KENJI SATO ✰ 10:43

If this isn’t just 3 hours of extra Neteyam content I will be upset

you'll change your name or change your mind (and leave this fucked up place behind)

summary: When the King’s Justice — the royal executioner — died, the Realm’s Jewel proposed a perfect replacement: Nādrēsy, her dragon, the infamous Cannibal. Even if many eyebrows were raised at the Small Council, the King hastily agreed, happy to have an excuse for keeping his granddaughter close to him, even if it was for only a few days every moon. Or, as it always ended up, for a bit more than that.

pairings: cregan stark x velaryon!reader (no use of y/n), platonic (familial) relationship between the targs/velaryon and reader

word count: 5.3k

warnings: angst, death, grief, implied suicidal thoughts, reader's having a teenage rebellion moment at the young age of barely nine, daemon slander (it will get better i promise)

author's note: i don't really like this chap lol. in fact, i fucking hate it

previous | next | series masterlist

Your father has a haunted look on his face. 

He holds you for hours as you cry, pass out, wake up and start crying again, nestled in your bed still bandaged, the wound on your head hurting more than ever. Milk of the poppy only makes you comatose and the migraines are making your head explode, and he doesn’t really know what to do.

He’s lost, he lost his sister and almost his daughter in less than a sennight, and probably feels like a terrible father for not being there when you needed him the most. But thankfully, in a day or two your crying stops; you seem to have understood that the more you cry, the more your pain worsens.

“My little girl,” he coos, taking you to the balcony and holding you in his arms. “I promise nothing bad will ever ever happen to you from now on, not while I’m here.” 

Nādrēsy is always buzzing out of your window, waiting for some kind of sign from you; that’s why Laenor often brings you to the terrace, other than to get some fresh air. To calm your dragon, who has been destroying everything that comes in his sight for the last few days. Soon enough you are finally sleeping again, and slowly, the bandages get less and less bloody: the wound is closing. 

“Do you think I will ever find a husband?” you murmur quietly to him one evening, cuddled close to his chest. He looks down at you, questioning. “I mean… with the hideous scar I’ll be left with, nobody will ever want to marry me.”

“My love,” Laenor says, eerily calm. “If someone doesn’t want to marry you because of a measly scar, then you shouldn’t even consider them. Real men aren’t scared of scars, nor are they repelled by them, as they probably have many. Besides, your beauty hasn’t even been tainted the tiniest bit.”

He boops your nose, earning your first laugh since a while. “How could you ever lose your beauty? You have taken it allll from me. And it’s not going to fade any soon — in fact, it’s only going to bloom more and more as you grow, and as much as I would like to hold you in my arms forever, I can’t wait to see you blossom into a fine woman.”

The Grand Maester visits you every hour — per your grandsire’s request — and checks your wound, who slowly but surely is getting better and better every day. Viserys is already informing himself about headpieces that could hide the scar and is worrying about in having them made by the best goldsmiths of Westeros, and even if the scar will always be there, the thought of hiding it makes you feel a bit easier. 

To take your mind off of the last few days your grandsire lets you sleep in his quarters — on his king sized bed — happily reading you tales about Old Valyria and telling you stories of the great Balerion. He’s taken to sleeping on the daybed by the bed, worried that you’re going to bleed out to death or something like that, and it is only upon Corlys’ pressing that he agrees to the servants bringing another bed to the chambers so that he can sleep there. 

Your parents look relieved for the first time in weeks, visiting you everyday with the maesters, making sure the pain has subdued and you are well. Your father pinches your cheeks and your nose, reminding you that your sword is set to arrive on your ninth nameday — which isn’t that far — and your grandsire promises to call for yet another big celebration in your honour. It boosts your mood to another level, so Rhaenyra for once in her life is actually happy about her father downright spoiling you rotten. 

But soon enough, your grandsire and uncles have to leave for King’s Landing; he has duties to attend to, and they have prolonged their stay for too much time already. Helaena will stay with you and return to Dragonstone with her own dragon when the time comes — and you pretend to not notice the look he gives Alicent when he says that, like it’s a punishment meant for her. 

Punishment or not, you’ve never seen your aunt happier. She says that by being betrothed to Jace, she has just avoided marrying Aegon, which she is ecstatic about. She’s making a point of bonding with Rhaena and Baela as well, often inviting you all to her chambers to embroider or take some tea together. Things are going back up again, but before you can really get back up on your feet, tragedy strikes again.

You are taking a walk with your grandparents right after supper, happily trotting around High Tide like you own the place, when a servant calls for the Lord and Lady Velaryon to immediately follow him to their chambers. 

Neither the sight of your father’s burned body by the fireplace nor the screams of your grandmother will ever get out of your head. 

“In my own chambers!” your grandfather screams, enraged, breaking vases and making servants and guards flinch. “How could you allow this to happen? How?!”

Nobody seems to care enough about you to get you out of the room — with your grandfather going mad and your grandmother lost in her own grief — and as you stare longer and longer at the burned face of your father, where his eyes once were, you suddenly realise why Nādrēsy prefers her preys raw or alive. He doesn’t even look like your father; all that’s left unscathed on his body is the medallion around his neck and the ring in his left hand. 

You don’t have the courage to say anything, but your throat feels raw, the screams of Rhaenys and Corlys melting into one in the back of your mind. Is that even your father? You wouldn’t know, his face is deformed beyond recognition. But the hands are not, and— yes. Those are the same hands that held you non-stop just a fortnight ago. 

You spent an entire lifetime knowing his face, just for him to end up dying with another one.

You fall to your knees, taking his hand in yours, hoping he squeezes back. When he doesn't, it all clicks; this is real. Your father is dead. Laena has brought him with her.

“Father,” you murmur. “Father,” you say louder, shaking his body. The fabrics are still hot and melting, and they stick to your fingers and burn your hands, but you don’t care. “Please,” you beg. With who are you talking — the Gods, the sea, old Valyrian Gods? You have no idea. You just hope someone, anyone, will listen to your prayer.

Nobody hears. 

You’re ripped from your father’s body by rough hands, and it takes you a moment to understand that it’s once again Daemon, holding you back once again. “No!” you scream, hysteric, and only now you notice that your mother and brothers are by the door, behind them your cousins and Helaena. It seems you weren’t the only ones the servants called. “No, no, my father–”

“Your father is dead,” it’s said with an unnerving and cruel calm — the calm only someone who has stopped crying for his parents a long time ago can have. “No tears nor hysterics from you will ever change that.” you ask yourself if he has told that to his daughters, too, when their mother died, because if so you’re pretty sure Rhaenys would love to have a little talk with him. 

Your cries only get louder, and as you trash in his hold you deliver a good kick to his shins. He gasps, letting you go and going to cover with his hands the hurt area. “You little–”

Before you can run up to your father again, it’s Corlys who stops you, caging you in his arms and kneeling down. “He’s gone, sweetling,” he murmurs delicately, tears in his eyes. “Shh, shh, everything’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” 

It’s not.

Nothing’s okay as days later Corlys recites his eulogy, nor when your father’s corpse is thrown in the waters below High Tide, in the same place where his sister was thrown just weeks ago. Your father has died, and for what? A stupid jealousy spat, as Ser Qarl put it? You hope he had a bad time in Nādrēsy’s mouth and stomach, at least half as bad as what you’re going through right now. 

After the funeral you’re in shambles, finding yourself in the same position where Laenor once was: down on your knees in the water, crying your heart out alone. Your brothers had tried to follow, your mother to stop you, but it was all in vain. Your father now belongs to the sea, so to the sea you’ll go for comfort, as you once did with him. 

“Why?” you ask. You don’t know exactly who you are talking to — the sea, to the Old Gods of Valyria or the Seven. “Weren’t Laena and Harwin enough? Hasn’t our family already suffered more than is necessary?”

A storm is clearly brewing, with the salt waters unclear and high waves in the distance. A thunder almost replies to you, making your eardrums shake and your head hurt. “He was kind, gentle and loving,” you weep, “why did you have to take him away from me?”

This time, no response is heard from the sky — there's only the thundering of the waves, who are getting more and more violent, and you take it as your father sensing your pain.

In the days following Laenor’s death and funeral, you do not eat, talk, or get out of your room. You stay bundled up in bed, the same bed where once he had comforted you, and you do not even find in yourself the strength to cry — nor the tears, as you’ve shed an abnormal amount of them in the last fortnight. 

Every day three times a day a servant comes in with a tray and begs you to eat, then leaves the tray filled with food and water on your nightstand, hoping that you will eat something. You barely do. 

Often they leave some letters, too, and leave them on a stack on your settee; they’re all the condolences the lords and ladies of Westeros are sending you, surely, and at least half of them have the Targaryen emblem, meaning your grandfather — who missed the funeral — is probably growing antsy. 

Sometimes your family knocks at the door, and that’s the only moment you get out of bed — to lock the entrance. You do not have the heart to look at your grandparents in their faces, nor your mother or brothers. You fear you’ll find disappointment in their eyes — that they’ll search for your father in your features and will be able to find nothing. The scar is still new and red, and as of now, is as noticeable as ever, even with the bandages.

This trance lasts for almost a sennight, until one day you get up, put on your nightgown and venture down into the kitchens. The hour is late, but not late enough for servants to already be in bed, so you’re not surprised to find them still bustling with pots and pans. 

One of them almost screams once she sees you. “Your Grace!” she yells, spooked, all of them hurriedly and clumsily bowing. “May– may we help you with something?”

Your eyes are dull. “Are there any lemon cakes left?” there are no lemon cakes in the trays left in your chambers.

Soon after you’re sitting on a little crooked chair, eating the lemon cakes that were left from dinner, as they all stand away, staring at you scaredly. You realise they are waiting for some kind of response. “They’re good,” you tell them, voice raspy. 

The servant from earlier nods hesitantly. “We– we’re happy to hear that, Your Grace. Should I… should I call for the guards? To escort you back to your chambers?”

“No,” you murmur, finishing the cake and getting back on your feet. You sincerely hope nobody has seen you, because you don’t want stares from anyone in your family, not if they’ll look at you like the servants are doing right now. “I don't need one.”

The walk back to your chambers is quiet and dark, as the corridors are barely lighted by the torches, and you make sure to lock the door to your chambers once you enter. You spare a glance at the letters on the settee, and think that maybe it is time to read them.

As you predicted, half of them are from your grandsire, made of begs for forgiveness for his absence and memories about his own father’s death, also mentioning that the headpiece he had commissioned is almost done and will be ready for your nameday. How will you tell him you do not wish to celebrate it anymore? 

There are various letters, all from pretty prominent lords — Lannister, Tully, Baratheon — but also from the ones of smaller houses, like Blackwood or Mormont. They all apparently wish their deepest condolences to you and will be happy to assist if you ever need their help with what your father has left behind. Aka, they all already seem quite interested in remarrying your mother — scandal! The mourning period has just started for her and she won’t be able to marry for at least a year — and also, you know that some of them are still married. 

The last letter makes you honestly frown at the direwolf wax crest keeping it closed. Now, why would Cregan Stark, barely three-and-ten, be interested in your mother? But as you open it, interest in your mother is the last thing you can find. 

To the Crown Princess, firstborn of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Laenor Velaryon.  I was truly sorry to hear of your father’s passing. I remember Ser Laenor very well, and he has always been nothing but kind to our family, always welcoming us with a smile on his face the little times we went to King’s Landing. I myself lost my father almost three years ago, and I must say, the pain dulls over time. It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, but living with it becomes easier. The void parents leave behind never fully heals, and it is easy to fall back in despair every once in a while, but I recommend crying as much as you can during the mourning period and then keeping yourself busy — at least, that worked for me, and I share this with Your Grace in hopes to help her. I wasn’t much older than you when the late Lord of Winterfell died, and losing a father isn’t something easy to process. Parents are the first to welcome us into the world, and the pain that their passing brings isn’t something even barely imaginable to someone who hasn’t gone through it.  Remember to always keep your head up, for the crown is a heavy burden and your shoulders must get used to it — as unpleasant as it may be. 

You’ve never received a letter from him before, and if it wasn’t for the situation, you’d probably be jumping around and twirling in your dresses. 

Your eyes dart to his knife, sitting upon your desk — as it always is. You rarely leave it behind when you go somewhere, as you have grown quite attached to it. A scary thought passes through your head, making you shiver. Is this what father meant, to think of death as a relief? You doubt you’d ever have the courage to do it; your family is already broken enough as it is. 

You realise you need a change of air. 

The ride to Dragonstone is rushed and a bit scary, with the Stark knife sitting on your hip, heavier than ever. You don’t plan on staying too long, as your mother will worry and your family still is on Driftmark, hoping to bring comfort to Corlys and Rhaenys. 

The servants greet you with messy clothes and tousled hair, clearly having just woken up, but it doesn’t take long for them to accompany you to the nursery. 

It seems Joffrey has just woken up, too, whining in his crib a bit; you coo at him, brushing the brown tufts of hair away from his forehead. “Hello, little guy,” you whisper. “Missed me?”

He stirs as you take him in your arms, bleary hazel eyes looking at you; then he smiles, showing you his toothless gums, reaching a hand out for your cheek. You laugh, “Aren’t you the most precious thing?” you hum, tapping delicately his nose. “Hidden here from all the pain of the world, not knowing a thing about what’s going on?”

You press a light kiss on his head as he takes your index finger in his hand. “Father won’t be here to see you grow up, but I’ll be. And I promise to make sure that you’ll be as loved and taken care of as I was when he was here, still with us.”

Four moons pass agonisingly slowly; you all get back to Dragonstone at the end of the first, for your grandparents seem to be able to go on without your presence, and the time to get used to life on the island without your father has come. As Lord Stark suggested, you keep yourself busy: you show Helaena and your cousins — who, with their father, have moved to the castle with you all —, you’ve helped them set their things up in their chambers and every day you visit little Joff in the nursery, often with your brothers present. 

You started eating again, much to your mother’s relief, and have convinced your grandsire to avoid hosting a feast for your ninth nameday, on the promise to let him go all out for your tenth summer — Laenor’s loss is still too fresh for you to feel like you can start enjoying yourself again. He still insisted on giving you a present, though, and has told you to come to King’s Landing as soon as you could, during or after your nameday. 

The day before you officially turn nine summers old, though, your mother calls you in her chambers. You’re surprised to also find uncle Daemon there; you know they are... close, but as you have a particular dislike towards him, it is rare for the two of you to be found in the same room together. 

Trying to hide the disdain for your uncle, you focus on Rhaenyra, who’s smiling nervously. “You sent for me, mother?”

“That I did, sweetling,” she says, eyes a bit unsure. “I– we, me and your uncle, have to tell you something.” you don’t like the tone she’s using — it’s like she already knows you won’t like what she’s about to say. You have an inkling of what she could be hiding, but you wait for her to spill the beans, because you don’t like your intuition one bit. 

“We’ll get married by the next moon.” what happened to breaking news softly?

Looks like you were right, but that doesn’t mean you’re more ready to hear it from her mouth. “I’m sorry, what?”

“It would strengthen the both of us,” she reasons, already trying to calm you down. “My claim to the throne would be strengthened by the union and Joffrey would have a father to look up to as he grows up.”

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “I know that the passing of your late father’s–”

“Late father?” you hiss. “Late father? Mother, you can’t even say his name now?”

She sighs. “Laenor was a good man, but you know I didn’t love him–”

“Does it really matter?” you scoff. “The mourning period isn’t even over yet! By marrying him, you’ll bring disgrace to my father’s name!”

She has tears in her eyes; she knew from the start that this discussion could only go downhill, and the fact that Daemon has a smirk on his face only worsens things. “I know you’re angry, but you have to understand that me and Daemon hold love for each other and our union will–”

“I don’t care!” you boom, “I don’t care if you love him, father loved you too! Maybe not in the conventional way, maybe more like a sister or a friend, but he held enough regard for you to have me despite his limits! He would’ve never done this to you! And my brothers’ father — he’s dead, both of them are, and you won’t just– just replace them with him!” you point an accusatory finger at your uncle, sat without a care in the world on the couch and sipping on a goblet of wine. "Harwin Strong, too, was a good man, an honest knight, and he was loyal to you until the very end!”

Your mother bites back — because even with all the love she holds for you, she is quite prideful, too. “That is enough!” she rages, “I told you because I wanted to let you know before your brothers and cousins did, not because I needed your approval! Daemon is a good match and the decision is taken, so you better change your attitude! Besides, why do you hate him so much?”

“Ooh, I have a list,” you boast. “For starters, he ripped me off of my dead father’s body when it was still warm. But I can go on.” you don’t wait for her reply to continue, “He’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen — I’m sure horses can look better. He’s so old he’s not only my uncle but yours too, and by now his hair is fair not because he’s a Targaryen, but because it’s turning white! He’s so old he’s starting to smell like a decaying body, and don’t even get me started on his wrinkles! He has lost his wife and child not even four moons ago and he’s already replacing them with a widowed lady and a fatherless child! Out of the two wives he has had, both have died! If you think I am ever going to accept that thing into my house then you’re wrong! Marry him if you want, but don’t ever, ever expect me to be present to the ceremony nor be cordial to him!”

You are breathless by the time the last sentence is finished, chest heaving, and the two adults are looking at you bewildered. Your mother has tears in her eyes, while Daemon stares at you with his mouth open. “First of all, I am not that old. Second, this is not your house. This is your mother’s house.” he says. Then he looks at your mother. “Third, you didn’t tell me she behaved so much like me. I feel like I needed to be warned that.”

If your rage could be held back before, it can’t now. You scream at the top of your lungs until your throat feels raw, “I am not like you and I will never be! I’ll cut my throat before I will even start to resemble you, you… you whore!” you’ll have to ask Aegon for more effective insults towards men, because calling him a whore right now feels like a jest. “You’ll never be even half the man my father was, as you are even barely a man. What is a prince without honour? You must be some kind of dragonseed, because I know you have none!”

Your mother says your name sternly. “You’ve said far more than I should’ve allowed you.”

You stay silent. “Alright, then.” you head over to the door, taking the handle in your hand, and almost open it before she speaks up again, “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks. Her voice has a strange tremble to it, but you cannot understand if it’s out of anger or something else. “I told you, the decision is taken. Nothing you will do will make us change our minds.”

You open the doors, turning to look at them. “Oh, I’m not telling you not to get married. I’m just telling you I won’t be there to witness it.” you get out of there, shutting the doors closed behind you, and despite her yells, your mother doesn’t follow you — nor does Daemon. 

Maybe it’s stupid, but it doesn’t feel like it. You don’t care that Daemon is old, nor do you care about the fact that he’s ugly — it’s just that you don’t like him, and they’re disrespecting your father’s memory by marrying so early after his death. As long as she’s happy, you’d let your mother do anything; but this feels like too much. You get that she didn’t love your father, but at the very least she should care about the love that you and your brothers held for him. Besides, just the thought of little Joff calling Daemon ‘father’ makes you shiver. 

“Your Grace!” as you storm off, a page follows you, breathless and dazed. “Your Grace, a ship has just arrived down to the harbour. There’s a man in the courtroom — he says he’s searching for the late Ser Laenor Velaryon.”

You frown, stopping for a moment. There’s no way any westerosi man has never heard of your father’s passing — he has been dead for four moons by now, and word is quick in Westeros. He should know better. 

The courtroom is almost empty, spare for the guards and a few servants bustling around and whispering to each other, looking at a gruff looking man. He has tanned skin, hair and beard black and unkept, and the dry skin of someone who has stayed on a ship for a long period. His clothes are modest and his gaze is confused. 

“Good evening,” you start, making him jump. He probably hadn’t seen you. “May I help you?”

“Erm…” he mutters, unsure of himself. He’s clutching a parcel in his hands. “Me no talk westerosi good. Ser Laenor Velaryon here is?”

You raise an eyebrow. A Tyroshi. So, that’s why he doesn’t know your father is dead. He has been travelling. “My father was Ser Laenor Velaryon. He passed away four moons ago, I’m afraid. Whatever you had to tell him, you can say it to me.”

He looks unsure — maybe he didn’t understand you pretty well — but slowly nods. “Master said to deliver parcel to him.”

Ah, you understand. A slave. “You can give it to me. I will treat it with the utmost care.” you tilt your head, staring at him. “Do you need anything? Food, some water, a refuge?”

He vehemently shakes his head and places the package in your hands. “Me can’t. Other works to deliver I have. Ship sails again soon.” 

He’s gone before you can protest, a certain urgency in his walk, and the guards are happy to show him off. You look at the parcel in your hands, confused, not remembering anything your father commissioned the Tyroshi. 

You get back to your chambers, curiosity getting the best of you, immediately tearing off the silk wrapped around the wooden box. A piece of paper sits between them, and your confusion only grows when you notice there are words written on it. Tears pool in your eyes once you recognise the writing. 

To the fairest Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, whom the Gods allowed me to raise and cherish.

You open the box with shaky hands, finding a sword. Written on the blade there’s a small inscription: From Father, with love. You start crying even before you can take it out from its box, clutching it close to your chest by the hilt, careful not to cut yourself — you had completely forgotten about it, about the fact that your father had it commissioned for you. With everything that happened, it completely slipped off of your mind.

Even with eyes clouded with tears, you take a better look at the sword: it’s shorter than a normal one, right for your size, and the grip is shaped like a seahorse — it’s the only part of the sword decorated with blue shiny rocks and gold. It’s not a common design, surely not a convenient one — you doubt you could ever go to war with a thing like this — as it’s more of a ceremonial weapon, much like the knife you stole from Lord Cregan. 

Even dead, your father always manages to give you something for your birthday. 

You try to recompose yourself, and now there’s only one thing in your mind — rage. Your father was a good man, yet your mother is ready to disrespect his memory when his passing is still so fresh. You have no intention of staying here to watch. 

It does not take you long to get yourself in your riding attire, the Velaryon gold emblem flaring on your chest; you carefully put the sword in its scabbard, tying an old pearl string that Laenor gifted you years ago to the guard of it. You then tie it to your belt, as you’ve seen knights do, and you don’t forget your — Lord Cregan’s — dagger, who finds its place just beside the sword. The buckle that holds together your leather straps is one with the Stark emblem on it — in this moment, you’d even wear the Lannister’s lion crest just to forget for a minute about your Targaryen blood, which as of now you’re really ashamed of. 

The plan is simple — flee to King’s Landing, then give your grandsire a reason to keep you there, which should not be too difficult. Fate has a funny way of working, and the King’s Justice has just died — news flash! You’ve got a dragon who could use some human flesh between his teeth regularly, and he doesn’t even have to be paid. You have the literal perfect candidate in your hands, and surely, the King won’t be too sad to have you around for a bit. 

You leave right after saying goodbye to Helaena and your brothers, not telling them exactly why. Because even if you hate Daemon, you don’t hate your mother, and you could never bear any of them thinking that you’re leaving because of her. 

“Can I come with you?” Luke asks, dragon plush in his hands, big brown eyes pleading. You melt a bit, gently shaking your head, “You must stay here, you’re still too young to ride a dragon. Besides, who’s going to protect Joff and Jace if you’re gone?”

Jacaerys huffs, crossing his arms as his younger brother lights up and makes sword moves with the plush. “I will take care of them,” he sniffs — you know he’s just trying to act tough, though.

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t have to cry. I’ll come back… sooner or later, anyway.”

He lunges at you for a hug, knocking the air right out of your chest. “Please don’t go,” he whimpers. You caress his head — he’s still much shorter than you, and you hate to think about the day he will be too tall to fit right into your hugs. “I’ll be right back,” you whisper. “I promise.”

the life i deserve. final part. LN4. OP81

in which reader unexpectedly falls pregnant but her current boyfriend can't say no to his party lifestyle so he leaves her. who better to fill his place than his teammate.

faceclaim: hailey bieber

author's note: and we have reached the end of this series, thank you all for making this my most successful series yet. have your say on the next one here

part one // part two // part three // part four // part five // part six

y/ninsta posted a story tagging oscarpiastri

written: see you soon aus

logansargeant posted a story tagging rileywhittall

written: heading to aus with this one

y/ninsta posted a story tagging oscarpiastri and logansargeant

written: i wonder if the other driver's are spending their winter break explaining sports to a baby

rileywhittall posted a story

written: spending all month with lil man ready for his first christmas

f1gossip

liked by user36, user37, user38 and 329,283 others

f1gossip: guys this is not a drill oscar and y/n have been spotted cuddling up with one another while out at dinner with riley and logan. does this confirm everyone's suspicions

view all 18,729 comments

user36: poor lando

user37: are you fucking stupid, lando is the one that left y/n pregnant and alone, he will never be the victim here

user38: mum and dad

user39: i am so happy for them

user40: y/n deserves all the happiness imaginable

oscarpiastri posted a story tagging y/ninsta

written: never been happier

y/ninsta posted a story tagging oscarpiastri

written: my boys

y/ninsta posted a story

written: merry christmas my loves

logansargeant posted a story

written: got to start them off young

oscarpiastri

liked by y/ninsta, rileywhittall, charlesleclerc and 1,358,839 others

tagged: y/ninsta

oscarpiastri: i didn't need a christmas present this year, i've got all i need

view all 57,928 comments

y/ninsta: we both love you so much

oscarpiastri: i love you both more

georgerussell3: so happy for you mate

oscarpiastri: thank you man

logansargeant: riley is already planning double dates

oscarpiastri: y/n is excited. i'm scared

rileywhittall: see good things happen when you communicate with the person you love

oscarpiastri: words of wisdom

charlesleclerc: does this mean baby luka in the paddock next year

oscarpiastri: of course

charlesleclerc: alex just squealed in my ear, i'm deaf now

@bibissparkles

@milkysoop

@hadids-world

@callsignwidow

@barcelonaloverf1life

@queen-of-the-hunt

@piastrams

@kravitzwhore

@a-beaverhausen

@fangirlforever2000

@formulaal

@azeal-peal

@magical-spit

@that-one-little-soybean

@raizelchrysanderoctavius

@zatarias-pandora

@unknownmystery22

@anotheranotherblogwoah

@leclercdream

@charlesgirl16

@kikiki04

@dullypully

@awritingtree

@stylesmoonlight12

@pippyth3hippy

@hc-dutch

@whosra

@lancestrollsgf

@dying-inside-but-its-classy

@vulkaari

@minkyungseokie

@random-human02

@tinyhrry

@daisyfreecs

@fandommaniac07

@mbioooo0000

@novelswithariana

@exotic-iris13

@natashaalinovaromanoff1984

@colmathgames2

@ajordan2020

@sltwins

@nichmeddar

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy!

two

THREE

Something ominous looms on the horizon. For days, you have been meticulously avoiding both Acacius and Hanno—a strategy that, while effective thus far, has been anything but easy. The rumors reaching you suggest that Hanno has been pestering Ravi incessantly, demanding your presence once more. Ravi, clearly exasperated, has taken to openly complaining about being forced to mediate between your "amorous entanglements," as he puts it, since your self-imposed distance began.

You had thought your withdrawal would carry no real consequences, yet this morning proved otherwise. A messenger from the emperors arrived at your doorstep, summoning you to attend the games at the Colosseum. Apparently, Emperor Geta himself wishes to extend his gratitude for your exemplary work in tending to the gladiators—his and his brother's greatest source of entertainment.

"If you wish, I could say you are unwell," Ravi murmurs as the two of you make your way toward the Colosseum.

"I cannot risk displeasing the emperors while my standing with Acacius remains fragile," you reply, touched by Ravi's unwavering support.

"You should consider mending things with one of the men in your life, for your own sake," Ravi suggests, his tone serious, ever the wise counselor.

"Hanno remains tethered to the memory of his late wife, while General Acacius refuses to release me from our former arrangement. It seems there is no simple resolution," you respond, your voice carrying the weight of your predicament, as the imposing silhouette of the Colosseum looms ever closer.

"It would be far simpler if you weren’t so stubborn. General Acacius may no longer be the ideal choice, but you and Hanno share more in common than you’re willing to admit," Ravi says with an irritating air of wisdom.

"It would be far simpler if you ceased your obstinance. General Acacius may no longer seem ideal, yet you and Hanno share far more in common than you are willing to acknowledge," Ravi remarked, his tone laden with that infuriating wisdom he so often wielded. However, the truth stands—your union with your late husband was forged more upon the bonds of friendship than the fires of passion. Before his commitment to you, he was entangled in an affair with Emperor Caracalla. That, above all, is the most profound distinction between yourself and Hanno. You grieve the loss of a cherished companion who became your husband by circumstance, whereas Hanno mourns his wife, who was, perhaps, the great love of his life.

"I shall take your counsel into consideration, my old friend, yet I beg of you to help me survive at least this day," you say, casting an apprehensive glance toward Ravi. He halts before you, placing a gentle kiss upon your forehead.

"Years ago, I vowed to your husband that I would care for you, and I shall not falter now. May the Gods watch over us," Ravi murmurs solemnly, his voice a quiet prayer as the two of you resume your path toward the arena, where the gladiators are already assembling for the commencement of the games.

Your gaze instinctively searches for Hanno, betraying a desire you would rather not acknowledge. His eyes, almost alight amidst the throng of gladiators, lock onto yours, his expression that of a man consumed by fury. You and Ravi did not take the same path as the gladiators, so it would not be prudent for you to approach him. Yet, from afar, you watch him with a quiet intensity. The courage you lack to bridge the distance is overshadowed by the boldness he possesses to close it himself.

"I shall give you a moment," Ravi murmurs, stepping aside as if sensing the gravity of the encounter. "Do not forget—Hanno may not leave the arena alive today. Be mindful to show kindness, for this could be your last exchange with him." Before you can fully process Ravi's warning, Hanno reaches you with surprising swiftness, all but sweeping you away with his commanding presence.

Hanno swiftly seized your waist with firm hands, nearly lifting you off the ground, and guided you to a secluded corner. His fury was unmistakable, reflected in the dominant grip he maintained on your waist, his hold firm enough to suggest he had no intention of letting you escape. "Have you lost your senses?" you demanded as he pressed you back against one of the great columns of the coliseum.

"I could not allow you to slip away from me again," Hanno replied, his voice low but resolute, his eyes scanning your surroundings with the precision of a predator ensuring no one dared approach.

"Our separation was necessary," you say with some difficulty, the closeness of Hanno's body to yours a maddening temptation that clouds your thoughts.

"Your master forbade you from interacting with me, and you simply obeyed, didn’t you?" Hanno says in a low, furious tone. His anger is not just visible but palpable, almost suffocating.

You seize his face with your hand, your nails pressing dangerously close to his neck. "Say once more that Acacius is my master, and I shall tear your throat out," you threaten, your voice laced with an inexplicable fury. Yet, Hanno seems to relish this, for he steps even closer, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

"I missed you, healer," Hanno replies, his eyes holding an unusual tenderness just moments before he claims your lips in a tumultuous kiss. It is as though he is consuming you, devouring you with his kiss, seeking to capture you entirely while his hands map your body with desperate reverence.

If the two of you were caught, it would mean your undoing, the end of both your lives. Yet, some part of you whispers that it would be worth it. In truth, if death awaited you for this, a kiss alone would not suffice. Each second his tongue dances with yours stirs a longing so deep it borders on madness. You yearn for him to take you, right here and now, for the feel of him within you seems the only desire worthy of risking everything. "Do not die today, gladiator," you murmur against his lips as they part, allowing you both to catch your breath.

"It will not be I who dies today, healer," Hanno says, his voice steady, before capturing your lips once more, this time with tenderness rather than desire. His grip on you tightens, as though he wishes to sink his hands into your very being, to keep your body close to his for all eternity.

"I only hope you can forgive me for what I am about to do," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. Before you can respond, one of the gladiators calls his name, and he steps away. An unease settles in your chest, fear creeping in as you wonder what he might be planning. Yet, the weight of your obligations presses against your thoughts—you must make your way to the emperors without delay.

"For what reason is the healer present here?" Lucilla, seated beside Acacius, questions sharply as you approach the section where they, the emperors, and other guests await the spectacle.

"The healer is my guest, Lucilla," Emperor Geta interjects swiftly, extending his hand toward you in expectation. Dutifully, you step forward and kiss it. Moments later, Emperor Caracalla mimics his brother’s gesture, and you lean in to kiss his hand as well.

As you rise, your gaze catches the familiar figure of Dondus, the small monkey, bounding toward you with recognition in his bright eyes. Memories of the time you were compelled to remain near the emperors, so Caracalla could indulge his desires with your late husband, flood back unbidden. "He still remembers you," Caracalla exclaims, his voice carrying an unusual note of delight as he grasps your hand.

"It is an honor to be here," you reply evenly, though the weight of his touch stirs emotions you work hard to suppress. Behind your composed words lingers the haunting memory of the cold efficiency with which Caracalla and his brother had ordered your husband's death—right here in this very arena.

"We have been separated by the misfortunes imposed upon us by the Gods, but I believe a new chapter is now opening for us, as your skills as a healer have not gone unnoticed. Hands as talented as yours deserve to care for the well-being of emperors, my dear," Geta declares, his gaze lingering on you with a fervent intensity that borders on desire. You struggle to mask the fear swirling within you, wondering what fate the Gods have in store for you next.

The weight of his words settles heavily on your chest, but before you can gather your thoughts, General Acacius rises abruptly and moves toward the two of you. Your hand lightly grazes the fabric of his attire, halting his approach. "Is there a matter of concern, General?" Emperor Caracalla inquires, his tone laced with an air of amusement, as his fingers idly stroke Dondus, who appears entirely at ease in his presence.

"There is no matter of concern, Emperor Caracalla," General Acacius responds, his hand firmly clasping yours against his chest beneath the folds of his vestment, his piercing gaze directed at the two emperors with the weight of an unspoken warning.

“Our most illustrious general appears perturbed that we extended an invitation to his mistress to grace these games in our company without first seeking his counsel,” Emperor Geta declares with an air of calculated provocation, his words laden with mockery. The faintest smirk curls his lips, as if relishing the tension he seeks to sow.

"Ah, brother, such concerns would trouble him only if he were entangled with her. Yet rumors abound that they no longer seek solace in each other's embrace and that she is no longer charged with tending to the wounds of our noble General," Emperor Caracalla remarks, his words clearly meant to provoke. However, his statement seems to have unsettled Lucilla, who shifts restlessly in her seat.

"Brother, remember that we ought not lend credence to idle gossip," Emperor Geta interjects, rising with an air of authority. "If our esteemed General Acacius insists that we disregard his lover, let him convince us that their bond remains intact. Otherwise, let him return to his rightful place beside his wife, and allow my brother and me the honor of tending to the fair healer." As Geta’s words echo, Acacius turns his gaze toward you, his eyes locking with yours in a silent exchange. Without hesitation, he pulls your face toward his, as though intending to kiss you before the eyes of all assembled.

"Do not sacrifice your marriage for me," you murmur, your voice trembling as the weight of the moment threatens to bring tears to your eyes. The inevitability of what you feared is now unfolding before you—Acacius can no longer shield you.

"You are worthy of such a sacrifice, mea domina," General Acacius murmurs near your ear, his hand gently caressing your face. His touch carries a tenderness that momentarily threatens to weaken your resolve. Yet, you grasp his hands, steadying yourself, and move them away from your face, refusing to yield to the moment. There is a depth to your bond with Acacius, a connection forged in unspoken understanding, but you cannot bring yourself to jeopardize him.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to let the healer decide where she wishes to remain," you say, your voice steady, masking the longing within you to leave this place with Acacius. Turning toward Emperor Geta, who now sits observing the exchange with keen interest alongside his brother, Caracalla. Without hesitation, Geta seizes the opportunity, pulling you onto his lap with a self-assured ease that leaves no doubt of his authority.

Your gaze meets that of General Acacius, whose displeasure grows ever more evident. His clenched fists and the tension in his posture betray the storm brewing within him. "I believe the games are about to begin, dear General Acacius," Emperor Geta states with a sly smile, his hand firmly resting on your waist to solidify his claim. "It would be most appropriate for you to take your seat and enjoy the spectacle." His words carry a subtle provocation, a challenge cloaked in politeness.

Acacius lingers, his body taut with restraint as though weighing the consequences of striking an emperor in defense of his pride. Just as the tension threatens to boil over, Macrinus approaches, his demeanor lively and oblivious to the undercurrents. "Ah, are we all ready to witness the might of my beast? My gladiator returns to the arena today!" Macrinus exclaims, his excitement cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade.

Acacius hesitates, his head tilting as though he is torn, unwilling to move from your side while you remain seated on Emperor Geta’s lap. Yet, Lucilla intervenes, her steps measured as she approaches her husband. She takes his hand with a quiet resolve, guiding him back to her side. A flicker of disappointment stirs within you, faint but undeniable. What else could you have expected? Acacius has always belonged to her, to duty, to the empire. He has never truly been yours.

The tension lingers only a moment longer before the spectacle claims everyone’s attention. The gates to the coliseum creak open, and the gladiators march into the arena. Yet something is amiss. Their faces are obscured, smeared with what appears to be blood, masking their identities. For those with inattentive eyes, it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish one from another. But not for you. No, Hanno’s eyes—those piercing, tempestuous eyes—are burned into your memory like the sharp point of a blade embedded deep into flesh. Even amid the chaos, they find you, unyielding and unforgettable.

"Macrinus, what are the gladiators scheming?" Emperor Caracalla asks, his words slurred as he drinks from his goblet, already appearing too inebriated to speak coherently.

"My esteemed Emperor Caracalla, I have no knowledge of their schemes, but I trust it is all in service of your entertainment," Macrinus responds, his gaze fixed intently on the gladiators below. He observes them with a sharpness that contrasts Caracalla's indifference, his expression unreadable.

Your eyes instinctively seek out General Acacius, silently willing him to understand that something is amiss. He meets your gaze, his brow furrowed as though catching the silent warning you convey.

"You seem unsettled, healer," Emperor Geta murmurs into your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "I am not accustomed to watching gladiators face one another, Emperor," you reply, steadying your voice. "I am more familiar with mending their wounds when they survive." The truth, however, weighs heavier on your mind—Hanno is planning something, and whatever it is, it may cost Acacius his life. A fate you cannot allow.

"Do not fret," Geta coos, lifting your chin with a deliberate gentleness that feels almost mocking. His eyes search yours, a predator relishing his control. "Guards, increase vigilance near the gladiators!" he commands suddenly, his voice sharp and resonant, slicing through the murmurs of the spectators.

"Emperor, it may not be wise to leave yourself so unguarded," General Acacius interjects, his tone firm yet controlled as he observes the guards dispersing to obey Geta's orders.

"And what greater protection could Rome offer than you, General?" Geta retorts with a smug smile, his grip on you tightening slightly, as though to assert his dominance. The tension is palpable, yet it is quickly eclipsed by the spectacle unfolding in the arena. The gates groan open once more, and three lions emerge, their emaciated forms a testament to their hunger. Their roars echo across the coliseum, a feral sound that sets the crowd alight with excitement. The gladiators ready themselves, their movements deliberate, each one measured and precise.

Your heart tightens as Hanno shouts to the other gladiators, "Remember our plan! Our enemy lies far beyond the arena!" Surely, he is plotting something, yet his precision in leading the gladiators against the lions is extraordinary. It is as if Hanno is channeling his spirit animal, his movements instinctive and deliberate.

Blood is everywhere—some gladiators brutally slaughtered by the lions. Two of the beasts have already been defeated when a revolt begins, chaos erupting as the third lion aids the gladiators in breaking through the arena gates. Suddenly, the tension in the air thickens. Panic spreads as the guards scramble to escort the emperors away from the scene.

Caught in the fray, you find yourself swept along with Emperors Geta and Caracalla, fate conspiring against you. In the madness, you lose sight of Acacius amidst the swarm of guards and gladiators. The tumult escalates into full-blown chaos until a voice pierces through the din, crying out, "Protect the Emperor!"

Before you can react, you feel the sharp pain of a blade slicing through your skin—or perhaps plunging into it. You cannot tell. Dazed, you glance down to see your blood staining your garments, and when you lift your gaze, you meet the eyes of your assailant. Hanno's eyes. You are certain.

The attack meant for Emperor Geta has struck you instead, delivered by the very man who has awakened feelings you dare not name. Tears well in your eyes as you feel your strength waning, your consciousness slipping into darkness.

My life every single day, it’s either barely any fics or they’re all x fem readers…like it’s not fair 😭

Shadows of Loss

Pairing ✦ Qimir x Sith!reader

Tags ✦ angst, character death

Notes: There’s so little fics about him I just had to take it into my own hands

Wordcount ✦ 805

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The sky above burned with the fires of battle. Explosions lit up the horizon as the clashing forces fought for dominance. Among the chaos, Qimir's red saber cut through the air with lethal precision. He had fought countless battles, faced innumerable foes, but today felt different. Today, the stakes were painfully personal.

You stood by his side, a beacon of defiance amidst the encroaching darkness. Your own saber was a blur of light, defending against the relentless onslaught of enemies. Your eyes met Qimir's across the battlefield, sharing a moment of unspoken understanding and fierce determination.

You had trained, fought, and survived side by side, and over time, your bond had deepened into something more profound, something that transcended the dark side itself.

But fate can be cruel.

A sudden surge of Jedi reinforcements broke through the defensive lines. You were separated from Qimir, forced into a desperate fight for survival. He tried to reach you, but the tide of battle swept him further away.

His heart pounded with fear, a rare emotion for a seasoned warrior like him. He cut down enemy after enemy, each step bringing him closer to you. But as he fought, he saw you surrounded, your movements growing slower, more labored.

"Y/N!" he shouted, his voice drowned out by the cacophony of war. He pushed harder, fueled by desperation. But he was too far, and you were too surrounded.

A lightsaber struck you in the side, and you stumbled. Qimir's breath caught in his throat as he saw you fall to your knees. He unleashed a furious barrage of attacks, breaking through the enemy lines with sheer force of will.

By the time he reached you, you were on the ground, struggling to breathe. He dropped to his knees beside you, cradling you in his arms.

"Stay with me," he begged, his voice trembling. "Please, Y/N, stay with me."

Your eyes fluttered open, and you managed a weak smile. "Qimir...," you whispered, reaching up to touch his face. "I... I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," he said, tears streaming down his face. "I’m going to get you out of here. You're going to be fine."

But you both knew the truth. Your breathing was shallow, your body growing colder. "I... love you," you said, your voice barely audible.

"I love you too," Qimir choked out, holding you closer. "More than anything."

You smiled again, a sad, beautiful smile. "Fight... for us," you murmured.

And then, your hand slipped from his face, falling limp. The light in your eyes faded, leaving Qimir alone in the darkness.

He held you close, his heart breaking. The battle raged on around him, but in that moment, all he felt was an unbearable emptiness. He had lost you.

With a final kiss to your forehead, he gently laid you down. Rising to his feet, he ignited his saber once more. The fire in his heart had not dimmed—it had transformed into a burning resolve.

For you, he would fight. For you, he would never give up. They would pay for their cruelty, and the power you had sought together would be achieved.

As he charged back into the fray, he carried your memory with him, a guiding star in the darkest of times. And though the path of the Sith was fraught with pain and loss, he would carve out a legacy in your name, ensuring that your sacrifice would never be forgotten.

Weeks turned into months, and Qimir's reputation grew. The stories of his ferocity in battle spread through the galaxy, a Sith warrior driven by a singular purpose. He became known for his ruthlessness, his strategic brilliance, and an almost palpable sense of sorrow that seemed to fuel his every action.

Yet, every night, when the battles subsided and silence enveloped him, Qimir found himself haunted by memories of you. The dreams were vivid and cruel, replaying the moments you shared, the plans you made, and the future you had envisioned together. Each morning, he awoke more determined, the pain sharpening his resolve.

On the anniversary of your death, Qimir stood on the edge of a cliff overlooking the battlefield where you had fallen. The wind whipped around him, carrying with it the echoes of past battles. He closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him.

"I will honor you," he whispered to the wind. "In every victory, in every moment of triumph, your name will be remembered."

He raised his saber, the crimson blade casting a red glow in the dim light. It was a promise, a vow made to the only person who had ever truly understood him.

And as he descended into the chaos of yet another battle, Qimir fought not just for the dark side, but for the memory of a love lost, and a future that could have been.

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch falter as she gathers a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and take his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background. The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Ares, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow. Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be. Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving. Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

CARBON COPY | Miguel O'Hara

☆ premise: trying to find miles morales in earth-42, he encounters you. or at least, a version of you.

☆ pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!alt universe!reader

☆ warnings: across the spiderverse spoilers, pregnant!reader, clueless!reader, angst, hurt no comfort, miguel's pov, some swearing

☆ a/n: oh my god. across the spiderverse is literally a masterpiece. into the spiderverse already is, but the spiderverse team said, "we can do better." they didn't have to, but they did.

"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Jessica asked through the commlink. "This is risky, even by your standards."

"It doesn't matter. The quicker we find Miles, the quicker we get out of here." Miguel muttered into his earpiece as he walked through the busy streets of Earth-42's New York.

"Yes, but blending in? For all we know, a version of us exists here."

"Which is why you need to stop talking and start looking, Jess." Miguel hissed a little too loud, earning looks from a few passerbys. He winced. Jessica had a point. If a version of them did exist in this universe, it would be best not to bring attention to themselves.

"Miguel!"

And... that was now thrown out of the window. Cursing under his breath, he turned around reluctantly to face the person who called him—only to find that it was you.

His eyes widened, and his lips parted at the sight of you. Never in a million years did he expect to see her again. But here you were, the absolute spitting image of her. Your clothes were exactly the same things she would wear, your hair and makeup done the same way.

Finding different versions of people in different universes was not uncommon. There's literally a society uniting the different universes' own Spider-people, for God's sake. But Miguel didn't expect this. He didn't expect a carbon copy of his dead wife on a universe where Spider-Man did not exist.

He should've said he wasn't Miguel, that you were mistaking him for someone else. Hell, he shouldn't have stopped and turned around in the first place. He didn't know what came over him, but in a second, he had his arms wrapped around your body.

"Miguel, hon, are you okay?" You asked, your voice laced with surprise and concern. You had no clue that the man who was hugging you was not your husband. At least, not your husband in this universe.

Miguel grunted in response, his ability to string words together to form a sentence rendered broken by your presence. He squeezed you tighter. He couldn't believe he was holding you in his arms.

You weren't the same woman he fell in love with. He knows this. But he couldn't help himself. You looked exactly like her. Felt exactly like her. Sounded exactly like her. Shit, you even smelled like her.

"Damn it, Miguel, keep it together! She's not your wife!"

Hearing Jess' voice snapped Miguel out of his stupor. Remembering his mission, why he was there in the first place, he pulled away from you. He didn't want to. He wanted to hold you longer. But he knew that if he did, he wouldn't have been able to stop.

"Honey, what's wrong?" You asked, cupping his face in your hands. God, how he missed feeling the warmth of your palms. "You're acting weird."

"I'm fine, sweetheart." He gave you a small smile, his hands wrapping around yours and his lips pressing a kiss on each of your wrists. "I just missed you, that's all."

You laughed. "What are you talking about? You saw me this morning."

Miguel could only chuckle in an attempt to hide his sadness. What was only hours for you was months for him. "Right. I did."

"Are you sure you're okay, though?" You asked again, eyebrows furrowing and the corners of your lips downturned.

"Don't worry about it, darling. I am."

He wasn't. But you didn't need to know that. You didn't need to know that in another universe, the two of you were married. You didn't need to know that you had a daughter together. You didn't need to know that he loved you and your daughter more than life itself, only for him to lose you both.

"Listen, I have to go. I'm having lunch with a friend. But I'll see you later at Doctor Nguyen's, okay?" You placed your hands on your stomach, a smile forming on your face. "I can't wait to see her again."

Miguel swallowed the lump in his throat before forcing himself to smile. Only now he noticed the bump on your stomach, carrying a different Miguel's Gabriella. "Yeah, me too."

With a kiss goodbye on his cheek, you walked away, blissfully unaware that he was not your Miguel. He watched as you disappeared around the corner, knowing it was the first and last time he was ever going to see you again.

But that didn't matter. He'll find Miles. He'll make sure the canon isn't destroyed. He'll make sure another version of himself wouldn't have to suffer the loss of his family the same way he did. He'll make sure you and your kid were safe.

everyone talking about mingyu shirtless but bruvs if im being honest i still haven't moved on from this....

wtf am i supposed to do??

die??

pairing: oscar piastri x fewtrell!reader, lando norris x fewtrell!reader

summary: oscar finally gets his first win

warnings: SMAU (no written parts), swearing, 2024 hungarian gp, alcohol consumption (being drunk), heartbreak, mature themes, unrequited (?) love, just straight-up yearning, use of y/n

previous part | masterlist | next part

a/n: having to relive the race was depressing, i apologise in advance. also, i think i have no idea how to use puncation in english, so i just do it based on vibes 😔

liked by oscarpiastri and others

ynfewtrell think about the place where you first met me

view all comments

maxfewtrell The hospital, I think

user can oscar fight?

gigihart I WAS RIDING IN A GETAWAY CAR I WAS CRYING IN A GETAWAY CAR I WAS DYING IN A GETAWAY CAR SAID GOODBYE IN A GETAWAY CAR

user gorgeous girl 🩷

★・・・★・・・★

★・・・★・・・★

★・・・★・・・★

★・・・★・・・★

★・・・★・・・★

★・・・★・・・★

★・・・★・・・★

★・・・★・・・★

previous part | masterlist | next part

★・・・★・・・★

TAGLIST: @harrysdimple05 @milkysoop @charlesgirl16 @wosof1 @illicitverstappen @back-on-my-bullsh @revrse @skepvids @screamingwines @a-beaverhausen @l-vroom4 @wildflowerhuggy @meglouise00 @formulaal @smithieandy @sltwins @awritingtree @colmathgames2 @org12 @alice-went-away @grovelingmen @taasgirl @anotherapollokid @d3kstar @gnarlycore @leclercdream @skeleton-elly @verstappensrealwife @seonghwaexile @hellowgoodbye @samantha-chicago @delululeclerc @5sospenguinqueen @riverxsq @s0meth1ngs @silentreader128 @cheer-bear-go-vroom @sarahsobsession @raweceekk @willowsnook @nxlx96 @saythename-sm @lesliiieeeee @landopoet @blushmimi @neferaskingdom @oikarma @mayax2o07 @obxstiles @speeedybaby

TAGLIST IS CLOSED!