#heartbeat and halftime

[krsyelia]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 — Mark Lee

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

[PART ONE]

[PART THREE]

Act I : The Quiet That Lingers

The sky was still grey when Yeseul opened her eyes.

She’d barely slept — just drifted in and out of the kind of half-dreams where everything felt too real. Voices tangled in her head. Laughter that didn’t belong to her. Words she couldn’t unhear.

Her phone buzzed once.

[7:42 AM]

mork❤️ : I’m waiting outside. Take your time.

Same message. Same timing.

He always texted her exactly twelve minutes before she had to leave. Not a second earlier — because he didn’t want her to feel rushed.

Usually, she replied with a 🐇 or a 🥤. Something soft. A private language.

Today, she typed nothing.

She pulled her scarf higher, even though the weather was already turning warm. Her pulse monitor blinked calmly beside her on the nightstand. For once, it wasn’t the thing making her breath feel tight.

He was leaning against the gate, earbuds in, bag slung over one shoulder.

When he spotted her, his whole posture shifted — like he’d been holding his breath since she left her door.

“Hey.” His voice was low, warm.

She nodded. “Hey.”

He offered his hand without asking. She took it — out of habit more than comfort.

They walked in silence. Leaves skittered across the pavement. A pair of birds darted through the cherry blossom branches above them, petals still clinging stubbornly to life.

Usually, Mark would talk. About practice, or Seola’s failed attempt at sneaking cookies into the science lab, or how his coach was threatening to shave his head if he missed another meeting.

But today, he didn’t. Because Yeseul’s silence wasn’t soft.

It was tight. Pulled taut around her shoulders like her scarf.

It was the kind of silence that wasn’t letting anything in — or out.

At the campus gates, he stopped.

Yeseul didn’t.

“Yeseul.”

She turned, too quickly. “Hmm?”

He searched her face.

“Did something happen?”

“No.” She smiled. It looked perfect. Polished. Rehearsed.

He studied it — the kind of study you only do when you’ve memorized something enough to notice every flaw.

“You didn’t send me a bunny.”

She blinked.

He held up his phone. “You always send me a rabbit. Or a bubble tea. Or, like, that weird sleepy bear sticker you love.”

“I just forgot.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Her hands curled tighter around her notebook.

Mark’s voice softened. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

A pause.

“Yeseul…” His voice dropped. “You’re lying.”

The words stung more than she expected. Because they were true.

She exhaled slowly, staring past him at the school building, where students were already gathering. The noise felt too loud, the sunlight too sharp.

“There’s nothing you can fix,” she said.

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he whispered. “I just want to be where it hurts.”

That nearly undid her.

But she didn’t say anything.

Because if she did, she might not stop.

If she told him what she heard, if she told him how true it had sounded — that maybe she was too much to carry — maybe he’d finally agree.

And that was more terrifying than any surgery she’d ever had.

He didn’t push her.

He just fell into step beside her again, hands in his jacket pockets, not touching her anymore — but not leaving either.

Sometimes, love looked like staying in silence.

Even when silence was the last thing they wanted.

Act II: The Desk by the Window

Yeseul sat by the window in second period Literature, seat 3C — the one the teachers never questioned because everyone knew it was "hers."

It gave her clean air. Fewer stairs. And a quick route to the nurse's office if she ever collapsed again.

She used to like the window. It made her feel less trapped.

But today, the sun felt too bright. The dust particles in the light looked like snow. Everything was too loud, even the silence.

The teacher’s voice droned faintly over the hum of ceiling fans:

“—and as Chekhov suggests, sometimes the heart does not break in shouts or drama, but in stillness…”

Yeseul pressed her pen to the page, trying to copy notes.

But her handwriting was slower. Messier.

She blinked and found she’d written the same sentence twice:

“I am not heavy. I am not heavy.”

She crossed it out quickly.

Across the room, Mark sat two rows back — glancing at her every other minute.

She hadn’t looked at him once.

Not even when he passed her a folded paper with a sleepy cartoon bunny sketched in his handwriting.

Usually, she’d draw a reply on the back.

Today, she didn’t open it.

When the bell rang, the noise felt like a crash. She moved slower than usual, careful not to look anyone in the eye.

As she packed her bag, her hands trembled just slightly — enough for someone who knew her well to see.

🩰 Act III: Seola’s Tea and Tension

Seola found her fifteen minutes later.

In the student lounge — a quiet corner where Yeseul often waited for her driver after school.

Today, she sat alone with her cardigan pulled tight, half-finished chamomile tea on the table beside her.

Seola dropped into the seat across from her.

She didn’t say hello.

She just stared.

“…You look like a ghost.”

Yeseul blinked. “Thanks.”

“Not in a poetic way. In a literal way. Like I could put my hand through you.”

“I’m just tired.”

Seola didn’t blink. “Try again.”

Yeseul sighed. “Please don’t.”

Seola’s voice softened, but didn’t back down.

“Was it something you heard?”

That caught her.

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“You’ve been somewhere else all day. Mark looks like he’s about to punch a wall. And you’re acting like you’re trying to disappear.”

Yeseul stared at the floor.

Seola lowered her voice. “Tell me who said it.”

Yeseul didn’t respond.

But Seola was patient. Fierce. The kind of girl who once yelled at a PE teacher for making Yeseul stand too long in winter.

“Okay,” Seola finally murmured, “don’t tell me. But don’t lie to me either.”

Yeseul looked up.

Seola’s eyes were glassy. “You’re not a burden.”

Yeseul’s breath caught.

“You hear me?” Seola’s voice wavered. “You’re not ruining anything. He’s not staying out of pity. And I swear to God, if I ever find out who said that—”

Yeseul’s voice broke. “They didn’t say it like that.”

Seola leaned forward. “But you heard it that way, didn’t you?”

A pause. Then, quietly:

“Yeah.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

The tea cooled beside them. The lounge emptied.

And for the first time that day, Yeseul let herself breathe — just a little.

Act IV : A Pause in Motion

The next day passed like something underwater.

Yeseul moved through the halls with the kind of quiet that people mistook for elegance — but Mark had known her long enough to see the difference.

She didn’t swing her bag like usual.

She didn’t pause to fix the crooked class poster taped to the glass near the science wing — a small ritual she’d done every Tuesday.

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Mark didn’t push.

Instead, he kept walking beside her. Matching her pace.

Hands in his pockets. Mind loud.

He thought of that night she’d fallen asleep beside him on her hospital bed. The machines had beeped steadily and her fingers had been curled around his sleeve like a question she was too afraid to ask.

This felt like that again.

Like waiting for a question he couldn’t hear — but somehow still had to answer.

That evening, basketball practice ran late.

Coach Han was furious — again. The semifinals were in ten days. Reporters would be in the stands. Recruiters, too.

“Focus, Lee,” the coach barked.

Mark ran harder. Shot faster. He didn’t think of fame. He didn’t think of college offers.

He thought of how Yeseul hadn’t replied when he texted her after class.

You okay? Need anything? I’ll bring you the red bean bread you like.

No reply.

He didn’t even know if she read it.

The court echoed with sneakers and the squeak of tension. That’s when it happened.

A voice — bright, confident — broke through the noise.

“Nice shot, captain.”

Mark turned.

At the far end of the gym, the cheer squad was rehearsing. The glossy banners and pom-poms like a scene out of a high school drama.

Jisoo, the cheer captain, was leaning against the bleachers — ponytail perfect, lips curved. She held a water bottle like a prop, not a necessity.

“You’ve been off lately,” she said with a small smirk. “Everything okay?”

Mark blinked. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head. “Sure? You looked pretty distracted today. You know… if you need something to take your mind off things, we’re hosting a little team dinner. No stress. No pressure.”

He didn’t reply.

Jisoo stepped closer. Not inappropriate. Not obvious.

Just enough to be noticed.

Yeseul was walking past the gym doors at that moment.

She hadn’t meant to stop.

But she saw them — the easy smile on the girl’s face, the way Mark looked too polite to walk away.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It was… exhaustion.

Of always watching from the edge.

Of being the girl people whispered about. The one everyone tiptoed around — while girls like Jisoo never had to whisper or tiptoe for anything.

She left before Mark could see her.

Later that night, Mark texted her again.

Hey. Want me to call?

No reply.

I brought the red bean bread anyway. Left it with your housekeeper.

He stayed outside in his car for twenty minutes. Just parked outside the gate, headlights off, hands on the wheel.

The mansion was lit but still. Her curtains didn’t move. No shadows in the windows.

Eventually, he drove off — slow, like maybe she was watching.

Inside, in the second-floor bedroom that overlooked the courtyard, Yeseul was.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

The Space Between Their Names

Act-V : The Mansion Felt Too Quiet That Morning

Yeseul woke to soft light streaming in through cream curtains, filtered through the lace canopy above her bed.

The room was too large to feel safe. Too quiet to feel normal.

Her mother had already left — some foundation event downtown.

Her father was likely in a meeting that would last all day.

Nurse Choi came in with her morning meds and a glass of water on a silver tray, like always.

“Heart rate was steady last night,” she said gently.

Yeseul nodded, swallowing pills she no longer looked at.

“I’ll be in the sitting room if you need—”

“I won’t,” Yeseul said quickly. Then softened. “Thank you.”

She went through the motions: changed into a pleated ivory blouse, soft wool slacks. Combed her hair. Put on the pearl earrings her mother always said made her look “less pale.”

But everything felt muted.

Even the garden outside — her favorite view — looked still, like it was waiting.

And Mark still hadn’t texted again.

Act-VI : At the Gymnasium, Everything Was Too Loud

Mark stepped out of the locker room into a full-on media circus.

Photographers. Flyers. Cheering fans already crowding the bleachers.

Their school was hosting the regional semi-final, and Mark’s face was on every digital banner outside the building. “Ace of the East.”

“Son of Lee Group.”

“Future of Korean Basketball.”

He hated all of it.

Coach Han clapped him on the back. “Eyes up, Lee. This is your shot.”

Mark didn’t respond.

He scanned the crowd — not for reporters, not for scouts.

Just for one person.

She wasn’t there.

He already knew she wouldn’t be.

Jisoo approached again during warm-ups. Her ponytail was higher than usual. Her lipstick a little darker.

“You look sharp today,” she said, twirling a pom-pom.

He looked past her. “Thanks.”

“You never answered about that team dinner. After the game.”

“I don’t do parties.”

“Yeah, I figured. Still… if you need a change of scenery—”

“I don’t.”

She blinked. He didn’t explain.

Someone called his name. He turned away.

Act-VII : Just Before the Game — The Greenhouse

He found her where he didn’t expect her to be — the old greenhouse behind the Yoon estate, the one no one really used anymore.

Not since her mother had the landscaping team replace the entire back garden with fountains and imported marble benches.

But Yeseul always liked the greenhouse.

It was the one place in the house that felt alive but imperfect.

She was sitting on a low wooden bench, hair pinned back, scarf draped over her lap like a blanket.

She didn’t look up when he stepped in.

“I’m supposed to be changing,” Mark said.

“I know.”

He stood in the doorway.

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

“I’m not.”

He almost smiled.

“…But you’re here,” he added.

“I always am,” she whispered, still not looking at him. “Even when I don’t want to be.”

That hurt more than it should’ve.

He stepped closer, slowly, like approaching something fragile.

“I saw you walk past the gym yesterday.”

Yeseul flinched.

“I didn’t know she was going to be there.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t say yes to anything.”

“I know.”

A beat.

“But it wouldn’t be a crime if you did,” she added quietly.

He looked at her. Really looked.

“You’re angry,” he said.

She shook her head. “I’m tired.”

He knelt in front of her then, slowly, until they were eye to eye.

“Then rest,” he said. “But not alone.”

And finally, finally, she looked at him.

Just for a second.

Just enough to let him see the fear under all the quiet.

He didn’t say anything else.

He only reached up, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face — and tucked the smallest note into her hand. A paper scrap with a bunny doodle and the words:

Come if you can. If not, I’ll play like you’re watching anyway.

Act - VII : The Game She Didn’t Watch from The Crowd

The gym was alive.

Students flooded the bleachers. Banners waved from every corner. The school orchestra’s drumline thudded in a heartbeat rhythm that felt too real.

Mark stood at center court, warm-up jacket hanging off one shoulder, jaw clenched.

The opposing team captain stepped forward to shake hands.

Mark didn’t smile.

He scanned the crowd once — quickly, almost unconsciously. She wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

But somewhere in the corner of his mind, the rabbit drawing she held in her hands was still folded… unopened.

⸻

High above the noise, on the third-floor observation balcony, hidden behind tinted glass and shadows — Yeseul watched.

The nurse had tried to stop her.

“You can’t be around crowds.”

“I’m not.”

They hadn’t argued.

She wore a mask. Not for health — for privacy.

No one else knew she was here. Not even Mark.

Her heart monitor was hidden beneath her coat sleeve. Her pulse trembled like a skipped beat.

The game started fast.

Mark was sharp — but only on the outside.

Inside, he wasn’t fully here.

He kept hearing Jisoo’s laugh during warm-up. The way she’d leaned against the scorer’s table like she belonged in the spotlight next to him.

“You know,” she’d said, tossing her ponytail, “the team says we make a good visual. I mean, come on — cheer captain and team captain? It practically markets itself.”

He’d walked away without replying. But the words stuck.

Now, under the lights, they echoed louder than the announcer’s voice.

The first quarter was smooth. Mark landed two shots. His team led by four.

But then the shift came.

Late in the second quarter, just before halftime, one of the rival players — #18 — stepped too close on a screen and muttered low, sharp:

“Tell your little glass doll to stop watching from her tower.”

Mark froze.

His next pass missed.

Coach shouted something, but Mark didn’t hear.

He looked up — instinct — toward the balcony.

Just a flicker of movement. A silhouette. A coat. A shadow.

He couldn’t see her.

But he knew.

In the glass-covered silence above, Yeseul’s hand tightened around the railing.

The way he looked up.

The way he missed the shot.

The way his jaw moved — like he’d bitten down something that burned.

She exhaled shakily.

Was she the reason he always flinched when pressure hit?

Was she the anchor, not the lighthouse?

Halftime came.

Mark sat on the bench, towel over his head, chest heaving.

Jisoo handed him a water bottle. He took it without looking.

“Rough quarter,” she said gently. “You okay?”

He didn’t reply.

She sat beside him anyway. “You don’t always have to carry the world, you know. Let someone else carry you for once.”

He turned to her slowly.

“I don’t need carrying,” he said.

And then stood, walking away before she could say anything else.

On the balcony, Yeseul stood as well — too quickly.

Her vision spun. Her knees buckled briefly.

She leaned against the wall, blinking away the static.

Her pulse monitor blinked once — a warning.

But the ache in her chest wasn’t from the illness.

It was something else.

Something she didn’t want to name.

Act - VIII : The Game She Almost Stayed For

The Second Half

Mark didn’t speak in the locker room.

The coach shouted. The players cursed. Someone threw a towel against a locker and missed.

But Mark just sat with his eyes closed.

One hand still clutched the rabbit doodle Yeseul hadn’t replied to. The paper was crumpled now. A little damp from sweat.

But he held it like it was his only lifeline.

Back on the court, he didn’t play harder.

He played clearer.

The rhythm returned — not because the crowd cheered louder, but because he finally let go of needing to prove anything.

He wasn’t playing to win tonight.

He was playing so she would know she wasn’t something that broke him.

He landed a three-pointer near the end of the third quarter.

Didn’t celebrate.

Didn’t look at the crowd.

He looked up. Just once.

The balcony was empty now.

Above the Court

Yeseul had left five minutes before that shot.

Not because she didn’t want to stay — but because she wanted to before she started hoping again.

She made it back to the car with help from her nurse.

She didn’t speak during the drive home.

The pulse monitor was stable. Her hands weren’t.

After the Game

They won.

By eight points. The crowd roared. Streamers dropped from the ceiling.

Mark didn’t smile.

Jisoo caught up to him at the hallway exit. She looked too perfect for how loud the gym had been. Not a strand of hair out of place.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

“You looked really good out there. Focused.”

He gave a polite noise that wasn’t a word.

Jisoo hesitated. Then:

“Hey… I know she wasn’t in the crowd, but I saw someone up on the third floor. Thought I’d mention it.”

That caught him. He looked at her fully.

She shrugged. “Might’ve been nothing.”

He didn’t wait for the rest of her sentence.

Yeseul’s Room

By the time he arrived at the Han mansion, the gates were already shut.

“Miss Han is resting,” the staff told him gently.

He didn’t argue.

He left a folded note with the driver. No bread this time. Just a simple line:

We won. But it didn’t feel like winning.

Inside, in her room where the walls were too white and the sheets too quiet, Yeseul sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at her phone.

She didn’t open his message.

She didn’t cry.

She just sat very still.

Like if she moved, something might break — and this time, it wouldn’t be her heart.

Act - IX : Where the Silence Took Them

Three days passed.

And if you weren’t watching closely, nothing seemed wrong.

Mark still walked Yeseul to school.

Yeseul still sat by the window in Literature.

Their hands still brushed when they reached for the same thermos lid during lunch.

But the difference was in the not.

They didn’t laugh.

Didn’t text.

Didn’t look at each other long enough for it to become real.

In the cafeteria, Seola glanced between them and muttered to a friend:

“They’re like ghosts walking next to each other.”

Mark sat two seats down from Yeseul, absently spinning his chopsticks.

Yeseul picked at her food like it had no taste.

That Afternoon

Someone in the hallway whispered, “Did you hear Jisoo was sitting with him after the game?”

Yeseul didn’t stop walking.

She didn’t have to.

She already knew.

That Evening – The Old Library

Mark found her in the abandoned library wing.

Third floor. No security cameras. Dusty, unused, always freezing even in spring.

She was curled into the corner chair.

Feet tucked beneath her, scarf pulled up like armor.

“I figured you’d be here,” he said.

She didn’t look up. “Why?”

“It’s where you go when you need to disappear but still want someone to find you.”

That made her glance at him — not long. But enough.

He walked over and sat on the floor beside her. Back against the bookshelf.

They didn’t speak for a full minute. The old pipes clicked in the ceiling.

Then finally, Yeseul whispered, “Did you win because I wasn’t there?”

The words dropped like a pin in glass.

Mark looked at her.

“No,” he said, voice quiet. “I won because I stopped pretending it mattered.”

She turned her face away. Her eyes shimmered.

Mark kept speaking — slowly.

“I don’t need an audience. I don’t need perfect scores. I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m good enough.”

He paused.

“I just need you to believe I still want this. You. Even when it hurts.”

Yeseul closed her eyes.

The silence returned — but it wasn’t heavy this time.

It was… still.

Shared.

And in that stillness, she whispered, almost too softly to hear:

“I believed you. I just didn’t know if I deserved to.”

Mark exhaled — a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for days.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t press.

He just stayed.

Back against old books. Shoulder to old bricks.

Breathing the same air again.

Act - X : The Sky She Reached For

It was past curfew.

The Yoon mansion was dimmed. Only a few staff lights on. The halls glowed in a soft amber hush.

Yeseul crept out quietly, barefoot on warm wood, cardigan slipping off one shoulder. She didn’t need to tell Nurse Choi. She just left a note on her nightstand:

Only for a little while. I’ll listen to my body this time.

The rooftop garden wasn’t for guests.

It wasn’t landscaped or elegant like the main courtyard.

It had old wooden tiles, a couple dying potted plants, and a view of the stars that didn’t feel filtered.

That’s why she liked it.

That’s why he waited there.

Mark had brought two things:

A soft blanket he left draped over the railing.

And a paper bag with warm hoddeok he picked up on the way.

She smiled when she saw him.

“I thought you might not come,” he said.

“I thought I might regret it if I didn’t.”

They sat side by side, not touching.

The city lights flickered below. The wind picked at her scarf.

“You ever think we’d make it this far?” she asked softly.

He glanced at her. “In life or in school?”

“Both.”

Mark paused.

“I knew we’d get here,” he said. “I just didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like we’re stealing moments.”

She didn’t answer. Just tucked her hands under her thighs to warm them.

He passed her a warm hoddeok. She took a bite — careful, slow. The cinnamon filled her mouth.

“It’s good,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Mark turned his head toward her. “You’re shaking.”

She tried to play it off. “It’s the wind.”

“No,” he said gently, “it’s not.”

And then it happened.

Subtle.

A blink too long. A breath too shallow. Her grip on the pastry loosened.

Her body tilted — not a fall, just a sway.

Mark caught her instantly.

“Yeseul,” he said, sharper now. “Hey. Stay with me.”

She clutched at his sleeve.

“I’m— I’m fine, I just—”

But she wasn’t.

He pulled out his phone. One press. Speed dial 2: Dr. Yoon.

“She’s dizzy,” he said low into the speaker. “Unsteady vision. Heart rate seems irregular.”

Yeseul tried to argue, but her voice didn’t rise above the wind.

Mark guided her gently down, crouching beside her.

The stars above looked like they were spinning.

Ten minutes later, a private car arrived at the back entrance. The nurse stepped out with a portable monitor, quiet and calm. No panic. This wasn’t new.

Yeseul sat in the back seat, oxygen mask resting beside her just in case.

Before the door closed, Mark crouched beside her one last time.

She didn’t look at him.

“I ruined it again,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “You gave me something real. That’s never ruined.”

The door shut with a soft click.

The rooftop stayed lit.

One warm hoddeok still rested on the railing, untouched.

Act - XI : The Day That Didn’t End in Goodbye

The Morning After

Yeseul lay in bed, IV in her arm, sunlight tracing soft patterns across the ceiling.

Doctor Yoon stood beside her window, reviewing the charts.

“No permanent damage,” he said, reading her pulse line. “But your episodes are becoming less predictable.”

She nodded faintly.

“We’ll keep monitoring. But you need to be honest about your stress levels.”

“I’m not stressed,” she said.

Doctor Yoon didn’t argue. Just looked at her kindly.

“Mark called me three times last night,” he said after a pause. “He didn’t ask for updates. He just… asked if you were sleeping well.”

That made her smile, barely.

The Visit

Mark arrived late afternoon, when the house was quiet and the staff had taken lunch.

He didn’t bring flowers. Or bread.

He brought her sketchpad — the one she left behind on the rooftop bench — and a handful of wild gardenias he picked from the school courtyard.

Yeseul was propped up in bed, hair brushed, a pale knit blanket pulled to her waist.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said, soft.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then she reached for his hand — first time in days.

“I don’t want to be the reason you stop playing.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want to be the reason you hesitate.”

“You never were.”

A pause.

“I just want to be… real. Not a fragile thing you protect.”

Mark looked at her — really looked.

“You’ve always been real,” he said. “But you’re also the only thing I’d ever protect with everything I have.”

A Memory

That night, after Mark left, Yeseul opened her journal.

She turned past the current pages. Back. Back further.

All the way to the soft page from when she was seven.

The first page she ever wrote in that journal:

“He made me laugh. I wasn’t supposed to laugh today.”

A crayon drawing below: a boy with messy hair and a girl in a party dress, holding hands beside a chocolate cake.

No oxygen tanks. No IVs. Just joy.

She touched the corner of that paper like it might disappear.

A Promise, Unspoken

Downstairs, Mark stood by the main gate, watching the sky.

A staff member offered to call his car.

He shook his head.

He stayed a little longer, even after the lights upstairs dimmed.

Not because he was waiting.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t knock. It waits — outside, quietly, until it’s invited back in.

author’s note — part two is here!! havent proofread so please excuse any typos😅please lmk what you think!

[millermouth]

Do It For Dale

I do it for my daddy and I do it for Dale I'm doing what I want and, damn, I'm doing it well

Summary: As Sarah’s best friend, you’re determined to give her the perfect 21st birthday—even if it means going behind her grumpy old dad’s back. But when the night spirals and you end up stranded, you’re forced to call the last person you want to face. And once Sarah is asleep, he shows you exactly what happens to girls who misbehave. || smut MDNI 18+, cheerleader!reader, bratty!reader, overprotective!joel, grumpy!joel, sarah's best friend!reader, sbf!reader, bfd!joel, wtf are these acronyms my god, college au, brattamer!joel, no outbreak, pinv, reader is on birth control, blowjob, f!receiving oral, no use of y/n, riding, dirty talk, tiny bit of degradation but also praise kink, spanking, big girthy age gap reader is 21+|| Inspired by Ethel Cain's American Teenager. "Do it for Dale" is a saying in memory of the nascar driver dale earnhardt who was known for his risky driving. basically 'take risks, make dale proud" the southern version of ‘you only live once’ >> thank you to my angels @dixonsdarkelf & @dixons-sunshine for looking this over / beta reading when it was just mere scraps on a page and giving me the confidence to keep going!!

“I don’t care what your dad says,” you snap, wedging your phone between your shoulder and ear as you bend to tie your pristine white sneakers. The laces cinch in your fingers with the kind of practiced precision that only comes from years of repetition—pure muscle memory.

The locker room is chaos. There are voices shouting across aisles, lockers slamming, pom poms rustling like restless birds. The low thump of stadium bass rattles up through the concrete floor, humming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s electric.

On the other end of the line, the voice is borderline panicked. “I’m serious—he said no going out. Just the two of us, nice dinner, low-key—”

“Sarah.” You switch the phone to your other ear, and tug a stray piece of hair back into place as you catch your reflection in the mirror screwed to your locker. “You’re turning twenty-one. Twenty. One. That’s the last birthday that matters until you hit, like, fifty and buy a boat.”

“Easy for you to say,” she mutters. “You don’t have Joel Miller for a father.”

You grin. “No, but I know him. Man’s all bark and no fun. Somebody needs to shake the dust off him.”

“Oh god,” she groans, “he’s coming to the game, by the way. So whatever you’re planning? Don’t make it weird.”

“Please.” You dig through your duffel for your lipstick. “Give me two minutes, and he’ll be begging to let you out of the house.”

“That sounded disgusting. Never say my dad and ‘begging’ in the same sentence again.”

You laugh as you swipe the red across your lips, smooth and practiced. In the background, Coach Peña barrels through the locker room doors like a storm system, barking out the countdown to kickoff. The girls start filing out around you, all pep and nerves.

“I gotta go,” you say, “Coach is foaming at the mouth.”

“Fine. Just don’t get me grounded before the third quarter.”

“No promises. Love you, mean it, bye.”

You toss your phone into your bag, zip it shut like sealing a vault, and pause for one last look in the mirror. Bright smile, flushed cheeks, and candy-glossed red lips. The kind of lashes that get you out of tickets. The kind of uniform that falls somewhere between school pride and a pin-up calendar hanging in a mechanic’s break room.

You lean closer to fix a clump of mascara and rub a smudge of red off your tooth. That smile curls back again—not the sweet one from halftime routines, but the other one. The one that gets you into trouble.

Then you grab your pom poms, swing your locker shut, and strut out of the locker room with the confidence that gets you into bars for free and banned from Student Council meetings. 

Game on.

The air is electric—crisp with that first snap of fall, leaves crunching under boots in the parking lot, the smell of cheap beer and burnt hot dogs drifting in from the tailgaters who’ve been posted up since noon. The stadium’s packed, a blur of school colors and screaming faces, everyone high on spirit and spite and way too much booze and energy drinks. There’s nothing quite like the high of a homecoming game.

If this wasn’t American football, you’d swear the crowd was here for blood.

You kick your leg up high, pom poms shaking like fireworks in your hands, your grin sharp enough to slice through the October air. Your thighs burn with the repetition, but you don’t stop. You feed off of this: the roar, the stomping feet, the chanting, the band playing at volume in the field behind you. It’s chaos, it’s magic, it’s everything.

You spin into another high kick as the running back punches into the end zone, and the crowd erupts. Your ponytail bounces, your lipstick still flawless despite the sweat, the screaming, the adrenaline thundering through your veins like rocket fuel.

This is what you live for.

You cartwheel, hands and pom poms catching the ground before your squad forms into a pyramid with practiced ease, launching into a cheer that gets the whole section yelling along.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Sarah posted up in the stands—her dark hair pulled up with school-colored ribbons woven in, ends tied off in bows like she just walked out of a Pinterest board. And next to her, arms crossed and jaw set in his signature I hate fun expression, is the man you plan to convince to let his perfect Honor Society daughter get blackout drunk tonight: Mr. Miller.

Flannel. Scowl. Zero sense of humor.

As if he can feel your stare from the top of the pyramid formation, his eyes flick from the players taking a timeout on the field—to you.

Even from this far away, you can see the way his brow furrows just a little deeper, the lines on his face etching like fault lines, like he can read every debaucherous plan in your head about tonight.

And it only makes your grin widen.

After your halftime performance—which included you seeing your entire life flash before your eyes when Ryan, one of your catchers, stumbled as you came flying down from a basket toss—you found Sarah at the bottom of the bleachers, about to head back up with a charred hot dog in one hand and a Gatorade in the other.

One second, you were airborne under the stadium lights, all grace and clean lines, the crowd roaring like they’d never seen a cheer squad stick a toss before. The next, you were dropping way too fast, Ryan’s hands scrambling to catch your left leg as the whole formation wobbled.

You landed hard, your shoulder slamming into someone’s chest, your breath punching out in a sound that definitely wasn’t choreographed. Half the squad gasped. The other half kept smiling. Coach screamed something incoherent from the sideline.

But you popped right back up, beamed like you hadn’t just bruised half your spine, and finished the routine.

Showbiz, baby.

“Hey!” Sarah calls when she spots you weaving through the crowd. “I seriously thought you died when Ryan almost dropped you.”

Her face is twisted in a full-body cringe as she looks you over, like she’s checking for bruises.

You swipe some sweat off your brow with the back of your hand, catching your breath as you lean against the metal railing. “Tell me about it. If he thinks he’s copying my chem homework next week, he’s got another thing comin’.”

She snorts. “He hasn’t passed a test since freshman year.”

“Exactly. He’s one C-minus away from being kicked off the team,” you grimace, then lean in a little on the railing with a mischievous glint in your eye. “Though I heard he and a bunch of the guys are hitting up The Tipsy Bison later. I know it’s a dump, but the drinks are cheap and the bartenders don’t card if you tip them, like, a couple bucks and wink. We’d only need to wait it out til midnight anyway since–”

“Uh-huh,” Sarah says, but her eyes are already shifting—because someone else is approaching.

“Evenin’.” A low voice cuts in from your left, and the air instantly shifts. 

You look in the direction of the voice, and there he is. Joel Miller, in all his glory. Holding a hot dog and Miller Lite (ironic that the man likes his own namesake beer, no?), wearing that same dark green plaid he probably wore to every barbecue and grocery run. His expression is set in granite. The man looked like he hadn’t smiled since the Bush administration and he was damn proud of it.

“Enjoyin’ the game, Mr. Miller?” you smile sweet as can be up at him. The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of his cologne—all woodsy and dark. There’s something you can’t place but hate how much you like.

He grunts, then looks at his daughter, “You ready?”

“So–” you cut in quickly as she nods, ready to turn around and head back to their seats, “word on the street is Sarah’s got a very important birthday tonight. Twenty-one’s a big deal. Life-changing, even. Seems like something worth, I don’t know… celebrating?”

“She’s not going out to your Tipsy Bison bullshit,” he said flatly.

So he had heard everything.

“Not even for one little drink?” you asked, eyebrows raised in mock innocence, “C’mon. She’s practically a senior citizen in college years. You gonna keep her locked in the tower forever, or what?”

“She’s got class Monday.”

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice just enough to sound like a co-conspirator. “Good thing it’s Saturday.”

Still nothing. His silence is like a damn wall. An unreadable, infuriating, weirdly attractive wall.

You blinked up at him, mock-offended. “Wow. You really need to get laid, don’t you?”

That earned you a shift—a quick flick of his eyes in your direction, sharp and unreadable, his jaw tightening, but still not a word.

Joel Miller, the human embodiment of a steel door.

You smirked. “Ooh, that bad, huh?”

From a few steps above, moving out of the way like a storm was brewing between the two of you, Sarah groaned. “Dad, please don’t murder my friends!”

You took a step back, throwing both hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d ask. Y’know, on behalf of your adult daughter.”

Joel turned away, back up the bleachers, “Get back to your little song and dance, kid.”

And that was that. You watched his back for a second longer, half amused, half intrigued. Then you looked up at Sarah and surprised her with a grin as her dad began ascending the stairs.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

You didn’t bother texting first. Sarah would’ve found some way to talk you out of it, knowing her.

Still in your uniform, though the pom poms had long ditched, lipstick a little faded but your confidence entirely intact, you march right up the Miller porch and rap your knuckles against the tall wooden door.

It only takes a few seconds before it swings open.

Joel stands there, beer in one hand, jaw already clenched like you’d personally ruined his evening by breathing on his welcome mat. His eyes take their time sweeping over you—legs bare, cheeks flushed from the walk over, school jacket slung over your arm. By the time they land back on your face with that signature glare, there’s a smile on your lips.

“The hell you doin’ here, kid?”

Your grin widens, sweet as sugar, “Evenin’ to you too, Mr. Miller.”

He barely even blinks.

You shift your weight onto one hip, the skirt of your uniform shifting across your thighs. “Thought I’d come talk to you again. Woman to man.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “’Bout what, exactly?”

“You know what,” you say, rolling your eyes, “It’s your daughter’s birthday. I just want to take her out for one drink!”

“She ain’t goin’.”

“Ya know, Mr. Miller,” you say, eyes dancing as you lean in a little closer, voice syrupy, “if you’re gonna make me beg, the least you could do is pull my hair while you’re at it.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes, dark and dangerous as his lip curls up, his figure stepping close enough to cast a shadow over you. You hold your ground, grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, daring him to snap, to rise to it.

Just as he opens his mouth to retort, you hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Oh my god,” Sarah says, voice full of disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

Joel‘s eyes are still on you, but as if remembering himself, he scoffs, stepping aside just enough for her to poke her head out from over his shoulder. As you pull yourself on your tip toes to look over him, you see Sarah— hair still tied up in those bows, though they’ve fallen since you last saw her. Her brown eyes are wide as she takes in both of you standing together.

You lift your hand in a casual wave. “Told you I’d try. But your dad’s playing medieval warden again.”

Sarah groans, coming down a few steps. “Daaad…”

You raise a hand, cutting her off before she can jump in too. “Don’t worry, I had a feelin’ he’d be like this.” You reach into the bag slung over your shoulder and pull out a DVD, holding it up like a peace offering. She’s The Man. “If we can’t go out, we’re celebrating in. I at least want my best friend to enjoy her goddamn birthday.”

Joel’s eyes narrow. “You’re stayin’?”

You shrug. “Unless you’re plannin’ to physically remove me—yeah.”

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t stop you, either. He just stands there, glaring, as Sarah appears beside him and grabs your hand to pull you inside. The two of you are already halfway up the stairs by the time he can manage to take a breath.

You glance back at him just before turning the corner. He’s still standing in the doorway, muttering something under his breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck like you’ve given him a migraine in the span of two minutes.

“Don’t wait up, Mr. Miller,” you call with a grin.

He shuts the door with more force than necessary, and you swear you can hear him muttering as he takes a sip of his beer, something like, “Goddamn pain in my ass.”

You follow Sarah into her room, shutting the door behind you with a soft click as she drops onto her bed in a dramatic sprawl.

Your eyes scan the familiar space. The twin bed, with its purple-and-gray comforter, is pushed into the corner, the lineup of band posters curling at the corners on the walls. The old photo of her and her dad at a soccer match she won a trophy for with her team is still taped above the lamp.

“So,” you start, turning the lock.

Sarah immediately sits up, eyes narrowing. “No. Nope. What are you up to?”

“What?” you say, all wide-eyed innocence.

She points at you like she’s caught you red-handed. “That face. I know that face. You’re scheming.”

“Of course I’m scheming,” you say, manicured nails finding your hips once you drop your bag down. “Sarah, you’re twenty-one. You only turn twenty-one once, and you wanna spend it… what? Watching She’s the Man and ordering pizza?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say that.”

She groans. “I don’t know…”

“Look—we’ll watch the movie I brought, play it chill for now, and then once the old man crashes on the couch like he always does—boom. We’re out. You’re putting on your hottest jeans, I brought you Jason’s football jersey—”

“Why do I need a jersey?”

“Half-off beer for anyone wearing school colors,” you say, like it's obvious, “God, do you ever go out?”

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead, “you really planned this all out.”

“Correct,” you grin, “and that’s why you love me. Now—either those jeans that make your ass look phenomenal or that little skirt I gave you last year. We’ll do your makeup, fix those ribbons, and then you’re hauling your ass out that window whether you like it or not.”

As you ramble on, you catch the smile forming on her lips, her fingers rising to hide it, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You’re insane,” she says, laughing.

“I’m a genius,” you correct.

“He’s gonna kill you.”

Your red lips stretch into another grin. “I’d love to see him try.”

God, you were good. You’re a humble girl—really. Scout’s honor. But the things you can do with a makeup brush…Honestly? It deserves scientific documentation. Because by the time Mr. Miller’s snoring echoes through the walls and drifts up the stairs, you were already at work.

And now, only half an hour later, the birthday girl is glowing.

Her eyeliner is sharp enough to cut glass, her lips gleaming with that pink gloss you found buried at the bottom of her vanity drawer, and her cheeks are flushed that perfect rosy tone that makes her caramel skin look like it belongs in a beauty campaign.

“Oh. My. God,” you breathe, stepping back to admire your masterpiece. “You are so getting us free drinks tonight.”

“Drink,” she corrects, holding up a finger. “Singular. I promised one.”

You roll your eyes, already heading for the window. “Uh-huh. One drink. One shot. One phone number. I’m flexible.”

“I mean it!”

You just grin over your shoulder. “I know. But I also know you. You’ll cave the second someone with a thick Texan accent says you have pretty eyes.”

She lets out a groan—half exasperated, half excited—as you push the window open. The Austin night air drifts in, dry and cool against your skin, the quiet hum of cicadas in the distance. The sky is dark and clear, moonlight pooling across the shingles like it’s inviting you out.

You duck through first, your legs swinging over the sill as you balance on the edge. “Come on, birthday girl.”

“You're gonna get us killed before my dad even has the chance.”

You glance back with a grin. “Relax, it’s just a little jump.”

“Uh-huh.” She squeaks, but still climbs out behind you, barefoot and holding her heels, a whispered shit shit shit under her breath as the two of you crouch low and begin the careful climb down the old lattice nailed into the side of the porch. It isn’t exactly stable, but it holds—like it always does when you’re the one sneaking in.

You land with a soft thud in the grass, then looking up, you reach a hand toward her. “Easy. I got you.”

She drops down next to you, a little breathless, a little wild-eyed, already grinning.

Your phone buzzes with the alert of your driver arriving.

You slip your phone into your purse and nudg her with your elbow as the two of you start toward the street.

“One drink,” she reminds you.

You just smirk. “Sure, babe. One drink. And if we end up dancing on tables by midnight?”

“That’ll be on you.”

“Yeah. I can live with that.”

And off you go, pulling on your sneakers, the stars bright overhead as you climb into your Uber.

The night had gone from rowdy to regretful real fast.

And now, sitting on the curb outside the bar, shoes dangling from your fingers, the soles of your feet throbbing, you’re realizing just how deep in shit you are. The air has cooled just enough for goosebumps to rise along your arms, the sweat and heat from the crowded dance floor long gone. Your other hand clutches your phone, the blue glow of the screen casting shadows across your face.

The Uber app spins. And spins. And spins.

“No. No, no, no,” you whimper, voice tight as the screen flashes: No drivers available in your area.

No Uber. No Lyft. And no way in hell are you spending fifty bucks on a yellow cab. Yeah, you waitress at the diner, but that’s damn near an entire shift’s pay. Just to get home in one piece? No thank you.

You glance sideways.

Sarah is slumped beside you, her head cradled in her hands, the ribbons that once sat perfectly in her hair now unraveling in limp curls. One of her earrings is missing. Glitter streaks across her cheek like a tear. She lets out a soft, pitiful sound—somewhere between a sigh and a groan—and you swallow hard.

“Hey,” you murmur, crouching down in front of her, trying to keep your voice calm, “drink some of this.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she mutters. She sips from your water bottle like it’s acid.

“Well,” you say, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder, “if not now, you definitely will be in a second.”

Your stomach churns. Not from the alcohol—from what you’re about to do.

You take a breath, swipe to your contacts, and tap the name you’ve been avoiding all night.

Joel Miller’s truck pulls up ten minutes later.

It rumbles into view like a warning—headlights sweeping across the sidewalk, engine growling low and loud in the silence of the early morning. You stand, heart in your throat, wiping your sweaty palms on your skirt.

He barely put it in park before he’s out the door and moving.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, soft as ever, sliding his arms under Sarah’s shoulders to lift her, “I got you. It’s alright.”

She whimpers something, an apology maybe, but he just hushes her gently and helps her into the back seat, tucking her in like a child and buckling her seatbelt.

And then he turns.

Gone is the soft-spoken dad. Gone is the cooing.

His face shifts in the dim streetlight—jaw locked, eyes hard, voice like gravel.

“Get in the truck.”

Your mouth opens. It closes again, then you say, “I can find my own—”

“I said.” He takes a step toward you, slow and sharp. “Get. In. The truck.”

He yanks the passenger door open.

You stare at him for a second too long, heart pounding, but you step up into the cab and slide into the seat without another word. Joel slams the door behind you, and the truck rattles as he gets back in, hands gripping the wheel hard enough to make the leather creak.

The house is quiet when you get back, the kind of silence that feels like it might shatter if you breathe too loud.

Joel doesn’t say a word as he parks the truck and gets out. He silently opens the back door and unbuckles Sarah, arms curling under her like second nature. She stirs with a small groan, burying her face in his chest, and he murmurs something you don’t catch—low and warm and so damn gentle it makes your throat tighten.

The whole drive, his jaw had been clenched, eyes fixed on the road, one fist pressed to his mouth like he was holding back something dangerous. But now all you see is the gentleness in him as he carries her inside.

He nudges open her bedroom door with his boot at the top of the stairs, and you linger in the doorway, half-hidden by the frame, watching him move.

He settles her onto the mattress like he’s done it a hundred times, pulls back the blankets, and slips her shoes off. You watch as he tucks her in with practiced hands, slow and steady, smoothing the covers up over her chest.

Then he kneels beside the bed and brushes the hair from her face. Just once. A soft tuck behind her ear. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest. There’s so much love in that one motion, it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to exist in it with them.

He stands, turning toward you only long enough to brush past you without a word. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge you. Just moves down the hall, shoulders stiff and set, and disappears into the bathroom.

You hear the cabinet open. The faucet runs, something rattles on the counter.

When he passes you again, it’s with a glass of water in one hand and two white pills in the other. Still no words. No glance. Like you aren’t even there.

Your jaw tightens as he ducks back into Sarah’s room.

A minute later, he’s back in the doorway, pulling it shut behind him until the soft click of it closing can be heard in the dim hallway. Then, he turns.

And finally looks at you.

His face is unreadable. Jaw set and eyes cold. His mouth is a hard line, and those eyes that were once holding warmth as he took care of Sarah are deep and dark as they look down at you.

“I shouldn’t have—” you start, your voice small.

“Don’t,” he says.

You blink.

“I mean it,” he adds, walking past you toward the stairs, “don’t start with some half-ass apology just ‘cause you feel guilty now.”

You follow him. “I do feel guilty.”

He stops short, turning back to face you before stepping down. His eyes catch yours, sharp and cutting.

“You lied to me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You snuck out,” he snaps, the words cracking like a whip. “You took my kid into some shitty bar in your stupid little uniform and cheap perfume and thought that made you clever. Thought it made you cute.”

You feel the heat rise in your face—not from shame, but from something else entirely.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some little girl.”

“Then stop actin’ like one.”

You take a step toward him. Then another.

Joel doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His arms stay locked at his sides, fists curled, shoulders tense. His jaw flexes once, twice, like he’s biting back something worse.

“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me?” Your voice softens, but only just. “You think I don’t catch the way you hover near the kitchen when I’m there, like you just happen to need something the second I bend over to grab something from the fridge?”

His eyes flash, but he still doesn’t speak.

So you keep going.

“The way you are at the games, pretending not to look. Pretending that you don’t think about me in this ‘stupid little uniform’?”

His breath comes a little heavier now, and his fists still haven’t unclenched, “You’re treadin’ on some mighty thin ice here, girl.” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You’re gonna wanna back up.”

You step in anyway, closing the last of the space. You lift your hand and press a finger to his chest, right over the line of buttons. You feel the heat of him through the cotton, the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Just admit it,” you whisper. You tilt your chin up, just enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t see me as some kid anymore, Joel.”

His gaze drops to your mouth, lingering like he wants to watch his name fall from your lips. Then you watch as his eyes climb their way back to yours, slower this time. Measured. He looks at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t happening, but all you can see is the heat in his eyes. 

And then his hands are on you.

Large, rough palms grabbing you with more force than you were ready for—dragging you forward, only to spin you and shove you. Your body hits the wall with a muted thud, breath catching as your palms splay flat against the cool surface. His chest is pressed to your back in the next second, pinning you there, the heat of him burning through your shirt.

You gasp, your cheek catching against the wall, breath fogging the paint. “What’re you—”

“You are such a goddamn brat,” he cuts you off, growling in your ear.

Your legs nearly buckle. You’re breathing hard already, the adrenaline and arousal twisting into something dizzying, but still—still—you can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth.

His hands drop to your ass, gripping a handful through your skirt, his fingers digging in possessively. You arch slightly, instinctively, and he groans low in his throat, pressing harder into you like he’s trying to pin every inch of you still.

His forearm slides across your chest, then wraps around your throat—not quite choking, but holding. His bicep rests against your jawline, elbow snug beneath your chin, tilting your head just enough to keep you in place as his free hand drags your skirt up.

“Damn shorts,” he mutters when he finds the line of spandex in his way, annoyed. And then he’s yanking them down in one rough pull, not gentle or remotely slow. You let out a curse under your breath as the fabric drags down your thighs, baring you to him.

“Mr. Mill—”

“Need to show you.”

Your voice shakes when you answer. “Sh-show me?”

He leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice like gravel and heat.

“What happens when brats disobey me.”

You try not to picture what it would look like if Sarah suddenly walked in—if she rounded the corner and saw you like this. Bare from the waist down, palms pressed to the wall, thighs trembling. Her dad standing behind you, his hands still on your hips, the hard press of him straining against his jeans.

But then your thoughts are shaken loose when you feel it. His palm, warm and broad, resting on your ass.

“Count,” he says, low and firm.

You barely have time to ask what he means before the first smack lands.

The sound cracks through the hallway, and you jolt, a gasp ripping from your throat. Not just from the sting, but from the way it shoots straight down your spine, heat blooming through your core.

“One,” you whisper.

His hand is back on you, soothing for a second, then gone.

Smack.

You bite your lip, hips jerking forward instinctively.

“Two.”

He hums behind you, like he’s pleased with himself. Or with you. Maybe both.

Another smack. Harder this time.

Your knees wobble.

“Three.”

“Mm,” Joel mutters, his voice deep, lazy, “thought you’d get louder than that.”

You grit your teeth, fingers flexing against the wall, breath starting to come faster.

The fourth one stings, sharp and hot.

“Four,” you moan. You can’t help it. Joel chuckles darkly behind you at the sound.

And then his hand slides down lower, to the slick waiting for him between your thighs.

Fingers dragging through your folds, slow and unhurried, and when he finds you soaked, he hisses through his teeth.

“Well, would you look at that.”

You squirm, a breathy whine escaping before you can catch it. His fingers stroke through your arousal a little firmer, a little more deliberate. You whimper at the contact of his calloused fingers, so thick and warm against you.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear again, and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks.

“Bad girls don’t get to play,” he murmurs, “even if their pussy’s practically cryin’ for me.”

Joel tsks quietly. His hand cups your ass again, possessive. His fingers are still slippery with the feeling of you. “Spoiled little thing. Thinkin’ she gets a reward for sneakin’ outta my house.”

His hand falls from your ass, and you hear the low scrape of his boots on the hardwood as he steps back.

“Turn around.”

You obey instantly, cheeks hot, body still throbbing from the sting of his palm. You pivot slowly, heart hammering, eyes catching on the way he towers over you—jaw tight, eyes dark with something closer to hunger than anger.

“Down.” He says, nodding to the floor in front of him. “On your knees.”

You drop without hesitation, the wood floor hard beneath your skin, but you don’t care. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when the air between you is so thick it’s hard to breathe.

His eyes stay on yours as he lifts one hand, fingers twitching as they tilt your chin up.

“Show me your tongue.”

You blink up at him, heat rushing straight between your legs at the command.

“Now.”

You part your lips and slowly stick your tongue out, holding it there—wet, obedient, waiting. Joel’s gaze drops to your mouth, and his jaw ticks again.

“So…” he mutters, voice low, approving, “she does know how to listen.”

His hand under your chin turns your face from side to side, your spit beginning to gather at the sides of your mouth as you realize he’s…admiring the view.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl when you wanna be.”

You grin, just a little, tongue still out, but there’s mischief behind your eyes. You tilt your head the tiniest bit, eyes flicking down to the bulge in his jeans, then back up again—deliberate.

“I’m always good,” you say around your tongue, your voice smug, a little breathy. “You just can’t handle it.”

Joel’s jaw flexes. He lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he’s trying very, very hard not to lose it.

“Always gotta run that mouth,” he mutters.

Then his hands find his belt. You stay right where you are, tongue still out, eyes narrowed, but now there’s a smirk tugging at your lips, even as your breath hitches when the buckle comes undone. You watch him with that cocky little tilt to your chin, like you’re waiting to see what he’s working with. Like you know exactly what’s coming, and you’re not sure he deserves your awe just yet.

He unzips his jeans, pushing them down just far enough to pull himself free.

His cock springs out thick and flushed, already hard, already leaking for you. The head is a deep, angry red, and it twitches slightly in his hand as he wraps his fingers around the base. 

Your smirk falters. He’s huge. Bigger than anything you’ve ever taken, and your stomach flips at the idea of it going…anywhere.

“Think what you mean is can you handle it?” Joel asks, voice low, rough.

You blink slowly, playing it cool even as your thighs press together.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Joel chuckles as he strokes himself once, slow and firm, eyes on your mouth.

“Open wider,” he says.

You do—but not all the way. Just enough to be a little annoying. A little slow. You even raise your eyebrows like this what you wanted?

Joel’s smile fades as he guides himself to your mouth.

“God,” he mutters, sliding his cock along your outstretched tongue. He teases himself there, the thick, swollen head dragging slowly across the surface—coating your lips in precum, smearing it slow and slick.

You hate how intoxicating he smells. Hate how good he tastes. Hate how much you love this angle—kneeling between his thighs, watching him look down at you like this is where you belong.

“Gonna paint my cock with that pretty red lipstick, baby?” he asks, voice rough with amusement, a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You smile up at him—defiant, even now—before closing your lips around the tip. The moment you suckle, your tongue flicking at the salty bead of arousal, he lets out a sharp, broken breath like you knocked it out of him.

He growls and suddenly backs you into the wall. Your head bumps against the hard surface, and your hands shoot out, grabbing at his thighs—nails digging into the worn denim for something to hold onto.

You glare up at him even as he presses deeper into your throat, taking control. His fingers slide into your hair, tightening, holding you there against the wall. He watches with dark, hungry eyes as your lips stretch wide around him, spit glossing the corners of your mouth.

“I like you so much better when your mouth is full of me.”

And then he starts to move.

He fucks your mouth with steady, brutal thrusts—your throat flexing around him, gagging as he pushes deeper, harder. You choke, sputtering when he thrusts all the way in, tears springing to your eyes as mascara streaks down your cheeks.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Gooood girl.” He drawls it out low and thick before pulling himself from your mouth, bending to hover in front of your face, eyes drinking you in—wrecked, ruined, perfect.

Your lipstick’s smudged across your chin. Mascara tears drag down your cheeks. Your mouth is red and wet and trembling.

He leans in and kisses you.

It’s brutal and hungry. His tongue pushes past your lips with zero hesitation, and you open for him instantly, swallowing the kiss like you’re starving. He tastes like that stupid Miller Lite and something synthetic, waxy—and you realize it’s your lipstick on his mouth.

When he pulls back, it’s too soon, and you chase his mouth without thinking.

He grins down at you, wicked and wild, and pats your cheek. Not gentle, not quite a slap, but something in between. Like a good dog.

Then, standing tall again, he grabs the base of his cock, lines himself back up, and guides it back into your mouth. He’s slow at first, letting you feel the weight of it. The heat. The way it stretches your jaw until your lips ache, the base of him thick and veiny against your tongue.

“That's it,” he murmurs, his hand tightening in your hair, “all the way into your throat, baby.”

He starts to move again in controlled, steady thrusts that make your throat flutter and your eyes tear up all over again. You moan around him, and the vibration makes him grunt, hips stuttering forward like he wasn’t ready for how good it feels.

His other hand drops to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he watches the slick shine building around your lips.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You moan again, louder this time, and your thighs squeeze together.

Tightly.

The pressure spikes, your breath shallow and high, and your hand flutters down between your legs before you even think about it. Your fingers find your soaked folds—so warm, so wet you could cry—and you can’t help it. You have to touch. Just a little. Just enough to take the edge off. You swirl two fingers over your clit, barely a brush, just enough to ease the pressure. 

Your throat tightens around Joel’s cock as you jerk against your fingers, and his eyes widen as he looks down at you.

“You touching yourself right now?” he asks, voice low. Disbelieving. His eyes drop to where your thighs are clenched together, to the subtle movement of your hand, and then back to your mouth wrapped around his cock. “Jesus fuck, baby.”

You moan around him again, your free hand bracing against his leg, nails digging into the muscle of his thigh.

“Couldn’t help it, huh?” His voice softens, but not with mercy—with need. “S’that good? That what my cock does to you?”

You nod as best you can, eyes fluttering, lips sucking harder, chasing that praise like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the floor. Your hand moves faster between your thighs, the pressure building hot and tight, a slow coil of need that burns through you like fire.

Joel groans above you, his hips starting to move again—deep, steady thrusts, like he’s savoring every inch of your mouth. You can’t help but moan around him again and again, eyes glazed, desperate.

But then, to your dismay, he slows.

And then he stops.

You whine, brows knitting together as he pulls out of your mouth, his cock heavy and flushed, spit-slick and twitching just inches from your lips. You blink up at him, lips wet and trembling, throat aching and still wanting more.

He doesn’t let you whine or complain before his hand is pulling yours away from yourself, tugging you up from your knees. Your legs are unsteady, muscles cramped and shaky from the floor, but he doesn’t give you time to adjust. In one swift movement, you’re off the ground, hauled up and over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“Hey!” you gasp, hands scrabbling at his back, your stomach squished against the hard plane of his shoulder.

He swats your ass—hard—the sound sharp in the hallway. You yelp again, and his voice drops to a low, lethal hiss.

“Quiet.”

He carries you past Sarah’s door, the floor creaking beneath his boots, his arm tight around the backs of your thighs to keep you in place. You bite your lip, breath catching in your throat as you pass the one room you’ve never dared to enter.

And then he opens it.

His door.

The space is dark and warm, and you only have a second to process it before you’re flung onto the bed.

You land with a soft grunt, arms propping you up as you sit up to look at the man before you. He takes off his shirt, shucking off his jeans with haste, and is on you in the next breath. 

“Ain’t about to let you come all by yourself on those fingers,” he says, reaching for your thighs and yanking them toward the edge of the bed with one rough pull.

His hands are already on you again, calloused palms spreading your thighs apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh until you gasp.

Joel groans in his throat, his eyes still on your glistening center, thighs shaking and slick with yourself. Your red cheer top is still on, bunched up slightly, your stomach showing and quivering under his touch. 

He grips your thighs harder and spreads them wider, dragging you to the edge of the bed until you can feel his breath against your skin. His eyes never leave your pussy—pupils blown wide, jaw slack and lips parted like in awe. 

And then he dives in, no hesitation, no slow teasing or light licking. No, Joel Miller devours you. Like a man possessed.

His tongue flattens against your folds and drags up, slow and deep, tasting everything. Your head is thrown back at the feeling, a moan escaping you before you have the wherewithal to keep yourself quiet.

“Christ,” he mutters, mouth slick with you, “tastes better than I ever coulda’ dreamed, baby,”

Your hips buck up, and he throws an arm over your stomach, pinning you down.

“Nuh-uh, you stay still,” he growls, nose nudging your clit before his mouth wraps around it, sucking. His tongue sends your vision white. 

“Oh my–oh my god,” you gasp, crying out, hands clawing for his hair, nails scraping his scalp as he eats you out like it’s the last fucking supper. He moans into you, beard soaked and eyes hooded, watching you squirm. But just as your thighs begin to shake, your moans getting high and choked and frantic–

He stops. Your hands fall from his thick hair, gripping the sheets instead as you whimper. You open your eyes to look down at him, nearly sobbing at the loss.

“What’d I say about bad girls?” he asks, voice gravel and sin. 

“I’ll–I’ll be good,” you stammer, breathless, “I’ll be good, Mr. Miller, I swear–”

He nips the side of your thigh, and your thighs still shake with the aching tension lost from them. “Come on now, baby,” he purrs, “call me Joel. Think we’re past the formalities when your pussy’s soakin’ my face.”

Your face burns red hot, stomach tightening and flipping on itself at the deepness of his sex drunk voice.

“Please,” you whisper, “please, Joel, let me come.”

But he’s already pushing himself up, stroking his pulsing cock in one hand, eyes on the slick mess between your legs.

“No,” he says, voice rough, “not yet.”

You let out a soft whine, your legs still twitching, your body begging.

He climbs over you, slow and deliberate, crowding your space. He nudges you up the bed with the weight of his body, palms guiding you like you’re something delicate. His knees cage your thighs, and his hand finds your ribs, broad and warm and steadying. His thumb curls under the hem of your uniform top.

“Let’s get this off, yeah?” he says, and you’re surprised when it’s said so gently, even if his eyes hold a hunger so deep they’re nearly black. You nod, lifting your arms up, and he pulls it over you swiftly, throwing it to the side of the bed. His eyes fall to your chest, and his hand is back on you, splayed wide against your skin.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he whispers, breath ghosting over your pebbled breasts. You shiver, hips lifting unconsciously, and you feel the pulse of his hard cock against your thigh.

He leans in, taking your peaked nipple into his mouth, so warm and wet. Your back arches at the feeling of his tongue lapping over you, teeth grazing until he releases your breast with a soft pop, kissing between the valley until he finds the other nipple, treating it to the same gentle worship.

His lips move up to your throat then, slow, hot, the kind of open-mouth kiss that's more tongue than anything else. You gasp as he finds the crook in your neck, goosebumps rising as your back arches into him.

You feel his wide, open palms slide beneath you, one pressing into the small of your back, the other across your shoulders. You feel the shift in his body before he moves. His muscles tighten as he gathers his strength, and then he’s rolling you over. 

He turns smoothly, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of movement, his hands still wrapped around you. But as you find yourself on top of him, in his lap, you sit upright.

“You wanna come so badly, baby?” he murmurs. “Then take it.”

Your eyes go wide as you look down at him, palms splayed across his chest, feeling the heat and sweat slick over taut muscle. He’s burning beneath your hands, every breath you take ragged and shallow.

Whatever you had been expecting tonight, whatever you had thought would happen the more and more you goaded him, it wasn’t this. 

Joel Miller was filthy and delicious and feral. 

“Go on,” he says at your hesitation, “show me how much you like when your best friend’s daddy touches you.”

Your breath shudders out of you, his hands finding your hips and gently brushing his thumbs against your heated skin.

You reach down, moving your hips back to make space for your hand to wrap around the base of his cock. The moment your fingers make contact, his eyes flutter shut, his breath hissing out of him. You watch his face as you position yourself above him, teasing the head through your slick folds, dragging it up against your clit. 

You take a deep breath as his cock catches the notch of your entrance, his eyes flashing open at the sudden feeling of you sinking onto him. You roll your hips, adjusting to him, his hands tight against your hips. 

“Fuck,” he chokes.

The stretch of him as you glide down him slowly, gently, nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. It’s too much, way too much. But it’s so perfect, the sheer girth and stretch of him making your eyes roll back. Your mouth falls open as you inch your way down, down down, until you’re fully sheathed over him, your hips meeting his. 

You sit there for a moment, rolling your hips a bit back and forth, around, letting yourself feel every vein, every nook and crevice of him, and when you look up at your face, a breathless little smile grows on your lips.

“This got you all worked up, Joel?” you purr, “All that grumpy ass attitude, you just needed this, didn’t you?”

You move again, adding a little bounce, and his jaw slackens, his grip tightening on you.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, nearly wrecked.

“You’re so easy, Mr. Miller,” you hum, rocking over him again, “all that control, that stoicism, just…gone.” 

He narrows his eyes, something dangerous flickering there. He bares his teeth, voice tight and low.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, growls,  “Keep runnin’ that slutty mouth of yours, see where it gets ya.”

You lean in close, hands moving to his hair, lacing your fingers through his thick locks as your lips press to his ear, “Where, Joel?” you whisper, “What’re you gonna do? Punish me?”

His grip on you shifts, he moves his hands up your body, mirroring your hands and pushing his through your hair, wrapping tight at the nape of your neck. He yanks your head back, exposing your neck. Your breath catches, somewhere between surprise and delight. Your pussy clenches around him at the feeling, and he groans beneath you.

“You think you’re so cute, don’t you?” he hisses, “I give you a little control, let you ride my dick, and you already have shit to say, huh?”

His hips thrust up hard, and you choke on a moan. The new angle makes you jolt as he drives into you, deep and unrelenting, hitting places he hadn't before.

You cry out when he keeps moving, hips grinding in steady, punishing strokes, each one pushing deeper, like he’s chasing something inside you only he knows how to reach.

“Fuck, Joel!” 

“There she is,” he says, lips kissing and teeth nipping at your jaw as he holds you in place by your hair, “there’s my filthy little girl. Pussy is so tight, practically drippin’ all over my cock. Still doesn’t stop that little mouth of yours, does it?”

You try to grind down on him, and he chuckles darkly, “You like the way my cock fill’s you, huh baby?” he mutters, voice thick, groaning at the feeling of you, “Like the way I stretch you, fill you up? S’like you were made for me, huh?”

You nod, your voice completely wrecked as you moan.

“Tell me..” 

Your cheeks burn, “Y-yeah,”

He tuts, fingers clinging harder to your hair, “Try again.”

“Feels so fucking—so fucking good, Joel,” you whisper, “please, please–want more,”

He hums in satisfaction, loosening his grip on your hair. Your neck aches, sore and stretched, but the second your eyes drop to his, his mouth is on yours.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and rough. “Now ride me like you mean it.”

You sit back up, hips moving in slow, deliberate circles at first, testing what he likes, watching his eyes flicker with each shift and grind. Joel’s hands slide from your thighs to your waist, up your sides, palms rough as they settle there. 

“Look at you,” he says, “Ridin’ me so sweet now. Just needed a little direction, huh?”

You gasp as his hands drag up, thumbs brushing under your breasts before his palms cup them, fingers curling around your nipples. He rolls them slowly, tugging just enough to make your hips jolt, your mouth falling open in a broken moan.

“That’s it,” he groans, “Feel good?”

You nod, biting your lip.

“Show me,”

You lift one hand from his chest, one still bracing against him for balance while the other slips between your legs. Your fingers trace around your lower lips, feeling them stretch around his cock until they slide up and find your clit. The little bundle of nerves is still slick and swollen from the edge he’d pulled you off, and you start to circle it, starting to slowly build up the pace as he watches.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hips pushing up into you, “Touchin’ yourself on my cock like a good girl.”

You whimper, the pressure building up again so easily as you watch his face. His dark hair is all mussed and sticking to his forehead with a wet sheen of sweat, eyes on you, barely blinking as he watches your fingers.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he pants, voice rough and strained. “Gonna soak me like that pretty pussy’s meant to?”

“Kiss me,” you blurt out.

His eyes flicker up to yours.

You slow your fingers, breath catching, heart pounding in your throat.

“Want you to kiss me again, Joel,” you whisper, trembling. “Please.”

Something shifts in his expression, his hand moving from your breast to your cheek, cradling your face so gently it nearly aches. You lean into him, nuzzling his wide, warm palm as he begins to sit up.

As he leans forward, his cock still buried inside you, he uses one hand to prop himself up while the other holds you, and he presses his lips to yours.

It’s not filthy this time. At least, not at first. At first, it’s just a gentle press of his lips, soft and tender against yours. But as you moan and rock against his cock, his hand moves into your hair, pulling you closer to him, and his tongue breaches the opening of your mouth. You kiss him back hungrily, his mouth tasting like something sweet and heady, like you. 

As your tongue slides against his, Joel groans softly. He shifts his hips, just slightly, enough for you to feel him inside you, a reminder, still hard and thick and pulsing.

You begin to move again, grinding yourself faster and faster, your walls beginning to tighten around him. You open your eyes when his lips fall from yours, his jaw slack and brows furrowed tight. You clench around him, and a guttural groan escapes from his throat.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he groans, then his eyes open, looking up at you, “come on now, baby. Can feel how badly she wants to come all over me. Let me feel it, please. Let me feel you come all over me.”

He meets every one of your thrusts now, cock reaching the deepest parts of your cervix, hands sliding down your back, guiding your movement, your hips, and you follow the rhythm instinctively. His cock hits an angle inside you that has you shrieking his name.

“There it is, baby, can feel it right there,” he chants, “come on now, give it to me.”

Your breath stutters, your hand holding onto his shoulder for dear life as your fingers work your clit faster and faster. 

Suddenly, your vision pops with stars, head tilting back, mouth held open in the perfect ‘o’ as you gush around him. Your orgasm crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, your body clenching and shivering around him. 

He holds you through it, one arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other gripping your thigh as you twitch and shudder through the last pulses of your orgasm. His hips start to stutter—uncontrolled now, jerking deeper like his body’s no longer listening to him.

“F-Fuck—fuck, baby,” he pants, voice ragged and unraveling, “I’m—Jesus—I’m gonna—”

“Yes, Joel,” you breathe, voice wrecked and sweet in his ear, “come inside me.”

He falters, choking on a breath, still thrusting helplessly as your words wrap around him as he pulls back to look at you.

“Wh-What?”

“It’s okay,” you whisper again, voice low and urgent, “I have an IUD, come inside me, please,” 

His eyes widen, glassy, and stunned, but you keep going.

“Wanna feel you when I fall asleep,” you murmur, hips rocking gently into his, “when I wake up tomorrow. Want the reminder. Want it dripping out of me. Please, Joel.”

That’s it.

He lets go with a broken sound, the muscles in his abdomen tightening as he drives into you one last time—deep and hard and final. His cock throbs inside you, and he comes with a low, brutal groan into your neck, his whole body shaking against yours.

He stays buried deep, breath hitching in your ear as he presses his chest to yours, both of you slick and panting. His back finally hits the mattress, and he pulls you with him, your bodies still tangled, his arms never leaving your waist.

You collapse against his chest, cheek pressed over his racing heart, both of you trembling and silent for a long moment.

His hand finds the small of your back, tracing lazy circles against your damp skin as your breathing starts to settle. The room is quiet now, the storm of what just happened still buzzing faintly in the air between you. You shift slightly against his chest, and he pulls you closer.

Then, after a long pause, you hear him say, “You’re…you’re not drunk, are you?”

You huff a laugh against his collarbone “No.”

He waits, though, still uncertain.

“I had one drink,” you say, lifting your head to look at him. He lifts a brow at you.

“Okay, two.” You roll your eyes. “But I swear, not drunk. Not even tipsy.”

He nods, slow. His jaw’s tight again, but not in anger this time—more like restraint. Like he’s keeping something bigger from getting loose.

“Just didn’t wanna…” He clears his throat. “Didn’t want you to wake up tomorrow and…”

You blink at him, “Regret this?” you ask, and your hand moves up to cup his scruffy jaw, “how could I regret somethin’ that I’ve been thinking about every time you so much as look at me?”

Joel stares at you.

Like really stares.

And you just smile a little harder, curling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, covering his face with one hand, the other still cradling your hip. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

You grin into his chest. “Might be a good way to go.”

And Joel—tired, wrecked, full of you—just laughs.

Really laughs.

And that’s how the night ends. Not in panic. Not in guilt.

But with your legs tangled up, and Joel Miller already falling for you.

[mixolya]

Okay hear me out what if reader was a kpop idol and do u know how twice preformed at a football studio or sum like that

I’d love to see kpop idol reader x Itoshi sae

ᓚᘏᗢ — sae itoshi: behind the scenes !

synopsis: as the leader of one of korea's biggest girl groups, you're used to pressure of the stage. but nothing quite compares to the way sae itoshi watches you from the bench.

sae itoshi x idol!reader ⭑ fluff / secret relationship / sae my sweet loverboy + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: HUIJDKVIDJSDJKC i heard u out girl

madrid, spain - santiago bernabéu stadium halftime - el clásico, re al vs barcha

the halftime show wrapped in a thunder of cheers, but you barely heard it. your chest heaved with adrenaline, your ears rang with the final beat of your newest title track, and your hair clung to the sweat along your jaw. the other girls grinned beside you, waving to the crowd, soaking in the moment, but your focus had already zeroed in on the far end of the pitch, where the re al players sat cooling off. where he sat.

sae itoshi, cold as ever, towel slung low around his neck, eyes drooped beneath damp bangs, but you felt the way they tracked you. you knew that look, it wasn't the deadpan boredom he showed the press. it wasn't the lazy disdain he showed opponents, it was the one he gave you in hotel rooms with locked doors and too few hours to waste.

and he was giving you that look in front of a stadium full of people. eighty thousand, to be exact.

"y/n, the ball!" one of the staff called, tossing you a pristine match ball with a wink. "you said you wanted to try shooting into the net, right?"

your groupmates giggled behind you, forming a semicircle as the cameras followed your every step toward the box. you adjusted your mic pack, tucking hair behind your ear, and glanced subtly (you hoped) toward the bench again.

you turned toward the net, and then you ran. your heel clipped the grass like second nature, leg extending, power snapping through your body as you shot. the ball arced beautifully, maybe not pro level, but definitely impressive, and slammed into the top right corner. the crowd erupted. you turned to your group with a mock bow, biting back a laugh, then made the mistake of looking toward him again.

he was standing now, still infuriatingly calm, but the tip of his ears were pink. and when your gaze caught his, something hot sparked between you. a challenge, maybe?

you knew he'd find you later. backstage, behind closed doors, away from the lights and the cameras. where he'd drop the act, and you'd stop pretending not to want him just as much.

⭑

the roar of the stadium faded as you made your way down the tunnel, surrounded by staff and dancers, a towel around your neck and your in-ears already yanked out. you could still feel the high from performing, heart racing, limbs humming with energy. but all that paled next to the anticipation curling hot in your stomach, because he would come. he always did.

your group's dressing room was chaos. makeup touch-ups, high-pitched laughter, water bottles cracked open, stylists gushing about your goal shot like it was the winning penalty. you smiled, nodded, laughed where appropriate.

but when your manager got distracted dealing with a reporter, you slipped away. the hallway was quieter. the hum of the overhead lights and the low thud of music from the arena's speakers filled the silence. your heartbeat still hadn't slowed from the adrenaline of the stage, but now it pounded for a different reason. and then: footsteps.

you turned, and there he was. hair damp, jersey clinging to his skin, eyes locked on you like gravity. sae itoshi, who didn't smile for the cameras, who barely spoke in interviews, who only ever softened when the world wasn't looking.

so you ran. shoes echoing against the flooor, stage makeup still fresh, lungs tightening, but you crashed into him with all the weight of everything you'd held in for weeks. his arms caught you easily like they'd been waiting. neither of you said a word.

you buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in sweat and mint and him, clinging to his waist like the moment would slip if you loosened your grip. and he just stood there, arms around your back, the curve of his palm resting warm against your spine.

after a beat, you heard it, quiet and muffled against your hair: "you killed it out there."

you laughed softly into his collarbone. "you watched everything?"

"course i did," he murmured. "saw you shoot like you owned the pitch."

you leaned back slightly, still in his arms. "we're not supposed to do this in public, you know."

he gazed down at you, eyes lidded and heavy. "you think i care right now?"

you stared at him and he kissed your forehead, quick and hidden in the shadows of the tunnel, but it said everything. you were his secret but never once had you felt like a second choice. the silence between you stretched. you both knew your teams were looking for you, knew someone could turn the corner and catch you here, wrapped up in each other like this. but neither of you moved.

"you looked good," he finally said. "on stage."

you let out a soft huff. "you looked good scoring two goals."

he shrugged. "only did it 'cause you were watching."

you raised an eyebrow. "don't start acting all soft on me now."

he smirked, tugging you in by the waistband of your performance skirt. "you want me to lie instead?"

you tried to step back, but he didn't let go. just looked at you like he had all the time in the world.

"you didn't tell me you were performing," he murmured.

"wanted to surprise you."

he gave a small laugh and then fell silent again. his thumb grazed your hip, absentmindedly. "i hate this part."

"the sneaking around?"

"no. the part where i have to let go."

you swallowed. "you don't have to."

he exhaled slowly through his nose, then leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. "ten minutes."

you nodded. "okay."

he didn't move for a moment, like he was mesmorizing your face in this exact second, eyes glassy from effort, glitter still dusted across your cheekbones, lips parted like you were about to say something else. but you didn't. because he kissed you.

not rushed or hungry, but slow with intention. his hand slid up to cup your jaw, and your fingers gripped the sleeves of his jersey like it was the only thing anchoring you to earth. it was gentle but deep, like he'd been holding it in for days.

and God, did he taste like everything you missed. you curled your hands into his chest, pulling him closer, even though there was nowhere left to go. his nose brushed yours when he broke the kiss for breath, but his lips didn't leave yours for long, pressing another against the corner of your mouth. then your jaw. then just beneath your ear.

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[demie90s]

okay so we seen how menace! reader reacted to a teammate getting hurt, how would the team react if she got hurt???

(See I hate being seen as hurt soooo honestly I didn’t know how to right this.)

UConn WBB x Menace!Fem!Reader

When She Goes Quiet

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: You hit the floor hard, couldn’t breathe, but got up like always. Played it off like always. Until after the game, when the pain hit too deep—and for the first time, you couldn’t hold it in.

Genre: Angst, team dynamics, emotional reversal

Warnings: Injury (on-court), panic, language, emotional distress, protective behavior from teammates, flipped roles

Word Count: ~0.9k

Vibe: “you okay?” turns into dead silence, teammates realizing the loudest one going quiet is the worst sign, fierce love under pressure, team panic turned protective wall

It didn’t feel that bad when it happened.

Hard screen. Caught high in the back. Lower spine twisted a little too sharp, maybe, but you bounced back. You always do. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t rattle you for a second—knocked the wind out of your lungs and made your arms go tingly—but you got up. You always get up.

Finished the quarter. Then the next.

No one really noticed you grimace every time you turned your torso. Or how your stride shortened after halftime. You still clapped loud, still talked shit, still hit your free throws. Didn’t flinch during press. Didn’t ask for a sub. You ran it through like nothing was wrong.

Because that’s what you do.

Take the hit. Make the play. Laugh it off.

Even if it hurts like hell.

Especially if it hurts like hell.

And when the buzzer sounds and UConn takes the win, the locker room explodes.

Shoes flying, towels whipping, KK yelling at full volume, Ice dancing, Paige hugging Aaliyah in slow motion while the music kicks in over the speakers. Someone’s dumping water on someone else. Everyone’s screaming. Including you. Sort of.

You’re in the back corner. Sitting on a chair. Hoodie on. Clapping when someone makes eye contact, nodding like you’re in it, but your body’s not keeping up. You’re sweating and shivering at the same time. Your lower back feels like it’s cemented. And every time you inhale, something catches mid-spine, like the air gets stuck somewhere it’s not supposed to.

You try to sit up straighter. Then you hiss. Quiet, but sharp. Paige glances over. You wave her off before she even asks.

Geno walks in five minutes later. Whistle in his mouth, trying to be heard over the chaos. “Hey. HEY. Shut it down for a second.”

The room quiets. Not out of fear—just respect. You’ve won, and now he’s about to give the speech. The one that ends up quoted on Instagram slides and shared on TikTok edits.

“You showed up,” he starts, voice gruff, pointing toward the whiteboard like he’s not getting emotional behind it. “Y’all showed me some grit tonight. That’s a physical team and we answered every time. I don’t give a shit if it was ugly. It was ours.”

Applause. Slaps on the back. KK yells, “SAY IT AGAIN,” and you force a smile from the corner. Then your body shifts just a little too fast.

Pain slices straight through your lower back and into your ribs. Your vision whites out for a second.

You bite down hard. Chest tightening. You can’t breathe right. You press your hand to the bench like grounding will help, but it’s no good. The sweat on your face isn’t from the game anymore—it’s panic. Raw pain. It feels like something’s locked up inside you, like your body’s telling you, no more.

“…Ay.” Geno’s voice cuts through the noise.

He’s looking at you now. Everyone is.

You’re still hunched, breathing shallow, hand gripping the edge of the bench.

Geno steps forward, brows furrowed. “You alright back there?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

KK turns around, face dropping the second she sees you up close. “Yo.”

You try to nod. You really try. But you shake your head. That’s all it takes.

In a heartbeat, the energy in the room shifts.

Geno’s across the room in three strides, crouching a little in front of you, hand hovering near your shoulder. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

You finally gasp it out. “It’s my back. I—I couldn’t tell during the game. But I can’t—” Your breath breaks. “I can’t breathe right. It’s—it’s locking up.”

Trainer’s already on the way. Paige is right behind Geno now, not saying anything, just watching with wide eyes. KK’s kneeling to your left, face full of that same panic you had when she went down two games ago.

“I didn’t want anyone to know,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to mess it up. We were winning.”

Geno doesn’t even scold you. His voice softens instead. “You’re not messing anything up.”

You’re shaking now. The pain’s catching up to the adrenaline. Every second hurts worse. And it’s scary. Not just soreness. Not something you can walk off. It’s the kind of pain that makes your chest feel tight and your head spin. And worst of all—it’s public.

You start crying.

Not loud. Not like a breakdown. Just quiet, frustrated sobs, shoulders trembling, eyes stuck to the floor as the whole team watches the strongest one break.

“I didn’t want them to see me like this.”

You don’t even know who you’re talking to anymore.

Geno’s hand settles gently on the back of your neck. “Hey. Come here.”

You don’t think. You just lean forward.

And you hug him.

You let it all go. Press your face into his chest, trying to breathe through it, hands clenched in the front of his jacket while the trainer checks your back. You hear Paige clear her throat. Hear Ice whisper something to KK. No one’s making fun of you. No one’s laughing.

They’re just there. Watching you finally fall apart.

“I’ve seen you take hits no one else would get up from,” Geno says, low so only you can hear. “This doesn’t make you weak. This makes you human.”

You cry harder. You don’t care anymore.

“I didn’t want to ruin the win.”

“You are the win,” he says.

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

[enwoso]

behind the sign | alessia russo

-> based on this request:)

masterlist

alessia had been feeling the pressure of the match all day. it was a big one, champions league quarter final against real madrid at the emirates. the arsenal girls all giving it their best.

the stadium buzzed with energy as fans filled the stands even though it was a tuesday night, the air thick with anticipation — would they be able to overturn a 2-0 loss and make it through to the semi’s?

alessia’s heart raced, but it wasn’t just the game that had her mind racing. it was you. she hadn’t heard from you much over the weekend, leading up to the game.

you’d been on a brand trip, a company flying you out to los angeles — something big in the works with your agency. and alessia understood how packed those schedules could be.

you’d exchanged a few quick texts but alessia knew you wouldn’t be able to make it to the game. you being stuck in photoshoots and meetings all weekend and the fact you were across an ocean and in a completely different time zone to her.

alessia wasn’t upset, you had a career of your own which she was so proud of and she knew you’d be watching no matter the time nor what you were doing but a small part of her had hoped you would somehow be there to cheer her on.

the warm ups came and went, the team now huddled in the locker room preparing for the match ahead. alessia sat on the bench tying her boots. her thoughts drifting back to you.

she missed your smile, your laugh, the way you always seemed to make her feel like everything was going to be okay, no matter how tough her game or week had been.

“everything okay, less?” her teammate, beth asked noticing her distracted expression as she got ready.

“yeah, just… you know” alessia gave a small smile, not wanting to go into details, “i’m good.”

the match began and as usual alessia was laser focused. the game was intense, with real madrid giving them a tough fight but alessia was in her element — determined, swift and every bit the star forward she was.

the ball found her feet more often than not, and with each touch she could feel her confidence building. taking shots, building momentum. the crowd was loud but her focus stayed on the field,

0-0 was the score at halftime as the players trudged down the tunnel at the emirates. but then, just as the second half begun, alessia made a break down the wing the ball at the perfect angle to shoot, it smashing into the back of the net.

pure adrenaline filled alessia as she ran off to celebrate, her teammates rushing after her to celebrate. alessia let herself hear the crowd. she could hear the cheers, followed by her chant. her eyes scanning the crowd with a big grin.

the roar of the crowd was constant but her gaze locked on a familiar figure, standing in disguise with a cap and dark sunglasses even though it was a late afternoon but she could spot that grin from anywhere, you.

you were holding up a small, hand written sign, grinning like a fool who knew exactly what they were doing. the sign, impossibly bold in the middle of the crowd, read: ‘can i have a picture lessi-lou?’

she nearly tripped over her own feet.

in the next play of the game, with adrenaline in her veins and the world blurring around her, everything froze for a heartbeat. she blinked. yep. still there. still you. still obnoxiously charming with that ridiculous sign and that stupidly cute, cheeky grin.

her heart kicked up a notch.

you winked at her then, like the human embodiment of a wink, lifting the sign higher with both hands and puffing your chest like a proud dork. you looked like you were was enjoying every second of alessia’s stunned expression.

alessia rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw the back of her head, but she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. that grin of yours was infectious, like always.

‘your impossible’ she mouthed as she went to get the ball from the ball boy close to where you were sat. you gave her a thumbs-up and mouthed back, ‘you love it.’

and, annoyingly, she did.

trying to refocus on the game, she gave a subtle shake of her head and turned away, but not before giving you the tiniest, conspiratorial smirk. your timing was chaotic, your methods were absurd—but your message was clear. i’m here. and that one gesture gave her the exact boost she didn’t know she needed.

the final whistle blew. alessia’s team erupted in cheers, and while her teammates swarmed each other in celebration, her eyes were already scanning the crowd again. victory felt amazing—but there was something else, someone else, alessia wanted more in that moment.

she spotted you, already climbing down from the stands, that goofy grin still plastered across your face like you were proud of yourself for pulling off the surprise of the century.

without thinking, she took off toward you, ignoring the stares and the yells after her from her teammates, her feet moving faster than her brain.

as soon as she reached the base of the barrier, you were already there, waiting like you knew she’d come running. you barely got a word out before alessia launched into you, wrapping her arms around your neck in a tight, breath-stealing hug.

“you actually made it?” she said against his shoulder, a little breathless. “i thought you were stuck in la doing your ‘very important, fancy photo shoots for your brand.’”

“cancelled my last shoot,” you shrugged as if it was nothing, pulling back to meet alessia’s gaze. “besides, what’s more important than watching my girlfriend run circles around people while pretending she doesn’t miss me?”

“oh my god,” alessia groaned, smacking your chest lightly. “do you ever stop?”

“hmm, nope,” you said proudly with a cheeky grin on your lips. “i’m just charming. it’s in the job description.”

alessia looked down at the sign still in your hands and snorted. “this is peak chaos. you’re lucky i love you.”

“i was banking on that,” you said, winking. “also, i debated between that message and ‘marry me, alessia’—but figured i’d save the panic attack for another game.”

alessia laughed, snatching the sign from you. “you’re ridiculous.”

“and yet, you’re still standing here,” you said smugly. “with heart eyes.”

“i do not have heart eyes.”

“you totally do. it’s okay. i get it—i’m very lovable.”

alessia rolled her eyes and held up the sign, admiring it. “if i say yes to the picture, will you stop talking?”

“absolutely not. but you’ll be smiling, so it won’t matter.”

you pulled out your phone and snapped a quick shot of alessia holding the sign, then leaned in and took a few selfies of the both of you, alessia still flushed from the game and you looking entirely too pleased with yourself.

“look at us,” you said, scrolling through the photos. “power couple. athlete and her number one fangirl.”

“number one embarrassment, maybe,” alessia teased giggling slightly as she leaned in to kiss you anyway.

“hey, now” you murmured against her lips. “you say that, but you ran to me like you were in a movie. i half expected slow-motion music to start and play around the emirates.”

“shut up,” she said, though her laughter made it hard to sound stern. “you make me insane.”

“a good insane, though,” you said, wrapping your arms around her again. “like… ‘this girl drives me up the wall but i’d still kiss her forever’ kind of insane.”

alessia hummed. “fine. but only because you canceled your shoot.”

“oh, you think that’s why i came?” you grinned. “please, i came to support my team! and to should off my artistic skills that lettering on the sign? that took me three hours on the flight yesterday.”

“you spelled ‘please’ wrong.”

your face dropped. “wait—what? no, i didn’t.”

alessia grinned wickedly but teasingly. “kidding. but admit it, you panicked just a little.”

“i hate how good you are at that.”

“and yet,” alessia said, pulling you into another kiss, “you still love me.”

you kissed her back, slow and full of everything words couldn’t quite say. your hands rested on her waist, hers tugging at your collar, and the noise of the stadium faded into background static.

when the two of you finally pulled apart, alessia rested her forehead against yours, still catching her breath.

“thanks for the surprise,” alessia whispered. “it meant everything.”

your eyes softened as you brushed her cheek with your thumb. “just wanted to remind you… you’re never doing this alone. even if i have to make ten more signs and accidentally embarrass you every time.”

alessia smiled so wide it hurt. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“devastatingly cute,” you corrected her, taking alessia’s hand as the two of you started walking out together, alessia needing to get showered and changed from the match.

and in that moment, with victory behind alessia and you beside her, alessia realised something:

the stadium had roared for the win. but alessia? she’d already won the second she saw you in the crowd.

hand in hand, the two of you walked toward the tunnel at the emirates, alessia having dragged you past the steward much to the stare he gave you. alessia just giving him her usual smile as she walked hand in hand with you.

the crowd still buzzing behind the two of you, but alessia was already thinking ahead—to the quiet after the storm, the part where the two of you would finally get a moment alone.

at the two of you stepped past the threshold into the player’s tunnel, a familiar chorus of voices called out.

“well, well, look who couldn’t wait five minutes before running off to her girlfriend.” kyra’s teasing voice echoed through the tunnel.

alessia groaned and turned to see a small cluster of her arsenal teammates still lingering by the dressing room entrance, grinning like hyenas.

“thought she was running to the fans,” beth teased as she leaned again the wall. “turns out she was running straight into a rom-com.”

you, to alessia’s horror, lit up like a kid at christmas. “oh, please,” you said, slipping into full performance mode. “she sprinted like she’d just scored the winning goal and i was holding a puppy and a plate of pasta.”

the girls lost it. alessia smacked at your chest lightly. “y/n!, don’t encourage them.”

you turned to her teammates, voice mock-serious. “you should’ve seen the look in her eyes. pure passion. like she saw her soulmate in the form of a girl holding a wrinkled cardboard sign.”

“stop!” alessia groaned, burying her face in her hands as the teasing doubled.

kyra leaned closer to you, the two of you having grown close through alessia and the fact the young australian never seemed to let go of your girlfriend’s side. “how’d you pull off the sign, by the way?“

“i have layers,” you replied solemnly. “romantic, artistic, humble—triple threat.”

alessia gave you a look. “and you forgot ‘embarrassing.’”

you turned to alessia with an exaggerated sigh. “you say that like it’s not part of my charm.”

“she’s smiling,” steph pointed out, elbowing alessia lightly in the ribs. “you’re totally gone for her.”

alessia rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the grin tugging at her lips. “i am going to murder all of you.”

“oh please,” you said, stepping in closer to alessia, voice low now, playful and soft. “you love it.”

“do i?” alessia challenged, arching a brow. she knew what she was doing. you smiled, slow and sure. “want me to prove it?”

before alessia could answer, you leaned in and kissed her—right there in the middle of the tunnel, with laughter echoing in the background and boots scuffing off the concrete floors. it wasn’t dramatic or showy, just a sweet, certain kiss. one that said, ‘yeah. you love it. and i love you.’

when the two of you broke apart, alessia was blushing furiously. the arsenal girls whooped like they were in the front row of a rom-com premiere.

“okay, okay,” alessia said, waving them off. “off you go. haven’t you all got ice baths to complain about?”

the girls scattered, still laughing and throwing there teasing jabs at alessia as they left you and alessia alone in the tunnel’s quiet hum.

you bumped her shoulder as the two of you walked. “you’re welcome, by the way. i made your tunnel entrance memorable.”

alessia shook her head, still smiling as she reached for your hand again. “you’re lucky i love you” you pressing a kiss to her cheek.

and as the two of you disappeared down the tunnel together, the energy of the night still buzzing in the walls, alessia couldn’t stop the flutter in her chest. it wasn’t just the win. it wasn’t even the kiss.

it was the way you fit so effortlessly into her world—and made it a whole lot better.

[ilovejb]

| Mommy’s love |

Pairings: Alexia Putellas x putellas!baby!reader

Summary: Alexia’s daughter Y/N is obsessed with her boobs, and her milk

Warnings: breastfeeding, pure fluffy fluff

Authors note: i love boobs so cute fluffy baby appreciating alexia boobs ( in a cute way don’t make it weird )

The first thing you registered every morning wasn’t the gentle sunlight seeping through the curtains of your shared room, nor the chirping of the birds outside. It was the soft, familiar warmth radiating beside you, the comforting scent of your mommy. And then, the undeniable urge. A deep, primal pull towards the source of all comfort, all nourishment.

Even before your eyes fully fluttered open, your tiny hands were already at work, fumbling with the soft fabric of Alexia’s sleep shirt. A little whine escaped your lips, a soft, needy sound that always seemed to stir your mommy from her peaceful slumber. Her eyes would blink open, a sleepy smile gracing her lips as she registered your presence, your tiny quest.

“Hola, mi amor,” she’d murmur, her voice still thick with sleep, but already laced with that gentle, patient tone she reserved just for you. Before she was fully awake, you’d already found your way, snuggled against her chest, your little mouth latching on with a contented sigh. This was your perfect start to the day, a quiet, magical ritual where the world outside faded away, and it was just you and the comforting rhythm of your mommy’s heartbeat, the sweet, familiar taste of her milk. Alexia would stroke your soft hair, humming a tuneless melody, her love flowing into you as surely as her milk.

The days were a whirlwind of tiny socks, soft babbles, and the ever-present need to be close to your mommy. Even when she tried to steal a few moments to connect with her Barça teammates via video call, you were a constant, cuddly fixture in her lap. During one particular Zoom call, while Alexia was trying to discuss training schedules with a screen full of familiar faces, you decided that the perfect moment for a milk break was now.

Alexia, ever the multitasking marvel, tried to balance you in one arm while gesturing with the other, keeping one eye on the screen. You, however, were single-minded in your pursuit. Little rooting motions turned into determined shoves against her shirt. Alexia tried to be discreet, angling the laptop slightly, but the tell-tale signs were there. A soft sigh of contentment from you, the occasional wiggle of tiny legs.

Then, Mapi’s sharp eyes spotted it. “Alexia,” she called out, a mischievous glint in her eye, “is that… a tiny foot I see sticking out of your hoodie?”

A chorus of giggles erupted from the other squares on the screen. Ingrid chuckled, shaking her head with a fond smile. Aitana teased, “Looks like someone has their priorities straight!”

Alexia just laughed, a flush creeping up her neck. “Someone is a little… insistent this morning,” she explained, adjusting you slightly so you could latch on more comfortably, all while trying to follow the conversation about the upcoming match. You, oblivious to the teasing, were in your happy place, the world a perfect, milky haven.

Even at the Barça training camp, your need for your mommy’s closeness was unwavering. During a brief halftime break, Alexia would often sneak away from the locker room chaos to check on you. You usually stayed nearby with one of the team staff, someone you were familiar with, but the moment you saw your mommy, your face would crumple. A soft whimper would escape your lips, your little arms reaching out with an undeniable longing.

Alexia knew exactly what you needed. Without a word, she’d scoop you up, her tired muscles instantly forgotten at the feel of your small body against hers. Finding a quiet corner in the bustling environment, sometimes just a bench in the hallway or a slightly less crowded part of the locker room, she’d settle down with you at her chest.

The moment you latched on, the whimpers would cease, replaced by contented little sighs. The other players, passing by, would just smile at the familiar scene – Alexia, the world-class footballer, finding her ultimate comfort in your tiny form, and you, finding yours in her.

During a rare team dinner out, the lively chatter and unfamiliar surroundings could sometimes overwhelm you. A little frown would furrow your brow, escalating into a full-blown crying fit that no amount of gentle rocking or soothing words could seem to quell.

The clatter of cutlery and the murmur of conversation would fade into the background as Alexia instinctively picked you up.

Finding a quieter corner of the restaurant, away from the curious glances, she’d sit down, cradling you close. The moment you were nestled against her chest, your little hands reaching, a sense of calm would wash over you both. As you latched on, the cries would instantly subside, replaced by the softest of suckling sounds. Ingrid or Mapi, often the most vocal of the “aunties,” would peek over with knowing smiles. “See?” one of them would whisper, “A boob lover, just like her mom.”

Alexia would just smile, the quiet peace of the moment a welcome respite from the restaurant’s buzz.

Naptime was almost always synonymous with “Mommy’s chest time.” Even when you weren’t necessarily hungry, the only place you truly felt safe and secure enough to drift off was nestled against Alexia. Sometimes you’d nurse until your eyelids grew heavy, your little body going limp with sleep.

Other times, you’d simply lie there, your tiny hand resting on her breast, as if that physical connection was all you needed to enter the land of dreams. Alexia would just lie there too, often sacrificing her own rest, gently rubbing your back, feeling the rise and fall of your tiny chest, letting you drift off in the crook of her arm.

These quiet moments, filled with the silent language of touch and breath, were some of her most cherished.

Even after the adrenaline of a big match win, amidst the celebratory cheers and the joyful chaos of the locker room, Alexia’s thoughts would invariably turn to you. The victory was sweet, but the longing to hold you was always stronger.

She’d quickly find you in the stands, usually being cuddled by a member of the team staff, and scoop you into her arms. Leaving the boisterous celebrations behind, she’d find a quiet corner, perhaps a less crowded part of the stands or a small office.

Still in her sweaty kit, the scent of victory mingling with the sweet smell of baby, she’d sit down and bring you to her chest. As you latched on, a soft sigh of contentment escaping your lips, she’d whisper about how much she had missed you during the game, how your tiny face was her constant motivation.

Perhaps one of the most memorable instances of your unwavering devotion to “boobie time” happened during a post-match press interview. Alexia was answering questions, her voice a mix of elation and exhaustion, when your sharp little ears picked up the familiar sound of her voice from backstage.

Suddenly, a determined wail pierced through the thin walls. The interview faltered as everyone looked towards the commotion. Before anyone could react, you appeared, being carried in by a frazzled team liaison, your little face red with distress, your arms reaching desperately for your mommy.

Without a second thought, Alexia scooped you up from the staff member. The moment you were in her arms, you burrowed into her chest, your cries instantly ceasing as you sought your familiar comfort. With a practiced ease that spoke volumes about your routine, Alexia adjusted her shirt, and you latched on, your tiny hands kneading gently.

Alexia continued the interview, answering questions about the game with you nestled contentedly at her breast, giving a casual, loving smile to the cameras as if it were the most natural thing in the world – which, for the two of you, it absolutely was. The reporters, initially surprised, quickly softened, capturing the beautiful, unfiltered moment of a world-class athlete seamlessly blending her two most important roles: a star on the field and a devoted mommy.

These weren’t just moments of feeding; they were moments of profound connection, a silent dialogue of love and comfort that transcended words.

Your obsession with “boobie time” wasn’t just about the milk; it was about the warmth, the closeness, the unwavering security you found nestled against your mommy’s heart. And for Alexia, every little tug, every soft sigh of contentment, was a tangible reminder of the deep, unbreakable bond you shared, a love that flowed as freely and as purely as her milk. It was a love letter written in the language of cuddles and comfort, a testament to the beautiful, messy, and utterly heart-melting world of motherhood.

[baigepueckers]

Paige Bueckers X Reader

Drawn to You

Paige Bueckers wasn’t one to get distracted.

Not during warmups, not during a game, and especially not during a timeout when the coaching staff was trying to make something out of a chaotic first half. Normally, her focus was like muscle memory refined, sharp, second nature. But tonight, something had been tugging at her attention and will never quite let go.

You.

She didn’t know your name. Just that you were one of the Flight Crew dancers. That you moved like music itself, with rhythm and intention. That you smiled in a way that didn’t beg for attention, but always seemed to have it. Paige didn’t know when she first started noticing you but now she couldn’t stop.

At first, it was during a timeout in the first quarter. She was trying to listen to the assistant coach draw up a baseline inbound play, but her eyes slipped past the clipboard, past her teammates shoulders, toward the far sideline where you were stretching with the rest of the crew. Laughing at something someone said, head tilted back, eyes squinting slightly beneath the blue overhead lights. It should’ve been nothing.

But it wasn’t.

There was something quiet in the way you existed. Something Paige couldn’t name. It wasn’t just the way you danced…though God, that was captivating too. It was the way you looked at people when they talked to you, how you gave them your full attention. The way your hands moved when you spoke, your posture when you stood still, the small kind smile you seemed to offer everyone without expectation.

It unnerved her how easily you settled into her thoughts.

By halftime, she knew she was distracted.

She’d missed a rotation on defense and Arike had given her a look. She’d bobbled a pass she should’ve caught. None of it was catastrophic, but she was off and she knew why.

She was tired of pretending she didn’t keep looking at you.

The Flight Crew’s halftime set started just as the team was heading into the tunnel. She lingered behind, towel slung over her neck, heartbeat settling. Coaches were already inside. Players were chatting among themselves. But Paige stood near the tunnel entrance and watched.

You were mid routine centered, powerful, graceful in a way that wasn’t forced. Every move hit with purpose, but there was an ease to it too.

She felt like she was watching someone in a different universe, but for some reason that universe made more sense than hers.

And then it happened.

You turned just slightly…and your eyes met hers for the briefest second.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Just held her gaze, steady and open before returning to your movement like it hadn’t been a moment at all.

But it was. To Paige, it was.

It was enough to sit with her for the rest of the game like a quiet hum under her skin.

After the final buzzer and after the handshake line and team huddle, Paige drifted toward the baseline, still in uniform, still sweating under the lights…trying not to look like she was waiting for something.

You were across the court again, gathering your water bottle while slipping a jacket on over your top. Your crew was filtering out around you, laughing softly.

Paige stayed still until it felt like the space between you had thinned.

Then, almost without thinking she moved.

It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t smooth.

Just a few slow steps across the edge of the court, her shoes squeaking faintly against the hardwood. She didn’t know what she was going to say. She wasn’t good at this. Not when it was real.

You looked up just as she neared, and your expression shifted…not surprised. Not expectant either. Just… calm. Like you’d been waiting too, in your own way.

“Hey,” she said, voice quieter than she meant.

“Hey,” you returned, your tone just as soft.

A pause. Not awkward. Just full.

Paige let out a breath through her nose and rubbed the back of her neck. “You guys were… incredible tonight.”

You smiled. “Thank you. You weren’t bad yourself.”

That made her huff a laugh, short and unsteady. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t exactly focused.”

Your head tilted slightly. “No?”

She hesitated then met your gaze again. Her voice dropped, sincere now. “I kept watching you.”

You didn’t blink.

“I noticed” you said, with no judgment in your tone. Just fact.

“I didn’t mean to stare. I just…” She trailed off then shook her head a little, trying to gather herself. “You have this… way about you. I don’t know. The way you talk to people. The way you carry yourself. It’s just…”. She stopped. “I guess it stood out.”

For a second, you didn’t say anything.

Then you spoke…quiet, but clear. “You seem like someone who doesn’t say things unless they mean them.”

She swallowed. “I don’t.”

“I’m glad,” you said, smile softening. “Because I think I noticed you too.”

Something in Paige’s chest unclenched slow, relief blooming in the space where nerves had been.

You looked down for a moment, adjusting your bag on your shoulder then glanced back at her. “I usually leave pretty quick after games. But maybe next time, I won’t.”

Paige nodded once, then twice like she was afraid it wouldn’t stick. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”

You stepped back, your hand brushing hers gently as you passed.

“See you around, Paige,” you said, and something about the way her name sounded in your mouth made it feel like more than a goodbye.

She watched you walk away, her pulse still hammering, from this. This quiet, tentative something she hadn’t been expecting. And maybe didn’t fully understand.

But maybe she didn’t need to.

[pazzi5351]

PART 6

Just Friends

Football P x Cheerleader A

Highschool AU

WC: 2.3k

AN: IM BACK BITCHES😋😋 if you missed me I’m so sorry but I think that this chapter will make up for it. I worked on making it more detailed so lmk if there’s errors and I tried making it longer than my usual so also lmk if my transitions make sense! Love ya 🥰

————————————————————————————---------------

The morning of the playoff game was crisp and electric, the kind of day where every breath seemed to crackle with anticipation, like the air was holding its own secret, waiting to explode. The sun was just beginning to stretch golden shadows over University of Virginia’s campus, casting long shadows across the football field, where the freshly painted yard lines gleamed with promise. 

Fans began trickling in slowly at first, then in clusters, decked out in school colors—deep maroon and bright white—faces painted with stripes and symbols, school logos pinned proudly to hats and scarves. Excited chatter swirled around the parking lot, the unmistakable hum of pre-game energy buzzing beneath it all. Friends gathered, voices rising and falling, laughter interrupted by the sharp blast of whistles and the distant thud of a football being tossed back and forth.

Inside the team’s locker room, the atmosphere was thick with a mix of tension and determination. It was the kind of quiet storm that always rolled in before a big game—the collective heartbeat of the team, rapid and steady, reminding everyone that this was the moment they’d been working for all season long. Cleats scraped against the polished floor, coaches barked last-minute instructions with the same passion they had all year, and players shifted nervously, adjusting pads and helmets, some pacing, others sitting silently, focused and calm on the surface but freaking out on the inside.

Paige sat on the bench, methodically pulling on her gloves, her fingers steady even though her heart was pounding against her chest like a drum. She had the practiced ease of someone who had run these routines a hundred times before, but the stakes were different now. This was no ordinary game—it was the playoffs, the moment that could define everything. Her cleats dug slightly into the turf as she stretched and warmed up along the sideline, eyes sharp and scanning.

The Arlington offensive line had spent the past few weeks watching endless hours of film after school and in between practices, studying their opponent’s defense—a team known for their relentless, physical playing style. Their defensive line was infamous for crushing running lanes, slamming into quarterbacks with the force of a freight train, and never letting up. Every yard on the field was going to be a challenge. Paige knew the defensive ends were fast and brutal, the linebackers hit like trucks, and the secondary played tight coverage that left no room for error.

Nearby, on the cheerleading sideline, Azzi was busy coaching one of the freshman girls through some new motions that were part of their halftime routine. Her voice was low but steady, carrying just enough encouragement to push without pressure. “Okay, hit that low-v faster — like this. Remember, low-v is 1, break is 2, and punch is 3.” She demonstrated with sharp, precise movements, muscles taut and controlled. The younger girl nodded, trying to mirror the exact motions, lips pressed in concentration.

Paige jogged over, a wide grin breaking through her usual game face—a grin that was equal parts excitement and nerves. She tapped Azzi’s shoulder lightly, and Azzi turned mid-instruction, muttering a “one sec.” to the freshman. She looked at Paige and their eyes met, locking for a split second in a quiet moment away from the chaos that was right infront of them. Paige’s smile was shy but full of warmth, the kind of smile that made Azzi’s chest flutter; the same one Caroline called her “Azzi smile”. Without a word, they slipped into their secret handshake, fluid, and practiced with quick highfives, double hand taps, fingers briefly intertwining before they parted. Paige’s eyes twinkled with adrenaline as she nodded once, then jogged back toward the huddle, heart racing.

On the sidelines, Caroline and Ryan exchanged wide-eyed looks, mouths hanging open just a little. “What the fuck?” Ryan muttered, voice low.

Caroline smirked knowingly, nudging him. “I clocked that shit the second Paige tapped Azzi’s shoulder grinning. But, chill before you blow our cover.” She threw a pointed glance at Azzi, who was already slipping back into her spot on the cheer line, cheeks flushed but composed, with a slight smile on her face.

The referee’s whistle blew sharply, slicing through the murmurs of the crowd and signaling the start of the game. From the very first snap, the opposing defense came out swinging hard.The linebackers swarmed Paige the instant she caught the ball, jostling and tackling her with brutal intensity, every inch on the field was met with a battle. Arlington’s offensive line stood firm, but the pressure from Lehigh was relentless, pushing their quarterback to scramble just to keep plays alive. Sweat dripped, breaths came fast, and every move was met with resistance.

By the third quarter, cracks began to show in Arlington’s protection schemes. A few key plays stalled, drives ended in punts or field goal attempts when touchdowns had seemed possible. Frustration curled in Paige’s stomach when she was flagged for a borderline pass interference call, teeth clenched tight. She pushed it down, reminding herself that this game was far from over.

The crowd was electric as the clock wound into the fourth quarter, the score tight and tension thick. Both teams were locked in a fierce,fight—hits landing hard, catches made on the edge of control, and cheers roaring with every daring play. With just under five minutes left, the whole stadium seemed to hold its breath.

During a timeout, the Arlington team huddled close, sweat glistening on faces, chests heaving, eyes filled with determination. Their head coach stepped forward, whiteboard in hand, sketching out a new play — a quick sideline run designed to exploit a weakness they’d spotted in the rival’s formation. It was perfect for Paige’s speed and agility, a chance to outrun the defense along the edge and break free.

“Alright, Paige,” the coach said, voice low and serious, locking eyes with her. “You’re the key. Get the ball, stay low, and push down that sideline and don't stop until you reach the endzone. We need this touchdown.”

Paige nodded, adrenaline surging through her veins. She felt the weight of the moment settle over her shoulders but didn’t flinch.

Back on the field, the snap was clean. Paige exploded off the line, eyes sharp and scanning the defense. The defensive backs closed in fast, but she was faster. With a quick juke, a powerful push, she slipped past the nearest defender and sprinted along the sideline. The crowd erupted as she barreled toward the end zone, the defense chasing desperately behind. One final dive, arms stretched out in front of her, and she crossed the goal line.

The stadium exploded with cheers and jumping fans.

Her teammates swarmed her immediately in the endzone—helmet taps, chest bumps, playful butt slaps echoing the close victory. They hadn’t just won; they’d earned every inch, fought every step. The taste of the win was almost dizzying.

But even in the rush of celebration, the nerves of the state championship game the next day hung heavy. The team’s curfew was strict:room checks by 10:45, lights out at 10:50 sharp. Azzi and the cheer squad followed the same rules, which were enforced by their coaches, knowing the stakes were higher than ever.

Later that night, after the mandatory bedroom check, Azzi lingered near the door in her room, a mischievous glint lingering in her eyes. “I’ll be back,” she whispered low, just loud enough for Caroline and Ryan to hear.

Caroline shook her head, exasperated. “You really should stay. You don’t want the whole team getting in trouble.”

Azzi waved her off. “Relax. The football guys already had their checks earlier. And Paige’s the only girl on the team, which means, she gets her own room. Nothing to worry about. And if anyone sees me and asks, Paige left her hoodie in here the other night.”

Caroline rolled her eyes and Ryan protested further from the bathroom, but Azzi was already halfway out the door. She hopped in the elevator and rode down to the floor where the football team was.

As she walked down the hall toward Paige’s door, she paused near the other guys’ rooms, as she heard her name from behind the door.

“I think you could totally pull Azzi, man. The other night, you just came off way too strong talking about her.”

“Yeah, and plus, Paige was there. You know her ass goes crazy for Fudd. Wants to keep her all to herself, even though Azzi’s not even gay.”

The last voice was unmistakable—the same boy who’d made a rude comment about Azzi at the pool on the first night. “Maybe. I’m gonna see if I can get her without her bodyguard.”

Azzi’s blood ran cold. Without hesitation, she knocked hard against their door. Then again. And again.

Footsteps approached and the door swung open.

“Listen,” Azzi said, voice low but fierce. “Fuck off. If you ever disrespect Paige again, I swear on everything I’ll make sure you never see a football or field again. And I’m not threatening you — that’s a fucking promising.”

The boys exchanged uneasy glances, muttering apologies.

“For the record,” Azzi added, stepping closer, eyes sharp, “even if I were straight—and that’s a big fucking if—I wouldn’t think twice about rejecting your ugly asses.”

She turned sharply and walked away, the hallway suddenly quiet.

When Azzi reached Paige’s door, it opened before she could knock.

Paige stood there, slightly disheveled like she’d just woken up, messy hair framing her face, looking impossibly pretty.

“What was all that banging?” Paige asked, eyebrows raised.

Azzi smiled but said nothing, leaning in to kiss her softly. When Paige smiled against her lips, she grabbed Azzi’s waist, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. Laughter bubbled from Azzi when she pulled away, earning a playful protest from Paige.

“You played so well today baby,” Azzi whispered.

Paige’s lips curled into a teasing smirk. “Then you should come in and show me how well I played, mama. Please?”

Azzi chuckled, mumbling, “You act like a horny 13-year-old boy sometimes.” She kissed Paige again, then shook her head. “Goodnight P.”

The next morning, Paige’s team was already on the field well before 8:30. Paige groaned, mumbling something about how it was way too early to start drills and practice plays for tonight. She ran routes with the second-team quarterback, focusing on her footwork and cuts.

As she rounded the corner, the same three boys Azzi had confronted the night before approached her, looking sheepish.

“Yo, Paige. Look man, we’re so sorry for disrespecting you and Azzi,” Malik said quietly. 

“We didn’t know your relationship was that serious. We didn’t mean anything by it.” Trey added nodding, barely even looking at her.

Paige blinked, confused but appreciative. “Thanks… I guess.”

They nodded quickly and backed off.

Coach called a break. “Alright, get off my field. Get some rest before tonight. Be downstairs by 5.”

Paige nodded and hurried inside. Instead of heading to her own room, Paige took the elevator two floors higher, heading to Azzi’s. She knocked twice, and Caroline’s voice called out, “Az, your girlfriend is at the door!”

Paige blinked, caught off guard. “Girlfriend?”

Caroline smirked. “Yeah, seriously. The pregame handshake sold it for me. But don’t forget, she’s my best friend—I know everything.”

Before Paige could respond, Azzi appeared in the doorway, mock annoyed. “Carol, you’re so annoying. I tell you shit in confidence.”

Azzi glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby, then leaned forward to kiss Paige deeply.

“Hi,” she whispered, pulling back.

Azzi’s eyes roamed over Paige’s post-practice look—messy bun, compression tee, practice pants, pads in hand—and she murmured, “You look so fucking good right now… kinda making me wish I had a room all to myself.”

Paige laughed softly and kissed her again, getting a small whimper from Azzi as she pulled back.

“Tonight, after we’re champs,” Paige said lowly, “my room is all ours, alright ma?”

Azzi’s breath caught, eyes half-lidded as she buried her face in Paige’s chest. “Fuck, I wish you weren’t so you sometimes.”

Paige grinned. “Why’s that, baby?”

Azzi groaned softly. “Because you’re just so hot and perfect, and I can’t even do anything about it. One, I still have to cheer later; two, you still have a game; and three, my annoying ass friends are in here.”

Paige laughed as Azzi pouted into her chest.

Suddenly remembering, Paige pulled back slightly. “Baby… Why did Malik and Trey come up to me during practice, apologizing like crazy for ‘disrespecting’ me?”

Azzi’s expression stiffened. “Nothinggg, I swear… I just– might have overheard some dumb shit they were sayin’ last night and I maybeee threatened them… only a little though! Maybe saying if they talk about us again, they’ll never see a football field again.”

Paige laughed, pushing Azzi playfully. Azzi pouted at her again. “Paige, it’s not funny. They were saying crazy shit. You can’t even blame me. Don’t think I forgot how you were about to beat Trey’s ass at the pool cause he was sayin’ dumb shit.”

Paige kissed her again. “I know, I know. But, I also know them, so I believe you. That’s why it’s funny. I’m glad you said something, but you should’ve seen how scared they were coming up to me.”

Azzi chuckled. “Good. They needed it.”

Paige glanced at her watch and sighed. “I should head downstairs to get ready.”

Azzi hugged her tightly. “Okay. But whatever happens tonight, I’m proud of you—and I’m definitely taking you up on that empty room offer.”

Paige laughed, kissed her one last time, and headed for the elevator with one thought burning bright in her mind: Win.

[rhyrhy]

‘Slut me out’ series ˚ · .˚ ༘🦋⋆｡˚

Football! Fuckboy! Abby Anderson x female reader!

Cw: internal conflict, toxic situationship! , college/ modern setting Abby!, no talks on body or race specifics! (Shorter ep)

MDNI - mlist for previous chapters

Chapter four: Game day 🏈 (still proofreading!)

“You’ve already made up your mind.” The words echoed in your head, twisting like a knife. What was she getting at? She ghosted you. Why did you feel guilty? This wasn’t your fault. Sure, sleeping with her and letting her convince you that you were ‘different’ had been downright idiotic… but, god, it had felt so good to be in her arms. Temporary or not.

“Earth to Y/N!” Layla’s voice cut through your thoughts as she waved a hand in front of your face.

Suddenly, it all came rushing back—the roar of the crowd, the deafening cheers, the stadium alive with energy as the game got underway. Dragged out of your dorm by insistent friends, you now sat sandwiched between them, trying to keep your focus on the moment. Seeing Abby on the field wasn’t ideal. Less than pleasant, if you were honest. But you weren’t here for her. Today was about you, your friends, and enjoying this day out.

Yeah, Forget her. That chapter was closed.

Today, January 17th. 6:00pm

“Dude, You’ve been zoning out for, like, ten minutes,” Charity said, popping a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “Come on, loosen up. It’s game day!

You gave some sorry excuse of being ‘tired’. Layla gave you a knowing look but didn’t press. Distracting with lots of group selfies. She and Charity were the only ones who knew the full story about Abby—how things had started, how they’d fallen apart, and how you were now stuck in this…unspoken limbo.

Yet, Your stomach twisted every time you spotted her. She stood tall, confident, her presence was a black hole commanding your attention, as she took her place. The same Abby you’d let into your heart, the same Abby who’d ghosted you and made you feel like everything and nothing simultaneously. What a mess.

She was in her element, wearing her jersey and cleats, her braid tied tightly. You hated the flutter you still got when seeing her despite everything. The flashbacks of the night you had still painfully vivid in your mind. this is so ridiculous.

You didn’t understand why she wasn’t more upfront about it just being a causal relationship, and just expected you to know it would ‘never’ be anything more. You deserved better than that, better than her current behavior. However it was hard to let go of that potential, and ‘what if’s’. The way she laughed and held you in the afterglow of screaming your lungs out and gripping her sheets. it was …soft.

A Jekyll and Hyde.

——-

The halftime whistle sounded, feeling a bit restless and hungry you suggested that you and layla grabbed snacks, while charity held onto the seats. You maneuvered through the crowd, heading toward the concession stands.

As you waited in line, the air felt lighter, the noise of the game fading into the background. For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax, leaning against the counter while Layla debated between nachos and a pretzel. You were reminding her of how she never finished her nachos and would force you to eat the rest so she didn’t ’waste her money’ when goosebumps spread across your skin.

You didn’t want to look over. You shouldn’t look over.

But you did.

You paused, feeling the familiar figure burning holes into your back ,through your fragile calm. Slowly, you found yourself turning around despite your mind screaming at you to ignore her. Any conversation you two had thus far was unproductive and pointless. The meaningless pillow talk, Her apology, You cutting her off in her dorm doorway. The more your heels turned your heartbeat grew louder in your ears. Replying all your previous conversations.

Thump. thump. thump.

Here we go, you took a breath and finally faced her fully. Dreadfully, there she was. standing a few feet away, her jersey slightly damp with sweat, her hair a bit loose and frizzy from its fishtail braid. Those less familiar blue eyes were fixed solely on you. the faint sheen of sweat making her look… unfairly good. Her gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt.

Abby was the first to look away, running a hand over the back of her neck like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself.

She didn’t leave, though.

It felt like a movie scene the way the people around you faded, when you made eye contact. Suddenly you were on a stage with a bright spotlight beaming on you with a sudden stage fright. You opened your lips to speak, but no words came out. What could you possibly say? why were you so wordless when it came to her? Layla, awkwardly shifted unsure if she should walk away or stay put.

hesitantly she took a few steps forward until she was a respectful distance away. Your pulse hammered in your ears. You didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, her hands stuffed into her pockets.

“Hey,” she said finally, her voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Absolutely not.” Layla scoffed, disapproving of whatever Abby was going to spit out.

Abby shifted awkwardly under Layla’s glare but didn’t back down. Her eyes darted back to you, a quiet determination behind them. For a moment, you thought she might walk away again, Praying she’d back off like she did last time.

But, of course, she didn’t.

Layla let out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, now you want to talk? After everything--” She began to get louder, clear upset for her friend and the situation. The last thing you wanted was a public scene, so you cut her off.

“Layla, it’s fine,” you said putting a hand on her shoulder. god this felt like high school all over again.

“Are you serious?” Layla hissed. Then gave in.“Fine. But I ain’t going far,” she added, shooting Abby one last warning glare before stepping away.

Abby rubbed the back of her neck again, the gesture almost endearing if you weren’t so upset with her. “Look, I know I’ve been a mess. I screwed up. But—”

“You think?” you cut in, unable to stop yourself. “Do you have any idea how hurtful this whole situation has been for me?”

Abby flinched at your tone but didn’t look away. If anything, she stepped closer, her brows knitting together in frustration. “I know, I know” She paused and tilted her head back in defeat. What the hell could she even say right now. “Look, I was.. I was scared,” she admitted, the words barely audible. “I didn’t know how to handle… everything. You. Us. It was easier to shut down than to face it.”

You stared at her, your heart a mix of anger and something… softer, something you didn’t want to acknowledge. Standing your ground, and letting her continue. You couldn’t fold like you did in her dorm. You couldnt.

“I- Jesus..Yeah,” she said, looking up at you again. “The ghosting… it was Easier for me. But it was wrong. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She took a deep breath, trying to steady her own emotions. "And..You have every right to be upset," she said quietly. "I messed up. So understand, I'm sorry, okay?

And there is was, the apology. The apology she repeated three times. The apology you had been waiting for for weeks. It felt almost too good to be true…she’s sorry? no ignoring…or hurtful comments. Just an honest apology. Your chest tightened at the sight of her looking like a kicked puppy. but the weeks of self disgust and insecurity from being thrown to the curb after feeling comfortable enough to be inmate was still strong when if it was subsiding a little. Why did it take you cutting her off to give you that?. so many questions…But all you said was

“…Thank you for that, Abby” The wounds she’d left were still fresh, and forgiveness wasn’t something you could offer so easily. Especially not right now.

The world began to fade back in as the moment disappeared. The weight of the apology replacing the old internal conflict.

Layla nudged your arm gently, breaking the silence as you stared at the spot where Abby had stood moments ago. Her voice was softer now, lacking its usual sharp edge. “You did good, it’s over now. Cmon” she said taking your arm back to the stands.

——

The game resumed, you found yourself retreating into your head, the apology replaying over and over. She’s sorry. The words rang hollow and real at the same time, like an echo you weren’t sure would fade. You had those words before, and she only repeated her actions. was this time different? how were you supposed to know if that was for you or her guilty conscience.

Why can’t she just go away.

———

Taglist cuties: @deadbolted @grey-jedi12 @ceylnisgone @evabby @abby-anderson-wifey @icedsimpsayo @elle-girlylesbian

———

So happy the Abby girls like this so far! 🦋! Chapter 5 also tonight! Editing rn!

upcoming chapters- updates! Will link 🔗 soon!

Chapter five: Out of bounds— (I did say there was a party this weekend didn’t I 🤭?) (nsfw)

Six: Overtime

Seven and final : Touchdown!

——

Also how would you guys feel about a 🔞oneshot! Of Ex-abby! Based on this c.ai bot I made randomly? Lmk!

[polo-drone-001]

The Golden Eyes

Elliot had never been much of a soccer fan, but when his friend dragged him to the Golden Army’s championship match, he found himself mesmerized from the first whistle. The team moved like a single organism—every pass, every shot, perfectly synchronized. But it wasn’t their skill alone that captivated him.

It was their eyes.

Every player had glowing, golden eyes that seemed to shimmer brighter under the stadium lights. Each glance from the field felt as though it was directed straight at Elliot, even from across the roaring crowd. His pulse quickened, his breath catching every time one of those radiant gazes met his own. It was impossible to look away, as if their eyes carried a magnetic pull.

By halftime, Elliot could barely sit still. His heartbeat seemed to sync with the players’ movements, each thundering step echoing in his chest. The crowd’s cheers faded into the background as his focus locked entirely on the team. He didn’t know why, but he felt like he needed to be closer—to see those eyes up close.

When the Golden Army scored their final goal, sealing their victory, the crowd erupted. Elliot stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the team huddling together in celebration. The captain, Scott, stood in the center, his golden eyes glowing brighter than the rest. For a fleeting moment, Scott turned his head, locking eyes with Elliot. A smirk tugged at the captain’s lips, and he nodded slightly, as if inviting him.

Elliot’s legs moved on their own as he made his way down toward the field. He didn’t stop to think about how or why he was allowed past security. It was as though invisible strings were guiding him. Before he knew it, he stood outside the team’s locker room, his heart pounding.

The door opened, and Scott stepped out, still in his golden jersey, his broad shoulders and confident stance almost intimidating. Up close, his eyes were impossibly hypnotic, swirling with liquid gold.

“You made it,” Scott said, his voice deep and smooth. He gestured for Elliot to follow. “Come in. There’s something I think you’ll find interesting.”

Elliot stepped inside, the room bathed in a soft golden glow. The players stood in a line, their jerseys glinting under the lights, their golden eyes fixed on him. It was overwhelming, yet exhilarating. He felt like prey caught in the gaze of predators, and he liked it.

“What... what is this?” Elliot managed to ask, his voice trembling.

“This,” Scott said, stepping closer, “is unity. Power. Brotherhood. The golden gaze is our bond, and through it, we share strength and purpose.”

Scott reached for a golden jersey hanging nearby and held it out. “But it’s not just our eyes that bind us. It’s the gear. The jersey. Once you wear it, you’ll understand.”

Elliot’s hands shook as he took the jersey. The fabric was warm to the touch, almost alive. He hesitated, but the players’ eyes bore into him, silently urging him forward.

“Put it on,” Scott commanded, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

Elliot slipped the jersey over his head. The moment it touched his skin, a wave of heat surged through him. His vision blurred for a moment, then sharpened, the golden glow of the room intensifying. He felt his heartbeat sync even more deeply with the team’s rhythm, his mind clearing of all thoughts except one: belonging.

Scott placed a hand on Elliot’s shoulder, his golden eyes piercing into his soul. “Welcome to the Golden Army. From now on, you’re one of us. Your purpose is our purpose. Your strength is our strength.”

Elliot nodded, his lips curling into a smile as the truth of Scott’s words settled into his mind. The players cheered, their voices harmonizing in a chant that resonated deep within his chest.

As Elliot looked around, his own eyes began to glow with the same golden light. He was no longer just an observer. He was part of the team—a brother bound by the golden gaze, ready to serve, to play, to obey.

Ready to embrace golden glory? Contact me @polo-drone-001, or our Caps, @brodygold and @goldenherc9, recruiter @hades-gold19, and take your first step into the Golden Army.

Unity. Strength. Victory awaits.

[nameless-jamie]

Offside Tension - Jamie Tartt x Y/N

Masterlist - Next Chapter

Chapter 9: Taking Risks

The buzz of game day was palpable, the air crackling with anticipation as fans flooded Nelson Road, their cheers echoing like a heartbeat. Richmond was set to face one of their toughest rivals, West Ham United, and the stakes couldn’t have been higher. Every player had something to prove—Jamie Tartt most of all.

Y/N stood at the edge of the pitch during warm-ups, clipboard in hand but her mind miles away. She glanced toward Jamie, who was already in his zone, running drills with Isaac and Sam. There was a tension in his movements, sharper and more precise than usual, as if he carried the weight of the entire match on his shoulders.

Since their argument, Jamie had been more focused but also more withdrawn. The playful banter between them had dwindled, replaced by stolen glances and clipped exchanges. Y/N hated how things felt unresolved, like an unspoken question lingering between them.

“Oi,” Roy’s gruff voice cut through her thoughts. He sidled up beside her, arms crossed. “You’re starin’.”

Y/N’s head snapped toward him. “I am not.”

Roy raised an eyebrow. “You are. And he knows it. So maybe sort your shit out before it messes with his head.”

She bristled. “My ‘shit,’ as you so eloquently put it, is fine, thanks.”

“Is it?” Roy shot her a knowing look. “Because Jamie’s been running himself ragged all week tryin’ to prove something. You reckon that’s a coincidence?”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, but Roy held up a hand. “Look, I’m not saying it’s all on you. But he plays his best when he’s got his head straight, and right now, it ain’t. You’re important to him—more than you realize. Don’t be a coward about it.”

Before she could respond, Roy stalked off, leaving her grappling with his words.

The match itself was a rollercoaster. Richmond started strong, with Sam scoring a brilliant goal early on. But the opposition fought back fiercely, leveling the score just before halftime.

In the locker room, the atmosphere was tense. Ted delivered one of his classic pep talks, light-hearted but motivating, while Beard broke down the tactical adjustments. Y/N hung back, observing the players.

Jamie sat near the corner, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor. She could see the frustration radiating off him, and despite everything, her heart ached.

As the second half began, Jamie came alive. He moved with purpose, weaving through defenders like it was second nature. Every pass, every sprint, every shot—it was as if he was channeling something deeper.

When the final whistle blew, Richmond had emerged victorious, thanks in no small part to Jamie’s last-minute assist that sealed the winning goal. The stadium erupted, fans and players alike swept up in the euphoria of triumph.

The celebration in the locker room was deafening. Players laughed, shouted, and sprayed water bottles in the air like champagne. Ted was in the middle of it, clapping everyone on the back with his usual aw-shucks charm. Y/N hovered on the edges, her gaze flickering to Jamie, who sat on the bench, drenched in sweat but smiling faintly as Isaac ribbed him about the assist.

She turned to leave, needing some space, when a familiar voice stopped her.

“You’re not bailing on us, are you?”

She turned to find Jamie standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets. He looked up at her with a careful mix of nonchalance and hope.

“Didn’t think you were much of a pub person,” she quipped, raising an eyebrow.

“Maybe I’m not,” he said, his lips twitching into a half-smile. “But I reckon you should come anyway. Team deserves it. You deserve it.”

She hesitated, crossing her arms. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Jamie pressed, stepping closer. “It’s not like we’re doin’ anything dodgy. Just a pint, some laughs. You might even enjoy yourself.”

“Jamie—”

“Please?” he interrupted, his voice softening. “Look, I get it. Things are… weird right now. But this team’s like family, yeah? And you’re part of that. So come celebrate with us. Don’t leave me to deal with Isaac’s karaoke alone.”

Her resolve wavered at the earnestness in his tone. Finally, she sighed. “Fine. But if this karaoke is as bad as you’re implying, I’m holding you responsible.”

His grin widened, the tension between them easing just a little. “Deal.”

The Crown & Anchor was packed, the air thick with laughter and the faint smell of spilled beer. The team had claimed their usual corner, a chaotic mix of tables and chairs where drinks and jokes flowed freely. Y/N found herself squeezed between Sam and Keeley, who was already halfway through her second glass of wine.

Jamie was at the other end of the table, animatedly recounting the match to Colin and Dani. Every so often, his eyes would flick toward Y/N, lingering just a second too long before he looked away. She caught him once, raising an eyebrow in silent challenge, and he had the audacity to wink before turning back to Colin.

“You’re distracted,” Keeley said, nudging her arm.

Y/N sighed, sipping her drink. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only to someone who’s been there,” Keeley replied, her smile knowing. “Whatever’s going on with you and Jamie? Sort it. Trust me, you don’t want to waste time second-guessing yourself.”

At some point, Jamie appeared beside her, beer in hand. “Fancy some fresh air?”

She glanced up at him, surprised. “What, again? This is becoming a habit.”

He smirked. “Maybe it’s just the easiest way to get you to talk to me.”

“Or maybe you’re avoiding karaoke,” she teased, but she stood anyway, letting him lead the way out the side door.

The night air was crisp, the sounds of the pub fading into the background as they walked a few steps down the alley. Jamie leaned against the wall, his drink dangling loosely in one hand.

“Déjà vu, huh?” he said, glancing at her with a crooked smile.

She chuckled softly. “Seems like it.”

They stood in silence for a moment before Jamie spoke again. “Y’know, I didn’t mean to mess things up between us.”

“You didn’t,” she said quickly, then sighed. “Not really. I just… I’m still figuring out how to balance all this. Being your coach. Being… something else.”

His brow furrowed. “Something else?”

“You know what I mean,” she muttered, looking away.

Jamie stepped closer, his voice low. “I do. But I want to hear you say it.”

Her breath hitched, her heart pounding in her chest. “Jamie…”

“Don’t shut me out,” he said softly, his gaze searching hers. “Please.”

The vulnerability in his voice was almost too much. She opened her mouth to respond, but the door creaked open behind them, and Ted’s voice called out.

“Y’all alright out here?”

Jamie sighed, muttering something under his breath, while Y/N gave Ted a tight smile. “Just getting some air.”

“Well, don’t freeze your bits off,” Ted said cheerfully, then hesitated. “Actually, Y/N, you got a minute?”

Jamie looked at her, his expression unreadable, before stepping aside. “I’ll see you back inside.”

Ted led Y/N to a quieter corner of the pub, away from the noise. He leaned against the bar, studying her with that trademark Ted Lasso warmth.

“You wanna tell me what’s eatin’ at ya?” he asked gently.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated’s my middle name,” Ted said with a grin. “Well, actually, it’s ‘Earl,’ but you get the point. Lay it on me.”

Y/N hesitated, then spilled everything—the argument, the tension, the way Jamie made her feel like she was walking a tightrope between her personal and professional lives. Ted listened quietly, nodding occasionally but never interrupting.

When she finally finished, he smiled. “Y’know, I’ve seen a lotta folks try to figure out what to do with their hearts and their heads. And it ain’t easy. But here’s the thing: you don’t gotta have all the answers right now. You just gotta be honest—with yourself and with him.”

“But what if it doesn’t work?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ted’s smile softened. “Then you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep going. But you can’t let fear keep you from takin’ a chance. Life’s too short for that.”

Y/N replayed Ted’s words in her mind as she headed home, a new sense of clarity settling over her. She knew she couldn’t keep running from her feelings—not if she wanted to move forward.

[krsyelia]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐟𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 — Mark Lee

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc(yeseul)

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

The Girl Who Wasn’t Supposed to Stay

The late afternoon sun spilled onto the cream curtains of Yeseul’s room, filtered soft and gold, like someone up there was trying not to wake her. The light draped itself over the room gently — touching the edge of her IV pole, the quiet beep of the heart monitor tucked beside her bookshelf, and the tiny ceramic ballerina that never spun, its music box long broken.

Yeseul sat propped up on her bed, wearing her favorite oversized sweater — the soft ivory one that hid the scar on her chest without trying too hard. Her dark hair spilled like ink across her pillow, a contrast to the paleness of her skin.

“Please?” Seola begged, her feet hanging off the edge of Yeseul’s bed. She twirled a lollipop between her fingers like it was a peace offering. “Just this once? It’s not even a real party. More like… people standing around, sipping overpriced soda and talking about nothing.”

“Sounds deeply meaningful,” Yeseul murmured, flipping a page of her sketchbook without really looking at it.

Seola rolled her eyes. “I’m serious! You haven’t left this room in weeks unless it’s to go to the hospital or that depressing tutor’s class.”

“I like my depressing tutor.”

“No one likes a tutor who makes you cry over calculus.”

Mark’s voice interrupted the bickering — low and smooth, but firm. “She’s not going.”

He stood with his back against the wall near Yeseul’s bookshelf, arms crossed over his chest. His basketball hoodie was still damp at the cuffs, like he’d run here straight from practice. The fading red of his team number peeked from under the gray.

Seola groaned. “And here comes Captain Overprotective.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “She’s tired. Her heart rate’s been unstable since Monday. You want her to collapse under disco lights?”

“There won’t be disco lights. It’s a rooftop chill night.”

“Still not going,” Mark said, eyes never leaving Yeseul’s.

Yeseul said nothing, just traced the edge of her pencil over a barely-drawn window in her sketch. She hated this part — being caught in the middle of living and surviving. Always choosing the quieter side of everything.

Seola stood up. “You know, she’s not glass. And even if she was, she should at least get to shine in the sunlight sometimes.”

“She is glass,” Mark said quietly. “But the kind that already has a crack.”

That shut Seola up. For a moment, the room was too quiet. Even the monitor seemed to hesitate between beeps.

“I’m not going anyway,” Yeseul said at last, setting the pencil down. “Not because he said no. Just… because I don’t want to go. Okay?”

Mark’s shoulders relaxed a little. He knew her well enough to hear the truth in that.

Seola picked up her bag with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. I’ll go get judged alone by strangers and drink bad soda while you two stare at each other and pretend it’s normal.”

She kissed Yeseul’s cheek and glared at Mark on her way out. “I hope you trip during your next free throw.”

The door clicked shut.

Mark moved closer, slowly — like every step toward her had to be taken with care, like maybe just walking too fast could make her shatter.

“You mad at me?” he asked, sitting at the edge of her bed.

Yeseul leaned her head on his shoulder without answering.

“I just don’t want you to push yourself,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

“I know,” she said, almost too softly. “Sometimes I just wish I could want things... without hurting someone.”

Mark turned, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Hey. I don’t care about rooftop parties or whoever’s dancing with who. If staying here with you is all I ever get — then that’s enough for me.”

“You’re too good,” she said, lips tugging up slightly.

“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is. I don’t want to be the reason you’re missing your life.”

Mark leaned in and pressed his forehead to hers.

“You are my life, Yeseul.”

[FLASHBACK]

Age 7.

Gold balloons floated against the ceiling. Adults in suits clinked champagne. A string quartet played in the corner. And in the middle of it all — a little girl in a white lace dress, sitting completely still.

The doctors had said she might not see her next birthday. Her parents threw the biggest one imaginable, just in case.

And yet, out of all the guests, only one gave her something that made her smile: a paper card with a badly drawn heart and a stick figure doing a handstand.

Mark, seven years old and slightly sweaty from hiding under the table, looked at her and said:

“You don’t look like you’re dying.”

She blinked.

“You look bored.”

She laughed.

Back to present.

Mark was still watching her. His hand brushed hers under the blanket.

“Don’t ever feel bad for staying alive,” he said.

And in that moment, Yeseul didn’t.

Monday mornings at Seonghwa High were loud — the kind of loud that rattled the lockers and echoed through polished marble floors. Laughter bounced down hallways, sneakers squeaked against tiled floors, and music from someone’s speaker thumped faintly in the distance.

But for Yeseul, the world always moved slower. Like sound had to pass through something before it reached her.

Her footsteps were nearly silent, her backpack light, her presence like a whisper — not because she wanted to disappear, but because she'd learned how to take up as little space as possible.

Mark walked beside her, tall and sharp in contrast, his jersey half-zipped over his uniform. He always carried her books even when she said she could handle it. And he always looked over his shoulder when someone passed by too fast.

People stared — they always did. At him, because he was Mark Lee: captain, golden boy, chaebol heir, star of Seonghwa’s basketball court. At her, because she was his. The fragile girl with the medical excuse slips and the almost-too-pretty face who smiled like she didn’t belong in this world.

“Are you breathing okay?” he asked under his breath.

Yeseul blinked up at him. “What kind of question is that?”

“You’re walking slower than usual.”

“I always walk like this.”

Mark glanced at her. “No. Usually you walk like you’re floating. Today you’re... dragging.”

She smiled. “I forgot you have a PhD in Yeseul-watching.”

“I majored in it. Full scholarship.”

They turned the corner just as Seola crashed into them, clutching her phone like it was radioactive.

“Okay,” she hissed, “I know you don’t care about gossip, Yeseul, but you need to hear this — Jiyeon tried to flirt with Mark during practice. Full-blown flirt, like twirling-hair, ‘can you teach me how to shoot’ level flirt.”

Yeseul glanced at Mark.

He looked offended.

“She’s literally the worst shooter on the team,” he muttered.

“I’d be more jealous if you weren’t so bad at lying,” Yeseul said dryly.

“You know I only shoot for you,” he whispered.

Seola groaned, covering her ears. “I’m leaving. I hope your blood pressure spikes from this sugar overload.”

Their classroom felt too bright that morning. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, and the chalk dust hung in the air like fog.

Yeseul sat near the window, where the light was softer, filtered through tree branches and clouds. Mark sat behind her, tapping his pencil against her chair when he got bored. It had been like that since middle school — like he couldn’t exist unless she was within reach.

He was late to practice that day — again.

Coach frowned as he jogged in, towel slung over his shoulder, his water bottle nearly empty.

“You’re losing your edge, Lee.”

Mark didn't respond. He shot ten perfect free throws in a row instead.

But while the rest of the team changed after practice, Mark checked his phone four times, thumb hovering over Yeseul’s name in his chat list.

That evening, Yeseul lay curled on her bed again, sketching the outline of a city skyline she might never visit. Her chest ached a little more than usual. Nothing sharp — just enough to make breathing feel borrowed.

Her phone buzzed. mork❤️: u okay?

She replied: seul❤️Floating, not dragging today. You?

mork❤️: Shooting. Not slipping.

She smiled at that.

Later that night, Seola called, mid-chaos, from the rooftop of someone’s house party. Music pulsed in the background.

“I still think you should’ve come,” she said. “They’re playing old IU songs and someone brought fireworks.”

“Fireworks give me migraines.”

“Yeah, but they make your eyes sparkle.”

Yeseul looked out the window. The sky was empty.

“Sparkles are overrated.”

Seola paused. Then: “You’re allowed to want more, Yeseul.”

“I know.”

“Wanting isn’t selfish.”

“I know.”

“Living isn’t either.”

When the call ended, she sat in silence. Her heart monitor glowed faintly from the corner.

Then a soft knock.

Mark stepped in, still in his practice hoodie. His hair was slightly damp, his eyes tired.

“I brought you orange milk,” he said, holding up the bottle like a trophy.

Yeseul grinned. “My hero.”

He set it beside her sketchbook and sat on the edge of her bed.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“You’re quieter.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

Yeseul looked at him. Really looked — his tired eyes, the way his fingers always curled slightly when he was trying not to worry.

“How long do you think you’d stay,” she whispered, “if I stopped getting better?”

Mark didn’t speak.

Then he leaned in, brushed a kiss against her forehead, and said:

“I’m not staying because you’re getting better. I’m staying because you’re still here.”

The day started like any other.

Morning light cracked through the classroom blinds, warm and sleepy. The teacher droned on about history, and Seola doodled suns in the corner of her textbook.

Yeseul sat still. She was always still.

But something was off.

Her fingers trembled as she tried to grip her pen. Her vision blurred slightly — not fully dark, but dim at the edges like a dream just before waking.

She took a quiet breath. Then another.

It would pass. It always did. Maybe.

“Yeseul,” Seola whispered, nudging her with her pink pen. “You okay?”

Yeseul nodded faintly, but her lips were pale.

Mark turned in his seat, eyes narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” she said. She wasn’t.

Then everything tilted — not dramatically, not the way people faint in movies. More like the floor slowly slipped away from her and her body didn’t know how to follow.

The sound of her chair hitting the ground echoed through the room.

And suddenly everything was fast.

Seola gasped. The teacher froze mid-sentence. Someone screamed.

Mark was already on the floor beside her before anyone else moved.

“Yeseul,” he whispered, tapping her cheek. “Yeseul, open your eyes.”

Her skin was cold. Her breath, shallow.

She looked like paper — too thin, too pale, too easily torn.

“Someone call the nurse!” Seola yelled.

But Mark wasn’t waiting for the nurse. He gathered her into his arms, carefully, gently, like she was made of breath and glass.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you, angel.”

They took her to the school’s private infirmary first, but Mark stayed right beside her, holding her hand even as the nurse placed the oxygen mask over her face.

The school principal tried to usher him out. “Mr. Lee, you’re not family—”

“She’s my family,” Mark said quietly, deadly calm. “Try to move me.”

No one did.

By the time her parents arrived — sharp suits, serious voices, polished grief — Mark had already memorized the beeping pattern of the heart monitor.

The doctor spoke in hushed tones, but Mark caught enough: “Cardiac rhythm dip… stress… not enough oxygen flow... too much standing.”

Yeseul blinked awake sometime around lunch.

Her vision cleared slowly, and the first thing she saw was Mark — sitting beside her, his head down, still gripping her hand like it was the only thing keeping her on Earth.

“Hey,” she whispered.

He jerked up, eyes wide. “You’re awake.”

“You look like you cried.”

He blinked. “I didn’t cry.”

“Your eyes are red.”

“I’m allergic to watching you pass out in the middle of class.”

She smiled weakly.

Then: “You stayed?”

“Always.”

The doctor entered with a clipboard. “Miss Yeseul, you’re going to need rest for a few days. And... we’re going to need to talk about increasing the frequency of monitoring. Possibly even the surgery timeline.”

Yeseul’s smile faded.

Mark’s fingers curled tighter around hers.

Later, when her parents left to talk to the doctors privately, Yeseul whispered, “You should go. You’re missing practice.”

“Screw practice.”

She shook her head faintly. “Mark…”

“I don’t care what people say, Yeseul,” he said, voice low. “I don’t care if I’m late, or if they bench me — none of that matters if you’re not breathing.”

Silence.

Then she said, “I’m scared.”

He kissed her knuckles.

“So am I.”

The Night the World Went Quiet

The first time Mark saw her collapse, she was thirteen.

It was mid-October. The school courtyard was strewn with red leaves, and Yeseul had just returned after a long hospital stay. She wore a scarf too big for her face, and that tiny smile she always gave when she was trying to pretend she wasn’t in pain.

He had brought her melon milk. She liked the color more than the taste.

“I want to try the stairs today,” she whispered, looking up the stone steps that led to the library.

Mark blinked. “Yeseul…”

“It’s just ten steps.”

“Or it could be a lifetime,” he muttered, holding out his hand.

She took it.

They made it to step six before her knees gave out.

The emergency call was a blur. Her body trembled. Her eyes rolled back.

Mark had screamed her name like it was the only thing he knew how to say.

She was rushed into surgery within the hour.

He wasn’t allowed inside.

The nurse told him, gently but firmly, “Only family.”

Mark sat outside the ICU for eight hours. He didn’t cry. He didn’t move. He stared at the door like his gaze could force it open.

Yeseul’s father passed by him once. Mark bowed. He didn’t speak. The man didn’t either.

Midnight came. Nurses changed shifts. The hospital quieted.

Mark stayed.

At 3:12 a.m., her mother stepped out of the ICU, eyes red but hopeful.

“She’s stable,” she whispered. “For now.”

Mark stood up for the first time in hours. His legs shook. He didn’t care.

“Can I see her?”

Her mother hesitated. Then, slowly, nodded.

Yeseul looked tiny in the bed. Pale. Wrapped in wires and soft beeping light.

He took a step in. She stirred — barely.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she gave him the ghost of a smile. “Hi.”

“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered.

“You brought the melon milk?”

He blinked, then laughed — a weak, broken thing.

“I’ll bring you a thousand bottles if you promise to never do that again.”

She squeezed his pinky with hers.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” she murmured, drifting back to sleep.

Outside, the first blue of morning crept through the windows.

He leaned his head against the ICU wall, heart aching in rhythms he couldn’t control.

From that day on, he never left her side.

And every October 14th after that, he brought her melon milk. Even when she was too tired to drink it. Even when she was too sick to speak.

Locker Room Echoes

The locker room always smelled like metal, sweat, and menthol. It was a space Mark usually slipped in and out of, towel slung over his shoulder, headphones in, shoulders tense but focused.

But today, he paused at the doorway.

They didn’t know he was there.

“—I’m just saying, bro. It’s kinda unfair.”

A snort. A thud of sneakers being dropped to the ground.

“He skips practice again, we all get drilled harder. But no one says anything 'cause it’s Mark.”

A third voice chimed in, quieter. “He’s with his girl, right? That rich girl with the… heart thing?”

Silence. Then a chuckle.

“Yeah. The fragile porcelain one. Looks like she’d shatter if you breathe near her.”

Mark’s grip on the doorframe tightened.

“I mean, I feel bad, but come on. You can’t play half-court with half a heart.”

More laughter.

“He could have any girl on campus. Sponsors lining up. Parties every week. And he’s babysitting her 24/7.”

Something cold settled behind Mark’s ribs.

“She’s holding him back. Everyone knows it. Just no one’s brave enough to say it to his face.”

He stepped inside.

The silence that followed hit louder than any buzzer.

Mark’s voice was calm, steady — like a held breath before the storm.

“Say it to my face now.”

Three heads turned. Eyes wide. One pair of laces still untied.

“Hyung, we were just—”

“You were talking about the girl I love like she’s a burden.” He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to.

“She’s not weak. She’s fighting harder than any of you ever will.”

No one dared interrupt.

“I miss a practice to sit by a girl who’s had more surgeries than birthdays. You miss one because you’re hungover from some rooftop party you barely remember.”

Silence.

“I’m not wasting my time.” His eyes were like steel — quiet, unwavering. “You are.”

He tossed his towel into the basket and walked out.

Behind him, the room stayed silent for the first time all season.

That night, he didn’t tell Yeseul what they said. He only showed up at her door, a bag of her favorite pear candies in one hand, his other hand curled into a fist like he was still holding something he couldn’t let go.

She didn’t ask what was wrong. She just opened the door wider.

He stepped inside.

Between Pages and Playlists

Yeseul’s room was bathed in afternoon light — the kind that made everything look like it was floating. The kind that made her feel a little more alive, even when her body disagreed.

Her textbooks lay half-open across the bed. Mark’s hoodie was folded neatly at the foot. He always brought it for her to wear, even in summer. "Just in case," he said, as if warmth could ward off weakness.

She was curled against the window seat, notebook open, legs tucked in. Her pulse monitor sat quietly beside her, the small green light blinking like a second heartbeat.

Mark was on the floor beside her bed, back against the wall, twirling a pencil he hadn’t used in fifteen minutes. His hair was still damp from practice, and he hadn’t changed out of his team jacket.

Neither of them was really studying.

“Is it weird,” she said softly, “that sometimes I like the beeping?”

He looked up. “Beeping?”

She nodded toward the monitor. “It’s annoying. But it also means I’m still here.”

Mark tilted his head, eyes warm. “Then I like it too.”

They didn’t say anything for a while.

She watched the sunlight stretch across the wood floors. He tapped his fingers gently against the rhythm of the blinking light.

And then, like he always did when her silences got a little too heavy, he reached for his phone.

“Headphones,” he said, offering her one side.

She slipped it into her ear.

A soft song began — one of those K-drama OSTs she always said felt like falling in love and crying at the same time.

She smiled faintly. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you.”

He said it too casually for how much it meant.

She leaned her head against the windowpane, watching the students down below in the courtyard. Running. Laughing. Carrying iced coffee and backpacks too full. Living the kind of life she only got in glimpses.

Mark reached up and gently tapped her knee.

“What are you thinking about?”

She turned to him. “You.”

He blinked.

“Just you. Being here.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward, soft and boyish.

“I’ll always be here.”

“I know,” she whispered, and let the song keep playing.

Outside, a leaf fell from the tree beside her window. Inside, they swayed gently in a world of just two heartbeats — hers and his — in sync for now.

Things Not Meant to Be Heard

It started in the hallway outside the art room — the one with the frosted windows and the creaky door that never quite closed.

Yeseul was walking slowly, notebook in hand, scarf wrapped high despite the warmth. She had just come from the nurse’s office. Another check-up. Another reminder. Take it slow. Don't push. Be careful, always.

She stopped when she heard her name.

“…Yeseul? Ugh, she’s so pretty but I swear, it’s like she’s built out of glass.”

A pause. Then a snicker.

“I don’t know how Mark does it. All that attention he gets — and he’s babysitting someone who can’t even climb stairs.”

Her fingers tightened around the notebook.

Another voice, softer but sharper. “They say he missed a whole scrimmage last year because she fainted in the hallway. Like — that’s sweet, but come on.”

Yeseul didn’t move.

“She’s… nice. But honestly? If I had that kind of heart problem, I wouldn’t even show my face in public.”

Laughter.

“I’d be too scared of dying mid-walk.”

Something cracked inside her — quiet, clean. Like a glass slipped from fingers and never caught.

She turned before they could see her, steps careful, measured, practiced. Her pulse monitor buzzed once in warning. She silenced it.

She didn’t cry until she reached her room. Not loud. Not visible. Just that kind of crying where your throat closes and your chest curls in on itself.

She stared at her reflection — the pale skin, the scarf, the slowness. The girl who always sat. The girl who always watched. The girl people whispered about when they thought she wasn’t listening.

She wasn’t supposed to be angry. She was supposed to be grateful.

For being alive. For still being here. For Mark.

But all she could think about was how he had given up so much just to stay by her side. And how maybe… maybe everyone else was right.

Maybe she was holding him back.

That night, she didn’t tell him. When he came by, she smiled as always. They watched a movie in silence. She laughed at all the right parts.

But her fingers curled tighter around her blanket.

And when he leaned his head against her shoulder, she didn’t lean back.

author’s note — Hi Guys! this is cassie here☺️how do you feel about the first part? is it too much angsty? this is my first time publishing my writing on tumblr and im super nervous! pls don hesitate to comment and engage, i absolutely love it!

[dearstvckyx]

“Who's the cute boy with the white jacket, And the thick accent?” - PG6

summary: Alexia attends her first Barcelona game with her best friend Madison and locks eyes with Gavi near the players’ entrance. Intrigued by “the cute boy in the white jacket,” she later begins thinking about him not aware he’s doing the same!

pairing: oc! Alexia x Pablo Gavi (ft oc! Madison)

. 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . . 　⁺ 　 .

Alexia adjusted her scarf nervously as she followed Madison through the crowded streets of Barcelona. The night air buzzed with excitement as fans made their way to Camp Nou, waving flags and chanting in unison. It was Alexia’s first time at a football game, and Madison—her best friend and die-hard Barcelona fan—was determined to make it unforgettable.

“You’re gonna love this,” Madison said, practically skipping ahead. “There’s nothing like seeing Barça play live. Trust me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Alexia replied, her voice tinged with amusement. She didn’t know much about football, but Madison’s enthusiasm was infectious.

Once inside the stadium, the energy was electric. The chants echoed like a heartbeat, and Alexia couldn’t help but get swept up in the moment. After finding their seats, Madison leaned over. “Okay, keep an eye on number six. Gavi. He’s insane.”

“Noted,” Alexia said, though she barely understood what Madison was talking about.

The game was thrilling, even for someone as clueless as Alexia. She cheered when Madison cheered and gasped when the crowd did. By halftime, she was already hooked.

After the game ended with a resounding Barça victory, Madison surprised her. “C’mon, I know a spot where we can see the players leave. You might get an autograph if we’re lucky!”

Alexia followed, more like dragged by, her friend to a barricaded area near the players’ entrance. A small crowd had gathered, hoping for a glimpse of their idols. Alexia didn’t know what to expect, but then she saw him.

A boy in a crisp white jacket emerged from the tunnel, his dark hair slightly tousled, his expression relaxed but focused. His presence was magnetic. He paused to wave at the fans, and that’s when his eyes locked with Alexia’s.

Her breath hitched. He smiled—just a small, genuine curve of his lips—but it felt like the world shifted. Without thinking, she smiled back.

“Who’s the cute boy in the white jacket?” Alexia whispered to Madison, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

Madison turned to look, then practically shrieked. “That’s Gavi!”

“Gavi?” Alexia repeated, tasting the name like it was foreign but intriguing.

“Yeah, Pablo Gavi. He’s one of Barça’s best players right now. You literally just made eye contact with the future of football!”

Alexia blinked, still processing the moment. Gavi turned back toward the tunnel, but not before casting one last glance in her direction.

That night, back in her room, Alexia couldn’t shake the image of Gavi’s smile—or the way her heart had fluttered like it had a mind of its own.

―

Meanwhile, across the city, Gavi sat quietly in the back of the team bus, headphones around his neck but no music playing. His teammates chatted and laughed around him, but he wasn’t listening. Instead, his thoughts were consumed by the brunette haired girl in the crowd—the one with the shy smile and green eyes who had caught him off guard.

He leaned his head against the window, the city lights blurring as the bus sped through the streets. For reasons he couldn’t quite explain, she lingered in his mind.

Who was she? he wondered, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The image of her smiling back at him felt like a spark—brief but impossible to ignore.

. 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . 　⁺ 　 . ⁺ 　 . . 　⁺ 　 .

Should I write a part 2?

Inspired by:

Read part two here

[danielgold-16]

Flying to Victory: Daniel and the Golden Army

The sun hovered low over the stadium, casting golden streaks across the emerald grass. The air buzzed with anticipation as fans of the Golden Army roared, waving banners and flags emblazoned with the number **16**—Daniel's number. He was their maestro, the heartbeat of the midfield, and today was the final of the Champions League.

Daniel stood in the tunnel, his hands slightly trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the moment. At 27, he was in his prime. His career had been a rollercoaster, marred by injuries and doubts, but he had clawed his way back to the top. Now, he was ready to help his team against their fiercest rivals, the Black Eagles.

As the whistle blew, the game exploded into life. Daniel quickly took control, dictating the tempo with his unmatched vision and precision. He glided across the field, always two steps ahead, as though he could read the future. Every pass he made threaded the needle, slicing through the Black Eagles’ defense like a hot knife through butter.

But the game was far from easy. The Black Eagles played with brute force, pressing high and tackling fiercely. By halftime, the score was locked at 1-1, with both sides having given everything. The locker room was tense, the players’ faces etched with determination. Daniel, however, stood calm, delivering a speech that galvanized his teammates.

“Play with your hearts,” he said. “Trust each other. This isn’t just a game—it’s our legacy.”

The second half began, and the intensity reached a fever pitch. Daniel orchestrated attack after attack, his movements almost balletic. Then came the 76th minute—a moment that would be etched in history.

Receiving the ball in his own half, Daniel faced three defenders. With a deft flick, he nutmegged the first. The crowd gasped as he spun past the second with a Cruyff turn. The third lunged at him, but Daniel leaped gracefully, leaving the defender sprawled on the ground.

Now free, Daniel surged forward, his eyes scanning for an opportunity. The goal was still 40 yards away, and the Black Eagles’ goalkeeper had stepped off his line. Without hesitation, Daniel struck the ball with perfect precision. It soared through the air like a missile, curving beautifully before crashing into the net.

The stadium erupted. Fans screamed, jumped, and hugged one another as Daniel sprinted toward the corner flag, arms outstretched like wings. His teammates mobbed him, their faces a mix of disbelief and joy.

The Golden Army defended their lead fiercely in the final minutes, with Daniel dropping deep to help his teammates. When the referee blew the final whistle, the players collapsed to the ground, overcome with emotion. Daniel knelt in the center circle, tears streaming down his face.

The Golden Army had won the Champions League, and Daniel’s name was forever immortalized. He was, for ever, the one who had flown to victory, with his unyielding spirit and the magic in his boots.

[demie90s]

Shot Clock’s Heartbeat: Part 3

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Caitlin Clark X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASERTLIST MORE

Part 1, Part 2

⭑ pairing: caitlin clark x reader (fem!reader)

⭑ summary: It’s been months. Reader’s been unbothered and very vocal. Caitlin’s been biting her tongue. But when they meet again on the court… the only thing hotter than the competition is the silence between them. Until Conor speaks.

⭑ genre: sports rivalry, slow-burn tension, enemies(??)-to-lovers, flirty

⭑ warnings: tension, suggestive energy, reader clowning Conor

⭑ word count: ~0.9k

The months between our last game and now were quiet for her, but not for me. I lived. Summer was long, the spotlight warmer than ever, and I made sure to bask in it. Interviews, pickups, gym videos, charity games—I stayed visible. Caitlin? Not so much. She played it safe. Tugged through it. Let her boyfriend post couple pics that got more hate than hearts. Meanwhile, I went on record saying, “Girls are better. To me at least.” And when they asked about Caitlin? I smirked. “She’s nasty on the court. Pure talent. Shame about the company she keeps.” The comments weren’t subtle, but they weren’t deniable either. And she never blocked me. Didn’t unfollow. Hell, she watched every story I posted, even the one where I quote-tweeted one of Conor’s little gym selfies with: “Lifting all that and still can’t carry her team?” It got 250k likes in 2 hours. I didn’t delete it.

Now it’s the night before the game. We’re the main event. Every sports blog from ESPN to some Twitter fan account is hyping it up like it’s the WNBA Finals. But I’m calm. Real calm. I stretched out longer in warmups than usual. Played my music a little louder. Smiled at every camera that panned over. Then game time hit and I was on her the second the whistle blew. Not dirty. Just close. Just personal. We were tied up by second quarter. My layups were clean. My defense tighter than ever. And she? She was locked in but distracted. I knew it. I felt it. Every time I brushed past her, every time my fingers accidentally grazed hers, I saw it in her jaw. She clenched, then flinched, but never said a word.

Halftime came. We were headed toward the tunnel when I felt a presence I wasn’t expecting. Conor. Standing like a mannequin with a pulse, blocking my path near the hallway. The others walked past, some looking, some ignoring. He didn’t say my name. Just, “Hey.”

I stopped. Raised a brow. “Sup.”

“You think you’re funny?” he asked, chest puffed up like a PE coach.

I didn’t answer. Just tilted my head, the corner of my mouth tugging upward, because I could already tell this was gonna be good.

“You keep talking shit,” he said. “Keep making posts.”

I stayed quiet. I could hear the buzz from the crowd behind the hallway. I could smell the court dust on my jersey. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “And?”

“You trying to start something?” His voice cracked a little. “You’re not even in her league.”

That’s when I really looked at him. Tall, sure. But wiry. Angry. I was 6’2”, solid frame, and unfazed. I didn’t even look at his face. My eyes drifted right past him—right to where Caitlin had just entered the hallway, towel slung over her shoulders, face unreadable.

I smiled at her. “I’m not in her league?” I said, still watching Caitlin. “Baby, I am her league.”

Caitlin blinked. Froze. Like she wasn’t expecting that. Like she was trying to decide whether to roll her eyes or bite her lip.

Conor stepped closer. “Don’t talk to her.”

I turned back to him for the first time, my face shifting just slightly. “But she likes when I do.”

He opened his mouth to say something else but I walked past him, bumping his shoulder just enough to make him stumble. Not a shove. Just a reminder. Then I passed Caitlin. Real slow. My fingers brushed hers just enough to feel the heat.

“See you on the court,” I whispered, just for her.

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t move either.

That was enough

⸻

After the game—tied in points, fans losing their entire minds—reporters are circling like sharks.

Someone asks about Conor.

You fake a cough. “Oops.”

Another asks about your rivalry with Caitlin.

You just smile. “Rivalry is such a harsh word. I’d call it… unresolved chemistry.”

Twitter explodes. You get 10k new followers before you hit the locker room.

And her? She doesn’t say a word to press.

But when you check your phone later, there’s a new message.

“Come say it to my face next time.”

You type back without hesitation.

“Drop your pin.”

[go1denclair-arc]

the    halftime     whistle     cut     through     the     charged    atmosphere    of    the    stadium        ,        signaling     a     pause     in     the     action    but     for     me      ,       a        pivotal     moment     was    about     to     unfold    off    the     field.         as    my     teammates     jogged    towards    the     locker    room      ,        their     figures     blurred     by    my        intense    focus      ,       i     sought     out    coach    reid    on     the     sidelines.         he    was     busy    making    notes        ,        already    deep    in     thought     about     adjustments        for    the    second    half.         "     coach ,      "         i     approached     him      ,       my    voice        firm    despite    the    tumult    of     emotions     inside     me. 

he    turned      ,       his     face    set     in    its    usual     game-day    determination.    "      sinclair      ,       what's     on    your    mind      ?      "         he    asked      ,       straight        to    the    point.      "     i     need     a    moment      —      something    personal     and     urgent,     "       i    explained    quickly      ,       hoping     my    urgency     conveyed     the        seriousness    without    the    need    for    details.        he     studied     my     face     for     a     heartbeat      ,       then    nodded      ,     understanding    the    weight     behind     my        words     without     probing     further.        "      handle     your     business      ,       kid.        we’ll    manage    here.      "

grateful     for      his      swift     support          ,           i     turned      and      made      my          way     to      the      tunnel.           the      sounds      of      the     stadium      dulled     as     i      approached     rhea          ,          who     was     waiting          ,           a     solitary     figure      framed      against      the      stark     walls     of     the      corridor.          she      looked     up     as     i     approached          ,          her      expression      a     complex      tapestry     of      hope      AND      anxiety.          the      noise     of     the      crowd      seemed     to     fall     away          ,          leaving      only     the     echo      of     my      footsteps     as     i     stopped      in     front     of      her.          "     rhea   ,     "           i     started          ,           my     tone      softening     as     i      took     in      her     apprehensive     stance.            "     what’s      going     on       ?        is     everything      okay     ?       "

ʳʰᵉᵃㅤ : ꒪ ㅤׅ ㅤㅤ﹙🏈﹚ㅤㅤ ˚ㅤ mybruta1ity