andtheywerefootballers

[andtheywerefootballers]

Photos that go hard

[andtheywerefootballers]

Jamal posting Olisiala on his insta 🤍

[andtheywerefootballers]

[andtheywerefootballers]

I've been stalking some sports photographers on instagram and I'm delighted to say that I've actually been finding new pictures 😭😭

pictures dated 18.11.2024

[andtheywerefootballers]

edit <3

[andtheywerefootballers]

Croatia v Spain | EURO 2012

[andtheywerefootballers]

[andtheywerefootballers]

42 tbps • wusiala wip

a new fic idea I’ve been planning for a while. Pastry chef flo who doesn’t know much about anything or anyone outside of his circle and jamal an upcoming bayern star who takes a liking to the resident baker. still in progress here’s a snippet

The air outside carried the earthy tang of rain, lingering in cracks and crevices like a memory on the cobbled streets of Munich. The sky above stretched in long ribbons of grey, draping the city in a hushed stillness that felt almost sacred. Flo always liked mornings like this—the kind that slowed the world down just enough for him to breathe and sort everything out before the bustle of crowds came streaming in.

The patisserie felt warmer on days like this, the glow of the overhead lights making the fogged window panes appear soft and dreamlike, as if the world outside had been painted in watercolors. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of vanilla and caramelized sugar, wrapping around Flo like an old friend. It made the quiet feel less empty.

At the counter, rows of fruit tarts gleamed under the soft golden light, their glossy surfaces catching faint reflections of the room. A fresh tray of Nussecken sat cooling behind him, their chocolate-dipped edges still soft and glossy, the pieces laid out in uneven rows. Flo liked it that way—imperfect but inviting.

He brushed the last traces of flour from his apron and glanced at the clock. Almost time to open.

Near the register, Juliane sat with one leg folded beneath her, flipping lazily through the newspaper she brought every morning from the train station. She wasn’t reading it, not really. Her eyes kept drifting to the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass in slow trails.

“You made the strudel today, right?” she asked without looking up, as if she already knew the answer.

Flo leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “Like always. If I didn’t you’d be the first to start complaining.”

She peeked over the top of the paper, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “At least you know me well.”

There was a beat of silence until the bell over the door chimed softly, cutting through the low hum of the patisserie.

Flo’s eyes flicked up by instinct, but the man who stepped inside wasn’t a regular. He was tall, with dark curls half-hidden beneath a cap pulled low over his forehead. His jacket looked slightly too big for him, hands shoved deep into the pockets. He hesitated just inside the entrance, dragging the bottom of his boots over the welcome doormat to dry off the remnants of the outside weather. His eyes scanned the room like he wasn’t sure if he belonged here.

Tourist, Flo thought. They drifted in sometimes, especially when the rain chased people off the main streets.

“Morning,” Flo greeted, stepping behind the register flattening the tail of his apron.

The guy’s gaze lingered on the pastry case, narrowing slightly as if trying to decipher what was behind the glass.

“Morning,” he said after a beat, his German accented—just enough to catch Flo’s ear. “Uh… I’ll take whatever’s good.”

Flo raised a brow, shifting his weight against the counter. “That’s not how this works. You have to pick.” If you asked Flo, everything in the shop was good.

The guy let out a soft laugh looking away at the sweet items and meeting Flo’s gaze for a second. “Yeah, see, the thing is… I don’t know what half of these are. I just want something sweet.”

Juliane lowered her paper slowly, watching the exchange with poorly hidden amusement.

Flo suppressed a sigh, leaning over the display case. He tapped the glass lightly, pointing to the neat row of pastries. “Start simple. Apfelstrudel, Nussecken, or Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte if you’re feeling brave.”

The guy’s head tilted slightly, eyes catching on the tarts. “I’ll take… one of those.”

Flo glanced up. “The Himbeertarte?”

“I don’t know. The red one.”

Flo’s lips twitched despite himself. “Right. One red tart, coming up.”

Juliane’s quiet chuckle didn’t escape him as he boxed the pastry, folding the paper with practiced ease.

“That’ll be 4,20,” Flo said, sliding the box toward him.

The guy shifted, patting his pockets like he’d forgotten how money worked. After an awkward moment of fumbling, he produced a handful of coins—more than necessary—and crumpled cash that looked like it had gone through the wash.

“Sorry, I—uh, here,” he said, holding out the entire handful, as if letting Flo sort through it would somehow speed things along.

Flo stared at it for a second, unsure whether to be amused or mildly concerned. Slowly, he began counting, plucking the right coins from the disorganized mess in the man’s palm.

“Bit much,” Flo muttered under his breath, dropping the rest of the change back into the guy’s hand.

The man hesitated. “Keep it. For the next one.”

Flo blinked. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Or tip. I don’t know.” The guy smiled, and it wasn’t sheepish this time—just easy, like he didn’t mind.

Flo shrugged, sliding the extra change into the tip jar by the register. His gaze flickered back toward Juliane, whose smirk had only deepened.

“Anything else?” Flo asked, trying to ignore her stare.

The guy’s eyes drifted back to the display case, as if something else had caught his attention.

“Actually—can I get five more things?”

Flo’s hand stilled halfway to the jar. “Five?”

The guy nodded, resting his elbows lightly against the counter. “Yeah. Whatever you like best.”

Flo gave him a skeptical look. “You don’t even know what they are.”

The man grinned again, leaning in slightly. “Doesn’t matter. You look like you know what you’re doing.”

Flo huffed softly but started pulling pastries from the case, carefully boxing them up one by one.

Juliane watched, chin resting on her hand as she elbowed the newspaper aside. Her expression said everything she wasn’t saying out loud.

As the guy left, balancing the box under his arm, Flo caught the faint creak of Juliane’s chair as she stood, stretching lazily.

“You didn’t know who that was, did you?” she asked, voice laced with barely contained laughter.

Flo barely glanced at her. “A customer.”

She snorted softly. “Oh, Flo. Sometimes I think you live under a rock.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Juliane grabbed her coat, the lingering grin never leaving her face. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your day.”

Flo frowned, watching her disappear into the back kitchen.

He didn’t think much of it.

The rest of the morning passed in the same quiet rhythm—kneading dough, humming softly to the patter of rain against the windowpanes.

Lemme know what you think about this

[andtheywerefootballers]

Jamal sometimes translating word for word has the potential to be such a short, cute fic idea. Like

Leroy: Hey, du bist ziemlich enge mit Flo, oder (Hey, you're pretty close to Flo, right)

Jamal: Ja, wir sind uns näher gekommen (yeah, we have gotten close OR more accurate german translation insinuates a romantic or more intimate getting closer...if you know what I'm saying...)

Leroy: ?!?

Jamal gave a KidsClub press conference an when asked about his closest friends in the national team he replied

"im cool with many of them, I think im close with Flo"

[andtheywerefootballers]

"I desire violently— and I wait." • wusiala

Synopsis: quiet aches, poppies and distance.

A tabby cat to the left and a coffee shop next door.

These were things that Jamal loved, and Flo knew it.

Flo bent down, yesterdays training still thrumming in his muscles a small wince leaving his lips, hand outstretched to pet the tabby cat sitting quietly by the door, his fingers grazing the soft fur atop its head. The cat, a boy, looked up at him with curious green eyes body subtly purring with content. Fumbling for a moment he pulled out his phone, wanting to capture the moment, but before he could press the shutter, the cat darted away, leaving only a blur in the frame. A small sigh escaped Flo’s as he watched the cat disappear into the distance.

“Jamu would’ve loved to see a close-up photo of that cat,” he murmured to himself.

He straightened up and turned toward the café next door. The scent of freshly baked pastries greeted him as he stepped inside. He ordered the prettiest pastries he could find, along with two separate beverages—one for himself, and one for Jamal—as if somehow it would bring him closer. It wasn’t his proudest moment and he felt stupid for breaking his special diet to fill a lovesick craving he had. But oh well.

Taking a seat by the window, he felt the warmth of the setting sun on his skin. The golden light cast a gentle glow over the room, but it did little to ease the ache in his chest.

The ache had been there for months now, sitting heavy in his ribs, dull and persistent. Sometimes it was worse—after matches or late at night, when the reality of Jamal’s absence hit him the hardest.

Flo missed him.

So. Very. Much.

The media didn’t help. Fans speculated about them constantly, and news articles painted their relationship as effortless—two players balancing “friendship” and football with ease, always finding time to be together. “Jamal and Flo: Germanys future” one headline had read just a few weeks ago. Flo remembered staring at it bitterly, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. If only they knew.

In truth, the absences stretched over long, unforgiving periods. There were no cozy evenings together after matches, no early morning coffees before training. Their schedules were relentless, pulling them apart just when they needed each other most. Flo wished the media’s stories were true—that they lived in a world where their days were intertwined as closely as the articles suggested. But they didn’t. Time was cruel, stretching and bending as if mocking them for daring to miss each other.

Flo sipped his drink slowly, feeling the ache intensify and run the blood in his veins cold.

It wasn’t just the distance; it was everything the distance stole from them. Jamal was in Munich, playing for Bayern. Flo was in Leverkusen. Two cities apart, but it felt like an entire ocean stretched between them. Jamal’s days were packed—training, press, matches—his schedule woven into the demands of one of Europe’s biggest clubs. Flo’s life was no different; his days in Leverkusen were spent chasing fitness, perfection, and form, leaving them only scraps of time to snatch what little of each other they could.

Calls were brief, texts sporadic. Flo had memorized the exact tone of Jamal’s voice over the phone, the hum of background noise whenever Jamal was on the bus after an away game or walking back to the flat from training. “You’re so quiet today, Flo,” Jamal would say, teasingly. Flo could never tell him it wasn’t silence—it was listening. Listening to Jamal breathe, talk, exist in a moment Flo couldn’t share.

And then there were the international breaks. Flo had once held onto them like lifelines, but they weren’t enough. A few days back together felt like a trick—a fleeting taste of what they used to have before it was ripped away again. He remembered the last break vividly: Jamal waiting for him by the arrivals gate at the airport, his grin lighting up the entire room. They spent three perfect days in each other’s arms, laughing quietly over late breakfasts and holding hands like teenagers on walks where no one would recognize them.

And then Jamal was gone. Back to Munich, back to Bayern. Flo had cried for the first time in months that night, curling into his empty bed with Jamal’s hoodie pressed to his face.

The ache never really left.

Flo’s phone buzzed against the table, pulling him back to reality. Jamal’s name lit up the screen.

Flo couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips as he quickly grabbed his phone, glancing at the flower shop as he walked home. Without thinking, he stepped inside, unable to resist the pull of its warm glow. He bought a bouquet of pink and red poppies—Jamal’s favorite colors. The florist handed him the flowers with a smile, and Flo managed a quiet “thank you” before his phone buzzed again.

He quickly pulled his phone out and saw Jamal’s name on the screen, asking about his day. Without skipping a beat, he sent Jamal the photos he had taken throughout the day—pictures from work, the cat, and the coffee he had. Seconds later, his phone began to ring—a video call.

“Hey, looks like you had a great day, baby,” Jamal’s voice was warm, comforting.

“I did. I really wish you were here though,” Flo replied, his voice tinged with longing.

He turned the camera to show the bouquet of pink poppies in his hand. “Look, I just got these.”

“How pretty,” Jamal said, his voice softening.

“They reminded me of you.”

“Aw. How cheesy, you miss me a lot, don’t you?”

“More than words can explain.”

Jamal chuckled, but it was followed by a sigh. “I wish I could talk to you longer, but I have to go. I gotta catch the train.”

Flo forced a smile, trying to hide his disappointment. “It’s alright! I’ll call you when you get home, then?”

“I can’t make any promises you know how late kompany makes us stay,” Jamal pouted at the screen. “I’ll talk to you some other time. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Flo whispered, his heart swelling as he watched Jamal’s face light up with a smile before disappearing when the call-ended message appeared on the screen.

Another clash. More moments wasted. Training schedules. Matches. Managers. How annoying.

Flo slipped his phone back into his pocket and continued his walk home. The weather was perfect, but the emptiness inside him felt almost nauseating. He didn’t want to return to the apartment, knowing it would only remind him of Jamal’s absence. Missing his boyfriend so deeply made his feet feel heavy, and he found himself dragging them home.

Without even realizing it, the bouquet in his hand and the coffee cup he was holding were already on the floor; and the sidewalk was now marked with the coffee’s scent and dark stain.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he muttered to himself, feeling the weight of it all.

He picked up the bouquet and the coffee cup, quickly disposing of them in the nearest bin.

When he arrived home, he immediately lay down on the sofa, so exhausted from a long day at work, but somehow, his boyfriend being miles away was far more devastating than the number of reports he needed to get done.

He found himself sighing as he stared at their photo hanging on the apartment wall. It was taken during preseason—Flo still in his Leverkusen training kit, Jamal in his Bayern tracksuit, both grinning like fools. And now the overwhelming silence of his apartment is flooding into his awareness and everything starts to feel a little bit too real. He was so depleted, and not having Jamal next to him to reassure him that things would be alright made it even worse. A simple pat on the back from his boyfriend was enough to wash away all his tiredness.

But there he sat, in their living room, alone.

Within seconds, his exhaustion got the best of him, and he fell into a deep sleep.

[andtheywerefootballers]

mixed zone

[andtheywerefootballers]

Jamal interview for Sport Bild (Nr.51/52 18.12.24)

eng trans

(I didn't have the time to translate it myself, please forgive me)

[andtheywerefootballers]

Flo goes on his tip toes while Jamal bends down which leads to them crashing and muttering out oofs and sorrys. They then keep changing angles in an attempt to fix their mistake but continously get into each other's way like: "oh, uh no you-" and then they give up and blush and sink into the floor in embarrassment

Their height difference has me thinking… Do u think flo has to tip toe to kiss him or does Jamal bend down ??

[andtheywerefootballers]

Control • 18+ Drabble

"Tell me what you want, baby."

You.

It's the answer both his brain and heart equally provide simultaneously.

Still, Flo is nothing if not a coward. Brave enough to fight but too scared to admit to the truth, scared of baring his feelings for Jamal and forever feeling powerless in front of someone he already feels too much for. So he collects the pieces of his pride and puts into action what he can't bring himself to put into words.

Flo takes the matter into his hands, quite literally.

Down on his knees, ready to worship the ungodly, Flo’s hands work to unbuckle Jamal's belt and pulls it with so much force that his hips detach from the wall, earning him a muttered curse from the boy.

Jamal sinks his hands on Flo's hair to steady himself, his eyes are a bit blown wide, mouth gaping as if he can't believe this is happening.

"Flo-"

Flo can't reply, can't spit out the words on his throat, so he gives it a better use. As soon as he has his hands around Jamal's dick, rock hard and so wet with precum it even boosts his ego a bit, Flo sinks down.

One swift motion that has his nose touching Jamal's navel.

Jamal moans so loud it's embarrassing, so ruined that Flo can practically feel the broken parts of his pride gluing back together. He's got the upper hand now.

Flo pulls back slowly, trying to contain his smirk but he knows his cheekbones are probably betraying him again. He doesn't mind it though, Jamal is heaving and the grip on his hair has only increased.

"What the fuck, Flo."

He looks so pissed but there’s no bite to his voice and pleasure laces his tongue, brows slightly furrowed as he glares down.

"Warn a guy, maybe?"

Flo feels so good, it's so good to be in control again, to finally have the Jamal at his mercy. He bats his lashes, musters up his most convincing innocent eyes as he suckles on the tip, tongue swirling on Jamal's slit.

"What? Can't you handle it?"

[andtheywerefootballers]

[andtheywerefootballers]

X marks the spot ; wusiala post break up drabble

Synopsis awkward conversations in a quiet hotel room

“My mom really misses you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s always asking about you and talking about how I train too much now I don’t spend my days with you now. Didn’t realise she kept up with us so much”

“I think she just misses having someone sensible around her thick skulled son”

“Maybe,” Flo says, but there’s something in his voice that hints his focus is shifting away from the current discussion. The words come out too easily, like he’s trying to sound light-hearted, but a flicker of doubt is obvious. He knows it isn’t the real reason, and so does Jamal. The silence that follows feels heavier now, charged with a tension neither of them wants to acknowledge.

Jamal’s fingers still hover over his phone, but he isn’t looking at it anymore. Instead, his eyes drift to Flo, just for a moment, sharp and calculating, before quickly flicking away. It’s as if he’s waiting for something—something unsaid. Flo feels his chest tighten, but he forces himself not to react. He knows better than to give in to the pull of whatever it is that’s brewing between them.

“My mom misses you too.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Flo’s heart skips, but he doesn’t let it show. He forces his expression to stay neutral, masking the sudden flutter of hope. “Really?” he asks, his voice almost too calm.

“No,” Jamal says, deadpans. The reply stings more than it should. But it’s the silence that follows—thick, drawn out—that cuts deeper. Neither of them move. Neither of them speaks. The hotel room they’re staying in seems to shrink, and Flo can almost feel the weight of Jamal’s gaze, even though he’s looking away now, tapping distractedly at his phone. But his posture is different—slightly stiff, like he’s holding something back.

They both laugh after realising it’s been a few seconds since they both said anything at all, but it’s hollow, forced. The sound echoes in the stillness, and Flo feels it like an ache in his bones. It used to be easy between them—effortless, even. But now, something has shifted. He can’t ignore it. He knew he’d never make it into Mrs. Musiala’s good graces she was a tough critic. But this… this feels different. Jamal’s words hang in the air like a puzzle he’s still trying to piece together.

The laughter dies too quickly, and the weight of their shared silence presses down on Flo forming a kaleidoscope of pains that will blossom into bruises that will show after he releases his forearm from the self inflicted grip it’s held under.

They both laugh, but it’s not real anymore. The sound fades, and in the space between them, Flo is suddenly acutely aware of how much he wants to ask Jamal: What about you? Do you miss me? The words are there, pressing against his chest, but he doesn’t speak them. Not yet. Instead, he just watches Jamal, waiting for the next move, the next shift in the silence. And for the first time, he wonders if Jamal feels it too.

…..

[andtheywerefootballers]

due to recent events I would like to remind everyone that ai generated content is harmful to fandom, creators of fandom content and most importantly our planet.

generative ai models are often trained on original content, meaning fanart, fanfiction and other content without explicit consent of those who created it. often even without even asking, they steal original content to feed the ai.

to generate one ai picture, up to half a liter of water is used. water, which is an insanely meager resource on our planet in the first place. ai uses huge amounts of energy from burning of fossil fuels, directly causing and worsening global warming.

ai products for fandom are soulless imitations of the content they feed on. I personally believe that using ai and labeling something as "your work" is disrespectful to those, who genuinely work hard on their content. I hope none of my appreciated followers (and readers) use ai or defend those who do. if I see ai-generated content on your profile, I will not hesitate to block you.