#fictional stadium | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lokissweater · 26 days ago

Text

a million more novembers

{mlb!megumi fushiguro x f!reader}

summary: its you and megumi’s cute little two year anniversary! a car picnic at a stargazing hotspot in the city— snacks, drinks, your loving baseball man, and gifts galore? yes please!

warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, cursing, FLUUUUFFF GALOOREEEE AWWWUUHHH!!, sexual themes, mostly sfw except for like one steamy part ;), boobie sucking, grinding, soft loving megumi OFCCC, sliight angst but really nothing, all characters are aged up, mentions of reader having ‘pink cheeks’ is only to amplify and over-exaggerate feelings of embarrassment, shyness, and everything in between, and not to be taken literally! this is a work of fiction, and you can imagine many things for yourself :)

word count: 8.8k

authors note: ANNIVERSARY SPEECCCIIAAALLL I AM CRRRYYIINNNGGG!!! i hope you guys enjoy this little side fun mini chapter of sir gumi and reader’s anniversary day, and their endeavors with yuji and readers best friend :333 wanted to give you guys an extra mlb!megumi chapter in celebration of their LUUUUVVV !!! MWAAAHHHHH I LOOOVEE YOUUUU !!! TAKE CAAAREEEE !!! <3333333

i highly advise you to read the other parts of this series or else you won’t be able to understand some of the storyline and references :( you can find my mlb!megumi fushiguro masterlist here!

if you could, you’d fake pass out at this very moment so that way you’d be excused by your professor and get the fuck out of your afternoon lecture right this instant.

but you couldn’t, because attendance was mandatory and you’d lose points upon missing out… and you had an exam next week— which is something you normally just grumbled about and dealt with seeing as it was just a part of being in college, except right now? it was criminal to even think about an upcoming exam like this.

because it was you and megumi’s two year anniversary.

and the only thing you wanted to do was be there with him for the entire day… but because of your classes and megumi having abnormal back to back practices again due to the upcoming world series, you both agreed that you’d drive over to the stadium after your afternoon class and leave together for your little date after he was done.

but even though megumi had practice, you wanted to be at the stadium so fucking badly— watching him pitch and swing and just do what he does best one of your absolute favorite hobbies, the way he plays never getting old and actually illegal to even think that something like that could be a possibility.

you shrunk down in your seat, arms crossed as your professor went over topics about something and guidelines about whatever, you usually paying more attention to the material if it was any regular day but wanting to strangle yourself because the education system was preventing you from being with your man.

your phone lit up suddenly with a notification, you smiling softly to yourself upon realizing who it was and sitting up, grabbing your phone to unlock it.

(gumi <3): how’s class baby

you quickly typed back a response.

(you): do you think if i pretend to pass out right now my professor will excuse me and i can just leave

(gumi <3): lol

(gumi <3): you only have thirty minutes left though right?

(you): okay but gumi what does that have to do with me wanting to pretend to pass out so i can go see you faster

(you): and make fan edits of you while i wait

(you): I— I MEAN—

(gumi <3): omg

(gumi <3): you’ve made enough of those

(gumi <3): no more

you quietly scoffed in your seat, thumbs rapidly typing away.

(you): gumi i can’t believe you’re not supportive of my extra curricular activities rn

(you): after EVERYTHING i’ve done for you

(you): after all the times i’ve sucked your dick

(you): and i thought you liked my edits :(

megumi took a minute to respond before your phone buzzed again.

(gumi <3): LOL

(gumi <3): i do baby i’m kidding

(gumi <3): and don’t put that image in my head rn

(you): oh??????

(you): and why not???? ;))

(you): boner alert perhaps??? ;))

(you): maybe today during our cute little date you can take me to pound town in the back seat of your car and make me cum and cry all over your dick gumi!!

you shrunk further down in your seat and snickered quietly, funnily shielding your phone to prevent anyone else seated around you in your lecture from seeing the absurd messages on your phone.

(gumi <3): jesus fucking christ

(gumi <3): why are you doing this

(you): because i loooveee youuuu <33

(you): and i can’t wait to seee youuuu <333

(you): maybe i should go to the bathroom rn and send you a boobie pic :P

(gumi <3): please

(gumi <3): fuck wait my breaks over i have to go

(gumi <3): fuck

you mushed a hand over your mouth to prevent yourself from laughing out loud, typing a response.

(you): BAAAAHAHAHAH

(you): OMG IM SO SORRY GUMI

(you): HAVE A GOOD REST OF YOUR PRACTICE OKAY ILL SEE YOU IN A BIT! <3

(gumi <3): do you think if i pretend to pass out coach will excuse me

(you): NO GUMI

(you): GOOOO

(you): GO PLAY GO PLAY

(gumi <3): god

(gumi <3): fine

(gumi <3): i love you pretty baby i’ll see you

(gumi <3): and pay attention

(you): i love you too gumiiii !!! <333

(you): NO PROMISES BYE !!!

(you): SMOOOCCCHHHH

you breathed out softly through your nose and set your phone back down, one leg crossing over the other as you impatiently waited and practically glared at the powerpoint slides in front of you, your ankle bouncing and mind drifting off again— double checking over the list of things you and megumi needed for your date instead repeatedly in case you forgot something.

since your anniversary couldn’t be an all day thing, the two of you planned a cute little car picnic date at a star gazing hotspot out in the hills of the city, a place megumi had actually been to before in his childhood with gojo and his sister, and one he said he remembered to be nice and quiet with a good view of the stars, similar to how they looked like when you all went on that trip in the mountains a few months ago with his dad, yuji, and your best friend— the fact only making you overly ecstatic, since megumi suggesting something like that without a little gruff and huff was always a special rare sight to see.

and the only things megumi literally allowed you to bring were the fuzzy blankets and pillows and such, him forbidding you from buying absolutely anything else like snacks, drinks, and the food, saying that he had it and it was okay— simply only chuckling and lightly flicking your forehead when you grumbled and fought with him over it in the hopes that he would let you take care of at least half of the things.

he did not.

“alright i think i’ll stop here for today and let you guys go a little earl—”

you shot up from your desk and shoved your books in your bag, not even letting your professor finish before you were already up and speed walking out of the lecture hall and down your building, thanking the gods above for the thousandth time that megumi’s stadium was only a fifteen minute drive from your campus, and therefore made it so much easier for you to drive on over without difficulties and pretty much whenever the fuck wanted… which was all of the time.

just as you plopped in the drivers seat and chucked your bag to the passengers side, an apparent buzzing vibrated through the right back pocket of your skirt as you reached in to pull it out, your best friend’s name flashing at the top.

“hellooo!” you answered, swinging the door shut and turning on the ignition, the heater unit blasting through the vents and warming up the spiking chilly temperature in your car.

“hi babe!” your best friend greeted. “how far away are you?”

“i just got out of class! i should be there in about ten if i go over the speed limiiit.” you grinned, putting your phone on speaker and setting it down on your lap, backing out of your parking space.

“SHE SAID TEN MINUTES GOING OVER THE SPEED LIMIT MEGU— what?! i can’t— i can’t hear you idiot you’re across the fucking field!—”

you laughed loudly as you drove out of your campus parking lot, zooming down the street and going the usual route to his stadium.

“oh my— megumi ordered and yelled at me to call you to see how far you were babe.” she sighed. “when is this man ever gonna treat me fairly this is ridiculous— WHAT?! TELL HER WHAT?!—”

“i’m about eight minutes away now!” you laughed. “tell him that please i’m almost there—”

“WAIT SHE SAID SHE’S EIGHT MINUTES AWA— oh my god okay megumi says not to go over the speed limit and to park next to him in the players parking lot.”

“tell him i said watching him play baseball is more important than the law i don’t give a—”

“SHE SAID WATCHING YOU PLAY BASEBALL IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE LAW— oh he’s coming. save yourself and hang up y/n he’s coming— YUJI GET HIM HE’S GONNA TAKE MY PHONE— ARGH STOP!—”

“—go over the speed limit and see what happens.”

a different deeper voice muttered over the line, partially out of breath and one you instantly recognized to be megumi’s as you giggled.

“gumi the speed limit is a social construct and if i don’t get to watch you play for the last thirty minutes of practice i’m gonna gauge my eyeballs out.”

“baseball’s also a social construct.” he deadpanned. “and you watch me play all of the time baby don’t speed you drive like a fucking street racer sometimes.”

“but isn’t it cool and sexy that i do? eehh?” you quipped in a silly way. “and i don’t care how many times i’ve seen you play gumi… i still need to be admitted into a mental facility each time it’s embarrassing.”

he chuckled softly.

“you almost here?”

“yeah! i’m just pulling into the stadium i’m going over to your structure right now.”

“okay.” he spoke. “park next to me please.”

“—megumi i told her that already—”

“can you not eavesdrop—”

“—if it has to do with y/n fuck no—”

“—okay!” you sputtered while shifting your gear to park and turning off the ignition, cutting their bickering off. “i’m here gumi i’m gonna walk to the stadium now.”

“alright i’ll see you baby.”

“i’ll see you!—”

“your phone time’s revoked asswipe give me my device right now—”

“—can you mind your fucking business for two seconds—”

“NO!—”

you winced and hung up the phone, shaking your head amusedly as you grabbed your keys and stepped out of the car before locking it, walking your way over across the parking structure and to the entrance of the stadium, maneuvering through various hallways and corners like muscle memory and politely saying hello to some of the team’s staff that you recognized as you walked.

you passed through the main hall— megumi’s giant glorious handsome portrait still displayed proudly against the wall amongst his other teammates, prestigious awards and trophies in glass frames and casings littering the room from practically top to bottom as you happily moved through the hall, passing by the same bench that you first unknowingly and officially met megumi in while you were embarrassingly crying your eyes out over him— a treasured memory that you swoon over every now and then at the way he kindly gave you his sunglasses to hide your big fat tears.

you hoped that megumi’s management never replaced that freaking bench, as you wanted to put a plaque on it in commemoration of you and your emo man, knowing that if they ever did you’d be at those stadium doors first thing in the morning to grab and take it home with you to keep.

upon opening the doors to the stadium, you continued on down the steps as you looked on ahead and squinted your eyes, distant hollers and the clanking of bats echoing through the otherwise peaceful atmosphere, several players out on the field practicing and pitching but none being megumi as you reached the bottom and went inside the bullpen, expecting to see your best friend sitting there and possibly still fighting with your boyfriend, but faltering instead.

because megumi was sat there on the bench by himself with his baseball cap on… waiting for you, a bouquet of pretty pink tulips in his arms as he looked straight over the field with an emotionless gaze, his head snapping to you once he heard you coming in and standing up, his face gradually warming.

pink tulips were your favorite.

“gumi…” you spoke softly, astonished and mushy inside as you grabbed the bouquet from him, it neatly tucked in brown paper wrap and pretty pink tule with a little matching bow around the stems to tie it off, the paper crinkling in your arms.

“hi.”

“oh my— these are gorgeous baby thank you!” you gushed, your cheeks hot and you absolutely beaming as you swung your unoccupied arm around his neck and brought him in, pecking his slightly sweaty cheek repeatedly as he huffed out a breathy laugh and pulled you to him.

“you’re welcome.” he murmured, cheek lightly resting against the side of your head as you smiled.

“you really didn’t have to gumi you bought basically everything for today…” you spoke softly, bringing your head back a bit to look at him.

he shrugged.

“so.”

you scoffed. “so? you don’t let me do anything and i feel oppressed.”

he snorted, playfully rolling his eyes and kissing your forehead.

dramatic.

“it’s fine baby.”

“okay but it’s not.” you grumbled lowly, and the corners of his lips quirked up, taking a tiny step back as he released you and lifted a hand, gently pinching your cheek.

“you look really pretty.”

your pout slid into a cheeky smile, a cute blush rising to your cheeks.

“thank you gumi!” you readjusted the bouquet in your arms and shyly looked away, his direct dark blue eyes on you still nerve wracking even after two years.

“h— how come you’re not on the field?”

“oh.” megumi’s gaze shifted to his playing teammates. “i wanted to give you the tulips before going back out.”

your eyes softened, chest clenching as you stood up on your tippy toes and gave him a little kiss.

“you’re so nice…” you murmured.

“i—”

“fushiguro i need you back on the field!”

megumi huffed and rolled his eyes at his coach interrupting his time with you, hands reluctantly dropping from your waist as he took a step back.

“m’sorry baby...” he sighed tiredly, lifting his cap up from his spiky hair and adjusting it back on. “practice is almost over i promise.”

you frantically shook your head. “no gumi it’s okay don’t apologize! go please though i don’t want you to get in trouble.”

he nodded, quickly pecking your cheek before stepping out of the bullpen and back out on the field, turning his body slightly just as he reached the home plate and raising a hand to you as a little goodbye, shifting his attention to his coach and the rest of his teammates once he saw you give him one back.

you walked over to the benches then and sat, your eyes happily watching the mock game unfold as you settled your pretty bouquet carefully over your lap.

“please tell me you guys are done it’s fucking cold up here in the stands—”

your head shot to the side and you instantly smiled, your best friend popping her head in from the bullpen entrance and shivering.

“heyyy! oh my god yes come come—” you scooched over and patted the spot next to you, her trodding over and plopping down.

“let me seeeee!” she squealed and nudged your shoulder with hers, gesturing to your tulips as you lit up and turned the bouquet in her direction, her jaw dropping.

“i hate him but he’s good.” she muttered, shaking her head as you laughed and lightly hit her arm.

megumi ran through a few bases, passing by the bullpen and stopping at a base closest to it with remnants of brown dirt puffing and swirling through the air, him looking over his shoulder at you briefly before turning back to the game.

“he does so much for me that i feel like a big fat loser that does mediocre for him.” you spoke worriedly, and your girl friend looked at you bewilderedly.

“are you kidding? y/n you being with him is enough jesus that man is an ogre—”

you flicked her forehead and she cackled, pushing your hand away.

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry i’m joking… kind of…whatever— babe you literally do so much let him dote on you like this… that man loves you.”

you pursed your lips to suppress a giddy smile.

“plus after the pain and torture we both went through with your high school boyfriend christ—”

“oh my god don’t remind me.” you mumbled, shifting your attention back to the field. “he sucked so bad.”

she laughed. “and it took you forever to realize that he was a loser y/n… you gave him too much and he gave you absolutely nothing.”

you solemnly nodded, the feeling of miserable regret filling your body.

“granted i think megumi’s also a loser.” she continued, and you playfully glared. “but! he’s a different kind of loser. he’s good for you babe… and you’re super good for him.”

you grinned brightly at her, set your bouquet to the side, and threw your arms around her shoulders, bringing her in a tight hug as she laughed loudly and held you back with just as much love.

“have fun on your anniversary date tonight!” your girl friend exclaimed. “you guys are still going to that stargazing spot right?”

“mhm!” you nodded. “we’re going up in his car and setting up the backseat once we get there.”

“are you guys getting freaky too back there?—”

your head snapped ahead to find yuji leaning against the gate of the bullpen on the other side, your eyes wide and mortified as he wiggled his eyebrows suggestingly.

“h—huh?—”

“eehhh?” your best friend matched her boyfriends expression, her eyes twinkling and mischievous. “valid question yu! what are you wearing under your outfit let me see—”

you yelped as your best friend pulled and tugged at the collar of your chunky knitted sweater, basically shoving her head through to see what you had on and you pushing on her shoulders to try and get her away.

“stop you sicko!—”

“y/n why the fuck don’t you have a lingerie set under here—”

“oh my god shut your mouth right now—”

megumi curiously turned his head over to the commotion by the bullpen, jaw dropping and eyes growing big in absolute dumb struck horror as he watched your best friend basically trying to strip your sweater off of you, and yuji just standing there and watching like a fucking pervert—

“itadori!” he barked, and yuji jumped a whopping fifteen feet in the air, swiveling around to face him.

“oh hey man!— WHAT THE FU—”

megumi hurled a literal baseball at him and yuji dove out of the way, the ball hitting against the gate of the bullpen as you and your best friend jumped at the slamming noise.

“the fuck are you guys doing?!” megumi yelled, arms out in emphasis as he quickly strode over with pinched brows.

he looked to you as soon as he properly reached the bullpen, the collar of your sweater stretched out over an exposed shoulder with your black bra literally peeking out, your pretty eyes wide and downright alarmed as your best friend still had an iron tugging grip on your sweater.

megumi’s gaze hardened, switching to your girl friend.

“get off.”

he looked to yuji, his legs wobbling in fear as he used the gaps of the bullpen gate to lift himself up from the dirt.

“close your fucking eyes—”

“yes sir fushiguro sir!—”

“what?!” your best friend exclaimed. “megumi if you guys are gonna fuck in the backseat she needs to be looking scrumptious—”

his face paled and his cheeks turned a vibrant pink simultaneously.

“why are you guys always like this?” he muttered exasperatedly, stepping inside the bullpen now and pushing her off of you, your girl friend scoffing as megumi pulled your collar back over your shoulder and fixed your sweater for you, your lips clamped shut as you tried your best to refrain yourself from laughing.

“oh my bad. thought the perv in you would thank my services—”

“why the hell would i thank you for stripping my girlfriend in front of the entire fucking team—”

“—y/n i literally think i have a lingerie set in my car i’ll give it to you it’s new i just bought it to show yuji—”

you gasped.

“wait really?! what color? i wanted to wear one but i didn’t want to show up to class with it—”

megumi’s eyes bulged and shot to you, mouth opening and closing like an idiot.

“i think it’s red but i’m pretty sure your tits are bigger than mine lemme see—”

your best friend yanked your collar again and you screamed as megumi grabbed you and pulled you up against his chest, shielding you away from your lunatic girl friend as she cackled and pointed at megumi.

“megumi’s getting a boonneeerrrr!—”

his eyes frantically switched between her and yuji— his hands still tightly clasped over his eyes.

“what kind of sick fucks are you both?!”

you giggled uncontrollably over his appalled menacing face, your laughter muffling up against his uniform.

“us?!” your best friend yelled. “don’t get me started on you! i saw that text you sent y/n last week asking to send a video of her fi—”

“oh god babe don’t finish that sentence also can i open my eyes now you guys—”

“itadori! fushiguro! huddle up!”

yuji timidly seperated his fingers and looked at the group, hands dropping and a wide smile spreading once he realized you weren’t half naked anymore.

“off we go fushiguro!” he quipped, turning and the dirt crackling beneath his cleats as he walked. “boss man wants us—”

“i heard him.” megumi grumbled, arms loosening from their hold around you as they slid and fell at his sides, his face just plain out annoyed and over it, and you smiled sweetly at him.

“it’s okay!” you poked his cheek. “i’ll wait for you here while you guys finish up? or do you want me to go inside the locker rooms already?”

“go to the locker rooms baby.” he mumbled. “it’s cold.”

you nodded, and he placed a hand on your head with the tiniest smile, heading out of the bullpen after and jogging up to the rest of his teammates for regrouping and final announcements.

your best friend swung a heavy arm around your shoulders and you both made your way to the exit just as you grabbed your bouquet again, walking up the steps of the stands and down a few corridors and pathways until you reached the echoey hallway, the teams locker room coming into view as you pushed the heavy door open and went in.

“do you still want my lingerie set?” your girl friend asked, fixing her hair in front of one of the big mirrors. “we could still try and see if it fits but your boobs are huge compared to mine—”

you laughed and waved her off. “it’s okay babe! thank you though… i don’t think we’re gonna do anything like that out in the open and in the middle of nowhere…”

she shrugged, sending you a little smirk through the mirror. “megumi’s a weirdo. so i think you in fact will.”

you shot her a funny glare and walked to your boyfriends locker while placing your pretty bouquet down on the bench— turning the little knob around and hitting the numbers that made up his locker combination, the metal clinking open and you opening it to organize his clothes and equipment like you usually did.

you dragged his heavy duffel bag out and unzipped it, rummaging around a little to find the clothes that he had packed for your date today— spotting his thick black crewneck and gray cargo pants as you took them out and folded them neatly on the bench in front of you, setting the rest of the things he needed to the side and perking up once you heard distant chattering and banter, several players starting to pile in as you shot a few polite smiles, stepping over the bench and plopping down to wait for megumi.

“i said no.”

“pleeeaaasee!” yuji begged, the two of them emerging from the entryway as you lit up at the sight of your grumpy man, his agitated eyes to the floor as he trudged over. “i thought we were best friends fushiguro. brothers if you will—”

“no.”

“pleaaaseee!—”

“what does he want?” you laughed softly, megumi’s eyes coming up and moving to his tidily folded clothes that you had set for him on the bench, his gaze softening.

“nothing bab—”

“wrestle!” yuji wailed, dramatically leaning his entire weight on your best friend in a hug as she dumbfoundedly reciprocated, patting his back. “i wanted to see who’s strongest…”

“babe go change you’re sweaty—”

“not until fushiguro wrestles with me—”

“no.”

“whyyy?!”

you giggled loudly, hand over your mouth as megumi sent you a small close lipped smile and stepped over the bench to his locker, taking off his baseball cap and hanging it inside.

“because it’s stupid.” he mumbled, and yuji scoffed.

“wrestling is the ultimate sport for strategy, discipline and character how could any of that be stupid—”

“yu change i wanna go homeee!” your best friend whined, trying to pry him off of her. “i’ll wrestle with you.”

yuji sprung up and grinned. “will you actually?! i won’t go easy babe i can’t play favorites—”

“yes now move—”

“if i win can you suck my di—”

megumi flung his deodorant at yuji’s head and rolled his eyes as he cried out and pouted, the little container clattering against the ground.

“gumi!” you gasped. “be nice please.”

he sighed softly through his nose, unbuttoning his jersey as he begrudgingly and briefly looked over his shoulder.

“sorry.”

“oh wait what was that?” you girl friend spoke up. “i think you need to speak up a little megumi! can’t hear you.”

“i said sorry.” he spat, and she smiled, satisfied.

“you’re forgiven! thanks!”

megumi grumbled as he shook his jersey off and long sleeve underneath with it, his little chain with his promise ring dangling out around his collar, and you shamelessly and obviously drooling over his bare toned frame then as he sorted through his clothes and got his things ready for the shower— the locker room emptying out now and only one or two players remaining besides the lot of you.

you extended a hand out, wanting megumi to give you his jersey and long sleeve as he shifted his attention to you.

“what baby.”

“i’ll put it in the laundry bin for you!” you spoke sweetly. “so you can go shower.”

his heart squeezed as he shook his head. “s’okay. just wait for me.”

“gumi the laundry room’s just down the hall.” you laughed, taking his uniform from him. “i’ll be quick.”

he pursed his lips, feeling like you’ve already done more than enough for him and him just dicking around and playing ball for hours this entire time, wanting to get your date started so he could spend time with you and give you the things he wanted to give you, and not be around idiot insane people anymore (yuji and your best friend).

“sit down please.” he mumbled.

your jaw dropped.

“i’m being oppressed again—”

“we’ll see you guys tomorrow!” your girl friend smiled, coming over and giving you a hug as yuji went to put a hand on megumi’s shoulder. “have fun on your date! and happy anniversaryyy!”

“thank youuuu!” you responded kindly, hugging her back and swaying funnily, letting her go after and looking to her boyfriend. “drive safe yuji okay?”

“will do!” he smiled brightly, wrapping a friendly arm around your shoulders and pulling you in. “have fun you guys. and don’t get mauled by bears.”

you snorted, the both of you pulling back and waving at each other with final goodbyes before they turned and began walking to the exit, now the only ones left in the locker rooms being you and megumi.

“text me if you have sex in the back y/n!”

“oh my god!—” you miserably dropped your head in your hands as your girl friends vulgar sentence literally echoed throughout the hallway outside, anyone within a one inch radius able to hear it as megumi laughed quietly, the doors to the locker room officially closing.

“your best friend is clinically insane.”

you giggled, nudging him away playfully and him catching your wrist just as you did so, tugging you in and wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

“no she’s not.” you smiled cutely, your little cheek pressed up against the warm skin of his chest as he looked at you. “she’s honest. and lovely.”

“and deluded.”

“gumi!”

“sorry.”

he craned his neck down and kissed you, every tense muscle in his body giving away and slowly oozing into a state of peace as your soft lips moved with his, megumi finally having you to himself for the night so he could properly get your anniversary going.

he pulled away and patted your head.

“m’gonna shower really quick baby.”

“okay!” you smiled. “can i sit by the shower with you? heh.”

he chuckled and nodded, interlocking his fingers with yours and pulling you towards the shower room— a spacious and modern area with individual stalls and little plushy sofas across from them, megumi leading you to one as you sat down and took his fresh pair of clothes from him to set on your lap.

“remember when i fucked you in here.”

“gumi!” you gasped as your face grew red. “okay but which time because my favorite time was two weeks ago when you bent me over th—”

he laughed, the boyish sound bouncing off the tile walls as he shook his head with a little faint blush to his cheeks, fingers coming down to unbutton his pants and your hands flying to cover over your eyes, him pausing and looking at you quizzically.

“what.”

“i’m giving you privacy gumi. something you wouldn’t know about in regards to me.”

he scoffed.

“kay fine. i’ll stop asking—”

“no!” you yelled, hands clasping together like a prayer. “don’t finish that sentence i don’t wanna know i don’t need to know whatever it is continue doing it—”

megumi rolled his eyes with a smile, taking off the rest of his clothes and you squeaking as you covered your line of sight again, the sound of the shower running with the door closing an indicator to you that the coast was clear for you to look, hands coming down as they settled over megumi’s clean clothes.

and he literally took less than five minutes to shower… or maybe it was because your little endless chattering made the time go by faster or the fact that you always took close to an hour, but he was out of there with a towel around his delicious waist before you could even realize and on the way out to change into his outfit.

megumi straight from the shower was always an interesting sight to see, for the usual spikes in his jet black hair were nonexistent for the time being as his hair just laid flat, and he almost looked like an entirely different man as you stood on the other side of the bench behind him while he sat tying his shoe laces, you drying his hair with a small white hand towel.

“i’m really excited for tonight gumi!” you cheesed. “oh! and i brought my laptop too incase you wanted to watch a movieeee.”

he straightened up from his hunched over position and stood, turning around to kiss your head in gratitude before taking the towel from you and drying off the last bit of his hair.

“sounds good baby.” he grabbed his duffel bag and swung it over his shoulder, keys hooked from one of his belt loops on his pants as he offered his hand out to you on the way out of the locker room, you happily taking it and interlacing your fingers in the hallway, the both of you walking on to leave the stadium with your bouquet in your arm, making a quick pit stop at the laundry room first to toss his uniform and towels in one of the various hampers, leaving and going through the main hall hand in hand after with the building basically vacant now— not a single player, staff, or management member around as you moved your way down corridors to the exit, entering the parking garage.

megumi grabbed his keys and clicked a button upon reaching the players parking lot area, his shiny black car beeping and flickering its lights and him opening the door to the backseat to throw his stuff in, you catching a glimpse of the piles of grocery bags filled with chips, snacks, pastries and such as you smiled, unlocking your own vehicle and opening your trunk as megumi did his.

he swiftly stepped in and grabbed your blankets and a few pillows, transferring them over to his car and you setting your bouquet down in the back, throwing in a few other things.

“oh gumi!”

“hm?”

you opened your drivers side door and reached in, megumi peering around from his open trunk to look at you.

“i got us a little lunchbox cake!” you pulled out a small white cake carrier and showed him. “and a number two candle too so we can light it!”

“oh nice baby.” he calmly smiled, reaching into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulling out his wallet.

you blinked.

“what are you doing?”

he gave you a confused look, opening the folds and taking out a few twenty dollar bills.

“for the cake.”

“what?!” you frantically shook your head. “no i got this for us—”

he scoffed, extending his arm out to you regardless with a pile of bills in hand that was way over the initial cost of the little cake, your jaw running slack.

“oh absolutely not sir i’m not taking that—”

“take it.”

“nope!”

“y/n.”

“nuh uh.”

megumi sighed and retracted his hand. “i’m putting it in your purse—”

“if you put it in my purse i swear to god i’m never letting you see me naked ever again—”

he froze and narrowed his eyes at you, you standing there with a shit eating grin as you tilted your head.

“just get in the car.” he grumbled, slamming his trunk shut and doing the same with yours, you cheering in your head and lighting up over your win as you opened his passenger side door and got in, completely unaware of megumi choosing to take his chances and shove the bills in your purse anyways.

the car ride there was a whopping one hour, seeing as the stargazing hotspot was in the middle of the bustling city where megumi’s apartment was around, your boyfriend making frequent stops at various food places to pick up the food he had ordered for the picnic, and you still fighting with him over the fact that he should let you pay at least half, him just laughing at your huffs and puffs until he simmered you down to a mere grumble with a kiss to your cheek.

“i don’t care how many times i’ve done it there isn’t a limit.”

megumi backed in reverse once he found a good spot for you both on the hill, looking behind through his rear view window with a hand on the back of your headrest.

“but you have to let me pay sometimes gumi.” you sighed softly. “i feel like im freeloading off of your millions and doing fucking nothing.”

he gave you a bewildered look.

“first of all.” he shifted his gear into park. “you do everything so don’t give me that. second of all—”

he unlocked the car and you both got out, the trunk latching open on its own as you walked over.

“you’re not supposed to pay baby.” he stared at you sincerely, a little crease in between his brows. “ever. i don’t care.”

he unhooked the backseats and pushed them down, the trunk now extending even wider and leaving plenty of space for the two of you to set up your picnic, your shoes off and down below next to the car.

“i just—” you struggled, shaking out the blankets and splaying them out. “i worry that it’ll bother you eventually…”

“it won’t.” he responded firmly, yet still gentle. “did your ex-boyfriend make you feel bad about it? is that why?”

you froze.

“no…”

he looked over his shoulder just as he set a pillow down, dark blue eyes staring you down.

“wow i’m so hungry right now gumi are you—”

“i heard what your best friend said during practice about him.” he set a few more pillows down. “she talks like a linebacker.”

you laughed, grabbing the box of fairy lights you had brought and pulling them out, untangling them by sections.

megumi never really asked too in detail about your ex, just because he knew he’d get bitter and bothered by the thought of it, and the only things he really knew was that he was a moron who said you were a blabbermouth and didn’t treat you right at all, your three and a half year relationship with him in high school one megumi wished he could erase entirely.

but now with the way you squirmed and stared off into space in avoidance over this particular topic… he was curious.

just how bad was he?

“did he pay for your dates or did you.”

you fiddled with a little fairy light bulb.

“well— he did… but then we started splitting it… and then i started paying…”

megumi shook his head, reaching for the grocery bags and taking out the snacks he’d bought.

“why.”

you finished untangling the cord and reached up, looping the lights around through the grab handles of the car.

“i don’t really know…” you mumbled. “but i felt bad because he always did initially pay… so i was just giving back. but then—”

you looped it through the last handle and grabbed the battery box.

“i remember one time he asked me if we could split the bill on our anniversary dinner.”

megumi stopped.

“and then every time he did pay for me he would say side joking comments like— ‘are you gonna pay this time? are you gonna take care of the bill? since i bought you dinner are you gonna buy me this?’ blah blah—”

megumi was looking directly at you at this point, eyebrows furrowed and with slightly parted lips as he slowly set up the food and listened.

“and i don’t mess around when it comes to things like money.” you finished off screwing the battery box after putting a fresh pair in, switching the small lever and the fairly lights twinkling to life. “i appreciated so much every time he did pay so i just felt like i was— i don’t know i just felt guilty. his side comments made me feel a little awkward…”

you scooched over and sat back on your ankles next to megumi, helping him with the groceries.

“i remember one time too for valentine’s day, we had gone out to eat dinner and he paid with his usual side comment… but when we got back to his place i had given him his gift and he hadn’t gotten anything for me at all.”

“huh?” he spoke up. “did he give you flowers at least?”

you shook your head, a little sad look on your face.

“he told me my gift was dinner… which again i did really appreciate that he paid. and he never really got me flowers either unless it was for special occasions like anniversaries… so once a year?”

megumi was in complete and utter disbelief.

how in the ever living fuck were you ever with a guy like that for so long? a girl like you whom he literally worshipped the shit out of the ground you walked on, the thought of you being so incredibly sweet and doting and selfless for some dumb fuck who just took advantage of your kindness again aggravating megumi, him chucking the pastries he bought out of the bags one by one bitterly and you blinking at him.

“what a fucking idiot.”

you giggled, nodding in agreement as you both finished setting up, you crawling and sitting down by the mountain of fluffy pillows as you extended an arm out for him.

“that’s why i just get nervous gumi…” you spoke softly, pulling him to lay down next to you as you looked at the beading stars through his open sun roof, the view and landscape of the sparkling city below insane as megumi slid an am around your shoulders, nudging you to lay on his chest. “i don’t wanna end up bothering you or upsetting you about it and repeating the cycle so—”

“oh god baby no…” he looked at you, squeezing your shoulder. “you realize all of that was because he’s a loser right.”

“yeah to an extent—”

“no not to an extent.” megumi cut you off. “i know for a fact he never did anything for you… and for him to do shit like that on top of it is crazy.”

you slid a slow arm across his torso and held him tighter.

“i do what i do because i love you… and because you deserve it. and because i’m supposed to.”

you smiled big, your heart hammering in your chest as you slung your leg across his lap and straddled him then, megumi’s hands instantly coming to settle on your waist as you gave him a cute wicked look.

“i’m tired of talking about him, but you know what else you’re supposed to do?”

the side of his lip curled.

“what pretty baby.”

“make out with me.”

he laughed, a shiny smile on his face as he reached a hand up and brushed your hair over your shoulder, cupping your face after and bringing you down to his level.

“if you tell me you love me.”

you giggled.

“i love you gumi.”

megumi brought you in then and kissed you, light little smacks and wet lips parting and moving as your noses brushed against each other’s delicately, his thumb running gently over your cheek as you readjusted and leaned in, deepening the kiss and megumi parting his lips wider as a result to drink more of you down.

your hips subconsciously rutted downward, him taking a sharp breath in through his nose as he responded and lifted his crotch up, meeting with yours and grinding sensually with every steamy exchange of your soft plush lips on his, both of his hands quickly going down to grab your smooth thighs and knead them.

megumi suddenly slid a fast hand up your chunky sweater to cup your tit, you squeaking and trying to pull your lips off of his so you could speak, but him only chasing after your mouth and trapping you in.

“wait what if— mmph!—”

“hm?”

he forced your hips down again and you both moaned at the stimulation.

“what if someone walks by there’s a— fuck— there’s a few cars not too far—”

“don’t care.”

“gumi!—”

he yanked your bra cup down and your tit spilled out, his head diving in under your sweater and popping your nipple in his mouth, both of your hips still grinding and rocking against each others as you dazedly tried to look around for any passing people.

you tried to pull off and megumi yanked your other bra cup down, jerking you roughly to him as your weight gave out underneath you and you basically fell on him, his face fully submerged and stuffed in your puffy tits that he nearly lost it and came in his pants.

lewd slobbering sounds filled the car as he sucked and laid his tongue flat all over your boobs, your shuttering gasps and whines making his dick rock fucking solid in his pants as he continued to make out with your chest, relishing in the feeling of your panties running up and down his crotch and your pretty little skirt exposing your ass.

“baby i’m flashing the city please—”

“m’gonna stick my dick in.”

“no!” you whined, your clit pulsing with every rut from his hips. “when we get home when we get home please it’ll be so obvious we’re having sex if we do—”

he bit the fat of your tit and you yelped.

“it’s our anniversary.”

“i— i know gumi but there’s people!—”

he groaned and let your tits go with a pop, head falling back on the pillows as he looked at you with a dead look— knowing you were completely and absolutely right but refusing to believe it because he was fucking horny, the only conscious brain cell that he had left telling him to just wait and that he’d actually cum in his pants if he kept going.

a tiny smirk spread across his face.

“thought you texted me that i could take you to pound town in the backseat of my car.”

you blushed, totally forgetting you did that.

“y—yes but—”

“and that you were gonna send me a picture of your tits.”

“i—”

“you lying to me baby?”

“no!” you sputtered. “no gumi we’re still gonna have sex just not here!”

he laughed loudly and nodded, pinching your cheek as he fixed your bra and pulled your sweater down, sitting up a bit.

“i’m kidding s’okay.” he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “m’taking pictures of you when we get to my apartment though.”

“huh?!” you exclaimed, your face buzzing with embarrassment but need at the same time. “what— what kind—”

he poked your side.

“naked.”

your jaw dropped.

“legs spread with—”

“okay i get it i get it!—”

you slapped your hands over his mouth and muffled the rest of his sentence, desperate to get him to stop.

“i have your gift i have your gift open your gift!—”

megumi rolled his eyes and licked his slimy tongue on your palms, you snatching your hands away and giggling as you wiped them on his sweater.

“i told you not to get me anything.”

“too bad!” you grinned, pecking his cheek before swinging yourself off of his lap and reaching into the passengers seat. “close your eyes!”

he sighed softly, a small smile on his face as he complied, hearing slight tissue paper rustlings and things moving before he felt you next to him again.

“okay open!”

his long lashes lifted, eyes growing soft at the ginormous basket you made him— his favorite candies and chips neatly propped up inside with a little baseball teddy bear that had ‘cool baseball man’ embroidered across its jersey, a framed silly picture of the two of you from one of the nights you slept over at his place, various volumes of his current favorite manga wrapped in black tissue paper along with a lego race car set, and a separate shoe box next to the basket— a brand new pair of baseball cleats that he had been specifically eyeing and needing to buy, and knowing that it was ridiculously expensive too as his bulging eyes shot up to your giddy ones.

“baby—” his words got caught in his throat, shaking his head. “baby thank you but you didn’t have to get anything seriously—”

“the fuck.” you snorted. “yes i did! do you likeeee?”

you pushed the shoe box towards him.

“did i get the right ones? these are the cleats you’ve been wanting right?”

he nodded dumbly. “y—yeah but they’re expensive i don’t want you spending this much.”

“gumi money is a social construct.” you smiled. “but my love for you isn’t… it’s bible! happy anniversary!”

megumi looked down and slowly took the little grizzly bear out of the basket, everything you gave him absolutely perfect and filled with the things he loved, but the custom bear with the nickname you always called him— the same one he adored ever since you first said it, somehow pulling at his heart strings more than anything else.

“i love you.” he mumbled. “thank you.”

you beamed, leaning over and pecking his lips.

“because you do everything for me gumi.” you spoke. “i can’t thank you enough for the things you do for me… and i love you.”

a cute pink blush rose to his cheeks as his gaze stayed locked on the bear, feeling his throat closing up from how much you were affecting him at the moment.

he sent you a smile.

“can i give you mine?”

you stopped.

“what? i thought the pretty tulips were my gift?”

he snorted, giving you a look.

“no you dummy.”

he reached under one of the seats, pulling gift bag after gift bag after gift bag from somewhere as he placed them all in a line in front of you, a shocked look on your face as you looked at the amount of tissue paper and packaging that was in your line of sight.

“holy shit.” you flashed him a growing dazzling smile. “are you— for me? actually?”

he nodded.

“guummiii!!” you flung your arms around his neck and pulled him in a tight hug, rubbing your cheek on his head side to side in a silly way before you let go and sat back on your ankles again, him chuckling at your excitement.

“i don’t even—” your eyes darted around. “i don’t even know which one—”

one by one you unraveled each wrapping and tore open each bag, your lap filling up with things that you fucking loved as you tried not to cry between opening each gift— pretty intricate coquette bottled perfumes that you liked to collect everywhere as you knew they were also a pretty penny (so him complaining about his cleats was dumb), cute mary jane pumps and makeup you needed as well as new that you’d been wanting, silver and gold sparkling jewelry that resided in small boxes and wrapped in pretty pink bows, sweaters and cute tops and just fucking everything as you ended up a crying snotting mess at the end of it anyways, him laughing at you.

because each item were things that you needed, things that you knew he couldn’t have possibly known unless he was truly paying attention to the things you were saying and the things you were looking at… this moment proving that he most definitely was.

and a crazy wicked amount too— because some of the items in front of you were even things you had merely mentioned once and done with, accompanied by others that you babbled on about whenever you could.

“gumi we can have sex right now let’s have sex i don’t care—”

he laughed for the millionth time and shot his hands out, literally trying to pull you off of him as you lunged and leaned your entire weight on him, practically fighting him by the end of it as you giggled and tried to get in his pants.

“you’re harassing me.” he mumbled, and you scoffed.

“like you don’t do this to me everyday of my living life— eek!”

megumi bit your cheek and you pushed on his chest to get him away, him not budging as his nibbling travelled down to your neck as you gasped for air laughing at how much that was tickling you, and him knowing that was what usually set you off into a giggle fit, your stomach aching and him dodging your hits and swings, but both of your hearts full from a days worth of complete and utter unconditional love.

and neither of you would have it any other way as you shared the food and pastries you bought, stuffing your faces full of chocolates and mochi specifically as you both had insane sweet tooth’s and weren’t ashamed of it, chatted on about future plans and your excitement for megumi and the upcoming world series, and you elated for the holiday season too that was fast approaching, your little mind already thinking of gifts and plans and decisions because your boyfriend’s birthday was coming up as well.

and you wanted to do everything you possibly could to make it special.

for he made you feel that everyday.

especially now in this moment, the little heart shaped lunchbox cake you bought with ‘happy 2nd anniversary’ in cursive still looking fucking delicious even after you and megumi had just downed an entire pack of brownies, megumi lightning up the number two candle as you pushed it in the cake, and the both of you sweetly pecking lips as you held up the cake in between the two of you and him snapping a picture with his phone— candid and lovely and everything you’d both ever wanted in your lives rightfully yours right then and there.

happiness. love.

and your hearts were swelling with everything you had built for the past two years, and swelling in anticipation for the hopes and curiosity of what else the two of you would continue to build… something you only hoped would last forever and ever and that you got to count and spend even more anniversaries with megumi from this point forward.

with nothing less, nothing extra, and just like this.

for a million more november’s to come.

taglist!! <33 (THANK YOU THANK YOU!):

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joeloverture · 1 year ago

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hook 'em horny | j.m. x f!reader

masterlist : coach!joel masterlist pairing: college football coach!joel miller x reader summary: [no outbreak] seeking petty revenge on your cheating quarterback ex-boyfriend leads you somewhere you shouldn't be — and then it lands you over the knee of his coach. warnings: (18+ mdni, don't make me say it again.) cheating done by a referenced oc, briefest mention of drugs, porn barely garnished with plot, age gap (22/52), smut, unprotected piv sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, potentially dubcon by way of power imbalance but consent is enthusiastic, daddy kink, sir kink, 'punishment' spanking, degradation, praise, brat tamer!joel, dom!joel, joel spits on her ass but otherwise no butt stuff, mild choking, body writing, so many pet names of so many varieties, aftercare, surprisingly fluffy [no use of y/n] word count: 6.4k a/n: this is a crazy idea to have considering joel can hardly handle ellie. i don't think he'd be able to handle ~118 college-aged boys. however, the idea of football coach! joel is hot to me (i mean, seriously, look at those sluts on the sidelines) so i made it happen. on a serious note, i am so sorry to the unnamed university this is based on. i toured you. i'm legacy. but... joel miller. let's make it clear this is for entertainment purposes only. this is a fictional work about fictional people that does not reflect the school itself, which is a fine institution whose head coaches historically do not fuck students in the locker rooms. shoutout to my dad who, unknowing what this information would be used for, explained to me how he snuck into this stadium 3x. don't do that, either.

You can’t even remember the last time you made a good decision.

Your track record definitely isn’t the cleanest: you chose to go to school in Texas, and then chose to stay there for four years. Choosing to go to that frat party in late junior year wasn’t your brightest moment, either, evidenced by the resulting hangover from hell and, predictably, frat flu. All things considered, those choices pale in comparison to hooking up with their all-star quarterback, Lucas Scott.

Dirty-blonde, blue-eyed, muscled Lucas Scott. He’s the sort of guy who looks like an eight when you’re looking at him after a few shots of tequila and a four when you’re sober. The sort of guy who, after over a year of dating, makes you split the bill halfway after ordering the more expensive entree. Crowned as the most efficient, precise, and instinctive quarterback the Longhorns have ever had. Apparently that instinct hadn’t been enough to drive him away from dipping his wick in every sorority girl’s candle wax.

No matter how much post-orgasm Lucas panted into his ear that he loved you, you weren’t stupid enough to trick yourself into believing it. Staying with him was the easier choice, not yet wanting to reduce yourself to locker room talk. Walking in on him sloppily fucking some redhead nursing major was the breaking point. When it became less about you and more about your dignity.

So, yeah, you’ve never been one for making good decisions, and you certainly aren’t about to start now.

You thought breaking into the stadium would be some sort of monumental task. Trespassing here was normally reserved for campus rooftops and after-hours exploration, but once you’d gotten this batshit crazy idea in your head, you knew it wasn’t going to shake until you at least proved it couldn’t be done.

The open garage at the back of the building doesn’t help to deter you. It’s like there’s a welcome-mat outside saying, ‘Come on in and get what you deserve!’.

Who would you be to decline such a sincere invitation?

The garage is empty apart from some cushy golf carts, and the steel door behind them couldn’t be more tempting. If it’s locked, you tell yourself, you’ll go back to the dorm and forget about your incident of near-trespassing.

You take small steps to the door, testing the handle. It springs right open, and all thoughts of leaving dissipate from your mind.

Who leaves the garage open and forgets to lock the door? Probably people with just as little between their ears (and legs) as Lucas. You scoff in half-disbelief, half-luck as you close the door behind you.

The energy feels stagnant this late at night, no announcer on the loudspeaker or swarms of burnt orange hats and T-shirts standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Industrial lights flicker above, their hums loud enough to make you wonder if you have tinnitus. Concrete lines the hallways, interrupted by a few silver-painted pipes arranged in a labyrinth up against the walls. A few security cameras are pointed at you. Before going any further, you pause to raise the hood of your Longhorns sweatshirt.

Even if you should be, you aren’t in much of a rush; you amble about, really taking in the sterile ambiance of the empty stadium. You turn a few corners, going in what feels like the right direction. You figure you’re getting closer when you spot what looks like it could be a security tower. Crouching behind a trash can, you wait it out, trying to peer through the untinted windows to figure out if there’s anyone in there at all. When you’ve determined it’s unmanned and let out a shallow exhale, you go back up to full posture and keep wandering around unsupervised.

You know you’re in the right place when you find your toes hovering over a red line painted on the oil-stained concrete: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

Bingo.

Crossing that line without really thinking about it, you stick to your (so far) tried and true method of going wherever feels the most promising until you’re standing in front of the two black doors you were looking for. The door’s handle is an obnoxiously large longhorn, and you quite literally have to hook ‘em to get inside.

You’re starting to understand where the rest of the university’s funding is going when you walk into the locker room. After dating Lucas for a year, you know the football team is full of itself, but the Longhorniness of it all is… excessive. There’s the silhouette of the logo glowing on the goddamn ceiling, and if the jerseys the players are wearing on their digital nameplates isn’t enough of an indicator of who they play for, every backlit locker has a drawer with, you guessed it: a longhorn painted at the center. A brown vinyl couch wraps around the front of the room in direct view of a powered down videoboard that you can only assume replays highlight reels.

You roll your eyes. Again, your track record with decision-making isn’t the best, because you chose a school who puts every penny towards sweaty frat boys with brain damage from the amount of concussions they get.

And then you see it: a sign tacked onto the middle aisle of lockers that reads CORE VALUES. From top to bottom, HONESTY, TREAT WOMEN WITH RESPECT, NO DRUGS, NO STEALING, and NO WEAPONS. You have to physically clamp your jaw shut to restrict your laughter at the second one.

It doesn’t take you long to find what you’re looking for. Lucas Scott, #10.

His sweat-stained jersey hangs limply from the rack, and you eagerly tear it off, tossing it down onto the floor. Eager like a child ready to color outside the lines of a coloring book, you kneel down in front of it, pulling out the one thing you had prepared for tonight. A bold black Sharpie.

You pop the cap with your teeth, spitting it out somewhere on the floor as you start scribbling. Disguising your handwriting isn’t intentional, but you’re writing so carelessly and on such a foreign material that it comes naturally. Your tongue sticks out of the corner of your mouth as you work. In a year and a half, you’d never felt such satisfaction about — and certainly not from — Lucas.

TWO PUMP CHUMP along the side. FIVE INCHES FULL MAST on the other. CHEATER at the bottom. WHORE across the front.

A throat clears behind you. You drop the Sharpie, a blot of ink forming on the mesh. You startle backwards, scooting until your back hits that stupid longhorn drawer. You’re expecting a janitor, maybe a security guard if you’re extra unlucky.

That isn’t the worst of your options, apparently, because when you look up, it’s at Joel fucking Miller, head coach of the longhorn’s football team.

Your lower lip starts trembling, and that moment is when you decide maybe you need to start making good decisions. You’ve heard enough about Joel from Lucas to know he’s a total hardass. He could drag you by the ear to the dean and have you kicked out at the tail end of your second to last semester in this hellhole.

He glares down at you with his head cocked, hazel eyes far darker than they ever seem on TV. His scruff stipples his hardened jawline, lips thinned out like the worry lines pressed onto his forehead. If you were interested in digging yourself any deeper, you might stall to think about how good he looks: the faint trail of chest hair vanishing down into the neckline of his longhorns polo shirt, his fitted khakis, broad leather belt slung around his waist, and the slight bulge of tummy above it. You swallow hard and kick yourself for it.

“What exactly,” Coach Miller drawls, voice syrupy and sticky. “do ya think you’re doin’?”

Your mouth moves, but no words come out. He doesn’t seem very amused, his muscled arms crossing over his wide torso.

Joel shakes his head. “Ain’t a good look for you, hun, scrawlin’ that chicken scratch all over my QB’s jersey. Could get a real ugly charge for that.”

Heart crashing into your ribcage, you bite down on your lip. “I can pay the damages,” you blurt out.

He sizes you up all over again, eyes dragging up and down your body. They linger on your chest for a few extra seconds that you’re convinced that you just made up. “Can you, sugar? ‘Cause to me, looks like you’re the type to be chasin’ tips at whatever joint hires you.”

You don’t have the bandwidth to be as offended as you should be, especially because he’s right. You settle for glowering at him instead. A huff of laughter pinches out of him. “You give everyone you vandalize that blue look? Or is that lil’ number jus’ because you found out Lucas really ain’t that loyal?” With ease, Joel bulldozes over whatever thinning resolve you have remaining.

“What’s that sign over there say? ‘Treat women with respect’?” You say. Joel’s backlit like all of those over budgeted lockers behind him. You squint your eyes. “You know that’s fucking bullshit. So what if I give him a taste of his own medicine when he’s been a minute man for every girl with a pulse on this campus?” You cap your Sharpie and clip it back onto your collar and get to your feet. So much for good decisions. “Fuck right off with that.”

“Hey, hey. Down, hun.” Joel holds his hands out to you, and you notice just how heavily you’ve been breathing, just how close you are to him. “Never said you were wrong. Kid’s a fuck up in all sorts ‘a ways. But I don’t like how you’re mouthin’ off at me, Miss Priss. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in dire need of a spankin’ to set you right.”

Your breath cuts short and your cunt bottoms out without your permission. You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes just went glassy, your lips parted as your mouth goes desert dry. As discreetly as you can manage, you squeeze your thighs together.

Joel doesn’t miss it. You can tell from the moment his brows raise and his eyes sparkle, the corner of his mouth picking up a smidge. “Oh, yeah? That do somethin’ for ya, hun? Nasty little girl.” There’s a dangerous, uneven grit to his voice that has arousal burning like a candle in your stomach, the wax of your arousal syrupy against your thighs already.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Fuck.

“No,” you breathe out stubbornly, but you’ve already given yourself away, even to yourself. The insides of your thighs are molten, twitching with every throb of your clit between your legs. That flush of warmth from your pelvis is spreading, overheating.

Joel tuts. “You really think that? You can whine all you want ‘bout wantin’ respect, but at the end ‘a the day, you just wanna be treated like some whore, huh?” And, yeah, he has you figured out, has you in the palm of his hand. Even though you have no idea what someone like him could do to someone like you, you want him to do it. You want to find out. “I’ll tell ya what, sugar, you walk outta here right now and nobody but me’s gonna know you came pitchin’ a hissy fit in my locker room.”

You frown at that, a small arc of your pouty lips that has Joel’s eyes gleaming.

“Or,” he says. “You can pull those wet fuckin’ panties down – don’t gimme that look, I know they are – and I can give ya a real lesson in respect.” He shrugs, hands going to his waist as he looks you up and down.

He knows he has you the same way you know, but you aren’t just going to give in that easily. You flare your nose and counter, “If there’s nothing keeping me here other than a firm hand, why should I stay?”

He’s looking at you like he wants to take you apart. His fingers jump against his hips for the opportunity to break you down.

“Sweetness,” Joel shakes his head as if it’s obvious. “if you let me, I could make you feel good. I’m guessin’ you got some vibrator sittin’ in the back of your desk drawer to use when your roommate’s out ‘n about, but you don’t wanna use that tonight, do ya? You want the real thing, hun, and I’d give it to ya real nice once I teach ya to behave.”

There it is again: Coach Joel Miller has you all figured out. Every syllable he says is doomed to send another shiver up your spine, and damn it, fuck playing coy.

You’re too busy tearing off your hoodie to think about how unsexily dressed you are, but the rushed nature of your actions punches a chuckle out of Joel. “Eager thing.” You’re halfway through kicking your shoes and leggings off when he saunters over to the couch, plopping down on the edge and patting his broad, khaki-covered thigh. Your mouth waters when you look back and see just how much the fabric strains against his leg. “Whenever you’re ready, hun.”

You waddle over to him, stripped down to the basics of your sports bra and everyday panties. It’s the furthest thing from erotic, but the way he’s looking at you isn’t. It’s primal and ravenous, enough to have you forgetting all about how you’d even gotten there in the first place. He licks his lips as he trails his eyes all over you, darkening a couple of shades when he looks at your cleavage. “Lucas is a fuckin’ idiot, baby.”

“Knew that already,” you mumble.

He pats his thigh again, bounces his leg. “C’mon, over my knee like the good girl I know you can be. Hurry up and I’ll only give ya five.”

You shuffle forward, relishing in the rubbing of your thighs that comes from it. He’s sitting on the corner of the couch at the perfect angle for you to rest your head on the arm. It doesn’t take any more convincing for you to put yourself over his lap, not that he needed to do much in the first place. You feel so much smaller than him. Your ass is up for him to do whatever he’d like to; it’s a tantalizing feeling you hadn’t gotten out of any intimacy – if you could call it that — with Lucas.

“Mmmmmm,” Joel groans as he runs a hand between your legs. He rubs at your slit through the soaked gusset of your panties. You can’t stop the way your hips buck, or the pitiful shout that jumps off your lips when he pins you down by the small of your back, robbing you of any friction. Between one arousal-riddled breath and the next, Joel tugs your panties off and flings them to the side. You know how it feels, tacky and cold on your core and thighs, so you can only imagine how it must look. Joel gives you a pretty good idea when he reveres, “Goddamn, pretty cunt is throbbin’ for it.”

He pulls apart your folds and you think you hear him lick his lips above you before he lets them go. The schlick noise your dripping pussy makes is nothing less than pornographic. Joel gropes you carefully, kneads the skin of your ass like you have all the time in the world. Under his ministrations, it’s easy to melt into the couch, forgetting why you’re there in the first place until his palm cracks down on your ass cheek.

The stinging impact has a slurred hnnnngh leaving your lips, and a fresh gush of wetness between your legs to accompany it. You keep your head tucked into the sanctuary of your folded arms, eyes squeezed shut so tight you swear you’re seeing stars. Joel’s quick to rub the spanked patch of skin, his palm soothing his ache. “That’s one, baby.” You nod into your arms. “Think you can take four more?” Another nod.

“I need to hear ya, hun. C’mon, head up f’me.” He taps the side of your cheek, and you prop your cheek up on your forearm. “Think you can take four more?” he repeats.

Your voice hitches, courtesy of the beating that echoes in your chest and between your legs. “Y-yes…”

When the second hit lands, you don’t expect it. You flinch away from his hand when it comes down with a clap that leaves you squirming in his lap. “Yes, what?”

“Yes sir,” you whine out, back arching. Although a punishment, that spank has the same effect as the last: a live wire of arousal strung from your spine to your cunt.

“Takin’ it well,” he praises, squeezing your ass cheeks together. “Sure didn’t expect anyone to come crawlin’ in when I left that garage open, ‘specially not some slut like you with an ass that needs a spankin’ six ways to Sunday.” Just as quick as he can build you up, he can take you down a notch, but you can’t mind when it has you moaning all the same. “Oh, she likes that,” Joel clicks.

He rubs your ass again, and you’re bracing yourself for that next strike, pulled stiff with an arousing, anticipatory sort of fear. Only when you convince yourself it isn’t coming do you let all of that tension flood out of your body — and that’s when Joel smacks his hand across your far-too-trustworthy ass.

You cry out, pouting over your shoulder at Joel, who has a proud smirk drawn all over his face. You don’t even feel your hips rocking down, seeking whatever pleasure you can get until he reprimands, “Ruttin’ against my fuckin’ leg, now, huh? Don’t pretend you don’t like this.”

With a particularly good grind of your hips, you feel his bulge pressing into your thigh. From a mere graze alone, you can tell it’s huge. A whimper tears out of you at the same time he groans above you. “You got nothin’ to prove, ain’t gonna change the fact you’re a slut who needs to get spanked ‘n stuffed to talk ‘er into behavin’ a bit.”

“Can’t even follow your own rules,” you huff, apparently still interested in shooting yourself in the foot even when Coach Miller has you ass-up over his knee.

“Don’t see how you care…” Joel slides a hand down between your legs. He rubs at your clit, an intense pressure that has you wanting more and less all at the same time, before dragging a thick finger across your opening. Arousal squelches between your legs and your hips jump – a dead giveaway to just how turned on you are, whether you like it or not. “when it gets you this turned on,” he finishes. Then that same finger is prodding at your mouth, glistening with your wetness. You whimper before tasting yourself, sucking obediently on his finger until he pulls away with a pop.

You sulk, “Don’t act like I can’t feel you ripping a hole in your jeans, Miller–”

The fourth spank is the hardest by far. The skin of your ass feels bitten by Joel’s ‘firm hand’. It’s the kind of hit that makes your legs kick in his lap and your fingers clutch in the couch’s arm for purchase. You wail, “Daddy!” Pain disappears from your mind when you realize what exactly you just said, quickly replaced by the churning coolant of embarrassment. If you were paying attention to anything else other than the shame suddenly inhabiting your chest, you might’ve been able to feel the twitch of his cock in his pants.

“Daddy, huh?” Joel hums, rubbing your hurt ass with one hand while the other strokes your shoulder. You bury your face back in your arms as an apology takes shape in the back of your throat. “Lucas your daddy, too?”

“No!” You squeak, adjusting in his lap. The hood of your clit catches on the rough material of Joel’s pants. Unable to stop yourself, you hump his knee again, shallow rolls of your hips. You can still feel his hardness against you. Needily, you tip your head up, panting as foggy pleasure hangs over your head.

“Stop makin’ a mess of daddy’s dress pants, baby, unless you wanna be on your knees, lickin’ it up.” You keen, and he chuckles knowingly. “Shoulda known, little whore like you gets off on that.”

Joel gives you a longer reprieve between the fourth and fifth spank. Instead, he strokes your ass and asks, “One more gonna be enough to set you straight, sweetheart?”

“Y..yes daddy,” you whimper. He hums in approval.

You shift back and forth, waiting for it to come — and when it does, it’s softer. It’s by no means a love pat, but it pales in comparison to his previous work. You still sniffle, squeezing your thighs together as he coos, “I know, I know. Poor baby, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Can’t be on her high horse when she’s over Daddy’s knee.” Gentle, he pats your ass and guides you on all fours at the edge of the couch. He hums in approval. “See? Not throwin’ a hissy fit anymore. She’s all nice ‘n obedient when you get ‘er to act right.”

Joel spreads your pussy with his thumbs, and you hear the vulgar noise of him collecting his saliva before you feel his spit landing on your clenching hole. You’ve never felt so empty, not when your bottom drawer vibrator is buzzing against your core, definitely not when Lucas fucks you in the same old missionary. Whimpering for him, you arch your back to try to rub against his crotch.

“Quit your whinin’,” he snips, his thumb finding your clit in one swipe. Joel’s touch is firm, but not too firm, just enough to make your hips push down with a need only he’s ever made you feel.

Without warning, his middle finger slides inside of you, thick and calloused and so, so right. “Fuckin’... tight.” Another slides in as he starts scissoring you open, apparently satisfied enough when he crooks his fingers deep in your cunt. Instantly, he catches that spongy spot that you can never reach on your own. You nearly crumple with the sensation, limbs going weak and buckling. “That the spot?” he asks, but he already knows.

“Mhm,” you moan, chin instinctively tucking against your chest as if you can get away from the pleasure he’s giving you, as if you’d ever want to.

Then — he stops.

His fingers sit heavy inside of you, so close to where you need them to go. “What the fuck, Joel?”

"Baby, s’that how you get what you want?” He rubs your thigh with his free hand and gives it a quick swat. “Help daddy out, tight girl. I'm not just gonna let you get away with bein’ a spoiled brat. Work yourself on my fingers."

You’re putty in the palm of his hand – malleable, docile for him to treat or mistreat you however gets him hard. You whine, punching your hips back nonetheless. Grinding down, down, down, your cunt unresisting when he gives you another finger. It’s crude, the way you moan for him.

Even though he’s hardly doing anything, just the hand you’re getting yourself off on, that all-consuming strain in your body only gets stronger. “Daddy – close, please…”

“Attagirl, atta-fuckin’-girl, give it to me.” He rewards you with a press of his fingers against that golden spot inside of you. Your orgasm splinters through you, an ecstasy-charged mist fanning over your body. Your release runs down Joel’s hand and your thighs with every clench of your cunt, like you’ve been skinned and set ablaze by your own desire. You fall forward on the couch, no longer able to hold yourself up, arms a tangled mess as you gasp into the cushion. “You come so pretty, baby. Messy pussy, too. Soaked me up to my goddamn elbow.”

You’re still reeling from the best orgasm you’ve had in months, maybe ever, when you hear obscene slurping noises from behind you. You cast a look at him, your arousal returning with a vigor at the sight of Joel sucking his fingers clean. He groans at the taste, and you swear you see his cock jump in his khakis. Stomach warped with desire, you’re about to plummet off of the very dangerous edge of doing just about anything for him right now.

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you plead, and in any other position, with any other person, it might be mortifying, something worth clutching your pearls over. But this is Coach Joel Miller, the last person you ever expected to be fucking, giving you the best fuck you never expected.

“There’s those manners,” Joel praises, leaning over you to press a brief kiss to your shoulder blade. You can smell your release on his lips, a sweet smell that’s so distinctly you. He eases off of you, presumably to take off his pants. There’s the shuffling of fabric, and when he returns to your side, you’re disappointed to find he hasn’t even unbuckled his belt.

You pout at him again, still desperate to get your way. Eye-level with his bulge, you’re salivating over it. You had made a mess of his dress pants, a wet spot formed just above his knee, taunting you. You lick your lips.

“Think it’s only fair,” he says, looming over you. He’s holding the Sharpie you’d brought along with you. Your brows furrow as you look up at him through your lashes. “If I give ya the same treatment you gave his jersey.” His gaze is cocky as he pops the cap with his thumb, giving the marker a twirl.

Oh.

It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. Nothing about this should turn you on as much as it does, yet here you are, in a puddle of your own sweat and cum, itching for the next thing he gives you. And if it’s marking up your body before he fucks your brains out, so be it.

He nudges his head, gesturing for you to get down on your stomach. You lift your knees up and flatten yourself out on the cushions. The vinyl sticks and pulls from your skin as you get where he wants you. A soft, surprised noise leaves you when he straddles your thighs, his clothed cock nudging at your seam.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe out, because it’s the only phrase you can think of that even holds a candle to what all of this has become.

A laugh fans out from under his breath as he starts at your freshly spanked, raw ass. The Sharpie is cold and foreign, tugging at your skin as he inks you up. “Gotta make sure you match before I dick you down, don’t I? What is it you wrote on his jersey? ‘Whore’? Between the two ‘a ya, I woulda put my money on you for that one.”

If that wasn’t enough indication, you figure out what he’s doing by the time he gets to the right cheek, what feels like an ‘R’ taking shape across your ass. He finishes the ‘E’ and sets down the Sharpie for a moment, his meaty palms spreading your ass. It still thrums with the afterglow of his spanking. You don’t think you can throb any more than you already are, but then he spits on you for the second time that night, this time landing it on your puckered asshole. A gasp flutters from your lips as you grind down into the couch, his spit dripping down your folds.

“See? Real whorish, fuckin’ my couch.” He taps your ass for good measure. “Asshole makes a perfect fuckin’ ‘O’, baby. Looks a whole lot better than that chicken scratch shit you put on his jersey.” You think maybe, just maybe, he’ll dismount you and pull his cock out, but instead he keeps writing, scribbling on your back and upper thighs. Every pull of your skin under the bleeding ink has you aching for him.

When he’s content with his work, he lifts off of you, hands fumbling to undo his belt. It snaps apart, dangling open around his waist as his hands open up his khakis. “You let Lucas fuck that sweet lil’ cunt raw?” he asks.

“No, I don’t,” you admit, unable to tear your eyes away from his cock as he pulls it out, and fuck you. Your eyes don’t even feel big enough to take all of him in, and you have no idea how you’re going to fit him between your legs. You almost go cross-eyed at the sight of it, his head leaking precum.

“Thought so. You gonna let me fuck it raw?”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out, drool pooling in your mouth at the thought of having him inside of you, having him inside of you bare. Yet another thing you never gave to Lucas in a year of disappointing sex, but are eagerly giving up to Joel.

“Gotta be a real nasty slut,” Joel says, returning to his place atop your thighs, his thick ones framing yours. Your breath hitches when you feel the weight of his cock gliding through your ass cheeks and down to your cunt. “to let your ex-boyfriend’s coach bareback ya in the locker room.” A heady gasp tears from you when the head of his cock bumps your clit. He teases you — his cock, slippery with a combination of your arousal, skating from your clit to your spasming opening, not quite nudging in.

“Daddy, please – I need it… need you to fuck me, fuck me–”

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

When he pushes in, it knocks the air out of your lungs. The only proof that you’re still breathing is when you let out a pitchy, desperate moan. Joel grunts, teeth gritted as he flattens himself down against your spine so he can roll his hips into yours. The pain of his size becomes an afterthought just as quickly as the pain of your spanking, dwarfed by the pleasure he gives you just as easily.

“Fuuuuck,” Joel groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and shoulder. Inch at a time, he works you open, grinding his hips into your opening. “Could you be any goddamn tighter?” He bites at your neck from behind with every rock of his hips into yours until he bottoms out.

“Big,” is all you manage to squeak out as he hauls you back on his cock, already prodding your g-spot with his head. Your eyes roll back as you clench around him.

His fingers go up to run circles around your shoulder, soothing you, grounding you when his cock has you anything but. “Mmm, I know, I know. You can take it. All whores can.” With that, Joel starts fucking you, really fucking you, a punishing, relentless pace where he pulls out entirely before filling you to the brim. Each snap of his hips into yours fills the locker room with shameless sounds, the mere background to your depraved moans.

“Never had your pussy stretched by a man double your age before, huh?”

“N–no! Never… never had my pussy stretched mu…much at all–”

Joel slams into you, laughs at the strained noise that you make. “Yeah? Those dumbfucks on my team not doin’ it for ya, baby?” You don’t answer, don’t think he’s expecting one until his hand wraps around your front, forearm pressed firm against your tits. His thick hand wraps lightly around your neck, jostling you. It’s not hard enough to blur your vision, but just hard enough to remind you of the power he has over you. The power you allow him to have. It’s invigorating. Everything about him is.

Moans spurt out of you as you fumble to answer, “No da– daddy! You — ah! — do it for m–me!”

“And what do you say for that? For goin’ outta my way to show you what a real fuck is?”

“Thank you, Daddy!” you cry out. You’re spilling down his thighs, the wet suction of your pussy around his cock making noises more vulgar than you’ve ever heard in porn.

His hand squeezes again at your neck, and you feel floaty, a bubble just waiting to pop. Pleasure dances in every one of your veins, every nerve ending burning like a match that he keeps striking ablaze.

“There you go, desperate slut just needs a freshly spanked ass, a good dickin’ down, and a hand ‘round her throat to behave.” Joel’s pace stays just as harsh, crushing your g-spot with his cock. “Should keep you back here for when we lose, tie you to the goddamn desk. Let my staff take turns with you, see how much crybaby you have left in ya when a dozen men’s loads are drippin’ outta your reamed fuckin’ cunt. Bet you like it when men use you.” The whine that almost gags you on its way out is enough to confirm it.

If he keeps talking to you and the wind blows the right way on your clit, you know you’ll be coming. You’re wringing out his cock with every flutter of your pulsing pussy. The beginning embers of your orgasm turn into a wildfire when he wedges his free hand down between your legs, rubbing messy circles into your sloppy clit. “Fuck, please, please, please,” you sob out, too riddled with pleasure to care about how pathetic you sound or look as you hump his hand while he pounds you.

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby.” Joel rasps, nipping at your ear. The hand around your throat falls fully to your chest, pressing you solid against him so he can fuck deeper, deeper, deeper. It’s enough to make you scream, hands clawing and scratching down his muscular grip on you. “C’mon, hun, give it to me, come on my cock, fuck.”

With another thrust, he has you pushed right down onto his fingers, rubbing and flicking you every which way. It’s all you need to come undone, your second orgasm of the night unlatching through you like something forked and angry, battering your sore limbs until there’s nothing left of it or you. You’re a mess, spit oozing down your chin as you slur “thank you daddy” like a broken record, thighs clamping around nothing.

Joel groans as you clench around his cock and continues his relentless pace, hips slapping against yours. The hand he’d been using to rub your clit migrates to your tits, grazing and then thumbing and then tugging lightly your nipples. “There it is, told ya you could be a good girl. Lettin’ your daddy use this cunt to get off, lettin’ me use you. I’m fuckin’ close, baby, where do you want me?”

And you want it even if you shouldn’t, want his cum deep inside of you, want it to leak out into your panties as you walk back to your dorm. You’re still no good at making decisions, too fucked out to tell right from left when you beg, “I–inside, fuck, come inside me, daddy, please.”

Joel practically growls at that, thrusts losing their steadiness as his hips jump and he hurtles towards his release. “Yeah, you’re a goddamn whore, beggin’ for this cum. And you’re gonna fuckin’ take it, yeah… fuckin’ take it.” He slams all the way into you for the last time before shooting his cum into your cunt, swearing and moaning. Breathing like he’s run a mile, he goes slack on top of you, pets the back of your head while he comes down from the exhilaration of his high.

With a gentle kiss to your shoulder, he rises, and the fantasy is over. His cock slips from your pussy, and you feel hollow with the loss. This is where he tucks himself back into his pants, runs a hand back through his hair, tells you to never show your face in his stadium again, and shoves you out the door.

And he does: tucks his softening cock into his boxers, zips up his khakis, does his belt, tames his post-sex head of hair. You wince even if you expected it, leaning down over the edge of the couch to grab your hoodie, already moving to tug it over your head.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” Joel asks, and his tone sounds much more different than the first time he’d asked you. He sounds offended. You blink confusedly, dazedly at him with your arms halfway through the armholes. “Let me clean you up, hun.” Joel side-steps the pile of your leggings and shoes, adjusting the hoodie on your arms and pulling it down your torso. “I know Lucas ain’t done you right, but you deserve to be taken care of, pretty girl.” Your heart pinches in a way that it shouldn’t, not for a hookup with your ex-boyfriend’s coach.

You shift, and he can’t help but look back between your legs where his cum escapes your hole. He manages to pry his eyes away, but not without licking his lips first. “I’ll be right back, baby. Promise.”

When he’s back, it’s with a damp rag. He crouches down in front of you, taking it to the apex of your thighs and wiping away the combination of your releases, careful not to nudge your sensitive clit. He kisses your thigh gently before pulling back, folding the towel on the arm of the couch you’d been crying into just a few minutes ago.

Joel shimmies your ruined panties up your thighs, followed by your leggings. You let him, breath cut like a snipped wire from the sheer intimacy of it all, intimacy you’d lacked with Lucas even after a year of trying. You’d stayed with him for comfortability at your own expense. How stupid could you have been?

Joel pats your knee, eyes soft and weirdly sincere as he looks at you. “I’m sorry about Lucas, honey, but I meant it when I said you deserve to be taken care of.” He rubs the back of his neck before holding something out to you. A business card, his work number plastered in bold sans-serif font across the bottom. “I know this is in reverse ‘n all, but I’d really like to take you out and treat you right, if you’ll let me.”

Saying yes is your first good decision in a while.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/f! reader #joel miller x you #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic

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bangchansdirty-slut · 3 months ago

Text

My Dopamine

•───⋅⋆⁺‧₊☽⛦☾₊‧⁺⋆⋅───•

Paring: Top!Giselle x Member!Bttm! Reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: Giselle wrote "Dopamine" about you and couldn't help but express what the song is really about when you asked her.

More: Masterlist

A/n: I couldn't stop listening to Dopamine by Giselle and Roses by Jaehyun while writing this. I might be obsessed with these songs. Also, should I write fan fiction based on the other members' solo songs?

•───⋅⋆⁺‧₊☽⛦☾₊‧⁺⋆⋅───•

Giselle sat on the couch on the stage, the lights dimming around her as the music began to swell. The audience, a sea of waving lightsticks, was entranced by the opening notes of her solo performance. She took a deep breath, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves. This was the moment she had been waiting for, a chance to showcase her own voice and her own story. As she opened her mouth to let the lyrics flow, she thought about the inspiration behind the song. Her eyes searched the shadows offstage, finding the familiar figure of Y/n, who was watching her intently.

The words of "Dopamine" spilled from Giselle's lips, each syllable a declaration of the intense passion she felt for her secret lover. Her rap was sharp and precise, the bass vibrating through the stadium as she spit verses filled with desire and lust. She knew Y/n would recognize the subtle references to their clandestine encounters, the way she spoke of her body as if it were a sacred text that only the two of them could read. The chorus hit, and Giselle's gaze held steady on Y/n, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper as she sang about the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she was Giselle's dopamine fix.

Backstage, Y/n felt a rush of heat as the realization dawned on her. Her eyes widened as she watched Giselle perform, her cheeks flushing at the explicit nature of the lyrics. She knew that the other members and the staff wouldn't catch on, but for her, it was as if the song was a love letter played out for the world to see. Her heart raced, her breath shallow, as she listened to the words that painted a vivid picture of their secret moments together. The crowd roared their approval, and Y/n couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement and exposure at the same time.

After the concert, the members of Aespa made their way back to their hotel. The energy of the show still pulsed through their veins as they chattered about the performance, but Y/n remained quiet, lost in thought. When they finally reached their hotel room, she turned to Giselle, her eyes searching for any signs of embarrassment or regret. Instead, she found only a smoldering gaze that sent a bolt of desire straight to her core. Giselle's smirk grew wider as she leaned in, her voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down Y/n's spine. "You know that song was all about your delicious body, don't you?"

Before Y/n could respond, Giselle closed the distance between them and pushed her onto the bed. With surprising strength, she tugged at Y/n's skirt, revealing the matching set of lacy panties she had picked out earlier. Her eyes gleamed with hunger as she pulled the fabric aside and bent her head to kiss the soft skin of Y/n's inner thighs. "I just couldn't keep it to myself anymore," Giselle murmured, her breath hot against Y/n's skin. "You're my muse, my addiction."

Y/n's eyes rolled back in her head as Giselle's tongue darted out to trace her folds. She had always been sensitive, but with Giselle's expert touch, it felt like every nerve was on fire. Her moans grew louder, filling the room as Giselle's mouth moved closer to the spot she craved. Giselle's hands were everywhere, now they're holding her hips in place as she explored her with a hunger that was unmatched.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, Y/n felt a surge of power. Despite being the one on her back, she knew she had just as much control in this situation as Giselle did. She reached down, her fingers tangling in Giselle's hair, and pushed her face closer to her wetness. Giselle's eyes sparkled with challenge, but she didn't hesitate. Her tongue delved into Y/n's core, making her gasp and arch off the bed. The sensation was intense, a perfect blend of pleasure and pressure that had Y/n's legs shaking and her toes curling.

Giselle's ministrations grew more fervent, her tongue swirling and flicking against Y/n's clit with a precision that spoke of countless hours of practice. Y/n's moans grew louder, echoing through the hotel room like a siren's call. She felt Giselle's hand slip up her tank top, seeking out her hardened nipples. The pinching and twisting sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her pussy, and she bucked her hips against Giselle's face. The world outside of their embrace faded away, leaving only the two of them in a cocoon of lust and desire.

Y/n's breath hitched as Giselle's teeth grazed her sensitive bud, and she couldn't help but let out a loud cry. The sound seemed to spur Giselle on, her movements becoming more insistent. Y/n felt her orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that threatened to consume her. She gripped the sheets tightly, her knuckles white with the effort to hold on, her eyes squeezed shut as if to keep the intensity within. But it was too much, and she shattered, her body convulsing with the force of her release.

Giselle looked up at Y/n, a smug smile playing on her lips, as the latter lay panting and trembling beneath her. "You're mine, Y/n," she murmured, her voice thick with desire. "Every inch of you is my dopamine." She began to strip away her own clothes, revealing her toned body and the matching lingerie she had chosen for the evening. Y/n felt a mix of excitement and vulnerability as she watched Giselle's confidence grow.

They settled into a 69 position, Y/n eager to return the favor. But Giselle's own arousal was a distraction. Her scent filled the air, and Y/n's mouth watered at the thought of tasting her. She tried to focus on Giselle's pussy, but her own need was still so raw and demanding. Giselle's fingertips danced across her clit, sending waves of pleasure through her body, making it impossible to concentrate.

Giselle's moans grew louder as Y/n's mouth worked on her. Her tongue lapped and swirled, trying to mimic the moves that had brought her to the edge just moments before. But Giselle was relentless, her fingers moving faster, pressing harder, until Y/n's world narrowed to the point between her legs. Her hips began to move, grinding into Giselle's mouth, her moans becoming cries.

Y/n squirted again, the warmth of her release coating Giselle's mouth and chin. Giselle pulled back, licking her lips clean with a satisfied smile. "Baby you need to please me too," she whispered,, her voice filled with need. Y/n nodded, feeling the urgency building within her as well. They shifted, and Giselle is now straddling Y/n's face, her pussy hovering just above her mouth. Y/n opened her eyes and took in the sight of her lover, her body begging for more.

Giselle's pussy was a masterpiece, wet and swollen from desire. Y/n eagerly dove in, her tongue darting out to taste her. Giselle's hips began to rock immediately, setting a rhythm that had both of them moaning in pleasure. Giselle's hand found Y/n's hair, guiding her movements, as she worked her own clit with the other hand. Y/n's own arousal grew, her pussy throbbing in response to the sound of Giselle's pleasure.

The taste of Giselle was like nothing she had ever experienced, a heady mix of sweet and salty that made Y/n feel high. She felt Giselle's muscles tighten around her face as she brought her closer to the brink. The scent of their combined desire was intoxicating, filling the room and making it difficult to think about anything but the moment. Giselle's thighs trembled, and Y/n knew she was close.

With a final, desperate thrust of her hips, Giselle came hard, her body shaking with the force of her orgasm. She collapsed onto the bed next Y/n, panting and smiling. The tension between them was palpable, the air thick with the scent of arousal. Y/n looked up at her, eyes glazed over with lust, her mouth still slick with Giselle's juices.

Giselle came closer and kissed Y/n, the taste of their shared pleasure mingling on their tongue. Y/n's body was still humming with the aftershocks of her own climax, but she craved more. Giselle lets go and stands up, her eyes never leaving Y/n's. "Let's go shower," she suggests with a wink, her voice husky from the passionate exchange.

Y/n nods, her legs wobbly as she stands. They walk into the bathroom, the tiles cold against their bare feet, the contrast making their skin tingle with excitement. The shower is already steaming up the room, and Giselle steps in, holding out a hand to help Y/n in. The water cascades down their bodies, washing away the sweat and the evidence of their desire. They stand under the spray, kissing deeply, their bodies pressed together as the water runs over their curves.

#aespa #giselle #aespa giselle #aeri #aeri uchinaga #aespa x reader #aespa smut #bangchansdirty-slut #aespa fanfic #giselle fanfic #giselle smut #kpop gg #fanfiction #kpop #girl group smut #giselle x reader #girl group #girl group fanfic

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tyrantisterror · 7 months ago

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There was a writer at io9 who I lowkey viewed as my nemesis despite never interacting with him in any way because whenever I encountered an article with an absolutely dogshit shallow take on pop culture 9 tiems out of 10 it was written by him, and generally in mindless praise of Star Wars. I bring this up because before I quit reading the site he posted an article called "I don't get why geeks don't like sports" or something like that, and the thesis of the article was that geeks who love sci-fi and fantasy fiction should LOVE sports because they're basically the same thing - that everything one loves about sci-fi and fantasy fiction can be found in sports. To which I say:

No the fuck it can't

You, a man who is paid to write about geek shit for geeks to read about because your editors inexplicably believe you know why geeks like what they like, clearly lied on your resume

The argument went that sports have everything sci-fi and fantasy fans like, which it specified were, like, stakes, and drama, and people to root for and against, which is basically all it takes to make a sci-fi story, right? Like Jesus Christ it was so stupid, like, Jeff Bezos described how easy it is to make a great TV show stupid.

BUT! It did give me an idea. See, one of the big appeals to me about sci-fi and fantasy stories is the fantastical shit that shows up in them, like monsters, for example. Another big appeal is to see a how our current world can be reflected in the fantastical one - whether we see a better world, or one that's worse in a very dramatic way.

So, here is my suggestion for making sports just like fantasy and sci fi fiction: we add a new position to every single sport called The Minotaur. The Minotaur wears heavy body armor as well as a big, intimidating horned helm, and brandishes an axe with deadly efficiency. The Minotaur is a free agent, allowed to wander in and out of the stadium/ice rink/golf course/what have you as he pleases, but he must attempt to kill one player per game. The players are not allowed to take weapons into the game to defend themselves - only through sheer athleticism can they either evade or disarm the Minotaur, and in doing so save themselves.

If they did this, then finally they'd have everything I love in my sci-fi and fantasy movies in sports.

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theshowroom · 2 months ago

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Cisco Field by Risenofashes for MLB The Show 24

Dimensions: 300-398-352

Capacity: 40k

#Cisco field #Risenofashes #oakland california #oakland #california #fictional stadium #proposed stadium #mlb the show 24 #stadium creator

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ceesimz · 8 months ago

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Best of Both Worlds

Yes, the title is a Hannah Montana song, it fits perfectly. Also, for the sake of fiction, Leah did in fact play at Wembley, thank you!

Possibly the most long-awaited day of Leah's life; her national team return. It was one thing to play for The Arsenal again, but to represent her country whilst wearing the captain's armband at Wembley was an experience that simply couldn't be matched. And that's why it meant everything and more to her that you were in the stands with her family and her name on your back.

It wasn't the most aesthetically pleasing match ever, a 1-1 draw against Sweden, but Leah was back in her rightful place under her rightful role, and that was a win in itself. With each step on the pitch, your heart swelled with pride, knowing the mountain she'd climbed with her injury and how hard it had been mentally with each bump in the road, especially when she had to drop out of the last camp.

But here you were, seated in the same area of the stands her family had been when she had won the Euros, watching on in awe at how seamlessly she slipped back into the team. You had missed that fateful day back in 2022, having only met Leah five months after it at a New Year's Eve party, but with the affection Leah described that day with, you may as well have lived it for yourself. Now, having experienced your first game at Wembley since you hadn't gone to that game last year, you were beaming as you watched your girl command her national team around again.

Sure, you'd been to many a game of her's before, but there was something different about this one. There were obvious reasons of course, her injury and whatnot, but seeing her lead her team out to a stadium filled with the most people you'd ever seen her play in front of, a feeling settled in your chest that was unlike anything before. And when she was back in your arms at the end of the game, you would show her exactly how much you treasured her.

So, as she made her way around the stadium post-game, taking the time to applaud all the fans that had come along to watch and signing things for some, there was a smile of admiration on your face that her cousin beside you noticed. You blushed heavily at the teasing nudge she gave you with a smirk on her face.

"I suggest you wipe that cheesy, love-sick smile off your face before she comes over and bullies you for it." The woman next to you said, the pair of you laughing as you rolled your eyes, both all too familiar with her antics.

But the absence of said smile only lasted for about a minute, because then Leah was making her way over to the area of stands where you and her family was, and she had a down-turned smile on her face, the one she always did whilst trying to suppress her actual one. You were sat on the second row behind Leah's immediate family, so you stood back and waited for her to greet them all, also doing so as to not attract much fan attention. Leah made that hard though, because when her Mum pulled her into a bear hug, she indulged herself fully in it for about five seconds before her eyes flitted up to you and the corners of her mouth finally quirked up.

She jokingly pushed her Mum to the side so that she could reach out for you, and leaned up to hug you tightly. However, you pulled away after a few moments, and she made her disapproval very clear.

"What you doing that for?" She quizzed grumpily, looking utterly unimpressed up at you as some of her family members chuckled at her.

"The fans, Leah. We're at Wembley, think of all the videos." You whispered close to her ear, not quite intelligible for the others to hear.

"Who gives a toss, babe, I've hugged all my family here and you're no different." She responded, and she pulled you back in before you could complain. You wouldn't have complained anyway, because really who were you to deny your girlfriend's hug, your favourite in the world.

"Don't throw a strop later if there's about a million different angles of this." You teased, pinching her side where one of your hands rested around her.

"Doesn't matter, it's still you I get to go home with." She murmured before quickly pecking the spot under your ear and pulling back with one last squeeze. When she leaned back, she saw the light blush to your cheeks and smirked. "A year later and I've still got it."

You shoved her away lightly so that she could chat with the rest of her family before going off to do her post-match routine. Seeing her with her family, who she was so tight-knit with, was always a joy to see and you'd never get tired of seeing it. And as she jogged away back to the tunnel, her Mum turned to you and embraced you too.

"Thanks for coming, darling, it means a lot to her and to us too." She told you, rubbing a hand up and down your back. Praise and gratitude from her never got old either.

"Of course, I wouldn't have missed it for the world." You said back to her, to which she smiled and kissed your cheek.

You and the rest of the group made your way around to the family area inside the stadium to wait for her, making light conversation with them all to pass the time whilst Leah carried out media duties. It was fun and easy spending time with her family, because as a result of your girlfriend's relationship with them, you had grown almost as close with them too. Ever present at family dinners, birthdays, and events like christenings and weddings etc, now it was second nature for you to follow Leah to them. Within only a few months of being with Leah, every invite had your name on it too.

In the middle of your conversation with her cousins, talking excitedly about plans for the summer vacation later that year, you were interrupted as Leah finally appeared in her tracksuit with short wet blonde hair, a soft smile on her face. She spent a bit of time talking some more with her family, before bidding them farewell and wandering over to you.

"Home time?" You wondered, reaching a hand out to brush some of her hair back behind her shoulder.

You had, rather bravely, drove to the stadium today after Leah somehow secured you a reserved parking space, with the plan of driving yourself and Leah home your flat for the night before she travelled back up north to St. George's Park with the team tomorrow.

"God, yes." She sighed, and you smiled up at her.

"Let's go then." You took the hand she offered after pulling up her hood and let her lead the way out of the stadium.

Arriving at your car, with a few curious stares from fans to see if the hooded figure beside you was who they thought it was, you helped her lift her things into the boot of your car before the pair of you clambered in.

For the time it took to drive home, you caught up with her as it had been a few days since you had seen each other whilst she had been at camp. You, ever the safe driver, weren't one to hold your girlfriend's hands whilst on the road, always with two hands on the wheel at all times. Leah teased you of course, her and her English humour never falling to banter you everytime she could, but nevertheless when she was feeling a little clingy her hand would rest on your thigh as you drove, or it would massage and stroke the back of your neck as her arm leaned on your seat's headrest.

Today was a case of her resting a hand mindlessly on your thigh, something you would smile at constantly and glance down at the sight every chance you could get. She didn't notice though, busy talking and too tired to realise. Adjusting back to playing 90 minutes was something she was still in the middle of, not that she couldn't handle them because she obviously can, it's just the tiredness afterwards was something she hadn't experienced in a while of playing professionally.

That meant you weren't exactly surprised when she flopped down immediately on your sofa when you got home, not even bothering to drop her bags off in your room.

"Want some food, love?" You offered, pushing her bags to the side of the hallway so that they weren't a tripping hazard before leaning against the doorway of your lounge.

"You don't have to cook, we can just order a Nando's or something." Leah yawned, rubbing her eyes.

"Well, I thought ahead." You smiled at her, giggling at the tired and confused expression she silently responds with. "I meal-planned for you. I can heat up a plate of that Carribbean chicken and rice and veg if you want."

She gazed at you for a few moments before her head dropped back against the pillows with a groan.

"If I had a ring right now, I'd ask to marry you."

With a laugh, you took that as a yes and headed to the kitchen to do exactly as you said. As you were gone, the blonde put Netflix on the TV and chose the sitcom you had been watching together before pausing the episode to wait for you. She sat up with a groan and slumped back heavily, going onto her phone to reply to some friends and family.

Not so long later, you walked back in with Leah's food, handing it to her before sitting down beside her. Plate and fork in hand, she twisted her body to lean her back against your shoulder and happily tucked into her meal as you pressed play on the TV.

"Thanks for this, babe, I'm really grateful." She muttered as she ate, to which you smiled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"It's no problem, Le. I made a plate for myself too but I had a hot dog at half-time so I'm not hungry." You revealed, giggling as Leah chuckled.

"I know it's just a plate of food but... I don't know, means a lot to me that you thought about this." With a light blush, you shrugged nonchalantly and kissed the side of her head.

"I would say I know you'd do the same for me, but everybody knows you can't cook." You jested, grinning when she grumbled under her breath.

"I was only being nice, but alright." She huffed, but you only held her tighter against you.

"I'm kidding. I just love you, s'all. Wanna take care of you, especially after the last year and especially because I know you're a bit of a bottomless pit after a game." You say, and she hums in agreement. "If I'd have known my chicken was so good, it inspired thoughts of marriage, I'd have made it more often."

"I could never say no to that."

You both fell silent at that, more than content to enjoy each other's company with the show on in the background. Spending time with you after a game, just relaxing together, was fastly becoming Leah's favourite tradition. Going to dinners with friends or partying were great, but not much could beat this. Great food with even better company, in the arms of her girlfriend, Leah was finally at peace with the silence she had to greet after a game that was anything but.

That was something not many people would guess was a struggle in women's football. Going from playing in tiny stadiums to bigger venues but hardly any fans, to then playing in sold-out game after sold-out game for both club and country, that was her dream. What she wasn't expecting was the mental challenge that came with it. Spending well over 90 minutes in a booming stadium with fans that never ceased their chants was astounding to her, but the silence that met her when she would go home to a quiet and empty apartment was difficult.

She had worked on dealing with it better since the Euros where it had really picked up, but there was one thing that made it so much easier every time without fail. And that was you.

"You know I do plan to marry you, right?" Leah piped up out of nowhere sometime later, her plate long discarded to the coffee table as your positions on the couch remained the same. At her out-of-the-blue question that took your breath away a little, you cleared your throat and nodded though she couldn't see you.

"Yeah."

"Because I do want to marry you one day. I've known that from early on, I actually know the exact moment I thought that."

"Do tell, my love." You smiled, never one to pass up on a chance to hear just how and when Leah had fallen for you.

"The second time we saw each other after the New Year's party, when you started teasing me for not kissing you again after that night."

Much to Alex's dismay, the night of that party yourself and Leah had spent pretty much all of it talking about everything and nothing, compelled by a desire to get to know each other. That was until the blonde's intake of Dutch courage lived up to its name as she kissed you a little more than what could be described as friendly once the clock struck midnight. And when the night ended, no matter how much you didn't want to leave, you both shared a taxi to your respective apartments and exchanged details. It wasn't long before you saw her again though, in fact you saw her twice in the two weeks that followed, but the defender had been a little too embarrassed at her eager act a few weeks prior to kiss you again. But when you teased her one too many times about it, on the third 'date', she huffed before firmly yet delicately gripping your face and finally kissing you again.

"I spoke to Wally after our second date and she called me crazy for knowing I'd marry you when I didn't even have the balls to kiss you again." You laughed loudly at that, a notion Leah soon joined in with as she knew her past-self had acted in a ridiculous and shy way. "But that's the truth, babe. I knew I had to have you, and what better way to show that than snogging the life out of you on a random bench in London."

"Ew, Leah! Why describe it like that? I thought it was such a sweet moment, but you've just described it like we were two horny teenagers." She grimaced at the point you made, regretting it already.

"My bad. It was sweet. If not a bit... desperate." She snickered, grinning when you swatted her shoulder. "So, would you marry me then?"

"Wow. If this conversation couldn't get any less romantic, I think you've just put the nail in the coffin." Leah scoffed and sat up, fixing you with a disapproving look.

"That wasn't my actual proposal, you knob. I just wanna know if you'd say yes when I did eventually ask. Properly, that is." The defender asked with a shy smile, and you couldn't help but giggle at her face, doing so more when she frowned in confusion.

"Yes, I would accept your proposal. As long as it's with a nice ring and a better speech." You answered to put her out of her misery. She lets out a relieved sigh but smiling again.

"Noted."

With that, she stood up, now your turn to be confused. Squealing as she lifted you up bridal style, you laughed when she lay you down on your back length-ways across the sofa. Then, she kneeled against the cushions under your knees and carefully laid on top of you, her head resting against your stomach. Her hands came up to slide under your back and she sighed contently.

"Comfy?" You asked with a smile, your own hands settling on the back of her head.

"So comfy." She hummed, eyes closed as she faced away from the TV.

"If you're gonna fall asleep, Le, we may as well go to bed."

"No." She grunted. "I won't fall asleep. I just want to lay here for a bit."

"Alright." You conceded, your attention fully lost from the TV and instead on the girl draped over you.

You admired the slight view of her face available to you, your hands combing delicately through her almost dried hair as the only sounds shared between you were the calm and quiet breaths you both let out. A few minutes passed by and you thought she had gone to sleep, but she proved you wrong.

"This is my dream, you know."

"What is?" You asked her, moving one of your hands to rest on the side of your face and stroking her skin there with your thumb.

"Going home from a game to someone I love. Who I can fully switch off with." The small explanation had you beaming, beyond happy to hear how special you were to her.

"Well, I'm glad I can help, my love." You replied, a sheepishly proud smile on your face.

"I used to find it hard, y'know... our football blew up in popularity during the Euros, and I struggled with it more than I expected." You hummed curiously, not wanting to disrupt her train of thought but letting her know you wanted her to continue. "Going from being surrounded by up to ninety thousand people, singing and chanting and cheering non-stop, to just... nothing when I got home. Just a cold, empty, silent apartment. The contrast of it troubled me a lot. I worked through it with a psychologist and coped with it better, but it was never perfect."

She paused, adjusting her position so that her hands came to rest under her chin as she looked up at you, that same down-turned smile from earlier returning. Your hands fell to clasp behind her neck, waiting for her to elaborate.

"Then you came around, and now that anxiety doesn't even phase me anymore."

Now, if that wasn't the most heart-warming thing your girlfriend had said so far, you weren't sure what was.

"That makes me so happy, Leah." You whispered, cupping her cheeks with your hands and smiling softly at her.

"One of my favourite things about our relationship is how easy it is for me to switch from Leah Williamson the footballer, to just Leah when I'm around you. Makes coming home after a game much easier."

Shaking your head, you took her hands and urged her to move further up your body so that her head rested against your chest. Wrapping your arms around her, you squeezed her tightly, desperate to convey your love to her in a way words couldn't explain.

"I'll happily welcome 'Just Leah' home all the time."

"Now you're ruining the moment."

#woso x reader #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson #woso fic

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herstoryheaven · 4 months ago

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Pablo Gavira x Reader: The Name On My Back

Request: Hi girl, I love the way you write about Football/F1 Drivers, I was just wondering if you could write another fic about Gavi? Any theme, cause you’re very good at writing!!😊

Prompt: Wearing her boyfriend's jersey to his match for the first time, Y/n discovers the deeper meaning behind the gesture.

Reader: Female

Word count: 2201

Average reading time: 8 min

Category: Fluff

Warnings: None

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Disclaimer: All events portrayed in my stories are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental. Any actions or behaviours portrayed by the characters may differ from reality and cannot be connected to any actual person. This work is purely fictional and intended for entertainment purposes only.

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The stadium buzzed with excitement, the stands filling up with fans decked out in red and blue, eager to watch FC Barcelona take on their rivals. The air was electric, filled with the anticipation of the match ahead. Y/n stood at the entrance of the stadium, her heart racing as she clutched Pablo Gavira’s jersey in her hands. It was oversized on her, making her second-guess if it looked acceptable on her. But it wasn't the fit that made her uneasy.

She had never been one to crave the spotlight, and the thought of sitting among the other players' girlfriends, all of whom seemed so effortlessly confident, made her stomach twist in knots. Her nerves felt like a thousand butterflies trapped inside her chest, wings beating frantically against her ribcage.

But Pablo, Pablo had asked her to wear it, and the memory of his pleading brown eyes, so full of warmth and affection, made it impossible for her to refuse.

“Mi amor, please?” he had begged just hours before, his voice soft and teasing as he held the jersey out to her. “You’ll look absolutely beautiful in it. Besides, I want everyone to know who you belong to.”

Y/n had hesitated, chewing her bottom lip as she looked at the jersey. "Are you sure? I mean, won’t I look silly? It’s so big on me…”

Pablo had chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped closer, his hands gently wrapping around her waist. “Princesa.” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, “You’ll look perfect. And I’ll be proud knowing you’re wearing my name.”

She had melted under his touch, his words wrapping around her like a blanket, comforting and secure. The way he had called her “Princesa.” the soft whisper of the word in her ear, had sealed her fate. She couldn’t deny him, not when he looked at her like that, as if she was the only person in the world.

Now, as she made her way to the bleachers, she could feel the weight of the stares on her back. The jersey, with “Gavi” written across the back in bold letters, felt like a spotlight, drawing everyone’s eyes to her. She tugged at the hem again, her fingers fidgeting nervously as she tried to calm her nerves, but her efforts were hopeless.

Sliding into an empty seat near the front, Y/n noticed that the other girlfriends were already there, chatting and laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Their perfectly styled hair and fashionable outfits made her feel even more out of place, her nerves gnawing at her confidence. She focused on adjusting the jersey once more, trying to blend in, though she knew it was a useless effort.

That was when one of the girls leaned over, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulder, a friendly smile on her face. “You’re Y/n, right?” she asked, her tone light and playful.

Y/n nodded, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. “Yeah, that’s me.”

The girl’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she looked Y/n up and down, her gaze lingering on the oversized jersey. “They’re not staring at you because of how big it is, silly. They’re staring at the name on it.”

Y/n blinked in surprise, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of pink. “Oh.” she mumbled, glancing around at the curious eyes still lingering on her. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal. Hasn’t his previous girlfriends worn his jersey before?”

The girl, whose name she vaguely recalled as Mikky, snorted, shaking her head. “No, he didn’t let them. He told them that he’d only let his future wife wear it.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat, her heart skipping a beat. “What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Mikky’s smile widened, and she winked at Y/n. “You heard me. It looks like you’re special, Y/n. He must really care about you.”

Y/n felt her blush deepen, her mind spinning with the revelation. She hadn’t realized the significance of wearing Pablo’s jersey, hadn’t thought it would mean anything more than just a show of support. But now, knowing that he had reserved this gesture for someone he truly saw a future with, she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a mix of happiness and nervousness.

Before she could fully process Mikky’s words, the stadium erupted in cheers as the players began to take the field. The atmosphere shifted, the tension rising as the match was about to begin. Y/n’s eyes were immediately drawn to Pablo, her heart swelling with pride as she watched him step onto the pitch. He moved with such grace and skill, every touch of the ball drawing cheers from the crowd.

But every now and then, he would glance up at the stands, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until they found hers. When they did, he would smile, an intimate, knowing smile that made her heart flutter and her worries fade away. His gaze lingered on her, the connection between them clear even across the distance.

“He’s been looking for you.” Mikky teased, nudging Y/n gently with her elbow. “You’ve got him completely smitten.”

Y/n bit her lip, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I think I’m the one who’s smitten.” she admitted quietly, her eyes never leaving Pablo.

Mikky chuckled. “It’s mutual, trust me.”

As the match progressed, Y/n found herself getting lost in the game, her initial nervousness melting away. She cheered along with the crowd, her heart racing with every close call and every brilliant play Pablo made. She couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride each time his name echoed through the stadium, the cheers of the fans a testament to his talent.

And through it all, she wore that jersey with a newfound confidence. Because now, she knew it wasn’t just a piece of fabric she was wearing, it was a symbol of Pablo’s feelings for her, a silent promise of what will be.

-----

As the final whistle echoed through the stadium, signaling Barcelona’s victory, the crowd erupted in a deafening cheer. The entire arena buzzed with the energy of triumph, the roars of fans rising in waves, but for Y/n, the noise around her seemed to fade into the background. All she could focus on was one thing, Pablo Gavira.

He was still on the field, surrounded by his teammates, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders as they celebrated the hard fought win. Yet, even in the midst of the celebration, Pablo’s eyes were searching for something or rather someone. When they finally found hers, a confident smile spread across his face, the joy of victory tempered by an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. There was something different in his gaze, something deep, almost possessive, that made her heart race.

As she made her way to the edge of the field, her heart pounded with a mix of anticipation and nerves. The other girlfriends were heading down as well, their steps light and easy, but Y/n felt like she was walking on air, her emotions bubbling up inside her. She still couldn’t shake the feeling of the jersey she was wearing, its oversized fabric hanging loosely off her frame, the name “Gavi” written boldly on her back. But the secret meaning of it, a revelation only she and a few others knew, made her heart flutter.

Just as she reached the sideline, Pablo broke away from his teammates and jogged toward her, his movements fluid and determined. The sight of him, all raw energy and focused, made her breath catch in her throat. And when he finally reached her, he didn’t hesitate, didn’t slow down. With a swift, determent motion, he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his body, the sudden contact leaving her breathless.

“You have no idea how much I wanted to see you wearing this.” he murmured, his voice low and husky as he leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear, sending a delightful shiver down her spine.

Y/n’s breath hitched as his hand tightened slightly on her waist, his touch sending sparks across her skin. “I’m glad you like it.” she managed to reply, her voice a bit shaky from the proximity and the intensity of his gaze.

“Like it?” Pablo chuckled, the sound deep and rich, vibrating against her. “I love it, princesa. You’re mine, and now everyone knows it.” His words, laced with possessiveness, sent a thrill through her, and he brushed his lips against the shell of her ear, teasing her with a barely-there kiss that made her knees feel weak.

She looked up at him, her cheeks flushed, her heart racing. “Pablo, I—”

He silenced her with a finger to her lips, his eyes darkening with an emotion that made her pulse quicken. “Shh, I know.” he whispered, his voice filled with a confidence that sent a thrill through her. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Before she could respond, Pablo captured her lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a claiming, a declaration, filled with a passion that left her breathless. His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her even closer to him, and she melted into his embrace, her hands finding their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

The world around them seemed to fade away, the cheers of the crowd, the flash of cameras, all of it dimming as Y/n lost herself in the feel of him, in the intensity of his kiss. His lips moved against hers with a hunger that made her heart race, her body responding instinctively to the heat of his touch.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were blazing, and he let out a low, satisfied growl. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to show the world the woman who I want to spend forever with” he said, his voice rough with emotion, his breath mingling with hers.

Y/n felt like she was floating, her mind spinning from the intensity of his kiss. “Pablo…” she whispered, still catching her breath, her hands still resting on his shoulders as if she couldn’t bear to let go.

He grinned, that confident, almost cocky smile returning as he leaned down to place a series of soft kisses along her jawline, moving slowly toward her lips again. “I’m not done with you yet.” he teased, his voice dropping an octave as he kissed her just at the corner of her mouth, deliberately holding back, his lips hovering dangerously close.

She let out a small, involuntary whimper, her hands tightening around his shoulders. “Pablo, you’re teasing me.” she accused, though the breathlessness in her voice gave her away.

He chuckled again, the sound deep and full of mischief. “Maybe.” he admitted, his lips brushing against hers again, but this time he didn’t pull away. He kissed her deeply, his tongue sliding against hers in a way that made her forget everything but the feel of him, the way he held her like she was the most precious thing in the world.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing heavily, Pablo rested his forehead against hers, his expression softening, though the intensity in his gaze remained. “I want you by my side, Y/n. Always.” he said, his voice softer now but no less intense. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and I’m not letting you go.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and she looked up at him, her eyes shining with emotion. “I’m not going anywhere.” she promised, her voice steady despite the rush of feelings inside her. There was a certainty in her words, a truth that resonated deep within her.

Pablo’s smile softened, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and determination, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her lips before wrapping her in a tight embrace, his arms encircling her waist, holding her close. “Good.” he whispered against her hair, his voice filled with relief and contentment. “Because I need you with me, mi amor.”

As the crowd around them began to fade, the other players and their girlfriends leaving the field, Pablo kept his arm around Y/n’s waist, leading her off the pitch with a sense of pride and ownership. They walked together, their fingers intertwined, and every now and then, he would steal a kiss, his lips brushing against hers with a playful, teasing touch that made her giggle softly, her heart light and full.

“You know.” Pablo said as they exited the stadium, his voice filled with that confident edge again, a playful glint in his eyes, “I think I’m going to need you to wear my jersey to every game from now on. It’s lucky, after all.”

Y/n laughed, the sound light and full of joy, a sound that made Pablo’s heart swell. “Only if you promise to keep winning.” she teased back, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at him.

He pulled her close, his lips ghosting over her ear as he whispered, “I’ll win as long as you’re by my side, princesa.”

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zot3-flopped · 8 months ago

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Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

#this review is everything #anti taylor swift #taylor swift #travis kelce #3.6 !!!#hope Pitchfork comes for her too #jack antonoff #taylor swift reviews #the department of tortured poets #poets review #ttpd reviews

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meazalykov · 2 months ago

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the call

lena oberdorf x bayern!reader

summary: the best day of your life turns into the worst

warnings: made up champions league results, angst, mentions of suicide!!!, death, mentions of depression, sibling loss, grief, ends with acceptance, this is fictional but please be warned before reading.

the roar of the stadium is deafening, the energy screaming through your entire body as the champions league final reaches its climax.

the evening lights above you are blinding, but you barely notice them. you barely notice anything except the ball at your feet and the defenders swarming in. your heart pounds, and your legs burn from the intensity of the game, but you’ve never felt more alive.

this is the moment you’ve dreamed of since you first laced up a pair of cleats. the moment that feels almost surreal, like you’re floating above the pitch, watching it all unfold.

bayern is facing chelsea in lisbon, and it’s been a grueling ninety minutes, plus extra time. 2-2 on the scoreboard, with only seconds left.

the final, the biggest game of your life, and everything rests on this moment.

your mind races. the game is balanced on a knife's edge, and you know that one moment could change everything. one goal could make or break your dream of lifting the trophy.

you’ve won the champions league before with lyon, but that was during a loan season you had with your last club. now, you hope to win the champions league with the club that has become your life. it gave you your love for football back, and it gave you the love of your life— lena.

you glance toward the sideline, where lena is warming up, ready to come on. she’s been out for months—acl and mcl surgery had taken her off the field for nearly a year, but she’s back.

today is only her second game since her return, and she’s been waiting for her moment again after getting the olympics taken away from her last summer..

the fourth official holds up the board for stoppage time as lena’s number flashes to replace pernille.

she jogs onto the pitch, subbed in for the last few minutes of the match, and despite everything, your heart skips a beat seeing her out there. she’s worked so hard to get here, and you’ve been by her side through all of it.

“let’s go,” she says as she passes you on the pitch, her voice filled with determination as she oats your shoulder. you nod, giving her a quick glance, the silent understanding between you both unspoken but clear.

the clock ticks into the 90th minute. chelsea pushes forward, looking for the winner, but bayern’s defense holds strong. you can feel the weight of the match pressing down on you as every second passes, the noise of the crowd swirling around you.

it’s chaos, and yet somehow, amidst it all, there’s clarity.

two minutes later, the ball is cleared out of the bayern box, and it falls to lena just outside the center circle. she controls it beautifully, despite the pressure, her eyes scanning the field. you see her look up, searching for you, and you know what’s coming. you sprint forward, weaving between chelsea defenders, creating the space you need.

your german girlfriend passes the ball up to you, her pass perfectly timed, splitting chelsea’s defense wide open. it’s as if time slows down, the noise of the crowd fading away until all you can hear is your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. you know exactly what you need to do.

this is instinct, muscle memory, all those hours of practice boiling down to a single strike.

with a quick glance at the goal, you see the opening. the chelsea keeper has shifted just slightly to her left, leaving a narrow space at the top right corner. without hesitation, you take the shot.

the ball leaves your foot with precision, spinning just right, and everything speeds up again. the roar of the crowd comes crashing back as the ball sails past the keeper’s outstretched fingers and buries itself in the back of the net.

goal!

for a moment, you’re frozen, unable to process what you’ve just done. then it hits you all at once. you’ve scored. in the champions league final. in the 92nd minute.

your teammates swarm you in seconds after you sprint to the corner of the pitch. you didn’t care about the yellow card you’re receiving by taking off your bayern jersey in celebration, something similar to what alexia putellas did in the last champions league final.

your teammates arms pull you into a tight embrace as you drop to your knees, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions.

joy, relief, disbelief—all of it crashes over you like a tidal wave. lena’s the first to reach you, her arms wrapping around you tightly, lifting you off the ground as she spins you around, her laughter mixing with yours.

“you fucking did it!” she shouts over the deafening noise of the crowd, her grin wide as she pulls back to look at you. her eyes are shining with pride and love, and for a brief moment, everything in the world is perfect.

you barely hear the final whistle over the chaos, but you feel it—the way your teammates explode with joy, the way the fans in the stands scream and chant your name.

bayern is champions. you’ve done it. you’ve helped your team lift the most prestigious trophy in european football.

as the confetti rains down, you stand in the center of it all, your heart still racing, trying to soak in every second of the celebration. your teammates are all around you, cheering, hugging, lifting the trophy.

your eyes scan the crowd, searching for something—or rather, someone.

your family.

you’d hoped—against all odds—that maybe, somehow, they’d made it. you’d imagined seeing their faces in the stands, cheering you on, sharing in this once-in-a-lifetime moment. but as your eyes search the sea of faces, there’s no one familiar.

no one from home.

you knew it was a long shot. they’re back in america, living their lives. it’s a long flight, and they’d have to take time off work, rearrange everything just to be here. but still, a part of you had hoped they would come. had hoped they’d make this a priority.

the ache in your chest grows as you realize they didn’t. they didn’t come.

you try to push the disappointment away, focusing on the celebrations, on the fact that you’ve just won the champions league. this should be the happiest moment of your life. you should be on top of the world.

there’s a small, nagging emptiness that you can’t shake. the one thing you wanted, more than anything else, was to see your family here, in the stands, sharing this with you.

you take a deep breath, plastering a smile on your face as you turn back to the celebrations. you’ll deal with this later. you’ll process it when the confetti’s gone and the lights are dim.

lena’s family, though, is here. her parents, her siblings—they’ve made the trip, and they’re in the stands now, cheering and waving, just as excited as the bayern fans. as you make your way over to them, lena beside you, her hand warm in yours, her family’s faces light up. her mom is the first to reach out, pulling you into a tight hug.

“y/n! oh my god, you were amazing!” her mom gushes, her arms squeezing you so tight you almost can’t breathe.

“thank you,” you manage, smiling as you hug her back.

“i’m just so glad we won!”

“we’re so proud of you,” her dad says, clapping you on the shoulder with a grin.

“that goal—you had us on the edge of our seats!”

“you’re like a third daughter to me,” her mom continues, pulling back to look at you, her eyes warm.

“we love you, and we couldn’t be prouder.”

you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat as their words sink in. they mean it. they really do. you’re part of their family, and in this moment, they’ve made you feel like you belong here.

no matter how much love they show you, no matter how much they treat you as one of their own, the absence of your own family still lingers like a shadow over the night.

“thank you,” you say again, your voice a little quieter this time.

you stay with them for a while longer, lena’s arm around your waist, her thumb tracing soft circles on your hip. she knows. she always knows when something’s bothering you, even if you don’t say it.

for now, she lets you have your moment with her family, understanding that you need this, that you need to feel like you belong somewhere tonight.

eventually, the celebrations wind down, and the exhaustion of the day starts to settle into your bones. the adrenaline begins to fade, leaving you drained, physically and emotionally. all you want is to get back to the hotel with lena, collapse into bed, and let the day finally sink in.

“ready to go?” lena asks, her hand still in yours as you both start making your way toward the exit.

“yeah,” you sigh, glancing around one last time at the stadium.

“let’s go.”

just as you reach the lobby, your coach approaches you, his face serious in a way that immediately sets off alarm bells in your mind.

“y/n,” he says quietly, his tone careful, like he’s trying to brace you for something.

“can i talk to you for a minute?”

you glance at lena, confusion and concern flashing across her face as she looks back at you. you nod at her, squeezing her hand before letting go.

“i’ll be right back,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

you’re nervous. you scored the goal needed to win the champions league final. was alex going to tell you that you made a mistake? was he going to tell you that bayern isn’t renewing their contract with you? you know that's not possible, you already agreed to a three year extension.

following your coach to a quiet corner of the lobby, your heart starts to race again. this time, it’s not from the excitement of the game. something’s wrong. you can feel it.

“what’s going on?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

he hesitates for a moment, his eyes searching yours before he finally speaks.

“there’s been an emergency,” he says, his voice low, almost apologetic. “back home with your family.”

your stomach drops. the room feels like it’s closing in around you, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

“what kind of emergency?” you ask, your voice shaking now.

he pauses again, and you know—before he even says the words—you know.

“it’s your younger sister,” he says softly.

“according to your agent– she… she passed away.”

you feel like the floor has dropped out from under you. everything around you blurs, the world spinning as your brain struggles to process the words. your sister. passed away.

“no,” you whisper, shaking your head as if that will make it untrue.

“no, that can’t be right.”

“i’m so sorry, y/n,” your coach says, his voice heavy with sorrow.

“i have to tell you before you find out from anyone else by following bayern’s protocol– your sister passed away from suicide.”

the word hits you like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. you can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except stand there, frozen in place as the reality of what he’s just said crashes over you.

suicide.

your sister is gone.

“no…” the word leaves your lips in a broken sob as you crumble, your legs giving out beneath you. your coach catches you, helping you to sit on a nearby bench, but you barely feel his hands on your shoulders. you barely feel anything at all.

how can this be real? how can she be gone?

you don’t know how long you sit there, numb, before lena is suddenly by your side, her arms wrapping around you, her voice soft in your ear.

“oh my god, y/n,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

“i’m so sorry, baby. i’m so, so sorry.”

you cling to her, your tears soaking into her shirt as the sobs wrack your body. your mind is spinning, grief and disbelief tearing through you like a storm.

your mind didn’t allow you to deny it. your younger sister suffered from depression for a long time.

the weight of your coach’s words crashes down on you like a wave, pulling you under, suffocating you. your younger sister, gone. the word “suicide” echoes in your mind, each syllable like a knife cutting deeper and deeper into your chest.

your entire body feels numb, but your heart is racing, your mind spinning out of control as you try to grasp the reality of what you’ve just been told.

lena’s arms wrap around you, holding you tightly as you break down, but even her warmth can’t reach the depth of the hollow ache that’s taken over your chest. it’s all too much. the best night of your life—scoring the equalizer in the champions league final—has been shattered into the worst nightmare you could have ever imagined.

your sister. your baby sister.

“no,” you whisper, the word barely audible as the sobs start to break through your chest.

“this can’t be real. this can’t be happening.”

lena doesn’t say anything, her hand running through your hair, holding you as you crumble into her.

“i’m so sorry,” she whispers softly, her voice breaking.

“i have to go home,” you choke out between sobs, the words thick in your throat.

“i need to go home. i have to… i have to be with my family.”

“i’m coming with you,” lena says, her voice firm but gentle.

“no,” you protest, shaking your head weakly.

“you need to stay. this is your career, you’re coming back from nearly a year long injury, i can handle this on my own.”

you don’t even believe yourself. you don’t know how you’re going to handle this, how you’ll survive the tidal wave of grief that’s already threatening to drown you. still, you try to fight it, the guilt in your chest whispering that you don’t deserve her support right now.

“y/n,” lena says, cupping your face in her hands, forcing you to meet her gaze. her eyes are red with unshed tears, but there’s a fierce determination in them.

“you’re not going through this alone. i’m coming with you. end of discussion.”

you want to argue, but you can’t. the grief is too heavy, the shock too deep. you nod, collapsing back into her embrace, because you don’t have the strength to push her away.

the next few days blur together. the long, silent flight back to america, the weight of every message from your family, the funeral plans, the condolences pouring in from people who don’t know the depth of your pain. nothing makes sense.

it’s as if the world has stopped spinning, and you’re left standing in the wreckage, trying to make sense of it all.

when you finally arrive at your family home, your older sister is the one waiting for you. the moment you see her, the dam inside you breaks all over again. her face is pale, her eyes hollow, and you can see the weight of grief on her shoulders, but there’s something more there—something you don’t want to acknowledge yet.

“y/n,” she whispers as she pulls you into a tight embrace, her body shaking against yours.

“god, i’m so sorry you had to find out the way that you did.”

“what happened?” you ask, your voice cracking as you pull back to look at her. you haven’t been able to bring yourself to ask this yet—too scared of the answers. but now, standing in front of her, you need to know.

being the middle child, you had your older sister to lean onto. your brain doesn’t want to believe that its just the two of you now, not three.

your older sister hesitates, her eyes filling with tears as she struggles to find the words. she swallows hard, and you can tell she’s been trying to hold it together for everyone else, but now, in front of you, she’s breaking.

“i found her,” she says softly, her voice trembling.

“i was the one who found her, y/n.”

the words hit you like a freight train, your legs almost giving out beneath you. your older sister. the one who always tried to protect you both. she was the one who walked into that room. you can’t even imagine the horror of it, the moment she saw your baby sister like that.

“how?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, though you’re not sure you really want to hear the answer.

your sister takes a deep, shaky breath.

“she… she poisoned herself in her bedroom. the bottles were everywhere. i-i was supposed to meet her for lunch. when she didn’t answer, i went over, and…”

her voice cracks, and the sobs finally break through. you reach out to her, but your hands are shaking so much that you don’t know if you’re comforting her or yourself. the guilt presses down on your chest like a thousand-pound weight, suffocating you.

“we didn’t know she was hurting like this,” your sister continues, her voice thick with tears.

“we thought she was getting better. she didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want us to worry. but, y/n… the note said it because of soccer– because of her injury.”

her words stop you cold. “soccer?”

your sister nods, tears streaming down her face.

“she couldn’t make it. she didn’t get the contracts due to her spine. she thought she wasn’t good enough. she thought she was a failure.”

the guilt hits you harder than anything you’ve ever felt before, crushing you under its weight. you suddenly felt like your success, your career—everything you’ve worked for—had been killing her.

you were living her dream, and it had destroyed her. the very thing that had made your life complete had shattered hers.

“this is my fault,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out.

“i should have known. i should have… i should have been there.”

“no,” your sister says quickly, shaking her head, her hands gripping your arms.

“it’s not your fault, y/n. you couldn’t have known.”

you can’t hear her. you can’t hear anything over the roar of guilt and grief pounding in your ears. your baby sister had been suffering, and you hadn’t seen it. she had felt like she wasn’t enough, like she was a failure because she didn’t make it in soccer, and you had been too focused on your own career to notice her pain.

“she told me once,” your sister continues, her voice trembling,

“that she wished she could be as good as you. that she wished she could make it, too. she didn’t blame you once, y/n. she was just struggling. she didn’t want to burden anyone with how bad it had gotten.”

the words twist the knife in your chest. you should have noticed. you should have known. how could you have missed it? how could you have let her feel so alone in her pain?

“i was too focused on myself,” you whisper, the tears spilling down your cheeks as the realization crashes over you.

“i was too focused on my career, on making it, and i didn’t see that she needed me while I moved to france then germany. i didn’t see how much she was hurting.”

“y/n, stop,” your sister says, her voice desperate as she pulls you into another hug.

“you can’t blame yourself. this isn’t your fault.”

you do. how can you not? you were the one living her dream. you were the one playing at the top, while she struggled to find her place after injuring her spine. how can you not feel like you were the reason she’s gone?

the funeral feels like a blur. you stand by your sister’s grave, lena at your side, her hand gripping yours tightly as they lower the casket into the ground.

this was final. her death was final. there she will lay until the end of time.

the sobs choke you, but no matter how many tears you shed, it doesn’t feel like it will ever be enough to ease the guilt gnawing away at you.

“i should’ve been there for her,” you whisper to lena, your voice barely audible as you stare at the grave.

“i should’ve seen the signs.”

lena wraps her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth, but even that can’t break through the storm of grief.

“you couldn’t have known, y/n. she didn’t let anyone in.”

“i was supposed to protect her,” you say, your voice cracking as the tears spill down your face again.

“i was her big sister. she looked up to me, and i wasn’t there when she needed me.”

lena holds you tighter, her voice soft in your ear.

“you can’t carry that weight, love. you didn’t know.”

you do carry it. the guilt settles deep in your bones, a constant reminder that while you were out there living your dream, your sister was suffering in silence. the pain of it tears through you like a storm, and no matter how many people tell you it’s not your fault, you can’t shake the feeling that you should’ve done more.

three months after the funeral, the international break comes sooner than you expected. after a tough preseason and the emotional turmoil of the past few months, you’re finally called up to represent your country again, this time in the united states.

lena, too, gets the call for germany, her first time back with the national team since her acl and mcl injuries. it’s a bittersweet feeling—being away from her after spending all that time together, healing both physically and emotionally.

your girlfriend might have the chance to play in the 2025 euros, and you're so proud of her. honestly, you hope that you'll be able to watch her play and reach the final again-- this time winning.

you know how important this is for her. she needs this. she needs her space to shine again, to remind herself that she’s still capable of greatness.

"i’ll miss you, but you need this,” you tell her before leaving, cupping her face in your hands.

"just take care of that knee, okay?"

lena smiles, her hand gently covering yours.

“i will. and you better score some goals while i’m gone.”

you both laugh, though there’s a tinge of sadness underneath. as much as you’ve leaned on her through your grief, you’re learning to stand on your own again. so, you board the plane to the states, knowing this break will be good for both of you.

it’s strange, being back in america. the last time you were here, it was for your sister’s funeral. this time, it’s different. this time, you’re playing for something—something that feels bigger than you.

your heart pounds as you step onto the miami pitch for the match against australia, the lights of the stadium casting long shadows over the grass.

you can feel the weight of your sister’s absence, but in a way, it also feels like she’s there with you, watching from somewhere far beyond. well, if you believe in that of course.

the match against australia is high-energy, with the crowd cheering from the first whistle. you’ve been waiting for this moment—an opportunity to step onto the field again, to do what you love.

today, there’s something different about the way you play. today, every step, every touch of the ball is charged with emotion, with memories of your sister.

in some ways, you're playing more aggressively than usual. this might be a way for you to physically take some of the pain away.

your passes are sharp and harsh, but not sloppy. in fact, they're accurate and perfect. a 100% pass rate on the charts.

early in the first half, the game is still scoreless. you’re playing in the midfield, controlling the pace, looking for openings.

in the 20th minute, you spot one—a quick exchange with mallory and suddenly you’re in space. you sprint down the left side, cutting inside to avoid australia’s defenders.

the ball comes back to your feet just outside the box. without hesitating, you take a powerful shot before ellie had the chance to stop you. the ball curls past the keeper into the top right corner of the net.

it’s a beautiful strike, clean and precise. the crowd erupts, you feel the rush of exhilaration, but your mind is elsewhere.

you raise both your hands as you reach the corner of the pitch, pointing to the sky. your other hand goes to your ear, like you’re holding a phone, like you’re calling her.

you hope she’s listening. the gesture is for your sister, the first goal of the game dedicated to her.

the tears in your eyes wanted to fall, but they didn't. your teammates surrounded you in hugs and you took that moment to wipe your eyes from the public as your friends gave you praises.

everyone knew about your sister's death. people who went to your sister's college and witnessed the spinal injury that led to her downfall were hurt by the news.

the whole community was grieving, and everyone wanted to find peace with it.

as the match goes on, you feel that familiar rhythm settle in. by the second half, your team is up 1-0, but you’re still hungry for more.

in the 58th minute, the opportunity comes again. you’re in the box this time, just off a corner kick. the ball is bouncing around in the chaos, defenders scrambling to clear it, but it lands at your feet. with a quick flick, you volley it toward the goal. the keeper dives, but it’s too late—the ball slips under her arm and into the net. your second goal of the match.

you look at sam coffey-- the closest teammate to you. you hug her and the rest of the teammates who run up to you, happy to see you thriving in such a hard time.

after everyone goes back to their positions, breaking the group hug, you look at the cameras and hold up the number six. one finger on your left hand and all five fingers with your right hand.

your younger sister’s number before she was forced to stop playing.

the fans noticed that every goal is for her, for your sister who can’t be here to see you play. you hope she’s watching. you hope she knows how much you miss her.

the third goal comes in the 85th minute. you’re tired now, the heat of the match wearing you down, but you push through, determined to finish strong.

emma asked if you needed a break from the pitch, but you tell her no. you needed this.

the ball comes to you on a fast break, your team surging forward after a clearance. you sprint down the center, your heart pounding in your chest, the crowd’s roar fueling you. just as you reach the edge of the box, you receive a perfect pass from emily. you take one touch, then another, before sliding the ball past the onrushing keeper and into the bottom left corner.

hat trick.

the stadium erupts, your teammates rush toward you, but once again, your celebration is quiet.

you point to the sky, your hand pressed to your ear like you’re making that call again, the one you’ll never get to make.

your sister should be here. she should be watching this-- no.. she should be playing with you now, living this with you.

instead, all you have are these moments, these gestures that feel like whispers into the void.

after the game, when the final whistle blows and your team celebrates the 3-0 victory over australia, you’re pulled aside for an interview.

the camera’s on you, the reporter asking about your performance, about your goals, and for the first time, you decide to speak openly about your sister.

“i’ve been playing with her on my mind,” you say, your voice steady but heavy with emotion.

“my sister… she loved football more than anyone i’ve ever known. she was determined, sweet, and had the best sense of humor. she made everyone laugh. i’ve been playing for her, trying to honor her in any way i can.”

you don’t cry during the interview, but your chest aches. it’s clear to anyone watching how deeply you miss her, how much you wish she could be here. the reporter doesn’t press for more, understanding the weight of what you’ve shared, and you’re grateful for that.

it feels like a release, finally speaking her name, telling the world what she meant to you.

later that night, back at the hotel, your phone rings. it’s lena. she’s calling from germany, where it’s 5:30 a.m. while it’s only 11:30 p.m. for you in the states. you know she’s probably exhausted after germany’s game against norway, but you answer, grateful to hear her voice.

“hey,” lena says, her voice soft, tired but filled with warmth.

“i saw your game. a hat trick, huh?”

you smile, leaning back against the pillows. “yeah. it felt good. i… i dedicated them to her. i talked about her in the interview.”

there’s a pause on the other end, and you can hear lena’s breathing, steady and comforting.

“i’m so proud of you, y/n. i know she would be too.”

“i think so,” you say quietly, your chest tight with emotion.

“i’m okay, lena. i feel okay.”

you can hear the relief in her voice when she replies,

“i’m glad. i wish i could be there with you.”

“soon,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“we’ll be together soon.”

after the international break, you return to germany, ready to play for bayern once again. something feels different now. there’s still grief, still moments when the weight of your sister’s absence threatens to pull you under, but there’s also a sense of peace.

acceptance.

you’re learning to live with the loss, to carry her memory with you in a way that feels lighter, more bearable.

when you return to germany, stepping off the plane and feeling the familiar chill of the air, you can sense that something inside you has shifted. it’s subtle, not a sudden transformation, but a quiet understanding that the weight you’ve been carrying has begun to ease.

you still miss your sister. you will always miss her.

after the international break, after scoring that hat trick and speaking about her for the first time publicly, there’s a sense of release, a small spark of acceptance beginning to form.

it doesn’t come all at once. when you arrive back at bayern’s training ground, the routine feels both comforting and daunting. the familiar faces of your teammates greet you, their smiles and hugs filled with warmth. some of them had seen your interview after the australia game. they know what you’ve been going through, at least on some level.

they don’t push you to talk, but their quiet support is always there, whether it’s in a gentle hand on your back after a tough drill or a knowing glance across the field.

training is tough—intense, even. the season is approaching fast, and the pressure to perform is ever-present. but for the first time in a long while, you feel more connected to the game, more present in your body, and less haunted by the thoughts that used to cloud your every move on the pitch.

you start to find joy in playing again, not just as an escape, but as a way to honor your sister. every pass, every shot, every tackle feels like a small tribute to her, a way of keeping her close without letting the grief consume you.

there are still hard days. days when you wake up and the weight of her absence presses down on you before you even step out of bed. you think about how much she loved football, how it was her dream to be where you are now, and that familiar guilt creeps back in.

lena is there, always grounding you, reminding you that your sister would want you to keep going, to keep playing, to live the life she couldn’t.

on one of those hard days, you’re at the training ground, going through drills, and your mind wanders. you think about her injury—how it wasn’t just a setback but the end of her dream. a spinal injury, something so unexpected, so final.

she never had a chance to recover, never had a chance to fight for her place like you’ve been able to. she was so young, 19 years old– and it was taken from her, just like that. and then, when the depression set in, it wasn’t just the injury anymore—it was the loss of everything she had ever wanted.

the loss of her future.

you push through the drills, the sweat dripping down your face as you try to focus on the here and now. it’s hard. your thoughts are swirling, and you can feel the familiar tightness in your chest, the way grief sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

after training, you sit alone on the bench, staring out at the pitch, lost in thought. the sun is setting, casting long shadows across the field, and for a moment, you let yourself sit with the grief.

you don’t push it away this time. you let it wash over you, feeling the sadness, the guilt, the love you had for your sister. but there’s something else there too—a quiet acceptance. a small voice inside you that whispers, “she’s not suffering anymore.”

it’s that thought that brings you peace, however fleeting. you know your sister struggled, that her depression was a battle she couldn’t win. as much as you wish you could’ve done more, could’ve been there for her in ways you weren’t, you also know that her pain is over now.

she’s at peace, even if you’re still finding your way through the aftermath.

lena finds you on the bench later that evening, after most of the team has left. she sits beside you without saying anything for a long time, just her presence beside you, solid and comforting. eventually, she speaks, her voice soft in the quiet of the evening.

“you’ve been different since the break,” she says, her eyes watching the last bit of daylight disappear behind the trees.

“stronger, in a way.”

you nod, not sure how to put everything into words. “i think… i think i’m starting to accept it,” you say, your voice quiet but steady.

“i’m never going to stop missing her, but i can’t let it break me anymore. she wouldn’t want that.”

lena reaches for your hand, her fingers lacing with yours.

“no, she wouldn’t. she’d want you to live, y/n. to play. to be happy.”

the next few weeks pass in a blur of preparation for the season. as the first matches approach, you throw yourself into your training, focusing on your fitness, your sharpness, everything you need to be at your best.

as the days go by, you start to feel more like yourself again. not the version of you before your sister’s death—that person is gone, changed by the grief and loss—but a new version of yourself.

someone who carries the weight of that loss but also the strength that comes with surviving it.

before the season opener, you have a moment alone in the locker room, lacing up your boots and staring down at the bayern crest on your jersey. the nerves are there, the familiar pre-game tension, but there’s something else too—a quiet determination.

this season is going to be different. not because you’re trying to outrun your grief, but because you’re choosing to carry it with you, to let it fuel you, to let it remind you of the love you had for your sister.

when you step onto the pitch for the first game, the crowd roars, and the energy in the stadium is electric. you feel it in your chest, the adrenaline, the excitement, but also the weight of everything you’ve been through.

the game begins, and as soon as the ball is at your feet, it’s like muscle memory. you’re back in your element, weaving through defenders, finding your teammates, playing the game you love.

you’re not playing for anyone else now, not for the expectations or the pressure. you’re playing for her. for the sister who loved football more than you ever could, who would’ve given anything to be in your shoes.

and for the first time in a long while, it feels right.

as the season progresses, you find yourself healing, little by little. there are still moments when the grief hits hard, when the memories sneak up on you, but you’ve learned how to live with it. you’ve learned how to carry it without letting it crush you.

you and lena spend more quiet evenings together, just talking, reflecting, or sometimes sitting in comfortable silence. she’s been your anchor through all of this, and you know that you couldn’t have made it through without her.

one night, after a particularly tough match, you’re both lying in bed, the exhaustion from the game settling into your bones. lena is tracing lazy patterns on your back, her touch soothing, grounding.

“do you think she’s proud of you?” lena asks quietly, her voice soft in the dim light of the room.

you think about it for a moment, feeling the familiar ache in your chest, but this time, it’s not as sharp. it’s bittersweet, but it’s bearable.

“yeah,” you whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips. “i think she is.”

you close your eyes, lena’s warmth beside you, and for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.

authors note: please inbox me if you're ever struggling or need someone to talk to. you're loved, I love you, and the world is a better place with you here in it.

masterlist

#lena oberdorf #lena oberdorf x reader #woso fanfics #woso community #woso x reader #gerwnt #bayern frauen

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rootedinrevisions · 2 months ago

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Masterlist: Glen Powell

This is the hub for all my works featuring Glen Powell. These are all stories inspired by his life and career. From behind-the-scenes glimpses of Hollywood to fictional takes on his charm and charisma, you'll find everything centered around the man himself right here.

Explore the stories below, and let me know your favorites! As always, thank you for reading and supporting my work.💫 (UPDATED 12.1.24)

GLEN POWELL (HIMSELF)

**DRABBLES (Under 1k words)**

Welcome Back Kisses (Glen x Reader)

Glen's been gone for almost three months filming his latest project, but he's home now, and seeing you is the first thing on his to-do list.

Cute When You're Jealous (Glen x Reader)

Glen misses out on an event the two of you had planned to go to together. So a friend takes you instead, but it leaves Glen feeling a little jealous.

**ONE-SHOTS**

More Than a Game (Glen x Reader)

When you join Glen Powell for a night under the bright Texas stadium lights, you expect an evening of football and fun—but what you don’t expect is the sting of an offhand comment that shakes your confidence. As Glen’s world of fans and flashing cameras surrounds you, he’s quick to remind you of where you stand: by his side, as the one who holds his heart. With every protective gesture, from offering you his jacket to placing his prized Stetson on your head, Glen shows the world that you’re not just another face in the crowd—you’re someone special. FLUFF.

Texas Orange (Glen x Reader)

Heavily based on the song "Tennesse Orange" by Megan Moroney. You're in the early stages of your relationship with Glen and he takes you to a Texas football game with him. FLUFF.

Between Sets and Scenes (Glen x Reader)

As a dedicated personal trainer in Washington D.C., you've worked with high-profile clients before, but when actor Glen Powell steps into your gym, life takes an unexpected turn. What starts as a simple fitness transformation for Glen quickly evolves into something more when the lines between professionalism and attraction begin to blur. A chance encounter outside the gym leads to late-night conversations, unexpected connections, and the realization that sometimes the best chemistry happens off-screen. But with Glen's rising star and your grounded life, can you keep things casual, or is something deeper already taking shape? FLUFF.

**SERIES**

In the Wings (Glen x Reader)

When you're offered the chance to work as a hair and makeup artist on Top Gun 3, it feels like a dream come true. Leaving behind your routine for a Hollywood blockbuster, you arrive on set with high hopes but little expectation of the whirlwind to come. That all changes the day you meet Glen Powell—charming, grounded, and quick to make an impression. As your professional relationship grows, so does a spark between you, but you're still keeping things strictly work. For now, the only thing you're certain of is that this job will be like no other. FLUFF

PART 1 I PART 2 I PART 3 I PART 4 I PART 5 I PART 6 I PART 7

#Glen Powell #Glen Powell Fic #Glen Powell Fanfic #Glen Powell Fanfiction #Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens Fic #Tyler Owens Fanfic #Tyler Owens Fanfiction #Jake Seresin #Jake Sersin Fic #Jake Seresin Fanfic #Jake Seresin Fanfiction #Jake Hangman Seresin Fic #Jake Hangman Seresin Fanfic #Jake Hangman Seresin Fanfiction

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flemingsfreckles · 10 months ago

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Don’t Be Sad

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Preview: based off of this request. You take your kids to watch their mom play in the gold cup semifinal.

Warnings: upset Jessie, not really angst though

WC: 4.8k

A/N: okay, so the timeline here is all kinds of messed up in terms of how old Jessie is, the fic revolves around the US/CAN game but she obviously doesn’t have kids already so just go with it. It’s called fiction for a reason. This is also my first attempt at writing based off a request/an idea that my brain didn’t come up with.

“James, slow down please.” You hollered at your oldest child as he ran a couple of feet ahead of you. You watched as he stopped immediately in his tracks as if he had been frozen in place. The brown curls on his head bouncing slightly. Once you catch up to him you extend your hand out for him to hold.

“You have to be careful, you can’t be running ahead, there’s a lot of other people here.” You often took your kids to watch Jessie’s games, but most of the time they were not this busy. The stress of temporarily having to operate as a single mom with an almost 3 year old and 1 year old was building on you. Your wife would not be thrilled to learn you let one kid run off 20 minutes after arriving at the stadium.

“Sorry, just want to see Mama.” He said, reaching up to grab onto your hand.

“I know kiddo, we’re going to see Mama, but after her game remember, we can’t go talk with her before. Remember what I told you in the car?”

“Mama’s at work and is warm.” He tried his best to remember what you had told him about how Jessie wouldn’t be able to talk to you before the game. You had explained that she would have to warm up and be focused and ready for the game. Trying to explain that the field was her work and she wasn’t allowed to just come hang out.

“Mama!” Your one year old daughter, Nora, squealed, waving her hands in the air. You were holding her on your hip, not wanting her to get trampled in the busy stadium, also not fully trusting her minimal walking skills. She had recently started taking a few steps alone, and while holding the hand of you or Jessie, she could walk for a bit. A crowd of people was not the time to practice walking.

“Yes baby, Mama’s at work. We can see her after the game.”

Gripping your son’s hand tightly you continued to make your way to the friends and family box that the Canadian Team had set up for the Gold Cup Match. You didn’t love being in the box, it made you feel far away from the game. You liked being up close being able to see your wife playing just a couple meters away. Not being able to complain too much though, it was so much easier with the kids to be in the box, they were free to roam safely and could occupy themselves with other activities if they were too restless to sit and watch Jessie play. It was also nice on afternoons like tonight where the weather was brutal, you were able to stay nice and dry.

You checked into the box, grabbing some juice boxes for each of your kids. You looked around, you had gotten to the stadium pretty early, meaning the box only had a few other people in it already. You moved to the corner with a small table, setting down Nora, and pulling out a chair for James to sit as well. You rummage through your bag, pulling out some toy dinosaurs and cars for James and a stuffed moose than Jessie had gotten for your daughter before she left for the World Cup. Nora insisted it went everywhere she went so you had to bring it with. Placing their juice on the table as well you stood up, looking over the field. You spotted your wife, doing some dribbling in a space all by herself. Not being able to help yourself, you watch her for a second before you feel a hand on the back of your shoulder and a voice calling to you.

“There’s our favorite daughter-in-law!” Jessie’s parents had arrived, her mom standing behind you, arms out for a hug.

“I’m your only daughter-in-law.” You remind her as you move into her arms. Jessie’s father, already kneeling down to talk with your children, opts to give you a wave, you reply with a wave and a quick hello before he goes back to playing with a dinosaur.

“How are you? How are the kids? I feel like we haven’t seen you in forever. What has it been 6-7 months?” She asked.

“Something like that.” The last time you had seen the Flemings was when they had come to visit after the World Cup. “The kids, they’re good. They’ve definitely been keeping me on my toes these days especially while Jess has been away for this tournament. They still haven’t grasped the concept that this is Jessie’s work though. James kept asking when he could see her, it’s just hard to explain at that age, they think she’s just playing like they do in the yard.”

“Yeah I can imagine they don’t quite get it,” Jessie’s mom trailed off turning to watch her husband with his grandchildren. You both stand for a minute watching Jessie’s dad who now had your daughter in his lap, still holding a dinosaur in one hand, play with your kids. “Gosh they both look so much like Jess when she was that age.”

Your children were practically spitting images of your wife. They were, after all, biologically her babies. You and Jessie had decided to do reciprocal ivf after careful consideration. Together you had chosen that you would be the one that would carry them, not wanting to take Jessie away from her career and love for football, meaning the kids would be genetically related to Jessie while you carried them for 9 months, letting you both be a part of their creation. Who could say no to the idea of little versions of Jessie running around, not you.

Both having her brown hair, James' hair had started to show the soft waves that resembled Jessie’s. They both had big brown eyes, which they used to get their way with you. It was hard to say no to them when looking into their eyes reminded you of the woman you were so infatuated and in love with.

The resemblance was obvious at birth with their beautiful eyes looking up at you and Jessie as you held them for the first time. The first time you really recognized how much they all looked alike was one afternoon when you got home from work, you walked into an empty house calling for Jessie and getting no response. It was then that you had heard giggling and joyful screaming coming from the backyard. You walked out to watch as Jessie chased James around the yard, following him with the garden hose as Nora sat on her hip. It seemed they had been playing in the sprinkler all afternoon, all 3 of them soaked. You stood on the deck and watched, just admiring your family for a second before Jessie caught a glimpse of you. She dropped the hose to come say hello and proceeded to hug you, soaking your clothes in the process. Your kids followed and you saw all three of them with the freckles that covered their pink rosy cheeks, just another trait they had gotten from their mother.

The game started shortly after, you had taken a seat on a bench with Jessie’s dad, your son seated between the two of you and your daughter crawling across your lap. You weren’t always the most relaxed watching your wife play. Watching her play was so fascinating and you loved watching your wife play the game she loved so much, but it stressed you out. She always joked to you that you were more nervous than her and all you had to do was watch. Today you were extra anxious. Not only was this a knockout game, but the pitch conditions were horrendous. Everytime Jessie would go for a ball you were just hoping she didn’t slip and end up injured. The US took the lead 20 minutes in, only adding to your anxieties. Halftime came and went, Canada still down. It wasn’t until only 10 minutes were remaining that Canada tied it. You had jumped up and shouted in response to the goal, watching Jessie jump on top of Jordyn in her celebration. You watched as full time played out, ending in a tie. You stood up excusing yourself to use the restroom, leaving James and Nora with their grandparents.

Extra time began just as you returned to the box, you made your way to the table in the back of the room to grab a water bottle and turned back to face the pitch. The sight in front of you warms your heart. It even takes away the stress of the game for just a moment. There were your two children, Nora sitting on Jessie’s mom’s hip, you watched as she babbled at her grandmother, only a couple of the sounds coming out being actual words, but Jessie’s mom was responding as if she was having a complete conversation. James was sitting on his grandfather's shoulders, watching and listening closely as his grandpa pointed and tried to explain the game to him. You and Jessie, mainly Jessie, had tried to teach him but that’s hard to do with a just under three year olds attention span. All he wanted to do was roll the ball around with his hands. You had joked that he’d grow up to be a keeper.

What really tugged at your heartstrings was the assortment of jerseys that all had on, a mix of new and old and a mix of home and away. Your wife’s family name on all of them, which was now your last name too, displayed proudly across the back, her number sitting just below. You felt so lucky, you felt lucky everyday with Jessie, but even in a moment when she is caught up elsewhere, you feel her love and everything she had brought you in this life. Two beautiful children, an amazing set of in-laws, the chance to experience things you could’ve never imagined. Thinking about how adorable it was you grabbed your phone and snapped a photo to show Jessie later.

The anxieties came back as you returned to your seat on the bench. You couldn’t help but notice how relaxed Jessie parents seemed watching their daughter play, maybe it just came with decades of experience that you didn’t quite have yet.

You watched as overtime continued. Feeling upset when the US scored again, only to feel ecstatic when Canada tied it up. Before you knew it, overtime had expired and the game was moving on to penalties.

You watched as the US player made her penalty, followed by a miss by Canada. A goal and another miss had happened for the Canadian side before your wife took the ball and headed to the penalty spot. The US having scored three of their four penalties taken meant if Jessie missed, the game was over, but if she made it they would keep kicking.

Watching Jessie, or any player, take penalties was one of your least favorite parts of football. You always felt bad if a player missed but then you also felt bad for the keeper if it went it. Jessie had laughed when you told her, claiming you just weren’t competitive enough, when it’s your team on the line you don’t feel sorry for the other side. You had told her that your competitiveness only applied to her and whatever team she played for, other than that you were more of a ‘hoe everyone has fun’ type person. You asked Jessie about how it’s such immense pressure being put on just one person on each team and how it feels to be in that spot. Penalties usually didn’t bother your wife, everyone knew it, she had been a penalty kicking machine most of her career. The pressure on her shoulders everytime she steps up, being expected to make it every time, no questions asked, is not something you ever wanted to feel.

You watched her line herself up, placing the ball. Seeing this routine done more times than you could count you had memorized her behaviors. You knew each of her steps before taking it, asking one day in the backyard to explain it to you as she was practicing. Your hands came to rest on your knees that were anxiously bouncing.

She stepped back, took a deep breath and started toward the ball. And then it was dark.

You had shut your eyes, not intentionally, it just happened. You didn’t see the kick, you only realized that it must not have gone in when the crowd erupted in cheers. You slowly opened one eye, peeking as if it’ll change what had just happened. First you see the US team running, dog piling on top of one another. Second seeing Jessie, her head hung, walking toward the bench, shaking her head, brushing off the teammates attempting to console her. Feeling your heart sink for her, knowing just how upset she must be.

“Mom why are they hurting each other?” Your son tugged your hand. He pointed at the pile of US players on the field.

“They’re not hurting each other, they’re celebrating kiddo, they won.”

“But Mama supposed to win.” His eyebrows pinched together, confused looking up at you.

“Well honey that’s not how it always goes, do you remember watching the World Cup?” You hadn’t actually let them watch the games live due to the timing of them but you had put them on during the day letting them watch their mom play. “Mama’s team didn’t always win, right? That’s what happens sometimes. And sometimes that makes her sad. She might be a little sad when we go to talk to her, okay?” He just nodded back at you.

As the stadium cleared out, you and Jessie’s parents, each of them holding one of your kids hands, headed down to the base of the pitch. Jessie was making her rounds, thanking the Canadian fans for coming, signing autographs and taking photos. You loved how even after a tough game she made time for those who came to watch her play. You watched as she continued to make her way headed toward you, not seeing you yet.

“Mama!” James shouted pointing at Jessie. “Mama, hi!” His hand waved in her direction. Hearing her son's voice, Jessie’s head snapped to the side with a smile on her face as she saw her family, you, her kids, her parents all standing together waiting for her. Giving a quick wave to James she turned her attention to the young fan in front of her. She finishes greeting and chatting with the few fans between you and her. As she wanders over, her eyes meet yours for a second and while she isn’t currently crying, you can see she must’ve been at some point. Her face has small tear streaks and eyes are a little red.

“Hi Mama, don’t be sad.” Your son says, making grabbing motions with his hands at Jessie.

“Hi buddy, I’m just a little sad right now, but I’ll be okay. I’m happy that I’m getting to see you and Nora.” She reaches over the wall, grabbing James and pulling him up and over, into her arms. She hugs him tightly and then puts him down at her feet.

“Mama, it's grandma and grandpa.” Your son points, as if Jessie hadn’t seen her own parents in front of her.

“Hi Mom, hi Dad.” She acknowledges them with a quick wave, knowing she’ll be able to fully catch up with them later tonight.

“Hi love.” She turns her attention to you.

“Hi,” moving toward her you reach over the wall giving her a quick peck on the cheek quietly talking in her ear . “I’m so proud of you, even if you don’t want to hear that right now. I love you.”

You pull back, hearing your daughter start babbling again, the words “Mom” and “Mama” coming out as she looks from you to Jessie. She’s standing both of her arms above her head holding onto her grandpa's hands

“You heard her, give me my baby.” Jessie laughs holding her arms out to take Nora. You bend down to pick her up and pass her into your wife’s extended arms. “Hi cutie,” she bounces her, making soft giggles come from her mouth.

You admired Jessie’s ability to put on a happy face for your kids, you knew she was upset about the loss, the lack of penalty called against her, her missed kick, the pitch conditions, but none of it showed as she held your daughter. She looked as happy as can be, as if she had just won the whole tournament. Even if it was a forced smile, you could tell it was, she still put forth the effort.

“Look at us all matching.” She’s talking to your kids. “Can you take our photo?” Now directing her question to you. She bends down to kneel next to her son, daughter still in her arms. She smiles big and tickles your son, getting him to laugh, his smile big in the photo.

“Oh man, we’re all matching. It looks like we’re going on a family reunion with matching shirts.” You see Jessie standing up looking between you and her parents. Everyone laughs at the realization, sure you knew you were all wearing her jersey but it being pointed out was humorous .

“Okay James I have to go, but I’ll see you later tonight okay?” Your wife is back kneeling down, talking to your son.

“Okay Mama, you did a good job at your work job today.” He tries his best to tell Jessie she played well. She looks at you with a questioning glance.

“I was explaining to him that this is your job, the game is work.”

“Gotcha.” She hands you Nora before lifting James over again. “I just have to do recovery. I think since we’re out we’re released as well so I don’t have to stay at the hotel. I don’t know I’ll find out though.” She quickly informs you.

“Alright babe, just shoot me a text and let me know. We’re just going back to the rental.” Deciding that more space and isolation would be better than a hotel with two small children, you had rented a small house for the week. It had a couple bedrooms and was perfect for letting the kids be free and not cooped up in a hotel.

You give Jessie a quick kiss on the lips, making it short and sweet your wife wasn’t big on PDA anywhere, let alone in front of fans and more importantly her parents. Jessie gave hugs to her Mom and Dad before saying goodbye to them as well.

All five of you headed back to the house, Jessie’s parents deciding to crash in the extra bedroom for the chance to see their daughter more than if they had gone to the hotel they had originally booked. It was only an hour later when the knock at the door told you Jessie had arrived.

Jessie’s dad greeted her at the door. You were occupied feeding Nora in the bedroom, while Jessie’s Mom was watching James while he ate. Through the cracked door you could hear your father in law talking to his daughter. He was telling her how proud of her he always is. You could tell she entered the kitchen as you heard James start talking to Jess. You knew her arrival meant he would be done eating, forgetting food was ever an option, just wanting to hang out with her.

“She’s in the bedroom feeding Nora, third door on the left.” Jessie’s mom was telling her daughter.

It was only seconds later that there was a soft knock on the door and Jessie peaked her head though. Her cheeks are still rosy from the game.

“Can I come in or do you want privacy?” Her concern regarding you being comfortable showing.

“Yeah babe, nothing you haven’t seen before, it just felt a little weird with your Dad there so I figured I’d feed her in here.” Nodding at her to come in. She opened the door to come through, closing it behind her. She moved next to you, placing a kiss on your lips, one on your forehead and grazing a hand across Nora’s head. She smelled of vanilla and coconut, freshly showered, her hair still wet.

“I love you, you’re such a good Mom.” She sits down on the bed next to you. Jessie loved watching you with the kids. She especially loved watching you do the more “mundane” tasks, like you were now, Nora resting in your arms as she fed, a task you had done hundreds of times. It felt incredibly intimate to share these small moments together and Jessie was so grateful that you let her be there.

Deciding this might be the only bit of time you get with Jessie alone, without your son or her parents hearing, you decide to check on her. Jessie isn’t the best about expressing her emotions especially in front of your son, she never wants to appear sad or disappointed. Nora was here but she was occupied and she was not yet at the age of picking up much from conversations that didn’t involve the words Mom, Mama, or milk.

“Are you doing okay?” Looking in her eyes, you see the beautiful brown color looking back at you.

“I’m disappointed.” She pauses before continuing, “it just felt like something we could’ve won.” Her head comes to rest on your shoulder and she lets out a sigh.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. Are you okay besides being just disappointed?” You wanted to make sure the missed penalty wasn’t weighing too heavily on her mental. Jessie knew exactly what you were asking.

“I think so, I chatted quickly with the sports psych while I was stretching about the penalty, I think missing the one earlier got in my head. I don’t feel much at all about it.” Nora decides she’s done feeding, pulling her mouth away and trying to squirm from your hold. “Here let me take her.” Jessie pulls her into her lap, allowing you to clean up and pull your shirt back down.

“It was really nice having you all there after the game.” Her voice was soft as she continued “it just made it hurt a little less getting to see them. They take my mind off the game so quickly.”

“They were both so excited to see you.” You wrap your arm around her waist, pulling her closer to your side. “I was excited to see you too.” Jessie hummed in response, her cheek still resting on your shoulder. You look down in her arms, your youngest was laying, her eyes fluttering as she fought off sleep. Moments later your son is knocking at the door.

“Mama, Mom come on, I want to play and make Mama not sad anymore” You open the door to find your son, a dinosaur in one hand and a small ball in the other. Jessie’s mom quickly following him down the hallway.

“Sorry, we were cleaning up the table from his dinner, we can take play with him if you two need some more time.” She reached out to move James away from the door.

“Oh, no we’re good. Nora’s about to be asleep.” You point back into the room where Jessie is sitting gently rocking your daughter. “We can come play.”

You and Jessie leave the bedroom, coming back to the living room to play with James. Jessie’s dad takes Nora who is sound asleep, claiming he doesn’t get to hold her nearly enough. You both sit on the floor as James hands you plastic animals and begins telling you both about the make believe scenarios he had come up with. You stay on the floor for a while, switching between the make believe world with your son and having regular adult conversations with your wife and in-laws.

Jessie is quiet, not contributing much to the conversation, focusing more on your son. Wishing you could just lift the weight off her shoulders and take away the disappointment she is feeling toward herself, you try your best to steer any conversation away from mentions of the game or football.

James lets out a big yawn as he makes his dinosaur trample a small city he had created.

“Someone’s sleepy.” You tease him.

“No I’m not!” He protests. Looking at you with his brown eyes, silently begging for more time. “Want to keep playing with Mama, it makes her happy.” Jessie shoots you a look, her eyes begging just like his were, mouthing ‘five more minutes’ her hand being held up to emphasize her point.

“Okay, but only a few more minutes bud. You and Mama can play in the morning.”

He seems content with the extra few minutes and the reminder that Jessie would be there in the morning and goes back to playing.

After the few minutes pass by, Jessie starts to clean up the toys, James helping her. You stand up taking Nora from her grandfather’s arms, she’s still fast asleep. You say goodnight to Jessie’s parents and carry your daughter into the office that you had turned into her temporary bedroom. Your kids had separate bedrooms at home and you wanted to keep it as similar as possible. Being able to move around Nora’s crib easily, meant James got the other bedroom in the house. You placed her softly, with a kiss on her forehead and a whisper goodnight. Jessie surprises you by wrapping her arms around your waist.

“She’s so perfect.” Jessie whispers in your ear. “You made two perfect babies.” She adds a kiss to your cheek.

“Technically you made them.” You whisper back to her, still looking at Nora sleeping.

“We both made them, those are our kids.” Humming in agreement, you feel Jessie grab your hand turning to leave the room. You enter James’ room, he had changed into his pajamas while you both were putting Nora down.

“Do you want Mama to tuck you in tonight?” You ask him, wanting to give Jessie the chance as you had tucked him in alone the past few days.

“Both!” He points to both you and Jessie. You each take a side of the bed as he climbs in. You tuck him in, each giving him a kiss and telling him you love him and to not let the bedbugs bite.

Finally back in your bedroom, you and Jessie get ready for bed, each making a trip to the bathroom to brush your teeth, wash your face, change into sleeping shirts and shorts. You come out to Jessie sitting on the edge of the bed, you notice tears on the brims of her eyes.

“Hey, baby what’s wrong.” Rushing in front of her, you kneel down, cupping her face in her hands.

“Nothing, I'm okay.” She blinks hard, clearing the tears that were tempted to spill over.

“Jess, it’s okay if you’re upset, you can be upset in front of me.”

“I know.” There’s a pause and you’re not sure if she’s going to continue or not. You watch as a tear manages to make its way out, rolling down her cheek, you extend your thumb to brush it away. “I just, I feel like I let people down. It’s silly I know, it’s a game, but, I don’t know. I’m just disappointed in myself.”

“It’s not silly Jessie.” Grabbing her hands in yours. “You’re allowed to feel however you want about the game, you’re allowed to feel disappointed. You have to remember you’re just doing your best. Just like everyone else in that game and everyone else in the world, you’re doing the best you can. That’s all you can do.” Not sure if she’s even really listening to your words but wanting to get your point across you continue, “Jess people miss penalties all the time. It’s how it goes, you weren’t the only one to miss tonight. This isn’t all on you. You played so well this whole tournament.” You stand up as your knees started to ache, Jessie was the professional athlete in this family, not you. Deciding to sit on the bed next to her you wrap an arm around her shoulder and lean in.

“I hope you know how proud I am of you.” Hoping she can accept the compliment, she nods at you. The two of you sit in silence on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, just enjoying the quiet after the long day. You’re reminded of something from earlier in the day, reaching for your phone on the bed next to you.

“I know it’s not going to fix how you’re feeling about the game, but look at this.” You slide open your phone, open your photos to show Jessie the image you took of her parents with your kids. “Look at our family.”

She grabbed the phone from your hand, examining the photo. For the first time since the game had ended you saw a genuine smile come across her face.

“That’s our family.”

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