#soccer vines

[angelsumaiya1230]

Real Madrid vs Manchester City Live Score, Analysis, and Predictions for Tonight's High-Voltage Matchup

The highly anticipated match between Real Madrid and Manchester City has just concluded, leaving fans on the edge of their seats until the very end. Both teams put up a tough fight, but in the end, Manchester City emerged as the victor with a score of 2-1.

Watch live click here....

The match was marked by intense action from the very beginning, with both teams demonstrating their skill and determination on the field. Real Madrid took the lead early on with a goal from Karim Benzema, but Manchester City quickly responded with two goals from Kevin De Bruyne and Riyad Mahrez, respectively. Real Madrid fought hard to even the score, but Manchester City's defense held strong, preventing any additional goals from the Spanish team.

The analysis of the match reveals that Manchester City had a clear advantage in terms of possession, with 60% of the ball in their control. This allowed them to create more opportunities and apply more pressure to Real Madrid's defense. The Manchester City players also displayed exceptional passing accuracy, completing 89% of their passes throughout the game.

Real Madrid has a rich football history, winning 13 Champions League titles - more than any other team. Led by legendary coach Zinedine Zidane, Real Madrid has an impressive success record, with star players like Karim Benzema and Sergio Ramos leading the way.

Manchester City, on the other hand, have emerged as a formidable force in recent years. It dominates the English Premier League and excels in the Champions League. With a talented roster that includes Kevin De Bruyne, Riyad Mahrez, and Raheem Sterling, Manchester City is known for its aggressive style of play and relentless pursuit of victory.

When predicting the outcome of tonight's match, it's difficult to say who will win. Both teams have shown themselves capable of greatness, and the game could win either way.

One factor to consider is home-field advantage. Real Madrid will play in their home stadium, the Santiago Bernabeu, where they have a strong success record. The crowd will be heavily in their favor, which could give them an extra boost of motivation and energy on the field.

Manchester City is not to be underestimated. They have a deep bench of talented players, and their aggressive style of play could challenge Real Madrid's defense. If they control possession and create scoring opportunities, they could win.

Another factor to consider is the recent performance. Real Madrid has been battling in their domestic league, La Liga, while Manchester City have been on a winning streak in the Premier League. This could give Manchester City a psychological advantage, as they come into the game with more momentum and confidence.

Ultimately, the outcome of the match will depend on a variety of factors - including each team's strategy, player performance, and luck. It's impossible to predict the outcome with 100% certainty, but one thing is for sure: it's going to be an electrifying game that fans won't want to miss.

[incorrect-futbol-quotes]

*at 3am*

Thomas: *runs into Mats’ room and turns on the light* Wake up sleepyhead!

Mats: *wakes up* Dude!

Thomas: *cackles*

Marco: *sits up from where he was sleeping behind Mats* What the fuck, Müller?

Thomas: *jaw drops* Wait WHAT-

[coachtfd]

AUSTRALIA HAVE DONE IT!!! THE DRAMA, OH THE DRAMA!!!

🐨🐨🐨

🇦🇺

[her-canine-teeth]

VINES THEN? I DONT KNOW

no idea how much this is actually like true.

SRY sometimes audios cut off a bit i think

[lenaswritingandstuff]

Hugo on his blog: Welcome back to me screaming.

Hugo: AAAAAH. AAAAAAAAAH.

[futfemfantasies]

I love her 😂😭😭😭

This is who secured Australia’s spot in their first World Cup semi-finals btw

[creaseevans]

Jujutsu Kaisen Headcanons - Suguru Geto

Suguru's the type of guy...

SFW: 

Suguru’s the soccer/hockey mom type of guy: he carries snacks, band aids, ibuprofen, tissues, gum, hair ties, and a spare set of socks in his bag at all times. That’s actually how you met him: you were at the coffee shop and asked several tables around you for a band aid (after the barista said they didn’t have any) until Suguru came over with one. He also offered a couple of alcohol swabs to clean things off before applying it.

Suguru’s the type of guy to forget to introduce himself. He gets so engrossed in the person in front of him and what they’re saying that he completely forgets how social interactions are supposed to go. You had to ask him at some point what you’re supposed to call him. He had to think about it for a moment as if he’d forgotten his own name.

(After chatting for almost an hour, he asked yours and you, very forwardly, also gave him your number.)

He’s the type of guy who drinks anything BUT plain coffee with milk and sugar, you conclude by the fourth date. The man will drink matcha, he will drink hot cocoa, he will drink iced or warm lattes with butt loads of cold foam or sweet syrups drizzled throughout, and he will drink LOTS of fruity teas. But a plain coffee with just milk and sugar may actually kill him?

Not only is Suguru the type of guy to paint his own nails, but he also insisted on teaching you after discovering how badly you do the edges (it’s hard!!!!). He likes for you both to have matching or complimentary manicures. It’s also a complete waste that he taught you how to paint because he never lets you do it and always wants to do your manicures and pedicures himself. Sunday nights are for the fingies and toes.

(Coincidentally, he HATES the smell of polish and remover. He has to wear a clip on his nose the entire time that makes his voice all high and nasally.)

Suguru is that guy with a seven-step skincare and five-step hair care routine. You can’t even describe the face he made upon discovering your simple shampoo-and-conditioner, face wash-and-moisturizer antics. But you do wish you’d taken a picture of it.

He totally forgets to eat sometimes. You wonder how it’s possible for him to be the size and height he is if this has always been the case. That is until you share your first real dinner together and he eats nearly five thousand calories in one sitting. He then proceeds to finish your leftovers as well. When you ask him about this deranged behaviour, he just shrugs and says, “I don’t know. I love food, but I don’t really think about it unless it’s in front of me.”

Suguru hasn’t worked out in a gym in almost two years, apparently. He just does runs and “generic labour” at the farm he works at. The solid abs and bouldered deltoids he hides underneath baggy clothes would beg to differ.

Suguru is a total plant princess. The first time you went to his place, you weren’t sure if it wasn’t a greenhouse. Potted wonders and vines and vases were all over the place. This came as even more earth-shattering when a little white cat tinkered her way through the hall and snuggled her butt right up against your ankles. “Oh, no, she knocks things over all the time. But I can’t exactly get mad at her, so I just re-pot everything. That’s why all of these are melamine or recycled plastic.”

That’s another thing about Suguru: he has tremendous amounts of patience. You’ve never met anyone as kind or forgiving as him. You’ve asked him to share his meditation routine with you but he keeps lying about not having one.

(The cat’s name is Dandelion; Dandy for short. She’s a white domestic short-hair with blue eyes and a pink button nose.)

Suguru’s a very formal type of guy. You didn’t expect it, but he took you out on a proper date and verbally said the words “Will you be my girlfriend?” and then proceeded to clarify with “Like, romantically. Not like a friend who’s also a girl—which is totally fine, if that’s what you prefer to be, I just—” and that’s when you cut him off with a kiss and he settled down.

He’s the type of guy to love openly and quickly. It’s less than two months in when he just casually drops an “I love you” on you one morning as you’re on the toilet and he dips his head in to grab a hair brush. Then he simply leaves you to marinate in it while you sit there in shock, unmoving except for the plop-plop-plop in the toilet.

In contrast to how casually he’s able to deliver the sentiment, he’s entirely floored when you return it in bed that same night. He’s so taken that he stops moving and has to wait a moment to get it back together. But after that one still moment, the rest of it feels like you’re being attacked by a tornado.

Suguru’s the type of guy to leave “I love you” sticky notes by your bedside or on your door. One time, you decided to keep the note and stuck it on something at his place before leaving. It was returned to you on your laptop the next day. It’s now become a sort of game between you; sometimes the notes get passed back and forth so long that the adhesive on the back completely dissipates. After writing a new one, you both toss a coin to decide who gets to keep the old one. Suguru’s won seven out of ten tosses, so far.

He’s not the type to gloat when he wins. Somehow, he finds a way to turn his wins into yours. Like how he ended up with most of the old “I love you” post-its but folded them into paper flowers and put them on artificial stems. He gave you the bouquet on your one-year anniversary. You bawled like a little bitch.

Suguru hates seeing you cry or hurt. It’s the only time you’ve seen him distressed. It makes him physically sick and you can tell by how pale and sweaty he gets. He banks his sick days at work since you started dating. Every month when you get your period, Suguru hibernates at your place with you for the first three days because he knows they’re the hardest. He cooks for you, keeps you showered and clean, massages you, naps with you, cleans for you, and he’s at your general beck and call otherwise. Your favourite part is always ordering in impulsive cravings and watching your favourite shows or movies. You also enjoy breaking into the piggy bank of sweets and candy he saves up for you all month.

He’s the type to slowly move you both in together without your ever realizing. Roughly a year in, you discovered just how much of your stuff was now filling in his otherwise spacious new place. The only things left at your apartment were a few pairs of clothes and your mattress (everything else was part of the owner’s furnishings). This little scheme dawned on you when your lease was up and instead of helping you look for another place, Suguru conveniently chimed, “Oh, why don’t you just stay with me? All your stuff’s here anyways.”

(As formal as he is, turns out he was too shy to ask you to move in. He thought giving you a key to his place as a Christmas present was a big enough hint and has no idea how you didn’t clock it. You tell him you would have said yes if he’d just asked. He just blushes and smiles.)

Suguru is a big tipper at restaurants and cafes. He often tips more than the actually meal or drink costs. You fear this may have detrimental effects on his finances, but he somehow manages to keep things running more than smoothly. Suspiciously smoothly.

Turns out, he doesn’t just work at the farm. He actually (very successfully, too) co-owns it with his best friend Satoru, which leads to the next point: Suguru’s just the type of guy to downplay exactly how well he’s doing or how much he has. (He has a lot.)

Since he wakes up ridiculously early most mornings to tend to farmwork, Suguru’s the type of guy to cook you an elaborate, three course breakfast each time and leave it covered in the oven with a note on the door for you to enjoy. Meanwhile, he shoots back a creamy, sugary beverage or two and just raw dogs the rest of the day on an empty stomach until the late lunch or dinner you share together. You’re trying to help him remember to eat more often, so you’ve started packing him just as elaborate lunches and snack packs at night once he’s gone to bed. You have to text or call him to remind him to actually eat out of them. He always enjoys them when he does.

NSFW:

Suguru takes his sweet time initiating sex for the first time. Upon reaching week four of the relationship with not a lick of intimacy, you had to break the ice on the subject. Suguru was surprised, then laughed it off. “No, I’m not asexual. I just didn’t want to weird you out or get right into sex without your deliberate consent.”

(You gave it to him instantly.)

Since his middle name is basically serenity, you were a bit worried as to how the sex would go. You don’t altogether mind the notion of “love making,” but you’re also not a purely vanilla person by nature.

Suguru’s generously girthy and lands in the seven-inch range. He’s uncut and always shaves everything clean off. You’ve never seen a crotch as hairless as his. There’s a thick vein that runs from below his belly button, down his beautifully carved pelvis and right up the length of his shaft. You like tracing it with your tongue and watching his reactions. He gets real breathy and sensitive about it.

Suguru can last a while, but that doesn’t mean he won’t take the time to service you in at least two to three other ways before finally giving you what you want. He’s quite the skilled tradesman with both his tongue and his hands, but you prefer his long, knuckly fingers over the former. Something about the veins and muscles in his arms when he endlessly plunges palm-deep inside of you drives you right over the edge. While he’s quite humble otherwise, getting you to orgasm is one thing he’s quite smug about. The way he smirks when you fall apart for him is absolutely sadistic.

Contrary to his soft, silky personality and demeanour, he’s quite the devil in arms behind closed doors. (Sometimes, those doors aren’t even closed.) 

He’s a biter (genuinely shocking). He likes to mark you in places where nobody would be able to see it and find out just how rough and territorial your sweet, doting boyfriend truly is. Such places include your back, your tits (specifically, right around your nipples), the plush of inner thigh right at the apex of your legs, the outer skinfolds right next to your “perfectly suckable lips” (no, NOT your mouth), and all over the meat of your ass.  

Suguru doesn’t eat pussy; he makes out with it. He French kisses and has an affair with it. Just let him do it and expect to be there for the better part of an hour, probably. Nothing you say or do can deter him from his “favourite meal in the whole world.”

He has no problem putting you in your place when it comes to sex. It’s genuinely some alter ego type shit. The change is a complete 180, to the point that you sometimes feel like you’re cheating on your amazing, loving boyfriend with some sex-crazed maniacal psychopath that leaves you shuddering and unable to stand on your feet for a good few hours afterwards without buckling knees or trembling thighs. The only part that reminds you they’re the same person is when he gently cleans you up afterwards and apologetically kisses all the places where he’d bit, clawed, smacked or choked only moments ago. The comedown is nearly as thrilling as the experience itself.

Suguru loves mocking and demeaning you with simultaneously praiseworthy titles. Phrases like “My precious little whore,” “Perfect fucking slut,” or “My stupidly pretty princess” roll off his tongue just as easily as “My little baby,” “Good fucking girl,” and your personal favourite: “My little pussy fairy.” It’s quite the whiplash.

Suguru fucks like his life depends on it. All the calm and peace behind his foxy monolids drains the moment he realizes what’s about to happen. The fire and hunger that replaces that calm is enough to make your heart plunge down and drop out through your ass every single time regardless of how often it happens. He is not a gentle lover, and you couldn’t be more thankful for how viciously he strokes or how diligently he chokes or how shamelessly he orders you to open your mouth so he can fill it with his fingers and spit into the back of your throat while the head of his cock breaks the rim of your cervix and your eyes roll like a slot machine into your skull.

He wasn’t as vocal at first because he was shy and anxious that you would get turned off by it. Turns out, when he moans and whimpers it’s so fucking delicate that your pussy flutters just at the sounds that come out of him. While you enjoy his gruff snarls and grunts and the tone of his poetic degradation, you take every chance you can get your hands on to have him undone and vulnerable, shivering and trembling and nearly sobbing from ecstasy at the worship you deliver.

Suguru never makes you beg or ask for it. He does like to hear you say what you want, but he often readily delivers your services on a golden platter. He’s just so generous like that.

While he gets to address you with all kinds of pet names and kinky titles, he only ever wants you to call him “Suguru” between the sheets. “Baby” is too vague, and nothing else quite establishes his dominance over you the same as hearing gasps of his name over and over again while you convulse and shatter against him, so soft and weak and vulnerable that it makes his heart stop.

He makes you keep your eyes open and on him at all times. “Keep your focus on me,” “Look at what I’m doing to you, keep watching,” “Look at me with those pretty eyes, I wanna see how big they get when you come for me,” “Don’t you dare look away,” all of that. Even when you’re kissing now you’re both always looking at one another. You don’t think you can go back to kissing with your eyes closed again.

He asked you in the beginning if you want him to use condoms just so you wouldn’t have to deal with contraceptive side effects. You used them a few times before realizing how badly you wanted to just fluid bond with him. He has never complained about this; he’s ready to face any consequences, should they happen. And while he loves going to pro-choice rallies with you, he does fantasize from time to time about a little version of you running around the farm, driving him crazy with worry.

Suguru’s favourite place to come is on your face, because your face is his favourite sight in the entire world. Yes, he loves your body. But it was your nervous smile and hopeful eyes that caught his eye the very first time and kept him looking back again and again. Seeing his cum streaked across your gorgeous lips and dripping down your cheeks and chin is a mental image he frequents regularly throughout the day.

(One day, you make him lick the cum off your face and feed it to you by kiss. This changes his brain chemistry forever. You’re definitely the one.)

[dyketennant]

it's always "when you wake up next to him in the middle of the night with your head in your hands you're nothing more than his wife and when you think about me all of those years ago you're standing face to face with i told you so" and never "when you told me 'bout your first time a soccer player at the senior high i felt my body crumble to the floor betrayal like i've never felt before i thought back to many years ago a late night promise on the telephone we'd build a house of twigs and vines grow old together just to pass the time now there's only past and present day i can't believe a word you say the future isn't worth its weight in gold the future is a benevolent black hole"

[a-ikuoliver]

w/c: 2.3k tw/s: f!reader, characters 20, drinking/alcohol, hints at oral (f!receiving), a little more angst/hurt no comfort lmao I SWEAR ILL GET TO THE LOVERS PART SOON LMAO notes: part of the ode to a conversation series + archive link if you prefer <3

there's a certain melancholy to coming home. returning to the four walls you could map blindfolded.

it's all the same. the taste of spring palpable in the air. your eyes are closed, soaking in the warmth, the sun poking through the leaves, the scent of the jasmine vine crawling up the side of your old house smelling the same it always had. the way it mixes with your mothers cigarette smoke has your mind cycling through memories — of running through lush grass, of flowers in your hair, of scrapes on your knees, of running down the block in pouring rain, of crickets and cicadas.

the scent has your stomach turning.

the kitchen still looks the same. adorned with pictures of you, of your parents, of him. the two of you side-by-side with toothless grins, arms tossed around each other carelessly. the colours have started to fade a little, the grass in the picture yellowing over time, his hair looking grey after the frame sat in the sun for two decades. the cabinets have aged, paint chipping at the edges. your parents got a new fridge. the light still flickers twice before staying on.

the bedroom feels too small, now. like you're a giant stepping into a doll house. logically, if you were to lay down in the floral bed, you know your feet wouldn't dangle out of the other end until your toes touched the walls… and yet, you sneak around like one wrong move will have the walls falling apart where they join.

the window is open, the smell of sunlight streaming in. shadows dance around the room, patches of sun through the leaves like spotlights on memories throughout the room. it still smells like the perfume you wore as a teenager, the sugary scent you doused yourself in every morning. sinking into the mattress, you inhale the homesick smell; of vanilla, of jasmine, of spring, of his deodorant.

the nostalgia settles in a pit in your stomach, nearly making you nauseous.

you remember curling up in the bed that felt as expansive and terrifying and dark as the sea at midnight, you remember plugging the night light in for the first time, a bright green dinosaur that oliver promised would protect you. you remember falling asleep side-by-side, shoulders pressing together after an afternoon of running around together, a bruise forming on oliver's cheekbone from a particularly hard kick of the soccer ball, one he'd make up stories about at school the next morning. you remember the smell of his deodorant you'd borrow on humid summer afternoons when he'd drive you home, you remember him keeping a pair of sunglasses on "your" side of his car.

inhaling deeply, you expect the scents to compete with each other, to swirl around your room like oil and water, never able to combine entirely.

instead, the scents complement each other, amplifying the best parts of each without suffocating you. like sugar and water. honey and tea. like flour and eggs mixing in a large bowl. like you and oliver.

swallowing down the nostalgia, you inhale deeply.

it's almost masochistic the way you keep looking around the room: there's a patch on the wall right above your bed, a small rectangle of pristine paint, protected from the suns bleaching rays for years. you remember when there was a photo stuck there with a pin, you were older than the one framed in the kitchen, a teenager, only by a couple years but it felt like lifetimes between the snapshots.

it was a stupid, silly photo, you posing with your cheeks full of food and his eyes are crossed, nose scrunched, sticking out his tongue.

you'd torn it down before you graduated university.

ripped it from the wall, the pin tearing a neat path through the top when you'd pulled at it. seconds later, you'd shredded it in your hands, jagged rifts tearing between the two of you. you'd torn and ripped until was nothing. stomped and screamed and cried and sobbed and destroyed until there was nothing left.

photos scattered around the room like confetti, a movie tickets turned into crumpled balls and tossed outside your door, a frustrated scream tearing its way through your throat trying to rip a charm from your key-chain. the walls bare of the memories.

but the sugary spiced scent was embedded in your mattress, reminding you of the shared giggles woven into the very fibres of it from every late night pointless conversation. the scar on your knee still reminds you of afternoons in the snow, of falling on the icy sidewalk, of instinctively reaching for him when you fell, of the concern in his eyes seeing your bloodied knees.

you can't escape the tingle in your lips when you drink. the buzz tracing around your lip line whenever you laugh. over your bottom lip when your drink splashes over your knuckles in drunken toasts. the tickle settling in a pit in your stomach when you kissed anyone else, thinking of the sensation of his hands instead of theirs, of his tongue, the sound of his voice murmuring your name.

the look in his eyes when you'd pulled away.

his racing heartbeat beneath your fingertips when he leaned in to kiss you again. again. again.

everything was different after that, the beginning of the end, you think. it's like the earth's axis shifted when he kissed you. nothing physically had changed in the small bedroom that night, and yet everything was catastrophically different.

waking up beside him, like you had a million times before, to a charge in the air, an electricity that had your hair standing straight up like you were about to be struck by lightning. rolling in the single bed, you remember your pupils dilating watching him breathe. you remember your heart rate spiking that morning, oliver's hands reaching for you, the same way he always had.

he's always been touchy; an arm always around your shoulders or waist for pictures his mother ushered you closer together for, a thigh pressed to yours when you'd sit side-by-side, his hand over yours, teaching you how to change gears, his leg thrown over yours when you'd sleep together, always waking up with him in your pillow instead of the one he'd fallen asleep on.

your kiss changed nothing.

it was your own fault for thinking it would.

the scent of your pillow hurts your head. the jasmine burns your nose. cigarette smoke stings at the corner of your eyes. a lump forming in your throat.

staring at the uneven spot on the wall, you piece the photo back together, like it's a child's jigsaw puzzle made of only four pieces: you him, the smile on his face, the gleam in your eye.

them, the rain-soaked path beneath your feet, advertisements reflected in the puddles, his raincoat around your shoulders, the shadow of a hickey at the base of his throat, the chipped blue nail polish on his fingers from his youngest sister, the swirling anxiety and childish jealousy humming beneath your ribs when his eyes would flick to his phone for a second. when the sunlight hits it, you think you can see the cracks in the cement beneath you, oliver on one side, you left on the other.

as far as you know, only one survived your hurricane, buried in a drawer somewhere is a photo from oliver's 20th.

he's all muscle with his arm around you, all wide smiles and boisterous laughs with his teammates and friends. you're both tipsy in the photo, your face scrunched in a laugh you know was too loud, but too drunk to try and muffle it, your nose pressing to his cheek, his hand holding your hip tight to keep you upright.

even if you'd gotten your hands on it, torn at it savagely until it was unrecognisable, the image would still haunt you.

still his contact photo all these years later. still your favourite contact, above your parents, above your closest friends, still at the top of the list.

"to drinking legally!" your cheer is the loudest, stood right beside him as the bartender pours the shot over a little tower of plastic cups, oliver handing you the one from the peak of the tower, picking up one from the second layer before placing the tray on the table for everyone else in the booth to reach for.

"wait, i've always wanted to do this!" you learn quickly in the club there's not much personal space, your lips brushing his ear as you speak just for him to hear you over the bass line. under the strobe lights, oliver follows your lead, hooking his arm through yours, taking the shot simultaneously.

you cheer again, the sound drowned out by the music the same way his laugh is, the same way his voice is when he excuses himself from your side.

oliver's birthday was the beginning of everything new for him — all the friends you didn't recognise, a new team, a new favourite drink, a new favourite food ("this ramen place in shibuya is to die for, i'll take you next time!). sometimes, you worry he's a whole new person.

you didn't get back to his hotel until the sun was beginning to rise, although, you don't notice the dawn until he lays you down at the centre of the bed, the morning sun glowing behind his hair as a needy kiss is pressed to your lips, to your jaw, to your chest.

he tastes like he did the first time you kissed him, like oliver, a little like alcohol. he's as dizzying as he was the first time, filling your mind with a hypnotic fog that chants his name.

his hands slide over your thighs, pulling them over his shoulders as he kneels at the foot of the bed, bathed in the golden sunrise streaming through the windows, a little patch of saliva shining above your knee where he kisses you.

"you're so beautiful, baby."

the pet-name feels like ice, a frost settling into your bones, sobering you instantly, even as you shakily sat up on your elbows.

"what'd you call me?"

"beautiful?" he presses another kiss, higher, on your thigh.

"the other thing?"

"baby?"

you think it's the alcohol churning in your stomach, rising in your throat. you will it to be the alcohol. you're not quite ready to admit what it might really be.

oliver stares, confused, up at you as the colour drains from your face, "you okay?"

you think you're going to throw up. his kiss on your lips growing sour at the memory of all the others before you. all the other people who'd seen him like this; do his eyes glitter the same with them? does he kiss them like you?

"do you mean it?"

he breathes out a laugh, waiting for you to join him even as your face remains grim, "where's this coming from?"

"do you call them all that?"

"what are you going on about?"

"you know, the other people you do this with."

"i guess? why are we talking about this right now?"

you can't help sounding incredulous, immature when you huff, "am i like them?"

am i not special? am i another name to forget? am i not yours?

oliver pauses.

the air has shifted. like the storm is brewing. your hair standing on end like the lightning is going to strike.

"are you upset with me?"

"stop doing that."

there's a sigh, the beginning sounds of the morning commuters echoing outside. a shuffle of clothes when he stands up from between your legs.

"don't start this, baby," his eyes are different than they'd ever looked staring down at you still laid on his bed, the speech falling from his mouth too easily, "i didn't think you'd be weird about it."

"i'm not being weird," there was always something about oliver that made you a little volatile, more defensive, normally about silly, childish things — who gets the bigger half of the cookie, who gets to wear his favourite hoodie, who gets to pick the movie — "you're the one who won't just answer the question."

"what answer do you want?"

the new oliver feels alien to you. no longer the boy that would tackle you in the snow, who'd push you on the swings for hours because he knows he can get it to swing all the way around. not the boy that split all of his favourite snacks for you, or flexed at you from across the pitch just to make you laugh. not the boy who replaced your parents vodka with water and had your first drink with you. he wasn't your oliver you'd kissed.

he looks sober now, too, rubbing a knuckle in his eye, "i just wanted a hookup. i didn't think you'd get all jealous about it."

it's not just lightning when it strikes you. it's hail — boulders of thick ice raining down around you.

you have no right, you know, you know, you know. you have no right to demand his affections.

"just a hookup? are you that fucking scared of someone actually knowing you?"

"what? like you're scared of being left behind?" his eyes widen, only minutely, flashing into yours, tensely awaiting your reaction, like a child waits for the thunder after the burst of lightning.

"get out." the anger doesn't fit right in your mouth, not directed at him. you don't sound like a friend anymore, you sound like you want to see his heart break, shatter into sharper shards than your own.

you hope it works. you think it does when he turns to leave.

you know it worked when you ride the train home alone. when he doesn't text you when he gets home. when he doesn't send you a photo of his sisters cat, or the flowers they sell down the street.

you know it worked when your mother asked how he was. asked why your oliver didn't come visit, that you two were always joined at the hip.

you know it worked when you get up to the room that smells like him and you can't feel him in it.

© all works belong to @a-ikuoliver, @gwen0m, and dlirious on archive of our own, do not plagiarise, translate, repost, feed my works into ai or recommend my work on other platforms, or bind my fanworks for sale.

[babybluewoso]

The Blaugrana Beat: A Tale of Love Beyond the Pitch || alexia putellas x reader

once upon a time, in the sun-kissed streets of Barcelona, two hearts danced to the rhythm of childhood innocence. Alexia Putellas and Emerson Jones were inseparable, their laughter echoing through the narrow alleys as they chased after soccer balls and dreams. They were more than friends; they were soulmates, their bond forged in the fiery passion of youth.

Emerson, with her unruly curls and mischievous eyes, was a blend of English pragmatism and Spanish fire. She had spent fifteen vibrant years in Spain, soaking up the Mediterranean sun and falling in love with the game that would shape her destiny. Alexia, on the other hand, was all grace and determination. Her Spanish roots ran deep, and her love for soccer was etched into her very bones.

Emerson is the girl who never liked to wear frocks, who couldn't stay still for a minute,  and who always loves to cause trouble. alexia, on the other hand, is the angel everyone adores, sure she did play soccer but she loved to dress up as a princess only for her Emerson. From a very young age Alexia wanted to be with Emerson she never knew why, but whenever another girl touched her Emerson she would explode. their parents, especially Emerson's brothers tease them because growing up  Alexia is the tallest one out of both of them.

after years of pinning over each other, they admitted their feelings to each other. Their love story began innocently—a stolen kiss behind the bleachers, secret notes passed during class, and late-night conversations under the star-studded sky. They were childhood sweethearts, their hearts entwined like the vines that adorned the ancient walls of the Camp Nou stadium. 

however life has a way of twisting fate, and when Emerson’s family announced their return to England, the world tilted on its axis. She tried to explain it to Alexia, her voice trembling with the weight of impending separation. But Alexia misunderstood, her heart shattered into a thousand shards. She believed Emerson was leaving because she had grown tired of their love, that their shared dreams were mere illusions.

In a moment of pain and desperation, Alexia lashed out. 

"you know what I never liked you anyway, you foolishly thought that I loved you huh? guess what I would never, ever love someone like you" she spat, her eyes betraying the lie.

Emerson’s heart fractured, "No no you're lying. ale, you know I will always find my way back to you. always, I can't do anything about this situation. I love you. I- I- "

"stop it. go back to your stupid country. I bet you already have some chick lined up for you huh??"

"ale this isn't you"

"stop calling me that. and get the hell out of here" and she left Barcelona with tears staining her jersey.

Years passed, Emerson’s life took unexpected turns and so did her body. once the smallest kid in the town is now the tallest giant in the town. but her personality stays the same way, with her side smirk and the messy blonde hair, England women lined up for her attention. But none of them matter to her when her heart always belongs to a certain Catalan girl.  

Emerson honed her skills, rising through the ranks until she stood at the precipice of her dreams—a chance to sign with FC Barcelona. But fate had a wicked sense of humor. Alexia, now a seasoned player herself, was the team captain. the news of Emerson Jones joining Barca flew like wildfire. before she knew it, she was packing her bags to go back to Spain. where she lost her first love. She is ready to prove that she came here to stay. Even Alexia’s words rang in her head all the time; she had faith in their love.

Lucy Bronze, her England teammate has taken it up on herself to introduce Emerson to the team. Emerson is so happy to be back in Barcelona, but that is not the only reason, she wanted to see Alexia apparently the girl had some captain duties to do. after changing into her new training kit, she made her way onto the field.

lunchtime rolled over still no sign of the captain, so Emerson let out a quiet sign and ate her lunch. but little did she know the captain was looking from the physio room this entire time. Alexia couldn't bring herself to meet Emerson again. She knew it was childish, she was the team captain one way or another they must meet again.

After lunch, the team had their evening gym session. which Alexia had to participate in. Again, Lucy took it upon herself to introduce the two ex-lovers.

"Hello," Emerson’s Yorkshire accent dripped down due to being so many years in England.

alexia has to admit that it was very hot but she dismissed that thought quickly. She takes a quick look at Emerson’s body, she is not the same girl who she used to be. alexia is one of the tallest players in the squad after Irene, Ingrid, and Frido but never in her wildest dreams, she would have thought that Emerson would be this tall. Emerson, standing at an imposing 6 feet tall, defies convention with her androgynous allure. Her frame, though linear, conceals a quiet strength—a testament to her disciplined lifestyle. Her jawline, sharp as a blade, accentuates her femininity, while her ocean-blue eyes hold depths of mystery. no wonder why England women were so caught up with her charm.

"hola, espero que no caus cap problema aquí"(hello hope you don't cause any trouble here) She greeted Emerson’s return with icy indifference, her walls fortified against the girl who had once held her heart. 

Emerson couldn't understand a word she said but she knew Alexia wasn't very pleased with her presence. swallowing hard Emerson tried to start a conversation with her;

"How are you doing ale?? it's been some time"

"Mira aquí no em pots dir ale perquè no és el meu nom, només els meus amics I la família em poden dir així, I l'última vegada que vaig composer que no eres ni familiar ni amic meu." (look you can't call me ale here because that's not my name only my friends and family can call me that, and last time I checked you were neither family nor friend of mine)

lucy who had seen the whole interaction stepped in, "Hey hey I don't know what happened with you two but save it for late si?" with that Alexia left without another word.

"she hates me" Emerson whispered.

"no shit Sherlock. what did you do to her, and how did you two know each other, did you sleep with each other? omg if so this is not going to end well. You have to tell me everything "

-- -

A few days passed Emerson befriended almost everyone on the team. alexia hated that too, Emerson has friends now. As a captain of the team, she had some power over a few things. 

alexia refused to talk in English she even abandoned the other players to talk in English too. poor Keira never saw it coming. She explained the drills in Spanish, and Emerson felt hopeless. it was quite obvious within the team that alexia hated her but only Lucy and Kiera knew the real reason.

after a grueling training session, Alexia called the team over to have a free kick challenge.

"Farem un repte de tir lliure si ho perdeu, hauteur de córrer 10 volts" (we're gonna do a free kick challenge if you miss, you'll have to run 10 laps) Alexia said with a straight face, again Emerson couldn't understand a word she said but after watching her other teammates she knew it was a free kick challenge.

when it came to Emerson's chance she felt extra nervous, she had taken plenty of free kicks in her life but with the way Alexia was watching, she felt really uncomfortable.

she took a breath and kicked the ball, safe to say it never found its way back on the net.

"de nuevo"(again) alexia seethed.

Emersson’s every touch of the ball felt like a plea for forgiveness, but Alexia remained unyielding. She masked her pain with sharp words and frosty glances, pushing Emerson away. Yet, beneath the surface, the embers of their love still smoldered. The tension between them was palpable, a magnetic pull that defied reason.

---------

days after the free kick incident, it was time to face El Classico, but most importantly Emerson's debut for Barca.

alexia couldn't play due to her knee injury but she was at the stands cheering her teammates.

in the 56th minute, Emerson was subbed in, and from that very moment, the match began to escalate. chances were created, and space was used within two minutes Emerson scored her debut goal for her club. after that goal, Real Madrid became reckless with their tackless, and all of them were aimed at Emerson.

after another thirty-five minutes, the game was over securing a Barcelona win which was nothing new for the team.

however, nobody saw how bad was Emerson, her whole body was aching, and she was exhausted physically and mentally. but she masked it with a small smile on her face. alexia saw right pass through it. she wanted to help but her mind wouldn't let her. 

after thanking the fans Emerson made her way to the physio room to clean up her bruises. to her absolute luck, nobody was there to help. she couldn't care more so she made her way to one of their tables and took off her shirt.

meanwhile, Alexia was caught up in her own battle in her head. She wanted to help Emerson so badly but at the same time, she wanted to hurt her the same way she did.

that's when Lucy came from behind. "go after her. She needs you more than anything"

"I needed her too, but where was she then?"

"don't punish her without knowing the full story"

"easy for you to say, Lucia"

-----

The silence of the locker room was punctuated by the sound of footsteps. Emerson, still reeling from the match’s physical toll, looked up to see Alexia approaching. Her face was a mask of professionalism, but her eyes betrayed a storm of emotions.

“Emerson,” Alexia began, her voice steady and in English, a language she hadn’t used with her for over a decade. “I need to check those bruises you've got.”

Emerson’s eyes widened in surprise. “Alexia?" 

"You’re speaking to me in English?”

She didn’t waver. “Yes, I am. Can we put our past aside for a moment? Your well-being is my priority right now.”

she nodded, still taken aback by the change. “Of course.”

As she tended to her injuries, the tension between them was palpable. Emerson broke the silence, “Why now, after all these years?”

Alexia paused, her hands momentarily still. “Because hate is a heavy burden to carry, and I see no point in holding onto it any longer.”

Emerson searched her face for a hint of the love they once shared. “Do you… do you ever think about us?”

She sighed a trace of sadness in her eyes. “Every day. But we can’t change the past, Emerson. We can only learn from it.”

she reached out, gently touching her hand. “I’m sorry, Alexia. For everything.”

She met her gaze, her own hand covering hers. “I know. And I forgive you. But let’s focus on healing these bruises for now.”

They shared a look, a silent understanding passing between them. Perhaps this was the first step towards mending what had been broken, not just in flesh, but in heart and spirit.

The world blurred, and for a moment, they were just two girls who had once shared secrets and dreams.

Alexia’s eyes held a storm of emotions—regret, longing, and a hint of fear. “Why did you leave?” she whispered, her voice raw. “Why did you break my heart?”

Emersson’s gaze bore into hers. “I had no choice,” she confessed. “My family needed me. But I never stopped loving you.”

The truth hung heavy in the air, and Alexia’s walls crumbled. She cradled Emersson’s face, her thumb brushing away tears. “I was wrong,” she murmured. “I never stopped loving you either.”

And in that moment, the rivalry dissolved, replaced by a love that had weathered storms and crossed continents. Emerson signed with Barça, not as an enemy but as a lover—a woman who had fought for her dreams and her heart.

As they celebrated victory on the hallowed grounds of Camp Nou, Alexia whispered against Emersson’s lips, “Welcome home.”

And Emerson knew that sometimes, love was a game worth playing, even when the odds were stacked against you. They had gone from childhood sweethearts to enemies, but now, they stood on the brink of a new chapter—a love rekindled, stronger than ever before.

p.s. - this is my first story so bear with me. :)

[katasstrophy]

Bruh Nagi being buff as hell after Manshine's training 🥰🥰🥰

sammy you deadass bout to make me objectify this man on main SO BAD this has been running something of a small marathon in my head so 😵‍💫😵‍💫 pls accept my humble word vomit

cw. [n]sfw. mdni. pro player! nagi + aged-up characters. bit of body worship(?) you ride his abs. nipple play (m. receiving). subby nagi (but he's actually a switch >:) + some fluff bc he's so baby :(

note. a bit rambly oop soz it’s bc i went insane. i describe how he looks like to ME (re: hot as fuck) but i guess y'all can read it too hehe<3

1.4k words -> how could you ever hope to keep your hands to yourself when nagi's body looks like that.

i feel like unless you have prior knowledge of the fact that nagi is a pro athlete, from a cursory glance, your first thought upon seeing him wouldn’t be “hmm i bet that dude is built like a brick house.” it doesn’t help that nagi’s basically the unofficial king of athleisure — his closet’s chockfull of loose-fitting hoodies and sweats. he barely owns anything else besides those monochrome hooded tracksuits (and sportswear for practice, i guess he’d need some of that too lol) because he claims it’s the only outfit that gives him unlimited access to just lounge about basically anywhere he pleases. it’s what he genuinely finds to be the most comfortable style for him as well. but if you’re fortunate enough to get a peak underneath the layers of baggy clothes? dear god nagi’s built like a fever dream. amen you’ll eat so good then he’s a whole ass feast. 

i’m gonna brazenly speak my truth here so don’t come for me >:( but! from what you’d consider to be “a typical footballer’s physique”, purely from that perspective, nagi’s legs are… not that impressive. his stagnant motivation has much improved ever since he committed to making a career out of soccer, but that doesn’t mean his slacker tendencies haven’t followed suit. don’t get me wrong, he still puts his all into every game so his legs are still very much capable of making your mouth water, but you won’t catch him sprinting up and down the field at full speed if he can help it. packed with lean muscle, his thighs are thick, calves well-defined with a few bold veins thinly zigzagging down the taut skin like a lightning strike on the occasion you happen to catch him after a particularly gruelling conditioning session. but compared to some of his teammates whose legs seem to be carved from iron, he’s a bit.. overshadowed.

it’s a fairly similar story with his arms. (i promise i’m not just talking shit lol i could NEVER my poor meow meow it’s gonna get so hot in a second i swear just bear with me!!!) again, it’s most definitely a drool-worthy sight. the stretch of his arms is long and sinewy, rolling with a set of generous biceps that flutter under the gentle scrap of your fingerpads and nails when he (totally intentionally) flexes the swell of muscle there. in his profession, he mostly uses his arms for balance and to create distance between himself and his opponents. buried in his private nook back home, he has a tendency to hold his phone above his head while playing mobile games — that blissfully only rarely come crashing down on his face — but his unrivalled favourite will, of course, always be enveloping you in his arms <3 

nagi’s not the most expressive person, but his subtle social cues become much easier to pick up on whenever he’s sleepy, which let’s be honest is almost always. he’s in dire need of a snuggle in those moments and not only loves, but craves being close to you physically, his face a canvas of huffy evidence of what a Big Deal this is to him if you learn to read the hidden hints (it’s a pursed, pouty frown nine times out of ten he ain’t slick lmfao). he kind of regards your presence as his “recharging station” what a cringe fail soggy loser man i adore him with my whole heart 🥹 his lanky limbs will snake around you with the security of a vine until you’re all cosy and wrapped up in each other, his hold bearing enough strength to not budge against any playful escape tactics you might attempt — at least not until he decides he’s had his fair share of quality snuggle time with you. 

nagi’s a practical man, however — the world doesn’t call him a lazy genius for nothing. for these, albeit lovely, purposes, he determined there’s absolutely no need to overexert himself by lifting weights to buff up his arms. he can get by just fine! there are definitely more jacked arms out there i’m sorry :(

but here’s the kicker. nagi’s tall. you could even say he’s huge — he’d tower over most people if he actually straightened his posture for once. so his muscle mass kind of stretches out a bit… unevenly throughout his body. he does have muscle mass though, plenty of it, actually, and he needs only to do one tiny little thing to remind you of it: lift his shirt up. 

it’s a subconscious, everyday thing for nagi to toy with the hem of his cotton tees. his fingers often grow restless if they’re just lying about, so playing with the material of his clothes is not only stupidly ready at hand but also helps to soothe the itch brimming along his fingers to do something with them. in the process, you’re rewarded with glimpses of his stomach often when he involuntarily ends up exposing the skin clinging to those hard planes. but what’s objectively worse for your sanity is when nagi comes trudging into the kitchen to ease his thirst. he never bothers with a glass from the cupboard, just swoops down to drink from the open tap, his adam’s apple bopping rhythmically as he swallows. there’s water coating his lips when he rises, a few droplets still running down his chin that he tugs on the ends of his t-shirt to lazily wipe away. it’s an innocent endeavour to him, but a sinful display for you, as it essentially shows off his entire, deliciously shaped midriff. nagi might slack off in other areas, but his core strength is insane. his torso is like a gift from the heavens, chiselled after the image of their gods and heroes. don’t even get me started on his abs.

because i cannot stress enough how perfect nagi’s abs are for grinding your sweet, drooling little cunny on :( the ridges of muscle packed together at his abdomen are firm, but twitch almost uncontrollably when you slowly drag your cunt up and down the sculpted slabs of his stomach that bump against your poor, swollen clit in a way that makes you delirious. your thighs bracket his waist as you move, his waist that is so trim and almost tiny compared to the broad stretch of his shoulders. you can feel the coarse, light hair of his happy trail graze against your bare ass, leading to his heavy, stirring cock still confined in his sweats for now as you continue to leisurely rut your pussy down his abs, leaving a slick mess behind. the hard cut of his v-line is so prominent a thin contour of shadow clings to the underside of it.

nagi wishes desperately that he could help you, that he could sink his fingers into the plush of your skin and push you down along his abdomen to accelerate your high, dictate a more intense pace for you by his hands and make you take it, but he’s too busy being a moaning, blubbering mess underneath you to take initiative. his large palm lies dormant at your waist, the other tangled in his snowy, sweaty bangs so he doesn’t miss even a blink of the intoxicating vision you present above him. he’s drunk on every salacious sound that comes tumbling from your lips, every wanton contortion of your gorgeous face as the lewd squelching of your pussy fills his ears. his defined chest is flushed red from arousal, shuddering with shaky exhales as he all but devours the sight of you — he thinks you using him for your own pleasure is so fucking hot. 

if you want to turn him into an utter wreck, whining like a bitch in heat, please please play with his nipples :( paw at his pecs all needy first, ‘n don’t be afraid to grip the flesh with the blunt of your nails. he’ll mewl about it, but you only need to shush and praise him, tell him how good he looks like this for you and he’ll behave. pinch at the pretty pink of his pebbled nipples, gently circle his areola with your tongue, sucking on the bud and nagi will lose his mind, might even cum untouched :( but that’s okay because he’s so turned on his refractory period is barely an issue, he’ll sink into your tight, sloppy walls in one go and fuck you absolutely senseless on his cock. it’s all you can do to scramble for purchase with your trembling fingers, marking up the milky expanse of his broad back and mouthing at his collarbones to stifle your near pornographic keens and cries as he mercilessly splits you open.

in conclusion nagi seishiro is built like a wet dream and i want him carnally </3

[incorrect-futbol-quotes]

Ramos: Now, the recipe calls for 2 shots of vodka. 

Ramos: *upends the bottle*

[hysteria-things]

༄ PROLOGUE ☼

ʚ♡ɞ 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ʚ♡ɞ

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: matt x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: greece is your family’s number one vacation destination. you meet a boy there, being oblivious to what your future holds with him.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF, crying

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 631

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: GUYS I’M SO EXCITED FOR THIS SERIES YOU HAVE NO IDEA

the heat from the sun beams down on your skin. your family goes on a vacation to greece every year in the summer, and you must say, it’s your favorite time of year.

to be more specific, the island is called skopelos.

the three of you stay in the same hotel each year. it looks a bit run down, but in reality, it’s beautiful.

it’s owned by an older woman, who your parents befriended for how many times you’ve been to this place.

hotel villa donna is made full of white brick, with a blue roof and green vines with more gorgeous flowers decorating the walls.

it has a big courtyard and a handful of rooms surrounding it. despite it being smaller than an average hotel, it’s perfect.

the view of the beach and the main dock is breathtaking, the water traveling far and wide. at night, the fairy lights make it look dimly lit and calm.

currently, you’re laying on that same beach in your bathing suit with your eyes closed, getting a nice tan.

the waves and the conversations of other people flood your ears, the squawking of seagulls above you.

“oomph!” you huff out when an object lands hard on your stomach.

“way to go, chris. you hit the poor girl.” a voice yells in the distance.

“oh, shut up, nick.” another voice, who you’re assuming is chris, argues back.

a shuffling of sand gets more intense as if it’s moving close to you.

you take off your sunglasses, squinting your eyes at the boy hovering above and grabbing the soccer ball.

“i am so sorry for my idiot brother. are you okay?” he asks worriedly, his blue orbs widening in concern.

his damp brunette hair blows in the wind, cheeks red from a little sunburn. he’s handsome.

“it’s all good.” you giggle, sitting up. “it didn’t hurt me or anything.”

he sighs of relief. “thank god. i’m matt, by the way.”

you smile. “y/n.”

“isn’t it crazy that we’ve been together for six years?” matt says, swinging your hand in his as you walk to… wherever.

matt said he had a surprise for you, but insisted you’d be blindfolded for it. you know you’re outside because the grass tickles your ankles.

“yeah, i know.” you start, following his guidance. “all because chris hit me with a soccer ball.”

he laughs, letting go of your hand. “matt? where’d you go?” you call out.

then, the sound of ‘i have a dream’ plays softly on a harp. what the hell?

you feel his fingers lift the fabric over your eyes, removing it. you gasp.

both of you are standing under a cherry blossom tree, the petals falling around you two. he knows how much you love the outdoors and nature.

you finally look at matt, who’s tearing up and grinning widely. “matt—”

“i love you so much.” he sniffles, putting his hands into his pockets. he doesn’t like to get all sappy, but for you, he has no problem doing it. “as i look into your eyes, i see a future brighter than i could have ever imagined. every day spent by your side feels like a gift, and i am endlessly grateful for your love and companionship.”

“shut up,” you say, your hands covering your mouth as tears start to spill from your eyes.

“y/n.” he gets on one knee, taking a velvet box out of his jacket. “will you do the incredible honor and be my wife?”

now, here you are, gushing widely at the remaining envelopes in your hands. you read off the names as you slide them into the slit of the mailbox. “chris, nick, nate, clem, and madi.”

this is it. you are officially going to get married to the love of your life.

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @hearts4chris @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @mayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @sturnolio-luvs @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hertvgirl @whoreforchrissturniolo @sturniolotriplettoplover @stars4matt @freshsturns @loverrsposts @sturnlcvr @elliesturniolo1 @tpvmz @user283926392 @lalalands86 @sukiipjs @sturniologirl813 @leahrab @chrissturniolosslut @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @luv4kozume @ivyyyyyysposts @mirxcle1 @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @catalina-island @mbsbaby @mattsdollie @pinkfarts @slut4mattsturn @thesturniolos @vickeyzloserz @nononopenono1 @bitchydragonparadise @gdsvhtwa @hrt-attack @bellasfavbisexual @dwntwn-strnlo @venusbabysblog @meerkatzthings @crazychrisl0v3r @maggieflms @strtuniolo @mutualsafe @riasturns @sturniolowhore @antpile00 @ashley9282828

[i-got-poisenality]

MODERN NEWSIES HCS NO ONE ASKED FOR

Sarah Jacobs

she/her

raging lesbian

transferred to the same high school as the rest of the newsies with Davey from a private school

joined the debate team 80% because she’s gay for Katherine(captain of debate team) and wanted to get to know her better and 20% because she likes to argue

raging feminist and will fight terfs because terfs aren’t real feminists

has absolutely beat up people who bully Davey

on a girls rugby team and absolutely kicks ass

besties with Romeo, no i don’t take constructive criticism

Jack Kelly

he/him and bisexual disaster

also beats up people who bully Davey

javid <3333

has been through a bunch of foster homes

head of set design for their schools drama program

paints sets for Medda’s theater outside of school

most of the newsies have him saved as “cOuNtRy BoY 👅” in their contacts because of that vine

drinks way too much coffee and usually can’t sleep

his favorite movie is Indiana Jones and some newsies call him “Indi” as a joke

terrified of spiders, will shriek with more fear than you’ve ever heard at a spider sighting

none of his clothes are free of paint

paints and draws on his clothes on purpose sometimes

senior superlative is gonna be most artistic

Crutchie Morris

he/him or he/they (transmasc)

gay and ace (he’ll fight you if you i infantilize him and so will i)

uses forearm crutches as opposed to one crutch because i thought thatd be easier for him (disabled people correct me if i’m wrong)

currently in a really bad foster home but is gonna get adopted by Miss Medda at some point so he’ll be ok

bad at math but good at english

in choir and has gotten a couple solos

in detention a lot but not as much as Jack or Race

dating Race, crutchtrack forever

insane upper body strength and people are always surprised

Miss Medda helped him get his first binder but he’s very bad about binder safety and forgets to take it off

physically incapable of not petting every animal he comes across and has a job at a local animal shelter

has broken peoples kneecaps with his crutches (no seriously, he sent Morris Delancey to the hospital by whacking him so hard after Morris made a jerk comment)

Katherine Plumber Pulitzer

she/her and demiromantic sapphic

has two last names because her parents are divorced and her dad wouldn’t let her get rid of his last name so she jus added her mom’s

so much daddy issues

president of the school paper and captain of the debate team

also president of 20 other clubs

in the running for valedictorian alongside Davey and Race

besties with Davey

so many APs and has straight As

very vocal about issues in the system and will not hesitate to write about them

english teachers love her

can write an essay in 20 minutes

very intrigued by Sarah and her argument methods (this just turns into gay feelings once they’re friends)

Albert

aromantic asexual

always in detention

mostly only liked by foods teachers because that’s where he applies himself the most

cooking is one of the few things that actually bring him joy

on the soccer team and dances sometimes

pretty good at math

fell asleep in english while his class was reading Romeo and Juliet because he thought it was dumb

tired and angry

gets in fights pretty regularly

steals stuff from his friends for fun

(if you wanna know any more, please please please send me asks)

[exhaslo]

Now, a (somewhat) happy one!!! 🥳

You know how Gabriella plays soccer in ATSV? If CorruptionAUreader's and Villainmiguel's child (like 3-6) played soccer and was REALLY good at it, how do you think they would react.

Cause all I'm imagining is Child and Miguel playing soccer in the backyard and Child (unknowingly using spidy-senses) kicking his ass( cause yk, no spidy-sense).

Do you think he'd be proud? Would he be angry and embarrassed that he got beat by a(HIS OWN) child? Or, would he be proud in a cynical way cause that technically meant that his whole plan worked/is working?

(literally thought of this because I was watching old vines and came across the one where that little boy out plays his sister. It was funny. Lmk if you want a link to it)

I'll totally watch that video bc I miss/love vines.

Oh, Miguel would be thrilled! If I had to pick, Miguel would be both proud of his child for beating him and proud about his evil plan working.

Of course, Miguel would have several kids with reader. He wants as many super powered humans as possible.

At the end of the day, Miguel would be proud of any accomplish his children did. Especially if they did something that shocked Miguel. No matter how small the accomplishment, Miguel would be proud.

Now, if one of his children were slacking in anyway, you know that Miguel would be giving them harsh training. Oh yea, these kids gonna have some issues. At least they got reader to be the sweeter of the two parents.

[frogs-crackcorner]

Choose your own story: Fae edition

Welcome to Choose Your Own Story, where I set the scene and you write the story!

It's been centuries since the fae and mortal world's combined. Most humans had died during the great war. Those that survived were seen as lowly creatures or animals, many became slaves. Those that didn't were sold as pets to the wealthy fae. Humans became increasingly more rare. This is how you find yourself surrounded by four, rather intimidating, fae generals. The king decided to reward their hard work by gifting you to them.

The fiercest and leader among them was Price. A broad, sturdy man with a thick beard and bits of mossy green dotting his skin. He was said to be a monster on the battlefield. He could bend and command the earth to his will. Rocks would break and explode, vines would decimate enemy armies. He was truly the best of them all.

Next in command was Ghost. He was tall, hulking mass of muscle. A large gash in his cheek hung open revealing his molars and his body was covered in scars and wounds that never seemed to fully heal. It must be part of his magic because liquid never spilled out of his mouth as he drank. Ghost was the commander of death. Sudden and silent, his power of disease wiped out armies without a single arrow fired.

After Ghost came Gaz. Gaz was a charming, slender fae. With dark skin and bright eyes, it was hard to suspect him as being a formidable warrior. He was known to be able to drown a thousand men without anyone ever seeing a drop of water. His power of water was also highly regarded for supplying fresh water to exhausted soldiers.

Last up was Mactavish. A muscular man with a wild Mohawk and fiery eyes. He was the wild card. His power of fire was known to get out of hand on occasion. He had an obsession with explosions and destruction, he seemed to thrive in the chaos. He was unwavering, unpredictable, and undefeated.

As ruthless as these men were, they knew how fragile mortals could be. They made sure to get plenty of enrichment for you. Any activity you wanted to do they made it happen. Sewing kits. Bowling pins. Acrylic paints. Swings. Soccer balls. Any hobby you decided to try they made sure you had everything you needed. They built a library for you in the house. Put a garden in the backyard. You practically had your own little zoo with the amount of animals they got you.

They also made sure to give you plenty of tasks to do. A list of tricks that all humans should know. How to sweep. How to wash a dish. How to get dressed. How to feed themselves .The list goes on. Every fae that owns a human should know how much work they are. Humans are not as developed or cultured as the fae are, every fae knows that to be fact.

Sure, they can be a little demeaning at times but you were used to that. It's how every fae treated you and some were down right cruel. But you knew these four were well intentioned albeit a little misguided. They really did care for you. The high class society they had grown up in had taught them that humans were low life forms that should be cared for similar to house pets. Humans were things to own and show off.

You were taught the same. Your whole purpose in life was to be owned. To be a good pet. You had been sent to school at the age of 13 to be taught how to be a pet. But deep down, you knew you wanted more. You were smart. You could do so much more than be a party trick. Deep down, you didn't want to be just a pet.

Now you have a choice to make