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onedrinkafter · 5 days
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hey, tag this with a food people get really upset about you not liking
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onedrinkafter · 8 days
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[DAZED FROM BLOOD LOSS] hey not to kill the vibe completely but i think i am in love with you
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onedrinkafter · 13 days
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onedrinkafter · 13 days
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Love this genre of photos.
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onedrinkafter · 18 days
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please read my ish guys m begging… rbs appreciated Cront rpf tumblr come find me
boban and suker celebrate their bronze (just silly guys in love)
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onedrinkafter · 18 days
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we can debate the ethics of rpf all day long but the bottom line that we can’t get away from is that its funny to edit black and white images of celebrities into the “rpf is fine” image with their name as the source
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onedrinkafter · 18 days
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boban and suker celebrate their bronze (just silly guys in love)
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onedrinkafter · 18 days
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the hotel room in sports rpf functions as a liminal yet domestic space which allows for the realization and articulation of otherwise sublimated desire. in this essay i will 
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onedrinkafter · 25 days
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onedrinkafter · 27 days
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and remember babes
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onedrinkafter · 1 month
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onedrinkafter · 3 months
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Mandzo x Luka - jealousy, tears and depression, yes I want to cry.
MANDZO/LUKA ANGST REQUESTword count: 
and all I remember is your backwalking towards the airport, leaving us all in your past
The lingering feelings between them, at times, ache. 
When they are sitting in the back of the bus, the windows frost with snow and their arms brush. Luka’s head against Mario’s shoulder sends waves of heat through their bodies. 
He longs to nestle his chin in Luka’s blond hair, inhale the musky scent of amber that dominates his senses, and wrap his arms around him. They are powerless to the feelings that course between them, but they would never act on them. It would ruin their careers, their friendship – the effortless bond between their team. It could never be, not in broad daylight.
The first time they’re together, they’re drunk – urged by whiskey courage. 
They slip away from the bar, coated in the dim lighting of the restaurant bathroom, and Luka has to stretch on his toes to brush his lips against Mario’s. Mario hardly reciprocates before he (quite literally) runs away, leaving Luka in a haze of confusion and regret. 
Regret tastes like vodka on his tongue – but jealousy?
It tastes like blood, swirling inside his mouth, as he watches Mario grind with some American girl on the dance-floor before they escape to his car with a hand planted on her arse. 
He receives a text at two A.M. that night.
Mandzo: I’m sorry.Mandzo: Forgive me?
But Luka knows, somewhere deep within his being, that Mario will never figure himself out enough to accept them. 
They almost kiss, a lot. 
They get close enough that Mario can feel Luka’s breath on his skin. Feel his lashes and eyes fluttering shut, forcing their hands to move along the other’s body to find their way in blind darkness. 
Luka’s hand steadies itself on Mario’s hip, and like magnets they pull closer together, Mario tugging roughly on Luka’s shirt lapels, nothing in between them except the words they didn’t say. 
Mario hisses with anticipation and Luka’s breath hitches. His head slants, his tongue swipes against his bottom-lip, mere centimeters away from touching. 
There is a sense of urgency in the air, but it is lax and unhurried, like honey pouring from a jar. 
The door swings open. They jump apart. Remove their hands like they’ve been burned, and Mario’s fingers card through his hair exasperatedly. 
Almost. Is it better than never?
They are a cathedral of almost.
They formed a terrible, curious knack for confessing their feelings at the worst possible moment; like a bullet ricocheting a moment too soon, a final word spoken too late. 
Mario is giddy. For perhaps a first in his life, he has figured out what he wants. He values his solitude, but he was meant to be a lover. Four letters; two syllables. 
The answer is easy enough, but finding it nearly killed him. 
“I want to tell you something.” His cheeks hurt, his scalp prickles, his abdomen ties itself in knots from smiling so hard. Had he ever beamed from ear to ear like a dizzy school boy? Had his own mother ever seen him so self-assured, so confident?
So full of hope?
“I have to tell you something, too.” 
Luka is less enthusiastic, but still just as happy. He folds Mario’s hands into his own, smaller pair and guides him toward the bench. They wait a moment, the sound of their heartbeats pounding in unison filling the air.
Mandzu stutters, “I’m–you first.”
“No, no, you first.” Luka smiles, urges, “I think I’ll want to hear this.”
“Okay, if you insist. I took what you said to heart. I think I lov–”
I love you.
“I’m getting married.” 
Silence descends upon them like a plague, gripping Mario and robbing him of his momentary happiness–of Luka. “Married? To who?” 
“Vanja,” he explained. “I love her.” 
“You love her?”
“Mario…” 
“You don’t want this?” 
“This? What is this? A few glances, an afterthought? You want what you can’t have, Mario. Always. It makes you a great soccer player, but you could never–.”
Mario clears his throat. “I think you’ve said enough.”
They shared a glance, caught each other’s gaze. Luka’s blue eyes, boring into him like a doe; Mario’s penetrating gaze, full of somber dejection. It was as if Luka was pleading with him, his soul on its hands and knees, silently, to act. 
To act this once, in exchange for a lifetime of joy instead of longing.
To act this once, for a lifetime of happiness – instead of a game of not-knowing, not-knowing, and second guessing, in which there is no true winner. 
But Mario remained quiet and averted his eyes. 
Little did Luka know that this was his way of saying:
‘Please ask me just one more time. I’ll figure it out.’
One more. 
One more chance.
Instead, he lifts to his feet, clasps Mario on his shoulder, and breezes away. He closes a door on a lifetime of what-ifs and lets it slam behind him. 
They share a bed the first time they arrive in London for a game. 
The hotel was booked full, but the concierge promised that there would be two king sized beds awaiting them in their room. When they arrive, downtrodden after a failed match, there was only a medium-sized mattress wedged between two bedside tables, a small note of gratitude perched on ornately displayed pillows. 
Mario takes a cold shower. Luka paces incessantly, burning holes in the carpet and likely annoying the wits out of whoever was sleeping under them.
He wouldn’t mind being under Mar–no.
He holds his head in his hands and Mandzo pries them apart, kissing both of his palms as his hair, still wet from the shower, drips onto Luka’s nose. Mario cups his jaw, pries his chin backward, and glides his tongue along the corner of Luka’s mouth to collect the small droplet. 
Every hair on Luka’s body stands on end. Every nerve is alert to Mario’s proximity and the white towel encircling his hips, dipping just below the V of his abdomen and the dark happy trail trailing beneath. 
“We should–.”
“I can’t–.” 
“–your fiancée. I’ll go.” 
Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe Luka didn’t want things to turn awkward. But he felt that he should say something, that this moment, above all the others – and there were several others – this moment was unique. 
But the senseless coward he knew he was overcame him and he let Mario slip away as easily as he had allowed him to enter his boundaries. 
Luka traces little circles on Mario’s hip, enjoying watching goose-bumps appear on the skin of his thighs as the pad of his fingertip swirls over sensitive skin. He whispers, “do you believe in love?”
“At first sight?” Mario echoes into the darkness.
“No, just love.”
He closes his hand over Luka’s, draws it up his bare chest, and lays it flush against where his heart is.
“We’ll see.” 
Luka is the last person Mario tells. It is even easier to tell Dalić, the man he looked up to like a father, the only coach to ever truly believe in him, than to tell Luka.
His friend. His captain. The man who dominates every thought that passes his mind. 
How could he ever? What could he say, what could move him, what would possibly convey all the words he’d longed to say since he first joined the team? Would words ever be enough?
He calls Luka at eleven pm, a glass of wine sitting to his right. As the phone dials, he has a sinking feeling that before he can ever say a word, Luka will know. 
And he is right. 
Mario’s knuckles rasp against the hotel door, and within a moment it swings open. Luka is standing there, his hair in artful disarray, the lines around his mouth more prominent, more striking than before. But there is a dispassionate glint to his eyes – a lack of hope that is, in his dearest Luka, as rare and as grave as a sunless day. 
“I had to say goodbye,” Mario gestures between them, him and his broken parts and all of Luka’s glory, “in person.”
“You’re still here?” 
“Where else would I be?” 
“You won’t stay?”
Mario didn’t have to shake his head or utter a word, Luka knew. He was retiring. 
“I don’t want to change anything with us–.”
“Us?” Luka laughed, but it was a humorless noise, and tinged with a terrible silence that cut at Mario’s heart. “I wish you had never told me. I wish you just left.”
Oh, how he wanted to beg for Mario to stay. It was never supposed to be him. Mario watched the tears pool in his beautiful eyes; a vision that would haunt him the rest of his life. But he never turned back.
Regret – it tasted like shit. 
And perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone. 
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onedrinkafter · 3 months
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if you have children someday, when they point to the pictures… 
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onedrinkafter · 3 months
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yes i bought it faster than you can say “spit on me daddy”
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onedrinkafter · 3 months
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1 / 2
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onedrinkafter · 3 months
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Their legs had stopped working long before the end. Their muscles ached, their lungs heaved, their bodies creaked and groaned. Croatia’s players had hit their limits and traveled beyond them, yet again; they had drained themselves of adrenaline; they had passed deep into the red, into the pain.
And still, even as their movements grew stiff and their tendons tight, when they were gasping for breath and it looked as though they could not possibly give any more, they kept going, kept chasing, kept running: past England, into the World Cup final, into history.
New York Times
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onedrinkafter · 3 months
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sonny holding a cockerel...? okay.
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