said, not a question, just a statement, as if he already knew.

“I’m not mad,” I lied, my hand gripping the door handle tighter. “I just don’t want to deal with you right now.”

He laughed, a bitter sound that made something inside me clench. “Right. Because we’ve been getting along so well lately.”

I couldn’t help it. I turned then, my eyes narrowing as I faced him. “Maybe we wouldn’t be at each other’s throats all the time if you weren’t such an arrogant ass.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought I’d crossed a line. But then he stepped forward, his gaze locked on mine, and the air between us felt charged, electric.

“Arrogant?” he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. “You think I’m the problem here?”

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering in my chest. “You act like you know everything, like you’re always right, and it drives me insane.”

He was closer now, too close, and I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of his cologne. My breath hitched, and I hated myself for it. Hated that he had this effect on me.

“Maybe I wouldn’t act like I know everything if you weren’t so stubborn,” he shot back, his voice tight. “You never listen. You never let anyone help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” I said through gritted teeth. “I can handle myself.”

“Right,” he muttered, his eyes flicking down to my lips for a split second before returning to mine. “Because you’ve been handling it so well.”

I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him to screw off, but the words caught in my throat. Because suddenly, everything—the anger, the frustration, the months of tension—it all came crashing down on me. And before I could stop myself, I reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw, desperate, filled with all the things we’d been too afraid to say. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me closer, and for a moment, everything else faded away. There was no rivalry, no frustration, just the feel of him against me, his lips on mine, and the overwhelming sense of relief that came with it.

But then reality came crashing back, and I shoved him away, my chest heaving. “This doesn’t change anything,” I whispered, my voice shaky.

Dino stared at me, his eyes wide, like he was just as shocked as I was. “You’re right,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Over the next few weeks, things between us shifted. The arguing didn’t stop—if anything, it got worse. Every conversation felt like a powder keg, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. But beneath all that anger, there was something else now. A heat, a pull that neither of us could ignore.

One night, after another particularly brutal rehearsal, I found him sitting alone in the studio, his head in his hands. Without thinking, I sat down next to him, the silence between us heavy.

“I’m tired,” I admitted quietly, breaking the tension. “Of fighting with you. Of pretending like I don’t—”

“Like you don’t care?” he finished, lifting his head to look at me, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it.

I nodded, my throat tight. “Yeah. Like that.”

He sighed, leaning back against the wall, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. “I didn’t mean for it to be like this. I just… I don’t know how to act around you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my heart pounding in my chest.

He glanced at me, a small, bitter smile on his lips. “You drive me crazy,” he admitted. “In the worst way. And the best way.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Dino…”

“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he said quietly, his voice raw. “I don’t want to keep pretending like this is just… nothing.”

I swallowed hard, my mind racing. For the first time in months, there was no anger, no frustration, just the two of us, sitting in the aftermath of all the chaos we’d created.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” I whispered, my heart in my throat.

He turned to face me, his eyes searching mine, and in that moment, everything clicked into place. All the fighting, all the tension—it was because we’d been running from this. From whatever this was between us.

Slowly, tentatively, he reached out, his hand brushing against mine. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself fall.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But for the first time, it felt real. And that was enough.

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            ‐Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-Gabi✨️🎀