jock Mydei, Phainon, Gepard and Caelus and opponent reader ?(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ (any sport !)
ʚɞ No one treats me this way, are all boys out here the same? ʚɞ
Pairings: Mydei x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Gepard x Reader, Caelus x Reader
Summary: Them as your opponent in games who are totally not crushing on you!
Tags: Fluff, modern AU, non-canon settings, jock!Mydei, Phainon, Gepard and Caelus, athlete!Reader, rivals, crushes, they're silly, Reader highkey an idgafer, side characters: Castorice, Hyacine, Anaxa, Serval, Pela, Lynx, Dan Heng and March 7th, this probably has many mistakes, ignore if u find them i wrote this half-asleep 😢
A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! I had so many headcanons but the execution is so ass, forgive me 😞 I wanted to write a part for Argenti too but this is already so long, anyways, hope you enjoy!
Mydei is impossible to read. That’s the first thing you learn about him. On the field, he’s all sharp muscle, stoic glares, and heavy footsteps—the kind of athlete other players fear because of how effortlessly he flattens anyone in his way. But when it comes to you, none of that applies. You learn this during the first scrimmage your teams play against each other. You block one of his charges and instead of knocking you aside like he always does, he steadies your arm without thinking.
“You good?” he asks, voice low, neutral.
You pull your arm back. “I’m fine.”
He nods once… but doesn’t look away.
From then on, everything changes. And you end up with a confused lion lingering around you all the time.
After a few days of watching you, he's realised one thing. He wants to train with you. Badly.
Mydei begins a strange ritual. After every match, every practice, every cooldown, he approaches you with that same flat tone. “Train with me.”
And every time, you give the same answer. “No.”
He takes it well. Too well. A simple grunt, a shrug, a muttered “Hmph, suit yourself.” He walks away like nothing happened. But Phainon sees his expression every time he turns.
“He’s wilting," Phainon teases, whispering to Castorice. Though his whispers are no different than a bus horn.
Mydei glares. “I do not wilt.”
“You did just now! Look at you—your eyebrows are sad.” He tries to defend himself.
Gorgo, his mother, appears behind them carrying a basket like a judge delivering punishment.
“Mydei, dear,” she says, “you sulk worse than your father ever did.”
“You follow them around like a confused lion.”
“And you smile like a fool every time they look at you.”
You hear none of this. You only see Mydei being... Mydei. Serious. Cold. Cocky. And the way he smirks after winning a match? Absolutely insufferable.
But the truth? He wakes up early on days he thinks he’ll run into you. He eats cleaner. Trains harder. Wears the shirt he thinks makes him look less intimidating (it does not). Just for you.
One afternoon, while your team runs drills, you hear the unmistakable sound of Mydei speaking too loudly.
“…my diet boosts stamina. High protein, low fat. It’s efficient.”
You glance over. He’s not talking to anyone—just stretching near you and pretending you’re not his audience.
“And my practice hours are… increased,” he adds, voice rising half a pitch.
You raise an eyebrow. “Who are you talking to?”
“You just listed your entire meal plan out loud.”
“Thinking with your outside voice?”
“Yes— I mean—no. Forget it.”
He turns away, mortified. You shake your head, muttering, “Insufferable.”
Mydei hears that. He pretends it doesn’t affect him. In reality, It affects him deeply.
During a match, your teams clash in a high-stakes match. The crowd roars as you sprint across the field—and Mydei cuts you off. You brace for impact, but he softens his stance last moment, catching you by the waist instead of flattening you.
“What the hell, Mydei—just tackle me like you normally do!”
His jaw clenches. “…Don’t want you hurt.”
“I’m your opponent.” You scowl.
“You’re still… you.” He whispers under his breath.
There’s something raw in his eyes. Something he quickly shoves down. He steps back. “Go. Before I change my mind.”
When you dash past him, his heartbeat trips. He hopes you didn’t notice.
Your team wins—barely. Mydei approaches with slow, measured footsteps, towel slung around his neck, sweat glistening along his jaw. You expect a harsh comment, a grumble about losing.
Instead, he stops in front of you and mutters, “You played well.”
You blink. “You’re praising me?”
“It is not praise. It is an observation.”
“It sounded like praise.”
You narrow your eyes. “Why do you act like you hate me?”
“No,” he blurts—then winces at himself.
You stare at him. He never breaks eye contact—too proud to look away, too vulnerable to hide it anymore.
“…If you want to train together,” you say slowly, “fine. Once.”
His eyes widen a fraction. Mydei never smiles wide—it's always small, subtle—but this one is unmistakably real. He gives himself a pat on the back internally.
“Alright,” he says. “Tomorrow. Sunrise.”
You sigh. “Why so early?”
His ears turn red. “So… we have more time.”
As he walks away, Phainon catches up with him, ready to tease him. "So, our beloved Mydeimos finally earned his desired partner?"
Mydei throws his mouthguard at him. He pretends as if Phainon has spoken blasphemy, utter nonsense when his whole team knows how badly he yearns for you.
Everyone knows Phainon is a show-off.
He’s bright, fast, and loud — like a walking festival firework with too much energy and not enough impulse control. On court, he plays as if the sun handpicked him to represent “athletic chaos.”
Off court? He’s somehow worse.
The day your teams face each other again, Coach barely finishes announcing the match when Phainon shoots up from the bench.
“Let’s gooooo!! Destiny! Fate! Romance arc! Character development—”
Professor Anaxagoras plucks him by the collar. “Stop narrating your delusions.”
“They’re not delusions if destiny agrees.”
Castorice looks up from her notebook. “I’m on chapter twelve. They finally hold hands.”
“Castorice!!!” Phainon sounds close to tears. “Bless you!!”
Hyacine sighs in defeat. “You’re encouraging the disease.”
While the team changes, Phainon waits — waits — for the exact moment you pass by the doorway. When he hears your footsteps, he yanks his locker open so hard it bangs against the metal.
“Oh! Didn’t see you there,” he says, shirt halfway over his head like a malfunctioning Greek statue.
You don’t pause. “You texted me ten minutes ago saying ‘come by my locker.’”
He freezes, then laughs sheepishly. “Don’t expose me.”
You keep walking and Phainon, shirtless, absolutely flexes in the mirror before chasing after you. He wants you to see him, admire him. Even the sound of you calling him good-looking would make his year.
“Hey wait—look—look at my shoulders today. They’re bigger, right?”
He gasps like you stabbed him. “Okay. Brutal. But fair.”
Once you’re gone, Anaxa mutters, “You’re hopeless.”
Phainon dramatically wipes a fake tear. “Hopelessly in LOVE—”
“I said what I said!” he pouts, yet his imaginary dog tail wags just at the mention of you.
On the day of the match, you learn how much of a show-off the son of Aedes Elysiae is. The whistle blows. Phainon lights up like the sun; he sees you on the opposite side of the court and it’s over for everyone else.
His teammates know the symptoms: unnecessary tricks, flashy spins, a hundred percent more dramatic leaps, “accidental” shirt adjustments that are not accidental.
At one point he dunks so hard he lands near your bench. He pushes his hair back with a wet hand, sweat dripping down his jaw. He looks directly at you, raises a brow, smirks.
You stare blankly. What is this guy doing in the middle of a match? Planning a humiliation ritual?
Phainon’s soul disintegrates on the spot. He jogs by your side during a brief time-out and whispers, “Rate that dunk. Out of ten.”
“Six.” you answer bluntly.
“SIX?” he gasps in disbelief.
“You kicked the air for no reason.”
“It was ARTISTIC EXPRESSION.”
“…But did you look at me?”
You could swear you saw Phainon’s imaginary puppy tail stop wagging and his ears flatten again his head and he looks defeated.
Near the end, you intercept his pass with ridiculous skill. The ball slips from under his fingertips — he freezes, speechless.
You smirk at him for the first time. “Too slow, sunshine.”
Phainon makes an inhuman noise. In his brain, the thoughts only revolve around one thing, you. His mind can't help but load thoughts like, OH MY GOD THEY NOTICED ME I’M DYING!!
But his mouth says something entirely different. “Y-you cheated.”
“I’M— I— I’m focused on my craft.”
He’s pink from his ears to his collarbone.
You win by three points. Phainon accepts defeat with all the grace of a dramatic stage actor. He limps over — he is not injured — and hands you a cold drink.
“For… the champion,” he says, attempting suave.
You narrow your eyes. “You limped over here. Are you hurt?"
“I thought it would add emotional depth.”
You take the drink anyway and he short-circuits.
“You were good today,” you admit.
Phainon chokes on his own breath. “I—hah—what? Say that again?”
“Really?? You mean it??" He beams like the sun itself, asking for more praise like a dog. Though, his moment is ruined by the sound of Professor Anaxagoras' voice, calling for him.
You walk away as he practically vibrates with joy. In the distance you hear:
“I’m gonna train so hard I’ll impress them next match—”
Hyacine shakes her head in disagreement. “Or you could confess.”
“No! I must earn their admiration with athletic triumph.”
Castorice quietly scribbles in her notebook:
‘And so, the sun continued to chase the moon across the court…’
⚘ Gepard (Hockey/Ice sports):
Gepard Landau is a fortress.
Six-foot-something of disciplined muscle, straight posture, and perfectly controlled movements. On the ice, he’s a wall. A shield. A captain who commands attention without speaking more than he needs to.
But when it comes to you? He becomes a man held together by determination and anxiety. Everyone on his team knows — except you, of course.
Before a game, he sees you walking from the far end of the corridor. Your skates clack lightly on the floor; you adjust your gloves with that concentrated expression he finds… distracting.
He rehearses in his head: Say something normal. Compliment their play style. Don’t stare too long. Smile—no, not too much. Calm. You’re a captain for stars’ sake.
Then you pass by. “Good luck today,” you say casually.
Gepard freezes. Not metaphorically. Literally. He stops moving like someone unplugged him. His brain flatlines.
Serval, leaning against the wall, slaps his shoulder. “Hello? My brother? Respond?”
"I— yes. You… too— good luck—” he stutters out.
You blink at him, confused but amused, then walk on.
When you’re out of earshot, Serval bursts into laughter. “Ohhhh you're GONE. Completely GONE.”
“Serval please,” he mutters, face burning. “Don’t.”
But there’s no stopping her. “You know if you don’t confess soon, I will. For leverage.”
During the game, It’s almost cute how hard he works to stay composed.
When you’re not looking his way, Gepard plays perfectly. Clean hits, precise shots, disciplined skating, captain-level decisions. But the second your gaze flickers toward him? He nearly trips.
Just once, mid-game, your shoulder collides with his as you both chase the puck. You bounce off him like he’s made of stone—he catches your elbow gently so you don’t slip.
You look up. “It’s a contact sport, Gepard.”
“Yes, but— you could’ve— the angle— you might’ve—”
“Are you apologizing for existing?”
His teammates exchange knowing glances. Pela whispers, “He’s being gentle again.”
“Embarrassing,” Serval says. “I’m proud of him.”
Late in the third period, the match gets intense. One of your teammates skids into you by accident, sending you tumbling across the ice.
Before the crowd even gasps— Gepard is there.
He drops to one knee beside you. “Are you hurt?”
“Just slipped,” you grumble, sitting up.
Gepard offers his hand. With surprising care, he helps you stand, one hand steady at your elbow. His eyes stay locked on yours, worry tightening his jaw.
“You should have someone check your wrist—”
The way you say “captain” nearly kills him. He clears his throat. “Right. Yes. Of course.”
The referee skates over. “Landau, you can’t assist opposing players during the match—”
Gepard blurts, “But they fell.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Gepard, I’m really okay.”
He finally lets go — reluctantly.
You win by a small margin. Your team retreats to the bench, laughing, exhausted. You’re removing your helmet when someone steps into your peripheral vision.
Towel over his shoulder. Hair slightly damp. Eyes soft. “I wanted to say…” He hesitates, searching for words. “You played… really well today.”
You smile. “You always say that.”
Your heart stutters — just a little.
You toss your helmet into your bag. “You didn’t play too bad yourself.”
His face flushes so fast it’s honestly impressive.
“I— thank you,” he mutters, voice cracking just slightly. He coughs to cover it. “I mean—thank you. I appreciate it.”
You laugh softly. “You don’t have to be formal with me.”
He stares at you for a heartbeat too long. “I don’t?”
Gepard swallows. Hard. “Alright,” he says quietly. “I’ll try.”
There’s a silence — gentle, comfortable — before you speak again. “You, uh… always show up when I need something.”
Gepard’s ears turn red. “I— I just want to help.”
“You don’t do that for other opponents.”
His breath catches. His whole body goes still.
Serval’s voice echoes down the hallway, “Because he likes you!” and Pela clamps her hand over her mouth immediately.
Gepard turns scarlet and he tries to brush off her words. “I— ignore her— she’s exaggerating—” Oh, he'll hears tons from Lynx later.
“She’s not,” you say softly.
Gepard looks at you like he’s been hit with a hockey puck to the soul. “…She’s not?”
You step closer, just enough that he feels your warmth. “See you next match, captain.”
He stands there, stunned, cheeks glowing pink, watching you walk away — the quietest man in the world, absolutely overflowing with feelings he can barely contain.
⚘ Caelus (Basketball/ Football):
Caelus hates this. He hates that he likes you.
He can win any match—any.
…Except the mental match he keeps losing every time you walk into the gym with your water bottle tucked under your arm and that focused look on your face.
March 7th has stopped asking if he’s okay. Dan Heng doesn’t even sigh anymore. They simply watch Caelus go from “normal guy” to “feral lovesick racoon” in under three seconds.
This morning is no different. You enter the court. And Caelus instantly combusts.
“Dude,” March whispers behind him, “fix your face. You look like someone threw away your favourite trash bag.”
“I’m fine,” he lies, puffing his chest out. “Just… warming up.”
“You’re staring at them,” Dan Heng adds.
“You are,” they say at the same time. Caelus only sighs in defeat. Two against one, he can never win.
At the courtyard, you and your team— well, it's just you and your coach here, the others backed out, citing it's not necessary for them to attend. The opposing teams should ne announced now.
Caelus, Dan Heng and March 7th are on the other side, chatting away. Their coach finally picks up the mic, announcing the opposing teams, “Next scrimmage— Team Astral Express vs—”
Caelus is already grinning. He doesn’t even let the name finish. He knows. He feels it in his bones. He turns around dramatically, like an anime protagonist about to deliver his final line—
—and sees you tighten your headband, determination in your eyes.
He dies. Why do you have to look so gorgeous all the time? Absolutely unfair for an innocent racoon.
March 7th high-fives Dan Heng. “He’s gone. He’s actually gone.”
Before the match, you go to your side of the net. Caelus jogs to his. “You ready to lose?” he smirks.
“You ready to shut up?” you reply.
Dan Heng nearly chokes. He holds his laugh for the sake of his best friend.
Caelus tries to retain dignity. “Wow. Fiery today. Trying to impress me?”
“Oh. So… you do want my attention.”
You give him a look. “I want you to stop talking.”
His soul leaves his body. Before he can give a comeback, the whistle blows. The match begins.
He plays well at first—powerful serves, sharp receives, flashy spikes. He keeps glancing at you to see if you’re watching.
Spoiler: you’re not. You’re focused on the game. Focused on winning. Focused on anything except him. It shatters him.
March yells from the sidelines, "Stop looking at them and hit the ball!”
He rushes. He misses. The ball slams the floor. His pride dies again. Your team earns the point. You smirk. “Nice reflexes.”
He clutches his chest. “Ow. That hurt worse than the ball.”
In the end, your team wins—by two points. He acts like you murdered him. He walks over, towel over his shoulders, hair messy, ego broken but trying to appear fine.
“You played well,” you say, wiping sweat from your forehead.
He smiles. Too fast. Too bright. Instant raccoon revival.
“Oh? Oh! I mean—yeah! I—I always play well. You know me.” He flexes. For no reason.
You raise a brow. “What was that accent shift? Are you having a stroke?”
He freezes. “No. That was my… winning voice.”
He lights up like it’s Christmas. And then he does what he always does—he gambles.
“Hey uh—” he starts, scratching the back of his neck, cheeks red, “you wanna… stay after? Maybe practice receives together? Or serves? Or—”
You blink. “Didn’t you just play three sets? Aren’t you tired?”
“Nope.” He absolutely is dying inside. But he will practice for another six hours if it means standing next to you.
You sigh, but it’s soft. “Fine. But no more trash talk.”
“Ever? But I love trash.” he whispers, horrified.
You smirk. “Okay, once per day.”
He beams. “I can work with that.”
Behind him, March 7th squeals into her hands like an excited aunt.
Dan Heng nods knowingly. “At this rate, he’ll confess in three years.”
Caelus walks away feeling like he won the entire universe. Did he lose the match? Yes. Did he embarrass himself? Absolutely. Did you agree to stay and train with him? He’s ready to propose.
