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crazyoffher · 9 months

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TAKE YOUR PICK.

wednesday addams x fem!vampire!reader

summary: a werewolf attack leaves you in need of aid, though you find yourself aided in more than just your wounds.

warnings: smut (18+) — slight oral (r receiving), fingering, strap-on referred to as “cock” at one point, slight face-slapping, teasing, dirty talk, virgin!r, withheld orgasm. -> mentions of blood, wounds, werewolf attack, medical equipment, mentions of kidnapping, scarring, and dom!w + sub!r.

word amount: 6900+

a/n: yes you read that right, 6900+ words. i guess i beat you, didn’t i, my ⭐️ anon 😉.

“Our successor greets us with torture by this grouping.” Her words were dull, and as you turned to face her, you were met with her eyes boring into yours. You cocked your head to the side, easily bypassing a tree that would’ve hit anyone else. Your instincts were stressed by your venture into the woods with the murderous woman you labeled your enemy accompanying you.

Your skin itched. Badly. Though you would rather burn in the flames she created than take action for relief, you never dared to let the shorter girl win at her former pleas to have her partner switch, labeling it as having to not deal with your pollen allergy, but everyone knew of your rivalry.

It was no secret after all. You couldn’t count the number of times she tried to assist in your early death, ranging from simple pop-up attacks that your raging instincts guided you with to kidnapping you into the Nightshades library and torturing you—or more so, trying her best to—while reading latin incantations from a book that still scarred your mind to this day.

“You don’t have to tell me.” With your head shifted into it’s former state, staring straight ahead, you expected Wednesday to mirror your action. She hadn’t.

Your eyes darted all around the forest, searching for insects, animals, humans, or anything of the above that would pose a potential life-threat. Unlike Wednesday, you allowed yourself to feel fear because you actually cared for your life.

You and Wednesday were similar, which was the root of your rivalry. She eyed you as a copycat, but you had always been who you were since the day you were born, and nobody could ever change you. You thrived in academics and sports, taking part in three education-related after school clubs as well as fencing, track, and a modernized human sport known as “soccer” to Americans during the summer.

You easily got more praise for your contribution to the school’s image, while Wednesday held the slimy silver medal praising her for being in second place, and her mind raged at the remembrance of it every time. She wanted to be number one above all else, but she could never bypass you. Hell, you even bypassed Bianca Barclay, forming a small rivalry with her when you first arrived at the academy.

“Would you like me to send you a photographed Polaroid of myself with my signature on it, or shall you continue to stare at me and soon trip over a rock?” Wednesday’s eyes furrowed at the end of the sentence, unable to hold back a yelp when she inevitably did fall over a grounded rock and faceplant on the floor.

You halted your movement, turning your head to the side to catch a glimpse of Wednesday rolling herself on her back, a hand over her knee from a wound forming due to her ignorant choice to wear shorts. “We have thirty minutes remaining to collect all we need for our botanical project. I’d suggest you get off the floor.”

Before she could even comprehend what you said, she found herself looking up into your eyes as you towered over her. Once more, you cocked your head to the side, allowing a sly grin to form on your face at the sight of blood dousing her hand from the open wound. “And you tell me I’m the clumsy one?”

“You are.” She shot back immediately, her eyes narrowing at your facial expression of humor. You found humor in her; you always have. It was a key part of your romantic attraction to her, though that aspect had always been locked away as a secret, and your humor lied in her inability to keep up with you.

Whether Wednesday wanted to admit it or not, she had found her challenger. Someone who was undeniably better than her, someone who forced her to work harder to be the one at the top, though she knew secretly she’d always be trapped in second place.

You were better than her, and it annoyed her more than anything in the world. That’s why the discovery of her own attraction toward you scared her—the girl who dared not feel emotion. She blamed it on your well-behaved confidence and that stupid grin you flashed her from day to day.

A grin she wanted to kiss off, she thought once, and she contemplated throwing herself off the balcony in her dorm room when she allowed that sentence to linger in her mind.

You laughed genuinely, your grin growing wider at the sight of Wednesday stumbling to get up, her face crinkling only so slightly at the pain that coursed through the entirety of her leg.

“You’re unfit.” A huff came from her, head flicking up to meet your gaze, eyes lingering on your standstill grin—your pink-lipped mouth—for a second deemed too long before she lunged forward and pushed you aside.

The force of her thrust caused you to stumble back and fall on a pile of leaves, blowing and coughing out a crisp leaf that found it’s home inside your mouth. At the force of her thrust toward you, Wednesday found herself collapsed once more on the floor, her body not correctly stabilized from her injury.

“So, not only are you clumsy, but you’re also an idiot.” You sat yourself upright, hands laid down on the floor behind your body to stabilize yourself, all the while watching the conflict in Wednesday’s eyes over whether she should shoot back or keep quiet.

She kept quiet, eliciting a small, almost unnoticeable groan that Wednesday herself didn’t catch at first. You heard it, though, your grin finding it’s way back onto your face as you practically jumped up, brushing yourself off with a flick of your wrists to your neutral- colored clothing.

You furrowed your eyebrows to see Wednesday still sprawled on the floor, expecting her to have risen up by now, even if a limp tagged along. “The big, challenging girl who fought off the reincarnation of Joseph Crackstone years ago can’t get up because of a wound on her knee.”

You spoke in disbelief, and Wednesday turned her head over to you with might. “Don’t you ever mock my accomplishments.”

“Well, we can’t even accomplish the task of finishing our botanical sciences project if you don’t take your small ass up and off the floor.” You bit back.

Fumed with rage and annoyance due to her growing short temper, Wednesday lunged up at you with all the strength she had in her body. The next second, you found your hands wrapped around her waist as you held her upright from falling again, the girl collapsing into your embrace with a snake-like hiss emitting from her.

Another groan came from her, not even bothering to hide it this time, too preoccupied with the futile stinging of her wound and the warming position she found herself in with you. “Alright, back on the floor.”

Her back met the homing place that was the floor once more, shooting daggers at your inexistent attempt to lay her down carefully, seeing as you dropped her onto the floor without care. Her hand found it’s way back to her knee, coating the skin in blood once more, and you sighed. “Move your hand.”

“No.”

“Since when did you become so stubborn?” She raised her eyebrows at you. “Actually, that’s a dumb question, but I’m not going to ask you again. Addams,” your tone became firm, seriousness rising up amidst your former face of humor, “move your hand.”

Her teeth clenched, jawline protruding out, and her eyes were in their usual wide state, as if she were thinking, but her mind was blank. You found impatience creeping up on you, not daring to alert your eyes to her dark red, bloodied hand from her gushing wound.

With a twitch of your eye, your hand shot forward and clamped on Wednesday’s wrist, pulling it away from her wound with force, and she let out a small whimper that she immediately tried to cover with a cough. Your eyes darted up at her for only a second, having heard it, before looking back down at her wound, which was open and wide.

“I will take you to the Infirmary, and then come back and collect all we need for our project.” You said your plan out loud, your eyes darting back and forth between Wednesday’s open wound and the pathway from which you and the girl had just come. “I am fine. Besides, you would only get all the wrong things we need, seeing as how foolish you are.”

“Foolish is what you claim me to be, yet you’re the one consistently in second place.” Without warning, you sank an arm under her bent knees and another under her back, picking her up in bridal style, to which her eyes drastically widened. You felt her tense under you, muscles contracting, and you groaned.

“Oh, relax. Being tense will only cause your wound to bleed more, and before I know it, I’ll be carrying your dead weight.”

“Put me down this instant.” Wednesday fought, trying to wiggle herself out of your grasp as you started to walk back to the school grounds, leaving your grip on her to tighten. “No. And don’t presume that I care about your wellbeing either, because I don’t.”

She huffed, her leg jerking up when a low branch made contact with her wound. “Then why not allow me to continue with you?”

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re past the forest barriers that Nevermore set.” When she turned her head in response to your signal to the right, she noticed the wooden line fences that were more intended to serve as a signal for students to turn around than as a means of keeping them out.

“Throats get slit in this neck of the woods,” you continued, mindlessly drifting your eyes all over the forest in caution of any inhumane species. “I’d rather not have a Jason Voorhees copycat lunatic trying to slaughter us, and I can’t go far because you’re disabled.”

“It’d be your own death’s fault for trying to save me.” Her deadpanning words made you want to drop her and let her find her own way back to the academy, but you just let out an annoyed breath while gripping onto her thighs tighter. “Forgive me for actually having a beating heart, Addams.”

“You’re not forgiven, (Y/L/N).”

Soon enough, you found yourself back in the forest, with Wednesday’s presence long gone. You were kneeling down, collecting dirt into a small jar that you had sprayed with pesticides to clear it of any lingering bugs. You hadn’t noticed how the time flew past, the sun fading into the moon, and you took a moment to enjoy the stars, hands settled on your dirt-covered knees.

A sound rang through the forested area, causing you to snap your head in the direction of the noise. It was muffled, but it sounded too closely like the howls of the werewolves you’ve grown to make friends with, and that was enough for you to shoot up instantly from your kneeling position. With a sharp breath, you looked up at the moon, now taking on the shape of a full moon, and you gagged in growing fear.

You’re fine, right? They get locked in the Lupen cages; there’s no way one of them could’ve escaped theirs. Your mind raced for explanations as you crouched down to pick up all that you'd collected, ranging from dirt to plants, before taking steady steps in the direction of the academy.

You took precautionary halts so as not to make major noise, cringing in fear at the sound of a leaf loudly crunching under your foot, and you could hear the howls once more, closer this time.

You took another five steps before you could hear the thudding stomps of a figure inching closer to you with every second, and you thanked nothing else but your heightened senses as you dropped all of what you held and booked it.

You dodged tree logs and branches left and right, hands fumbling with your satchel to tear it off your body to release the weight it was holding, and your body shook at the thudding sounds ringing in your ears, inching closer and closer-

Until you woke up, spread out on the floor, and your hands dug around the surface of the floor to help you realize that you were still in the woods. Your body still shook, this time more violently as you gasped in pain, stings shooting all over your body and causing your muscles to tighten.

“Fuck!” You groaned out, clenching your stomach where it hurt the most to feel a liquid coating your skin of the same texture that dripped your hands with Wednesday’s blood hours earlier. Your eyes drooped, sullenly coming to the firm realization that you were bleeding out with a liquid you could not even view properly, the night still too dark.

You blamed it all on a werewolf not properly being contained, but if that was the case, why didn’t they kill you instead of merely injuring you? The thought of the beast not being a werewolf flooded out of your mind quicker than it came in. You could see the outline of large claw slits scarring the skin of your stomach, and you yelled out the most mind-scarring shriek as you forced yourself up.

You moaned out, “Oh,” in pain as you sat yourself on a log, scanning the dark forest for any signs of life, human or not, to which there were none, and you sighed in relief. You took off your jacket first before peeling the shredded, blood-stained white shirt off your body, leaving you with just your bra and an exposed, large wound.

Your eyes closed in despair, feeling the pain dull ever so slightly in your relaxing state. You bent over, to your body’s anguish, to grab your bag with a small first aid kit tucked into it. All the items within the mini-kit were dunked out on the log space beside you, and you hurriedly grabbed multiple anti-septic wipes and shredded open the packaging before pressing them onto your skin.

Fangs bared, eyes darkening at the severe pain, you dug them into your bottom lip and swished the wipes over your wounds before letting out a loud yell of agony. You threw the wipes to the floor when they were all left coated with a dark red, grabbing the bandage roll, and with all of your muscles tightening at the pressure, wrapping your stomach with the bandage that immediately turned red before sealing it with tape.

The aftermath was almost pleasurable; the pain was still there but lessened due to the lack of blood flowing out of you. Managing to stumble up, you discarded your bag on the floor before taking a step forward, your body hunching over immediately from the inability to stand upright, and you carried on in the form of a hunchback.

What Wednesday least expected on an early Saturday morning, 3:30 a.m. to be exact, was the sound of her doorknob snapping off from the door itself. Her eyes perked up, sensing danger, and she immediately dug under her pillow to grab the knife she stored there, pointing it forward with the sharp tip ready to plunge itself into whoever dared to intrude into her and Enid’s dorm.

She had only been released from the hospital a few hours prior, so it seemed as though her knee pain had subsided, but when she put her foot on the ground, it suddenly returned. She ignored the discomfort and advanced toward the opening door, ready to strike.

“Wed-” You threw the door open, stopping immediately when the tip of her knife bore into your throat, one step away from slicing into your carotid artery. Even in the harsh darkness, Wednesday could see the fear and agony in your eyes, the way you were breathing heavily and clutching your stomach, and the skin that your bloodied jacket had now covered.

In the dim light of her bedside lamp, she could see your black jacket with a huge damp spot covering it, clamped over by bloodied hands. Her eyes met yours, and you gulped. “I didn’t know who else to come to.”

Wordlessly, she stepped to the side, inviting you in, which you limped into, and she closed the door. Her hand met your shoulder, an odd warmth coating your body despite her cold figure, and she aided you to the bathroom, choosing to disregard the blood trail you were leaving behind.

A sigh left your mouth as you collapsed on the closed-lidded toilet, leaning all your weight on the material. Wednesday pulled out a medical kit from under the sink, one much bigger than the one you had previously used, and slammed it on the countertop. “So much for not trying to wake up Enid.”

“Do you want me to help you or not? Beside, if you even took a second glance around the room, you’d notice Enid is not here, but in a Lupen cage in form.” She spoke in hushed whispers, and you shut up immediately, shrinking under her gaze. You were better than her, yes, but that didn’t mean you didn’t get scared of her from time to time.

“Take off your jacket.” She said simply, still prepping rounds of wipes with anti-septic liquids on them for your bloodied wound, as the wipes you used earlier did not have much of an effect considering the size of them. Wearily, you zipped down your jacket, peeling it off of you with a grunt or two before throwing it away at the base of the bathtub. You laid yourself back, eyes burning into the side of Wednesday’s face, anticipating her moves.

After she had finished prepping the wipes, she grabbed a sewing kit from under the counter, and you gulped at the largely-sized needles that she pulled out along with them. “All I really needed was for you to clean it, Addams. I’m a vampire; I can self-heal.”

“This is merely a precautionary measure to not leave putrid-looking scars.” She placed the items needed beside you, removing her own jacket, and you noticed how she was still in what she considered “casualwear”, seemingly not changing out of her clothes before drifting off to sleep. “Odd coming from the person who has left me with multiple scars, and why didn’t you change?”

“What?”

Wednesday turned, giving you a full visual of her in a button-up shirt and vest, black slacks tucked in and still belted; sleeping couldn’t have been comfortable for her with a belt digging into her hip. “You’re still in your clothes.” You pointed it out, and she looked down at her choice of fashion before letting out a small huff and advancing toward you, taking up position to the right of you.

“I awaited your presence. I told you before that I wanted to get a start on the project so I would not have to do much with class dealing with you and your miserable antics of getting items confused. Not only do you show up empty-handed in the dead of night, but you are also scarred through your inability to defend yourself.”

She badmouthed you, all the while untangling her sewing needles with harsh movements, but you only focused on one aspect of her words. “You fell asleep waiting for me?”

At once, Wednesday halted her movements, giving you a dead look before turning around and grabbing the large anti-septic wipes, swiftly pushing them into your wounded stomach. You let out a long, loud gasp, groaning at the pain and taking hold of Wednesday’s wrist, trying to push her arm back but to no avail. “Don’t get cocky.”

Your head flew back in agony, your hand still clasped around her wrist with a bruising grip. “I wasn’t! I was asking!”

Wednesday glided the wipes along your scars, to your dismay, until there were little to no signs of blood yet, all the while mindlessly running her eyes over the scars on your body that she created.

It was the only way she could get her mind off your exposed torso and how your muscles gallantly flexed from the pain, unwillingly showing themselves off to her.

Your eyes were squinting, still a bit sore from the antiseptics, but when you noticed that Wednesday had not made any other moves, you let them go from your iron grip. Your gaze landed on her stance, lost in thought. “What?”

"I'm in the process of comprehending an attempt to stitch you together while you remain seated, while I, on the other hand, am standing." Her eyes glanced all around the bathroom, sighing contently as she tried to determine a possible way to play surgeon in a comfortable manner.

“Well, I’m not lying on the floor. Your bed?” You inquired, and Wednesday shook her head, her mind discarded by that thought. “I would like to go to sleep tonight in a bloodless bed.”

“Um,” you gulped. The first real situation droning through your head was one anybody wouldn’t dare share with Wednesday. It's a good thing you weren’t like anybody else. “Sit on me.”

Her head snapped to meet your eyes, yours innocently boring into hers, and she squinted. “What?”

“Sit on my lap. When I lean back, you’ll be able to stitch me up or... whatever it is that you plan on doing without breaking your spine.”

You could see the conflict in her eyes, and she took it into consideration, to your surprise. With a pinch to the bridge of her nose and a long, elated sigh, as a means of balance, she placed her hands on each of your shoulders before swinging her left leg over your body and sitting down on your firmly closed legs.

“Tell nobody about this, or more of these scars,” she said, pinching down on a drawn out scar that sat just right under your bra, “will litter your skin.” You gave her a hasty nod, eager to put your mind elsewhere while your sworn enemy found a seat on your lap.

Without a word of warning, she dug the needle into your skin, causing you to let out an embarrassingly loud yelp of pain. Your hands flew to her shoulders as a matter of instinct, and you half-expected her to shrug them off, but she prioritized her sewing techniques instead.

The further she got into sewing the deep claw marks, the tighter your hands gripped her shoulders. You’d be surprised if Wednesday woke up bruise-free, as you could almost feel your knuckles turning white.

Wednesday found... amusement? The way your eyes closed at her stinging touch, the way your hands buried themselves into her shoulders, and how your thigh muscles tightened under her ass with every swift movement. She loved seeing you defenseless and submissive to her more than anything, finding profit in the means of mocking you later on if you tried to boast about your betterness.

When she had finally finished her stitching, she found herself still lingering on your lap, her movements awfully slow, even for her, to grab a couple large medical bandages and place them over her work.

“Stay here.” Her voice was low while she slid off your lap, turning to leave the bathroom before returning a minute later with a baggy jacket in her hands. Your eyebrows furrowed as she laid the fabric on your lap, turning to wash her hands of any remaining blood.

You had a little trouble donning the jacket, which was made of Wednesday's fashion choice's baggy material but looked a little more fitted on you because of your lean frame. Your wounds, formerly the only thing clouding your mind, were long gone. You focused on the seriousness of your enemy’s actions, and the oddly warm jacket filled with her natural scent that was now clinging to your body.

“Why?”

“What?”

“When I came here, I fully expected you to push me away.” You leaned your body up on the toilet, hands running through your disheveled hair, and Wednesday directed her attention toward you. “But you didn’t, for some odd reason, and actually helped me—hell, you even sat on me—when you’ve been nothing but the cause of my terror ever since I’ve arrived at this academy.”

It was all nothing but the truth. Two years have passed since you made your flaunting arrival at Nevermore, head held high with nothing else on your mind other than the determination to be the best student the academy had ever seen, and so you accomplished it. Two years had passed since you crossed paths with the deadly Wednesday Addams, her mind still fresh from her praiseful battle with the former overtaker of Jericho.

Two years passed since you beat Wednesday’s boat in the Poe Cup; the Black Cats determined to win their second trophy in a row, and she swore you as her enemy that day when her eyes laid upon your smirking frame with the golden cup in your hand, sending her a wink of confidence that she mentally fumed at.

Two years had passed since Wednesday Addams made the dreadful discovery that, after all, her black, unbeating heart could feel love but that her taste was awful if she found herself attracted to her enemy. Now she found herself in the middle of her last year at Nevermore, freshly 19, and still rummaging in a cat-dog chase game with you.

Two years had passed since she found herself focused on nothing but her enemy, who was in front of her now, sitting on the toilet seat in her bathroom, all patched up, and looking at her with curiosity. “Are you going to continue to stare at me or answer my question?”

“I’m not required to reply to any of your inquiries.” Swiftly, she made her exit out of the bathroom, leaving you to stumble up on your feet and follow behind her like a lost pup. Your body felt awfully tired, though your mind was wide awake and racing with multiple thoughts at once, overloading and ready to explode any second.

“Add-”

“I’ve patched you up,” She moved to close the door to her closet, and in a rut of refusal to make eye contact with you, solemnly afraid that she’d instantly jump your bones- what? “So you may leave now.”

“I’m not leaving until you’ll answer my ‘inquiry’ on why you were nice, at least in my books, to me. You’re avoiding the question.”

You could see the clench in Wednesday’s jaw as she made her way over to her desk, tidying up the workplace in an attempt to distract herself from the conversation that lingered. “I’m unsure as to what you’re saying.”

“Addams-”

“Leave before I do something I’ll regret, (Y/L/N).” She snapped, finally meeting your gaze with wide eyes, and you furrowed your eyebrows. “Since when have you ever regretted something that included me? Did you not tie me to a tree on a full moon and bait me to the werewolves last year?”

Her eyes closed in annoyance. “That’s not what I mean.” And as she rubbed her face, you could almost feel the mixture of stress and uncertainty in her stance, almost as if she were holding back from something.

“Then what do you mean? I’ve known you for two years, and you’ve never failed to reply to me with a full sentence, whether it’s answering my question or barking out a snarky remark. Tell me what’s changed in tha-”

Your eyes were opening and closing rapidly in stress, causing you to not register Wednesday’s frame hurriedly marking toward you until you felt a body collapse into you and a smooth substance on your lips.

Huh?!

Your eyes shot open and wide. To confirm your suspicions, Wednesday’s arms were thrown over your shoulder while her body leaned into yours, and her lips smashed against yours almost desperately.

That’s what she presumed to regret.

But it was something you longed for, unbeknownst to her, and you made it known when your hands found their way to her cheeks, pulling her in deeper. You could feel her lips tremble slightly in shock, unprepared for you to be pulling her closer instead of pushing her away.

Wednesday’s legs grew a mind of their own, taking steps forward and causing you to step back until the backs of your knees met her bed, and she tore her lips away from you for a breather. You took the separation as an opportunity to sit yourself down on her bed, all while your eyes never left hers in the process, and the smaller girl hurriedly found her former position on your lap.

“The moon is fading. Enid could come back any minute now.” You spoke between kisses, shivering at Wednesday’s cold touch on your warm skin, her hands slithering underneath the jacket you wore to rub up and down your back. “Then she’ll leave again, because she’s not going to enjoy what she’ll see.”

Your body visibly shivered at her words, or maybe it was just her fingers dancing along your spine, but either way, you found yourself completely engulfed in her and just her. The claw marks, the time, the physical confession—all of it was gone from your mind as Wednesday mindlessly pushed herself even farther into you.

She took a push too close, her body pressing up against your wound, causing you to groan and bite down on her bottom lip, fangs bared from the pain. Your lips never separated, instead pushing farther into them at the feeling and taste of Wednesday’s blood filling your mouths from her punctures, only spurring the two of you further.

“Lay down.” You obeyed immediately, finding nothing more hot in the moment than the husk in the smaller girl's voice, and manuevered from under her plushy thighs on top of you to lay comfortably on her bed. You were engulfed in her natural scent once more—the same scent you had grown accustomed to for over two years now, the scent that followed you everywhere you went.

You adored it, just as you adored her behind your hardening gaze most days.

Her eyes were narrowed, and you would have thought she was tired any other day, but you knew her look was one of need and want. Lust, to put it short, and you wanted nothing more than to fulfill her need, even if it meant submitting yourself to her in a situation you'd never thought you’d willingly put yourself in.

Just as she had earlier, she slid off your lap with a lingering touch on your hips. “Stay here.”

And as quickly as she left, she returned, though this time with an item in her hand, and you knew exactly what it was. Your eyes widened, and your mouth drew open. Already?

“Yes, already.” Did you say that out loud? “You’d find me pathetic if you knew how long I have deferred using this. To use it on you.” Her eyes were filled with a dark, unmanageable lust that swam through her veins, and you could only imagine the scenarios that swarmed through your head. This wasn’t the Wednesday you knew, but it was one you anticipated figuring out.

“But I can’t just use this on you immediately, no.” A smug grin came across her lips—a sight that you, or really anybody else, rarely ever saw, and it was one you wanted to see more of. “No, I have to prep you, don’t I?”

“Prep me?” You asked, genuine curiosity lacing your voice, and her grin grew wider. “I’ll show you.”

Wednesday positioned herself back on your lap, putting the erotic object on her nightstand, within reach for later use, before pulling you into another kiss. It was bruising, and the kiss was ten times more harsh than before, but you would never complain about her being pressed up against you.

While you found yourself entrapped in her lips, her hands slithered down your body and toward your pants, grabbing the buckle of your belt and undoing it at a steady pace. That’s when it dawned on you—she was going to prep you for an object that withheld some... girth.

Your muscles tensed at the thought, and more so at the feeling of Wednesday pulling down your black jeans with ease, discarding your shoes in the process of leaving your bottom half in just your underwear. “Wednesday…”

She was simple. “Relax.”

On the down low, she knew that this was your first time engaging with somebody sexually, never failing to notice your soft rejections of the girls and guys that tried to woo you on and failed miserably. It was an aspect she enjoyed even more now, and she wanted nothing more than to rub in the faces of all you rejected that they couldn’t get you to agree to a date, but yet she had you writhing underneath her, moaning her name.

Your breathing grew heavier as the seconds went by, hitching when Wednesday moved your underwear to the side with a slow itch of her hands, and you wanted nothing more than to grab her by the head and bury her in your heat. The lack of restraint you were feeling was lethal and ultimately surprising for a girl who rarely ever even masturbated.

“Such a possessing view.” She murmured in a low tone, her eyes dancing all around your core, and your cheeks flushed at her staring. Her eyes locked with yours, her mind racing at the sight of your eyes narrowed and staring down at her with silent pleads, and those pleads she fulfilled when her tongue darted out to take a swipe at your folds.

You whimpered in a tone around an octave higher than your usual voice, and your eyes widened at the sound that unwillingly left your mouth. It seemed to spur Wednesday on, allowing her to dart her tongue out once more and flick it over your clit, the nub that she wanted nothing more than to swell up with her mouth.

You let out another whimper—louder and needier this time around. “And sensitive. I can put that to use.” She dove her head farther into your heat, her lips wrapping around your clit and taking a harsh suck at the nub. Your thighs shut around her head, eyes never leaving one another, while she feverishly sucked your clit, needing to hear more of the high-pitched whines that left your mouth.

She pulled away soon after, to your dismay that you showed through your pleading whines, to allow a bead of spit to drip out of her mouth and onto your entrance, before taking her finger and rubbing her spit around the area. Your hips instinctively bucked up at the sensation, feeling yourself clench around nothing, and it made Wednesday want to elicit a laugh.

“The way I’m touching you now is a major privilege alone.” Her finger sank into your entrance, and she bit down lightly at the plushness of your thighs when she felt your velvety walls tighten around her. “I adore watching you like this underneath me; you make me want to fuck you braindead.”

She sank her finger into you until her knuckle bared against your heat, curling the bony stature inside of you and eliciting a light moan out of you. You already found yourself on edge from her husky words alone, and the curl of her finger inside of you didn’t help you from almost cumming embarrassingly fast.

“Already close? What a shame; I wanted to have fun toying with you.” Her mouth against her core made you moan from the vibrations, hands flying to grip her head menacingly and push her farther into you, almost crying out for the whole hall to hear when she slipped a second finger into you.

Her fingers picked up pace, thrusting in and out of you with force while the squelching sounds of your slick covering your walls made Wednesday feel a pit of need start to boil in her stomach, one that she desired to fulfill.

The two-on-two action on your core made you clench impossibly tight on Wednesday’s fingers, the ravenhead finding difficulty in her repeated movements. “Want to cum, yeah?”

You nodded profusely, your face growing red from your need for release and the way she released her lips from your clit with a pop. A small grin formed on her face when she pulled out of you, relishing in your whines of despair.

Eyes closed, heavy breathing—you were too blissed out, despite not achieving an orgasm from her underlying teasing, to notice Wednesday sliding off you, strapping the former item in her hand to her core. Her eyes never left your face as she strapped the item on, feeling more than fired up to make you scratch down her back with pitiful whines leaving your mouth.

And so, that’s what she achieved, eyes closing from the burning pains of your nails digging deep into her shoulders down to the middle of her back. Her own mind felt foggy watching the way her silicone became drenched in your arousal, the strap pumping in and out of you with ease, and the way you moaned straight into her ear—god, she regretted never taking your submissive state for profit more early.

Your thighs clenched around her hips when she bottomed into you, settled on her knees, and bent over slightly to curl the strap inside of you, hitting an unfamiliar spongy spot that had you sinfully whining with a hand clenched on Wednesday’s head. “If the entirety of humanity could merely glimpse you in your current state, they would swiftly recognize your rare moment of submissiveness,” her lips dove down, meeting your ear, “all submissive just for me.”

Her movements grew hard, her hands gripping your skin with a bruising force while her hips drove into you with no relent, finding a need for her own release. The so-called “devil” found herself groaning heavy breaths into your ear, all the while slipping a soft moan or two in that she couldn’t hold. The feeling of you finally beneath her, pleading and scratching at her for release, felt ethereal; all of her senses were on cloud nine, and it ignited a burrowed-down spark.

One of Wednesday’s hands removed from your skin, leaving behind darkened marks that would worsen with time to connect with your cheek, the slap making you roll your eyes back at how dirty it felt. “No connected nerves, and I can still feel you pulsating on me; you’re driving me crazy with it.”

Your moans were muffled at the feeling of the ravenhead’s fingers shoving deep into your mouth, bypassing your uvula, causing a gag to ensue. Your lips wrapped around the digits, absentmindedly biting on them when the pit in your stomach started to burn like wildfire, making you tighten around the raven’s strap and force her to slow her movements, though still managing a speedy pace.

“Don’t cum.”

The words you wished never left her mouth made you whine around her fingers; your body was too sensitive from your lack of sexual activity and masturbation over the years, making it almost impossible to fight your orgasm off. Her fingers briefly exited your mouth, only to slap your cheek once more before returning to their original location. “Just for a bit.”

The hold-off was tortuous; the muscles in your body tightened incredulously while your mouth pathetically sucked on Wednesday’s fingers in a pathetic attempt to tear your mind away from your orgasm. It didn’t work.

The overloading, burning sensation in your stomach was almost uncomfortable; the fire burned longer than it intended to while you made putrid eye contact with the roof, Wednesday’s head snug to the side of yours while she drew herself closer to her own orgasm. The words that made you sigh in relief, your body shaking after seconds of torture, finally came past the girl’s lips, and you adored them.

“Cum for me, la mia dolce metà.”

You obeyed immediately, allowing your muscles to untighten, and Wednesday’s fingers left your mouth, allowing you to spew out a large moan that, without a doubt, woke the entire hall up. Your hands dug into her shoulders, feeling her shudder over you from her own orgasm, though the only thing that left her mouth was heavy pants.

Alas, she pulled out of you after seconds of relishing in one another’s embrace, making you feel empty compared to just minutes ago. The tip of Wednesday’s cock directed to your swollen clit from her previous oral actions, pushing down with enough pressure to make your toes curl and a breathy sigh leave your mouth.

Wednesday had pulled herself up by now, and it was only then that you noticed the girl taking a mental screenshot of your body, more specifically your core and the way your cum leaked out of you at a snail's pace. She licked her lips at the sight, her eyes flickering up to meet yours, and you gulped.

“La mia dolce metà,” she whispered, hands running down your body and to your hips, “I’m not done with you just yet.” The edges of her lips tugged ever so slightly when she dipped her head down to meet your core, leaving you to moan with delight as your hand found it’s way back to her hair.

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leah-lover · 1 month

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Arrogance. Alexia putellas x reader.

Let me know if you want a part 2.

You loved winning more than anything or anyone in the entire world and that was your biggest flaw. Brought up in the US soccer system, you were taught that winning is everything. You had set the precedent of joining the US women's national team as early as 17 years old which had never been done before. You were smart both academically and tactically. You graduated high school early, went to college early and proceeded to win the national championship all 4 years.

Your life always took the back seat to winning. You didn't have many friends. You didn't go out or party. You trained hard, you took care of your body, and followed a strict fitness routine. You were overall the best in your generation.

Being labeled as the best of your generation got into your head early in your life. Your strict regime made it hard for you to make friends and your cockiness and pride didn't help either. You were friendly but nobody ever dared to become your friend.

After college you moved on to the NWSL in which you won MVP , rookie of the year, and the championship in your first and second year. You had also won the world but at the same time. However, winning didn't fill the gap in your life that it once did. You didn't have to prove yourself anymore, you were renowned in the whole world as the best, everybody wanted to be you but no one wanted to be with you not long term at least. You were notorious for hooking up with people but you didn't want them to stay over for breakfast

As the years went on the international competition got harder. You were still the best but an upcoming Spaniard was raining on your parade. You were both head to head in matchies, a few tackles landing you warnings and yellow cards, and in awards. Both having very good stats you are head to head for the ballon d'or which she won that year.

You didn't talk to each other much. You can recall talking one or twice to each other . but you talked about one another a lot. The media seemed to spit you both against one another. You started hating each other in real life.

This summer your contract with Seattle fc came to its end and you chose not to renew. Offers were flying by but the one that caught your attention was Barcelona's offer.

They were willing to spend 1 million dollars on you. It was a precedent. No club had ever paid this much for a transfer. Thrie offer sticked your ego so much you accepted.

You have been playing at Barcelona for almost a season, scoring a hatrick at every game. Your relationship with your teammates didn't change. You were still space out.

The most important relationship was with your captain. Your rivalry with her was the second headline out of the b transfer. But you didn't pay her or the rivalry any attention.

Tonight you have achieved something you wanted to do for a long time. You have won the champion’s league. The locker room was celebrating the win and chanting your name. While everybody was dancing Alexia came to approached you and said “ congrats and thank u american”

“ no need capi.” you responded.

The flight back was fun, people were singing and dancing but the only thing you thought about was alexia. Her smell, her hand on your shoulder, her being thankful for you. You found yourself looking over to her from time to time. You weren't like this, you didn't day dream about people especially not the captain.

The celebration party took place in a bar. You were a few dink in when you looked over to you right yo find Alexia nursing a flute filled with champagne.

“Why aren't you dancing?” She asked.

“ I am not the type plus i am pretty sure y'all hate me.”

“And why is that “

“Don't know just a feeling.”

After that I went outside. I didn't smoke much but the nerves Alexia was giving me deserved some nicotine. As soon as I lit the cigarette I felt her hazel eyes glaring at me.

“ These things are gonna kill you, you know.”

“ I want to die young plus nobody would give a shit.”

“ I would give a shit if the most important person in my club was killing herself because she can't man up enough to talk to people. You hide behind your accomplishments. But you are just a normal girl just like any of us. You need people beside you.”

“ You are wrong about me. I am not scared of talking to people; they just would never understand me. I am a control freak. I don't like to give it up. People tend to hate that about me ” I say as I take the last puff of my cigarette. My eyes don't leave hers and the tension is through the roof.

“ I like to lose control from time to time.”

“ Capitana please don't play with me”

“ Currently I am not playing with you. Let me make you a deal. You go inside, have some fun and I will let you do what you want with the information you just heard.”

“ Why are you doing this?”

“ I don't know, I just care, I guess.

#alexia putellas fic #alexia putellas smut #alexia putellas imagine #alexia x reader #alexia putellas #woso #woso fanfics #woso community #woso imagine #woso x reader

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greenorangevioletgrass · 6 months

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fever pitch (b.b) - prologue

soundtrack: mastermind - taylor swift pairing: footballer!bradley x popstar!reader synopsis: Bradley shoots his shot in public, but will he fumble when he meets you in person? warnings: language, drinking, meet cute notes: my first series in a while! this is shamelessly based on the epic Taylor Swift/Travis Kelce saga currently happening rn, and combine that with my innate love of football (the kicking kind, not the NFL kind) and... voila! I hope you enjoy this. Let me know what you think in the comments, reblogs, and asks. Happy reading! <3 ✨I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass and turn on the notification to get the latest update on my fics✨

Soccer Sensation Bradley Bradshaw Fails To Shoot His Shoot With Y/N At Her Concert?

Arsenal captain Bradley Bradshaw may be among his club’s top scorers this season, but even he misses a chance in romance like the rest of us.

The 29-year-old athlete spoke about his missed opportunity with the multi-platinum songstress Y/N while speaking to his former teammate Héctor Bellerín on the latter’s podcast, “More Than A Footballer”, earlier this week.

When asked about any fun stuff he did last weekend, Bradshaw replied,

“I went to the Y/N concert at Wembley [Stadium]... it was awesome. It was pouring rain, but it was amazing. I don’t remember Wembley ever being that electric aside from, like, cup finals. She was sensational.”

Bellerín nods in agreement, having heard great things about the famed singer-songwriter’s live concerts.

Unprompted, the American midfielder then continued,

“If you’ve heard about the tour, there’s this tradition of trading friendship bracelets. And I actually made one with my number on it, hoping I could give it to her after the show…”

The Cockney-raised Spaniard cackled in surprise and teased him, “But she didn’t wanna see you, bruv? [That is] legend!”

“No hard feelings!” Bradshaw raised his hands in defense over the Zoom call. “She needed to dry off and get warm. Gotta make sure she stays healthy, protect those vocal cords. But yeah, I was a bit bummed out about it.”

Bellerín laughed and jokingly addressed the camera, “Y/N, if you’re watching, give my boy a chance, will you?”

Mononymous pop sensation Y/N is hot off of her Kaleidoscope North American Tour, which wrapped in September. Her six-show run at Wembley Stadium this November officially kicks off the European leg of her sold-out tour.

Will they be the next pop royalty and conquer the stadiums with their own crafts, or will this fizzle out as this week’s viral anecdote? The ball is in your court, Y/N.

Y/N’s representatives have not responded for comment.

***

Your Miu Miu heels click and clack against the ground. The pavement gleams after the rain and glistens under the streetlights. Everywhere you look, your eyes hurt. Down, and you worry about slipping into a puddle and falling on your ass. Forward, and a million camera flashes are ready to give you an aneurysm.

All in the name of reporting your night off of work, performing live in front of 90,000 people in a stadium.

In other words, all in a day’s work.

There’s a moment of reprieve, when the silvery white blitzes disappear into the dim tangerine lighting of the lobby. The flight down the stairs is so dark, you’re seeing green. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, but as soon as they do, the thumping bass line of some dance music hits your ears. Clashing perfumes doused on the dancing, dressed-up bodies that you have to weave through.

You are seriously regretting your girl friends’ invite to a night out. You could’ve just had them over to your hotel, open a bunch of red wine, and you would’ve still had a blast. But no. You had to say yes to going to the Cuckoo Club with Lacey, Amara, and Jo.

And this evening is making you feel quite cuckoo.

There’s champagne at your booth and you’re much too eager to take a glass and start a toast. “Cheers, bitches!” you yell over the music, clinking your glass against theirs before downing the whole thing in one go.

It’s nowhere near enough.

There’s not enough buzz to dull the assault to your senses—not even after the three glasses of wine at dinner earlier. Everything is still too loud, too bright, too crowded, too… much.

“Hey!” you nudge Amara, who is sitting right next to you. “Let’s do shots!”

She turns to you, eyes widening at the slightest. “I thought you wanted to take it easy tonight!”

“Changed my mind,” you shrug, as you get up to the bar.

While you make your way through the crowd on the dance floor, Bradley Bradshaw looks up from his booth and does a double-take at the girl who just walked by. Even in a high-end club full of the well-dressed and well-heeled, people still get starstruck. And why wouldn’t they? You’re about as famous as an iPhone.

His eyes widen and immediately whips out his phone to shoot a text to his oldest and most trusted friend Natasha Trace.

‘Dude, I’m in the club and Y/N just walked in. What do I do??’

Natasha thankfully texts back almost immediately. Then again, maybe being a Communications Director for a major company requires her to be a good texter. ‘Wdym what do you do? Just go talk to her.’

‘You were supposed to introduce us!’ Bradley replies, eyes darting between his phone and you at the bar, conflicted.

Natasha is a mutual friend of yours, too, and when the Bracelet-gate clip went viral, she laughed in his face for a full 5 minutes before deciding to set the two of you up. But the schedule never really aligned, so he hasn’t got a chance to see you. Not even after he went to your concert with a friendship bracelet and a dream.

And now, seeing you here in the same room at the same time as him…

‘What do you want me to do, get down there and do it for you?’

‘...Can you?’

He senses the judgment even as the three dots appear on his screen.

‘Stop being a pussy, Bradshaw. Let me Netflix and chill with my gf in peace.’

Bradley scoffs, half-annoyed and half-fond. ‘Asshole. Have fun.’

The dance floor clears up, just enough to see that you’re right there. Leaning against the bar in your dress like a dirty daydream, talking to the bartender, and he couldn’t just let you go without a word. He thought about it, and he simply couldn’t.

“Oi, where are you off to?” His teammate Martin hollers, while the others watch him make his way to the bar in determined strides.

He squeezes past patrons across this jungle of a club, hoping to God that somebody hasn’t beaten him to talk to you yet, or you haven’t ducked out completely. Oh fuck. You’re still there, though. Good. You’re still at the bar, still glimmering under the mirrorball. Just a tap on the shoulder away. You can do it, Bradshaw…

“Excuse me, I—”

You feel the hand on your shoulder just as you turn and stand up, and in a flurry of miscoordination, looks up just as the other person moves in.

In a stroke of dumb luck, Bradley feels the top of your head slamming up against his nose and he groans in pain. “Ohh!”

“Shit! Oh my God…” you gasp, reaching out to the man in front of you. He’s tall, very tall, and you can’t quite see his face with his massive hand clutching his nose. “I’m so sorry…”

“No, it’s okay. My bad…” It really doesn’t seem like it, so he lets go of his nose and smiles sheepishly. Gosh, he must’ve looked stupid right now.

But you see it differently. What you see is a dashing man in a sleek tieless navy suit and a well-groomed mustache, straight out of a Cinemascope flick, ever so handsome despite his reddened nose from the way you just accidentally headbutted him. “No, that was totally mine. Are you okay?”

Your eyes are crystal clear even in the dim light, the concern is palpable in your gaze—and rightly so. It’s just that he’d take the headbutt any day, if it means he can look at your beautiful face. “I’m… I’m swell. Y/N, right?”

There’s a shift in your gaze. First, alert—you’re assessing how much of a potential threat this person is, whether they’re gonna be weird about you— and then it relaxes. Not a threat. Then a slightest hint of mischief, like she wants to know what kind of dynamics they would have. “Have we met?”

And boy, can he.

“We haven’t, actually. But I went to your show at Wembley earlier this week. You were amazing.” He offers a handshake. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

You didn’t quite catch his name over the blaring music, although you shake his hand anyway. “Sorry?”

He leans into your ear, “I’m Bradley Bradshaw.”

You don’t know which one makes your heart skip, the sudden close proximity, the warmth of his timbre, or the whiff of his perfume.

“Right. Nice to meet you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You accept his handshake, hoping he doesn’t see how flustered you are in the strobing purple light.

“Likewise.” He nods with a smile. “And may I just say… you look stunning.”

“What, this old thing?” You brush down the art nouveau-inspired Balmain dress on your body. You’re just being modest, of course; you know you’re dressed to the nines. You have never been much into facial hair, but somehow that mustache suits him very well. “You don’t look so bad yourself. You remind me of a… young Robert Mitchum. Or Paul Newman— or one of those Golden Age leading men.”

His face lights up. It’s hardly the first time he received that kind of compliment, but when it came from you, it feels… different. It feels special. It makes him just a little bolder. “Yeah? Maybe after a few drinks, I’ll be quoting lines from Butch Cassidy. Or would you prefer Cat On A Hot Tin Roof?”

This piques your interest. A man of culture, it seems. But of course, you can’t be too sure. “I’m more of a Paris Blues kinda gal, I’m afraid.”

Gosh, you don’t swoon so easily and he likes you so much for that. “Makes sense.”

“How so?”

“It’s a good underrated musical movie, for the musically gifted… And Sidney Poitier was just fantastic in that.”

“Huh.” You raise your eyebrows. You honestly thought he was just spouting the famous titles. But the fact that he has likely seen this hidden gem might just mean he’s really into it. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

He leans in to speak in your ear yet again. “If you stick with me for a bit, I might show you another surprise or two.”

The music drowns out your racing heart just barely, and the bartender places a whole set of tequila shots on the bar top, and it snaps you out of your reverie for a moment.

“Wanna get some air?”

He seems surprised, but of course he wasn’t gonna throw away this shot. “Sure. Why not?”

You instruct the bartender to send the shots to your booth, not even spending ten seconds to ponder staying in this deafening hell hole. Not when this man looks like peace. Perhaps an undercurrent of mystery underneath, but his whole demeanor is as calm and comforting as those old-school movies you put on to fall asleep. At the same time, something about this person pulls you in, it’s almost magnetic, and you can’t help wanting to see this through.

#bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fluff #footballer!bradley #footballer!bradley x popstar!reader #top gun imagine #top gun au #ava writes #fever pitch

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jungkookschin · 1 year

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not so bossy

summary: An irksome feeling infests Jungkook's system when his girlfriend lets him know that she can't meet up after not seeing him for three weeks. pairing: d1 soccer player!jungkook x reader

genre: angst, fluff

author's note: idk anything about football/soccer and yes im american so i used the term soccer 🙄lolz, also i got some inspo hearing about these famous athletes and their gfs so i pulled this out of my ass. pls enjoy (or not)! ALSO IF U HAVE ANYTHING U WANT TO TELL ME AB ANY OF MY PICS PLS PUT IT IN THE ASKS (not replies) BC THIS IS A SECONDARY BLOG

“Just because I’m not some big shot D-1 athlete doesn’t mean that my life doesn’t matter,” you grimly convey, eyebrows furrowed in pure vexation whilst your pretty lips curl down in a frown.

Jungkook exhales slightly, his pointer finger and thumb coming up to massage his temples. “Y/N, that’s not what I meant and you know it-“

“Then what the fuck did you mean?” The rapidity by which you cut him off pierces his heart like an arrow, because he’s never witnessed you being so abrasive. It hurts him to know that he’s upset you- that his inconsideration induced such a crestfallen expression from his one and only girl.

“I just didn’t want you to meet up with that guy,” Jungkook quietly explicates, unable to adeptly convey what his true intentions were: that he just missed you and didn’t want you to hang out with some other guy, even if it was just to study.

A scoff escapes your mouth, your obsidian orbs glaring bullets into him. “Jungkook, we were studying. It was for school. You of all people should understand that,” you sneer, your harsh words making his heart drop, the unpleasant feeling of guilt infesting his system, because he knows you’re right. Knows he’s been a shitty fucking boyfriend. Knows that you’ve been nothing but understanding, that you've been his personal angel ushering heaven to him, a task you accomplished everyday of every second.

Jungkook’s reticent silence tells you everything you need to know. “Don’t talk to me for the rest of the day,” you murmur quietly, though loud enough to make the words thunder in his heart. You turn your heel to walk away from him, your arms securely hugging your textbook to your chest, as if you were subconsciously shielding yourself from him. He hates that so much.

Jungkook stands frozen, unable to chase after you like he wants to. His heart is screaming at his brain make his motor system send his body after you..Instead, your figure disappears into the crowd of students flooding the hallways and he’s left there with regret plaguing his system.

How did this even happen?

Jungkook vividly remembers that dreadful text message you sent whilst he was on the bus, heading back from fall training camp.

y/n ♡: hi baby, im so so sorry. i dont think i can make it to our date tonight. this senior in my class asked me if i wanted to join a study group with him and i want to go so i do good on my final :( sorry baby.

Jungkook's lips immediately curl down at the message. Despite quite literally sharing an apartment together, he hadn't physically seen you or touched you in three weeks. With travelling out of town for a tournament for a week, and his two week long training camp immediately proceeding the tourney, he hadn't gotten the chance to come home and see you. Your absence had a deep and profound effect- he had to drown himself with intense physical training to distract himself from the fact that you weren't around.

Jungkook is a D-1 soccer player- one of the best in the nation- predicted to be one of the top picks in the first round of the Major League Soccer super draft. He takes his craft very seriously, centers most of his attention on his body and mind to refine his physical ability and ultimately become one of the best soccer players in the world. Since high school he often opted for a nasty gym session over a party, admiring Messi and Ronaldo over pretty girls, and even went to his club soccer tournaments over attending prom.

That was- until he met you.

The university you and Jungkook attended was widely renown for its impeccable soccer program- and computer science program. By God's grace was he assigned to you for a group assignment freshman year. Your face was slightly flushed when you kindly uttered "Hey, I know you're a huge athlete or something, so I don't mind carrying the project if you have to focus on sports." In reality, your intentions were selfish, solely concerned about your own grades and how this group project may cause them to fall, but Jungkook still thought it was the cutest thing ever.

He appreciated the consideration, but gently let you know that he was certainly able bodied and willing to complete the assignment. Had you not been so pretty, if the way you pushed your glasses up your face not been so adorable, he would have gladly taken the offer, not being quite privvy to anything academic related.

But you were arguably the cutest girl he's ever seen, so he was willing and eager to put in the effort.

Feelings blossomed, cavernous eyes gazed into each other and Jungkok kissed you for the first time. Seeing that you enthusiastically reciprocrating his energy, Jungkook took it as a sign that he scored the girl of his dreams. Group projects lead to late night calls and incredibly vulnerable talks in his car, then arcade dates to salacious movie nights. He officially asked you to be his girlfriend with a bouquet of the most delicately beautiful roses you've ever seen.

Jungkook thanked God everyday for your naturally compassionate nature, and for when you assuaged all his dreadful anxieties about not be an adequate and involved boyfriend. You understood that the nature of your relationship with him would not always be the most attentive- that he had no choice but to sort of neglect you when he had to travel over state and country borders for the sake of his athletic career.

You understood it and you whole heartedly offered your bona fide support.

You appeared at his games with cute red bows binding the curls in your hair, his oversized red jersey thrown perfectly over your precious abdomen. His perfect cheerleader, his number one motivator- and his teammates certainly appreciated you because he performed better when you were in the stands oggling at him with your starry eyes. He had to play better when his girl was in the crowd.

When you weren't able to be physically present at his games, you sent him the most adorable selfies of you streaming the game on your TV, laptop, or phone, going the extra mile to snag a selfie whilst Jungkook was in the frame of your device.

It really is common knowledge that Jungkook adores his girlfriend. In fact, anybody can tell by looking at the measly three photos on his verified Instagram account (courtesy of the NCAA). There was one photo of Jungkook and his teammates from a few years ago, all men have their hands on their cut and bruise heavy knees. They've got gold medals around their necks, ginger smiles on their faces after winning some summer league tournament.

The second photo was from last year when the men's soccer team at your university won the NCAA Division 1 Men's Soccer tournament, and rather than a photo with his teammates, there is one of him and you. Jungkook who was drenched in sweat from an intense yet rewarding game has his hands wrapped around your waist in the photo, leaning down and pressing a kiss on your cheek whilst you smile gleefully. His gold medal is adorned around your neck, resting on your chest rather than his. The caption reads "scored the winning goal for my number one girl", and the comments are permeated with "awwws" and "how cute!" Of course, you are slightly suspicious of the genuiniety of those comments since most of them are from girls who have a crush on him. How do you know that? You just do, consider it girlfriend intuition.

The most recent photo is simply a gorgeous photo of you at dinner. It was from his point of view- his prettiest view when you were sitting across from him enjoying your steak in a strapless black mini dress. In the photo your french manicured fingers are gripping your wine glass, the stain of your lipstick visible at the edge of the cup. The expanse of your neck is visible, making your aura all the more alluring. Your hair is in a sleek bun with the exception of the face framing pieces that dangle on the sides of your face.

You remember that day, Jungkook looked so dashing in his black button up and slacks, and when he presented you with another bouquet of red roses you melted since they were the same flowers he asked you to be his girlfriend with.

The caption is simply a black heart.

Jungkook shuts his phone off and throws it on his bed, hands rubbing his face as he groans into his palms. After you told him not to speak to you for the rest of the day, he meandered back to your shared apartment, earnestly anticipating your return home. The intoxicating scent of your vanilla body spray fills the room, making him all the more miserable.

He knows that he wasn't giving you the attention necessary in maintaining a healthy relationship, that he wasn't amply putting his share into it, but his mind was so trained on soccer that it hadn't occurred to him to check on up on you. He winces at a certain memory where he was so entranced in practicing penalty kicks that he completely forgot about your date at the pumpkin patch. He went home wondering where you were, and his heart dropped when you marched into the home, slamming the door and refusing to speak to him. After profusely apologizing and making it up to you, you later forgave him and everything returned to its usual nature.

But this time was different, because it is 2AM, and you're still not home, causing Jungkook to fall deeper into his despondency.

He spammed you with so many pleading text messages, his eyes scanning over each and everyone as his thumb scrolls further and further to the history of your shared messages.

[2:52 AM] jungkook: y/n baby im so anxious right now. please let me know where you are. i wont go to bed unless i know that you're safe. you don't need to come home or talk to me, just send me your location so that i know you're okay. im so sorry and i love you so much.

As his thumb scrolls up, his texts from earlier in the night appear.

[11:38 PM] jungkook: baby where are you? im starting to get worried about you. please come home.

[9:12 PM] jungkook: my love, the food is getting cold. if you come home we can still enjoy a meal together.

[8:24 PM] jungkook: baby, i know you're upset at me. please let me make it up to you. i cooked your favorite meal, and we can eat together once you get home. i'm here waiting for you.

A soft exhale leaves his lips, his thumb scrolling all the way back to the same stupid argument that triggered all of this.

When Jungkook first received the first message, it inevitably upset him. A grimace on his face and the furrow on his eyebrows indicated as much. He missed you so much and was looking forward to seeing you so fucking badly. He longed to feel your body against his, the thought of you keeping him up all of last night. He missed your pretty face, the vanilla scent of your soft hair, and the way you made him feel so complete. So, of course he's upset. The first thing that caught him off guard was that you were cancelling on him after three weeks apart. The second thing that caused a deeper furrow in his brows was irksome personal pronoun: him.

Were you really going to ditch him to hang out with some guy? He was trying to be understanding considering the rigor of the university's computer science program- and wanted you to do everything you could to maintain your perfect grade point average. Nonetheless, he was already pouting at the announcement of your absence.

jungkook: him?? who's this senior?? and are u sure u guys cant reschedule?? miss my girl too much

y/n♡: i miss u too, im so sorry,, it's just that this code is really fucking hard and jaebum offered to help so obvi i accepted lol

Jungkook's concern morphs into unamusement, because he is very familiar with this motherfucker. He sighs deeply, reminiscing when his teammate Hoseok approached him and informed him about a certain Jaebum making inappropriate comments about his girlfriend. Not inappropriate as in sexual, grotesque, or expletive. Had that been the case Jungkook would have beaten the shit out of the guy and risked playing the next season. The type of inappropriate Hoseok intended to express was that Jaebum was going around calling you cute- you, a girl who clearly was not single. Jungkook never explicitly told you about this, not really concerned that it would have a significant impact on your very healthy relationship, but it still displeased him.

He wasn't able to constrain his words, mentioning something when he witnessed Jaebum clearly flirting with you when he picked you up from class.

"Jungkook don't worry," you giggled. "He's just a senior in my class- he's really smart so he was giving me some homework advice."

Jungkook tensed at that. "Alright babe, just be careful."

After that, Jaebum really wasn't ever mentioned or considered. He fully trusted you so Jungkook wasn't worried, until at that very moment.

jungkook: babe

jungkook: i thought we already talked about this

jungkook: that guy literally likes you

y/n♡: ewwww lol dont put that idea in my head😭 gross

jungkook: y/n, im serious

jungkook: he really does, i can tell when someone wants u its my boyfriend intuition

y/n♡: okay baby, and if he does??? u dont trust me??

jungkook: ofc i do, but it makes me uncomfortable to know that he invited you to a “study group” , who knows what he’s planning???

jungkook: who else is gonna be there??

y/n♡: it’s just gonna be us, but i promise u u dont have anything to worry about. uk how this class has been kicking my ass.. and jaebum is the only one with an a

Jungkook uses his pointer finger and thumb to massage his temples. The thought of you and this guy studying together enkindles something vile in his system, but nonetheless he chooses to trust you since he knows how important school is to you. However this irksome feeling bubbles in his chest, and he feels like has just has to do something about it.

The next message he sends is his last attempt to assuage the undeniable burning in his chest.

jungkook: i know, can i at least come with? to make sure he doesnt do anything weird?

y/n♡: i don't think it's a good idea. i dont want things to be uncomfortable

Jungkook scowls at that. Weird? Why would him tagging along be anything of the sort? More importantly, why were you choosing to protect Jaebum’s feelings over his?

jungkook: lmao uncomfortable? are u two planning to fuck on the table or something , why would my presence make things “uncomfortable”?

Jungkook winces when his eyes train on that very ill intended text message. He knows damn well he crossed the line with that one, but your response didn’t indicate that you were upset, probably dismissing it as one of his stupid jokes.

y/n♡: jeon jungkook🙄🙄

y/n♡: i’ll see u tonight at home baby💗💗

Jungkook knows he should have left it at that, but three weeks without having you with him were so excruciating, and he longed for you so so much. He loves being an athlete; he loves playing soccer, but the intense drills and back to back games have been agonizingly tough on his body that all he wanted was to cuddle up against you in your cozy and comfy bed. Maybe have a little movie night and give you a little massage though it was his muscles that were sore and tense. But no, you had to study with some slimy guy. Consider him salty.

When the bus dropped the men’s soccer team off on campus, he bid his farewells to his teammates, and for some strange reason his legs just start walking to the library. Huh, how strange. What an anomaly it was for his feet to randomly move by themselves!

He acts very nonchalant, hands shoved into his sweats whilst he wanders between the dozens of book shelves arrayed in the campus library. Nonetheless, his eyes are rapidly shifting toward every corner in the library, in hopes that he “accidentally” runs into you.

Jackpot.

You and Jaebum are sitting adjacent to each other at an occupied table, both of your eyes trained on your Macbook screen. Jungkook puts a hand on his chin, acutely scrutinizing the situation at hand. The distance of your chairs is quite satisfactory to Jungkook- not too close, but he would appreciate it if you were further away. Jaebum is very clearly giving you a lovestruck gaze, and when he scoots his chair closer to yours Jungkook narrows his eyes.

Jaebum is such a fucking weirdo, his hand creepily advancing towards yours that is resting by the keyboard, and you are so exceedingly focused on your screen that you fail to notice. You randomly remove your hand away from where it rests on the table, and scratch your head with it. Once you turn towards him, his close proximity startles you, and you jerk your chair back in the opposite reaction, the most mortified look on your face.

Jungkook isn’t the best at reading lips, but Jaebum is currently expressing something to you, the most awestruck look on his face and Jungkook scoffs at that, clearly understanding the situation. Without thinking he advances towards you, pulling your chair back with a tight grip whilst he looks daggers into the man. “Can you please stop hitting on my girlfriend?”

Your head whips around at the voice of your boyfriend, but it goes unnoticed by Jungkook whose attention is soley on the man.

Jaebum scoots his chair back a little bit, scratching his head. “Sorry man, I didn’t know she was your girlfriend-“

And before Jungkook can interject you speak up. “I’ve told you many times that I have a boyfriend- and quite frankly I’m appalled that you’re trying to make a pass toward me when we agreed that we would be studying,” you say firmly which induces a goofily proud smile to appear on Jungkook’s face.

“I’m sorry Y/N, I-I just really like you and didn’t know how else to talk to you," Jaebum elaborates in attempts to elicit some sort of sympathy from you. His attempt is entirely futile, and you ask him to leave, already vexxed by his inappropriate shot at making a pass at you.

You begrudgingly saunter behind Jungkook, the two of you leaving the library. Jungkook, who is acting under the assumption that you are annoyed by Jaebum, reaches out for your hand, falling into confusion when you rip your hand away from his.

"Babe?-" his eyes round, uneasy at your dissonance.

You exhale deeply, eyes apprehensively glancing around at anybody who may be eavesdropping. "Why the fuck did you follow me?" you whisper shout at him, hands thrown down petulantly.

"I was worried about you," he clarifies, not even bothering to claim that it was a mere coincidence. "And I missed you so much," his tone glosses over softly. He steps forward to embrace you, and the air shifts once you put your hands on his chest and push him away from you.

"Jeon Jungkook, I clearly told you that I would see you at home," you stonely enunciate.

Irritability spreading throughout his system, he scowls. "It was killing me to think about you being alone with this guy when I was missing you so much, and I told you that he liked you but you didn't listen-"

"I admit I was wrong about that, but I am also perfectly capable of handling myself." You hesitate momentarily, gathering the words before spitting them out hastily. "I think you've made it pretty clear that you don't trust me- which is seriously fucked up."

"What's fucked up is that you were hanging out alone with a guy who clearly likes you! You haven't seen your boyfriend in three weeks and chose to spend your time with some guy rather than with me!" Jungkook fires back, attracting some concerned glances from bystanders.

His postulation enrages you. "Need I remind you why I haven't seen you in three weeks?" you sarcastically inquire, eyebrows creasing in awe at the audacity of this man.

"Babe, I have to leave for soccer, you know that, so don't weaponize it against me," he coldly says, and really, all his words do is spread the indignation through your veins like a wildfire.

"I have never weaponized soccer against you, so don't you dare put fucking words in my mouth," you hiss, giving him the dirtiest look he's ever seen from you.

"I have been nothing but supportive of you. Never said shit when you're out there with a bunch of cheerleaders who like you, and with your teammates that fucking cheat on their girlfriends with those cheerleaders! Yet the moment that I prioritize my academic career over you, you pull some weird shit as if you can't trust me!" you finish, your ice colds words leaving Jungkook frozen as a sculpture, as if nitrogen replaced his blood because he realizes you're right. If he ever spend a moment in your shoes, he would lose his goddamn fucking mind because of his naturally possessive and overprotective nature.

"I'm sorry, that's not what I was trying to say," Jungkook clumsily tries to salvage himself. "I appreciate you so much for always being there for me and when I go pro I'll make it up to you. You'll be my soccer wife, and we'll have a mansion with our kids- I'll buy you whatever you want," he conveys, his feeble attempt of sewing together the cuts of the situation.

Instead of a commiserating look, you give him a look that tells him you're even more irritated.

"That's not the point! You don't get that I don't want my identity to be just Jeon Jungkook's soccer wife. I want to be my own person, have my own successful career," you frustratedly communicate. "Why do you think I'm trying so hard in this stupid fucking coding class? Because I didn't want to see you? I always want to see you, but I have to make sacrifices too. The class average is 56 and Jaebum is the only one with an A, but my life isn't as important as yours so you don't want to be sympathetic of my feelings." You finish, cooling off once you've exploded at him.

Jungkook rips away eye contact with you, looking towards another direction, feeling slightly chagrined at your legitimate display of vexation. "I guess your studying didn't seem as important to me at the time," he abashedly murmurs.

“Just because I’m not some big shot D-1 athlete doesn’t mean that my life doesn’t matter," is how you retort, leaving the situation full circle.

Now, it's 3 AM, and you're still not home. Jungkook feels himself falling into a pit of dilapidation and guilt, feeling so remorseful of how shitty he's been. You truly are his super woman, because he's positively sure that he wouldn't be able to handle it if you did what he had to do on a regular basis. He couldn't even handle it when you were studying with another man, let alone travelling and leaving him at home by himself.

The apartment simply feels so empty, and it makes him feel all the more lonely. When he walks into your shared bathroom, his eyes glossing over your cosmetics and skin care products, he becomes absolutely miserable. Debilitatingly picking up your moisturerizer, he squeezes the bottle, product falling falling into his hand. He looks into the mirror and rubs the ointment into his skin, sighing exasperatingly because he wishes you were standing by his side.

The sound of the door suddenly creaks open, and Jungkook rushes into the living room thinking that you may have returned home. His face immediately falls when Jimin marches into his apartment.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jungkook deadpans.

Removing his shoes at the front of the house, Jimin scoffs. "Why'd you leave your door unlocked at 3 AM?"

Jimin plops down at the dining table, picking at the food Jungkook meticulously prepared for you. "This shit is cold as hell," he mumbles before grabbing the plate and shoving it into the microwave. Jungkook doesn't say anything, just grinds his teeth whilst he lays down on the couch.

"Y/N's not home?" Jimin questions with a mouth full of steak.

"No," Jungkook quietly mumbles, dejected and losing hope that you would return home that night.

"I ran into her a few hours ago," Jimin states casually, causing Jungkook to robotically spring up like a zombie and join Jimin at the dining table. "Where?" Jungkook asks like a crazy man, eyes wide, his veins protruding through the whites in his eyes. Jimin gives his friend a distasteful look before protectively covering the food Jungkook made. Jimin analyzes the situation carefully before it dawns on him that you aren't around.

"She's still not home yet?" Jimin asks, concern spreading throughout his face.

"No," Jungkook squeaks out, discouraged by everything before he bangs his head on the dining room table.

"I ran into her at the mall," Jimin says, attempting to provide some comfort to his younger friend. "We looked around a little bit, but I had to go pick my brother up and then I dropped her off at the gym."

Jungkook pauses, owlishly blanking into space whilst he takes a few moments to fully comprehend what just zoomed past his ears. The sleep deprivation and exhaustion is seriously hindering his cognitive function, but he just can't sleep until he knows that you're safe. "Huh?"

Jimin sighs, rolling his eyes before repeating what he just said. He raises his palm to smack the back of Jungkook's neck, which elicits a gruesome glare from the younger one.

"I ran into your girlfriend at the mall. We looked at the dinosaur exhibit. I dropped her off at the gym," Jimin firmly enunciates.

Apparently this computes more briskly than the first time. "The gym?" Jungkook asks, an amusing look of confusion hazed on his face.

"Yes," Jimin replies, frowning at Jungkook's sluggish responses.

"She went by herself?"

"I don't know," Jimin responds, a hinge of more empathy in his voice. "She said something about a personal trainer but I have no clue what she was doing."

An exasperating sigh leaves Jungkook's lips, too much information for his fatigued brain to compute. He didn't even know you had damn personal trainer- you don't even need a fucking personal trainer when your boyfriend is one of quite literally a D-1 athlete. It's not something he wants to even think about, the prospect of him being a shitty boyfriend plaguing his mind even more.

Jimin's eyebrows furrow in concern for his younger friend, and his hand gingerly pats his friend's rock hard back. "Do you want me to stay the night? Or stay at least until she gets back?" he suggests whilst the younger one buries his handsome face into his large palms.

"Please," Jungkook mutters.

Your unexpected entrance proves that Jimin's request was unecessary, because you casually waltz back into the apartment, making Jungkook practically whip his head towards the sound of the opening door.

"Jimin?" you jabber, a little startled at his unanticipated presence.

"Oh hey Y/N!" Jimin greets you more awkwardly than he ever has before, as if he interrupted something though he was there first. "How was the gym?" he releases a sheepish chuckle, and you internally cringe at his overt display of politeness.

"Oh, um. It was good. Are you planning on spending the night?" you ask, slipping your shoes off as you join the two at the dining table.

"Pshhh, no. Absolutely not! I gotta head home.." his eyes erroneously shift all over the room, poorly concealing how clearly he wants to leave. "Right about.." his head whips down at the non existent watch on his wrist. "Now!" He scoots the chair out and -for some reason- he tiptoes out of the house, bidding you and your boyfriend a farewell as he gently closes the comically creaking door.

You look towards your beloved, Jungkook looking dejectedly at his twiddling hands, avoiding eye contact with you. A soft exhale leaves your lips and you plant your palms on the table, getting up before you approach him. Even when he's sitting down at your wooden dining room chairs, he's only a little bit smaller than you- training and the gym have done him well. This profound emotion of tenderness rushes into your heart, and you bend down, placing a tentative and delicate kiss on his fragile cheeks.

"Wanna come with me to the bedroom?" you ask, gentleness lacing your voice at to hopefully assuage the vulnerability of the situation. It is undeniably true that you were upset- even livid at him, but after mulling it over you realized that he is your one and only. If anybody was deserving of your empathy, it was him.

You stride to the bedroom, settling down on the side of your bed with your big hunk of a boyfriend mimicing your actions like a little puppy.

"I made us bracelets," you blurt out hands digging into your pockets, before you pull out two identical bracelets dangling from your fingertips. The bracelets were childlike at best; you used black plastic beads and yarn, the same type of shit toddlers use in pre school when they learn how to do basic things like cut in zig zag lines. The bracelets are mostly made up of black beads, with a pink heart bead in the center of them.

Your fingers wrap around your boyfriend's larger hands, and you gingerly slide his bracelet on his dainty wrists. You suppose you overestimated the circumference of his wrist, because it hangs off his wrist like a necklace.

Jungkook still hasn't said anything, but finally looks up, and your eyes meet his glossy ones.

When you realize that he's crying, you hand cups his cheek, and you use your thumb to wipe the tears that cascade down his handsome face. "No no no," You're panicked at his sullen state. "Don't cry," you express desperately. "Please don't cry, I'm sorry."

Jungkook gazes at you so intimately and intensely, and he feels as if all his resolve breaks now that you are finally in front of him.

"I-I just didn't want to lose you," Anguish laces his voice, and he sounds so desperate that it makes it feel like your heart is being ripped into pieces. "Thought I was gonna lose you," he whispers, and you're compelled to just hug him- so you turn to him and wrap your arms around his neck, and his automatically snake around your waist, so naturally- like this action was done so out of muscle memory.

He holds you tightly, like he never wants to let go of you, of this. He holds you like he's found his sweet solace in your embrace. His neck finds comfort in the crook of your neck whilst he pours his emotions out into your honeydew skin.

"I can't believe you still love me."

"I can't believe you made me a fucking bracelet even after everything. You're so sweet, so perfect."

"I don't deserve you- you mean everything to me. I swear I'll make everything up to you, just give me one more chance."

You pull back at his words, a concerned haze painted on your face. You settle on your knees to meet him at equal eye contact. "Did you think I was gonna dump you?"

Jungkook tears away his eyes from yours. "I don't know. I thought you were getting sick of me- I guess," and the

You sigh, shifting your weight backwards so that your ass rests on your heels. You gnaw on your bottom lip, finding the right words to say. "Jungkook," you begin, conjuring the courage to verbalize everything you've been itching to say. "I... I have never loved anybody as much as I love you." You inhale, nostrils flaring slightly before you continue your somewhat clumsy attempt to bandage everything.

You speak very steadily so that he can fully digest what you are about to say. "And I don't love you because you're a soccer player, or because you're verified on Instagram, or because you're ESPN thinks you're going to be super successful. I love you because you're you."

Jungkook's undeniable heartbeat is pounding, so loud that he can hear it in his ears. Love. Your love is interpermeating his being, seizing control of him completely and fully. There are no words that can properly encapsulate how he feels. Just Love. Love times a million. "Y/N-"

"Just shut up and let me talk," you cut him off, preparing once again to regurgitate your feelings.

"I just love you so much, and because I love you, I would never do anything to jeopardize our relationship. You just have to trust me, even if it makes you uncomfortable. I'm an adult- I know what I'm doing."

Jungkook purses his lips perceptively, nodding ever so carefully at your simple yet overflowing explanation.

"It just hurts me that you felt like you couldn't trust me enough to be alone with him. I know I was wrong for not trusting you when you said he liked me, but even if he were to make a move on me, I would never reciprocate or encourage that behavior. I put so much trust in you, and I really want you to work towards putting that same trust in me. And.. I'm sorry for throwing a temper tantrum, I was just embarrassed I guess. "

Jungkook grabs your hand as if the moment is fleeting, his already soft expression softening impossibly more at the sincerity of your words. He holds your hand to his chest, and you can hear the rapid beating of his heart.

"I understand," he automatically expresses, which concerns you because his answer was almost too immediate. You're not sure if he's properly digesting what you are trying to communicate.

"I was just super frustrated- I missed you so much and thinking of you and that guy was killing me. I trust you, but what if he did something to you?" The disclosure of his authentic feelings relieves any doubts you had about the immediacy of his answer.

"Babe, I'm not an idiot," you reply. "I have a taser and it's not like we were in the woods in the middle of the night," you point out which elicits a soft chuckle from Jungkook.

"You're right baby, my girl's a genius," he leans in and presses a familiar and delicate kiss to your bottom lip, causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. When he pulls away you're left with a lingering feeling of longing, and he beams at you.

"You just gotta be patient with me, but I swear I'll try to be less," Jungkook takes a moment to find the right word. "Overbearing."

You give Jungkook a pursed smile and nod your head. Before you can respond he presses another delicate kiss to your lips. Though the kiss is fleeting, it's as if your lips mold together perfectly because he knows you and your lips the best. "Thank you for being you," he presses his forehead against your, mumbling against your lips, the utmost sincerity in his voice. "I love you, so so much," he says, hot breath palpable against your lips. "Thank you so much for everything you do. Thank you for understanding, for loving me. You're just- just perfect, perfect for me. Made for me, and I love you so much." His emotions overwhelm him, and his eyes become glossy. "My love for you scares me. The thought of you leaving terrifies me so much, and if you did, I don’t think I would ever recover,” his words are delicate, fragile like he’s a butterfly that could fly away at any moment. It was up to you to keel him grounded.

You close your eyes, savoring the moment of him being so close. " 'm not going anywhere," you hum into his lips, and he sighs blissfully, snuggling more into your protective embrace.

That night, you fall asleep on his chest, his arms instinctively wrapped around you for the entirety of the night.

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wallpapers4screen · 1 year

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Download wallpapers Houston Dynamo glossy logo, 4K, orange football background, MLS, soccer, american soccer club, Houston Dynamo 3D logo, Houston Dynamo emblem, Houston Dynamo FC, football, sports logo, Houston Dynamo logo, Houston Dynamo for desktop free

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yeeterthek33per · 2 months

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Kissin' and Kickin' Charm (Glódís Perla Viggósdóttir x reader)

A/n not requested, but this woman does not get the love she deserves, so I'm making it happen.

Munich is a hell of a lot different than home.

Of course, you expected that, you aren't stupid...

Not entirely anyway.

There's a charm to the city. A much different one than the small Texan town you're used to, but it's a homely charm, if any.

A much broader, explorative city with ins and outs, beautiful buildings, and on the outskirts, something you've come to realise you feel more at home in than the city, areas with wide open flatlands and albeit manmade, forested areas.

It's definitely a big city, with many towns and a lot of diverse structuring.

It's a lot.

But it's your new home.

At least for the next three years, anyway.

You imagine yourself at home in the ranch right now.

Kicking up dirt, green grass and if you're really lucky, mud and puddles. All of that on your horse, Sweets, that you got for your tenth birthday.

In fact, you'd be there right now, at home on the ranch, if it wasn't for one teeny tiny detail.

Soccer.

For whatever reason, that was the sport your child brain picked to become your newest obsession. Except, it never stopped being that way. You lived and breathed it.

It surprised the hell out of your parents.

They'd never imagined their little, quiet, leather boots, horseback riding, ranch loving daughter kicking around a soccer ball.

But that's what you wanted.

And that's what you did in your spare time.

At first, they were adamant you didn't play it. They refused, insisting that if you wanted to get into any sport, it had to be either American football or horse riding.

But after sneaking home a ball to boot around for the umpteenth time, they relented, letting you take it on.

And take it on, you did.

It got to the point where you were severely outclassing the only all boys teams in your tiny town.

Enough so that someone visiting, who happened to have the right associations, scouted you for the youth academy in Houston.

You went up through the academy, which survived despite the rise and fall of the women's league in the US several times.

Eventually, you were contracted for the first time at eighteen.

It was a big deal.

Small town girl makes her first appearance for the big leagues and despite your parents earlier disappointment in your choice of career, they were now prouder than ever watching you take on the world.

Of course, with that growth, came your first call up to the national team at age nineteen.

That little tidbit had your Mama crying harder than the day you were born. She couldn't have been prouder to see you represent your country.

Playing amongst the likes of legends like Tobin Heath, Heather O'Reilly and even Abby Wambach for a short period, you thrived.

The immense pressure was nothing like you'd ever felt, and you loved it.

Even as reserved as you are, you love a good challenge.

With the call-up, the demand to have you increased, and eventually, at the age of twenty-four, you, rather tearfully, said goodbye to the Dash and moved to Portland to join your national teammates, Sonnett and Horan.

You've spent the past four years there, although you aren't the biggest fan of the city life. You loved the soccer fanbase.

The thorns are well loved by the people in the city and some of the greatest players you've known, to date, play for them.

Of course, playing with the greatest players of all time means you yourself catch the attention of overseas scouters.

It's not the first time it's happened.

Every year, you get calls from your manager letting you know about the offers from clubs in countries you'd never dreamed of seeing before.

That being said, you'd always turned them down, not wanting to leave your home country just yet.

Until now, that is.

When the offer from FC Bayern came through, you just knew.

You knew you had to do it, had to take that chance.

"So what do we say, Y/n?"

"... Tell I'm in if they've got a heated pitch and air-conditioning."

Had your manager chuckling at that.

Taking the time to dig into the team a bit, you end having a look at the team list.

You know the names of a few of the players there, but you'd not formally met them yet, only meeting them once or twice on the pitch.'

One name stuck out in particular though.

Of course it did, she's the captain.

Your new captain.

But there's something you admire about the Icelandic woman that immediately grabs at your soul and you end up taking the time to look up her highlights.

The perseverance, the constant drive to do better and to lift up her teammates around her.

The perfect defence with constant push and pull, defensive manoeuvres and just an overall brick wall of a woman.

The perfect captain.

So when you meet her for the first time, you're a little starstruck.

Sure, you'd done your research in advance, but actually meeting the sweetly voiced Nordic woman has you anxious in your boots beyond measure.

----

When Glódís meets the new signing, she's a little thrown off.

She knew you were American, that you were from Texas and that you most likely had a very different upbringing to the lifestyle you lived now, but the immediate southern charm that flows through your natural southern drawl has her a little flustered.

She doesn't expect the charming smile or the way you call her ma'am and warmly shake her hand, expressing, rather sheepishly, your excitement to meet her.

"It's lovely meetin' you, Ma'am. I've heard a lot about everything you've done for this club and your country. It's incredible, actually, not to sound too much like I'm kissin' up here, but really."

Your head ducks a little, cheeks reddening at your own rambling.

It's adorable, she decides.

"You talk me up a lot for someone of her own incredible skill."

Her smile widens at the way your cheeks darken further under her teasing compliment.

"Oh, I mean, that's... it's not everything I want to achieve. It feels like I've had it a little easier than a lot of the ladies I've seen and played with and known personally. I'm just excited to be here and to get to be a part of something this big. With y'all, at that."

"We're glad to have you on board with us, then. I think you'll fit right in here. The girls have been begging me to let them in the door for the past thirty minutes while you were doing the contract signing."

She gestures to the windowed door to the room, which, with a quick glance, you spot the eagerly waiting players, grinning and waving like kids at you.

It makes you feel a little more anxious now.

Such big names in German and international football and here they are, giddily waiting for you to finish your media duties and finally get to meet little old you.

It feels surreal.

When you turn back to the captain, she's already smiling warmly back at you, and after the okay from you and the management in the room, they let them in.

It's almost too much, the way they all excitedly introduce themselves despite in many cases not having to, with the way you get flustered as you know them well already, having maybe, quite possibly also looked the rest of them up in a bit more detail, purely out of nervousness.

Also, the friendliness of it all.

Normally, with new signings at Portland, it always felt super cold and competitive, definitely a lot colder in the introductions, done during training rather than in a room on the campus.

Of course, after a couple of months, the players did warm up to you, but there's always the cold air about the veterans on the team, all of them wary of you and your abilities.

Always the stress of having your position on the team ousted by the new and shiny youngins for so much as running the wrong way.

Here, in Munich, Germany, in the clubs training facility, in a meeting room, your new clubs teammates welcome you with warm open arms, an air of bubbly enthusiasm and many, many hugs rather than the cold and firm handshakes you're used to.

You recognise a few of them, particularly Magdalena, a regular opponent from Sweden and her national teammate Linda, as well as of course, the German players, the English player, Georgia and Jill Baijings, a member of the Dutch National Team you'd faced just months before at the World Cup.

Regardless of the rivalry held at the international level, they're surprisingly warm, quickly dragging you into hugs themselves.

At least, it's surprising for you.

It feels different here.

It is different here.

You find yourself leaning into it more and more, the more you chat with the team.

It goes on for an hour or so before you're dragged away for more media duties.

The girls are rather reluctant to let their new friend go, waving you goodbye with warm smiles, but small pouts as their chuckling captain ushers them from the room, leaving you with one last grin and a wink that sends heat to your cheeks and shivers down your spine.

Well.

You'll be damned.

That just happened.

----

"She's so cute! I love her accent. She's so sweet with the way she talks too."

The gushing from Giulia is quickly resounded by the other's around her.

"Right? The way she kept calling us Ma'am and Miss. It's too sweet. And her accent, it's so smooth."

"Oh my god, I know Americans aren't the most well known for being nice to listen to, but I listen to her talk all day."

"She's really good too, I've seen her highlights."

There's a few small gasps and protests from around the room.

"Oi! Syd! Why haven't you shown us yet?"

"Hold on, let me just -"

"Guys! Seriously, what the hell are you doing? I've been looking for you for ages. Put the phone away, you all have training to do."

The resounding voice in the changeroom comes from a stern looking Glódís. She's normally quite gentle toned with them, but they were taking far too long to get out on the pitch, leaving their captain wondering where the hell half her team was.

"But we want to see how good Y/n is, Syd's got the highlights here."

"No, you can see how good she is when she joins us for training after her medical assessment. Now come on, or you'll be running laps for making the rest of the team wait on you all."

There's groans of disappointment, but to their rather swift credit, they do promptly exit the changeroom and make their way to the pitch where an also stern looking Alexander Straus is waiting for them, the team's manager, followed closely by Glódís, who's small smile contradicts her rolling eyes and annoyed head shaking.

----

When you do join them, you're quickly grabbed by Glódís, the captain having unofficially ruled that any new signings get paired with her first to properly welcome them to the team, and to also get them settled into her captaincy style and to adapt them to the dynamic of the team.

It's a way to get you properly integrated into the very familial like nature of it all.

Glódís seems very much like the mother of the team. All of them best friends but very much like siblings and but a few of the other older women taking the younger one's under their wings as parental figures on their own.

You figure it as a way to keep some semblance of structure amongst the chaos of the team.

The captain, it seems, is at the head of this, ensuring all of them work well together, the team is lifted for their triumphs, and picked back up with every miscalculated cross and shot, and dragged back onto their feet after every tackle or mistimed step.

Training with Glódís is intense, a good kind of intense. You find yourself enjoying the calculated, focused nature of her defensive manoeuvring.

But it's also warm, the occasional chatter between you leaving you both laughing at the other person's jokes and small mishaps as you settle in.

Her giggles are nothing if not contagious, and you can't help the grin that grows more and more the more you spend time with her.

It doesn't go unnoticed by the others, them taking note of the way their normally much more drill oriented captain has relaxed a bit.

Of course, she's friendly, smart, smiley and very much welcoming, but she's never been this laid back during drills, especially not when she's always expecting to set precedents with the new signings.

But this was definitely different to that.

The lingering touches, hip bumps and tone of laughter are different from the ones she's always held with the rest of the team. It's a little lighter, more giggly and full of a tone they themselves hadn't heard from her.

It was startling to see, nearly.

Glódís was... flirting?

Intentional or not, they didn't know, but it was definitely a flirty tone.

Not that you could tell, bless your oblivious self. You had no idea.

You matched the tone of lightness, of course. But you weren't picking up on everything else, thinking she's just naturally like that.

A very friendly captain.

The other girls know otherwise though, and the knowing looks they share later when your cute celebration after managing to meg the brick wall of a captain has her smirking slightly at your adorableness.

One thing she notices is that the more excited you get, the more your accent comes out.

It's adorable, she realises.

----

The second training isn't much different to the first.

You don't pay it much attention outside of friendliness, but Glódís takes a quick liking to you, now having claimed you for all paired warmups and drills.

Occasionally, you get stolen away every once in a while, leaving you feeling very much like the cool kid on the block.

There's something else, though.

It's in the way the Icelander smiles at you. It's in the way she hugs you every time you score in a mini game.

You brush it off, thinking, once again, she's just being friendly.

But it's a thought that sits in the back of your mind anyway.

You feel like it's a glimmer of hope. You're not sure what for or why but it's there.

Maybe it's a sign of a great friendship blooming.

Yeah.

That's what it is.

Ever since that, it's been amazing training with the team.

Your first match is just weeks after signing.

Your first minutes come as a sub for Klara in the sixtieth minute.

And it's not too long after that that you score your first goal for the club against Leipzig.

It's a beauty too.

A long range effort after a foward pass to Pernille is rebounded back to you.

It was an accident really.

You were aiming for the head of Lea but instead it curls a little more than you intend it to and it bends into the upper right corner of the netting, far past the outstretched gloves of the Swiss keeper, Elvira Herzog.

It feels a little silly, but you can't help the blush when you feel your captain hug you super tightly and lift you up in celebration.

"Let's go, that's our girl!"

----

It's been two months with the team and two and a half living in Germany. You've got a small cottage in the outer district of Munich, with enough yard to set up small drills and other various exercises.

There's been plenty of outings for you, finding yourself socialising far more than you used to back in Portland.

You don't hate it, though.

The whole team has been nothing but sweet to you, and it seems they're already attached, each player having dragged you on outings themselves, whether it be individually or with groups of them.

You're not sure why they've taken quite such a liking, but you think it might have something to do with the fact they keep asking questions for you and you alone to answer, or just anything to get you to talk, really.

You don't mind it. Bless 'em.

They're already like family to you.

Tonight is no different when it comes to being dragged to outings and team bonding nights.

Only this time, it's to a club in central Munich, having been allowed a little freedom given they dont a match this weekend. You yourself don't drink much, but some of the other girls do, so they've let loose, of course, under the watch of their captain and a few of the older girls acting as designated drivers.

There's a small nudge to your shoulder where you're leaning against a standing table.

"Hey you."

You'd recognise that sweet voice anywhere, humming as you turn to the suddenly appeared Glódís at your side.

"Well, hello, having fun there, Sweetheart?"

Glódís' lips perk up at your words.

"Always."

She takes a glance at the cup in your hand.

"Not drinking much? You can let loose a bit tonight, I'm letting you guys off the hook for tomorrow's training. Once in a lifetime opportunity L/n."

She winks at you, and you smile at her, amused.

You shake your head when she nods towards your still half full glass of vodka and soda.

"Nah, I want to be able to get up tomorrow, training or not."

She chuckles, nodding in agreement.

"Oh, to be young and dumb enough to drink like that once upon a time."

"Don't say it like that. You're only twenty-eight."

You huff playfully.

"Please, you and I both know neither of us would make it out alive if we-"

She cuts herself off, gesturing to the very rowdy girls taking another round of shots.

"Well... you're not wrong. To being old and susceptible to hangovers."

She giggles, and you hold out your glass towards hers, meeting her in the middle with a small clink and you both take a sip, her eyes never leaving yours.

"Woah there grandma. Not too hard now."

As you go to take another sip.

Rolling your eyes affectionately, you nudge her.

Turning back towards the group, you groan watching them take another round of shots.

"Oh sweet baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph. How the hell are we gettin' them home."

She pats your head with a small chuckle.

"With a lot of herding and the good old divide and conquer, cowgirl."

Then she moves off to go find Pernille and Magda on the other side of the room.

"You know, you and Glódís would be a super adorable couple."

A pair of arms wrap around your neck as a very drunk Sarah hangs onto you for stability, hear head leaning on your shoulder, and your arm moves to hold onto her so she doesn't hit the floor.

"Sarah, little miss, it's really cute that you wanna include me, but you know I don't speak German."

"One, I'm older than you, Two, sucks to be you."

A poke to the cheek following that, as she sticks out her tongue.

"Aren't you taking German classes anyway?"

"Yeah, but doesn't mean I understand the dialect of drunken soccer player yet."

She pouts at you before grumbling and resting her head back on it's spot on your shoulder.

"What I said was, you and Glódís would make a good couple."

Your cheeks immediately flame up, and your whole body tenses, wondering if you even heard the Austrian right.

"What-"

You clear your throat softly.

"What makes you say that?"

"You're already attached at the hip like no other. I've never seen her like this with anyone else. Even her old friend, Karólína."

"She's probably just missin' her then, Sar"

"If you say so."

It's just about mumbled into your shirt and you're beginning to realise that despite the pumping music, she's starting to exhaust pretty quickly with the way she's leaning further and further into you until you have to sit her down in one of the teams half occupied booths where she settles into another teammates arms.

With a small chuckle, you leave her to it, them saying they'd be heading out soon anyways and would take her home.

As you return to your spot at the table, you can't help but think back on what she said.

Despite her inebriation, what she said held weight in your mind.

And it ends with you eyeing up the woman through the small crowd over the lip of your drink.

You catch her looking back several times, each time sheet meets your eye, you think you imagine it, but her eyes crinkle a bit, and her smile gets a little brighter.

----

"You know, if you keep looking at her like that, she might catch onto you there, Glódí."

She knows she's not being subtle, but she can't help the way her eyes drift over to you.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Schülli."

"I think you do."

Glódís bites her lower lip as she watches you set the very drunk Sarah down by Sam and Linda (The Swedish one) before moving back to where you were, carefully watching over the girls on the dance floor.

It seems, with even just a few months with the team, you're already looking out for them like your own.

When you make eye contact with her for the fourth time in ten minutes, she smiles just that little bit more, which you quickly match.

Though, it seems, she doesn't expect the wink you send with it.

She raises a brow at you, ducking under the cover of her glass, hoping the purple hue of the lighting masks her slightly flushed cheeks.

"Wow, she has got you already, hasn't she?"

"Shut up."

The defender quickly turns away from your direction so the striker doesn't have get given any more fuel and gives her an annoyed but small shove to the shoulder, a slight frown marring her features.

"I think you should go for it, Glódí, she clearly has something for you."

"And what if she says no? Then what? Another friendship here ruined?"

Lea pauses for a minute, watching her, as her head ducks and her cheeks flare up at the admission.

"You mean... Ka"

Glódís swiftly nods, shushing the forward.

"Is that why she hasn't-"

She nods again.

The tips of her ears burn in shame under the taller German's gaze.

She hadn't meant to bring it up, but it just slipped out.

Karólína hadn't exactly reacted badly as such, but things between them haven't been the same since then, and with her being on loan now, they really spoken, if at all.

It still hurt, the look in her eyes as she tried her best to let her best friend down gently. Even then, months later, after the international break together, it still hurt.

After that, she'd sworn off dating teammates.

Hence, she hesitates to even think about pursuing anything with you.

She can't help the pang of hope she gets when you smile so brightly at her, though.

The sweet, charming, smooth tone you hold with her.

The way you hold her just a little bit longer and tighter than you do with the others.

But that's what she thought with Karólína, too.

And she was oh so wrong there.

So what's stopping her from being wrong now, right?

"That's why it can't happen, Lea. I'm not going through that again. I can't risk losing her or risk the team possibly being affected by it."

Lea smiles sympathetically at her captain, hand resting on her shoulder with a small squeeze.

It's silent between them for a few moments before the blonde speaks up again.

"Then don't worry about it. Now come on, I think it's time we get this rowdy lot home, it's nearing midnight."

Glódís sighs in appreciation and nods, looking over to the singing and dancing group of players followed by her gaze ultimately drifting over to you once more, returning the familiar warm smile she receives.

----

"Alright, come on, time for you to go to bed, little miss."

There's a small giggle from the drunkenly slurring blonde as you walk her up to her front door, your hands rifling her pockets for her keys.

"You're so cute."

Giulia pokes your cheek with one finger, and you roll your eyes, ignoring the flush creeping up your neck when you hear Glódís' muffled laughter behind you.

You'd turn to give her a glare but you're a bit preoccupied.

"And you are very inebriated."

Finally acquiring the keys from her back pocket, which she giggles again and wiggles her eyebrows at you for, earning herself another eyeroll as you drag her inside finally.

"You sure you got her there?"

The amused chuckle from the doorway makes you groan as she watches your stubborn self herd the blonde woman, currently letting herself lean completely on you, into her bedroom to at least encourage her to bed for the night.

"I am perfectly capable, thank you."

You're sure she doesn't believe that, but you believe it enough yourself to give up and let the now giggling woman help you as she observes on your masterpiece of drunk person wrangling.

Said drunk person now dead weight in your arms whining about not wanting to go to bed yet, to which you just plop her on the mattress finally and despite her protests, she's asleep in seconds.

Turning to Glódís triumphantly, you catch her amused smirk.

"Yeah yeah, real funny. I'd like to see you do that."

She shrugs, shaking her head.

"You're the one that insisted on bringing her in yourself, without help."

Grumbling, you make sure Giulia is fully on the bed before dropping her keys by the door and exiting and locking it on the way out.

Now, the both of you are stood in the darkness outside, with the last of the girls dropped home already, a collaborative effort thanks to Pernille, Magda, both Lindas and Jovana.

It's just you and her, now.

It's a cool winter night, nearing the end of the season but still cold enough that you're half shivering in front of the older woman.

You're both silent, your eyes drifting over her features lit up under the faint glow of the street lamp.

You swear, she gets even prettier every day.

The subtle but sharp line of her jaw, the way her hair almost glows under the moonlight, and the soft pink tint to her cheeks from the cold all have your heart beating a little quicker.

The way her eyes sparkle as they scan yours from across the porch.

The way her lips quirk up slightly under your gaze, brow raising just a bit.

"You okay?"

Her words snap you out of your assessment, and you hum softly, quickly recovering.

"Just a little tired, let's get on home then, Darlin?"

She nods and turns to head towards her car.

It doesn't surprise her when you jog ahead of her to open the driver side door for her, having done it every single time now since leaving the club.

"Such a gentlewoman."

Apparently, she hadn't grown tired of it yet, so that's a start.

It's a soft teasing tone that you poke your tongue out at her at before jumping in the passenger side.

On the drive out to your place outside of the city, her arm rests on the centre console, lined up next to yours as you hum along to the song on the radio, gazing out the window but also occasionally glancing over at her, scanning her side profile.

If she can feel your gaze on her, she doesn't really react.

It remains quiet for most of the drive, with the occasional hum or murmur along with the music.

It's not an awkward silence, but one you both need after tonight's activities.

Every so often, your pinkies brush, and every time they do, there's a small jolt of electricity that shoots up you arm from where they meet.

The moment you're in your own driveway, you bid her a soft and sweet thanks with a gentle nudge and give her a small wink and wave as she pulls way again.

She's thankful you're not there to hear her most likely audible heart beating in her chest the rest of the way home again.

----

Her heart racing at everything you do doesn't stop that night.

In fact, it gets worse.

It feels like everything you do has it beating beyond her rib cage.

It frustrates her, actually.

Every time she gets placed on something she needs full focus and attention for, she's been perfect for, but if you're there next to her?

Forget it.

Media duties?

Sitting next to you, she can feel your leg occasionally brush hers, arms brushing on the table every time you set it down from making gestures and whatnot.

Coach speeches during half time?

It's like you're doing it on purpose knowing she can't focus when you're standing behind her, hands resting on her shoulders, warmth radiating against her back with how close you are.

At one point, she's convinced you are doing it on purpose when she looks back and up at you, head tilted to make eye contact with you with a brow kinked up as you look down at her with a small smirk and a wink.

The more it goes, the less she knows how to function around you.

Individual post game interviews?

Even with you just moving around her doing various interviews with different journalists. A small brush of shoulders here, a hand gliding across her lower back as you move past her there.

At this rate, she feels like she's drowning in you and she's not even trying to move away.

Paired up interviews?

It feels like she's at her wits end with this one.

You're brought in together for a two-on-one interview for some football media page she can't remember the name of. There, seated on a couch, you're not even really doing anything. Except for the arm you have over the back of the lounge, resting just behind her head.

You aren't seated so close that you're pressed together. But you are close enough she can smell your perfume and it's making her head spin a little.

Hell, she feels like she should be used to hearing you speak by now, but it still has her feeling like she can't think properly with you around.

How she plans on surviving this, she doesn't know, but all she knows if she doesn't do something, she's going to lose her mind.

----

You know you shouldn't do it.

Really.

There's not even a guarantee she likes you back right?

Still, you can't help teasing her a little.

She doesn't confront you about it, she doesn't tell you to stop and as far as you can tell, she's not uncomfortable.

Your captain has always been verbal about how she's feeling when she's talking to people...

Mostly.

But she never leans away from you, only ever receiving a flushed face or an eye brow in response at most.

You can tell it's flustering her though.

By the way she's so quick to hide her reddened cheeks.

It's in the most adorable way that she rolls her eyes at your teasing comments when she scores a pretty good goal.

Small touches here and there, innocent touches. Nothing more than brushes and occasional times of brushing away grass from her face after particularly rough tackles.

The soft smile and drawl flowing from you asking how she's holding up makes it worth it.

Even though you may not be able to kiss her, her smile? Totally worth it.

----

Glódís feels like she's at her breaking point right about now.

When she's getting distracted during a game, a champions league game at that, that's a major problem.

You're both lined up for offence on a free kick when you're pressed in between her and an opposition player while she pressures the player in front.

It takes one brush of your hands on her waist and she's distracted long enough to miss jumping for the header on time.

Instead, you make it to the header, the ball flying into the back of the net as you take off running in celebration, having broken the deadlock in the final minute of stoppage.

Which turns into celebrations of the win the moment the whistle blows for full time and you're piled on for saving the teams chances at a spot in the quarter final over PSG.

The screams of the home crowd are drowned out as she waits impatiently for the end of her on field media duties.

Being the captain sucked sometimes, but it had to be done.

The moment she's free, she's jogging straight over to you and you're being dragged away off the field before you can even realise what's happening.

You had your own media duties, ones that you were currently shirking right now not being out there.

The moment you realise it's Glódís, the protests you had ready die in your throat, left with minor confusion the further down the obscure hallways she drags you until you're both in a secluded area and you're shoved into a broom closet with the door slammed shut behind both of you.

"What's goin-"

It takes all of a moment for her to grab you by the collar and slam you against the door leaving you a little winded and confused.

"Whatever it is you're doing, needs to stop. You're driving me crazy."

"What are you-"

"Don't play dumb with me, every time you so much as come near me, you brush past me, you so much as stand near me, I can't think and it's like you damn well know it, too."

It suddenly clears up there. You definitely didn't weren't doing it entirely on purpose.

Well, maybe.

Okay, it may have been a little on purpose, but you had no idea she was this affected.

"Look, I can stop if it's making you uncomfortable but Glódís... I... I kind of really like you and..."

----

Oh.

Well that changes things.

You actually like her?

You weren't just teasing her?

----

Before you can say much else, her hands cup your face and her lips are on yours in one movement.

Anticipating the action, your arms are around her in an instant, pulling her as close to you as possible, her body hot against yours despite the almost raging cold out on the pitch.

Her hands are firm on your face not letting you go for even a second, her lips fervent and sure as they move with yours.

It's only when you pull away for air that she finally relaxes into your hold for the first time.

Your hands are pressed into her lower back, hers now pressed into your shoulders as she looks slightly down at you, being just shorter than her by an inch.

The two of you just breathe for a moment, taking the moment in.

"You know. If you wanted to kiss me, all you had to was ask, Sweetheart."

She huffs.

"You're infuriating, you know that?"

There's a small guffaw on your face after that.

"What did I do?"

She almost believes the innocent look on your face.

The small upturn of your lips let's her know otherwise though.

"What didn't you do?"

And she kisses you again, slower and more tender this time, slowly pressing you back into the wall, slotting herself easily between your legs.

With your chest pressed to hers, you can finally feel the way her heart races, and she can finally feel yours, too.

There's always been something about you.

Guess it's just part of your charm.

----

#woso #woso x reader #woso imagines #woso imagine #glódís viggósdóttir x reader #glódís viggósdóttir imagine #glódís viggósdóttir imagines #glódís perla viggósdóttir x reader #glódís perla viggósdóttir imagine #glódís perla viggósdóttir imagines #fc bayern frauen x reader #fc bayern imagine #fc bayern imagines #woso oneshot #woso oneshots

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meazalykov · 1 month

Text

redirection; prologue

esmee brugts x barcaplayer!R

a girl realizing that a huge rejection lead her to the best redirection possible

Most of the 2022-2023 season, I’ve been working hard within the tryout camps to get a spot on the United States Women’s national team roster for the World Cup. I played for the Washington Spirit in the NWSL as a Striker.

Most people in my circle believed that I would’ve had a spot on the World Cup roster due to my overachieving skills. I had high hopes about accomplishing my biggest dream. However, when I got the facetime call from the USWNT coach, letting me know that I wouldn’t be on the World cup roster, that belief was crushed.

My emotions were all over the place when the facetime call ended. The tears in my eyes ran down my dimpled cheeks for hours. My breathing was rigid and I couldn't think straight. It got to a point where my bestfriend, Trinity Rodman, comforted me on a facetime call. She made it on the roster and my happiness for her was distracted by the disappointment for myself.

“I feel like my skills, hard work, and motivation goes unnoticed.” I cried on the facetime call to Trinity. I pulled the black sleeves of my Adidas hoodie up and wiped my tears. To be honest, I felt like clicking the red “end call” button and falling asleep. I didn’t want Trin’s happiness for herself to drain away due to my rejection from the World Cup.

“There’s so many people in the world that recognize your talents, y/n. Everyone is disappointed too. Just know that your time will come and you can use this as a bigger push for the 2024 olympic roster.” Trinity commented. She was right, but the disappointment and rejection was too big to have optimistic thoughts currently.

After the facetime call ended, my imessage notifications were blown up with most of my Washington Spirit teammates, family, and non-soccer playing friends apologizing to me when they didn’t see my name on the roster that was posted. They gave me reminders of how good of a player I still am. Many of my USWNT teammates, including my close friends Sophia Smith and Emily Fox, expressed how disappointed they were because I wouldn’t play in Australia with them.

Currently, I have seven caps with the USWNT. As a nineteen year old, this is a normal amount of appearances. So I had developed relationships with some players who consistently appear on the team.

Alex Morgan is an example. She is my inspiration as an American striker myself. I’ve seen many people compare us and how we play. I scrolled on the 433womenfc instagram comments on the USWNT roster post and a particular comment stuck out to me,

“Washington Spirit’s y/n l/n should’ve had a spot over Alyssa Thompson. She could’ve been a good sub for Alex Morgan since they’re both strikers and she has more international experience. USWNT missed out.”

The tears in my eyes poured down my face again but instead of calling a friend or family member to talk to, I placed my phone on the charger and went to sleep.

Three months later:

The USWNT was eliminated from the World Cup after a penalty shootout with Sweden in the Round of 16. This broke my heart when I watched the match in my apartment last week. The USWNT won the 2015 and 2019 World Cup and a three-peat would've broken records.

Currently, I sat in the backseat of a fancy black van as I headed to a fancy restaurant in downtown DC. My agent wanted to talk to me about my next career move, since my contract with Washington Spirit expired right before the world cup.

I am assuming that my next move will be within the NWSL, many clubs contacted my agent during past transfer windows for a possible move. However, Spirit rejected those transfers since they saw me as an important striker. Trinity wanted me to stay at Washington Spirit and sign a new contract. I didn’t because I felt lost. I knew my heart belonged somewhere else. I loved the club I've been with since I was sixteen, but I needed to move on.

The dark green pants and black long sleeve on my body was comfortable for the early-august weather. You’d expect the weather to be hot but it’s 8pm and the breezy air made for a perfect temperature.

I sat down in a booth across from my agent, Heather. She held a blue ipad in her hands and already ordered water for us, which I took a sip of after we greeted each other. This meeting would determine my next career move.

Two hours later, I walked out of the restaurant in excitement and shock. Heather let me know that many clubs in many leagues contacted her as they needed a goal scoring striker.

WSL clubs, such as Chelsea and Manchester United, were the first to contact my agent. In fact, they’ve wanted me since the last transfer window. I wasn't opposed to Chelsea, since a few of my American friends played there. NSWL clubs such as San Diego Wave, Houston Dash, and Portland Thorns wanted to offer me a contract too.

When my agent mentioned the last club that offered me a contract, my jaw dropped to my feet. Liga F club FC Barcelona needed a striker and their coach was impressed by my goal scoring abilities from last season. Barcelona was my dream club and Heather saw my eyes light up in admiration and disbelief.

As the dinner ended, I told Heather that I'm looking forward to joining Barcelona. She told me that she will let Joan Laporta and the sporting director know about my commitment. I wanted to cry in joy, I am moving to Spain soon to join my dream club!

(pretend you’re trinity rodman)

433womensfc

Liked by salmaparalluelo, and 21,613 others

tagged: @y/n.l/n

OFFICIAL: 🚨 19-year old American Striker y/n l/n from Washington Spirit signs a 3-year contract with FC Barcelona on a free transfer. She will be the first American to sign for the Liga F club 🇺🇸🔵🔴

comments

y/nstrikes_ barca fans she will not disappoint! 💙❤️

esmeebrugts 🔥🔥

wosofan23 aitana bonmati and y/n l/n link on the pitch should be illegal 😭

leahwilliamsfan67 i agree

lekkerbrugts esmee ona and y/n joining barcelona?? barcelona is unstoppable.

cghlover55 this is so crazy 😍🔥

randomuser4789 she was too good for the nwsl, can’t wait to see her compete in europe. ❤️

16 replies

(pretend you're ona batlle)

fcbfemeni and y/n.l/n

liked by esmeebrugts and 93,973 others

our american star has arrived 😍💙❤️🌟

comments

aitanabonmati ❤️

ingrid_engen 😍😍

graham95 niceee🤩

y/nhive THIS MAKES ME SO HAPPY

felixfan14 SAME 😍

trinity_rodman SO HAPPY FOR YOU *nickname* 😭💗🎉

lindseyhoran10 woohoo!!!

uswnt 😍

alexiaputellas 🥰

*esmeebrugts started following y/n.l/n*

next chapter: redirection I

a/n: this is my first woso fic! this is the first chapter to this series and I'll write more for other players as well :D I hope you enjoy!

#esmee brugts #woso fanfics #woso x reader #barcelona femeni #barcelona women #oranjeleeuwinnen #wwc 2023 #alexia putellas #aitana bonmati

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lolobizarreadventuresshatpost · 1 year

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D’Arby the Gambler actually challenges the Crusaders to a soccer match instead of a card game. As a Frenchman, Polnareff can’t resist and joins in. Avdol played in the streets with the local kids when he was young, so he knows he’ll beat Polnareff’s ass if needed. Joseph likes to pretend he is American, but he cannot help being British, and he slept with enough Italians to have soccer in his blood as well. The others follow suit. Being a bit of a Thames Ironworks football club fan in his days, DIO can’t resist turning the stand battles into more soccer matches instead.

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure is now a Soccer Shonen Manga.

#jjba #Stardust Crusaders #text bs #Dio Brando #soccer mom #football #lolo edits

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discokicks · 10 months

Text

BOLT FROM THE BLUE - ROY KENT.

PART ONE of ACES AT THE WATER'S EDGE.

(series masterlist!) (series playlist!) (AO3!)

pairing: roy kent x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: with the departure of afc richmond’s wonderkid, the club is desperately on the hunt for a new coach. luckily for them, you’ve just been wrongfully terminated from your position over at west ham. however, with your outlook on the football world tainted and massive hesitation due to your past with a particular member of their coaching staff, you’re less than convinced about the job. but, that same member may just be the one to convince you.

word count & rating: 8.7k, R (too many roy kent 'fucks' to be pg-13)

chapter warnings: whole lotta swearing (it’s a roy kent fic, do i even have to say it?), talk of workplace misconduct, allusions to (no descriptions of) sexual harassment, roy and the reader are long-lost bickering, angsty enemies with a past, reader is a former team usa player and present coach, author is american (sorry </3)

author’s note! hello hello. so happy to have you here. welcome to my first tumblr fic. certainly not my first fic ever, but first fic on here! hooray! for the sake of this fic, we’re going to pretend like the coaching career of the reader is actually possible in the current misogynistic world football climate. it’ll be fun to fantasize. also, this takes place in s3, and reader is earlyish/midish thirties. also also, i know next to nothing about football/soccer and haven’t played since i was 10, but i’m doing my research! hope you enjoy and love u all tons. -mags

PRESENT DAY. (AUGUST 2023)

Your ex-boss's ex-wife is currently standing outside of your apartment and somehow, that’s not the most surprising thing to happen this week.

While yes, of course, seeing Rebecca Walton on your front steps at nine-thirty on a Thursday morning is shocking, the numbness that’s been coursing through your body since Monday takes some of the edge off.

She’s right before you, clutching her purse tightly, dressed in a fitted trench coat and aggressively expensive heels. Everything about her contrasts the four-sizes-too-big sweatshirt you’re sporting with the age-old pajama shorts with embroidered soccer balls that you’ve been rotting away in for the last three days. When your eyes finally meet once more and you see she’s been sizing you up just as you’ve been doing to her, she plasters on a wide, practiced smile.

“Hello,” Rebecca says. Her smile doesn’t falter.

You blink at her. “Hi.”

She motions to your door and you feel your hand tighten on the knob. “May I come in?”

Your lips part in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a moron. “Like, into my house?” you ask, head whipping to look at the current warzone state of your living room.

Rebecca’s smile gets slightly more genuine. “If that’s alright?”

The shock of her standing before you seems to have worn off, because you find yourself shutting the door slightly. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Look, if you’re here to get me to talk to that Independent journalist who’s called me like, three times asking for a perspective on Rupert for his book or whatever, I’m really not interested.” Your frustration is clearly peaking through your typically reserved manner, and frankly, you’re not in any mood to mask it.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “Who? Trent?” You nod at Rebecca’s furrowed brows. “Oh God, no. We barely want him writing that thing anyway.”

Well, okay. “Then why—”

Rebecca motions to the door again. “May I?”

You suppose if she’s being so insistent about entering your home, it’s her funeral. You step back to allow her in, and the second she sees your living room, she seems to regret it. When she turns to face you, you can’t help the way your brows shoot up, everything about your demeanor saying I told you so. “The kitchen’s cleaner,” you tell her, nodding in its direction.

“Wonderful,” she says as she follows you through the hall. Her next question is hesitant. “So, is all this—”

“The result of getting fired on Monday?” you finish for her, turning to meet her gaze as you stand at your counter. Her eyes read pity and part of you already wants to kick her out. The other part of you wants to hug her. “Yeah. Things, uh…”

As you trail off, you realize something. That thing in her eyes isn’t pity. It’s empathy. Rebecca, more than anyone, knows Rupert. She knows how much of an asshole he is. She knows how special he can make you feel, only to have the rug ripped out from under you moments later. She knows what it feels like to be wronged by him. She knows.

Through your silence, you think she recognizes the sudden shift in tension as your expression morphs into something less hard, and you allow yourself a moment of vulnerability. “Things haven’t been great over here.”

Any sort of practice in Rebecca’s smile completely fades and is replaced with something more compassionate. “I can only imagine.”

You nod, crossing your arms over your chest. While the initial discomfort has passed, the awkwardness still lingers and you realize that you have literally no idea why she’s in your apartment. “Can I… offer you coffee? Or, uh, tea?” you ask.

“Oh, no,” she replies. “Thank you though.”

“You sure?” you try again. “I taught myself how to make an insane shaken espresso during my ACL recovery. Mastered it over the years.”

“Mastered it?”

You shrug. “It was either that or alcoholism. Chose the path less traveled by most washed-up athletes.”

Rebecca’s lips twitch upward. “Oh, what the hell. Why not?”

“Great,” you say, turning to your cabinet to grab your bag of coffee beans. Now for the moment of truth. “And while I get that together…” You stand on your tiptoes to reach the bag. “You’ve gotta tell me what you’re doing here.”

For a moment, you think she’s going to feed you some joke or some bullshit answer. You glance over your shoulder to watch her mouth even open to do so. But she suddenly decides against it.

And you drop the bag of coffee beans and have to stabilize yourself against the counter as she says, “I’m here to offer you a job.”

A job? She wants to give you a job at Richmond? She can’t be serious. Out of all the things that floated through your mind when you opened the door, this was the last thing you thought possible. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

It has to be a pity offer. That’s where the pity of it all went. But no one knows about what actually happened, you remind yourself. She just knows you were suddenly let go. Well, then it’s just a revenge offer. Some petty thing to get back at Rupert. As much as you want to think that you’d be on board with that, you had no interest in being some sort of piece in the game.

You’re staring blankly at Rebecca as your mind goes to war, certain that you look like even more of an idiot than you did when you let her in. There’s a small pool of coffee beans sitting on your counter. But you can’t find it in you to care. A job. She’s here to offer you a job.

Rebecca suddenly clears her throat. “Is everything alri—”

“Why the fuck do you want to give me a job?” Is what comes out of your mouth, head too far gone to consider a filter. A smirk appears on her face at your words. “Sorry, I just… I don’t get it.”

She looks at you for a moment, taking a solemn pause to evaluate exactly what it is she wants to say. Her eyes flash to your embroidered soccer shorts peeking out from beneath your sweatshirt, then to the plethora of sport-themed mugs hanging beneath the cabinets in your kitchen, then to the framed photo you keep on the wall of your team’s 2015 World Cup win.

“Because,” she finally lands on, “when I see that the new, passionate, wildly qualified West Ham coach is suddenly fired less than two months after she begins, seemingly out of nowhere…” It’s her turn to trail off, and she shrugs. “Something tells me it wasn’t just leadership differences.”

You look away from her as she drops the famous press-release line. Discomfort floods your body as you remember Rupert’s smarmy smile when he asked for your badge. “No,” you say softly. “It wasn’t.”

Rebecca nods, as if her suspicions were confirmed. “Now, I don’t know what happened,” she tells you, “and I don’t expect to know. But as I said, you’re wildly qualified. You were a remarkable talent on the field and more so as a coach. Four Uni championships in a six-year career isn’t just impressive, it’s unheard of.”

You pause your coffee bean cleanup at that. Your brows shoot up and a wry smile crosses your lips. “You know my college coaching stats?”

Rebecca stares at you for a moment. Then, “Not until this week,” she admits quickly, forcing you to bite back a laugh. “But my coaching staff knew. Sang your praises.”

A pit forms in your stomach as you realize exactly who’s a part of that staff. Bull-fucking-shit he sang your praises. You think you’d despise him more if he had.

Attempting to brush off your sudden uneasiness, you try your hand at a joke while measuring out the beans. “Well, two-thirds of them are American, so I guess that makes sense.”

Rebecca chuckled. “Well, Roy Kent doesn’t say much of anything, but you did get a—’” She cuts herself off to make an affirmative-sounding grunt. You’re so thrown off by this that you almost forget to smile at her impression of him. “Which, you know, is about as close to singing as he gets.”

That it is. Because you do know. And that’s Roy code for ‘trying to be normal about this, but dear God, never speak about her to me again.’ You hope the mere mention of your name made him run out of the room. That the idea of you potentially joining the team keeps him up at night.

(The last three days haven’t been good for your dramatics either.)

A sigh escapes your lips and you avert your eyes. There’s an air of embarrassment as you shift uncomfortably. “This is going to be loud, sorry,” you apologize, turning the grinder on. You make a general estimation that this is what your brain would currently sound like if someone decided to listen in. After a moment, the machine turns off, but you don’t turn back to Rebecca. “Would this be a coaching offer?”

“I wouldn’t want you to be anything else,” Rebecca responds. Her tone shifts slightly as she looks at you. “Unless there’s—”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “There’s nothing else I’d want.” You shift again. “I just…”

Rebecca watches as you trail off. You still haven’t looked at her, focused solely on your espresso task at hand. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting when she arrived at your home, but it certainly wasn’t this. Every time she’d seen you, whether it was on the field, blowing past defenders with impossible efficiency, or coaching your college girls in a way that commanded respect despite the seemingly ever-present smile on your face, there’d always been this confidence about you.

An admirable sense of ego. A love and passion for the game that made every young girl want to wear the number 14. A spirit that made everyone look upon you fondly. A pleasure to be around, and an honor to work with.

Rebecca was now staring at what she presumed to be the shell of the woman she’d heard about. A woman distracting herself from the discomfort of this conversation with coffee-making, afraid of her own shadow. And as you spoke, she knew her assumptions were correct.

“Listen,” you manage to get out. You’ve already tamped the grounds and had returned to the big, fancy espresso machine bought for you long ago by a former friend. “I appreciate you coming over here, but…”

“But?” Rebecca questions.

The words feel dry in your mouth and you have to push them out. “I think I’m done with it.”

It’s Rebecca’s turn to blink at you dumbly. “Done with what?” she asks. “With coaching?”

Shame floods your body. “With soccer,” you reply weakly. That look remained on Rebecca’s face. “Football. Whatever. Whatever you want to call it, I’m done with it.” You turn to stable yourself on the countertop once more as the coffee begins to brew. “It’s just— I’ve spent the majority of my life doing this one thing. I’ve done the Olympic gold thing, I’ve won a World Cup, I’ve won college championships, I’ve been…” Your eyes shut, shoulders sagging. “I’ve just been. And I thought I could go a step further. Break a ceiling or whatever. I thought I was ready for it. And then everything I’ve worked for is fucking destroyed by some douchebag, diva athlete who doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his—”

You raise your hand to your mouth as if that’ll keep it all in, and you realize you’re shaking. You don’t have to turn around to know how Rebecca’s looking at you. “So, yeah,” you finish lamely. “I’m done. It was ruined for me. And I don’t want to go back.”

Rebecca says nothing for a long while. Taking everything you said in, drawing her conclusions, whatever. You grip the granite countertop and it feels cool beneath your fingers. Your eyes open when you finally hear her respond.

“You’re letting him win,” she tells you, voice soft. Slightly broken. Like she knows the feeling.

When you do turn back to her, Rebecca’s sitting at your breakfast bar with her hands folded together, anger poorly concealed. But it’s not anger at you, it’s just anger.

But then you start to feel angry. “I’m not letting him win,” you insist.

“You are,” she replies. Before you can let your temper get the best of you, she continues. “They’re calling you emotional, you know? They’re saying that the ’leadership problems’ were you just being abrasive. Joking that they should have never let a woman into the league because of the drama. Apparently, women can’t handle AFC-level coaching.”

You swallow. “I know,” you say. “I’ve seen it.”

“Who do you think’s pushing that narrative?” she asks.

It’s a rhetorical question, but you still feel like giving an answer. “Basement-dwelling losers who barely made their intramural leagues?”

It’s then that Rebecca smiles for real. It’s like she’s seen a flash of the woman she’s heard about and she couldn’t be more pleased. She makes a noise of agreement, then continues. “This is what he wants. He wants you to feel like this. He wants you to quit.” Her gaze bores into yours with an intensity that doesn’t allow you to look away. “If you give it all up, he wins. He beats you and he’s got another name under his belt. He doesn’t deserve your name.” Rebecca’s index finger jabs in your direction. “Don’t allow him to fucking win.”

The passion in her words is what gets you. Your throat clenches as you feel your eyes start to burn, knowing that everything she said had some amount of truth in it. There’s a frustration that rises in your chest that you don’t know how to handle.

You were letting him win. He took away your career and then threatened your reputation. He made you take the blame for everything. He allowed this to be ruined for you and played an active part in ensuring it. And here you were, cowering in fear at the notion of this small man.

She’s right, and the espresso has finished brewing.

You know she’s right. Rebecca knows she’s right. So, as you stand in your kitchen, fighting an inward battle that’s got you on the verge of tears, your scared, stupid, frustrated little brain can only think of one more thing to say as you pour the coffee over ice.

“Even if you were right—” you begin, not ready to admit that just yet, “—even if you were, and even if I did want to join Richmond, I refuse to work with Roy Kent.”

This takes Rebecca completely by surprise. She shifts back in her chair, eyes wide despite the drawing of her brows. “R-Roy?” she sputters. “Our Roy Kent?”

The word our tells you that he’s been embraced by the club and isn’t going anywhere. Not that you had expected him to. He’d clearly nested well into the team and had taken his coaching position in stride. Just like you said he would years ago.

“Yeah,” you say shortly. “That one.”

Rebecca’s expression remains the same. ”But he’s… I—” She cuts herself off with a question. “—but why?”

A mirthless grin crosses your lips, head shaking like you don’t have the energy to get into it all. “That’s an answer you should probably hear from him.”

Rebecca looks as though she’s trying to make sense of all of this. You want to wish her luck. Because you’ve been doing the same thing for eight years. “I understand he can be a bit… coarse. And intimidating. And hot-headed. But he really is—”

“I don’t care what he is,” you tell her with the most polite, tight-lipped smile you can muster up. “I know who he was. And I’m not interested in working with him.” The words leave your mouth with a bit more venom than anticipated and guilt floods your body. “But thank you for the offer.”

The Richmond owner continues to stare at you while you shake the coffee, still puzzled, but slowly coming to the realization that she’s not going to change your mind. At least not now. Maybe not ever.

She figures that trying to convince you to do anything would be pointless. Your stubbornness had made you a star on the field and had clearly transferred off of it. She supposed it made sense that you and Roy had apparently butted heads.

So, reading the room, Rebecca nods at you and stands from the stool behind your breakfast bar. “Alright,” she says, a somber, apologetic smile on her face. “Message received. Loud and clear.” You watched as she turned and began to fumble inside her purse, placing a white card on the bar when she’d found it. “But… please. Consider it. The offer’s good for the next couple of days. And I… I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think that you’d be an asset to our team. I truly mean that.”

There’s a genuine lilt in her voice that makes you believe her. Whether or not this was a pity offer, or if she just want to scoop you up to get back at Rupert, she really did want you with the team. You’re rational enough to know that there’s some merit in that.

“Thank you,” you say again, offering a truer smile this time around. You hold up the espresso. “Now, do you have a milk preference? Because I’ve got them all.”

Rebecca Walton left your apartment with the best fucking shaken espresso she’s ever had in her life and a phone held up to her ear.

“Hi, babes,” greeted the voice on the other line, cheery as ever. “I can’t remember the last time you called me this early. Not that I’m complain—”

Rebecca abruptly cut off her friend’s rambling by saying your name. “How the fuck does she know Roy and why the fuck is he the reason she won’t work for Richmond?”

Uncharacteristically, Keeley Jones went silent. Rebecca heard the static from the other end. And then, very quiet, and wildly serious, Keeley said, “Oh, fuck.”

The words made Rebecca stop in her tracks in the middle of the street. “What?”

“You want her to be the new Richmond coach?” Keeley asked, sounding a whole lot like she just scrambled to sit up in bed.

“I just left her apartment. She rejected the offer and sent me on my way with the best coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” she replied. “I want to be bitter about it, but it’s too fucking good.”

“Yeah, got it, she’s a fucking barista on top of being an Ace.” Rebecca wanted to ask about how frantic her best friend is right now, but didn’t get the chance. “Did Roy know you were doing this? Asking her, I mean?”

“He did. I asked him about her,” Rebecca answered. “And he grunted at me. Generally, that’s Roy Kent for ‘go on with it.’”

“Oh, that stupid, fucking self-sabotaging prick,” Keeley muttered. “Of-fucking-course he did. Put yourself in this kind of situation instead of dealing with your emotions like a normal fucking human, good on you, Roy—”

“Keeley.” The rambling stopped once more. “What happened?”

The other line was momentarily silent. Then Keeley sighed, long and heavy. “Well, I don’t know it all,” she began. Her voice was soft. “But I know they knew each other a while back. Like ten years ago, when they were both still playing.” Keeley sighed once more. “But he said he, uh… apparently fucked her over somehow. Didn’t get into it or say what he did, but I think it was pretty bad. And then she got back at him for it and fucked him over. And it… really messed him up. Like, totally broke his heart.”

Rebecca stepped out of the way of someone passing by. “Broke his heart?” she asked, eyes closing at the implication of that. “Were they—”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He wasn’t exactly open about it. Which I thought was weird because he became pretty open about everything else,” Keeley said. “All I know is that whatever it was, it ended ugly. And that they haven’t spoken to each other since.”

Whatever Rebecca had been expecting, it surely wasn’t that. “Oh,” she said lightly.

Keeley hummed in uncomfortable agreement. “Maybe I’m reading too far into it,” she continued. “Maybe it wasn’t like that. But, he… never talked about anyone like that. Or, y’know, refused to talk about anyone like that. And you know Roy.” Rebecca said nothing, leaving Keeley to ask the million-dollar question. “Are you sure you want to follow through with this?”

“I want her. She’s the only feasible prospect I’ve liked who hasn’t been a fucking twat so far.” Rebecca’s voice was sure. Final. “And I won’t allow for another woman to be quietly taken down because of Rupert. Especially not if what I think happened actually did happen.”

“Well, then babe,” Keeley said, “I think you might need to have a chat with your coaches.”

Then, as Rebecca stood on the edge of the sidewalk, picturing the look on her coaches’ faces as she prepared to integrate Roy Kent, the gravity of the situation hit her like a freight train. “Oh, fuck.”

“ROY FUCKING KENT!”

The entire locker room froze at the voice of Rebecca Walton echoing down the hall, each click of her heels sounding as dangerous as the next. Immediately, all eyes are were on Roy. From Kitman Will to Coach Ted Lasso himself. Not a word was said and Rebecca’s stomping started to sound like a death march.

But when she rounded the corner into the Coaches’ Office with a fire in her eyes that screamed run; that’s when Roy started to sweat.

Immediately, a million things ran through his mind. He wondered if this was about his break-up with Keeley, then realized that she was the one who wanted a break from him, so Rebecca’s got no reason to be mad about that. Had he said something stupid to a reporter? Been photographed poorly? Did something come up in a tabloid from his past? Roy wished he could identify one singular thing he’d done back then in poor taste, but he had a fucking laundry list.

Beard quickly jumped up from his chair to shut the door to the locker room so that the team couldn’t hear whatever was about to unfold in this godforsaken office, and pulled the blinds too. He heard the beginnings of an objection from the boys as they began to race to the window, and sent them all a look before the shade fell.

Rebecca walked further into the office, eyes never leaving Roy’s. If she weren’t so fucking mad, she figured she’d bask in the fact that she was able to make the great, big, scary Roy Kent nervous, but she was currently seeing red. She decided she’d reflect on that later.

“I had a fascinating conversation this morning with a prospective coach,” she finally said, voice eerily calm. “Your name came up. A lot.”

Roy didn’t dare say a word. He wasn’t even sure if he could. Thankfully, Ted chimed in. “Well, Boss, we’ve got a lot of those. Would you mind narrowing down which one you talked to?”

But Roy doesn’t need it to be narrowed down. There’s only one name that’s been floated around that could possibly have garnered this reaction and level of anger. But his stomach sank further as a wild smile crossed Rebecca’s lips.

“Oh, just our Ace Olympic gold-medalist, World Cup-winning, four-time college coaching champion, West-Ham-hating top prospect,” she said, gaze pinning Roy to the wall. “Who apparently has not only been fucked over by Rupert but has also been fucked over by our own Roy Kent.”

All eyes flashed to Roy in surprise. Rebecca hadn’t been lying. Roy hadn’t objected to her name being considered as seriously as it was, and had given absolutely no indication to anyone in the room that there could potentially be conflict with this hire.

“Oh,” Ted said. “Well, that’s a bit of an issue.”

Roy looked at Rebecca evenly. “What did she say?”

“Nothing,” she replied, knowing that that was the very issue. “She just said she refused to work with you. Told me to ask you for the details.”

Roy nearly scoffed. God, that was really fucking like you, wasn’t it? Somehow making his life harder without scorching him alive, leaving him to be the one to burn himself down. Because you could if you wanted to. You could burn him to the ground if you chose.

(And you had. But he wasn’t sure what was stopping you from doing it again.)

He eyed Rebecca, knowing his boss and the way she thinks. There was a piece of him that was curious as to whether or not she’d drop the bomb in front of Beard and Lasso. “And what did Keeley tell you?”

That seemed to take his boss by surprise for a moment. But, as she caught on, it was made clear that she had the intention of saving his ass. For now. “Nothing that you didn’t tell her yourself,” Rebecca said. “Which was pretty much nothing.”

That was true too. There wasn’t much he hadn’t told Keeley, but he drew the line at you. Not only would Keeley look at him differently if she knew the truth, but you were just… too hard to talk about. Way too hard for him.

Which is why when Rebecca threw her hands up in question, desperation in her eyes as she asks, “So, what the fuck did you do to our prospective coach?”, Roy had to calm himself for a moment.

Between his rapidly increasing heartbeat and freshly clammy hands, Roy knew he had to figure out a way to not appear one hundred percent, completely freaked out about this. Besides his vague talks with Keeley, he can’t remember the last time he spoke about you. In fact, he’s not sure he’d ever spoken about you. And he certainly wasn’t in any headspace to do it now.

So, Roy being who he was, looked at the expectant expressions of his coaching staff (and Trent fucking Crimm, who he still couldn’t believe had managed to weasel his way into the club) and sighed. He knew he couldn’t be as intentionally vague with his explanation, especially now that the careers of those he knew and respected were in the mix, but he sure as hell was going to try.

“We—” Roy’s voice came out gruff and he cleared his throat with the roll of his eyes. “We knew each other a while back. I met her at the London Olympics. We were… fucking friends. For a while. And then we weren’t.” Roy shrugged, as if that would get rid of the discomfort he felt. He still hadn’t made eye contact with anyone. “I did some shit I’m not proud of. I hurt her and then she fucking hurt me. We haven’t talked since.”

Rebecca crossed her arms over her chest. “Exactly how long haven’t you spoken for?”

Exactly? Roy knows exactly how long. He could tell her the exact fucking day. But that was neither here nor there.

“I don’t know,” he chose to answer. He’d never faked indifference well. “Couple of years? Eight, nine?”

Beard pursed his lips in confusion. “And you didn’t think to… mention this conflict of interest?”

He’d taken the words right out of Rebecca’s mouth. “Or tell me there was an issue so I didn’t look like an idiot?”

“There’s no fucking conflict of interest!” Roy shouted. Rebecca’s brows rose dangerously at the tone and volume of his voice, forcing him to take a moment to collect himself. His voice was more even as he said, “I didn’t fucking say anything because I didn’t think it was important because we’re fucking adults and I didn’t want to be the fucking reason she didn’t—”

Roy’s words died in his throat, chest heaving as he forced himself to stop short. He finally looked up, glancing between his colleagues. He tilted his head back as he realized that each of them were trying to figure out whether or not to believe him.

He was telling the truth. He hadn’t said one lie. They just didn’t get it. And he wouldn’t allow them to get it. Not yet, at least.

“Well,” Rebecca said after a beat, “inadvertently or not, you are the reason she’s not joining the team.”

(Those words alone sting Roy in a way he wasn’t prepared for.)

Rebecca wasn’t done. “But I want her, Roy. More than anyone we’ve seen. She’s the best we’ve had a chance with so far. And if I have to go with another coach or one of those pricks we interviewed because of that?” She shook her head as if the idea repulsed her, then pointed squarely at Roy. “Fix this.”

His jaw went slack. “Fix— How the fuck am I supposed to fix it?”

Roy was shocked to find that Ted had his back. “I’m with Roy on this one, boss,” he said hesitantly. Rebecca blinked at him in surprise. “I want her too. I’m all for having this Ace up our sleeve. But this all seems like a lot to be fixed overnight.”

“Send her flowers, send her a singing telegram, get on your fucking hands and knees and beg— I don’t care how you do it! Just try!” Rebecca’s gaze had turned back to Roy, this time a bit more pleading. “Please. Fix it.”

And with that, Rebecca left the office, leaving two coaches and a journalist staring at Roy Kent.

This was the worst day of his life. It had to be. He’d never prepared himself to see you again because he was convinced that there was no probability it would happen. Selfishly, he’d figured that you coaching here wasn’t a true possibility, not because of any sort of lack of skill, but because some other team would scoop you up. But it was happening. This was a reality and Roy was sure he’d died and finally gone to hell.

And now he was expected to fix this? To interact with you? To potentially see and speak to you again? He was going to fucking throw up.

With this settling in, Roy released a deep, shuddering breath, heartbeat ringing in his ears. “Fuuuuuck,” he muttered, grabbing his keys from his desk and storming out of the room.

And then there were three. Ted broke the silence with a question directed at Trent. “Y'all have singing telegrams over here?”

Trent nodded. “Oh, yes. And I’m sure they’re just as awful as American ones.”

As Ted hummed in agreement, Beard narrowed his eyes at how his best friend’s attention was back on the open laptop in front of him. “You looking up where to get one?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Ted replied, eyes glued to the screen.

Beard got up from his chair. “Move over.”

Roy Kent is standing on your doorstep, and somehow that’s not the most surprising thing to happen to you all week.

However, you are surprised. So much so that the second you see him, a mix of red-hot anger and panic run through your veins, making you instantly slam the door in his face. Tragically, he’s quick enough to slip his foot between the door and the frame, not allowing you to keep him out. You see him grimace through the slit.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. “That’s a fucking heavy door.”

“Yeah?” you ask, continuing to push on the door like a five-year-old. “Surprised your reflexes were fast enough to pull that one off, Grandpa.” You glance down and do the math. “With your bad leg, too. Impressive.”

You see him wince at the pressure. “If you keep pushing on that door, we’re going to have an actual fucking problem.”

“Ooh, I’m so scared,” you reply. “Do I get a headstart when you have to pop the knee back in?”

Roy grunts. “I think it’s fair game with that ACL.”

You push harder on the door.

Roy’s had enough. His weird, Superman strength peaks through as he holds out an arm to push back, making you stumble slightly. “Can you fucking… stop?” His voice strains on that last word, finally opening the door enough to free his foot and keep it open. You know him well enough to know that trying to push back is useless. However, as you hide yourself behind it, your hand remains on the door, just in case.

“How the fuck do you know where I live?”

“I frequent the West Ham directory,” he answers dryly. You move to push on the door once more, but he speaks before you can. “I fucking texted Rebecca. She somehow knew.”

While you were also weirded out about how Rebecca knew your address, her presence was much less off putting than the man’s before you. If he’d texted Rebecca about you, that meant you’d been talked about. Which meant that Rebecca had confronted Roy about your conflict. Which meant that he was here to…

The implication of it unnerves you. But still, you ask, “Why are you here?”

“I just want to talk,” he replies.

You scoff. “Well, we talked. I’m good for another ten years.”

It’s then that he says your name. Your actual name. Not your last name, or your number, or the stupid nickname he used to call you. And it’s said so softly. So much more gentle than you ever remember his voice being. It straight-up ambushes you, and the remainder of the grip you have on the door fades.

“Please,” he says in that same way. “Give me five minutes.” You rest your forehead on the door, wanting nothing more than to shut it in his face again and walk away. “Five minutes, and then you can tell me to fuck off.”

You’re not sure what makes you do it. You’re not sure why your resolve suddenly crumbles and you start to consider his words. Maybe it’s because you’re still surprised to see him. Maybe it’s because you’re exhausted from this last week. Or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last four hours mulling over Rebecca’s offer and have realized you may actually want this.

Whatever it is, you groan dramatically, say something that sounds a whole lot like fine, fucking fine to Roy, and open your door all the way to really look at him for the first time in eight years.

The sight of you seems to catch him as off guard as he does for you. He looks older, years more mature than the last time you saw him. But it’s not just in the face. His entire presence seems matured. Healed. It’s jarring.

He’s well-groomed, a vast contrast to the guy you met back in 2012, but similar to the man you left in 2015. It’s just more so. Everything about him is… more. More well-polished. More striking. The TV spots you’ve seen don’t do him justice.

(You mentally kick yourself for even thinking that and immediately feel like you need to wash your hands.)

The dark Richmond Coaching shirt he wears nearly blends in with his eyes, but you swear they’ve gotten lighter. However, the intensity of his stare hasn’t changed. And that’s the first thing you notice as you realize he’s been doing the same sort of evaluation to you.

However, that stare stays on the stupid embroidered soccer ball shorts you now really wish you’d changed out of after Rebecca had left. There’s a ghost of a smile on his face as he says, “I can’t believe you still have those fucking shorts.”

A sudden, overwhelming feeling of… something washes over you and you can feel tears prick at your eyes. Because you don’t know what to say to that, and because you’re not sure you can respond to that in any sort of way, you cross your arms over your chest. It takes everything in you to keep your gaze on him. “Five minutes,” you tell him.

Roy seems to snap out of whatever headspace he was in, any trace of humor disappearing. Instead, he straightens up, rolls his shoulders back, and clears his throat. He’s standing as if he’s about to make a grand speech, and it leads you to believe he’s rehearsed this. You may have laughed at him if you weren’t anticipating whatever the hell was about to come.

So, as Roy opens his mouth, you brace yourself for impact and wait.

And wait.

But nothing seems to come out. He’s stuck there, like he’s frozen in time, as if he’s some sort of animatronic that’s glitching out. You glance around to double-check that the trees on your street are still blowing in the wind.

Your head tilts, and you awkwardly press your lips together. “I think you’ve got four minutes now.”

Roy glares at you. “Can you just fucking—” He cuts himself off, pointing to his G-Wagon that’s parked outside of your apartment. “I spent two fucking hours in that car figuring out how I was going to fucking do this and then another hour outside of your fucking flat trying to work up the nerve to knock on your fucking door, so can you just shut the fuck up?”

Your hands go up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” you say lightly. Then, you mutter, “You just like, gave yourself a time limit and—”

When he grits out your name, you raise your hands higher and shut your mouth.

A good thirty seconds go by before he finally says, “You played for how many years?”

You blink at him. That’s his big opening line? He knows how long you played— “Seven?”

“Yeah, I fucking know you played professionally for seven. How long overall?”

You have to think about it for a moment. “Since I was three,” you answer. “So, twenty-five years.”

“And how long did you coach?”

He knows this too, but you assume he’s doing it to prove a point. “Six,” you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Six,” he repeats. “That’s over thirty years you’ve devoted your life to football. Three fucking decades. That’s your entire fucking life.”

That same frustration you felt when Rebecca was talking to you this morning rears its ugly head. “What’s your point?”

Roy doesn’t think he could roll his eyes any harder. “My point is,” he says, “you’ve been in this game for three decades. Why?”

“W-why?” you stammer, staring at him like he’s insane. Nobody’s ever asked you that before. “What do you mean why?”

Roy returns the look. “There’s gotta be a reason you’ve been doing this shit for thirty years. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, shaking your head. “Because I’m good at it? Because it’s literally all that I’m good at? Because it’s all that I’ve ever known? I don’t—”

“No,” he says firmly, and for a moment, as he steps forward, you think he’s going to grab you by the shoulders in the way he used to. To get you out of your head and focus on him. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Fucking nobody does anything for that long just because they’re good at it. That can’t be the only reason.”

As he stares at you expectantly, you start to understand his train of thought. What he’s trying to get you to admit. What all of this has been about since you first kicked a ball at three years old. What allowed you to sport the number 14 for twenty-five years. Because it’s only ever been about one thing, and he, more than anyone, gets it.

So, as your shoulders slouch and your head bows slightly in an annoyed sort of surrender, he knows he’s got you. Roy fucking Kent, anger-management case study and hothead of the millennium, has got you. And he’s showcasing the type of speech and traits and breakthrough abilities that told you eight years ago that he’d be a fantastic coach. Not that he believed you. Or took it very well, for that matter.

Then, you hear his voice again. And this time, it’s a bit softer. As if there’s a fraction of a smile on his face. “So, why the fuck have you been playing this game for thirty years, you stupid fucking Yank?”

The nostalgia of the name hits you like a bus, and you’re thankful you’re leaning on the doorframe because you truly may have stumbled over. However, there’s no time to dwell on that. You’ve got an answer ready and it takes everything in you not to smile.

A heavy, labored, dramatic sigh escapes you, and you open your eyes to look at him. “Because I love it.”

“Because you fucking love it,” he echoes, and that fraction of a smile you heard in his voice happens to be hidden amongst his perpetual scowl. He takes a step closer to you, pointing at you and tapping on your shoulder. “Don’t you dare let that prick take that away from you.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look away from him. He’s right. Just like Rebecca, he’s right. You hate that he’s right, but he’s right. It’s been years since you’ve seen him be right, but it hasn’t gotten any less annoying.

You think back to what Rebecca said this morning. Don’t let him win. You didn’t want to. There was actually nothing less that you wanted than to allow him to have that sort of power over you.

But still, the fear lingers. It sits in your stomach and churns it. He said he’d ruin you. Turn the world against you. It’d be your word against the club’s and more importantly, your word against football darling and West Ham star, Tom MacDonald’s.

(“Sure, you can go public with it,” Rupert had told you, basking in the anger written in your expression. “But to be completely honest, love, I’m not sure anyone’s going to believe you.” He shrugged. “Only female coach in the league suddenly crying sexual harassment after she’s been fired? Seems a bit convenient to me, don’t you think?”)

You don’t mean for your voice to be as small as it is when you say, “But what if I’m actually done?”

Vulnerability’s never been something you’ve embraced, especially with your career path, and you hate the way you sound. Weak. Timid. Afraid. As you meet his gaze once again, you realize that you hate the way that Roy’s looking at you even more.

“You’re the furthest thing from done. Done hasn’t ever been a word in your fucking vocabulary,” he tells you. There’s no room for argument. “You wanna know why?” You shrug at him in response, cueing him to continue. “Because unfortunately, I fucking know you. And I know the only time you’d ever be done with this sport is when you’re fucking dead.”

This time, you do allow yourself to smile. It’s small and humorous— a tight-lipped agreement, but it’s enough for Roy to know he’s gotten through. You want to laugh, partly because you know he’s right, partly because you can’t fucking believe that you’re smiling at him, but you’re strong enough to keep that in.

“So, yeah. Don’t let that prick kill you. Don’t let any prick keep you out of this game. Especially coaching.” Roy shakes his head, pausing for a beat, as if he’s making an effort to say, “You’re too… fucking good.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Took a lot to get that one out, huh?”

Roy’s quick with a response. “You’re lucky you got it at all.”

You scowl, but there’s not much in it. You’re used to that type of compliment from him. If you can even call it that. Still, the familiarity of it makes you the most uncomfortable you’ve been all day.

However, you’re distracted by one thing. Don’t let any prick keep you out of the game. He’s said it so casually, like he’d actually meant it. As if he had no sense of irony about it. It boils your blood and stirs something ugly in you.

That feeling prompts you to meet his gaze. “What if one of those pricks is right in front of me?”

For the first time all night, his stoic expression falters, as if that was the last thing he’d ever expected you to say. It was only a fraction of a second. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.

But you hadn’t missed it. You’d seen the Tin Man facade crumble, even for just a second. You’d seen the hurt in his eyes, the regret. You’d celebrate it if it didn’t make you feel so unexpectedly awful.

He abruptly clears his throat with a solemn nod. “Well,” he says gruffly. ”Then don’t let me take that away either."

You look away from him, because you know that’s all you can do right now. Your mind’s racing a million miles an hour, thinking about him, about Rupert and West Ham and Tom MacDonald, and about the Richmond job. There’s a piece of you that wants to believe that everything that had happened this week was leading to this. To seeing him again, to being offered to work with him, to gain an opportunity for redemption in more ways than one.

But the more logical piece of you knows that’s all bullshit. And it’s that thought that puts you back in a more comfortable headspace.

“You know I can’t forgive you for what you did,” you tell him, meeting his eyes once more. The weight of your words is heavy on your shoulders and you lean against your doorframe again. “I won’t forgive you.”

Roy nods stiffly. “I know,” he says. “And I can’t forgive you.”

You return his nod in understanding. “I know.”

His gaze leaves yours for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase what he wants to say next. How to work up the courage to do so.

“But if—” Roy’s voice comes out strained and he clears his throat. “If this is something you want, this coaching thing at Richmond, then I…” He looks at you and all you can see is sincerity. You hate it. “It’ll be professional. Civil. I won’t let there be any issues or… fucking whatever.”

He appears to be just as bad at this as he was when you last saw him. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold in your laughter. By the way his face becomes instantaneously annoyed, you can tell he’s noticed.

You’re already talking before he can retract his statement. “How’s the team?”

If he’s offended by you not thanking him for doing the bare fucking minimum, he doesn’t show it, and takes your change in topic in stride. “Good,” he replies. “Pretty fucking good. We’re still trying to figure some shit out when it comes to—”

“No,” you interrupt him. “I’ve seen you guys play. I know you’re good. I mean—” Your throat suddenly gets tight, a pit of anxiety forming in your stomach completely out of nowhere. A shaky breath leaves your lips. “The team. The guys. Are they…?”

Roy catches on. “They’re good lads,” he says, his voice telling you that it’s not a statement, but a fact. “Some of the best I’ve ever played with. Easy to coach too.”

Your brow quirks up. “Easy?”

“If two fucking clowns from Oklahoma and fucking… me are saying they’re easy,” he says, looking at you with intent as he trails off.

That same pit of anxiety bubbles up once more. “And, uh… Jamie Tartt? Is he—?” Roy’s brow furrows. “I’ve just heard some less-than-great things. Him being the star and all. Football darling or whatever. Are they true?”

Your over-explanation of the Richmond striker makes Roy narrow his eyes in suspicion. He opens his mouth to question it, but then realizes it’s you. There had to be some personal reason for you to bring it up. Whatever issue it was, he knew he was no longer personal enough with you to ask.

“He was a prick,” Roy finally settles on. “Now he’s less of a prick.”

The fond look in Roy’s eyes tells you that he’s warmed up to Jamie more than he’s letting on, and it puts you at ease. You nod in acknowledgment. Silence fills the air between you two, neither of you knowing what else to say.

You think about the team you’ve watched quietly on TV, studying up for your rivalry games with them when you were preparing to coach at West Ham. You think about your prospective coaching staff and the vitriol you heard in Nathan Shelley’s voice when you asked him about Ted Lasso. You think about the job and what evidently comes with it.

But most importantly, you think about the potential of this new position and the potential of this new beginning.

And while you’ve got questions, you realize they’re all for yourself. Not for Roy.

You’re out of questions and he’s out of time. Way out of time.

You remember this as you rock back on your heels. “I think you’ve gone over your five minutes.”

Roy looks at you expectantly. “Are you going to tell me to fuck off?”

“You? Absolutely,” you tell him, earning yet another eye roll. “But Richmond?” You pause, trying to ignore just how quietly hopeful he now looks. You sigh, shoulders slumping. “Tell Rebecca I’ll consider it.”

Roy releases a relieved, thankful breath, nodding at you. “Good,” he says.

You nod back at him. “Wouldn’t want you to spend another three hours in your car trying to figure out how you’re gonna break the bad news to her.”

That eye roll returns, but there’s a bit of levity in it. He looks at you for a moment longer, biting the inside of his cheek like he's contemplating saying something else. Your brows furrow in interest, and as soon as they do, he seems to decide against it.

Roy turns to go down your steps with a shake of his head. “Get out of those fucking shorts and stop your wallowing, Fourteen,” he throws behind him as he walks away. “And clean your fucking flat!”

Glancing behind you, your jaw drops in outrage as you realize there’s no way in hell he saw your warzone living room from where he was standing. “You can’t even see into my apartment!”

He doesn’t turn around when he says, “I don’t need to see! I just fucking know you.”

You manage to suppress the urge to actually yell at him to fuck off at that, and instead choose to live with the wildly strange and undefinable feeling that overtakes your body, one that doesn’t dissolve until you watch him speed off down your street.

This fucking week, man.

You shut your door and turn to face your living room, a newfound disgust for the vile state that it’s in. Your lips curls up and you sigh, walking into your kitchen to grab a trash bag, making a plan of action for the night as you shake it out.

You replay your first conversation with Roy in eight years as you tidy up your apartment. You make a mental pros and cons list of the Richmond job as you take the longest, most necessary shower of your life. You chuckle to yourself at the idea of Rupert and Tom’s faces if they were to see that you’d been picked up by Richmond.

You sleep well for the first night in three days, on clean sheets, in clean pajamas, embroidered soccer ball shorts joining your dirty laundry.

You’re bounding into your kitchen at nine the next morning to grab Rebecca’s card that you left on your counter, brewing an espresso as you call her.

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