#i have net negative game

[justanotherhornycatgirl]

(convincing myself) if i didnt live in a mobile home in rural Tennessee id definitely pull

[defiledtomb]

there's this really deep belief in me that says I can't post anything related to ouro anywhere anymore & I hate it & I hate it & I hate it. I have so much !! to say :(

[perilegs]

"wahh wilds is too easy!" "what do you mean anjanath was a skill check in world? that was so easy!" "gore magala is the only slightly hard monster in wilds, i don't get how anyone struggles in that game" are you for real. do you not remember your first monster hunter game. do you think your several years, or even decades worth of experience with the monster hunter games, is comparable to a brand new player? the older games bbeing tedious and missing quality of life does not necessarily mean the newer ones are "too easy." have you seriously never considered that you might have learned how to play the game along the way? also stop bringing up furious rajang or fatalis or whatever other master rank monster when we're talking about a game where high rank is the highest difficulty we have as of now. you're not going to fight fatalis in high rank. you might have skills but do you understand how video games work. also you can open the settings and turn options you don't like off.

[bredforloyalty]

feeling bad.. and i don't think it's just from playing rummy..

[taegularities]

i miss the old tumblr so much

[lesedacondyvidi]

Seriously, I don't talk about it here (mostly because it doesn't come up) but I genuinely believe that the best possible situation for java MC right now, would be for mojang to fully and completely cease development on it.

No more! maintain the game. Keep it from breaking.

Forget about #stop the mob vote or whatever the hell. Stop mojang period!

[badolmen]

There is nothing more frustrating/amusing than watching a play through of a blorbo game and watching the gamer bumble through the plot and completed misinterpret what’s going on like my dude you just out loud read a codex entry that was straightforward exposition and somehow came out of the collectibles screen convinced it meant the opposite of what it just said.

[toxichem]

i played a game of unrated, and didn't realize i had aced until i had won the round and the announcer called it. im also like, horribly bad at this game, and cant aim for shit/forget half of my util, so me acing was a surprise to myself.

[txttletale]

Anything good out of Roborosewater lately?

let's do this by theme: first off, the pointlessly self-destructive cards. i adore the roborosewater cards that are just pure negatives, they poke at something really interesting about game design. really cool hoiw path of ication has a bizarro world version of a designed-for-commander mechanic, where it deals you more damage the more players are in the game.

then another of my favourite themes, redudancy. these i think poke at some fundamental preconceptions we have abot language and communication, right -- rules text that just states the tautological suggests a strange and wonderful mindset where basic logical syllogisms must be backed up by game rule fiat.

then there's a couple that it takes more magic understanding to really find funny: i like how the muscle provides an incredibly strong bonus but makes it impossible to capitalize on it, and the sheer comical awfulness of an ability that lets you pay 11 mana for a 25% chance to deal 4 damage, combined with the ridiculous density of activated abilities, makes hypnotic decree a gift that keeps on giving

next up is 'cards that do nothing' -- i really like these cards, because it's like, you look at this and think 'this is literally pointless, this doesn't do anything useful', and then you think, well, it's a game, are any actions 'useful?' and it makes you confront very directly how games construct and define themselves in ways that are illumating. anyway if yo uwant to pay a bunch fo mana to exile your hand or check if your opponent has acard in their deck now you can with these bangers:

finally here's a comparatively recent 'you lose the game' card -- ilove it when roborosewater puts these out because the neural net has aboslutely no way of evaluating what makes 'you lose the game' a suitable downside on the cards it's on and so will just slap it hilariously on a card that isn't even good to begin with

[blackpilljesus]

I saw this from the female separatism subreddit & the responses are some of the biggest reasons for separatism et al (or extinction if I'm being candid here). Moids cant be reformed they are fully aware of the hell they force women to live in. MaIe achievement & happiness is rooted in female exploitation & life. Their glory days are based on our horrific days. No amount of love, kindness or facts will change maIes and we cannot happily or even neutrally coexist with them.

Main points across answers:

Many want to experiment but not permanently be women

They dont want to be in constant danger or lose their autonomy at the hands of maIes for merely existing

They dont want to deal with childbirth (& periods)

They dont want to have to share spaces with species much stronger than them with ulterior motives

It makes me go crazy seeing people give moids benefit of doubt for their evil like "maIes just dont understand", "we need to teach maIes", or claiming that maIe violence is a result of maIes struggling with (expressing) their feelings. I get that women love maIes and it can be hard to imagine that people can intentionally be so evil but it is what it is. MaIes have no problems expressing themselves, abusing women is what maIes choose to do because they enjoy & benefit from it - that is their expression.

MaIes see the same news of women being abused, raped, and killed like we do except rather than be disheartened or alarmed they're either apathetic or satisfied. It isn't aliens that's committing GBV it's maIes & maIes have no problem reminding women of this when women anger them (such as rape threats & threatening women they'll end up on the news/true crime). The victim blaming, denial, and derailment of misogyny is part of the game to keep the system alive, they know the events occured & are a systemic occurence they just dont care. Hell not only do they not care, they rejoice in it or get off on it.

MaIes set up environments that work in their favour which simultaneously ensures that women will lose. They know women are set up to live in damn near impossible conditions for us. It's normalised for women to defenselessly share personal & private spaces with beings much more stronger than them with ulterior motives for us, it's trap. It's interesting how these moids aren't saying that they'll just cover up and *poof* harrassment gone, or they'll just pick a nice guy & they'll be okay. MaIes know the net negative they are towards women.

MaIes know that childbirth is a painful process & what do they do? Demand it happens and make it even MORE painful for women. MaIes that impregnate women do not love or care for them. Pregnancy itself is dangerous & sometimes lethal, often comes with a range of health issues, to cause someone to be in that condition especially in a environment where abortions are illegal is reckless & unloving. Now imagine how sinister & full of hatred one has to be to impregnate someone and abuse them on top of that. Many women risk their health & lives to reproduce with a Y and they get abused by said Y instead of being taken care of. Deranged.

Realising that maIes are aware of the evil they inflict is one of the things that radicalised me. It isn't a miscommunication or ignorance issue, their violence is intended. They want control. The cruelty is the point. Instead of wasting time & energy trying to change maIes or hope that they "understand" one day, focus on yourself & other women (who prioritise women). Moids aren't oblivious to female pain they enjoy it. A lot of women treat maIe evil like it's a mistake on maIes part but it's calculated terrorism. I know that this will go over many womens heads as they refuse to hold strong negative sentiments about moids as a collective so if you're not a woman like that, take this post as a sanity check. You aren't crazy, it isn't all in your head.

[webtomo]

While I am optimistic about Tomodachi Life: Living The Dream and will probably be buying it and playing it regardless of anything, there are a few things that kinda potentially concern me about the game. I assume most of these will be addressed at some point in the future, but I want to run through them real quick.

1 - The "New Horizons" problem.

Though I did play a lot of New Horizons when it came out and did thoroughly enjoy it, it is undeniable that the game is held back by a number of flaws. Most notably, the fact that they significantly stripped back a number of features (especially near the time of release) as well as the general "softening" of the game. Now, don't get me wrong, New Horizons is far from a bad game. But many things sort of hold me back from considering it the definitive Animal Crossing experience, especially after coming off of New Leaf/Welcome Amiibo. I do really enjoy the customization of the game, but in many ways it almost feels like they had forgone things like villagers personalities and their autonomy in order to make that happen. Not to mention the fact that many key elements of the series were not in the game at all at launch, and were instead added in later updates. I am hoping that at the very least, the team behind Living The Dream will be able to learn from the negative aspects of New Horizons. Tomodachi Life is a series that, in part, is made by the randomness of every social interaction and is way more heavily focused on social interaction than Animal Crossing as a whole is. So with that in mind, I do hope that they don't entirely drop the ball in that regard and can present us with something interesting. Another big aspect of Tomodachi Life is relationships and the drama that the islanders get themselves into, so I hope that they allow for those things to continue to be relevant in this entry without dampening the personalities of the islanders.

2 - Gay Marriage.

I think most people know about this by now, but back when Tomodachi Life originally came out a controversy sprung about, named the Miiquality movement. This movement was centered around making Nintendo acknowledge and allow gay couples to exist in Tomodachi Life, since it was one of the only games in the life simulation genre to not allow it. Nintendo responded by claiming that they would promise to include it in a potential sequel, since it was too late for them to change anything in the original Tomodachi Life for 3DS. Now, this is a net good thing, and I and many other have been asking for this for a long time. However, I am somewhat worried that for whatever reason, they do something to work around the gay marriage thing. It honestly would probably be kind of stupid for them to do this, but I can very easily picture a reality where they forgo the entire existing relationship system and replace it with something else, maybe something like the Miitopia system or something. But honestly, at that point, it would just be easier to allow gay marriage outright since the Miitopia relationship system was the reason that game was marked as an 18+ title in Russia and Nintendo seemingly had no issues with releasing the game there despite it. Nowadays, we live in 2025. There is no reason for them to not include it at this point. Tomodachi Life for 3DS released in 2013 in Japan and 2014 everywhere else, which predated the legalization of gay marriage in the United States and a number of other places in which the game released, and is still not fully legal to this day in Japan (but is pretty close to potential legalization at the time of writing). Nowadays, Nintendo seems more open to the idea of having visibly queer characters in their games, for instance the Fire Emblem series allows you to be gay in most of their modern releases. Just last year, the Paper Mario: The Thousand Year Door remake officially canonized trans Vivian, so I do think the option is still on the table.

3 - Scale and design.

The trailer we have seen shows some already significant design changes in this game compared to the previous two, which honestly I do think looks decent and I have positive thoughts on the art direction as a whole. However with any big new changes, there are bound to be some rough points. The flatness of the island we have seen is a little weird, which I assume may be related to a potential building feature, in which case is fine, but in many ways honestly feels like a visual downgrade from the 3DS version. Albeit we have not seen too much so far regarding the appearance of the island, and if island customization is a thing then that could potentially negate that issue entirely. However, a bigger concern of mine is the scale of the island itself. I am somewhat worried now that since each islander is living in a little cabin instead of an apartment, that the amount of Miis you are able to add will be limited. This isn't entirely a deal breaker necessarily, however I think most people would agree that it would be extremely disappointing if the game forces you to limit the amount of people on your island arbitrarily. I think if they were to cut down the amount of Miis per island, a reasonable minimum should be at least 50. Ideally I would prefer if the cap of 100 Miis was still a thing, since its a pretty reasonable number and I would be happy if they even allowed for more than that. Though if they do decide to limit the islanders to a smaller number, then I think it would honestly kill a lot of the hype for this game, since a big aspect of Tomodachi Life is the broadness of interactions possible between many islanders at a time. The Switch is more powerful than the 3DS so I am hoping they at least have some way around this issue, but the Switch isn't necessarily a powerhouse to begin with, so we will see how that pans out.

With all of that being said, I am still very excited for this game. I imagine future news will address some of these issues, but for now I guess we will just have to wait and see what happens. I will continue to post more about Living The Dream as more news presents itself.

[gayerthanevertbh]

competitor - training season pt. 1

natasha romanoff masterlist | series masterlist | navigation

summary: you were a fierce competitor who aspired to be the top female tennis player in the world, and there is no way you can compete with the famous natasha romanoff on the tennis court. every time she volunteered to coach you, there was a condition: to sleep with her. with this routine, both of you grew closer than ever. however, another woman had already taken her place in court before you could even see her. game, set, match. who will you choose? natasha weakens you, but louise jones revives you.

warnings: natasha being extremely seductive, mentions of sex, and manipulative natasha - minors dni

notes: this story is probably my favorite since i could say it's very well written but enjoy x

Whoosh!

That was the initial sound that sparked my passion for tennis. It is all about the way players approach the game and their level of enthusiasm when hitting the ball. It captivates me to the point where I could sit and watch tennis matches all day if I had to. I lean back with a Coke in one hand and inhale deeply, taking in the scent of the outdoors. Then, following a brief interval, an additional whoosh! was produced. With every missed shot, MJ's grip on the racket tightened as she stood on the tennis court. She stared at the net, frustration written all over her face as sweat glistened on her forehead. Usually she was so calm, but tonight she felt like she was being betrayed with every serve and return. I sympathized with the other players as I watched from the sidelines. Something was obviously wrong since her movements had become stiff and jerky, replacing her customary grace. Today, the game served as more than simply a pastime; it served as a battlefield for whatever was bothering her.

“Thirty, love.”

“Fuck!” I felt a chill run down my spine as I overheard MJ furiously hurling her racket across the court. When I think of MJ, I picture an optimistic, self-assured, and cheerful person who uses very few profanity words. I suppose she did not hit the ball properly because this is the first time I have heard it. 

MJ was defeated when her last serve went slightly outside the line. As the umpire's call resounded throughout the quiet court, Michael Jackson's shoulders lowered in surrender. With a fake smile, she approached the net and held out her hand to her opponent. Her expression of sportsmanship was masking the annoyance and despair I could see in her eyes from where I was standing on the sidelines. It was hard to see as her once-bubbly confidence crumbled and was replaced with a worn-out acceptance of her loss. I wanted to soothe her as she turned away from the net, but I didn't know how to say it. 

MJ didn’t win.

“30, 40.”

I got up and went over to MJ, who was slumped over on the bench after the game, because he looked beat. As she chugging away with all her might, she grabbed the water bottle from my hand and gave it to her. "Something is not right," I said.

“Damn right,” she said as she threw the bottle out of the way. “Fuckin’ Garcia did it all. I was close, so close!”

“I think there’s something wrong with your leg.”

She slowly shifted her gaze to me and emitted a fake laugh. “If there was something wrong with my leg, then I wouldn’t play in the first place.��

As we sat down next to her on the bench, I let out a sigh and watched as the court became increasingly silent as everyone left. After that, I told her the truth while turning to look her in the eyes. Denying it while continuing to wipe off her perspiration, she shakes her head. One thing that should be known about MJ is that she possesses an unwavering sense of pride, particularly when it comes to tennis. So it was; she was supposedly one of New York's top young female players. Perhaps she was feeling overwhelmed by her family's expectations that she excel as a player or that her argument with Jason had a negative impact on her mood today. She refuses to acknowledge that there is a problem with her. Like her, I aspired to be the best at what I do; she is confident in her abilities. 

“Are you coming later at my place?” I asked. 

“I don’t know; Jason wants to have dinner with me. He said that he got me a new coach.”

“Oh?” As I observed her rise to her feet, an arch formed in my eyebrow. “It must be nice to finally get a new one. Clint wasn’t so great, I assume?”

MJ shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know; yeah, maybe.”

“Is there something wrong? I hate to push your buttons—”

“It’s just embarrassing, Y/N,” she says with a loud groan. “My parents were watching me! Now they’re going to tell me that I need to do better, I have to be better.”

After a brief moment of silence, MJ spun around to give me a mischievous smile. “What about you, Ms. Rogers? Aren’t you going to train for today?”

I shook my head. “No, I don’t have a coach. Besides, I’m too tired for today. I’ll probably do some drills tomorrow morning.”

"Well, if you need anything, just send me a message. You know I’m just one call away, Y/N. I can hire you a coach if that’s what you want.”

"You have been there for me through thick and thin; I am doing fine," I told her, burying my nose in her neck and embracing her tightly. “Let me know what happens with Jason.”

I parked the car by the curb and silenced the radio, squinting as I thought about the game from earlier in the day. If I have to be the best, I have to do more training, I thought to myself with a loud sigh coming out of my mouth. I was a huge tennis fanatic as a kid and used to binge-watch matches on TV. In particular, the tennis legend Natasha Romanoff, who was a friend of my father's. I climbed out of the vehicle, secured the door, and made my way inside my home. Just as I was about to make my way to the kitchen, I heard the patio door open. I peeked out of the picture and saw my dad and his friend Natasha enjoying some orange juice and sandwiches. Seeing her makes my heart race; it is almost a wake-up call. 

Whenever I saw her on TV, I felt an instant crush on her. I mean, who could resist Natasha Romanoff's allure?

Just as I was ready to leave, my father's voice reached my ears. “Y/N, you’re home! Why don’t you join me and Natasha for some snacks?”

I walked out of the house and waved to Natasha, who looked even more menacing despite her calm demeanor. I can feel her stare crawl against my skin, tightening my throat. “Hi, Nat.”

With a deep, rough voice, she says, "Hello, darling," and removes the cigarette from her full lips. “Did you train today?”

“No, I just watched MJ’s game today.”

"MJ, Mj," she muttered to herself, possibly trying to recall who MJ actually is. Her words trailed off after that. She grinned and turned her head back to face me. “Carter Jones’ daughter? I’m surprised that she plays.”

“She’s a huge fan of you,” I said with a giddy voice. And so am I. “Have you been visiting Carter?” She took a drag from her cigarette as I poured myself a glass of orange juice and took a seat next to my father. 

“No, I haven’t. We’re sort of in a thin line right now.”

“Is that so?” my father asked. 

She comments, "Susan and I were not going to work in the first place," bringing up Carter's spouse. She and Susan were a couple in the past, as my father told me. I must have been so young to have forgotten that she was with Susan. “How’s MJ? Still hotheaded?”

I nodded with a small smile on my face. “Still very hotheaded.”

She blew the smoke from her mouth and looked at me silently. The atmosphere grew more intense the longer she stared at me. “I see. How old are you now, hon?”

“I just turned 22.”

“In college, I assume?”

“Yes, I study at Standford.”

With a devilish smile, Natasha gives my father a wink. “She’s following your footsteps.”

He pats on my shoulder as he lets out a squeezed laugh. “I didn’t force her to go there, for your information. She even begged me to let her in!”

“Dad, stop—”

“Have you gotten yourself a coach, Y/N?” My throat was getting even drier, and Natasha asked, licking her teeth and pushing her used cigarette into the ashtray. Given that I have not been able to locate a suitable coach in London, this was one of the more difficult questions. In addition, I am not even sure if tennis is the sport I want to play. To be honest, I was only intelligent in terms of academics. Apart from that, though, who am I really meant to be? I was obsessed with tennis; it was my life. But if I am not good enough, how can I love tennis?

“Uh, no. I haven’t.”

Leaning back against the chair, she smacked her lips after finishing her glass of orange juice. “I would want to coach you, but I’ve been very busy these days.”

As she extended her hand to hold my hand, I felt my cheeks flushed—not literally. I laughed nervously and scratched my arm. 

“T-that’s fine, Natasha. I know how busy you are.”

“I’m only here for a couple of weeks. I’d stay here even more if I’m not being called back to New York.”

I got up, kissed my father's cheek, and said in a hushed voice that I was going to bed early. I smiled courteously at Natasha as I turned to face her again, and he nodded and squeezed my arm. “I’ll take a nap, see you guys later.”

Before I left the garden, she gave me one last smile. The more I hear my footsteps, the more my heart races, and I return to my room as if nothing had happened. Is she aware that she is forcing me? She has always drew me in, even as a young girl. She seemed like a sister to me at first, but as I kept seeing her on magazine covers, my admiration for her beauty grew. As the coach I used to have before said, love means zero. 

Love means nothing. 

When I woke up, it was already late at night. At the moment, I sighed and headed for the kitchen, grabbing my bottle of water. As I poured myself a cold glass of water, I opened the refrigerator and discovered a container of food that they had most likely eaten at dinner. I put it on the counter. I started to consider asking MJ to find me a coach before the next week began while I was eating there by myself. However, I was astounded to see Natasha emerge from her room and make her way to the kitchen.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were up.” After Natasha brought it up, she grabbed my glass and drank nearly half of it. 

“I must’ve been so tired that I forgot dinner,” I chuckled to myself. “Sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You didn’t.”

She took a big breath and peered at me with her dark green eyes, observing that my red polka-dot shorts were paired with simply a tank top. Grinning, she moved on, opening the refrigerator and filling my glass with water. “Sorry, I was thirsty.”

“It’s okay.”

I caught her wearing a tight black shirt and gray leg-hugging jogging pants as we stood there silently. Even at night, her appearance was ethereal. For fifteen years, I was younger than her; in fact, I was practically two decades younger. Maybe she would give me a chance if I were older or if she were younger. 

But I can’t look at her that way; I just can’t.

"It is cold," she remarks once more in that deep voice, glancing out the large window in front of us. “Why are you wearing that?”

“I prefer the cold,” I replied. 

“Well, I think you should wear something more... Less revealing.”

Was she critiquing my choice of dress? Though I was confused, I refrained from showing her my feelings for fear that she would take offense. I definitely did not want to witness Natasha becoming enraged. When I was younger, I recall witnessing an argument between my father and her regarding tennis. She threatened him by stomping her foot on the ground and hurling her glass, causing her to grab his neck. They never talked about what had happened that day, so I have no idea.

“Do you not like the way I dress?”

She took a breath and shook her head. “I think if you wore something like that in public, I’d be angry.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, if you haven’t been aware, I’ve been protective when it comes to you. You are Steve’s daughter, after all. Of course, I have the right,” She leaned in closer to me, shrugging her shoulders. I could feel my head being tickled by her breath. “Have you gotten yourself a coach?”

“I-I was supposed to call MJ, but you distracted me.”

“Is that so, darling?”

I took another swallow and found myself drawn to her once more. This was wrong, I thought to myself. This is just so wrong.

“I actually have a proposal for you, Y/N. But you can turn it down if you’d like.”

My heart skipped a beat as I felt her hand slide the strand of hair behind my ear and smile. I tried to look away as quickly as possible, but I was unable to. I simply could not stop staring at her, absorbing every second of it into my being. 

Was she attracted to me too?

“I would coach you to be one of the best players out there if you return something.”

I furrowed my eyebrows, trying not to smile from the excitement. “W-what is it?”

Natasha licked her bottom lip and cocked her head slightly to the side, as though she was tempted to kiss me. But she leaned closer until I could feel her breath on my ear. 

“I will coach you if you agree to sleep with me.”

What?

“Huh—”

“That’s right,” she says again, but this time it becomes more devious. “You heard me.”

My whole body tensed up, and my cheeks flushed. It is unbelievable that someone of her caliber, Natasha Romanoff, would ask me to have a sexual relationship if I would just allow her to mentor me. Though I was aware of my desperation, was this really what I wanted? I stepped back, trying to get my bearings. If I were to sleep with her, on the off-hand basis, I would also get to train under one of the greatest female tennis players of all time. She was aware of the way in which she was treating me; she could discern that I harbored feelings for her.

“But my dad would know—”

“He will never know, sweetheart.” With a cooing voice, she interrupts me and puts both her hands on my waist. “We only get to know this. No one will know that you’re whoring yourself out for me, baby girl—I mean, no one will know that we’re sleeping together if ever.”

“Whoring? Myself?” I let out a tiny laugh as I shook my head in response, as if this were all a joke to me. “You’re kidding, Nat. Right?”

“Do you want to be the best?” Natasha asked in a demeaning way, and I quickly felt the need to stop talking. It was best if I had said nothing at all first. “Then if I were you, you should take this as an opportunity.”

“How is this an opportunity if I’m going to let you use me?”

“My, my, raising your voice at me, are you now?” With a quiet giggle, she made a threat, her gaze fixed on mine. She put her hand on my forearm and brought it up to her navel. “I’d shut that mouth if I was going to sleep with you tonight. But you know what, I’ll let you have time to think about it.”

Natasha took my arm and walked away, whispering, “Goodnight, darling. I need an immediate answer starting tomorrow.”

Something was leaking out of my core as soon as she left me in the kitchen by myself. I was so mad at myself and that she would turned me on that I squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe I would be a normal girl if she were not enticing me with her tonight. However, the truth is that I would like to open up to her. I’d do anything for her. 

It was Natasha Romanoff; who could compete?

[cupcakeslushie]

Happy holidays!

It’s hard to say how Donnie would react in every circumstance, especially an AU, which ya know, is where I kinda live lol. But even with my EW Donnie growing up with different experiences, there are moments where i actively want him to be different, but moments i have to sit and think about how he’s still the same lovable purple guy.

Canon Donnie is such a people pleaser. Donnie’s love language is clearly acts of service/gift giving, creating inventions to make the family’s lives easier…and when they don’t, Donnie tends to either go into a denial mode, refusing any criticism, or fix it mode.

He can’t handle the idea of just dropping a project—not until he has no other choice. When Shelldon literally destroyed the lair and nearly killed them all, Donnie insisted he could improve him. When he saw the billboard for Purple Game 2, he was still 100% invested in getting that game, despite knowing full well how much damage his obsession caused, and that it was a ploy created by the Purple Dragons. When April went to Witch Town, instead of him, he took that as the highest insult to his talents. If Donnie’s got a worm in his brain for something, he’s not going to let anything stop him—sometimes even, to the detriment of his family’s health.

He loves them, obviously, but he can still be very self involved, and it often blinds him to how he’s hurting them. I personally think this comes from having Raph and Leo always there to be his safety net/older siblings. If something goes awry, they’ll take care of it, Donnie is the results guy, not the plan guy. I see a lot of fanon Donnie taking on everything— taking charge in a emergency—and I’m not ragging, I even enjoy seeing that trope of Donnie working himself to death, doing it all, when it’s written very well—but in canon, Donnie relies a lot on Raph and Leo as team leaders for support and guidance. I think if something were to happen to both of them, he’d need some time to panic and pull himself together. He trusts their judgment (only ever pushing back with a few follow up questions) and backs them up. They come up with the plan, and he figures out how to implement it, or just follows along until his intelligence (or sarcasm) is needed. The times we do see Donnie take charge, he has zero patience for it lol (see Mind Meld). He will stand back, if he doesn’t have much to do and snark about what’s going wrong.

If it’s a fight situation, Donnie’s usually not the one to charge in headfirst. In both Shredder fights (and a few others), he allows the others to go in swinging before he takes a go, and then right off the bat, he pulls out some pretty big final moves (whether they worked as final moves, well 😬) so I think Donnie tends to leave the super physical stuff to the other three, unless it’s a one vs one, or if he can see they need help. He IS a great fighter, that’s for damn sure, but I think if he can go last, and make it into a big show, he has more fun with it.

There is the attention seeking, seeing as he’s a middle child. This is where I get into heavy head canon territory…

We can maybe, safely assume from canon, that Splinter gives Donnie the least amount of attention. I do think the Splinter attention goes-> Mikey, Leo (tho most of that attention is negative from being reprimanded lol), Raph, then Donnie. And while Leo tells himself the negative attention he gets from being a little shit is the same as any attention, I think Donnie desperately needs positive attention, and someone to validate all his creations.

I hope any of that made sense. I’m not the best at writing down my thoughts on a character’s motivations and personality lol. I’m mostly going off vibes when I write.

[utilitycaster]

Could you give your full thoughts on the Caduceus answer from C2e2? Very curious to hear them

Sure! So to give a quick summary if anyone hasn't watched it, the question was "How would Caduceus and Pike respond to Asha and Trist from Downfall, seeing as they are their gods." Taliesin's answer was that Caduceus would struggle with it and his response would ultimately be that his practice is much more about nature and the ecosystem and natural order than the Wildmother herself, so he'd have issues with his god but ultimately maintain his practice.

First off, I like this, as a person who is religiously observant in many ways but philosophically agnostic; maintaining the balance of nature and providing a means of burial and grieving are important, regardless of whether there is a figurehead representing them. I also think this means that the loss of the Wildmother as a more active presence is something Caduceus will similarly adapt to, as will many other people, ie, the gods being mortal will certainly affect people deeply but the institutions involved will, as we even saw a bit in the C3 finale, remain. This is both true to life, in which multiple religious institutions exist and even contradict and conflict to the point of bloodshed, and there is to my opinion no hard proof of any deity's existence; and also indicates once again that lessening the presence of the gods won't actually fix any real-world political problems and might make some of them worse; on some level it's the kindest solution to the gods and Predathos and immediately emotionally devastating but ultimately merely a mildly negative to neutral effect for the actual people of Exandria and Ruidus other than the jealous types who are now glad that no one can have the toy firetruck if they can't have it.

The second is that it's very funny because Taliesin also described Asha as very much his idea of the Wildmother Caduceus worships! She is violent and hungry and largely merciless; it's just he doesn't like to see what that actually means when she is a person and not an abstract anthropomorphized force! This is unsurprising, by which I mean it's great and entirely in character. Caduceus is really often uncomfortable with the real-world implications or what happens when the tenets of the natural world meet society and people - which is also fun, because that's the whole point of the Wildmother and the Lawbearer's romance and conflict. Caduceus tries to use the idea of nature's presence to get Fjord to stop lying, to which Fjord points out nature deceives all the time. Caduceus is very much a contradiction; a deeply civilized if not very socialized person whose nature-based practice is heavily focused on a very specific facet of other people. He runs a graveyard! I'd also add that for all he says nature is violent, Caduceus late-game is getting very tired of the violence. The Clays also deal with one of the least violent aspects; the slow decay of a ground burial, vs. the Stones and the visceral (quite literally) destruction of air burial or the Dusts and chucking one's body into a volcano. To compare with Fjord, Fjord's deal is "no, I love the sea as a safe place and a home, and also because it can kill you in a thousand different ways without a shred of mercy" and embraces that aspect of the Wildmother (as well as a comfort with violence in society to a greater end).

I would also add that I feel this does also underscore the complete incoherence of Bells Hells' positions at the end (vs, Caduceus feeling inconsistent/a little hypocritical in a way that feels very true to life for people, who are contradictory and a little hypocritical, and wonderfully in character!): we have here a devotee of a god - a devotee who, I would argue, is truly trying to provide a net good to the world and is not engaging in oppression or colonization in any capacity - who both would have been very uncomfortable with his gods' actions in Downfall and distanced himself, and also (per another answer from Taliesin in I think the wrap-up) believes the choice to have the gods take on mortal form is the kindest choice - without that context. It really asks the question "did suppressing the Downfall story accomplish anything than putting Liliana at risk, in the end, or was the motivation behind a lot of the actions Bells Hells took ultimately some kind of weird scrupulosity-driven behavior that didn't actually have any consistent principles behind it other than 'I hope I'm not a bad person', which is an ass-backwards way to behave."

[gamesetattach]

In Sync - Part 1

Jannik Sinner x Reader As up and coming a tennis player this fiery reader is, she needs to become a more well-rounded player to really get up there in the rankings... and her coach has this genius idea for her to get exposure by playing doubles. Even Jannik and his team thinks its genius... so he gets in on it too... And the way it unfolds a surprise to everyone... Uh, also, in this world, non-doubles-focused players playing mixed doesn’t negatively impact the mixed doubles draw or actual players and everything is a beautiful and fair!! Part two, Part three

---

For weeks, you’d been working on your baseline game.

Your coach—Chris, a sharp-eyed former analyst turned player-whisperer—had insisted it was the next step in your evolution. You were already playing top-ten-level tennis, and most of the tour had their eyes on you as the next to tear through the ranks. You’d come to be known for your untouchable net game, your drop shots elusive to even the most formidable of your opponents—always careful, reactive, and unpredictable. 

But to truly contend with the best of the best, you needed more firepower from the back of the court. A heavier serve. More control from the baseline. 

"You need to flush out the rest of your game," he’d said after your narrow third-round win in Toronto. "Let’s get you in doubles at the next tournament—force you to challenge your reactions off return a bit. Build your movement patterns, and give you more reps on serve under pressure."

You didn’t argue, despite being apprehensive about experimenting in doubles when you never had before. You’d moved up 70 spots in the rankings since working with him—he’d been right about everything so far.

And after your easy agreement, the only next step was to find you a worthy doubles partner. Chris was dead set on scouting a player whose game could push you and complement your strengths, and you knew he was always one to exceed both your expectations.

But there was no way you could have predicted that he’d come back with Jannik Sinner.

---

You were sitting on a bench for practice when Chris entered just slightly late, looking a little stunned.

"Okay, so—this is a little out of left field," he said, handing you a ball can. "I just ran into Darren Cahill—you know? Sinner’s coach?”

You nodded in response. You vaguely remembered the name, but had no idea where your coach was going.

“We worked together at ESPN back in the day. Caught up for a second.” He continued, running a hand through his hair. “I got to explaining the whole doubles plan for you—how it’s meant to help you build your baseline game—and Darren was… Well, let’s say intrigued…"

"...Yeah?" You blinked at him when he trailed off without picking back up. “I don’t get it, is that the story?... Was that him complimenting your coaching method or…?”

“Just listen.” Chris flicked your visor off at your mocking tone. “He said he hadn’t ever thought about doubles as a way to make gameplay more holistic before, and then…”

“Oh my—.” You threw your hands up humorously as he paused yet again. “And you say I’m dramatic.”

He ignored your antics and carried on, apparently deciding that was enough suspense. “And then Sinner walked over and joined. Darren explained the approach to him and they kinda exchanged this look, and then he just—”

Now your coach threw his hands up in the air. You stared up at him, shaking your head in confusion. “He just what, Chris?”

Chris placed his hands on his hips, blowing air from his lips. “He offered. Just like that.”

“... What?” You were still lost. “Offered what? Who did?”

Chris moved to place his hands on your shoulders, bending down slightly. “Jannik Sinner offered. He offered to play as your doubles partner.”

You almost choked. 

"Jannik Sinner?” You moved to stand, throwing Chris’s hands off your shoulders. “Jannik fucking Sinner? Number one in the world?"

“Is going to play mixed doubles with you, yes. This coming tournament." Chris nodded at you slowly, like he was still wrapping his head around it himself, and all you could do was stare at him.

"I guess he likes playing doubles, but just doesn’t often get the opportunity. And after, Darren was saying our plan actually could make a lot of sense for Jannik too—his volleys need work in the way your serves and baseline shots do." He offered some sort of explanation, but your mouth was still agape.

"But we’ve never even spoken to each other."

"He knows who you are."

You shook your head, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. "He must really want to work on his net game."

Chris chuckled. "So it’s a yes, then?"

“Of course it’s a yes. Let’s do it.”

---

The Canadian Open arrived fast.

D.C. had been a blur. Hot courts, gritty points, and matches stacked back to back—exactly the kind of momentum you needed this time of year. But it had also meant your schedule was packed to the brim. No room for any activities or even thoughts outside of your game play, and so even the anticipation of your impending mixed doubles campaign fell onto the backburner—as it often would for players who focused on singles.

Jannik, on the otherhand, had made a deep run at Wimbledon a couple months before. He’d made it all the way to the final. After all the grass stains and pressure and heartbreak, he’d chosen to rest after, skipping the post-Wimbledon wave most players dived into. No Atlanta. No D.C. Just a full reset. 

And the Canadian Open was his return, and it was safe to say the doubles hadn’t really been on his mind up until then either.

So, no, you hadn’t trained together. Even your teams had barely exchanged messages outside of some scheduling logistics and a couple polite acknowledgements. There were no chemistry checks, no practice sets. Not even a five-minute hit around the net.

There just hadn’t been the time.

The mixed doubles partnership very much was—and was always going to be—a massive leap of faith.

---

Match day had its own rhythm. Especially when you had your singles match and a doubles debut to account for.

Your team was already two steps ahead—your coach had coordinated the time slot, your physio had your warm-up planned down to the minute, and someone had already dropped your racquets off for stringing. You’d done your pre-practice mobility in the fitness center, eaten your usual carb-heavy breakfast in the player restaurant, and checked in with your support staff. And Jannik’s team was just as efficient—Simone had confirmed everything with Chris the night before.

So now, for the first time ever, both of your teams were now standing just outside the practice block, together, chatting while the two of you got ready to begin.

When you arrived at the court block for your 45-minute warm up slot—a quick turn around after the singles round you’d won just earlier that morning—you were already a little tight on time and energy. Not tense, exactly, just... worn. 

Jannik was already on court when you walked up.

He was shadow-swinging near the baseline, looking well-rested. Shirt fresh, not sweating just yet, only beginning to break in his movements.

He caught your entrance out of the corner of his eye and turned toward you. He gave you a brief nod and smile as you set your stuff down, before his face went back to that famously unreadable expression.

You dropped your bag beside the bench and straightened, suddenly very aware of your own posture. You weren’t usually shy. But this felt different. Jannik wasn’t just any player. And despite your rising success, it was hard not to feel the weight of stepping into his space.

"How are you?" he asked once you made your way, his voice polite and welcoming.

"Good. Sorry I’m a little late, I’ve been running around," you replied, laughing a little at yourself. “How are you doing?”

“No problem—congrats on the win.” He said evenly, shaking your hand after you’d approached, it was firm and not too long. “I’m good, it’s nice to finally meet you."

"Thank you," you said, dropping your hand. "And yes, yeah, same here. Been a long time coming."

He offered a little chuckle in agreement, but a lull in conversation came soon after. 

A beat passed, and you pressed your lips into a line at the stiffness.

"Shall we?" You broke the awkward silence with a nod toward the court. 

He nodded, comfortable again now that tennis was the topic at hand, and moved to one side. "Let’s warm up groundstrokes first?"

You hummed in agreement, and he started to back up to the baseline while spinning his racket in circles with one hand. You stayed put for a second, flipping your racket into your non-dominant hand to tug a hair tie from your wrist. Then you wedged your racket gently between your thighs as you reached up to pull up your hair, twisting it up quickly, fingers moving on autopilot, elbows lifted high. 

The move revealed the curve of your nape and the afternoon light catching on your jawline, and Jannik, still only a few paces away, watched the whole motion unfold like it had caught him mid-step. 

His gaze followed the line of movement from behind—the way your thighs held the racket in place and the slow lift of your arms as you gathered your hair, exposing the length of your neck, the quiet strength in your posture. He tracked the moment with an almost unconscious focus, eyes lingering on the curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth as you pulled the tie taut.

His stare wasn’t intrusive, it wasn’t even intentional. He just… he couldn’t seem to turn away.

But when you glanced up and behind, briefly, his eyes darted away like he’d only just realized he’d been looking. He cleared his throat and turned—shaking the image from his head as he gave you space when you walked over to join him on the baseline.

As he suggested, you two started with groundstrokes. Side stepping back and forth down the line as you returned the balls hit by your coaches from the other side of the net. And, even as you moved on to different sequences of the warm up, both you and Jannik worked with and around each other with a certain rigidity. 

It wasn’t that either of you were cold to each other, but the quiet between you had a chill to it. Not exactly awkward, either. Just measured and unfamiliar. 

You thought you could even feel him holding back—careful in the way he didn’t say too much, didn’t push to make small talk. And you matched his restraint, reigning in your usual forwardness—not wanting to seem overeager or, worse, underprepared.

Yet, somehow it almost felt like, under the surface, there was a spark of something there... 

Attraction, yes. On your part towards him, at least. But you always knew that—you'd always been a fan in more ways than one. And so you knew to shake away the thoughts as soon as they came. You couldn’t afford to get distracted and ruin your first impression.

But you could’ve sworn that every time you glanced at where he was standing on court, he was already tracking your movement—you wrote it off as him studying you as a tennis partner, and you tried your best to do the same for him. 

You worked through cross-courts, then volleys. Quick transitions at the net. No one said much, but your rhythm was solid. And after a while, you started to learn him and his moves better. Every time he adjusted his swing or repositioned after a rally, you mirrored without thinking. No instruction, just well-timed instinct.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, you started thinking to yourself as the time went on.

When the session wound down, your respective coaches stepped in with clipboards and towels, casually breaking down a few tactical things. Where to serve wide to give you time to rush the net. How to bait a hit without revealing it. Chris spoke mostly to you, Darren and Simone mostly to Jannik—both groups huddled with your respective teams, but not far from each other on court. 

As Darren explained something about court positioning, Jannik's eyes drifted. Just momentarily, nothing rude or intentional, because the sight of you standing just slightly staggered behind Simone distracted him. Jannik gazed past Simone’s shoulder to settle on you as you leaned in for Chris’s instruction, towel looped around your neck, hair re-tied up haphazardly and sweat beading at your hairline. You weren’t looking at him, and it was something about that focus of yours that made his falter.

All the while, unbeknownst to either of you, the coaches caught the look, your own coach’s eyes tracking Jannik’s brief glance over. Darren and Simone both turned to follow Jannik’s gaze, flashing a knowing smile to Chris before exchanging a smirk between each other—one of those quiet, veteran acknowledgments that didn’t need words. And as the time for feedback wrapped up, the coaches knocked shoulders about it once more when you and Jannik made your way to the bench for water, with shared half-smiles and a small shake of their heads.

You both sat down on the bench wordlessly, without such cheer, draining your water, catching your breath, bouncing your knees...

And the silence stretched.

His knee brushed yours for a second—subtle, fleeting. Maybe accidental, maybe not. But neither of you moved away. If anything, it felt like he angled a little closer, elbows on knees in a way that made the bench feel smaller. You stole a brief glance at his profile, only to find he was already looking at you. He looked away quickly, but you saw the flush just beneath his ears.

You turned your gaze forward as well and exhaled through your nose, but the corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. And when you reached for your towel again, it was slow and careful, like speeding up might make the moment burst. 

Every shift of his body, every inhaled breath—it all felt amplified. He still hadn't said anything, and neither had you. But the charge between you on that bench could only come from the mutual, acute awareness of how close you were sitting—something passing between you in the silence. A low hum neither of you acknowledged, but both of you heard.

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, cap pulled low over his brow. You sat upright, towel tucked beneath your chin, the water bottle cooling in your palm, and your arms just barely brushed when he adjusted just slightly to turn his head back to look up at you.

Capping his bottle, he spoke, the first to break the silence. "You played in Washington, no?"

You nodded, a little startled to be addressed amidst the blatant tension. "Yeah. Only finished up three days ago. It was non-stop in D.C."

“I saw you made it to the semis.” He hummed in acknowledgment. "It was a great run, beautiful drop shots.”

You looked at your lap with a bashful smile at his words, mouthing a thank you though no sound came out. It stayed quiet for another beat, and he took the initiative to break it once more.

“This is my first one back, I took some time off after Wimbledon." He said, just because, as if no one had noticed the World No. 1’s brief absence. 

"Good call.” You glanced over. "Yeah, that final was... a lot."

He offered a tight smile, and you didn’t press.

Another pause and, for a second, you let yourself really look at him.

He reached up and pulled off his cap, running a hand through his flattened curls to shake them loose as you leaned forward to set his bottle back on the ground between his legs. You watched without meaning to—the slow way his fingers pushed through his hair, the way the curls clung damp to his forehead before falling back into their usual shape. 

It should have been a normal thing. Unremarkable. How many times had you watched your peers do the same?

But something about the motion, about the way he did it—something about him. It caught you.

Your eyes traced the line of his cheekbone, the shape of his mouth, the way his shirt clung to his back as he leaned forward. You noticed more than you meant to. Maybe more than you should have.

It was a subtle glance—nothing overt—but when your eyes flicked back to his, you found him already watching you.

That seemed to be a pattern, now.

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth flickered upwards, and his gaze glinted like he knew he’d seen more than you meant to reveal.

In an effort not to linger in getting caught, and to move past your subsequent, growing embarrassment, you broke this silence.

"Thanks for agreeing to this," you said, rushed and sheepish. "I know doubles probably wasn't on your radar."

“Ah, of course.” He gave you a crooked smile, and you willed yourself not to look at his lips. “I take it as a privilege. And my team and me—we think it will make improvements for me, too.”

“That’s the plan.” You screwed your own water bottle shut, giving him a smile back with a shrug of your shoulders. “But, I guess we’ll find out later today if it actually works out that way.”

“I guess we will.”

---

The sun had just started to dip behind the stands when you two were up for your first round to begin, and it cast a golden wash over the court as you and Jannik stood behind the entrance gate of the court, waiting for your names to be announced. 

Your warm up session with Jannik—your first meeting with Jannik—was only a handful of hours ago and now you were hoping forty minutes of light hitting, a bit of target serving, and the overwhelming tension between you two was enough to carry you through the first round. Doubles may not have been your main priority, and having Jannik beside you might have muddled your head, but that didn’t change the fact that you hated losing. You planned to play to win. You always did.

Jannik stood beside you, bouncing side to side slightly on the balls of his feet. He was focused and calm, and you seemed to absorb his energy without realizing, stretching out your shoulder one last time.

"You ready?" you asked, glancing sideways at him.

He nodded with a smile that widened when he spoke. "We’ll see."

“We’ll see?” You laughed, before turning your head back to face the gate. "That’s convincing."

He let out a breath of a laugh. "I mean... you said it before, at the warmup. We can only find out on the court, no?"

"It’s true." You glance back at him once more. “Even if we don’t manage to sync up, maybe it’ll be a fun disaster.”

You heard him echo your words to himself with a laugh as you stepped forward to exchange a polite nod and handshake with your opponents—a solid pair from France who had already played together before. Jannik joined beside you to do the same, giving them a quick smile and an easy smile, as you continued a little banter with them. 

It seemed the energy of doubles was a little lighter than the matches you’d played, but the bleachers surrounding the court still had that electric thrum. You could feel the pulse of the crowd as the walk-out music played, your names echoing through the speakers. The response to Jannik’s name was deafening, and your brows raised a bit when the cheers to yours wasn’t far off. In the time that had passed since this pair up was first established, since your initial disbelief, you’d forgotten how big a deal it was to be playing alongside someone of Jannik’s caliber. He seemed to sense your hesitation, and the resurgence of nerves, and he gave you a small, encouraging glance as you both waved to the fans and stepped onto the court.

Mixed doubles games were almost always played on the smaller courts on any tournament facility, but the sheer volume capable of even the smaller crowd seemed to close around you. All the pre-game procedures passed by like a blur. Jannik had to set a hand on your shoulder after the coin toss to pull you back in. You blinked back up at him before agreeing with his choice, the first service game was to be his.

Despite the serve not being a natural weapon of yours in game, the two of you settled into the match dynamic with surprising ease. You bounced the ball slowly at the baseline, breathing in the buzz of the stadium. On the first point, you landed a sharp kick serve out wide to the deuce side. The return came high and loopy, giving Jannik time to slide left and pounce on it with a clean forehand that thudded just inside the baseline. A one-two punch. Easy. Lucky.

Second point, you sliced the serve into the body. The returner tried to thread it down the middle, but you were already at the net, knees bent, eyes locked. With a firm backhand volley, you angled it short cross-court, well out of reach. You felt the crowd hum as you straightened. Jannik gave a subtle nod. No theatrics, just clear recognition—a stark difference from the usual displays you were known to put on, but typical for Jannik’s quiet celebrations.

At 30–0, the returner adjusted. You mixed in a flatter serve and got back into ready position quickly. The ball came hotter, dipping low. Jannik fell back to the baseline, ready to absorb pace, and you moved forwards to cover the empty front. The rally extended. Jannik played it cool, alternating heavy topspin with flatter drives, moving the opponents side to side. You hovered at the service line, reading their body language. At the first sign of hesitation, you darted in to poach—your signature backhand volley cut across the net to end the point.

And then, 40–0. You stepped up with confidence and tossed your serve high. The return clipped the tape and fell dead.

Game. Jannik and you tapped rackets in an easy and casual congratulations, and you shot a grin at your box as you registered the cheers of your team. Both you and Jannik had managed to turn every one of your serves into a point so far, a feat you were rarely able to do whilst alone—it was one of the weaker aspects of your game. So maybe doubles would help fix that, just as Chris had predicted.

Now the next service game belonged to Jannik and, as expected, his first serve was whipped past like a rocket. The second point, he kicked it out wide, drawing a stretch return that you intercepted cleanly mid-air and angled out of reach. The third went on to be a rally, playing longer this time. You kept tight at the net, as you did best, tracing the ball, ready for any flick or dip. He stayed deep, well behind the baseline, letting his forehand do the work, pushing the opponents until they just couldn’t return anymore. They hit the ball into the net.

Game.

Two games in, and you both knew exactly where to be—playing where you were most comfortable. You up front, cutting, reading, and pressing. And Jannik behind you, steady, strategic, and powerful. Those roles were defined and known, and they kept the rhythm sharp.

But then it was time to turn those roles upside down. After all, that’s what the whole doubles trial was supposed to experiment with anyways.

Your coaches had agreed from the start: this mixed doubles pairing wasn’t just about a fun variety, it was about sharpening your edges. Covering any weaknesses.

You needed more reps at the baseline. Jannik needed to get more comfortable at the net. And this game, with all its speed and improvisation, was proving to be the perfect environment for that.

And so the real fun, the real challenge, began. That had been the whole point, after all. 

It was early in the second set when you switched things up for a return game, Chris giving you the signal from the corner of your eyes. You dropped behind the baseline and Jannik crouched forward, shadowing the net.

And, immediately, things got messy.

The first point was a disaster. You were still adjusting to the angle, the depth, the speed of the serve from your new vantage point at the back. It came in flatter and faster than you expected—kicking off the line with a sharp bend that threw your timing. You moved to meet it too late, your weight still mid-transfer, and your strings caught it at an awkward angle. The ball skidded off your racket with a loud, resounding thwack and shot sideways, ricocheting into the sideline signage. A few gasps, and more than a couple laughs came from the crowd. You winced, and your hand came up to cover your mouth as it slowly grew into a disbelieving smile.

Jannik turned, raising an eyebrow over his shoulder with that careful mix of concern and dry humor, his own laughter bubbling underneath. "That was... different."

"Just–uh—” You let out a laugh and waved him off jokingly. “Just give me a second to settle in back here.”

But the next point, the origin of chaos just flipped from you to him. A short return floated to Jannik mid-court. He had time to set up for an easy volley, maybe too much time. He moved in, racket already back and wound up, clearly going for a statement shot. But instead of a measured finish, he flattened the racket and wound up too far. The ball exploded off his strings, he’d struck it with excessive power and it sailed high and long, landing well behind the baseline. 

An audible oof rippled through the crowd.

He stood there for a beat, looking at the spot where the ball had disappeared, and then placed a hand on his head in disbelief. He shook his head to himself as he retreated back to position, a smile of mild embarrassment gracing his lips.  

"I mean... that was definitely a shot." You called out, biting back a grin. “We’re trying to aim for the inside of the court, remember?”

"Ah, is that why there is a line there?” He looked at you with an exaggerated deadpan before breaking into a wide smile.

But you both shared a chuckle, coming together for a quick fist bump as if to say we’ll get it next time. 

And, after a few hiccups, you did. 

You both started to find your footing. You knew this was where the growth was meant to happen, well outside your comfort zone. Your coach’s voice echoed in your head, and you reminded yourself to enjoy the chaos—that’s when the good stuff begins.

On return, you lowered your center of gravity, starting to anticipate better. You began using your legs more effectively, letting the ball come to you instead of rushing it. One point, you got just enough on a forehand return to send it deep and off-kilter, and followed it up with a smooth cross-court drive that earned a quiet cheer from your box.

Jannik, in the meantime, let his own instincts adjust as well. Instead of trying to muscle through volleys, he started trusting his hands. He took pace off returns and played them deep with placement rather than force. 

And after one particular shot of his, things really started to spark. 

It was a brutal rally—long, twisting, each shot heavier than the last. The opponents were relentless, dragging you both side to side, changing pace, slicing low, lobbing high. Jannik stayed patient, blocking at the net with short steps and a lowered center of gravity. You kept feeding balls deep, looping them high to reset until finally, one of their forehands clipped the net cord and sat up just past the service box.

Jannik moved like he’d been waiting for it.

He lunged forward, knees bent, hands soft. The ball was dropping fast, low and spinning, but he met it gently, guiding it over the net with a feathered touch that felt almost impossibly delicate. It bounced just once and curled inward like a magnet to the sideline—the other side didn’t even get a chance to reach for it. 

You let out a gasp along with the crowd before they erupted in applause.

Ecstatic after witnessing such a point, you rushed him with full, unfiltered enthusiasm, practically bounding across the service box. Jannik looked up to you just as you reached him and his eyes widened, but he didn’t back away. You half-jumped into him and he let out a surprised laugh—your arms flinging loosely around his neck, racket still in hand. He held you easily, strong hands steadying your back. 

The crowd whooped, the energy spiking again. Jannik laughed into the side of your head, the both of you breathless from the exertion. You felt it in his chest. He was just as amped as you were, even if he was better at hiding it. 

The embrace lasted a second too long—maybe a few too long—before you remembered yourself. You stepped away with a dazed smile and sudden self-awareness, his cheeks red and your eyes wide.

"Come on," you said, putting an appropriate distance between the two of you again while reaching low to high five his hand that had just pulled away from your waist, your voice a little rough and giddy with passion. "That’s what I’m talking about."

He cleared his throat, but looked down with a crooked grin and a simple shrug. "I learn from you."

“Well you pick things up fast, then.” You couldn’t help but grin at his deflection and sweet humility. “Let’s hope I learn from you, too.” 

You returned to your places and, from there, the points got sharper. The initial unsteadiness gave way to grit and feel and, as Jannik improved before everyone’s eyes at the net, you started faring better than okay at the baseline—striking powerful, long shots back to your opponents. 

One of the points started with a wide serve that forced you off balance. You rushed back to hit a deep return to just barely stay in the point, and the opponents immediately pounced, turning defense into offense. The rally that followed was a blur of angles and pace—groundstrokes traded with growing ferocity, each shot tightening the margins.

Jannik tracked one down wide on his forehand, slicing it defensively cross-court. You recovered into position just in time to absorb a sharp backhand that skipped off the court, nudging it back with topspin.

And then the lob came.

High, deep, well-placed. Way over Jannik’s head.

But you didn’t hesitate.

Your legs were moving before you could register it. You sprinted back, racquet already raised. The ball dropped low and fast, teasing the baseline. You dropped your weight, coiled, and unleashed a blistering topspin forehand that screamed down the line—a clean winner.

The crowd stilled for a second. And then they were up on their feet, a wave of cheers following.

Jannik turned slowly from the net, lips parted, blinking like he hadn’t quite processed it. His mouth curled into a dopey, stunned grin, and he shook his head slightly, still looking at you like you'd just rewritten all the known laws of physics.

You smiled wide and threw your arms up, pandering the crowd, soaking in their energy as they roared louder.

You made your way up to Jannik to tap rackets, but he reached out a hand instead. Clapping his hand in yours with an impressed shake of his head. 

"That—" he started, voice hushed and oozing with admiration, "—was unreal."

And his hand was still on yours, thumb resting lightly against the back of your hand as the buzz of the crowd surged behind you. He seemed to realize it at the same time you did, blinking once like he’d just caught himself, and then the two of you gently pulled apart—both of your quiet laughter and bashful smiles covering a beat of that tenison that seemed ever-present. That chemistry.

And, as the game kept going, it was like it kept growing.

Kept building up between you—something just past the clean points and tight reactions. It was the way your shoulders bumped at changeovers, the glances you traded after surprising yourselves, the glint in your shared smile every time the crowd roared for a point that impressed even the two of you.

You didn’t need the scoreboard to show that you were winning—you could feel it.

When match point landed—a volley from you after a deep return from Jannik that clipped the baseline—the two of you turned into each other immediately, rushing at one another. You met at the middle with a shared high-five that lingered with a brief hand hold, wide grins adorning your faces. A far from flashy celebration, but honest and special.

You were still gushing about the last point with Jannik as you walked over to the net to shake hands with your opponents. He mentioned something about your backhand winner in the second set, and you countered with how outrageous his drop shot had grown to be within the span of a single game. Even the opposing team smiled at your enthusiasm as they waited against the net, and you all nodded warmly as you passed handshakes and congratulations both ways.

And when heading back to the bench, you were both still riding the high. You toweled off, giggling mid-sip of water as Jannik retold his perspective of a particularly ballsy shot of yours—one that whizzed right passed his face. Jannik clutched his ear in jest, miming the speed the ball grazed him with, and you doubled over with laughter at his story and the way he acted out. And at his openness—his humor pleasantly surprising you. 

The on-court interviewer found you like that, coming down from the joke, and they shot you both an amused smile before gesturing towards the court. You nodded and followed to the service line, feeling Jannik close behind you as you stepped forward in sync, the energy between you still thrumming. 

The first question—and maybe it was to be expected—wasn’t even about the score or the outcome.

"What a match! You two were dynamite out there. What was going on?"

You both opened your mouths to reply at the same time, only to pause, glancing at each other. Jannik gestured for you to go first, a smile playing on his lips.

You grinned at him before turning back towards the mic. "Honestly—well, speaking for myself at least, I guess—I just had so much fun.”

You turned to look up at Jannik, smiling a bit when you saw him watching you and listening with his own smile, before continuing, “I had almost no expectations for doubles—and obviously Jannik and I have never played together—but I really do feel today was one of the most entertaining matches I’ve ever played… and we happened to play pretty well, too, I’d say.”

“And if you’re saying this is one of the most entertaining matches, then it really must be. We all know your matches can be pretty… showy.” The interviewer punctuated his words with a pointed look, and you laughed with an innocent shrug towards the crowd. Next to you, Jannik chuckled along with the audience.

Pointing the mic towards Jannik now, the interviewer turned the question on him. “And Jannik? Was it fun, do you agree? Because the next round will be kind of awkward if you don’t.”

“It was okay...” Jannik laughed, and the stands followed suit as you exaggerated a grimace, though he immediately shook his head, his voice light and easy. “No—I’m just kidding. This was—it was incredibly fun, yes, and we make a good team, obviously. She made it easy to enjoy.”

There was a ripple of cheers from the crowd and you smiled down at your feet, rocking back and forth on your toes as the rest of the interview continued—and all the while, you tried not to fantasize about your next match together.

---

Despite all the build up you’d felt for it, you and Jannik didn’t talk at all before the second round together. 

Not because you didn’t want to. Your first game with him—him in general, really—ran through your mind throughout most of your free moments. It’s just that there weren’t very many of those. You hadn’t even run into Jannik in the hallways behind the scenes in the facilities, as you sometimes did before you’d even met him. 

Your schedules once tournaments began had little to no give. Advancing in singles while getting through media obligations made things packed enough, and the mixed doubles agenda had to be wedged in whatever small spaces that worked. Just the previous day, the both of you had your respective singles matches, managing wins that left you sore but satisfied. 

But that didn’t stop you from reminiscing about that first doubles round in the lead-up to the second, and you found yourself raving about Jannik and the match to your team without meaning to more often than not. 

Your coach had clocked it immediately after the first one with Jannik. You’d barely made it into the locker room before launching into your post-match high, recapping every detail—his returns, your volley angles, how you moved together like you'd practiced for months. And even when the day passed, you’d continued to spout details about the surprise of it, about how much fun it was, about him. 

"Okay, okay, we get it. He’s perfect." Chris had laughed, holding up both hands. “And we saw the match, remember?”

You’d rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. "I’m just saying—we worked together. Like, really worked. That never happens first try... Right?"

"Darren says he’s been saying the exact same thing about you, by the way," Chris once allowed, casually.

"What?” Your head had snapped around. “What did he say? Like, exactly—word for word."

Chris laughed harder. "I don’t know, something about you having ‘insane hands at net' and 'feeling really in sync.'"

You’d tried to play it off with a shrug, but Chris laughed again as you clearly turned away to cover a smile—one you couldn’t get rid of for the rest of the day.

So when you met up with Jannik for the second time, forgoing a warm-up because of your long match earlier that day, you’d beamed at him when you spied him at the end of the tunnel. And this time the walk-out felt easier, though your energy felt almost impossibly elevated from the first time.

"I’m already sore from my match today,” you told him as you zipped off your jacket, turning to send him a quick wink. ”So let’s make it quick?"

He gave you a slow, crooked grin. "You read my mind."

And the match itself felt like a continuation of a rhythm already found. From the moment you stepped onto the court together, there was no need to recalibrate. No awkward stutters, no overlapping spaces. You split the court effortlessly, reading each other's body language with minimal words. He fed the other side with soft volleys and you’d counter any deep hits with skillful flicks and cut angles; with any looping balls hit to either of your forehands being snapped back with a controlled whip of a swing.

The first rally said it all. You served down the T, and before the ball even came back, Jannik was already shifting behind you to cover the open court. You didn’t call it. You didn’t need to. His instincts slotted right into your own, like gears catching mid-spin.

Every shift in positioning came naturally. When you dipped in for the poach, he read it and dropped back. When he slid wide to take a forehand on the run, you angled inward without thinking. It was more than coordination—it read like well-oiled intuition. You knew where he’d be and what he planned to do, and he knew the same of you.

The first set was peppered with plays that felt almost telepathic. On one return game, he slid in for a short volley and you were already crashing the net behind him, catching the reply with another, reaction volley that drew a clean winner. You turned and beamed at him. He just gave a small, satisfied nod, eyes shining, pumping a fist in your direction. 

And between points, you murmured adjustments, barely louder than your breath. You stepped toward him, your footsteps soundless on the hardcourt, the heat of your body pulsing with adrenaline. Jannik mirrored you—close, quiet—and the distance shrank until he was right there.

He dipped his head, the curve of his jaw brushing just past your temple. The brim of his cap even casting shade on you. You could see the freckles dotting the higher angles of his face, feel the faint stir of his breath fan across your cheek. The space between you was barely more than that breath, and yet it didn’t feel tight or uncomfortable. In fact, it felt like all things outside of you two had suspended, like the rest of the court had gone still.

"On the ad, I’ll go early," you murmured.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched yours, close enough for you to see the flecks of amber just beyond the olive green, to notice the furrow between his brows soften.

"I’ve got your wide if they switch it up," he said finally, voice low but not rushed. Really hearing you, really taking you in.

His cheekbone brushed your hairline as he nodded, and neither of you moving until the umpire called time. You stepped back at the same moment, falling back into gameplay like the heat of being near him wasn’t still radiating through your body. 

The scoreboard moved quickly from there, the two of you almost dictating every moment. You weren’t just winning points, you were full on orchestrating every back and forth.

When you started serving, you had a hold secured within four points, thanks to your newly developing, reliable spin and Jannik’s court coverage. Then he held with three consecutive winners. By the time you reached the end of the first game, the scoreboard read 6–2, and even your usually well-equipped opponents already looked defeated.

You rested your racket between your knees as you reached for your water. You bumped your shoulder lightly into Jannik’s. "Think we should pretend to struggle? Keep it interesting?"

He chuckled, not even bothering to reply and just shaking his head with a faint, fond smile your way before you both stepped back on court—the second set flying by even faster. 

The two of you leaned into the rhythm—Jannik creeping forward more often, surprising the opponents with well-timed net rushes, while you settled at the baseline with a new level of confidence. Your returns had weight, purpose. Power you hadn’t quite gotten to before. He caught onto your shifting stance and adjusted his movement accordingly. It wasn’t just some subliminal communication anymore, or silent chemistry—it was trust.

Midway through the set, your opponents tried to lob you both. Jannik was already backpedaling by the time you shouted "yours” and he snatched it out of the air with a running overhead smash that kissed the back of the line. You laughed in delight from the service line, already moving forward for the next point.

In another moment ,a wide serve from the opponents sent Jannik sprawling out of position. Without missing a beat, you slid cross-court to cover, skidding to pick up the return with a forehand slice, and transitioned forward immediately, as if daring them to pass you. They tried and failed, the ball slinging into the net right in front of you. 

And when Jannik finally recovered to join you at the net, he bumped your shoulder, grinning. "You don’t even need me."

"Not true.” You spun your racket in one hand with a cheeky smile. “I just like showing off."

He moved to serve for match point after that, passing you to get to the baseline, and you were still smiling.

"You want a trick shot?" he asked crossed you, while you got down to crouch at the net.

“I think we’ve made enough of those.” You grinned up at him. "I want the point."

He chuckled into his nod, walking over to the ball kid and bouncing the ball with a smile still on his face. And the final point came fast—a second serve kicker from him, a shaky return, and you intercepting mid-air with a crisp backhand volley that landed just inside the tramline.

You quickly exchanged polite words with your opponent before turning to the crowd with both arms raised, basking in the cheer that followed. Spinning on your heel, you flashed a grin toward Jannik and motioned for him to join in the celebration. He chuckled under his breath and followed you toward center court, mimicking your energy with a looser, almost shy sort of smile.

The crowd loved it. They weren’t used to seeing Jannik so animated—his usual composure being quiet and almost clinical even in his victories. But beside you, he let himself laugh, let himself be pulled into your exuberance.

You grabbed his wrist and raised both your arms together, laughing when that earned an even louder wave of applause.

"See how much they love it when you humor me," you teased, barely loud enough for him to hear over the crowd. He leaned in to hear you properly, his ear by your lips.

"You’re dangerous," he replied, shaking his head before rising back the his full height, but the warmth in his voice undercut any protest.

---

Even amidst that mixed doubles excitement, your singles performances’ still stunned.

You were pushing through the draw with confidence, finding your rhythm early in matches and closing them out with textbook precision—implementing improvements prompted by your doubles matches almost immediately. A straight-sets win over a top-seeded player in the second round had been the talk of your section of the draw. Commentators noted how your net game had somehow grown even more exact, and how your footwork had never looked sharper. You’d even been serving better, hitting your spots with a newfound aggression no one missed, and stepping into returns with a calm that belied the stakes. 

In short, it seemed your game was peaking—and the growth didn’t look like it’d be slowing down soon.

Jannik, as expected, was cruising through the rounds. He hadn’t dropped a set yet, and his movements like liquid gold—each point played with the economy and edge of someone fully locked in. His confidence radiated, though his demeanor remained as steady as ever. People had referred to him as the favorite to win before the tournament had even begun, and he never batted an eye at the pressure.

But it seemed no matter how much you both achieved individually, the press couldn’t help but circle back to your unique, out-of-nowhere doubles pairing.

At your post-match press panel following your third-round singles win, a reporter shifted the topic to discuss Jannik towards the end. "Obviously another great performance today against Zheng. We’ve observed a lot of progression in your game since playing at the Toronto, and you’ve said previously that you attribute a lot of that to your doubles campaign with Jannik Sinner—Can you talk a bit about what’s made that pairing work so well so quickly?"

You shifted in your seat, already smiling at the mention of his name. "I think it’s been a fun and light new thing, first and foremost. And, of course we’re both super competitive, but we’re also kind of opposites on court in terms of energy and skill. So it… I don’t know, it just balances well. He’s calm, and I’m..."

"Expressive," someone from the room offered, calling out from the sea of journalists, and the room chuckled.

“Yeah, that.” You laughed. "But no, seriously—he’s just a smart player. He’s the number one for a reason, and I really feel playing with him has pushed me to improve.”

The reporter nodded when you wrapped up your answer, thanking you as they passed the mic on for the next question. “Like you say, you and Sinner have a great dynamic on court. What did the preparation leading up to you two playing together look like?”

You laughed to yourself, sipping some water before twisting the mic to sit in front of your mouth again. “There literally was none. Absolute zero preparation—we met the day of our first match, actually.”

“How would you explain the success of the partnership, then?” The reporter followed up with a laugh.

“I honestly don’t know.” You paused for a moment, looking down to think. “I mean... Like I said, Jannik’s a very good player. He’s very intuitive, he’s learned how to play with me very quickly... He feels me out especially well, and knows just when to go hard and soft, and—”

You stop when a ripple of laughter passed over the reporters, and freeze when you hear what they did in what you said .

"On the ball," you said quickly, hands raised in mock defense before covering your delayed, mortified expression. "Hard and soft on the ball—and on court. Obviously."

“You also said he ‘feels you out well’?” One of the journalists you were more familiar with called out with a smile. The laughter only continued and you buried your face in your hands for a second more before looking up again, cheeks warm but smiling. 

"Oh god… No one quote any of that, okay?" You shook your head to yourself, uncapping your water to chug more water than you needed. “Uh, next question?”

Another reporter stepped up, mercifully offering you some sweet relief. “You seem to switch from your usual area of comfort when playing doubles, with you back at the baseline and Sinner up at the net—that’s not Sinner’s speciality either, how does that feel?”

“It feels great—uncomfortable at first, but ultimately great, yeah.” You nodded. “We started playing in our comfort zones the first game, but I think where we really got excited is when we flipped. Obviously, Jannik is really good at hitting it from the back, so I like having him behind me, but—”

You pause when a loud, forced cough from somewhere in the back broke your train of thought, and the loaded silence in the crowd that sat after it was deafening. Soon after, it broke when concealed chuckles slowly started popping up around the room.

You look around in confusion, before rerunning what you’d just said to yourself. And, as soon as you got it, you placed your head in your hands—feeling a sense deja vú all too soon.

“Wow. I’m just saying everything wrong today, aren’t I?” You moved your palms to press into your eyes, letting out a dry laugh. “Either that, or this is just a room of some very perverted journalists—god.”

They all only increased their laughter at that, and you joined in good-naturedly, though you were already dreading what was to come as soon as you stepped out of the conference room…

And, just as you predicted, the reaction was exactly what you'd expected—and kind of feared.

It started with one clip, and within the day it spiraled into compilations, reaction videos, slowed-down edits with swapping between the you and Jannik behind dramatic and sensual music, “hard and soft” trending on Twitter with replies that racked up dozens of likes before you could even blink. It seemed everywhere you turned, there were those lines followed by your face of realization and subsequent embarrassment.

When your team met you in the cafeteria for a meal, it was like they’d been rehearsing the line for hours just to recite it from memory. They teased you endlessly.

"You realize it's going to be on a t-shirt by next week, right?" your physio said, grinning as he plated some pasta from the buffet.

"And it’s gonna be on posters at your next match," Chris jumped in, barely looking up from his tray. "Front row. Full of glitter..."

"Screaming hard and soft at the top of their lungs," your trainer added, and nearly choking from failing to hold in their laughter.

You groaned, dragging your hoodie up over your head. "I hate all of you."

"You love us," your physio sing-songed. "Just not as much as the way Sinner feels you out, apparently."

"... It’s obvious in the full context that I’m talking about our game style.” You glared at her from the side of your hood. “It wasn’t even that bad… Right?”

"Of course not," Chris nodded solemnly. "Classic tennis terminology. In fact, I think we should start using it in practice. Next drill, I’m going to call it out so you can mix up your pace: go hard and soft, hard and soft—"

“Oh my god,” You tossed a napkin at him. “Stop, I’m begging you.”

And when your team continued to giggle, you flicked bits of your rice towards them, but you couldn’t help but smile at their enjoyment, despite your sincere and growing regret at what had left your mouth at the panel. You shook your head to yourself, shoveling your food with unnecessary aggression.

After a brief reprise in teasing, when everyone put their heads down to eat and fuel up, you broke the silence and brought it back up yourself. “You guys don’t think he’s seen it… do you?”

They exchanged a look, but your trainer spoke up after dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. “I mean, maybe. But would that be so bad?”

“Yes.” You set your tray down. “Yes. One hundred percent, yes. It would be... It took him a second to warm up to me, and I just know it’ll go back to being awkward if he heard.”

“I don’t know, kid.” Chris said, shaking his head at your irrational worry. “I feel like he took to you pretty fast.”

“It was pretty stiff in the beginning. I broke through to him by some miracle, I don’t know.” Now it was your turn to shake your head. “I feel like he could think I overstepped and act all distant—and, honestly, I might be awkward, because I have no idea—no idea—how he’s taking it… If he saw it, that is, which…”

You trailed off, lips pressing together in wary disbelief as you replayed the scenario you imagined was his reaction as you and your team stood up to leave. Because, as happy as the public was to run with the suggestive comment, there was a side of tennis fans that was always quick to say you were too much. And now, after the press conference, those same people had taken to saying your words were vulgar and violating—despite clearly being a mistake. What should have been a funny mistake, too.

Even with all your years of learning to ignore it, you couldn’t help but wonder if Jannik would agree with them...

Your physio threw an arm around you, sensing your spiral. “It could be a little awkward, yeah, but so what? You’re both adults and professionals. It shouldn’t matter.”

You nodded, knowing they should have been right, and your trainer chimed in. “Yeah, so what? You don’t even have to see him after a few days—doubles will wrap up by the end of the week.”

“...Right.” You said, yet somehow the words were far from comforting.

---

Part two, Part three

Made reader a dramatic over-thinker, and I actually think that it's a vicious and common and underrated combo so... Wasn't initially planning to make this one angsty, and it's lowkey not even going to be, but it kind of just happened this way. It's just the way this dear reader is, okay?

Also, I hella glazed both reader and jannik's game play here, sorry. They're overpowered, yes, maybe, but let them live!! In this fantasy world and the real one, Sinner is king…

Wasn't planning on making this two parts, but it's literally so effing long already for no reason that I was like: it's for the best. So long that i didn't super edit btw

So stay tuned til tmr for the ending!

[wileys-russo]

Mearps with a reader who plays on like a local Sunday league football team so literally nothing close to professional, it’s just for fun. But Mary makes every game she can stood with her hood up on the sideline cheering when you so much as touch the ball or like shows off the fact that she’s yours by rolling up to get you from training or something? And you come home and dinners made “because she’s proud of you for training hard”

sunday league II m.earps

"-so are we all just expected to ignore the fact that there's an actual lioness watching us play right now." your teammate breathed out with a shake of her head making you smile.

"yes you are! heads back in the game." you ordered sternly, everyone huddled up for half time taking a water break. "she's like the least judgmental person ever guys we go through this issue every single week, relax." you chuckled as their eyes continued to flicker to your girlfriend on the sidelines.

you'd warned her over and over how intimidating her presence was at your grassroot level sunday league games however forever the proud girlfriend her solution to the problem was to just show up in a hoodie and cover her face as if that helped at all.

the ref calling for everyone to return to the pitch you turned to put your water bottle back, catching her eye as she gave you a toothy grin and a wink. "come on captain you can kiss your girlfriend later." your team mate teased as she grabbed you, dragging you back to the pitch.

though it was hardly the wsl that didn't mean none of you took your games seriously, so up by one you were determined to keep that lead if unable to widen it, shot after shot being blocked as the opposition resorted to a 5 man defensive line.

"lets go 14!" you heard mary call out your number proudly with an encouraging clap as you took another shot but it bounced off the post, kicking the ground in frustration and just waiting for the whistle to blow.

unfortunately for you luck seemed to be on their side. you watched with a defeated sigh as the ball swooshed into the back of your net, not even a minute later reprised by the whistle.

you did your best to build your team back up in a post game huddle, highlighing the positives of the game rather than the negatives and telling them you'd see them all at training on tuesday night. after a bried debrief with your coach he clapped you on the back and you grabbed your bag making your way over to mary.

"hi gorgeous." the older girl smiled sympathetically, opening her arms as you melted into her with a tired sigh. "oi, none of that. you played wonderfully love!" she assured softly as you reached up and tugged at the hood which covered your head.

"your disguise didn't work very well baby, you freaked them all out again." you smiled in amusement. "well i'm not staying away so they better get used to it." mary grinned and nudged your chin up, sweetly kissing your lips before taking your bag off you and pulling you into her side walking the two of you to her car.

"i had to fight off tooney and maya from coming with me you know? imagine if three lionesses came to watch, your team might faint on the pitch." mary teased as you rolled your eyes and she threw your bag in the back, opening your door for you.

"you know i still could-"

"no! i love you so very dearly but we do not need a mary earps masterclass at training." you shook your head but kissed her cheek in thanks anyway, knowing she meant no harm. "you look good as a wag. you know i could get you a spare jersey to wear next time?" you smirked wiggling your eyebrows as she started the car.

"oh my god and if you could sign it for me? i'd simply die i'm just your biggest fan!" mary gushed sarcastically, fanning her face with a sigh as you playfully shoved her head and she started to drive the two of you home.

~

"dinner's already done, go have a shower and i'll dish up." your girlfriend smiled softly, pecking your lips and nodding upstairs. "you're the best." you melted at the thoughtful act of domesticity.

"i know, you're so lucky." mary sighed dramatically as you shoved her. "i'm really proud of you though. my pretty hard working captain." the taller girl smiled much more sincerely as you craned your neck up to press your lips to hers.

"mm if this continues we'll both need a shower. go on love!" she pushed you away, smacking your bum with a wink. "doesn't sound like the worst idea?" you hinted, holding your hand out hopefully as she shook her head.

"later, if you play your cards right." mary smiled suggestively as she returned to the kitchen. "bold of you to hold that over me when its you who has the self control problem earps." you teased her as she flipped you off and you disappeared upstairs.

"you know baby it's just such a shame you're a...striker." mary gagged later on, forcing out the word as you punched her in the arm and continued drying the dishes she handed you.

"some of us like participating in games, not just sitting back in the net being bossy and yelling at everyone." you smirked as your girlfriend dropped the dish she was washing and fixed you with a glare.

within seconds you'd dropped the tea towel, racing off as she charged after you, your laughters filling your space before inevitably she caught you, the keeper taking you down to the floor with a grin.

"i'll show you bossy."