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meazalykov · 1 month ago

Text

venom

catarina macario x f!reader

warnings: racial and sexual harassment targeted at reader during the london derby. angst. implied woc reader

the hallowed grass of stamford is where you step onto. the air is thick with the match of chelsea versus arsenal. the crowd’s screams crashes over you like a tidal wave, a sea of blue and red scarves rippling in the stands.

you’re the name on everyone’s lips after last week’s demolition of liverpool, where you buried a hattrick in an intense 3-2 match and danced your way into the headlines. tonight, they expect you to be the supernova, the uncontainable force to lead chelsea to glory in this rivalry clash.

your girlfriend, catarina, lines up beside you, her dark hair with those beautiful blond highlights are pulled tight in a ponytail, her eyes sharp with focus. you exchange a quick glance after the starting eleven pictures are taken… its professional, steady.

the whistle blows, and the first half ignites.

it’s perfection. the ball feels like an extension of you, bending to your will as you carve through arsenal’s defense. erin, your connector, threads a pinpoint pass to your feet, and you’re off, weaving between red shirts like they’re standing still.

the crowd chants your name…“y/n! y/n!”...and you feed off it, your boots kissing the grass with every stride. sandy drifts wide, pulling defenders with her, and you exploit the gap, firing a shot that rattles the crossbar.

the chelsea fans erupt, a wall of sound that lifts you higher.

“keep the assists going, y/n!” keira shouts as she jogs back, clapping her hands as she points to you.

sonia, your coach, watches from the sidelines, arms crossed, nodding approvingly as you dominate. the first half ends 1-0, your assist setting up sandy for the opener. you jog off for the break, sweat beading on your forehead, feeling invincible.

the second half kicks off, and for a while, it’s more of the same. the ball is glued to your foot, arsenal players lunging and missing.

suddenly, a voice slices through the noise… it is grating, venomous, distinct in a way that makes your skin prickle. it’s coming from the arsenal end, a man’s voice, loud and deliberate.

“oi, y/n!” he bellows, his tone dripping with malice.

you try to shake it off, focusing on the play since it is just a random person, but he keeps going.

“you don’t belong here, go back to france you coon!” the words hit like a punch, sharp and ugly, rooting you to the spot for a heartbeat.

most of the time, you hear the banter towards you. however, the slur from that white man got to you. your breath catches, your selective hearing zeroing in on him despite the thousands of other voices.

you glance toward the stands…a man, no older than thirty, his face flushed with beer and hate, leaning over the railing.

“smile for me, sweetheart,” he yells, his voice slurring into something darker.

“bet you’d look better on your knees!”

your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. the pitch tilts beneath you, the edges of your vision blurring. he’s close, standing in the front row by the goal, he is too close!!!! maybe twenty yards away, separated only by a thin barrier and a handful of stewards who don’t seem to hear him yet.

your hands tremble, your chest tightens, and a cold sweat breaks out across your skin. you’ve seen this before… players like taylor at liverpool, vinicius back in spain… shit! even your friend and teammate lauren weathers racist storms…but it’s never been you. not until now.

the fear is visceral, a creeping dread that he could be anyone, that he could follow you off this pitch, that he’s not alone in his hatred. you feel exposed, a target painted on your back, your skin color skin suddenly a beacon for his venom.

lucy’s voice snaps you back.

“y/n!” she shouts, and the ball rockets toward you. you catch it on instinct, your body moving before your mind catches up. he’s still yelling…“go back where you came from!”...but you run, legs pumping, tearing down the right wing. away from him, away from that voice.

your heart slams against your ribs, your breathing ragged, but you push forward, the goalpost looming ahead. you shoot, a desperate, angry strike, and the ball screams into the net, top corner, unstoppable.

the chelsea fans explode, a deafening roar, but it’s hollow for you. no tricks, no celly, no cartwheel at the corner flag like usual. you stand there, hands on your knees, staring at the grass, the world spinning.

you want to throw up. he’s still there, his voice a faint echo now. its too much.

your teammates swarm you, their arms around you, their voices a jumble.

“what the fuck, y/n? what a goal!” ashley cheers, slapping your back. lucy pulls you into a hug, grinning.

“you love to give me assists don’t you!”

however, your teammates feel the stiffness in your shoulders, the way your eyes dart toward the stands.

“you good?” lucy asks, quieter now, her brow furrowing. you nod, but it’s a lie, and they know it. sonia’s watching from the touchline, her sharp gaze catching yours. she signals to the bench, and within minutes, she’s subbing you off.

“maelys is in for you!” she calls to you, then turns to you as you trudge over.

“sit down. take a breather.” her voice is firm but kind, and you collapse onto the bench, the weight of it all crashing down. six minutes left on the clock, but you’re done.

a tear slips free, hot against your cheek, and you swipe it away, staring blankly at the pitch.

mia slides in beside you, her shoulder brushing yours.

“y/n, talk to me. you okay?” her voice is soft, urgent. you shake your head, the words stuck in your throat.

“no,” you finally choke out, “there’s a guy…arsenal end. he… he said shit. racist shit. he keeps calling me slurs then said something sexual. i don’t know, mia, i feel fucking sick right now.” your voice cracks, and her eyes widen, then narrow with fury.

“what the fuck?” she hisses.

“where is he?” you point vaguely, your hand shaking, “over there, red shirt with a group of guys. he is thirty maybe.” she nods, jaw tight, and flags sonia over.

“coach, sorry to distract you from the game but we’ve got a problem,” mia says, keeping her voice low. you repeat it to sonia, every word tasting like poison….the racism, the leering threat. sonia’s face hardens, “we’re reporting this. stewards, security, the lot. chelsea doesn’t tolerate that shit,” she says, her tone steely, “you did good out there, y/n. let us handle it now.”

it’s meant to help, but it doesn’t. your stomach twists, your skin crawling with the memory of his voice. you should be stronger, shake it off, but you can’t. the final whistle blows…2-1, chelsea wins against arsenal and the crowd roars, but you’re already up, bolting for the tunnel.

the locker room is a sanctuary, the noise muffled as you stumble inside, collapsing onto a bench. you bury your face in your hands, trying to breathe, but it’s shallow, panicked. footsteps echo, and you look up to see catarina, her face etched with worry. mia must’ve told her.

“y/n,” she says, dropping to her knees in front of you, “mia said….what happened? talk to me, please.”

you shake your head, trying to shove it down, to lock it away.

“it’s nothing,” you mutter, but your voice wavers, betraying you. she grabs your hands, her grip firm.

“it’s not nothing. look at you—you’re shaking. tell me.” the dam breaks, and it pours out.

“this guy in the stands… he kept calling me slurs, cat. he s-s-said i don’t belong. then he said i’d look better on my knees, smiling for him. it was so loud, so close. i was scared, i—” your voice cracks, and you gag, the nausea surging.

catarina’s eyes darken, her jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle twitch.

“and you didn’t tell me at that time?” she spits, “that stewardess better find him before i do my fucking self.”

“i just wanted to play,” you whisper, tears spilling now, “i scored, and i couldn’t even feel it. i’ve seen this happen to players like lauren, and i’ve defended her each time but me? i didn’t think…” she pulls you into her arms, her embrace fierce, protective.

“you’re safe now,” she says, her voice softening but resolute.

“he’s not getting near you. the club’s on it…sonia’s already escalating it. chelsea’s got your back, okay? i’ve got your back.” you cling to her, your face pressed into her shoulder, her warmth grounding you as your breathing steadies.

“i hate men,” you mumble, half-sobbing, half-laughing. she chuckles, a low, bittersweet sound, her arms tightening around you.

“yeah, i can’t argue with that right now,” she says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “but you’re stronger than him, y/n. you hear me? he’s nothing.”

the next morning, chelsea’s official response hits the airwaves. you’re curled up on the couch in your flat, a mug of tea cooling in your hands, when the statement pings on your phone.

catarina’s beside you, scrolling through her own feed, and she nudges you gently.

“they’ve sent it to the group before they put it out,” she says, nodding at your screen. you open it, the words stark and formal against the bright white background:

“chelsea football club is aware of the unacceptable harassment directed at our player, y/n l/n, during last night’s women’s super league match against arsenal at kingsmeadow. we condemn all forms of discrimination and abuse in the strongest terms. the safety and wellbeing of our players is our utmost priority, and we are working closely with the relevant authorities and stadium security to identify and take appropriate action against the individual responsible. such behavior has no place in football or society, and we stand united in ensuring that our club remains a welcoming and inclusive environment for all.”

it is the standard script with condemnation, action, unity. it gives you relief, maybe, but it’s tangled with the lingering sickness of that man’s voice.

the days that follow are a slog. you’re not used to this violation. you’ve heard the stories, seen the headlines about other players but it’s always been distant, something you could sympathize with but never truly feel.

now it’s yours, and it’s heavy. you wake up the next day with a pit in your stomach, his words replaying like a broken record. you try to push it down, to focus on training, but your legs feel leaden, your focus fractured.

“you okay, y/n?” naomi asks during a passing drill, her brow creasing as you fumble a simple touch.

“yeah, just… tired,” you lie, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. she doesn’t push, but you can tell she’s not convinced.

at home, you’re quieter than usual. catarina notices, she always does.

“you know that you don’t have to pretend with me,” she says that night, sitting across from you at the kitchen table, her hand reaching for yours.

“i’m fine,” you mutter, staring at your untouched plate of pasta.

“just need time.” time feels slow, sticky, like wading through mud. you skip social media, knowing the comments will be a minefield…some supportive, some from arsenal fans being vicious…and the thought of seeing his words echoed by faceless trolls makes your skin crawl.

you shower longer than necessary, as if you can scrub the memory of his voice off you, but it clings like damp rot. sleep is fitful, your dreams jagged with flashes of the stands, his angry face leering through the crowd.

it takes two days…two long, heavy days before the fog starts to lift. you’re at cobham, lacing up your boots, when catarina jogs over, a small, triumphant smile tugging at her lips.

“got news,” she says, dropping onto the bench beside you. you look up, wary but curious. “what?” she leans in, her voice low and steady.

“they found him. banned him. lifetime ban from any chelsea and arsenal matches…home, away, women’s, men’s, the lot. he’s done.” your breath catches, a knot you didn’t realize was there loosening in your chest.

“really?” you whisper, needing to hear it again.

“really,” she confirms, her hand squeezing your knee, “security matched him to cctv, got his ticket details. he’s not stepping foot near us again.”

relief floods you, sharp and sweet, washing away the grime of the past forty-eight hours. you turn to her, throwing your arms around her neck, and she catches you, pulling you close.

“oh my god,” you breathe into her shoulder, your voice trembling with the weight of it lifting.

“it’s over.” she hugs you tighter, her chin resting atop your head.

“told you we’d handle it,” she murmurs, “you’re safe, y/n. well, you always were with me but he’s gone.” you pull back just enough to look at her, her brown eyes steady and warm, and you feel the last tendrils of fear unravel.

“i was so disgusted cat,” you admit, quieter now.

“i know,” she says, brushing a thumb across your cheek, “but he’s nothing now. just a coward who’s out of our lives.”

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