#premier league

[pressure-machine]

And now you're gonna believe us part 1

[raphoupix]

Declan Rice - Arsenal FC v. Crystal Palace - Premier League

[misskattylashes]

#ynwa

my family. my heart ❤️

[naughtymilf71]

⚽ Sporting Competition 1 ⚽

On Sunday, Manchester United play against Arsenal.

To enter, simply REBLOG this post and ADD YOUR SCORE FOR FULL TIME.

Winners will receive something sexy in their DM 💋

Good Luck ⚽

[fast-andthe-curious]

[othernightslikethis]

White Emperor

Ningning x Male Reader x Winter (aespa)

Not really a couple with three btw, maybe.

It’s normal for frustration to become an unrelenting shadow, dogging your every step, and there’s something exasperating about how others seem to sneer at that reality. Not that it should matter to you—at least, that was the illusion you clung to. Life, up until now, had been kind enough that you never had to worry too much. And perhaps that was the true crux of the problem.

Real Madrid represents the pinnacle of any footballer’s career, an undeniable testament to the greatness that so few ever reach. Even the most inattentive observer recognises this indisputable truth, for it is the greatest club in the world—a monument erected upon history and immortal glory. To feel indifferent to the privilege of donning the white shirt would be an affront to the very nature of the sport

“We’re loaning you out.”

The words from the club official struck like a shard of reality embedding itself in your soul, reverberating with the force of a deafening crash. You had never imagined such a sentence could wound you so deeply, and yet it did—devastatingly so. The truth crashed down upon you like a runaway car slamming into a wall—sudden, inescapable, and catastrophic. No longer useful to Real Madrid. No longer indispensable. Reduced to the status of a disposable piece, an obsolete cog in the machine, a mere remnant of a glory that no longer belonged to you. Disgust coursed through your veins like a biting chill; bile surged up your throat, thick and acrid, and you swallowed it so quickly you barely registered the bitter taste burning your windpipe. Your eyes, vacant and wandering, swept across the room until they landed on the imposing figure of president Florentino Pérez.

— Y-you can’t…? — you stammered, suffocated by desperation. — Surely not! There must something… I’ll work harder… You can’t… I—” The firm weight of a hand on your shoulder cut your plea short. Your eyes blinked, dispelling the mist of tears beginning to form, and when your vision finally cleared, you found yourself staring at the imposing figure of your agent. More than an agent, he was a mentor. More than a mentor, he was your father.

— Where are we going? His voice, deep and unwavering, sought no explanation—only a destination. There were no pointless questions, no futile protests. Only acceptance—not resigned, but tinged with something worse. A certain… disappointment. No, that wasn’t quite right. What resonated in his tone was not mere dissatisfaction. It was disillusionment. And in that moment, you knew—you had failed.

— London — came the emotionless response. — Your destination for the next twelve months is Tottenham Hotspur.

The sentence was passed. The judgment, final. The weight of exile settled upon your shoulders like an unappealable verdict, and all that remained was to press forward, even as each step became a merciless reminder of what you had lost.

Your transfer would be finalised within a week, and the urgency weighed on you like an inescapable burden. You needed to gather your belongings and organise the essential paperwork for the transaction, even though the club had already handled most of the bureaucratic procedures. Time was slipping through your fingers like fine sand, and each passing moment served as a reminder that your departure was imminent. It was on one of those nights, as you returned home, utterly drained by the relentless routine, that a heavy sigh escaped you before you collapsed onto your bed. Just then, your phone buzzed, momentarily cutting through the exhaustion that had taken hold of your body. With your vision blurred by fatigue, you hesitated for a brief moment, debating whether to answer the call or let it fade into oblivion. But that hesitation vanished the instant your eyes landed on the illuminated icon on the screen.

Soulmate❄️

A smile—subtle yet undeniable—curved your lips as you immediately recognised the person behind the notification. Kim Min-jeong, or rather, Winter. A name that evoked vivid memories of an indelible past, shaped by a friendship that had withstood the relentless passage of time. You had grown up together, sharing not only the carefree innocence of childhood but also the turmoil and discoveries of adolescence. Though she was two years older, that difference had never been a barrier between you; if anything, it only strengthened the bond you shared.

As a child, you had been a timid boy, always hesitant, your words stumbling on your tongue before they could be spoken. Winter, however, embraced your fragility without hesitation, becoming both your shield and your voice when yours failed you. You were the shy boy who hid behind her, and she, the fierce storm that pulled you fearlessly into the world.

Yet, as the years passed, as childhood gave way to adolescence and, eventually, adulthood, the feelings you harboured for her began to shift. The fraternal affection transformed into a silent admiration, which in turn grew into a massive crush. And before you could fully grasp what was happening in your own heart, you realised that friendship was no longer enough. You loved her, and you knew it with the certainty of someone recognising an undeniable truth

Perhaps she even knew it too.

But then, Winter chose a path that led her away from you. She embraced the fleeting, dazzling life of an idol, and you, in turn, felt your world waver under the weight of that decision. You understood that each of you had your own ambitions and responsibilities, but that didn’t stop your heart from shattering as you watched her leave. Fate, ever cruel and unyielding, pulled your paths apart. And still, you hid your pain beneath a mask of quiet acceptance.

You never openly confessed the feelings that had taken root in your chest, but neither did you make any real effort to conceal them. Small gestures gave away what your voice never dared to say—like the fact that her contact was saved as "Soulmate" or that your wallpaper was still a photo of the two of you, arms wrapped around each other. Yet she never seemed to notice. And if she did, she never gave any indication of reciprocation.

But perhaps none of that mattered anymore. Life’s twists and turns had led you down separate roads. She had followed the fleeting glow of the spotlight, and you, in pursuit of your own dreams, had left Korea behind—drifting further away from the only person who had ever made your heart waver between hope and heartbreak.

Sliding your finger across the screen, your eyes caught the slightly sloppy text—likely due to the late hour. She must have just woken up or something.

"I heard u gonna switch again."

The message was simple, and yet you grin like an idiot when you see it, your fingers moving before you know it.

"Yeah. Feels like I’m lettin’ everyone down lately."

"Oh. So sad. I'll call ya."

When the phone rang, you already knew it was her. As you answered, her voice sounded familiar, yet tinged with a tone that made you shudder.

— I thought the circumstances were considerably better.

You nearly let out a laugh—dry, laced with a bitterness that would linger within you for weeks on end.

— If only everything in life were that easy. Your voice takes on a sharper edge. — Do you already know where they’re sending me?

— Tottenham. I saw the rumours on social media. Good luck?

That was when, at last, you surrendered to disbelief and burst into laughter—a loud, sarcastic, scornful laugh, as if the whole situation were nothing but a cruel joke, a distorted delusion of reality. Were you truly being forced to abandon the club of your dreams… to join the less decorated side of London?

— You must be joking! Do you have any idea when they last won the English league? Abeoji was still crawling around stark naked, mumbling his first words!

For reasons beyond comprehension, her laughter dissipated some of the fire raging inside you. For a fleeting moment, you almost forgot how delightful that sound was.

— Someone sounds utterly disillusioned. You can always come back home. She singsongs while you raise an eyebrow, though your expression soon darkens.

— No. The deal’s already done, only my signature remains. And stepping foot in that league, oversaturated with mediocre players, would be the equivalent of signing my own downfall.

On the other end of the line, she hesitates, lost in thought. Only after a few moments does she dare break the silence.

— You really think you’re better than the Korean league, yet you can’t even make the Real Madrid bench? Hmmm. Naughty boy.

You shrug, though she can’t see it, and reply with the unshaken calm of someone who harbours no doubt.

— I don’t think I’m better. I know I am.

[scavengedluxury]

[permertesacker]

[pressure-machine]

More in than out.

[oraltraditionfiction]

We listen and we don’t judge | MM7

Mason Mount x f! reader (fluff)

Summary: you and Mason do the 'we listen and we don't judge' challenge

Word Count: 370 word, short little blurb <3

Authors Note: tbh not tiktok people but we thought this was a cute prompt. this is my first fic ever, pls enjoy! -🦷

You set your phone up on the bathroom counter while Mason adjusts his hair in the mirror.

“What are we doing again,” he mumbles, distracted by a patch of spiky hair. 

“The we listen and we don’t judge thing,” you say as you adjust the phone, “people have been requesting it in my comments for weeks.” He nods, turning to kiss your cheek as you press record. 

“We listen and we don’t judge,” You clasp your hands together. “Mase, we have to say it together!”

He throws his hands up, breaking into a small smile. You turn back to the camera, “Okay, I’ll go first.” 

You turn to the camera and whisper conspiratorially, “Sometimes, when you’re at physio, I let the puppy on the couch.” He breaks into laughter, the two of you just barely managing to choke out “We listen and we don’t judge.”

Mason clears his throat and tries to supress a smile, “Sometimes instead of separating the laundry, I throw it all in at once.”

“Is that why my socks are pink?” You say in fake indignation. 

“We listen and we don’t judge,” the two of you chorus. Trying to remain composed, you choke out, “Sometimes when you talk about golf, I think about what we’re eating for dinner instead.” 

He turns to you with an overexaggerated pout, pausing to think for a moment. He turns away from you sheepishly, “One time while I was putting the dishes away, I broke two of your wine glasses and never told you.” 

Your eyes widen and you turn towards him, “You told me they were at the back of the cabinet!” 

“I’ll replace them eventually!” He protests, trying to wrap an arm around you. Looking at him with fake annoyance, you spit out, “Sometimes I eat in the bed when you aren’t home.”

At this, he looks at you horrified, “Babe, that’s disgusting…” You turn and hide your face. He takes this chance to say, “Sometimes after I put on my shoes and I forget something, I walk through the house with them on.” You whip your head around, your jaw dropped, “Mase!” 

The two of you break out laughing, his arms wrapping around you, the video long forgotten.

[taasgirl]

popstar - jude bellingham

summary: y/n is in her popstar era and has a fan in the form of madrid's starboy

SMAU!

liked by pedri, oliviarodrigo, beabadoobee, and 32, 726 others ynusername working hard or hardly working?

badbunny YAYAYA my baby come home soon

leahwilliamson Gorgeous girl x

user60293 WHEN WORLDS COLLIDE

user60132 I already know the amy winehouse influence will be insane

ynusername oh you know it

liked by blonded, lukehemmings, sabrinacarpenter, and 41, 736 others ynusername oh italy

user60383 WHAT A SHOW

littlesimz we have to link up someday

blonded Girls will go to Italy once and come back alt

ynusername go record some music christopher

judebellingham very european

user21293 WHY IS Y/N FRIENDS WITH SO MANY FOOTBALLERS?

liked by user56230, phoebebridgers, calumhood, and 44, 492 others ynusername sorry for the spam but EUROPE!?!?!?!

kevinabstract ur so cool i wish i was u

sabrinacarpenter AAAAAAAAHHHH

judebellingham Sparkly

ynusername still need tix ? user02931 I CANT I CANT I CANT I CANT

liked by pablogavi. ynusername, vinijr, and 672, 729 others pedri 🌴🏆😝

ansufati ❤️

ynusername pepiiiii

user60219 HOW MANY FOOTBALLERS DOES Y/N KNOW???

ynusername too many 😒

user49320 y/n really catching all the footballers like their stones

liked by judebellingham, lukehemmings, oliviarodrigo, and 56, 832 others ynusername madrid may have the best fans shhhh

user98273 MADRID GIRLIES RISE!!!

judebellingham What a show ⭐ liked by ynusername

user44392 WHAT THE FUUUUUUCK

pedri Come to Barca and we'll show you the best fans

ynusername nah i'm good

liked by ynusername, vinijr, philfoden, and 5, 873, 923 others judebellingham Recent ☀️

vinijr 🔥🔥

user09273 that looks a whole lot like a y/n concert...

user63882 Tell me why I have the exact same photo but at a dif angle... jude we see u

jobebellingham Much better weather than birmingham tbf

ynusername what a pretty concert!

judebellingham What a pretty girl!

liked by oliviarodrigo, judebellingham, pedri, and 109, 726 others ynusername spain + digi camera = heaven

user25309 GAGGED

user78201 this is literally the hottest couple of all time

sabrinacarpenter digi never disappoints

user90123 I NEED the timeline of their relationship omfg

judebellingham this is cute

user05316 Bro is down so bad that he turned off caps-lock

liked by casemiro, ynusername, edermilitao, and 7, 983, 022 others judebellingham When your girl is so pretty, all you can do is stare. Happy one year anniversary baby, I love you too much to keep it a secret.

ynusername aww thank you judey 💘

judebellingham Hi baby

user89302 how the actual fuck did no one know about this???

user92634 'i love you too much to keep it a secret' OKAYYY

leahwilliamson thank god, I don't have to keep this a secret anymore

user66539 CONFIRMED! hottest couple of all time

hehe let me know if you guys liked this! SAY SOMETHING IS COMING SOON I PROMISE!!

[itsgiovanna]

playing for love (chapter 1)

pairing: fem!character x mason mount

summary: injured and lost, mason mount begins his recovery with the help of adeline alderidge, a tough yet brilliant physiotherapist with secrets of her own. he becomes determined to break through the walls adeline has built around herself. but some wounds don’t heal easily, and the closer they get, the more mason realizes she might need saving just as much as he does.

notes: hey, everyone! this is the first chapter and i’m so happy to introduce you to mason & adaline's story. hope you like it! enjoy 🤍

word count: 2.8k

warnings: none

next: chapter 2

The locker room was buzzing with energy — voices overlapping, boots scuffing against the floor, the clap of a teammate hyping up the squad. It was the usual match routine, but to Mason, something felt off. He sat at his locker, elbows resting on his knees, staring at his feet. His stomach was tight, but not in the usual way. Normally, it was adrenaline, that restless hunger to get out on the pitch and play. This was different, it sat heavy in his chest.

Maybe it was just in his head. But it had been there for weeks now — like a weight he couldn’t lift. Since joining United, everything had felt harder. The pressure, the expectations, the constant questioning.

He already knew what people would say if he had another bad game.

“Mount struggling to find his place.”

“United’s number 7 failing to deliver.”

A hand clapped against his shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts.

“You good?” Mason looked up to see Marcus Rashford standing over him, adjusting his captain’s armband. His expression wasn’t just casual concern — he was really looking at him, like he could tell something wasn’t right.

“Yeah. Just focused.” Mason forced a nod. 

“Focused, huh?” Marcus raised a brow. 

“I’m fine, mate.” Mason let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. 

“Alright. Let’s do this.” Marcus studied him for a second longer before giving him a firm pat on the back. 

The team gathered around as Ten Hag delivered his final words. “Stay compact in midfield. No sloppy passes, no hesitation. And Mason.” — his gaze locked onto him — “Be aggressive. No holding back tonight.”

Mason nodded, but the unease in his chest didn’t go away.

The first half was a battle. Manchester City were relentless, pressing high, moving the ball quickly. Mason was doing his best to keep up, but it wasn’t enough. He felt a step behind, his touches just a little off. Every mistake felt heavier, like it was adding to the weight pressing down on him.

Then, early in the second half, his moment came. A misplaced pass from City’s defense sent the ball rolling into open space. He sprinted forward, reaching for the ball — but, everything happened at once.

A body crashed into him, full force.

Rúben Dias.

Mason barely had time to think before he was sent flying. 

The pain was unbearable, his knee twisted violently before giving out completely, his body collapsing onto the grass. He gasped, his hands clutching his leg, but it was like a fire spreading through him, sharp and unrelenting. 

The noise of the crowd faded. His ears rang. The only thing he could focus on was the agony tearing through his body.

Then came the voices.

His name. Shouts for the medical team. Hands on his shoulder, his arm — steady, grounding. Rashford and Hojlund were crouched beside him, his face tight with worry.

“Mase, talk to me. You alright?” Rashford put his hand on Mason’s shoulder, but voice cut through the chaos — loud, sharp, and angry.

“What the fuck was that?”

Mason barely turned his head in time to see Rúben Dias standing a few feet away, arms raised, shouting at the referee. But he wasn’t apologizing — he was blaming him.

“He threw himself into it!” Rúben snapped, shaking his head. “That’s not on me!”

A wave of anger rolled through Mason’s teammates. Rashford was up in an instant, stepping toward Rúben. “What’s your problem?” he shot back. “He’s on the ground, mate. Have some fucking respect.”

Lisandro Martínez shoved past Rashford, glaring at Dias. “You’re not helping, Dias. Just walk away.” The referee quickly stepped between them, telling them to calm down, but Mason couldn’t focus on the argument. The paramedics were already beside him, voices low but urgent.

“How bad?” one asked.

“Looks like ligament damage. Possible tear.”

“Quick, we need to get him off now.”

Mason barely processed their words. His pulse pounded in his ears, the stadium lights too bright, the voices around him distant. The stretcher appeared beside him, and Mason barely registered the hands lifting him onto it.

This wasn’t happening.

He wasn’t supposed to go out like this. Not injured. Not like this.

As they carried him off, pain flaring with every small movement, the crowd’s noise became lower in the background. He shut his eyes, swallowing down the disappointment, the fear.

(...)

The ambulance ride was a blur of flashing lights and muffled voices. Mason lay flat on the stretcher, his body stiff, every bump in the road sending pain through his leg. His knee felt like it was on fire, a deep, throbbing ache spreading through his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, but it wasn’t working.

“Hang in there, Mason. We’re almost there.” One of the paramedics hovered over him, adjusting the straps securing his leg.

“Male, twenty-six, severe knee trauma. Suspected ACL tear. Pulse stable, high-pain level.“ The other spoke into a radio, relaying updates ahead to the hospital.

ACL tear.

Mason clenched his jaw. He knew what that meant. Months out. Maybe longer.

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the stretcher. The sound of the sirens was distant, drowned out by the pounding in his head.

The ambulance doors swung open the moment they arrived at Manchester Royal Infirmary, one of the best hospitals in the city for sports injuries. Everything moved fast. Bright lights, rushed voices, the sharp scent of antiseptic.

“Took a direct hit before collapsing. Pain’s at a ten.” The paramedics wheeled him through the corridor, speaking to the medical staff waiting for them, prepared to do the scans.

The words barely registered. Mason felt lightheaded, the pain and exhaustion weighing him down. He barely reacted as they transferred him onto the hospital bed.

And then, finally, known voices.

“Mason!” His dad’s voice cut through the hallway.

Mason forced his eyes open, blinking against the brightness. His dad, Tony, was standing at the edge of the bed, his face tight with worry. His mom was beside him, arms crossed over her chest like she was physically holding herself together.

“We came as soon as we got the call.” Tony said, his voice steady, but Mason could see the concern behind his eyes.

“They think it’s my ACL.” Mason swallowed hard and the words felt heavy on his tongue. “I don’t know how bad.” Before they could say more, the doctor stepped in, holding a clipboard.

“Mason, we’ve reviewed your scans.” he said, flipping through the papers. “It’s a complete ACL tear.” He met Mason’s eyes. “You’ll need surgery.”

“Dear, God." his mom gasped. "And, the recovery?"

"It'll take at least six to eight months.” the doctor responded.

Silence.

Mason’s chest tightened. Six to eight months.

His season was over. His career, put on hold.

“We’ll get through this.” His dad pressed a firm hand on his shoulder.

Mason exhaled, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t go away. The pain in his knee was unbearable, but right now, the pain in his heart was worse. Suddenly, the disappointment of letting down, the fans, his teammates and his family was greater than anything else.

(…)

The sterile smell of the hospital still clung to the air, heavy and cold. Mason lay on the bed, staring up at the white ceiling, his mind swirling with frustration. The pain from his knee was a constant reminder of everything he’d lost in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t just the injury. It was the weight of the season ahead — the expectations he was expected to carry, the doubts creeping in after another setback. His career, his future, all of it felt uncertain now. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this.

The door opened with a soft creak, and the nurse entered, her steps light but confident. She had black hair and a name tag reading "Charlotte" clipped to her uniform. She smiled as she walked toward him, her eyes scanning the room before landing on Mason.

“Mr. Mount.” she said, her voice sweet, but with a touch of something more. “How are you feeling?”

“Same as before.” Mason barely looked at her, keeping his gaze on the ceiling.

Charlotte moved closer to adjust his IV, her touch is gentle, but there was something about it that felt a little too warm. Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, and as she finished, she smiled.

“I bet you didn’t expect your night to go like this. Right?” she said, her voice softer, a little flirtatious, though Mason wasn’t interested.

He could tell she was trying, but he wasn’t in the mood to entertain anyone. Not right now.

“I’ve had better.” he replied flatly, still not looking at her. She laughed lightly, and Mason couldn’t help but feel like she was laying it on thick.

“You’re not gonna stay mad at me, are you?” she said, leaning in just a little, her words dripping with intent.

“Not mad. Just not in the mood.” He shifted uncomfortably, finally meeting her gaze, though it was more to put an end to the exchange than anything else.

She raised an eyebrow, her smile a little less subtle this time. “Well, if you need anything, I’m just down the hall.” she said, lingering for a moment longer before stepping back, lingering on him as she made her exit.

Mason couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy. The last thing he needed was someone flirting with him when he could barely get a grip on his own thoughts. After a few minutes, the door opened again, and this time, it was his sister, Jaz, and her husband, Sam. Jaz had that look on her face — the one that always came when she knew something wasn’t right, her worry barely hidden beneath a smile as she walked toward him.

“Mase.” she said softly, pulling up a chair next to his bed. “How’re you holding up?”

Mason turned his head toward her, but his expression remained guarded.

“Just another day.” he replied, though it didn’t sound convincing even to him.

Jaz sat down next to him, her eyes full of concern as she studied him. Her hand reached out, brushing his. “I know this has been tough on you.” she said quietly. “I can see it, Mase. I know what leaving Chelsea did to you... and now this.” Her voice cracked a little, but she quickly recovered, squeezing his hand. Mason didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t in the mood to explain. He wasn’t in the mood for pity.

“It’s fine. I’ll get over it.” he muttered, though he wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

Jaz didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, she leaned in, her voice low and gentle.

“You don’t have to be fine, Mase. Not with me. Not with Sam. We’re here. Always.”

“You know we’ve got your back. Whatever happens.” Sam, standing at the door with his arms crossed, nodded in agreement.

Mason felt a surge of gratitude for them, but it was mixed with anger. He didn’t want to be a burden, didn’t want them to see him like this. He hated feeling weak. But Jaz wasn’t having it. She pulled him into a tight hug, resting her cheek against his.

“I know things haven’t been easy for you.” she whispered. “Leaving Chelsea... coming to Manchester. It’s a big change. But you’ve always been strong. You’ll get through this. I know you will.”

For a moment, Mason didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to being this vulnerable, especially not with his sister, but the warmth of her embrace made him realize how much he needed this. How much he needed them.

He hugged her back, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I just... I don’t know if I can do this anymore. I don’t know if I can keep going.”

Jaz pulled back slightly, her eyes soft with understanding.

“Mase, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. But don’t give up on yourself.” The words hung in the air, and Mason found himself lost in them, his walls starting to crumble a little.

(...)

Adeline stood in the kitchen, wiping down the countertops as the evening light dimmed outside. The small flat in the heart of Manchester felt quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that only settled in after Lilith had gone to bed. The last few hours had been spent in the usual routine — dinner, playtime, bedtime stories.

Adeline couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Lilith was the light of her life, the reason she kept going even on the toughest days.

She had fought for Lilith before she was even born, through sleepless nights filled with doubt, through the suffocating fear of wondering how she would do it alone. The father had never been in the picture — he hadn’t wanted to be — and she had long stopped caring. What she had gained was far greater than what she had lost.

Lilith was her heart walking outside her body.

Every sacrifice, every long shift, every moment of exhaustion was worth it.

And it wasn’t just about being a mother. She loved her job, too.

Physiotherapy wasn’t just a career — it was something she was passionate about, something she had worked relentlessly for. Helping people heal, watching them rebuild their strength, seeing them step back into the life they thought they’d lost — it was fulfilling in a way nothing else was.

She had climbed her way up, studying late into the night after putting Lilith to bed, taking extra certifications while balancing work and motherhood. It hadn’t been easy. But she was good at what she did.

She remembered the early days of motherhood, when everything had felt so uncertain. There was a time when she had been terrified — terrified of raising Lilith on her own, terrified of how hard it would be. But there was also a moment, after months of sleepless nights and endless worry, when she’d found the strength to tell herself, don’t give up on yourself. She had whispered those words like a promise, a way to keep her head above water.

Now, years later, she repeated that phrase whenever things got tough. It wasn’t easy, but she had made a life for herself and for Lilith, one small step at a time.

“Mum? Mum!” Her thoughts were interrupted by a small voice from the hallway when Lilith called, her little voice muffled from her bedroom. “Mum, I can’t sleep.”

Adeline dried her hands quickly and moved toward the door, calling out gently, “I’m coming, Lily.”

Lilith was curled up in her bed, clutching her stuffed bunny. “I had a bad dream.” she mumbled, holding out her arms.

Adeline bent down to scoop her daughter up, cradling her in her arms. “What happened, darling?” she asked, brushing a lock of hair from Lilith’s forehead.

“I dreamed the bunny got lost.” she said softly. “Can we keep him close?”

“Of course, my love.” Adeline smiled and settled them both under the covers, letting Lilith snuggle into her arms. “He’s safe now, I promise. No one’s taking him.”

As she laid there, her phone buzzed from the kitchen counter, the vibration loud in the quiet room. Adeline’s eyes fluttered open, and she reluctantly got herself away from Lilith, tucking the blanket around her daughter before heading back to the kitchen.

She frowned when she saw the name of your boss, Dr. Hearst, on the screen. It was nearly 11 p.m. What could he want this late?

“Dr. Hearst?” She answered quickly.

“Adeline, I’ve got an opportunity for you. A big one.” His voice came through steady, direct.

She straightened. “I’m listening.”

“Mason Mount came in tonight. Complete ACL tear. Manchester United is assembling a team to handle his recovery, and they need the best physiotherapist for the job.” Adeline was not a football enthusiast, she’s heard his name a few times, but that’s it.

“And… you’re saying that’s me?”

“Yes. You’re the most qualified in our department, especially with your postgrad in sports injuries. I vouched for you.”

“I appreciate that, but-” Adeline hesitated, gripping the edge of the counter.

“I know what you’re thinking.” he cut in. “But, listen. They’re offering serious money. More than double your salary. This isn’t just about your career, Adeline. This is about securing a future — for you and Lilith.”

Lilith.

Adeline’s gaze flickered toward the closed bedroom door, where her daughter was sleeping soundly, unaware of the weight pressing on her mother’s shoulders.

“When do they need an answer?” She exhaled, running a hand through her hair.

“Tomorrow morning. We’re finalizing the medical team, If you want in, be at the hospital by eight.”

A beat of silence passed.

Adeline swallowed. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long.” Dr. Hearst warned. “This is the kind of chance that doesn’t come twice.”

She ended the call and stood there for a moment, staring at her phone.

Footballers. She’d heard enough stories from her colleagues — entitled, arrogant, difficult to work with. But…

She glanced at Lilith’s door again.

This wasn’t just about her. This was about her daughter’s future.

And Adeline always put Lilith first.

(...)

[fitstud]

Soccer time ⚽

[judecole]

caught on film. cp20

pairing: you x cole palmer

summery: you’re a famous retired footballers daughter and have been dating cole for a few months. the media hasn’t caught on to your relationship just yet but your appearance at the euros final in a certain players shirt causes quite the stir.

word count: 2114

authors note: idk

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

You’re not exactly sure what you did in your past life to end up here, in this beautiful grand hotel in central Berlin. Despite your luxurious lifestyle, being born with a silver spoon in your mouth and having everything you ever wanted, you never took a single thing for granted. The hotel foyer is vast and grand, great marble columns dwarfing everyone in sight and traditional historic paintings in huge gold frames hanging on every wall. It’s beautiful. You stay in these kinds of hotels regularly but they never cease to amaze you. Your family PA is checking you and your family into the hotel as the several concierges begin collecting your luggage. You smile warmly at them and thank them before the manager greets you to show you to your suites. As soon as you enter your room you lay flat out on the bed, exhausted from your day travelling. You’d been flying back and forth from the UK to Germany for the last month. Any major footballing tournaments were a big deal in your family, you’ve been to pretty much every one since you were born. You can remember being a small child, wearing a shirt with your father’s name and number on the back and feeling so proud every time he stepped on the pitch. However now, things were a bit different. Your family were now invited as special guests and given all the best treatment, a private box in the stands where members of staff would meet your every need. You did truly feel blessed and very appreciative for everything your parents had done for you and your siblings.

You pull your phone out from your trouser pocket and check for any messages. Nothing. You bite your lip and open up iMessage and clicking on Cole’s name. You had been dating Cole for about six months. Things were going very well for the two of you, your parents loved him, especially your dad who was amazed by his talent on the pitch. You’d initially met him when he played at Manchester City after being invited to watch an U21’s match. You loved his laid back style and calm manor when he was playing. You smile as you remember the first time you spoke to him, all sweaty after the game. You’d gone down with your dad to congratulate the boys on their win and chatted with them. You swear you’d fallen for him right then and there, not being able to get his stupid grin out of your head. You begin typing a message to him when your younger sister walked into your room, plopping herself next to you on the bed. “You texting Cole?” She asks, a smirk on her face. She loved to wind you up about your relationship with the football player, often saying that the pair of you made her feel sick. You roll your eyes before replying, “Yeah, I’m gonna see what he’s doing after training.” You type out the message, “I know ur probably training rn but what are u doing tonight? I wanna see youuuu.’

You place your phone down on the bed and lay back, resting your head on the soft pillows. “Are you nervous about tomorrow? I hope Cole gets to play.” Your sister says, actually not being mean or sarcastic for once. “Yeah. I hope he does too.” You hear your phone ding. Picking it up, Cole’s name flashes on the screen. ‘Defo getting an early night but i can see you in the afternoon. Love ya.’ You smile at the words. You know how serious he takes his job, but he never fails to make time for you too. You text him back quickly and lay back again, smiling. “You’re so in love with him it’s gross.” Your sister playfully hits your arm causing you to slap her back.

A few hours later you’re getting ready to head to the England Squads hotel, a little trip planned by your father’s management team that conveniently lined up with your plans to meet Cole that afternoon. Your mum comes in to your room as you’re putting on some makeup and compliments your outfit, a simple pair of jeans and a top that was sent to you by a company that no doubt cost more than a night in the hotel itself. You smile and thank her, pulling her into a gentle side hug as she kisses your head. Your mum was definitely surprised when you told her about your relationship with Cole. Given your previous dating history he would never had been your type. But there was just something about him that instantly pulled you in, you still don’t know what it was to this day but you weren’t complaining.

Arriving at the squads hotel you check your hair and makeup in a compact mirror, brushing a few stray hairs into place with your nails. Your sister rolls her eyes, something that had now become the norm and makes a comment under her breath you can’t really hear. You get out the car and are greeted by some of the staff who lead you in through the hotels modern entrance. The hotel looked more like a spa than a hotel, every piece of furniture placed exactly, in a way to promote relaxation. You follow through the entrance into a board room, filled with players, staff and other prolific footballing legends and their families. You scan the crowd, looking for Cole. It doesn’t take you long as you see your dad pulling him in for a hug and patting him on the back, obviously congratulating him on reaching the finals. You grin as lock eyes with him, quickly wrapping your arms around him. He places a kiss to the top of your head, surprising you. He wasn’t the biggest fan of PDA, even the smallest things like holding hands made him panic. Maybe it was the fact you were one of the most famous people in the world which constantly occurred to him but never to you. You noticed some eyes laying on the pair of you which made you release him. You quickly returned to your professional manner and wished him good luck before finding your mum. She nudges you and gives you a cheeky smile when you reach her. “You two are silly. Why does it matter if anyone finds out?” She says. “It’s not that. I want to be public with him but not now. I want him to focus on football and I don’t want the media circus for him right now.” You say and give her a small smile. “Well that’s very thoughtful of you but make sure you’re public before Christmas because I’m not editing him out of the Instagram pictures.” She wraps an arm round you as you approach more people and chat about the final tomorrow.

Later that night after an expensive dinner in a posh restaurant near the squads hotel, you text Cole and tell him you want to see him before he goes to bed. He replies almost immediately and you ask your driver to wait outside the hotel and that you were just going to take a quick walk. You could see his tall figure on approach which made you speed up, not wanting to waste any more time not having his arms around you. “Hey.” He says softly when you reach him, extending his arms out and enveloping you in them. “Hey.” You almost whisper. “Wanna go for a walk?” You nod your head and begin walking hand in hand. It was dark now but the city of Berlin was still bustling, what with the warm weather. You walk past busy restaurants and bars packed with what you could only assume were England fans based on the noise. Cole squeezes your hand every so often, he can feel his palms become clammy when you look up at him. He still couldn’t believe his luck. After the first time he met you he couldn’t get you out of his mind. He was glad you made the first move though, otherwise you probably wouldn’t have been in this position now. Once you reach somewhere quieter Cole lets go of your hand and wraps his arm around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your temple at the same time. “Are you nervous about tomorrow?” You ask him. You almost knew what he was about to say, “Not really. You know me.” He cracks a smile.

“I hope Southgate plays you, Cold Palmer.” You joke and poke his side playfully. “Me too. Hopefully I’ll get some time.” You end up sitting on a bench overlooking a river, the hustle and bustle far behind you now. “It’s really pretty here.” You mutter. “Not as pretty as you.” He winks as you roll your eyes. You continue talking for a while before Cole regretfully tells you it’s getting late and he probably needs to head back now. He places a quick peck on your lips and stands up, offering you a hand. “I’m so excited for tomorrow. Are you gonna score a goal for me Palmer?” You tease as you approach the hotel. He shakes his head at you and smiles. When you return to the hotel entrance he turns to face you, you look up at him and he swears his heart starts beating a hundred times faster. “I’ll see you after the game, okay? I love you.” He places a soft kiss on your lips making you blush. “Good luck babe. I love you too. You’re gonna smash it.” You wave him goodbye and open the door of the car, getting in and thank your driver for waiting.

You wake up the next morning with a nervous feeling in your tummy. It sticks around for pretty much the whole day. You feel especially nervous when getting dressed. You grabbed your England shirt that you’d hung carefully in the hotel wardrobe and put it on, turning around in the mirror to see the back. You’d always wanted to wear his shirt to a game. You snap a quick picture and keep it for later, maybe to post on Instagram. You knew the absolute carnage that would take place when you did. You arrive at the Olympiastadion Berlin in your families usual fashion, through the back in all blacked out vehicles with staff waiting for you at the other end. The nerves had well and truly kicked in now. You check your phone to see if Cole had texted you. You knew he wouldn’t be nervous, very sure in himself and the team’s quality but you wanted him to text you to ease your nerves. Your dad shook the hands of the staff that greeted you and you thanked them as they took you all up to your private box. You were sharing with a few other well known people, you eagerly greeted them with big smiles.

(We all know how the game went so we’ll just leave it at that.)

A devastating loss for England. You were gutted. But also immensely proud of Cole. He’d been subbed on in the seventieth minute and scored only three minutes later. The only goal for England that game. You headed down to the pitch once everything had calmed down and spotted Cole in the stands with his family. His eyes were glassy with tears as he spoke to his dad. You approach slowly and he notices you, standing up immediately and wrapping you in a tight hug. You could hear the snapping of cameras behind you but neither of you cared in that moment. “I’m sorry baby.” You spoke quietly as you pulled away, cupping one side of his face with your hand. “You were amazing.” He sniffled slightly, trying not to cry in front of you but failing miserably as he pulled you in again. You rubbed his back reached up to kiss his cheek. His dad walked towards the both of you and pats Cole on the back before sitting with Cole’s mum. “I can’t believe we lost.” He reaches up to dry his eyes as you pout and rub his arm. You turn around slightly hearing his sister call your name. “Love your shirt.” He smirks a bit, it clearly cheering him up. He wraps his arm around your shoulder as you begin chatting with his sister.

You’re on your way back to your hotel when your phone begins to blow up. Story after story about your relationship with Cole, using the picture they clearly got when you were consoling him after the game. You save the picture, setting it as your lockscreen and then posting the picture of you in his shirt from earlier to your Instagram story.

[othernightslikethis]

THE WHITE EMPEROR

Cap 1 here

Ningning x Male Reader x Winter (aespa)

3k words

There were two things your very core despised more than the colour green—which, for some reason, you had always loathed above all else—boredom and loneliness. And yet, it was precisely these two afflictions that now imposed themselves upon your existence with inexorable voracity.

Flat on your bed, staring at the ceiling like a shipwrecked man drained of strength, you lay prisoner to your own inertia. Your leg bounced incessantly—sometimes in aimless frenzy, sometimes in a more measured rhythm—as if that minuscule movement could somehow ease the crushing monotony consuming you. Sleep, ever elusive, refused to grace you with its veil of rest, even as lethargy spread through your limbs like a slow-acting poison.

The irony lay in the fact that this idleness did not stem from a lack of purpose but rather from a cruel, exasperating wait. Only a single day remained before you flew to London, yet each second stretching between you and that coveted moment felt like an eternity. Time, relentless and mocking, dragged itself forward with deliberate slowness, seemingly revelling in your torment.

Fate, a capricious creature of surprises, had a peculiarly fortunate misfortune in store for you. To your unexpected delight, an event of considerable excitement presented itself. The shrill ring of the doorbell—once a source of irritation and exasperation—echoed through the house with vigour, its sound travelling through the rooms until it reached the upper floor. Curiously, the very noise that had tormented you for an entire year now brought inexplicable relief, as though it heralded something of utmost significance.

With a drawn-out sigh, void of enthusiasm, you emerged from your sluggish haze, abandoning the bed with no particular haste. Your limbs, weighed down by idleness, moved with reluctance as you rose, utterly indifferent to the idea of dressing with greater propriety. Composure gave way to urgency as you descended the stairs, each step creaking beneath your indolent tread.

The night air, cold and slightly damp, slipped through the cracks of the windows, pricking at your bare skin. Yet, such discomfort barely registered, for your mind—still shrouded in the fog of unrested sleep—was wholly fixated on the source of the interruption.

At last, reaching the door, your hand hesitated on the handle. A moment of uncertainty lingered between you and whatever lay beyond. But with one final resigned breath, you turned the latch and opened the door.The silence blanketing the space was abruptly shattered by a lively, resonant voice from the doorway.

— How long do you plan on standing there lookin’ like a dead fish, bro?

Before you, dressed in casual attire, stood none other than Vinícius José Paixão de Oliveira Júnior—or, as he was more commonly known, Vini Jr. His eyes, alight with an energy impossible to contain, flitted upwards to where the unmistakable figures of Rodrygo Goes, Jude Bellingham, Kylian Mbappé, and Eduardo Camavinga loomed. Last, but by no means least, stood Antonio Rüdiger, adorned with a hat so utterly bizarre that its eccentricity was rivalled only by the effortless ease with which he wore it.

— We’ve come to drag you out for a bit. A farewell party—what d’you reckon? — Vini announced, a mischievous grin playing at his lips.

Time granted you all of two seconds to process the situation before the entire group, like a relentless tidal wave, breached the sanctity of your home without the slightest hesitation. Caught in the sudden invasion of your peace, your only response was to shut the door behind them, a quiet chuckle escaping your lips. Shaking your head in amused resignation, the hint of a smile still lingered on your face.

— I really do love these guys.

Strobe lights flashed at a frantic pace, reflecting in the eyes of those who stared at them, while deafening music pulsed from every corner of the room. And yet, far from being a nuisance, that chaotic symphony had a hypnotic allure—something that, strangely, you found enjoyable.

The table where you and your friends were gathered boasted a medley of drinks, each glass holding a different concoction, and the air buzzed with an ephemeral sense of celebration—a welcome distraction from the impending departure awaiting you at dawn.

Vini, ever the exuberant one, leaned towards you, giving your shoulder a light tap to steal your attention. His expression bore an almost childlike anticipation, certain that he’d draw the words from you that, deep down, you knew had to be spoken.

— So then? You and that girl you’ve been into… What’s the deal? — he asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity.

You sighed deeply before bringing the glass to your lips, allowing the whisky to burn its way down your throat with a mix of sting and comforting warmth. The faint touch of honey attempted to temper the alcohol’s harshness—but to little avail.

— Feels like I’m talking to a ghost. — you murmured, setting the glass down with a dull clink. — She barely bothers to reply to my messages. One moment, she treats me with absolute indifference, and the next, she throws me a few scraps of attention. It’s like she sees me as a bloody pet—gives me a momentary treat, and there I am, wagging my tail and begging for scraps of affection.

The weight of frustration crashed down upon you so heavily that your head fell against the table with a dull thud—a quiet, resigned groan slipping from your lips amidst the indistinct murmur of the room

Rüdiger, in an almost paternal gesture, placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder, while Rodrygo, his expression sombre, crossed his arms and took a slow sip of his drink before stating, with cutting pragmatism:

— And you’re just gonna stay like this?

His tone held no condescension—just a blunt, matter-of-fact certainty. Vini, nodding vehemently, reinforced the sentiment: — If she treats you like that, maybe it’s time to move on, mate. There’s no shortage of hotties in the world

— Leave him alone — Mbappé said as he settled beside you, sliding a drink in your direction. — He needs time for himself.

Just then, Mbappé and Camavinga arrived with the next round of drinks. The older Frenchman led the way, while the younger trailed just behind, tilting his head inquisitively.

Eduardo, however, remained standing, arms crossed over his chest, his expression scrutinising as he asked:

— What’s this all about?

Rüdiger, with a knowing smirk, tossed out a teasing reply:

— Our dear little Japanese friend is suffering over love.

— I’m Korean! — you snapped, irritation flaring as you scowled.A chorus of laughter erupted around you, a mix of exasperation and begrudging amusement washing over you.

— "Same thing!" someone called out between chuckles.

— My man, have you actually told her how you feel?

The silence that followed answered for you. Your hesitant glance and slight shake of the head were enough for Mbappé to exhale thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the rim of his glass.

— Hmmm… Then maybe you should. — He raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip. — She’s not a mind reader, man. She won’t know how you feel unless you tell her.

He let the words settle before setting down his drink with finality.

— But for now, forget about all that. Go dance. Leave the overthinking for later. Tonight’s your send-off—make the most of it! We’ll see you in a year!

The last sentence was repeated in unison by the group, followed by an enthusiastic toast. The clinking of glasses echoed in the air—a fleeting moment of celebration before the night continued.

---

Winter felt restless, to say the least. Anxiety coursed through her veins like an insidious poison, undermining her usual tranquillity. She had sent him a message three hours ago, and the silence that followed had become an unbearable weight on her chest. It was an unusual absence, unsettling, almost unnatural. She was used to receiving his response instantly, as if his very existence lingered on the edge of hers, always ready to dispel any shadow of uncertainty. What had once seemed charming now felt deeply disquieting.

Why hadn’t he answered? What was keeping him? Was it merely a distraction, or was something more serious standing between them? Under normal circumstances, she might have convinced herself that he was sleeping, wrapped in the languor of slumber. But no, Winter knew—with the unshakable certainty of one who observes a sacred ritual—that he never slept without receiving her goodnight. It had become an unbreakable tradition, a habit deeply rooted in their routine.

Restlessness settled in like a weed, choking her thoughts. With every passing minute, her mind wove increasingly disturbing scenarios, as if the absence of a single response could herald impending disaster. Almost involuntarily, her fingers hovered over the screen, hesitant, torn between reason and the impulse to send another message.

Letting out an audible huff, Kim Minjeong was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice Yu Jimin—Karina—settling beside her with quiet serenity. The leader, observing the vacant, distant expression on the younger girl’s face, reached out gently, resting her fingers on her shoulder in an attempt to pull her back to reality. But there was no response. Persistent, Karina insisted, giving her a light shake several times until Minjeong finally emerged from her daze. She blinked a few times, visibly confused, before lifting her gaze to the other girl.

— What? What happened? — she asked, her voice slightly hoarse, as if she had gone a long time without uttering a single word.

— Nothing in particular… It’s just that you haven’t said a word for nearly two hours.

As she spoke, she raised a hand and, with careful precision, placed her fingers against Minjeong’s forehead, subtly assessing her temperature. Her expression remained unchanged, but there was a trace of concern in her voice.

— I was worried.

Winter shook her head, forcing herself to push aside the thoughts that had insidiously invaded her mind. At last, she abandoned the brooding that kept her bound to that figure whose affection for her was so glaringly obvious. Who, after all, could ignore such evidence? And yet, she had never managed to discern whether, deep down, she could ever truly return it.

She had never been granted the boldness to do so, leaving her only with hesitation and the gnawing guilt of keeping him tethered to her so mercilessly. Sometimes, she saw herself as a jailer of emotions, depriving him of the freedom to seek love elsewhere, though never out of deliberate cruelty. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was the selfishness that pulsed within her in secret.

But for some unfathomable reason, merely imagining the possibility of him falling for someone else made her stomach churn, as if a venom coursed through her veins, robbing her of breath. The mere thought of his eyes—once fixed solely on her—turning towards another, of his smiles, his gestures, his very essence ceasing to belong to her, was an intolerable affront, an unbearable misfortune.

He was meant to be hers—from his first breath to his very last.

Two pairs of footsteps echoed through the room, accompanied by the sound of suitcases being dragged along the floor. Suppressed giggles dissipated into the air.

— She’s thinking about her prince charming! — Aeri teased, a sly grin on her lips.

Karina, slightly furrowing her brows, turned to her friend, arching an eyebrow in evident confusion.

— What are you on about? — she asked, doubt clouding her gaze.

— She’s talking about [Y/N.] — Ning chimed in, exhaling a sigh laden with exasperation before throwing herself onto the opposite sofa, arms crossed over her chest. — I don’t get what she sees in him. A rude, ill-mannered man with… Urgh! The most insufferable arrogance. I hate that man!

Her tone dripped with resentment, and the irritation that coloured her expression made her disdain painfully obvious.

— Oh, him. What’s her problem? Did they have a row or something? — Giselle, saying nothing, merely shook her head in response. — So?

The young woman, visibly exasperated, let out a sharp huff before finally voicing her grievance:

— That bastard! Not only did he spill orange juice all over me, but he didn’t even bother apologising! And to make matters worse, he had the audacity to say that if I was going to be a whiny baby, I should just wear nappies! The nerve of him!

Karina and Giselle exchanged a knowing look, as if trying to gauge how seriously she was taking her outrage, while Winter, unable to hold back, let out a quiet chuckle, covering her mouth in a feeble attempt to disguise her amusement.

---

The journey unfolded without incident, and the presentation in London proceeded in an orderly and formal manner. However, the reception was far below expectations—an inadmissible slight for someone of his stature. After all, it was a loan for a season and a half, but even so, his arrival should have been met with the pomp and reverence befitting his name. What kind of insolence was this? In just a year on the Old Continent, he had amassed more titles than those dull, uninspired nobodies had won in an entire decade. And yet, his arrival was marked by an infuriating coldness.

There was no frenzied crowd, no eager reporters vying for his words, no paparazzi scrambling for the best angles of his figure. No bombastic headlines, no fanfare. Nothing. They treated him like some random nobody, a mere afterthought, and the sheer audacity of it all made his blood boil. How dare they? How could they ignore his greatness? Talent and glory should speak for themselves, yet here, they seemed invisible. The silent disregard gnawed at his pride, fuelling his indignation. He was a blazing star, a force of nature destined to make history. And yet, here he was—cast into obscurity by a bunch of visionless fools.

London had better open its eyes and bow, for soon enough, it would have no choice but to kneel before his grandeur.

Even so, he was compelled to report for training that very same day, with no room for delays or indulgences. With meticulous resignation, he donned his gear, adjusting each piece with an almost mechanical lack of enthusiasm. A club staff member had been tasked with showing him around—a formality he found utterly tedious, devoid of charm or novelty.

The tour dragged on at a sluggish pace, punctuated by dull descriptions and robotic gestures. The staff member, diligent in his duties, detailed every facility with almost solemn seriousness, while he, in turn, absorbed the information with blatant disinterest, as if every word were a distant echo incapable of sparking even a flicker of curiosity

When he was finally given permission to begin training, his steps towards the pitch were slow, lacking vigour or determination. There was an air of laziness about him, a sense of weary indifference in the way he moved, as though every metre covered was an unnecessary burden. As he set eyes on the impeccably manicured pitch—an emerald carpet many would consider a sacred altar to the sport—he felt nothing but sheer boredom. A yawn escaped his lips, an uncontrollable reflection of his apathy, dissipating into the air like an unmistakable signal of his utter indifference.

Then, he felt an unexpected touch on his shoulder.

Upon entering the facility, he was greeted by a man slightly shorter than himself. His features betrayed his Korean heritage—just like his own, the idol of his national team, Heung-min Son. With an affable smile and an air of camaraderie, Son extended his right hand towards him in a gesture of courtesy.

— Welcome aboard, mate!

His face bore a friendly expression. His hand remained suspended in the air for a moment, waiting to be accepted. He considered the gesture briefly, contemplating whether to return the courtesy. But then, a sardonic smile curled his lips, and a low chuckle escaped his throat. He shook his head in refusal and turned his back on Son without hesitation.

— I’m the star here, old man.

As he walked away, Son remained there, his hand still hanging mid-air, his lips slightly parted in perplexity, his eyes widening just a fraction as if trying to decipher the logic behind such a blunt, unexpected reaction. However, after a brief moment of hesitation, he merely shrugged, resigning himself to the lack of explanation and choosing not to dwell on it.

Still, he observed him closely, noticing how he remained slightly apart from the others, detached from the interactions around him, sitting in wait for coach Ange Postecoglou, who would soon be giving instructions for training. There was a subtle melancholy in his posture—or perhaps just an involuntary sense of displacement, a feeling that he was a stranger in a sea of familiar faces.

And then, before he had even noticed the approach, someone sat beside him.It was Richarlison.

— Don’t even think about opening your fuck mouth, you donkey.

His response came swiftly, laced with contempt, cutting off any attempt at conversation before it could begin.

The striker, however, seemed entirely unfazed. He merely raised an eyebrow, as if hostility were nothing new, and shrugged indifferently—suggesting that, from the very start, he had perhaps never intended to say anything at all.

---

Throughout that week of gruelling training sessions, the Tottenham squad clocked onto the half-arsed effort you were putting in. Your shots were limp, completely lacking any proper power, like you couldn’t be arsed to give it some welly. Your movement, meanwhile, was lethargic, not a shred of graft or determination. Slacking off had become your most glaring trait, and the blasé way you treated every drill reeked of silent arrogance — a proper delusion that your spot among the starters was set in stone, no matter how pony your performance. But that bubble burst in the most humiliating way. On the eve of the clash against Brentford, as you scanned the starting XI list, your eyes scoured the names once, twice, three times, hoping to find yours. No such luck. Reality hit like a ton of bricks: your name wasn’t there. Your heart skipped a beat, proper gobsmacked, and like a mug, you checked again, squinting for a typo, a mistake, anything to explain the snub. But nah. No getting around it.

The air rushed out of your lungs in a proper rage. Your fingers tangled in your hair, yanking hard, as you exploded with a torrent of proper meltdown:

— THE ACTUAL WHAT?! — you bellowed, your voice bouncing off the changing room walls, dripping with disbelief and proper cheek. — WHO DOES THAT COACH THINK HE IS?!

The silence cracked with a calm but firm voice behind you:

— Your coach. — Turning, you faced Kulusevski, staring you down like he’d seen this tantrum coming a mile off. — S’only natural a player who can’t be arsed starts on the bench — he carried on, all chilled, almost taking the piss. — If you’re not grafting in training, why’d you expect a spot among the starters?

A mirthless, bitter laugh slipped out, stewing with that toxic mix of indignation and scorn bubbling inside. This twat who’d nicked your spot had the bare-faced cheek to chat like it was nothing, like he hadn’t proper mugged you off just by existing. Who the bloody hell did he think he was?The rage lit you up, proper fuming, moving sharp and narked. On a proper strop, you spun on your heels and charged at him, shoulder-barging him proper. The clash was a proper clatter, catching the lad off guard and slamming him to the deck before he could blink.

— What a fuck liberty, mate.

---

The match kicked off without you getting a sniff of the pitch, and no one needed to tell you how proper gutted you were. The team’s shambolic mess of a performance had zero tactical shape—proper car crash stuff, made even worse by the gaffer’s cluelessness. His decision to leave you rotting on the bench filled you with silent rage. Not even a hint of you coming on, like, he didn’t even glance your way! What’s that bloke’s problem? Instead of firing you up to work harder, it just made you couldn’t-be-arsed in training. A proper spiteful lethargy took hold, this involuntary sod-it-all attitude showing in your half-hearted drills and calculated sulking. Every drill, every shout from the coaches, your mind drifted further, already convinced you’d never get a proper chance under a gaffer who picked the squad like he was drawing names from a hat.

But then, as if fate decided to take the piss out of your sulk, the unexpected happened: when they announced the starting XI for the League Cup semi against mighty Liverpool, your name was in there. The initial shock turned into a mix of disbelief and proper disdain. Was this the gaffer’s desperate Hail Mary? A random whim? Or some weird power move? Didn’t matter. Like it or not, you were starting the biggest game of the season. Now, with the training-ground sulk behind you, it was time to decide: prove your worth proper, or let the apathy win and fade into irrelevance.

Soulmate ❄️

"Im playin' today."

"That's great, I've been kinda busy, but I swear I'll watch the highlights"

"Better do it, gonna play like always 😜"

Pocketing your phone with a smirk, you got your head straight. You pulled on the number eleven shirt—never your favourite. You’d always fancied the number ten, proper iconic, the maestro’s number… or maybe twenty-eight, a nod to the day you first locked eyes with Minjeong, that split-second moment etched in your mind like it’s framed in gold.

Taking a deep breath, you climbed the stadium stairs, boots clattering on concrete. The distant roar of the crowd mixed with the changing-room banter, a proper buzz of anticipation. Your chest tightened with nerves and adrenaline, the weight of the coming battle on that sacred turf. At the tunnel’s edge, you paused, shut your eyes, and let the cold wind slap your face—game on.

It’s gone past the 61st minute of the second half, and you couldn’t be more off the mark. The match had been a proper shambles for you, a right spectacle of frustration and gloom. The bloody ball barely came your way, dodging you like it couldn’t stand the sight of you, and your own teammates—far from linking up with you on the pitch—acted like you were a ghost, useless and aimless, blithely ignoring your existence.

Even when the round thing did finally land at your feet, your noggin couldn’t conjure up a decent move. Your attacks crumbled against the relentless wall Liverpool had thrown up, every defender like a slab of granite. And to top it off, you couldn’t be arsed to track back and help defend, leaving a gaping hole in your lot’s backline. The cost? Brutal: two lightning counterattacks from the opposition, both turned into goals that rubbed salt in the wound. Deep down, you knew—your half-arsed effort had weighed heavy in the collapse. But you weren’t the only one having a mare that night; your whole squad looked knackered, proper lost.

There was this cursed lethargy in the air, a sluggishness that turned your team into a piss-poor parody of itself. Football, in all its glory, demands grit and fire, but your lot just lay down, gutted and hollow.

Not that any of this bothered you much—you’d already made peace with the disaster. At least until your eyes caught that sodding electronic board glowing in the shadows, flashing your number without a shred of mercy.

— What?! — you barked across the pitch, half-laughing in disbelief. — Nah, no fucking way.

You shook your head, raking your hands through your hair, biting your lip till the metallic tang of blood hit your tongue.

— Fuck this.

You finally caved, trudging off the pitch without so much as a nod to anyone, straight down the tunnel to the dressing room.

Two hours after the final whistle, the worldwide web had turned into an absolute circus. Gutted and seething, you nearly launched your phone at the wall, as if that could wipe away the torrent of abuse flooding your mentions. The headlines were merciless, screaming in block letters about a collapse that’d seemed unthinkable. The story was unanimous—no sympathy, no doubts:

Moon [Y/N], the Biggest Disappointment of the Season?

Korean Star in Decline

Moon [Y/N]: Understand How He Went From Olympus To Becoming Football's Biggest Failure In Recent Years

Some Spurs fans were practically calling for his head on a pike while others defended him.

@fanaticalspur876: Moon was clearly lazy, just see for yourself!

@Yuliandremoslc: Someone told [Y/N] he could play football, and he believed it!

@hosterbigwf: We gotta be patient. Moon will get the hang of it and be our star player!

"Blimey, what’s the bloody issue with these blokes? Clearly, I wasn’t the only one to cock things up, to fail miserably at meetin’ the expectations that, God knows why, were piled onto me.

You, clockin’ the situation, shook your head with a mix of resignation and proper disdain, choosin’ to ignore the whole kerfuffle. But how’d you manage it? Bloody hell, how! You distracted yourself, chuckin’ yourself into hedonistic binges. Lost in huntin’ down raves in London—ones that’d make you forget the bloody shambles your life’d become—you decided to stumble into the first dodgy joint that crossed your path.

Gettin’ in wasn’t the hard part; the real struggle was keepin’ your act together. Pissed as a newt, you could barely stand upright. Before you knew it, you were lurin’ toward the dance floor, driven by some primal urge. There, you started grindin’ against some random bird, a total stranger who, despite her delicate appearance, radiated a vibe that didn’t match her frame. She was a good eight inches shorter and slim-built, almost fragile, you thought. But sod it, you were dead wrong! Fragile? Not a chance. Her arse kept rubbin’ against your thigh so insistently that your knob, already at full salute, felt ready to burst.

Her scent was weirdly familiar, like a distant memory, makin’ you wrap your arms round her waist, feelin’ her warm, smooth skin against yours. Your fingers trailed down, explorin’ every curve, till she leaned back with a soft sigh, her head restin’ on your chest.

— Please… Fuck, you’re so hard I’m goin’ proper mental. Let’s find a better spot… — she purred, with a sly grin that screamed both cheek and impatience.

You, playin’ along, let out a low chuckle and leaned in closer. Your lips met her neck, kissin’ it with a mix of tenderness and proper lust. She arched her head back, givin’ you more access, a silent, fiery invitation.

— You’re a bit keen, ain’t ya? Who said I wanna leave? — you shot back, tone dripping with cheeky defiance.Then her hand, quick as a flash, grabbed the bulge in your trousers, makin’ you jolt and yelp:

— Wow! hell! What’s that for?!

— “Can’t stand man who play daft. I’m gaggin’ for it, you are too—let’s skip the faff and just fuck already. — she fired back, no-nonsense, her bluntness borderline brutal.

— My flat’s nearby. Let’s go.

She turned around, and that’s when you got a proper look at one of the most fit birds you’d ever laid eyes on. Her eyes, near hypnotic, seemed to throw your whole world off-kilter.

For a split second, a weird déjà vu gripped your chest, like you’d met somewhere in another life. Both of you frowned and blurted in unison:

— Do I know you?

The synced words froze the moment—a beat of shock—before meltin’ into pissed, careless laughter. Without another word, you both staggered toward your flat, lurchin’ down the street like two sods surrendered to chance and pure, raging horniness."

---

When the two of you stumbled into the flat, you could barely walk without tripping over every bloody thing in your path. Your mouth was locked deep in a snog with the woman whose name you couldn’t even be arsed to ask, but who—with proper skill and heat—dominated your tongue like a proper expert. Her hands, quick and sly, slid under your black shirt, scraping lightly at your ribs, drawing out a muffled groan you could hardly stifle.

Your hands, once resting on her waist, slid down to her firm thighs, gripping them hard before hoisting her onto your lap. She didn’t hesitate, wrapping her legs around you, breaking the kiss just long enough to fix you with a blazing stare.

— Hhhnm, you’re fit — she whispered, breathless, trying to catch her air. — Tomorrow… I’ll… I’ll proper regret this…

She sighed deeply before a proper moan slipped past her lips as your teeth grazed her bare neck. Even as she bit her lip to hold back, she couldn’t stop grinding against you while you sucked and kissed her skin.

— You’re dead sensitive here — you murmured, earning a squeak as she shoved you back toward her neck with her hands.

A laugh slipped out, but you carried on for a bit, finally tossing her onto the bed to take in her full glory. Her lips were swollen from snogging, a slick of spit glistening at the corner of her mouth. Her neck was littered with bruises, and her chest heaved as she fought for breath.

Your hands moved to her earrings, carefully removing them and setting them on the dresser. Then you knelt before her, grabbing the hem of her dress and peeling it off slow, leaving her in nothing but a lacy white lingerie set.

— You’re like a goddess — you gasped, laughing under your breath. Leaning in, you pressed soft kisses to her flat, toned stomach, feeling her shiver and arch toward you. — Christ, you’re hot. Proper hot.

The only reply was a faint, languid moan—nothing like the loud, over-the-top noises you’d expect. Maybe she was too shy to let go, or maybe she was just the quiet type. Either way, it didn’t matter. With proper skill, you undid her bra, freeing her tits, and a smug little laugh escaped you.

— You pissed?

— Proper wankered.

— Just don’t spew on my bed, yeah? I’d owe you one.

She laughed, but it quickly turned into a sharp, ringing moan that filled the room. Your mouth latched onto her nipple, greedy, as her back arched and her body writhed. Your right hand squeezed her other breast, while your left slid down, slow and deliberate, to her soaked knickers.

— You’ve drenched these — you rasped, voice thick.

— That’s your fault — she shot back between gasps. — I’m proper soaked for you. Hurry up and fuck me already!

Her voice, though shaky, had an edge that vaguely reminded you of someone—though you couldn’t place who.

— Patience, babygirl — you replied, half-authoritative, half-seductive. — You’ll get what you want… if you’re a good girl for me, yeah?

She whined and clamped her thighs around your hand. You smirked.

— You like being called ‘babygirl,’ eh? Proper naughty, you!

You sang the words, sliding your hands up her body to her waist. With steady fingers, you tugged her knickers down, letting the fabric glide over her legs. Every inch revealed felt like a victory. You kissed her calves, working your way up to her thighs, where her arousal was already slick. The wetness was mad—had to be because of you, right? You’d stick with that to keep your ego intact.

When you finally tasted her, it was like the universe had cracked open. Even if you weren’t usually fussed about the flavour, hers was addictive. Your finger circled her clit, precise, and she gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. You stopped.

— What’re you doing? I want to hear you — you ordered softly.

You smacked her thigh three times, leaving red marks. Instead of fighting, she yanked your head back between her legs.

— Then shut it and eat me out already, you sod!

You obeyed, diving in like a man starved. Your tongue worked her over—licking, sucking, worshipping—and her moans drove you wild. She squeezed your head with her thighs, forcing you deeper.

— Yes, you bastard! Eat this pussy! — she cried, writhing. — This what you like, eh? Licking me like a proper obedient pup! That’s it, baby! Don’t stop!

She threw her head back, eyes wide, as you pressed her thighs harder. Not to suffocate—you wanted her to clamp down. She grinned, wicked.

— Christ, you’re fit… I’m gonna… Fuck!

You kept at it, feeling her shake. Her legs trembled until, with a muffled scream, she came hard—body arching, crushing your face into her. Her juices flooded your mouth, and you drank her down like a man possessed. When her legs finally gave out, you pulled back, breathless.

— Fuck… Never had anyone come that hard on my tongue — you muttered, admiration in your tone.

— Fuck, I’d love to suck you off right now, but I reckon I can’t even stay on me feet this second. — She pauses, catching her breath. — fuck me. Now.

You don’t show a hint of hesitation, guiding her firmly onto the bed. Settling between her thighs, you lean toward the nightstand—but she slaps your wrist away sharply.

You don’t show a hint of hesitation, guiding her firmly onto the bed. Settling between her thighs, you lean toward the nightstand—but she slaps your wrist away sharply.

— No condom.

Her tone brooks no argument. You briefly consider protesting, but let’s be honest—what bloke in his right mind would turn down bareback with a bird this fit? Your brain and your cock are in full agreement. Smirking, you line up against her slit but hold back, teasing her by sliding along her folds.

— Please… I’m begging… she whimpers. You almost pity her—almost—before leaning close to her ear and growling:

— Beg harder.

— Please! I need you inside me—every fucking inch. Don’t torture me! I need it so bad… Ruin me, stretch my cunt to fit your shape, fuck!

— Hmm. Good girl.

You murmur—then thrust into her without warning. You don’t wait for her to adjust to your length, nor care if it’s pain or pleasure twisting her face. You set a brutal pace, pounding into her like a piston. Soon, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, and the thud of the headboard threaten to bring the walls down. Her eyes roll back as she lets out a piercing moan.

— That’s what I want, fuck! Stretch and wreck this cunt! She’s all yours, you bastard! Fuck me!

Her screams climb as you pull out and slam back in. She’s babbling now, words crumbling into gasps and cries.

— M’brain’s turning to fucking muuuuuuush!

Her legs lock around you, heels digging into your arse. Grinning, you drive deeper—if not for the booze, you’d swear you could see the outline of your cock straining her belly. Her nails claw down your back, leaving red welts that sting like hell. You dip your head to suck a nipple, and the overload of sensation wrings a shattered gasp from her.

— Fuck, you’re so tight and wet, shit!

— Love my tight little cunt, don’t ya? — she pants, voice wrecked. — Wanna come inside, yeah?

You lot spent the rest of the night fucking like two rabbits in heat, going at it in every corner of your flat—spots you didn’t even know existed, positions you’d only seen in pornos. Even managed to smash your Tv — proper accidental-like, mind.

---

The woman was now on all fours, her raised arse flushed a bright crimson, marked by at least a good dozen slaps—the bruises nearly purpling by this point—as his cock pounded relentlessly into her cunt, driving with rough urgency. Their moans filled the room, echoing in a symphony of raw pleasure. Her eyes stayed shut tight, while his, sharp and hungry, fixed on the hypnotic slap of her arse cheeks against his shaft. Suddenly, her shoulders buckled, and she collapsed face-down onto the bed, arse lifted even higher, presenting herself wantonly for him to keep ploughing into her.

With a deliberate smirk, you slicked a finger with spit, paused for a beat, then guided it slowly to her backside, pushing it in without haste. She stiffened, a low, throaty groan escaping her.

— Oh, fuck, oh fuck! that’s new… Don’t you fucking stop! Today I’m your filthy whore—go on, spill your cum in this depraved little cunt! — she cried, voice trembling between submission and wild ecstasy.

---

She’d taken the reins, riding him with untameable fire, her hands—gripped by a near-feverish desperation—clutching his waist, steadfast and ravenous. Her body moved in a frantic rhythm, swinging between reckless rises and plunges, peppered with brief, calculated pauses where she’d twist and writhe along his length with a skill that left him gobsmacked. For a blink, his mind wandered, wondering if this bird might’ve been a dancer or summat, ’cause her movements dripped with near-choreographic precision, like a proper pro in the body arts.

His gob, though, was dead set on another job—mouthed at her tits, suckling and lapping with a hunger verging on proper primal. Clocking the sheer intensity of his bliss, she tossed out a remark dripping with cheek and sass:

— Oh, good boy! You’re like a greedy little bairn goin’ at me tits! Don’t fret, baby… Mommy’s got you!

---

— You’re moaning like a bitch in heat! My neighbours heard you. Got no shame, have ya?

The pair of you were drenched, the sound of water crashing down on your bodies in the shower doing sod-all to drown out the squelching, filthy noises you were both making. His hand fisted in her hair, twisting it into a messy plait—a proper half-arsed ponytail that screamed how rushed this all was. The water, pouring in a steady torrent, nearly managed to sober him up, but not enough to clock who she really was—not yet, anyway. Bit by bit, he noticed her legs were trembling, proper on the verge of buckling, so you grabbed her tight, spun her round to face you, and hoisted her up into your arms, settling her onto your lap.

Sharp as a tack, she got the message and shot back with a deep, blazing kiss, like she was trying to violate his mouth with pure, unrestrained passion.

---

Her legs, clasped round your neck with a languid fervour, while the curve of her back, taut as a bow, arched like a hillock bathed in twilight’s glow. The lady, whose voice had melted into husky sighs and broken whispers, had spent her strength on cries that once echoed off the chamber’s vaulted ceiling. You breathe deep, and your movements, once frantic, shift to a solemn, almost liturgical rhythm. She, cracking open her bleary eyes, stares at you with saucer-like pupils reflecting flames of unquenchable yearning.

—Fucking come inside me! Fill my womb, you bastard! Knock me up!

She pleads, voice tremulous as an autumn leaf, while your hips, now swaying to a sluggish tempo, trace slow, concentric circles in the humid ether. That gut-wrenching knot, known to lovers since time immemorial, twists your insides. Your brow grows heavy, cyclonic vertigo storms your mind, and the edenic ache of long-held restraint crests into inevitable release. With one final, desperate plunge, you drive into her like a ship into a tempest, and your spunk, in pulsing spurts, bursts forth.

As the blinding orgasm fades, more sober than pissed, the booze finally hits proper—leaving your eyelids leaden. You’ve just enough awareness left not to collapse atop her and crush her to death, but not nearly enough to stay awake.

---

I swear down, I’ve sat through this whole chapter at least six times 🥹🥹🥹.

Not gonna lie, I’m proper rubbish with all the smut stuff—honestly, this is me first proper crack at it, so go easy on me, yeah?