#dark halftime

[martinofthepark]

[futureselfbeats]

FLAME

original music + animation

[sweetheart-madison]

Bro?? The halftime show? It was so fucking good😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

[italianflame]

Halfway to one..

..as much as I want to refuse to use the Y-word, I just have to say it now. My little girl is now half a year old.

Halbzeit. Ernsthaft? Wie können schon sechs Monate vergangen sein? Sechs Monate, seit du da bist und meinem Leben einen weiteren Sinn gegeben hast - Auri, ich liebe es, die Welt durch deine Augen zu sehen. Ich liebe es, wie fasziniert du vom Regen bist, ich liebe es, die Regentropfen mit dir zu beobachten und wenn dann ein Tropfen auf deine Hand fällt, siehst du mich aus deinen großen braunen Augen an, völlig fasziniert und verliebt in das Leben. Ich bin fasziniert von dir, kleine Terrormaus. Und ich bin verliebt in deine Wangen, deine kleinen Fingerchen und in jedes noch so kleine Geräusch, das aus deinem Mund kommt. Dein kleines Lächeln, dein Strampeln. Deine Persönlichkeit. Deine Blicke. Alles was du tust, liebe ich. Alles was du bist, liebe ich.

Wie mini du warst und wie groß du mittlerweile bist. Einerseits möchte ich die Zeit stoppen, andererseits kann ich es kaum erwarten, deinen ersten Schritt zu erleben, dein erstes Wort zu hören. Gegen die Zeit kann ich nicht kämpfen, aber gegen den Rest? Piccolina mia, ti difenderò da tutto e tutti, non temere mai. Lotterò per ogni tuo sogno e obiettivo. Sempre.

Und vergib mir BITTE, dass ich dich so oft abknutsche, obwohl du es nicht magst. Vergib mir, dass ich so oft an dir knabber, aber ich kann einfach nicht anders. Du bist einfach zu niedlich. Ich liebe dich so sehr, Babypeach.

[baycitystygian]

guys I just survived a ladder that wanted to kill me. cheers

[taviokapudding]

Working around the censors and getting away with everything he could for political commentary, the beef closure, protest, and art - Mr. Lamar's halftime was perfect

But a mutual's comment saying Drake looked like a plate of fajitas got me losing it

Pasta strainer with hot water looking ass istg

[littlelamy]

𝓼𝓾𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓫𝓸𝔀𝓵 𝓼𝓮𝔁

lamy's notes: something for you guys to read during the game

the game is on, but rafe doesn’t give a shit. doesn’t care about the screaming commentators or the roaring crowd on the screen, doesn’t care that his friends are in the other room, glued to the tv. all he cares about is you—spread out beneath him on the couch, legs wrapped tight around his waist, eyes glassy with need.

“keep quiet,” he mutters, but it’s pointless, because he doesn’t actually mean it. he likes the way you squirm, likes the way your breath catches when he presses his cock deeper, stretching you open in slow, deliberate strokes. the noise from the tv masks your soft moans, but he hears them, feels them vibrating against his lips when he presses his mouth to yours.

“rafe—” your voice is a whisper, a plea, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, dragging you closer until there’s not a single inch of space left between you. “they’re gonna hear—”

he smirks, nipping at your jaw, at your neck, at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “let ‘em.” his voice is thick, wrecked, dark with something possessive. he wants them to know. wants them to hear just how good he’s fucking you, how you’re unraveling under him while they sit oblivious in the next room, thinking football is the most exciting thing happening tonight.

his thrusts get rougher, deeper, each snap of his hips pushing you further into the couch. your nails dig into his back, a desperate attempt to ground yourself as pleasure coils hot and tight in your stomach. he can feel it, can see it in the way your body trembles, in the way your lips part on a silent gasp.

“gonna cum for me?” he breathes, his hand slipping between you, fingers rubbing tight, teasing circles over your clit. you nod, too far gone to form words, and he groans, his own release creeping up fast. “fuck—go on, baby. let go.”

and you do. you shatter beneath him, muffling your cry against his shoulder as your body clenches, pulses, drags him right over the edge with you. he buries himself deep, cursing low and rough as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, body shaking.

for a moment, neither of you move. the only sound is the distant roar of the crowd from the tv, the aftermath of a touchdown neither of you saw. rafe lets out a breathless chuckle, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “guess we missed that play.”

he pulls back just enough to see your face, to watch the way you smile, dazed and satisfied. “worth it,” you murmur, and he grins, already thinking about round two before halftime.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx

[rafeandonlyrafe]

southern rivalries

warnings: 18+ only, smut, college au, cheerleader!reader, football player!rafe, college football but i dont know anything so please excuse any wrong details, rivals to lovers, p in v sex, protected sex to unprotected sex lol, sixty nine, male and female receiving oral, male receiving handjob, brief injury but no one is seriously hurt

words: 2.3k

“they're not just a different school.” steffie says, placing her hands down on the table as her tone turns way too serious for the subject. “they're our rivals, our arch nemeses. the war has torn families apart.”

“it's football.” you say plainly. “college. football.”

“i can tell you're new here.” steffies friend tiffy agrees (you've always wondered if they purposely chose their nicknames to rhyme considering they seem attached at the hip). “you just don't get it. football is life here in the south.”

“and north carolina are our rivals. even though we are north carolina.” you are trying to wrap your head around the culture at your new school.

“kind of but also, not at all.” tiffy says while steffie finishes the sentiment for her. “we are nc state. the wolf pack. our rivals are unc tar heels.”

“tar heels is a dumb name.” you snort.

“exactly!” steffie agrees.

the conversation shifts, but it never goes to far from football, too far from the rivalry that seems to extend to everything, from other sports to academics.

“did you cheer in high school?” steffie asks.

“yeah.” you nod. “well, not sideline because it conflicted with volleyball. i did competitive though.”

“you should try out for our sideline team. we need more numbers and…” her voice turns to a whisper like she's sharing a deep, dark secret. “my sister is the team captain. you'll definitely get on the squad if i put in a good word for you.”

-- two months later --

“wolf!” you shout with your fellow cheerleaders, listening to the crowd scream back.

“pack!”

“wolf!” you yell again before dropping your poms, quickly learning that most of the girls never did competitive cheer and aren't the best tumblers, leaving you to be the one flipping across the sidelines to the cheers of fans.

you wave and kick and cheer, just happy to have something to do on friday nights. you feel a little guilty for beating out girls that are a lot more passionate about football and your college, but you try your best to put it past you.

you get back in the line, yelling out cheers and keeping your cheeks stretched wide with a smile, occasionally glancing at the clock to see how much longer until your halftime routine (as well as the score… a little bit.)

the seconds are ticking down and you're about to raise your poms again to shake the red and white colors in the air, when you suddenly feel a presence behind you, but before you can turn, you're hit in the back.

“ahhh!” you scream out and fall forward, the football player falling with you as the ball falls from his hands.

“shit.” he groans and quickly rolls off of you. “are you okay?”

you roll over onto your back, coughing and trying to suck in oxygen after the air was knocked out of your lungs.

you realize quickly that the football player now moved to hover over top of you is not one of your own with his powder blue jersey and white helmet.

“im-” you take another deep suck of breath, but this time not in recovery as you see his face through the face mask, blue eyes looking into yours and the most handsome face you've ever seen.

“im fine.” you manage to say before you're surrounded by a crowd, the wolfpack players pulling the opposing player away and your fellow cheerleaders helping you back up.

steffie pushes strands of hair out of your face, getting you back to proper uniform while tiffy shoves your fallen poms back into your grip.

“ew.” tiffy says, wiping the back of your uniform like the tar heel player left a literal stain on you.

“and our cheerleader is back and up on her feet! let's give it up for her as number 19 rafe cameron re-enters the field after their clash.”

you wave your hand in the air as the crowd claps for you, their attention briefly away from the field, but there's only one thing on your mind. rafe cameron.

-- two hours later --

“what are you doing?” steffie yells, snatching your phone from your hand and making you quickly regret agreeing to be her and tiffies third roommate.

“don't you know fraternization is not allowed with tar heels?”

“im not doing anything!” you grab your phone back out of her hand, still opened up to his instagram page. “simply looking at the guy who hit me, okay? i was just curious.”

“mhm.” steffie gives you a glaring look that clearly says she doesn't believe you.

you sigh softly and close out of the account, not that there's many posts to look at anyways, and only a few not on the football field with his helmet off and structured face in full view.

“let's go out.” you say quickly.

“after we lost the game?” steffie shakes her head.

“alright, whatever.” you get up to get dressed in something cute, not willing to let the football teams loss hold you back from living your life, and admittedly you need a breath of fresh air away from cheer or football or your dorm mates.

--

you're at a club you've never been to before, not one of the ones that plasters wolfpack pride posters to all of their walls and plays the red and white anthem like it's a kesha song.

you show the bouncer your id and step into the music filled room, quickly ordering yourself a drink when you hear loud whooping from a different section.

you look over and find a group of men that you quickly realize despite the clubs colorful lighting are wearing that recognizable baby blue.

“of course.” you groan, just happening to stumble into the same bar as the unc players while you're trying to not think about football or even college despite all your classes being easy entry level.

you're about to pay your tab and leave when a deep, familiar voice speaks from jarringly close.

“another drink of whatever the lady is having.”

“i- no, no.” you shake your head, only briefly glancing at him. rafe. “im fine.”

“you're that cheerleader, aren't you?” he leans his elbow against the table, and the bartender makes you a drink and places it down in front of you despite your attempted disapproval.

“yeah.” you nod. “not that… into all of this i guess.” you shrug, hand waving at the logo on his shirt. “i didn't know y'all came here to celebrate.”

“ah.” he nods. “and your name?”

you realize quickly that you know far too much about him when all he knows is that he accidentally hit you, and that you cheer for his rival team.

“y/n.” you reply, taking a sip of your drink, actually tasting it this time instead of quickly gulping it down like you did the first time.

“im rafe.” he reaches his hand out and you shake it, wondering if the invisible blue stain is somehow going to be picked up on by steffie and tiffy when you eventually make it back to your dorm.

“i never got to properly apologize. i did look for you after the game. i guess it was fate that brought you here tonight.” rafe squeezes your hand, and you quickly realize it's still held in his grip. “im sorry.”

“im not supposed to-” you quickly take your hand out of his grasp. “im not supposed to be talking to you. sorry.”

“ah.” he says again. “that pesty no fraternization rule. im not supposed to be talking to you either.”

there's a pause, a mutual understanding and acknowledgement of the tension brewing between the two of you.

“but that's not going to stop me from asking you back to my hotel room.”

the words barely leave his lips before your mouth is on his.

--

it's a mess of hands, furiously grabbing and tugging at clothes until you're both down to just your undergarments.

“shit.” you laugh, noticing that even rafes underwear is carolina blue.

“team issued.” he clarifies quickly as he pulls you down with him as he falls back onto the bed. your lips press against his as you straddle his hips.

you press your crotch down over his, feeling the way he's already pressing up against your panties.

“god, let me get my mouth on you.” you groan, sinking down to lick and kiss at the grooves of his chest and abs, trying to commit the taste of his skin to memory, not sure if you'll ever have this chance again.

you reach his blue boxers and press your lips against the clear outline of his hard cock, wetting the fabric with your spit before you're sick of the barrier and lean back only to pull the underwear down his thighs.

“fuck.” rafe moans out when your mouth is immediately back on his cock, this time able to put his length into your mouth as you bob your head up and down, quickly setting a rhythm as you try to coax your throat to allow him deeper.

“y/n.” rafe tugs on your hair, and you groan when you're forced to pull away.

“what?” you snap.

“get your ass up here.” 

you move quickly, shucking off your panties and moving so your pussy is hovering over rafes face. he looks up at you for a brief second, just to take a breath and stare into your glistening cunt, before his hands are pulling your hips down and your clit onto his awaiting mouth.

you take his cock in your hand, pressing open mouth kisses and licks all over, not sure how well you can blow him when your moans are loud and filling the hotel room.

rafe mumbles something that you can't might make out, but it may be “delicious.” as his mouth devours your pussy, tongue swiping through your folds obsequiously, paying attention to every moan of yours and what causes your pussy to clench.

“fuck.” you groan, hand moving to take over for your mouth as your jaw drops open, stroking up and down his length that makes your cunt squeeze again thinking about having inside you.

rafe pushes your hips away, and before you can argue or control your body, he uses his strong football muscles to flip you into your back and rest your head against the hotel rooms fluffy pillows.

“i need you.” rafe says, reaching towards his wallet on the nightstand and pulling out a condom, tearing it before sinking the rubber over his length.

“fuck yes.” you moan out. who knew exactly what you needed to feel better was to hookup with the player on the opposing team, the rule breaking only making things even more exciting.

rafe grabs your leg and pulls it over his hip before lining up with your entrance. he sinks forward slowly, eyes on your face in case you show any sign of pain.

“you're so fucking warm.” rafe moans out, dropping to kiss you sloppily as his hips press all the way forward, cock buried inside of you. 

he gives you both a minute to adjust before hes hovering over you, strong arms holding himself up as he pounds into you.

“fuck!” you squeal out, one hand gripping the bed sheets while the other reaches up to the headboard, trying to find some stability while he wrecks your pussy.

you hope rafe won't last too long because you can already feel your high building despite not wanting it to be over anytime soon.

one time certainly won't be enough to satisfy you, especially not as you look up at rafes face, still gorgeous and chiseled even as his jaw is slackened as he fucks you with pure pleasure and bliss in his eyes.

“you-” you gasp out. “you feel amazing. so good.”

“damn right i do.” rafe smiles a cocky grin down at you as he somehow manages to speed up even more. “filling you perfectly. this pussy is mine.”

you try (and fail) to not let the words go to your head.

you even briefly think of what your fellow cheerleaders would think if they knew what you were doing right now, how tiffy and steffie would react if they knew just how much that unseen blue has been smeared across your naked body, how much of it is dripping from your cunt.

“im-im not far.” rafe warns, ignoring the cramp in his throwing arm to warn you.

“ffff-” you hold back the urge to curse again as your mind spins. “condom off, please. i need you to cum in me.”

rafe certainly isn't going to argue, even though it might not be the smartest idea. he kneels between your legs, one hand coming to massage your clit while the other pulls the condom off. 

rafe strokes himself once before pushing back inside of you, keeping one hand on your clit as your pleasure grows, hips seeming to raise higher and higher off the bed the closer your high gets.

“cumming.” rafe manages to say seconds before he bursts, warm spurts of cum filling your insides, thankfully not being wasted being trapped inside rubber.

the warm filled sensation causes you to tip over the edge too, body shaking as rafe collapses over you, rubbing your clit with his cock lodged inside of you until both your highs have worn out, your pussy sucking and clenching out every bit of cum he has to give.

“god.” rafe rolls off of you and onto his back. “you are fucking amazing.”

“you did most of the work.” you giggle.

“you know.” rafe says as he pulls you into his chest. “you play us at home in three weeks.”

“mmm.” you lift your head up and press a kiss against his jaw before you bare your teeth and nip at his skin. “perfect time for us to get revenge.”

“keep that up and i might just have to tackle you again next game.” rafe laughs, but you just flip over so you're on top of him, straddling his hips as his cock starts to grow again.

“you wouldn't dare.”

“if it gets you in my bed all night then i might.”

[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.

[demie90s]

Paige Bueckers x fem!Reader x Caitlin Clark

Shameless Rivalry

MASTERLIST | MORE | MORE Part 2

Summary:It started with a viral interview. Asked for your top 5 celebrity crushes, you answered without hesitation-Paige Bueckers and Caitlin Clark, tied for #1.

Genre: Sports romance, love triangle, rivals-to-lovers, college basketball chaos

Warnings: Heavy flirtation, cursing, tension so thick you could drown in it, emotional whiplash, reader folding for two dangerous women

Word Count~ 1k

Vibe: Camila Cabello's Shameless in a jersey. Obsession, competition, and soft filth hidden behind sweet smiles and game-day uniforms.

It’s content,” they said.

Your team—your label, your brand girlies, your best friend who handles your TikTok—they set up a fake media day backdrop and filmed you answering fan questions. You were half-drunk on bubble tea and fame, sitting in front of a ring light in a hoodie and gold chains, giving dramatic answers to dumb shit.

And then came the question.

“Top five celeb crushes. Go.”

You grinned. Chewed your gum. Thought about lying.

Then you leaned forward and said it like gospel.

“Paige Bueckers and Caitlin Clark. Tied for number one.”

They cackled. You winked. The TikTok got posted the same night. And within 12 hours?

Over 15 million views.

People were stitching it. Debating it. Tagging them both in your comments like you weren’t gonna see. Like they weren’t gonna see. But the real chaos didn’t start ‘til Caitlin reposted it with a winky face.

And Paige liked it. And now?

It’s Iowa vs. UConn week. And you are the problem.

⸻

You pull up to the game like it’s a red carpet. Which, for you, it kinda is.

Skin-tight designer tank. Oversized dark blue jean. Your signature chain with the little diamond “y/n” glinting in the lights. A coat slung over your shoulder like you don’t care about anything but fashion and front row power.

Everyone’s watching. Cameras catch your entrance like you’re here to headline. You’re not. You’re here to haunt.

⸻

First quarter. It’s barely started and Paige already checked the sideline twice.

You don’t wave. Just smirk. Cross your legs slow. Adjust your lip gloss like you know exactly how you look.

Because you do.

Caitlin’s on the other side. Scanning the stands mid-play. She sees you. Grins. Immediately hits a no-look assist like it’s nothing.

Game on.

⸻

Second quarter.

Caitlin fouls near your side and damn near lands in your lap. You hold out your hand without thinking.

“Need help?”

She grabs it. Holds on a second too long. Leans in like she’s adjusting her jersey.

“Still tied for first?” she whispers.

You raise an eyebrow. She smirks and jogs back to the line.

⸻

Halftime. UConn’s up.

You’re backstage, sipping something green from a straw, talking to one of the assistant coaches when Paige passes you in the tunnel.

You nod. She slows. Looks you up and down. Eyes linger on your lips.

“You always dress like this for games?” she asks.

“Only when I’m being watched.”

She smiles. Not sweet. Sharp.

“Careful. Might get you benched.”

“I’m not the one playing, baby.”

That shuts her up. She walks off with her shoulders tight, her jaw set. You feel hot.

⸻

Third quarter is nasty.

Both girls are playing out of their minds—dropping threes, making passes, locking up on defense like they’ve got something to prove.

Spoiler: they do. And it’s you. Every time Paige hits a bucket, she looks your way. Every time Caitlin scores, she points.

You’re trying to keep cool. But your legs are crossed tight and your throat’s dry and your manager literally whispers:

“You’re the final boss.”

⸻

Fourth quarter. The game’s tied. Timeout. And somehow, somehow, they both walk near you. Different sidelines. Different teams. Same plan.

Paige gets close and leans down like she’s fixing her shoe. Doesn’t even look at you when she says:

“What’re you doing after this?”

Then she walks off. Caitlin comes by ten seconds later, sweaty and smug, brushing a towel over her neck.

“Tell Paige not to wait up.”

You let out a laugh—quiet, choked, stunned. Because it’s not a game anymore. Not for them. Not for you. And this isn’t over.

Caitlin – Day One

I’m not obsessed. I just haven’t stopped thinking about her for three days.

I scroll past her story again—she posted some blurry, close-up pic in a hoodie, and I stared at it like it held answers. It didn’t. Just her lips, glossed, smirking like she already knew what she was doing to me.

I liked the pic. Unliked. Liked again.

Tweeted right after.

“Tell me what you want and I’ll break the scoreboard trying.”

It gets traction. People assume it’s about the game. It’s not. It’s about her. It’s always about her now.

I sit in my car an extra 20 minutes after practice. Just refreshing her profile.

I almost post a pic of the hoodie she complimented two games ago. Caption it “yours looks better though.” I don’t. I save it in drafts.

My stomach’s been tight since the game. Like I lost something. Like Paige already knew I would.

Paige - Day two

She’s tweeting again. Caitlin, I mean. Cryptic thirst mixed with vague dominance.

I’m not impressed.

I’ve been watching her spiral for a day and a half, and honestly? It’s cute. I decide to start my own war.

My Instagram story goes up around 11 p.m. Black screen. Just audio.

“Let Me Love You” playing low. The Mario one. That chorus hits, and I add a single white heart. Then tag no one. But everyone knows.

Twenty minutes later, I post a picture. Me, half-turned, shirt riding up just enough. Caption?

“Don’t look too long.”

The comments go crazy. I open her profile. Her. Not Caitlin.

She hasn’t posted since the game. But her views on my story? Top 5. Always.

I DM her.

“So we tied, huh?”

No reply. Yet.

But I know she saw it. I know she’s watching me now, too.

Caitlin – Day Three

She’s playing dirty. The thirst traps. The song. The DM. Paige wants to win this in public. But me? I want her in person.

I text my manager first thing: “Can we lock in a promo with Nike or literally anyone she’s working with?”

It takes two hours.Then I get a yes.

Some shoot. Something casual. They want creators and athletes and “relevant faces.” They said her name before I could.

I said yes before they finished. I don’t even ask what the campaign’s about. I don’t care. As long as I’m in the same room as her again.

I’m gonna look her in the eye and remind her who really saw her first.

Paige – Day Four

She signed on to the promo.

The same one I just begged my agent to get me into under the excuse of “increased visibility.” It worked. Barely.

I don’t even need this campaign. But if Caitlin thinks she can just schedule herself into her orbit and win her back like that?

Nah. I show up early.

Hair done. Outfit cute. Lip gloss on. Laces tight. I walk into that set like it’s a runway and don’t even ask where my trailer is. I already know.

Then I hear Caitlin’s voice down the hall. She’s laughing. I walk in. And there she is.

In the makeup chair. Looking at me through the mirror like I’ve been in her head too.

I drop my bag.

“What, no warmup before we start fighting over her again?”

She laughs. But it’s not friendly.

My POV

They’re both here. Same promo shoot. Same room. And neither of them knew the other would show up.

I watch them from the back of the set, pretending I’m checking lighting cues.

Caitlin’s bouncing a basketball like it’s a stress relief tool. Paige keeps adjusting her crop top like she’s making sure I’m looking.

I sip my matcha. Tilt my head.

“Are y’all okay?”

Neither answers.

But they both turn and look at me like I’m the only win that matters.

I should’ve known better.

I thought showing up early would save me from the drama. Do my set. Smile for the camera. Bounce. But then Paige walked in like she was the camera. Looking fine as hell. All attitude. Not even trying to act like Caitlin wasn’t already in the building.

She saw me and smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Then waved me over with that smug-ass smirk.

I sighed. But yeah—I went. She barely let me speak before launching in.

“I just think it’s funny how she only shows up when you’re around.”

I blinked. “You mean Caitlin?”

Paige scoffed. “Obviously. She’s never even cared about this brand until now. But one little interview and suddenly she’s front row again?”

I stared at her. “You flew in this morning.”

“Yeah, for you. I’m consistent.”

I rolled my eyes so hard my soul almost left my body.

“She’s fake humble, you know that? All soft-spoken until someone else wants what she wants. Then she’s a menace. I mean, look at her—she’s been staring over here the whole time like I stole her lunch.”

I turned my head. Caitlin was, in fact, staring. She smiled when we locked eyes.

I looked back at Paige, deadpan. “You done?”

She grinned. “Not even close. But I’ll let you go make her jealous for a minute.”

I should’ve walked away.

But no—I went to Caitlin next. Because I’m stupid. Because curiosity is a disease.

She was near the wardrobe racks, acting like she wasn’t watching my every move. I didn’t even say anything yet and she pulled me behind the curtain like we were about to commit a crime.

“She touch you?”

I blinked. “Are you serious?”

Caitlin tilted her head, eyes scanning mine. “I’m just asking. She gets real handsy when she thinks she’s winning.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You flew out to do a shoot with a brand you don’t even wear. And you’re mad Paige touched my arm?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she smiled. Slow. Sharp.

“I didn’t have to post a thirst trap to get your attention. I just had to show up.”

My brows lifted. “Wow.”

“I’m just saying. One of us knows how to talk to you. The other just stares and hopes it works.”

I laughed. Out loud. She looked smug for half a second until I turned and walked off mid-sentence.

I was done.

Not even halfway through the day and they were already trying to weaponize me like I was a prize to be fought over. Whispers. Glances. Comments loud enough to be overheard. They weren’t even being slick anymore.

So I dipped.

Told the assistant I needed air and never came back. Let them fight over an empty room.

I got a coffee. Put on my playlist. Texted my team “y’all are never setting me up again.”

Because I am not the problem here. They are. And I’m not choosing shit…Until they figure out how to act.

——————————————-——————————————-

@draculara-vonvamp

[batshit-auspol]

have we talked about the woolworths debacle yet?

Sigh.

Alright kids strap in, because the culture wars are back and stupider than ever.

So there are two characters you need to be familiar with in this story before we continue:

Woolies (i.e. Woolworths) - One of two supermarket chains in Australia. Not related to the giant Woolworths chain that used to exist overseas, other than the Aussie one swiped the name because the original forgot to trademark the name 'Woolworths' here. Biggest company in Aus, and also the biggest employer. Not a brand anyone with more than two braincells would pick a fight with.

Peter Dutton - Man with less than two braincells, and current leader of the political opposition in Australia. Best known for bearing a passing resemblance to a potato and once demanding that a homophobic song get played for balance when a football halftime show performed 'Same Love'. His reputation is so bad that if you told an Australian that Dutton's favorite pastime was drowning puppies, they probably would believe you.

And to prove our point, here's the best headline a friendly newspaper could come up with to try spin his image:

The third thing you need to know is that in Australia we have a national holiday called "Australia Day" which is basically a scheduled day for everyone to get into a giant argument.

This is because for the last 30ish years it has been held on the anniversary of the British claiming the land around Sydney as a colony which was:

a) More the founding of an English prison then the founding of Australia, and more importantly

b) from the perspective of the people who were already living here, kindof a very shit day

Now not everyone agrees on this, and even those that don't 'celebrate' will often still have a get together with friends, but it can't be denied that we've shifted a long way from the days when the country used to celebrate Australia Day by kitting ourselves out in Aussie flag budgie smugglers, drinking enough beer to drown Harold Holt, and partying like it's 1789.

(Now a brief break for a real photo of Peter Dutton at a press conference)

Good luck sleeping tonight. Anyway back to the story.

As a result of this shift away from the trend of showing your patriotism by wearing Australian flag underpants, this year Woolworths decided that they were no longer going to be rolling out their box of southern cross thongs - on the grounds that "this kitschy shit never sells" and they are far too busy with more important things like blaming price gouging on inflation and installing self-checkout machines that think your canvas bag is a crime against humanity.

Never a man to miss an opportunity to act like a massive twat, upon hearing that Woolies had dumped their flag merch, Peter Dutton rushed onto the airwaves to declare that Woolworths had "gone woke" (paging 4chan circa 2009) and called for the country to boycott the store, a story which Australia's media have gleefully put on loudhale for over a week now in order to drive outrage clicks.

We at this point remind you that Woolworths is a company which, as we previously mentioned, basically has a monopoly on selling food in this country. Not exactly something you can boycott.

(Another real Dutton photo break)

Needless to say Dutton's dumbass plan did not immediately put Woolies out of business, however the relentless media campaign by Rupert Murdoch's minions did result in a bunch of innocent low-wage floor staff being harrassed by The Dark Lord's fanboys and a few Woolies stores were graffitied.

Allegedly being the 'free market' guy, Dutton also kindof snookered himself by demanding the free market not decide the fate of Australia day, but logic was never one of his strong suits.

Anyway, in the end we're just going to keep having this dumb circular argument every year, fulled by a media who love fanning the flames, until a politician has the guts to shift the date to May 8 (pronounced m8), and everyone promptly forgets this was ever a thing.

All in all, that's the long and the short of it. As a final touch we'll leave you with this real tweet by Opposition Leader Peter Dutton, in all its batshit glory.

We look forward to the absolute dumpster fire of comments this post is going to generate - as is the Australia Day tradition.

[bitchinbarzal]

Still Proud — J Burrow

Summary: Sloane insists on waiting up every time Joe has an away game. And every time, he finds his girls fast asleep on the couch but still, she wakes up just enough to remind him that win or lose, she’s proud.

⸻

It started out cute.

“Daddy’s not home yet,” she’d say, peeking out from behind your legs as you tucked her in. “I hafta wait.”

You’d smile, kneel beside her bed, and run your fingers through her curls. “Daddy won’t be home till very, very late, bug. You’ll be fast asleep by then.”

But Sloane Burrow is nothing if not stubborn.

Three years old, fierce as fire, and full of the same resolve that makes Joe chase wins down to the wire. She doesn’t understand time zones or postgame press conferences. All she knows is that her daddy isn’t home yet and so, she has to wait.

So now it’s a thing. An unspoken ritual.

Whenever Joe’s on the road, you’re both curled up on the couch by 8:00pm with Sloane freshly bathed, wrapped in one of Joe’s hoodies like a blanket. You let her pick a movie. She always chooses Tangled.

“I just like when it ends happy,” she explains. And really, what more do you need?

By the time Joe’s flight lands and the team bus makes it back to the facility, it’s well past midnight. Sometimes closer to 2:00am.

But still, there you are.

The porch light on.

A bowl of snacks half-eaten on the coffee table.

And his girls sound asleep in front of the TV, the screen now dim with the Netflix “Are you still watching?” prompt glowing faintly in the dark.

He never says it aloud, but it might be his favourite view in the world.

Tonight, it’s extra late.

A west coast game. Tough loss.

His body aches. His brain is fried. He wants nothing more than to collapse into bed and forget all about the red zone interception and the second-half collapse.

But when he steps into the house and sees you both curled up on the couch. Sloane on your chest, your arms around her, her pink blanket half-slipping onto the floor something in him melts.

Quietly, he crouches beside the couch and brushes a kiss to your temple.

You stir a little, eyes fluttering open.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey,” he murmurs back, his hand brushing her curls.

“She made it till halftime,” you add, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “She said she was gonna ‘stay up for real this time,’ and then passed out with popcorn still in her mouth.”

Joe chuckles softly, shoulders relaxing for the first time all night.

You sit up, letting him gently scoop Sloane into his arms. She barely stirs until he gets halfway down the hallway.

Then comes the tiny voice, scratchy with sleep.

“Daddy?”

He pauses, shifting her in his arms. “Yeah, bug. I’m here.”

Her eyes are heavy slits, barely open as she curls tighter into his chest. “Did you win?”

Joe hesitates for a second.

“No,” he says honestly. “Not tonight.”

Her fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie.

“That’s okay,” she mumbles. “I’m still proud.”

Joe’s heart swells.

He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Thanks, baby.”

“You tried real hard,” she adds, her voice getting softer with each word. “I saw.”

And then she’s out again, just like that.

He carries her into her room and tucks her in gently, smoothing the hair from her face and settling her stuffed animal beside her.

He stands there for a minute longer than necessary, watching the rise and fall of her tiny chest.

She’s proud.

Even when the rest of the world is picking him apart in slow-motion replays, she’s proud.

When he climbs into bed next to you, you’re half-awake, waiting for him the way she always tries to.

“She talk in her sleep again?” you ask, your voice warm against his shoulder.

He chuckles. “Yeah.”

“What’d she say this time?”

“She said she was proud,” he says softly. “Said she saw me trying real hard.”

You smile. “She’s not wrong.���

Joe doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Some days, I feel like the only person I need to prove anything to… is her.”

You roll over to face him, fingers tracing soft lines over his wrist.

“You don’t need to prove anything to us, Joe. Not winning. Not perfection. Just being here… that’s everything.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I’m always coming home to you.”

You press a kiss to his lips, slow and steady.

“Good. Because she’ll always be waiting on the couch.”

New City. New Game. New Bedtime Plan.

You’re brushing Sloane’s teeth when she pauses, foam bubbling at the corners of her mouth.

“Wait. Daddy has football tonight?”

“Uh-huh. He’s flying to Nashville.”

She spits and gasps. “Then we gotta get the couch ready!”

You chuckle. “Baby, the game won’t start till after bedtime.”

She puts her hands on her hips, as serious as a three-year-old can get.

“I’m not going to bed ‘til Daddy wins.”

He doesn’t win. Again.

But she’s still asleep in your arms when he walks through the door at 1:30am.

Still wrapped in one of his old LSU shirts. Still drooling a little against your collarbone.

And again, just as he lays her in bed, she stirs.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, bug.”

“I waited up.”

“I saw.”

Her hand reaches for his cheek in the dark.

“Did you score a touchdown?”

He huffs a tired laugh. “Nope.”

She blinks slowly. “Still proud.”

This time, he’s the one who gets choked up.

And every game after that,win or lose,it’s always the same.

The couch.

The hoodie.

The sleepy smile and mumbled pride.

Because in her eyes, he’s undefeated.

[kisses4kaia]

superbowl tn who loves football !! luke def does .

just imagining loser!luke get soo mad when his favorite team fumbles a touchdown, or when the ball is taken from his fav player and he just needs to calm down. and what a better time than halftime?

so like the sweet girl you are, you make no complaints when luke wordlessly and unexplainedly manhandles you onto your back spreading your legs. he kneels on the ground before you and throws your calves over his shoulders which are clad in a jersey reading his favorite tight end’s name on the back as he pulls your pretty little panties to the side.

usually, he would take his sweet time prepping you, teasing a little cruelly, but right now? right now he just wants to bury his face between your plush thighs, slobber a little mindlessly all over your pretty cunt. god, he’s so messy, too ! he’s paying little to no mind to your squeals and writhes as he just holds a strong arm to your pelvis, restraining you from trying to run away from him any further. “please, luke! slow down, sh-shit!” you moan in a high-pitched tone, the pop singer’s half-time performance on the tv now background static over the disgusting and bestial ways he’s devouring you like a wolf would prey.

everything is so primal and animalistic with the way his tongue fucks into you—because, its not because he’s desperate to drive you to pleasure, but because he’s found a vaguely familiar, warm, place for his worked tongue to dwell. he’s made you cum, what, thrice now? and not once has he stopped or even seemed to notice.

worse for you, he hasn’t resolved his anger yet, and as retribution for when you try to tug at his dark curls to dispel the achy overstimulation he’s caused, he slaps your agonized cunt and utters some filthy degradation before returning to his ministrations.

and when he realizes halftime has come to a conclusion and the game is back on, he simply presses a parting kiss to your sensitive little clit, sits back up onto the couch next to a heaving, crying, you, and glues his eyes back onto the screen in front of him; leaving you to limp off to take care of yourself.

“grab me another beer while you’re up, hm baby?”

[melobballin]

hiii :)! can you do an azzi fudd x reader fic? where the reader is a cheerleader and supports azzi even when she’s upset? like angst but then really fluffy <3! hope you have a great day

courtside love. azzi fudd

✶ warnings ✶ 1k ish words count. black!fem reader. reader is being a dork. cheerleader!reader. supportive reader. flirty!reader. agnst!azzi. wlw. fluffy fluffy stuff.

first request ! I hope you’ll like it baby 🤍

"LET’S GO AZZI !" That game was ass. And saying that was still an understatement. From where you were in the cheer section with your girls, the damage didn’t look that bad. The score wasn’t a blowout. Nobody got hurt. But somehow, the energy in the gym was off the whole match. Thick and slow. The kind that settled in your chest and made everything feel heavier than it should.

You couldn’t shake it.

They were loosing.

Every time azzi touched the ball, your stomach knotted. Not because you didn’t believe in her—hell no. You’d ride for that girl even if she was the dirtiest of players. It was something else. Something in the way she moved. Off beat. Not slow, but disconnected. Like her body was playing and her mind was somewhere else entirely.

She missed three jumpers in the first quarter. Airballed a free throw in the second.

By halftime, your throat was raw from cheering too hard and your hands were red from clapping, just trying to make her see you. Just trying to send some kind of energy across the court to ground her.

But azzi never once looked up. Not toward the bench. Not toward the stands. Not toward you.

And that? That was what had you feeling sick.

Because your girl, whether she knew it yet or not—always looked for you. Even if it was quick. Even if it was mid-game, mid-timeout, mid-huddle. You knew her game face. You knew her fire. And this? This wasn’t it.

By the time the buzzer hit and the final score flashed on the board, you already knew what was coming. She dipped out the second the teams shook hands, head down, hoodie up before she even made it past the tunnel. Didn’t speak to the press. Didn’t wave at the crowd. Didn’t even dap up her own teammates.

Just gone.

Just like that.

YOU DON’T GO HOME WITH THE SQUAD LIKE USUAL. Don’t slide out for late-night fries or sit around rating crowd signs or trade “I told you she was gon’ eat” jokes with the girls. You just slip out of the gym, ignore the cool night air brushing against your skin, and post up by the back entrance of the arena. Right outside the player exit. Hoodie on, duffle at your feet, phone in hand but untouched.

You knew she’d come out eventually.

And she did.

Thirty minutes later, shoulders tense and hood up again, hands stuffed in her pockets like she tryna disappear into herself.

She spotted you, and for a second you think she might keep walking.

But then her steps slow.

Her head tilts down just a little. And she stops right in front of you. You don’t speak yet. Just open your arms.

And azzi folds straight into you like she been holding her breath all night.

No words. No tears. Just a long, trembling exhale into your shoulder and a quiet, “Can I come to yours?”

You nod, your hands already holding her tighter.

“Yeah, baby. C’mon.”

THE WALK BACK TO YOUR DORM WAS QUIET. She doesn’t let go of your hand the entire way.

You open the door to your room and let her walk in first. She drops her bag by the foot of your bed, kicks her sneakers off, then sits at the edge of your mattress like her whole body’s heavy. Like the game’s still clinging to her skin.

You slowly pull off your cheer jacket, toss it on your desk chair, and kneel down in front of her.

“z,” you say softly, your hands on her knees, “Talk to me.”

Her jaw’s locked tight. Eyes red. Not from crying—you know the look. She ain’t even let herself do that yet. That’s the athlete in her. That ’hold it down until you crack alone in the dark’ kind of pride.

“I fucking sucked,” she spits, bitter and sudden. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I couldn’t hit shit. I was slow. I let them cook me on defense like I wasn’t even—”

“Hey,” you interrupt gently, thumbs rubbing soft circles into her thighs. “Stop that.”

She blinks down at you, frustrated. “What?”

“You’re not gonna sit here and talk about my girlfriend like that. Not on my watch.”

“I cost us the game.”

“You didn’t. One player don’t decide a whole game, and even if you missed every single shot—which you didn’t—you still showed up, azzi. You stayed in it. You didn’t quit. That means something.”

She swallows hard, jaw twitching. Her hands are gripping the edge of your blanket now like it’s keeping her upright.

“You always say the right thing,” she mutters.

“’Because I mean it. ‘Because I see you. Even when you think you disappeared tonight—I saw you.”

And that’s it.

The floodgates open.

Her breath shakes, and she tries to turn her head but you’re already there, pulling her close, wrapping your arms around her waist while she curls in tight. Her body trembles against yours, and her hands fist the back of your tank like she scared she gon’ fall through the floor.

You don’t tell her to stop. Don’t tell her to calm down. You just hold her.

You rock her back and forth gently, whispering against her ear, “I always got you.”

She cries like she’d waited for permission.

And when it passes, she looks up at you like you’re the only thing holding her together.

You cup her face. Thumb brushing under her eye. Lips brushing her forehead.

And then, so soft you almost don’t catch it, she whispers, “You saved me tonight.”

You kiss her before you can think.

And when she kisses you back, it’s not rushed. Not lustful. It’s slow.

Tender. Like a thank you.

LATER—when she’s showered, changed into one of your old high school tees, and curled up in your bed under three blankets, she pulls you in again.

You’re straddling her waist now, both of you still whispering in the hush of candlelight. The room smells like shea butter and the vanilla conditioner she keeps in your shower.

Her hands move up your back, deliberate, reverent. Her lips kiss the inside of your wrist like it’s holy.

“Im so grateful for you,” she breathes, eyes locked on yours. "I love you."

"I love you too, baby." You smile softly at her. “Even when you’re grumpy and shit." You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through her hair.

"Okay, first off all-"

© written by melobballin | writing is free, copying is lazy 🤍 hope you’ll like it !

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚘 || 𝚐𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which georgia falls a little bit from the stands

Georgia Amoore hadn't planned on being in D.C. long enough to memorize the skyline. When the Mystics drafted her, she imagined long nights at the arena, two a days with the vets, and walking into that familiar wave of white and red with a healthy body and something to prove. Instead, she tore her ACL on a Tuesday morning in her first week of practice. It had been a simple pivot during a shooting drill. No contact. No warning. Just a searing pop and the kind of pain that makes everything go quiet.

It had been weeks since the surgery now. She was off the crutches, walking like she’d forgotten how and learning again each morning. Coach had been good about it, always saying the right things—“You're still part of the team,” “Take your time,” “Your mind's sharp, that’s just as important right now.” But none of it felt like enough. The city felt louder when she wasn’t playing. Her muscles felt foreign in the absence of routine. And the locker room, the one she’d once dreamed of stepping into, now felt like a place she had to tiptoe through, like she was stealing something by being there.

So when one of the player relations reps offered her tickets to the Washington Spirit game, “Get some fresh air, watch women who don’t play basketball for once.” Georgia said yes before thinking. Soccer wasn’t her sport, but competition was still church in any form, and she figured it’d be good to see something that wasn’t the inside of her apartment or the training room.

That’s how she ended up on the edge of the pitch at Audi Field, low enough in the stands to see the sweat fly when someone headed the ball. She watched the players run drills, juggling passes and stretching hamstrings in the warm D.C. dusk, and thought about how long it would be before she could sprint again. Not jog. Sprint. Full throttle.

And then she saw you.

It was almost comedic how quickly her eyes found you. There were many players on the pitch, hundreds of fans already filling in the seats, music thumping from the speakers, and yet she locked on to you like you were the only thing moving in the entire stadium. You were already in motion, weaving through a passing drill with a clipped focus, hair tied back, sweat already painting the back of your neck. It took her a second to notice your jersey number.

Eight.

Her number.

Georgia leaned forward, squinting just to be sure. Dark jersey, Spirit crest over your heart, and the bold black eight centered between your shoulders. She felt her chest tighten in an unexpected way.

“Coincidence,” she muttered to herself, resting her elbow on her knee. “Weird coincidence.”

But you didn’t feel like a coincidence.

The whistle blew and Georgia barely registered the start. She was already watching you move, eyes sharp, shoulders squared, the clean rhythm of someone who played with instinct more than calculation. You weren’t flashy. You weren’t the player diving for every dramatic tackle or yelling for every ball. You played with intention, reading the field like a language. Every time you touched the ball, Georgia’s attention snapped taut. The number eight bent through defenders with effortless grace. You were all motion and stillness at once, and Georgia forgot to be bitter about her injury for the first time in weeks.

It didn’t hurt that you were beautiful.

No one had warned her about that. The way your mouth would quirk when you didn’t get the call you wanted. The way your hands rested on your hips during throw-ins, impatient and poised. The way you ran, shoulders tilted forward like you were leaning into something only you could see.

At halftime, Georgia stood to stretch her stiff knee and leaned back against the seat. She told herself she should go. Traffic would get bad. The sun was dipping. But she stayed. Of course she stayed.

And when you jogged back out for the second half, you glanced her way.

It wasn’t long. A flicker, really. But enough that Georgia sat back down too fast and bumped her bad leg on the seat in front of her. She winced, but grinned through it like a kid caught staring.

The Spirit won. You scored.

A goal that had sealed the match. A clean finish, left foot to far post, after dancing past two defenders with quiet confidence. Georgia had found herself cheering before she could stop it. The people around her had no idea who she was, just a small girl in a Spirit soccer club jersey, clapping a little too hard for someone trying to keep a low profile.

After the match, she lingered. The crowd thinned, the stadium lights casting long shadows. Players wandered about, giving autographs or chatting with family at the rails. Georgia stayed where she was, unsure of why, until you started walking toward the tunnel right beneath her section.

You looked up.

This time, it was longer than a flicker. Your eyes found her. Really found her. She stood up, not sure what she’d say, but her mouth opened anyway.

“You’re number eight.”

You stopped, glancing down at your back like you hadn’t noticed.

“So are you,” you said, gesturing to her. “Mystics?”

Georgia smiled, a little caught. “Yeah. I’m Georgia. I—well. I was drafted. Tore my ACL like… a minute later.”

Your expression softened instantly. “Damn. I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

She shrugged, shifting weight to her good leg. “It happens. You played amazing, by the way.”

You smiled, and it changed everything. It felt less like a polite athlete to athlete grin and more like something real.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, reaching a hand up over the railing. “And thanks. It felt good tonight.”

Georgia stepped forward and took your hand. Your grip was warm. Steady. Not the handshake of someone trying to rush off.

You didn’t let go immediately either.

“Can I ask why you were staring the whole game?” you added, teasing.

Georgia flushed. “You noticed?”

“Of course,” you said. “I notice everything.”

She laughed, more embarrassed than she'd been in months. “You just… you move different. I don’t know how else to say it.”

You tilted your head like that was the right answer. “Well, now you’ve seen me play. Your turn next, right?”

“God, I hope so.”

“Let me know when you’re back on the court,” you said, tugging your phone from your waistband and offering it. “I’ll come watch.”

Georgia blinked at it, stunned. You weren’t bluffing. She took your phone, fingers cold suddenly, and typed her number with careful precision.

You gave her a little wave and a wink before disappearing down the tunnel, the number eight shrinking into shadow.

Georgia stared at her phone the whole ride home, wondering what the hell had just happened, and how quickly she could heal now that there was someone worth playing for.