thewosocollective1

[thewosocollective1]

I’m here

Aggie Beever-Jones x reader

Y/n had already told aggie that she couldn’t watch the final in switzerland

But she had promised to try

And that gave aggie a bit of hope

Until the night before the Euro final, Y/N sat alone in her flat in London, staring at the phone like it might save her.

She’d rehearsed what she was going to say a hundred times, and still, her chest felt too tight to breathe. She hit call.

Aggie answered immediately, her voice full of sparkle. “Tomorrow’s gonna be mental! Final. Birthday. You, me, Switzerland... You ready?”

Y/N’s heart sank deeper with every word. “Aggie... I can’t come i told you that.”

There was silence, followed by a sharp, brittle inhale.

“What?”

Y/N blinked fast, trying to stop herself from crying. “I have a lot of work to do aggie, you know that,I tried everything . I can’t get away.”

Aggie didn’t respond right away. Y/N could hear the shift in her breathing, slow and heavy. “So you’re really not coming.”

“I hate this,” Y/N whispered. “I wanted to be there more than anything.”

Aggie let out a bitter laugh, half-choked. “Right. Thanks for telling me now, I guess.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Another pause. Then, just above a whisper: “This was supposed to be our day.”

Then the line went dead. Aggie was realy sad about it.

Y/N sat frozen, phone still pressed to her ear even after the call ended. The silence echoed through her flat like punishment.

She didn’t sleep. And by morning, something inside her snapped.

She called her boss and told the biggest lie in the world: "I'm really sick, I can't go today."

She opened every travel app she could find. Flights to Basel were scarce and overpriced, but she didn’t care. One seat left on a connecting flight through Frankfurt. She booked it.

No plan, no sleep, no promise that it would even work, but she had to try.

She threw a hoodie over her shirt, stuffed her passport into her bag, and raced to Heathrow. Airport delays, gate changes, a hellish sprint through Frankfurt terminal with nothing but determination holding her upright. She texted Aggie’s mum from the airport: “Don’t tell her. I’m coming.”

Hours later, she stepped out of a taxi near the stadium in Zurich. The final had started. The roar from inside sent shivers through her spine. She rushed to the family section, nearly colliding with Aggie’s brother. Her hands were shaking as Aggie’s mum hugged her tight, eyes misty.

“She’s heartbroken,” her mum said. “You being here will change everything.”

Y/N sat down, hiding beneath a cap and hoodie, gripping a hand-drawn sign that read: I missed my flight… but not you.

She watched the match, heart in her throat. England played fiercely. Aggie was on the bench cheering, supporting, smiling through what Y/N knew was disappointment she’d never admit out loud.

As the final whistle blew and England were crowned champions, chaos erupted around her. Champagne, flares, music. Aggie’s teammates screamed with joy. Families jumped and hugged and cried.

Then she saw her.

Aggie, climbing the steps to greet her family . Tired eyes. Medal around her neck. Birthday adrenaline fizzing into post-match exhaustion.

She reached the top, paused, and her eyes locked onto Y/N’s.

There was a beat where neither of them moved. Just stunned silence.

Then Aggie’s body jolted forward. Her eyes filled instantly, breath catching like she’d been punched in the chest.

“You—what—how?”

Y/N stood up slowly, lifting the sign like it might explain everything.

Aggie dropped everything, medal, nerves, weight of the day, and pulled her into the fiercest hug she’d ever given.

“You said you couldn’t come,” she whispered against Y/N’s neck, voice already cracking.

“I had to,” Y/N replied, eyes closed, tears slipping silently. “I couldn’t let you win without me.”

Aggie pulled back just enough to see her properly, her hands still gripping Y/N’s arms like letting go wasn’t an option. “This just became the best night of my life.”

Y/N laughed softly. “You didn’t even play.”

“I don’t care,” Aggie said. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” Y/N said softly. “I ran. I didn’t sleep. I begged six people to let me cut queues. I thought I might die in Frankfurt airport. But I’m here.”

Aggie gripped her face between both hands, eyes wet. “You said you couldn’t come.”

“I lied,” Y/N said. “Because I didn’t think I could. And then I realized I had to. But if someone ever asks you, i’m realy realy sick ok?”

Aggie couldn’t stop laughing

She kissed her then, shamelessly, like the crowd didn’t exist. The stadium roared with fireworks. Y/N could hear Ella Toone screaming something vaguely related to “Happy Birthday!” in the distance.

Aggie leaned back, forehead resting against Y/N’s. “How much did that flight cost?”

“Too much,” Y/N said, laughing. “But you’re kind of priceless.”

Aggie smiled wider than she had all week. “Next year, just get me socks.”

Y/N laughed, eyes glistening. “There's no way I was missing your birthday.”

Aggie nodded. “And the finall.”

Y/N was smiling and crying all at once. “Happy birthday, Aggs.I love you”

Aggie nodded. “This is the best gift I’ve ever had.”

“I was afraid it would ruin things,” Y/N said. “That telling you I couldn’t come would break us.”

Aggie touched her cheek. “It hurt. Bad. But this... made it real. You showing up like this? I’ll remember it for the rest of my life.”

A photographer nearby snapped a photo, catching the two of them with the crowd blurred behind, a moment frozen in gold.

Aggie looked down at her medal, then back up at Y/N.

“This belongs to you as much as me.”

Y/N shook her head. “I didn’t earn it.”

“Yes,” Aggie said. “You did. You saved my night. My heart. My birthday.”

They stayed in the stands longer than anyone else. As fans began filtering out, the stadium lights softened. The pitch was empty. But the magic still hung in the air.

Niamh appeared out of nowhere and whispered . “So... let’s go party girls?”

“YES PLEASE” Y/n said laughing "I need alcohol after the trip I had”

“clearly” Aggie said kissing her girlfriend

[thewosocollective1]

A Little Reminder

Alessia russo x reader

Y/n had always been the kind of person who carried everything quietly. Expectations, pressure, the constant push to be perfect it nestled in her chest like weights she couldn’t shake. Nights were the worst. As the sky dimmed and the world quieted, her thoughts grew louder, restless, chaotic. Sleep didn’t come easy. It hadn’t for years.

Her doctor prescribed pills one for the anxiety, one to help her sleep.

They worked, but only when she remembered to take them. And lately, her mind had been so cluttered she’d forget. Then she'd lie awake, counting cracks in the ceiling, replaying every mistake from training, every word spoken to the press. She didn’t tell anyone. Not really. She thought she was hiding it well.

But Alessia saw.

Teammate, confidante… maybe something more. Alessia had been watching y/n for months, not in a creepy way, but with quiet concern. She saw how y/n’s eyes dulled on days after restless nights, how her hands trembled slightly before training, how she’d disappear to the bathroom and splash water on her face just to stay awake.

And Alessia had always been a little in love with her.

Not that she’d ever said it out loud.

It was there in her actions, the lingering glances, the way her jokes softened when y/n was around, how she volunteered for rooming together on away trips. Their bond had grown slowly, rooted in early morning training sessions and late-night talks.

When she first found out about y/n’s pills, it had been by accident.

They were rooming together during an Arsenal away game in Manchester. Alessia was looking for a charger and opened y/n’s side drawer. The orange pill bottle rolled out, and she’d paused, reading the label. The realization hit like a quiet punch: Anxiety. Sleep aid.

That night, she stayed up, just watching. Y/n changed into her hoodie and sat on the bed, scrolling through her phone. Minutes ticked by.

Then she turned off the light and curled up under the blanket, no pills.

She hadn’t taken them.

Alessia, hesitant but determined, whispered into the dark: “You forgot something.”

Y/n stirred. “Hmm?”

“Your medication.”

There was silence. A pause. Then a quiet, surprised laugh from the other side of the room. “You know about that?”

“I wasn’t trying to snoop,” Alessia said softly. “I just saw them. And I saw how you were struggling.”

Y/n didn’t reply. She sat up, sighing, rubbing her face.

Alessia got up, walked across the room, filled a glass of water, and handed it to her. Then she placed the two small pills into her palm.

From that night on, it became their unspoken routine.

On days they weren’t rooming together, Alessia would text:

Don’t forget your little helpers tonight 💊🫶 I want you rested for tomorrow.

When traveling with the England team, Alessia would knock gently on y/n’s door before curfew, sometimes with a sleepy smile, always with a glass of water and the meds.

At training, when y/n looked worn, Alessia didn’t nag, she’d just lean close and whisper

“Did you sleep alright?” No judgment. Just care.

Y/n started depending on it. Not just the reminders, but Alessia herself. Her kindness. Her constancy. Her silent devotion.

One night in Copenhagen, after a Champions League match, they were sitting on the balcony of their hotel room. The city lights glowed below. Y/n had tears in her eyes quiet, unprovoked, the kind that crept up when you felt safe enough to break.

“I hate that I need pills just to sleep,” she murmured.

Alessia didn’t look away. “I don’t think that’s weakness.”

“It feels like it.”

“I think it’s brave. You’re taking care of yourself. And… you let me help. That’s strong.”

Silence fell between them again. But this time, it was warm.

Y/n turned to her. “Why do you do all this?”

Alessia’s heart fluttered. She’d been waiting for this half dreading it, half hoping.

“Because I care,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly. “I care about you more than I probably should.”

Y/n didn’t speak. Her eyes searched Alessia’s face as if seeing her for the first time really seeing her.

Then softly, she whispered, “I’m glad it’s you.”

They didn’t kiss not yet. But something shifted. A thread between them grew stronger, pulled taut with unspoken promise.

Weeks passed. The season pressed forward. Anxiety never vanished, not fully. Some nights were easier. Others, not so much.

But every single night, whether with a message, a knock on the door, or simply a soft smile and a glass of water, Alessia was there. A quiet guardian. A reminder. A heartbeat beside hers.

And slowly, y/n began to sleep again not just because of the pills, but because someone loved her enough to notice when she couldn’t.

[thewosocollective1]

Alexia putellas x Reader

The idea of starting a family had bloomed gently, like something they’d both been tiptoeing around for years. Y/N was the kind of woman who juggled her entire world with one hand on a microphone and the other scribbling match notes. Alexia, the face of Spanish football, carried the weight of a nation on her shoulders while somehow still saving the last slice of pizza for Y/N after late dinners. They were a power couple, no doubt, but underneath all that strength and chaos, there was softness  and a quiet desire to grow their love into someone new.

They chose IVF. Science, needles, hope  all bundled into a process that made Y/N want to scream and Alexia want to hug her for hours. 

The first attempt failed. Y/N didn’t cry  at least not publicly. She went to work, wrote columns, smiled through interviews. 

But that night, in bed, she held onto Alexia like she was her anchor in a storm she couldn’t name.

Alexia always made it clear that she wanted a girl, even if she said that being healthy as the only thing that matter, she always wished to have a girl 

 Alexia kissed her forehead and whispered, “She’ll come to us. I know it.”

And she did.

On the second try, Y/N walked out of the bathroom holding a test with shaking hands and tear-streaked cheeks.

 She didn’t say anything at first, just handed it to Alexia. Alexia stared for two seconds, then looked at y/n  and cried like she had just won the champions league

“VOY A SER MAMA; I’M BUYING BARCELONA KIT FOR HER RIGHT NOW !".

“You don’t even know if it’s a girl Ale”

“It’s a girl, i know it is”

___

 pregnancy was anything but glamorous. At least not for Y/N.

 She loved her work fiercely journalism wasn’t just a job, it was her rhythm, her adrenaline, her pulse .One of the most loved voices in football. Known for her sharp questions and warm charisma but always respectful, her interviews were honest and clever. 

She’d once made Messi laugh so hard mid-press conference he spilled water on his notes. Her phone buzzed constantly with match schedules, urgent editor requests, and players sliding into her inbox with exclusive stories. 

And she refused to stop that

She kept covering matches as long as her ankles let her fit into shoes.

 She interviewed legends with an ice pack on her back and wrote columns propped up on pillows, one hand always resting where Sofía kicked the hardest.

But the symptoms were brutal. Nausea so severe it felt like training camp for Olympians. Mood swings that made even Alba fear for her life. There was one day Y/N cried over a football documentary because someone scored in the last minute and she “just needed people to believe in themselves.”

"I'm fine," she said, nine weeks in, feet propped up in a press box, sipping ginger tea like it was warrior juice.

"You are not," said Alexia via voice note. "You threw up twice in one morning and still went to interview Haaland. IN MANCHESTER ! "

"He gave me a cookie. It was worth it."

Alexia rolled her eyes but never missed a beat.

Through it all, Alexia was her constant. Peppermint tea for nausea.

 Handwritten notes slipped into her laptop bag. 

Foot massages with low commentary about Sofía’s future playing style. 

When Y/N collapsed into tears during a press conference because her blouse no longer buttoned, Alexia left training early, barged into the set, and wrapped her hoodie around Y/N like a cocoon.

Throughout the pregnancy, little Sofia Putellas named with love and intention, was adored even before she had taken her first breath. 

“The baby has more fans than I do,” Y/N laughed once during an interview. 

Her community of athletes, fellow journalists, and family showered her with love

 Players from different teams, some of whom she had interviewed over the years, sent little jerseys and heartfelt messages.

 The baby's “tías” were so exited to meet sofia, that they wouldn’t stop asking alexia every training how she was 

__

July 2024 arrived faster than expected. 

Alexia had been calledto play for the Spanish national team, deep in preparation for the Women's World Cup in Australia. 

Y/N stayed behind, 34 weeks pregnant, not allowed to travel anymore and waddling around the kitchen like a determined penguin, refusing to let go of her laptop.

“Sofia listen to mom, please if you want to be born earlier than expected, at least be born while I'm still here in Spain, okay?” Alexia said as she rubbed the belly the night before going to camp

Sofia's due date was scheduled for 2 days after Alexia returned from Australia, but with that baby, nothing was surprising.

Then came July 5th, 2024.

Alexia was travelling to Australia the day after 

and at 2:47 a.m. one muggy July night while she couldn't sleep , Y/N felt a strange sensation. 

She was rereading a match preview for the upcoming world qualifiers when a sharp twinge made her gasp, she thought she had peed her pants again.

But that wasn’t like pee

 Her water had broken. Panic and exhilaration flooded her.

Her first reaction was to call alexia 

Alexia picked up from Madrid, where she was training with the national team before leaving for the World Cup in Australia.

“Is everything ok?”Alexia asked with a sleepy voice and with worry

“My water broke,” Y/N said, eyes wide, breath shallow.

Alexia stopped breathing.

“You’re serious?” she whispered. “mi amor, are you okay?”

“I’m okay-ish. I’m terrified. It’s happening now.”

Alexia was already throwing on sweatpants. “I’ll be there in three hours. I promise. Don’t worry. Don’t panic. I love you.

By the time Alexia arrived, breathless and flushed from travelling through the night, Y/N had been admitted to the hospital with elli’s company  and was already dilated.

 The birth was intense Y/N pushed through the pain with the same ferocity she had once used to chase stories across continents.

 Alexia held her hand, her forehead pressed against Y/N’s, whispering encouragements in a steady rhythm.

At 8:16 a.m., Sofia Putellas entered the world.

She was perfect. Tiny fingers wrapped around Alexia’s thumb, her cry strong and determined. Y/N sobbed uncontrollably, a mix of relief, joy, and absolute awe. Alexia, still in her training gear, had tears running down her cheeks. They looked at Sofia and knew everything had changed.

“She’s perfect,” Y/N whispered, voice hoarse.

“She’s ours,” Alexia replied.

Alexia smiled, eyes red, still holding Sofia in her arms.

“She has your eyes,” she murmured.

“And your ridiculous stubbornness,” Y/N replied. “She kicked like she was trying to prove she could score.”

They laughed.

Alba appeared with a glitter crown. “She needs it. She’s already got star power.”

Y/N stared at her daughter in the arms of the woman she always loved 

She felt all of it  every ache, every symptom, every tear she cried at 2AM when she didn’t feel strong.

None of it mattered now.

Because Sofia was here.

And she was loved.

From press rooms to stadiums, to late-night interviews and broken microphones Y/N had spent her life telling the stories of the game.

But now she had a new story.

The hospital room remained quiet, bathed in soft morning light and hushed voices. Y/N, exhausted but overwhelmed with joy, cradled Sofia against her chest as Alexia gently brushed strands of hair from her forehead. Outside the door, only a small circle knew what had just unfolded.

 No public announcements. No press releases. Just intimate messages exchanged with their closest friends and family.

Alexia sent a photo to their private group chat with the caption: “She’s here. She’s perfect.”

 Immediate replies came in voice notes filled with emotion, tearful congratulations, and jokes about football boots in baby size.

 Their families arrived one by one, teary-eyed and gentle, taking turns holding the newest member with reverence. Y/N’s sister sobbed into a bouquet of tulips, while Alexia’s mother whispered blessings in Catalan, cradling her granddaughter like a precious heirloom.

No one posted anything online.

This wasn’t about headlines or trending hashtags. It was about the quiet miracle of their new life—a moment that belonged only to them.

The hospital staff, discreet and tender, respected their wish for privacy. The nurse on duty, moved by the unspoken warmth in the room, promised not to speak a word outside. When one of the midwives recognized Alexia, she smiled and simply said, “Congratulations, mamá,” before gently closing the door behind her.

Back at home, life adjusted to a slower, sweeter rhythm. Y/N’s laptop remained untouched for days which was a miracle, an unfamiliar sight to everyone who knew her. 

Her world had narrowed beautifully to Sofia’s sleepy sighs, late-night feedings, and the feeling of Alexia’s arm around her waist as they watched the sunrise together from their balcony.

Messages from teammates trickled in under nicknames. “La Capitana has a new little teammate 💕,” one text read. 

Y/N, never one to stay quiet for long, began scribbling notes again during nap times. Nothing for publication just personal reflections. A draft titled “The Strongest Kick I’ve Ever Felt” sat half-finished in her journal. She wrote not for the world but for Sofia, hoping that one day she’d read about how deeply loved she was before she ever opened her eyes.

Alexia returned briefly to camp with the Spanish national team after a few days, the weight of separation was heavier than expected.

 Her heart ached during warm-ups, and during the tactical meetings, she traced the outline of Sofia’s name engraved on a bracelet Y/N had given her the morning she left. 

Her teammates noticed, offering quiet support in the form of hugs and late-night talks.

Y/N sent updates sparingly, preferring voice notes to texts. Sofia’s tiny giggles, her hiccups after feedings, even the soundtrack of lullabies that filled the nursery were shared like sacred secrets. They had built their life on discretion, and now it sheltered the most precious chapter of all.

That July became unforgettable in more ways than one. 

Just weeks after Sofia's birth, Alexia lifted the Women's World Cup trophy with Spain, her arms outstretched, face radiant, wrapped in triumph and emotion. 

Y/N didn’t plan to post anything. She had kept her journey private deliberately so. But in that moment, as tears welled up watching her partner celebrate one of the most historic moments in women's football, she felt compelled to mark it. Not for the media. Not for attention. Just for love.

She took a photo with her phone. In the frame: Sofia’s tiny body wrapped in a soft blanket, her little fingers curled beside Y/N’s. The television in the background showed the Spanish team erupting in celebration, confetti raining down. Alexia was right there, caught in that perfect moment of victory. Sofia’s face was gently turned away, shielded with intention.

The caption was simple: "Your mamá just made history. And you were here to see it begin ."

Sofia’s name didn’t trend. There was no segment on TV.

But the love in their home pulsed brighter than stadium lights. Sofia had been born into a legacy of strength and gentleness—a quiet revolution in a world obsessed with spectacle.

And for Y/N and Alexia, that was everything they had ever hoped for.

[thewosocollective1]

I Forget You in the Morning, Remember You by Noon

Ona battle x reader

I told myself it was a mistake. A one-time lapse in judgment, like forgetting to turn off the stove or texting my ex after two glasses of wine. A kiss, nothing more.

But the problem with Ona is… she doesn’t leave quietly.

She’s everywhere.

I wake up and her perfume is still lingering on my jacket. That floral-citrus swirl that smells too much like spring. I roll over in bed and my hand grazes the pillow where she used to sleep once, for one night, but it was enough to stamp itself into muscle memory.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her.

She’s off-limits. Taken. Complicated. Dangerous, in that slow-burning way that seeps into your bloodstream and makes your thoughts sticky.

But I think about her.

God, do I think about her.

It started innocently. We were just two friends, caught in a whirlwind of moments that felt bigger than they should’ve. Laughing too long. Sitting too close. Letting silences stretch out not because we had nothing to say, but because everything was being said in the space between.

Then came the night.

The rain tapping the windows like fingers itching to share gossip. She showed up drenched, mascara smudged like war paint, heart on her sleeve and eyes saying everything her lips didn’t dare to.

And I kissed her.

Soft at first. Scared. Like pressing “send” on a message you’re not sure you should deliver.

She kissed me back. Hard. Desperate. Like she was trying to erase something or carve something new.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, voice steady despite the quake behind my ribs.

Ona tilted her head like a cat sizing up its prey. "Cute. But you forgetI know the way you sound when you're not lying."

She leaned in, just close enough for her breath to graze my cheek. I stepped back. Too fast. Too obvious.

Her smile sharpened.

“I kissed you,” she said. “You kissed me back. You clung to me like you were afraid the world would stop spinning if I let go.”

“It never happened,” I whispered.

“It did,” she whispered back. “And you can keep telling yourself it didn’t, but the truth doesn't need your permission.”

I hated the way her voice curled around me like smoke,  warm, dizzying, impossible to brush away. She stood there in the café where everything felt normal, except for the look in her eyes. 

That look like she already knew how the scene would play out and was enjoying every second.

“I always wanted to kiss you,” she continued, her tone almost casual, but her eyes held fire. “You knew that. You wanted it too. You were just scared of what it would mean.”

I scoffed. “I’m not scared of you.”

“You’re terrified,” she said sweetly. “Terrified of wanting me. Terrified of needing me.”

I clenched my fists so tight I could feel my nails dig crescents into my palms. “It was a mistake.”

“No,” she said, “it was perfect.”

It was

And now, every time I hear her laugh echo down the hallway, I remember how it vibrated against my chest.

 When I see her fingers wrapped around a coffee mug, I remember how they tangled in my hair. When I pass the spot on the couch where she cried the night it happened, I remember kissing the salt off her cheeks like it would undo the damage.

I’m trying.

I delete her number every Sunday. I block her account on social media every other day. I tell myself I’m healing, that detachment is a process. I even go on dates with people who are objectively good for me polite, funny, emotionally available.

But none of them bite their lip the way she did when she was nervous.

None of them make me feel like I’m being set on fire with a glance.

And it’s torture.

She walks past me now like nothing happened. Sometimes I think she’s forgotten. Other times I catch a flicker in her eyes a flash of guilt, or longing, or something she buries faster than I can catch.

I want to forget her. I swear I do.

I tell myself she was a bad idea wrapped in good skin.

 That kisses don’t mean anything when they’re followed by silence. That love if that’s even what this is isn’t supposed to feel like drowning while smiling.

But my body remembers.

My lips twitch when I smell rosemary, because that’s the candle she lit that night. My stomach flips when someone plays the song we danced to, alone, in my apartment at 2 a.m. My fingers ache when they’re not tangled with hers, even though they shouldn’t be.

I hate this.

I hate that forgetting her feels like unlearning how to breathe.

And still…

I see her laugh with someone else, and my heart clenches. Not from jealousy. From grief. Because I know that laugh. I earned it once. It felt like winning something no one else knew existed.

And maybe she thinks it was a mistake.

Maybe she kissed me because she was sad, or lonely, or drunk on emotions she didn’t know how to process.

But I kissed her because I couldn’t imagine not kissing her.

And now I live in this in-between. Not hers. Not free. Just haunted.

People say memories fade.

But her touch is inked into my skin.

Her voice is a song I hum involuntarily.

And her name Ona is etched into the edges of every poem I write and pretend isn’t about her.

I wish I could forget.

I wish I didn’t replay our kiss like it was the last scene in a tragic movie.

I wish her name didn’t taste sweet and bitter at the same time.

But I remember.

Even when I try not to.

Even when I beg my brain for mercy.

I remember her—bright and broken, perfect in the kind of way that ruins you for anyone else.

I remember the way her lips hovered too long before they pressed into mine.

I remember how we both whispered “we shouldn’t” even as we tangled ourselves into an impossible knot.

I remember… and I can’t forget.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not until her memory stops feeling like home.

[thewosocollective1]

Hello would you be Open to write something about Niamh Charles and her taking Care of her Teen sister who just started playing in the Senior Team with her? She is very shy and nervous?

Yess, of course, I am now on holiday, so this week I am not writing, but as soon as I can, I will write all the requests. ❤️

[thewosocollective1]

Heyyy, I’ve just read your Sjoeke Nüsken story and I absolutely loved it. Your writing is so good and it was so cute. Would you be up for writing another story about her? I hope you have a great day :)

HIII, of course when I have time I will write more. :)

[thewosocollective1]

The winning goal

Maya le tissier x reader

The stadium was suffocating with tension.

Semi-final of the European Championship. England versus a side that came prepared to crush dreams and silence hearts. The scoreboard showed 1–0 against the Lionesses. The seconds were bleeding out—89 minutes on the clock. No one spoke. The fans barely breathed. And on the pitch, Y/N could feel every heartbeat echoing through her bones.

They were losing.

And if the score held, they’d be out. Months of preparation, sacrifice, and sweat—gone. The roar of thousands had shrunk to a hum. On the sidelines, the coaches barked instructions, players called for the ball, but Y/N wasn’t listening.

She was scanning the pitch.

And then her eyes landed on Maya 

She was standing with her hands clenched on the edge of the technical area.

Her eyes locked onto Y/N, filled with fire and belief. 

That look wasn’t just football—it was everything. Late-night texts, post-match glances, fingers brushing when no one was looking. Their bond was buried deep beneath professionalism, but that glance said:

 I know who you are. I know what you can do. You’re not done.

Y/N swallowed hard and turned her gaze forward.

That’s when it happened.

A misplaced pass from the opposing team ricocheted off an England boot and skittered loose just inside the box. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it was enough.

Y/N didn’t think.

She ran.

The ball rolled toward her as if destiny had nudged it into motion. One touch to settle it, and then she unleashed it right foot slicing through tension and doubt. A clean strike. The sound it made as it left her boot was like a promise in flight.

Then silence.

Then chaos.

The net danced. The crowd exploded. 1–1.

Except it wasn’t just a goal.

It was the goal.

That magical line between failure and survival, between disappointment and a shot at glory. The Lionesses erupted into cheers, teammates swarmed, the coach leapt into the air. But Y/N didn’t stop to celebrate.

She turned.

She ran.

Not toward the crowd. Not to the corner flag or her teammates. She ran straight toward Maya.

Across the pitch, cutting through the moment like lightning with all her teammates running behind her.

 Maya stepped forward instinctively, her expression collapsing into disbelief and pure, raw joy. They met at the edge of the field in a full sprint and collided, arms around each other, breathless and overcome.

"You did it," Maya gasped into Y/N’s shoulder, tears dotting her lashes.

“I did it ,” Y/N whispered, gripping Maya as if the world had narrowed to just them.

It wasn’t supposed to be seen. It wasn’t planned. But it was real.

 Every moment when Maya had pulled her back from the edge with nothing but quiet belief.

And then the whole team fell on top of her, screaming and thanking her for that

That goal carried more than just the hopes of a team it held every beat of Y/N’s heart. Every time she’d felt like giving up.

In the media box, analysts called it an incredible equalizer. Commentators praised Y/N’s composure, her timing, her brilliance. But none of them saw what had truly sparked it.

After the match when extra time ended and England had clawed their way to a miraculous win Y/N stood before the press, smiling. She answered questions, laughed politely, nodded at praise.

Behind her, Maya leaned in the doorway, quiet, proud, glowing.

“You ran to me,” Maya whispered with a soft smile inthe locker room when the team was celebrating, voice barely louder so that y/n could hear

“Couldn’t help it,” Y/N replied. “I needed you to know that everything I’ve fought for, it’s always had you in mind.”

Maya leaned her head onto Y/N’s shoulder, laughter spilling from her lips. “The cameras caught it. They’re already speculating.”

“Let them,” Y/N said calmly. “They can say what they want. But we know what it meant.”

Maya tilted her head, searching Y/N’s eyes. “So what now?”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “Now… we win the final.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was full. Full of decisions made, truths uncovered, futures rewritten.

Maya leaned closer and kissed her 

In front of the whole team

Chloe saw them first. She blinked. Then blinked again.

Then let out a scream so dramatic it could've been in a telenovela. “WAIT WAIT WAIT, DID Y’ALL, DID I JUST SEE, WAS THAT, WERE YOU TWO SNOGGING?”

Georgia dropped her shin pads in shock. “Did I hallucinate that? Am I dehydrated? DID THAT HAPPEN? I’m realy drunk probably”

“I KNEW IT “ Ella screamed “I FUCKING KNEW IT, ALESSIA YOU OWE US 20 “

Alessia, mid-stretch, froze like someone had hit pause on her body. “Guys... I thought they were just really close teammates.”

Lucy  kicked open a locker door, flung a banana into the air and shouted, “SOMEONE GET THE CHAMPAGNE, LOVE HAS FINALLY SCORING GOALS TOO!”

The room exploded into laughter, gasps, dramatic reenactments of the kiss, and Chloe pretending to faint onto a laundry basket. Aggie started a chant: “KISS HER AGAIN! KISS HER AGAIN!” Which only made Maya bury her face in a towel, mortified and giggling.

Y/N, hands up like she’d just been arrested for emotions, tried to speak: “Okay okay listen, yes we kissed, yes we’re a thing, and no, Chloe, you’re not invited to the wedding until you calm down.”

Chloe immediately pointed at Ella. “I KNEW IT. I TOLD YOU THEY WERE MAKING EYE CONTACT IN SLOW MOTION DURING TRAINING.”

“ Hey Niamh you also owe me 20” Aggie said laughing realy hard

“ OH SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU ALREDY KNEW IT” She said looking incredulously at Aggie "That's why you made me do a bet with you, stupud”

“What you knew?” Y/n asked surprised 

“Obviously, i saw you guys kissing the other day, but i didn’t want to say anything so I went to make bets with everyone possible

“Omg “

.

[thewosocollective1]

All the Reasons Why

Alexia putellas x reader

It had been a long, exhausting day.

Training had been off from the start. Passes missed. A botched touch in front of goal. A half-joke from Mapi that felt sharper than usual. And the coach’s raised eyebrow during a feedback session had stuck in Alexia’s mind like a thorn.

She knew bad days happened. She knew form dipped and confidence wavered. But today felt heavier. Like everything she touched fell apart.

She had barely spoken on the way home. Her shoulders were tense, fingers tapping endlessly against the steering wheel, and Y/N could tell — without a word exchanged — that something wasn’t right.

Alexia stepped into the house, dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and disappeared into the bedroom without saying a word.

Y/N frowned.

Thirty minutes passed before she walked in and found Alexia curled up on the edge of the bed, hoodie pulled over her face, staring at the ceiling like it owed her an explanation.

“Wanna talk?” Y/N asked gently, sitting down beside her.

Alexia didn’t look at her. “I don’t know. I feel stupid.”

Y/N nudged her shoulder. “You never say that word.”

“I know. But today I just… I messed up in training, I couldn’t finish drills properly, the coach kept correcting me, and then Mapi made that comment about how I’m ‘finally acting human.’ It was a joke, but…”

“You took it to heart.”

“I always do.”

Y/N stayed quiet for a moment, letting her speak.

“And then I started thinking—what if I’m not enough anymore? What if I’ve already peaked? What if I’m just fading and people see it? What if you see it?”

That last sentence came out shakier than the rest.

Y/N blinked. “Wait… me?”

Alexia shrugged, finally turning her eyes toward her. “I know it’s ridiculous. But I look at you and think, you deserve someone who isn’t this mess. Someone who’s confident. Someone who’s not curled up in a hoodie at 7PM questioning her career.”

Y/N exhaled. “You know I’m gonna prove you wrong with a PowerPoint presentation right now, right?”

Alexia let out a weak laugh. “Is it color-coded?”

“Emotionally. Yes.”

She turned toward Alexia fully and reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers.

“Let me list every reason I love you, and you’re not allowed to interrupt. Deal?”

Alexia hesitated, then nodded.

Y/N took a breath.

“Okay. First: your heart. The way you care about your team, your family, about me, with a quiet kind of loyalty that’s terrifyingly powerful.”

“Second: your laugh.” Y/N smiled. “It’s stupidly contagious. Even when you’re trying to be serious, your laugh cracks through like sunlight. You can change the mood of an entire room with it.”

“Third: your humility. You don’t know how rare that is. You’re the best player I’ve ever seen like, actually the best and you still walk around apologizing when you slightly misjudge a pass. You still help carry cones after drills. You still act like you need to prove yourself, and it breaks my heart because you already have.”

Alexia sniffled once, trying to hide it.

“Fourth: your personality. You act all composed and poised in interviews, but I know the real you. The chaotic, blanket-thief you. The one who dances terribly when no one’s watching. You make me feel safe, and seen, and stupidly happy even when I’ve had the worst day.”

Y/N paused, brushing a strand of hair out of Alexia’s face.

“I didn’t fall in love with your perfect passes or trophies. I fell in love with the way you listen. The way you hold me when I’m spiraling. The way you remember tiny things, like how I hate cucumber or that I cry at dog commercials. I fell in love with your mind. Your voice. Your ridiculous collection of socks. Everything.”

Alexia looked at her, finally letting a tear roll down her cheek.

“I don’t see a fading player,” Y/N whispered. “I see someone evolving. Still growing. Still learning. Still amazing.”

“I just don’t feel amazing lately.”

“I know. That’s okay. But you’re still mine. And I love you on bad days, maybe even more than on perfect ones.”

Alexia closed her eyes, breathing deeply like she needed to absorb every word.

Then she whispered, “Da igual que me digas todo eso… I still feel like crying.”

“So cry,” Y/N said gently. “I’ll be here when you finish.”

And Alexia did. Silent tears. Heavy shoulders. A release of the weight she’d carried all day.

When she calmed down, she buried her face into Y/N’s shoulder and mumbled, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Y/N replied softly. “It’s in the girlfriend contract.”

“I’m sorry” she whispered 

“You don’t have to say sorry ale” y/n Kissed her forehead . “You were just trying to hold yourself together.”

They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, breathing in sync.

“I’m not perfect,” Alexia said softly.

“I never asked you to be.”

“I just want to be enough.”

“You’ve always been more than enough.”

“I hate feeling weak,” she muttered.

“You’re not weak. You’re human.”

“And you’re not leaving?”

Y/N smiled. “I live here. And I happen to be very stubborn about loving you.”

Alexia chuckled through sniffles. “What if I’m hard to love sometimes?”

“Then I’ll love harder.”

[thewosocollective1]

Sjoeke nüsken Masterlist

Stadium Lights & Sweet Words

[thewosocollective1]

Stadium Lights & Sweet Words

Sjoeke nüsken x reader

The rain in Frankfurt hadn’t stopped for hours, casting a gray haze across the pitch, but that never deterred Sjoeke. 

You watched her from the sidelines on the friendly game, arms folded beneath your jacket, half-shivering and fully enthralled. Her control of the ball was effortless like the rain itself was dancing around her, unwilling to touch her brilliance.

You weren’t an athlete, not really. You preferred rainy bookstores and quiet cafés, but there was something poetic about her world. Something about Sjoeke’s commitment, her precision, her fire, pulled you in like gravity.

And somehow, despite the thunder of her life, she had chosen to love you.

After the friendly game, soaked and smiling, she jogged toward you. Her hair was dripping under her hoodie, and a few strands clung to her flushed cheeks. 

You opened your arms without saying anything, and she practically collapsed into them.

“You’re freezing,” you murmured into her shoulder.

“And you’re warm,” she whispered back. “So technically, we’re perfect.”

You laughed softly, rubbing her back through the wet fabric. “Your logic is questionable.”

“But my goals aren’t.”

She pulled away just far enough to show that signature smirk—the one she wore after a killer match or when she beat you at card games, which was often.

“You looked incredible out there,” you said, brushing water from her brow.

Her eyes searched yours. “I’m glad you think so. Means more coming from you than from any coach.”

As you walked together to the car, her fingers curled around yours like it was second nature. The city’s quiet hum surrounded you. Sjoeke hummed something under her breath, one of those indie songs you’d introduced her to. She didn’t always remember the lyrics, but she liked the feeling of them.

Later that night, you curled up on the couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket, watching a documentary about street football in Brazil. You rested your head against her shoulder while she absently played with your fingers.

“Ever think about how far we are from all that?” she asked. “From where we started.”

You thought for a moment. “Sometimes. But I also think maybe we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

She leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “That’s the most annoying thing about you.”

You chuckled, tilting your head to look up at her. “What, the optimism?”

She nodded dramatically. “It’s relentless.”

“And yet you keep me around.”

“Well… you have great snacks. And I’m addicted to your laugh.”

You covered your face, embarrassed and giggling.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The windowpanes still shimmered with leftover droplets, and the whole apartment smelled like mint tea and clean socks. Tomorrow would be another match, another morning of drills and ice baths and reporters. But tonight was just you and her, the quiet in-between.

At some point, she got up to stretch. You watched her move—every motion precise, intentional, like she never left the field.

“I still don’t get how you do it,” you said.

“What?”

“Stay so calm under pressure. On match day… when everyone’s watching…”

She turned to you and shrugged, then walked back, kneeling in front of you. “I guess I’ve got a secret weapon.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked.

“You,” she said, pressing a hand against your chest. “You remind me that I’m more than a player. That I’m loved, outside the game.”

You blinked at her, stunned into silence.

She tilted her head, teasing. “Are you crying? Should I get my medal and wave it dramatically until you feel better?”

“No, I—shut up.” You wiped your eyes and pulled her close, burying your face in her neck.

You smelled the rain still clinging to her hair, the faint notes of her shampoo and muscle balm. Her arms wrapped around you easily, firmly, like she’d anchor you forever.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Her reply was immediate. “I love you more.”

[thewosocollective1]

i would love if one day you can write an ona fic where it’s just fluff and ona treats reader amazing and it’s been like young love since barca u15s academy

OMG how I never thought about it That would be incredible

[thewosocollective1]

Hi!! Would you like to write about Sjoeke Nüsken some time? 🤩

Hiiii,Yess I'm working on it, but I still don't have any good ideas for it, so if you have any specific ideas it would help a lot hahahahahhhaha

[thewosocollective1]

Eyes on me Pt 2

Lately, the teasing had hit new levels. Y/N had started calling Clàudia “mi capitana del corazón” during passing drills, winking every time they locked eyes. Clàudia would roll hers, grumble, mumble something about focus, but her ears betrayed her — flushed pink every time.

The team noticed.

At lunch, Patri slid into the seat across from them and stage whispered, “We’re betting on how long it takes for Pina to realize Y/N’s obsessed with her.”

Aitana added, “I said six weeks, but after today’s wink count? I’m adjusting to four.”

Y/N just giggled. “I’m a slow-burn legend. Let her simmer.”

Clàudia was mortified. “Can you all please find a hobby that doesn’t involve analyzing my interactions?”

“Pero es más entretenido que Netflix!” Cata chimed in, smirking.

One day, while waiting for the coach to arrive for tactical training, Y/N plopped down next to Clàudia on the bench, arms stretched lazily behind her.

“You know,” she began dramatically, “if I were any closer to you, I’d have to start paying rent.”

Clàudia side-eyed her. “Or maybe you just need better spatial awareness.”

Y/N grinned. “Or maybe I’m trying to get your attention. Ever thought of that?”

“I think you’re trying to get everyone’s attention,” Clàudia replied, cool as ever.

Y/N leaned in, eyes dancing. “Nope. Just yours.”

Before Clàudia could respond, Cata, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping nearby, exploded.

“¡HOSTIA!” she cried, startling the physio. “Tía, ¿cuántas pistas más necesitas? ¿Un PowerPoint presentation?”

Clàudia blinked. “What are you talking about?”

Cata looked like she might ascend into another dimension from sheer frustration. “Y/N está detrás de ti desde que pisó este vestuario. And you still think she’s flirting with everyone?”

Clàudia shrugged, flustered. “She’s always like that!”

Cata took a deep breath like she was preparing for war. “Okay, let’s review. She sits next to you at every meal. She flirts during drills. She waits for you after training. Te defiende en las charlas como si fueras la Reina de Cataluña!”

Clàudia stared. “...You think she actually likes me?”

Cata turned to the heavens. “Dios mío, dame paciencia.”

That night, after a friendly match, the girls headed out to a team dinner at a local tapas bar. It was loud, cozy, and full of Barça laughter. Y/N was her usual dazzling self — loud, animated, and always leaning just a little too close to Clàudia during conversation.

Clàudia, however, had finally started connecting dots. She watched the way Y/N’s jokes softened around her, how her flirty comments had a layer of nervousness beneath them. She saw the way Y/N glanced at her when she laughed, like she was checking if she was the one making Clàudia smile.

During dessert, Mapi pointed at them. “So... when’s the wedding?”

Clàudia snorted into her drink. “We’re not even dating.”

Y/N raised her brows. “Well, that’s your fault.”

The table exploded. Cata nearly fell off her chair.

“¡BRAVO! Finalmente lo dijo!” she cried, throwing a napkin like a victory flag.

Clàudia blinked. “Wait, that was serious?”

Y/N leaned closer, eyes suddenly softer. “I mean... I joke a lot, but when it comes to you? Not always.”

For once, Clàudia had no clever reply. She just stared — a mix of surprise, realization, and something that felt dangerously close to butterflies.

Later, outside the restaurant, as the night wrapped up and the stars blinked over Barcelona, Clàudia stood beside Y/N on the sidewalk.

"You’re really not like that with everyone, are you?"

Y/N looked at her, lips curved in a quiet smile. “Took you long enough, princesa.”

Clàudia exhaled. “Okay… maybe I was a little slow.”

Y/N chuckled. “You play like a striker, but love like a center-back — takes forever to get past your defenses.”

Clàudia smiled. “Well… you’re persistent.”

Y/N offered a hand. “So what do you say, Pina? Truce?”

Clàudia took it, her fingers brushing against Y/N’s. “Not a truce. Maybe a new beginning.”

Cata, watching from the taxi window, shouted in triumph:

“¡Gracias a Dios! If you two had stayed oblivious any longer, I was about to hire a billboard!”

Clàudia didn’t let go of Y/N’s hand right away.

They stood there outside the restaurant as the rest of the team piled into their cars , buzzing from dinner and dessert and the emotional rollercoaster that came from living inside Y/N’s orbit.

“Do you want to walk?” Clàudia asked quietly.

Y/N nodded. “Only if you promise not to sprint.”

They set off under the Barcelona night sky, the glow of streetlamps casting soft light over everything. For once, Y/N wasn’t talking. And Clàudia was okay with that. It felt like the silence finally had meaning — not awkward, but electric.

“So,” Y/N said after a few steps, “are you going to tell me what finally made you notice?”

Clàudia laughed softly. “Cata screamed at me. In three languages.”

“Classic,” Y/N grinned. “She’s my favorite wingwoman.”

They walked past a small fountain, and Y/N paused to dip her fingers in the water. “You really had no idea?”

Clàudia looked at her — hair slightly messy from training, eyes shining even in low light, that smirk that somehow had started to feel like home.

“I had some idea,” she admitted. “But I didn't think you were serious.”

Y/N's face softened. “You’re the one person I’ve never joked about.”

Clàudia’s breath caught. She looked down, suddenly shy. “So what now?”

Y/N smiled. “Now? You walk me home. And if I accidentally lean too close, maybe you won’t pretend not to notice.”

Clàudia nudged her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll lean back.”

She let go of Y/N’s hand — only to reach up and gently brush a strand of hair out of her face. Y/N didn’t move, her smile faltering into something more vulnerable. For a split second, it felt like neither of them was quite sure who would make the move.

Then Clàudia leaned in.

Slow. Intentional. Her hand rested lightly on Y/N’s jaw, thumb grazing her cheek, and in that stolen space between hesitation and courage — their lips met.

It was tender, not rushed. Soft like the beginning of a song, but steady like a goal that had been a long time coming. Y/N’s fingers curled instinctively around Clàudia’s wrist, holding her there like she'd been waiting forever for that exact moment.

When they finally pulled apart, neither of them spoke right away. Clàudia just looked at her — cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide with a mix of shock and joy.

Y/N whispered, “You took your sweet time.”

Clàudia smiled, brushing her nose against Y/N’s playfully. “I’m strategic.”

[thewosocollective1]

You’ll Always Be My Girl

Leah Williamson x Teen Reader

Leah Williamson sat curled up on the living room sofa, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of her tea mug. The house was quiet, save for the distant hum of music coming from Y/N’s bedroom upstairs. It was a song Leah didn’t recognize something upbeat, something new. Something that felt… distant.

She sighed.

Amanda, walked in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She paused when she saw Leah’s expression.

“You look like you’ve just lost a match,” Amanda teased gently, sitting beside her.

Leah gave a weak smile. “Feels like I’m losing something.”

Amanda tilted her head. “What’s going on, love?”

Leah hesitated, then finally spoke. “It’s Y/N. She’s changing. Growing up so fast. I mean, I know she’s supposed to, but… I feel like I’m losing her. Like the bond we had is slipping away.”

Amanda’s eyes softened. “She’s still your sister, Leah. That doesn’t change.”

“I know,” Leah said, her voice cracking slightly. “But she used to come to me for everything. Now she’s out with friends, talking about boys or girls, I don’t even know and she barely looks up from her phone when I walk in.”

Amanda reached out and took Leah’s hand. “She’s finding herself. That’s part of growing up. But you haven’t lost her. She’s just… stretching her wings.”

Leah looked down. “I miss her. I miss being her person.”

Amanda smiled warmly. “You’ll always be her person. You’re her big sister. Her protector. Her safe place. That doesn’t go away just because she’s growing up.”

Leah blinked back tears. “I just don’t want her to stop needing me.”

Amanda squeezed her hand. “She’ll always need you, Leah. Just in different ways. And no matter how old she gets, she’ll always be your little girl. And mine.”

Leah nodded slowly, letting the words settle in her heart.

Later that evening, Leah found herself pacing in her bedroom, her thoughts still tangled. Elle was lying on the bed, scrolling through her phone. She looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the carpet.”

Leah chuckled weakly. “Sorry. Just… thinking.”

Elle sat up. “About?”

Leah looked at her girlfriend “Y/n”.

Elle patted the bed beside her. “Come here.”

Leah sat down, and Elle wrapped an arm around her.

“You know,” Elle began, “I think you’re scared of something deeper than just her growing up.”

Leah looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“I think you’re scared that if she doesn’t need you the way she used to, then maybe you’re not as important to her anymore.”

Leah’s eyes welled up again. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”

Elle kissed her temple. “But Leah, love isn’t about being needed. It’s about being there. And you are. You always have been. Maybe it’s time to talk to her. Not as the protective big sister, but just… as Leah. Let her see your heart.”

Leah swallowed hard. “I don’t want to make her feel guilty.”

“You won’t,” Elle said gently. “You’ll remind her of something she might’ve forgotten in the whirlwind of growing up that you love her. That you’re proud of her. That you’re still her safe place.”

Leah nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll talk to her.”

__ 

That night, Leah knocked softly on Y/N’s bedroom door.

“Come in,” came the muffled reply.

Leah stepped inside. Y/N was sitting cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by notebooks and her laptop. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she looked up with a smile.

“Hey, Lee.”

Leah’s heart warmed at the nickname. “Hey, bug.”

Y/N giggled. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

Leah sat down beside her. “I miss calling you that.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You can still call me that.”

There was a pause. Leah looked around the room posters of bands she didn’t recognize, photos with friends, a growing collection of makeup on the vanity.

 It was a teenager’s room. Not the little girl’s room she used to tuck her into.

“You’re growing up,” Leah said softly.

Y/N smiled. “I guess, I am 16 now leah.”

Leah took a deep breath. “And I’m so proud of you. You’re smart, kind, funny… you’re becoming this amazing young woman.”

Y/N blushed. “Thanks, Lee.”

“But,” Leah continued, her voice trembling slightly, “I’d be lying if I said it’s been easy for me.”

Y/N looked at her, concern flickering in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Leah smiled gently. “I’ve always been your big sister. Your protector. I remember when you first came to us so small, so quiet. You clung to me like I was your lifeline. And I loved it. I loved being that for you.”

Y/N’s eyes softened. “You still are.”

“I know,” Leah said, blinking back tears. “But lately, I feel like I’m watching you drift away. And I get it you’re growing, you’re finding your own path. But I guess I just… miss you.”

Y/N reached out and took Leah’s hand. “I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

Leah shook her head. “No, don’t be sorry. You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to. I just needed to tell you that… no matter how old you get, no matter where life takes you, you’ll always be my little sister. My bug. My girl.”

Y/N’s eyes filled with tears. “You’ll always be my Lee.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their bond settling between them like a warm blanket.

“I still need you,” Y/N whispered. “Just… in different ways.”

Leah smiled. “I can live with that.”

Y/N leaned her head on Leah’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you more,” Leah replied, kissing the top of her head.

[thewosocollective1]

"I hate you" "No you don't"

Alexia Putellas x reader

They were both 20. Young. Talented. And absolutely allergic to each other.

Y/N had just joined Barça B, arriving with a reputation for scoring impossible goals and never backing down. Alexia was already the rising star of the senior team — tactical, sharp, and annoyingly flawless.

From day one, it was war.

“Nice touch,” Alexia muttered during a joint training session. “If you were trying to pass to the grass.”

Y/N didn’t even blink. “I was aiming for your ego. Missed by a few kilometers.”

Alexia smirked. “¿Sabes qué? You talk a lot for someone who hasn’t scored in two games.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “You talk a lot for someone who thinks sarcasm counts as personality.”

They clashed constantly — in drills, in scrimmages, even in post-training recovery. If Alexia ran 10 sprints, Y/N ran 11. If Y/N scored a goal, Alexia scored two. Their teammates started calling them “the storm twins” — because wherever they went, tension followed.

Their teammates watched in awe — and fear. Every drill became a showdown. Every scrimmage, a battlefield. They tackled harder when it was each other. They sprinted faster when the other was ahead. They were fire and gasoline.

But beneath the snark and bruises… something else burned.

During a particularly aggressive training match, Y/N slid in and knocked Alexia off balance. She hit the turf, groaning.

“¿Estás bien?” Y/N asked, breathless.

Alexia looked up, eyes blazing. “You’re obsessed with me.”

Y/N scoffed. “I’m obsessed with beating you.”

Alexia leaned in, voice low. “Same thing.”

That night, Y/N couldn’t sleep.

She kept replaying that moment — the closeness, the heat, the way Alexia’s voice had dropped into something dangerous. It wasn’t just rivalry anymore. It was tension. It was chemistry. It was something she didn’t want to name.

Weeks passed. The competition didn’t cool. But the glances lingered longer. The touches during drills became electric. Somehow, they always ended up next to each other — in team photos, in warm-ups, in every damn moment.

Then came the turning point.

A rainy away game. The team bus broke down. Everyone was stuck in a tiny roadside hotel. Only one room left.

Of course, it went to Alexia and Y/N.

They argued over the bed. Over the thermostat. Over who got the last protein bar.

“Eres insoportable,” Alexia muttered, brushing past her.

“Y tú eres dramática,” Y/N snapped.

But somewhere around 2 a.m., the arguing stopped.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, hair damp, voice quiet. “You drive me insane.”

Alexia, lying back with her arms behind her head, replied, “You make me better.”

Silence.

Then Y/N leaned in. “Still think I’m obsessed with you?”

Alexia turned her head, eyes locked. “Espero que sí.”

The kiss was inevitable.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was messy, breathless, and full of everything they’d been holding back. They kissed like they were still fighting — hands gripping, lips crashing, hearts racing.

From that night on, the rivalry didn’t disappear — it evolved.

They still fought. Still competed. Still tried to outdo each other.

But now, they did it with smirks. With secret glances. With whispered “te quiero” behind locker room doors.

They kept it quiet. No one knew. Not yet.

Until one day, during a match, Y/N took a brutal hit from an opposing midfielder. She dropped to the ground, clutching her ankle.

Alexia saw red.

She stormed across the pitch, eyes blazing, voice sharp. “¡Oye! ¿Estás loca? That was a dirty tackle!”

The referee blew the whistle. The crowd roared. And Y/N, still on the ground, looked up at Alexia — who was now standing over her like a shield.

Y/N groaned, clutching her leg. “I think I’ve been murdered.”

Alexia’s eyes widened. “What?! Where does it hurt?”

“My soul,” Y/N whispered.

Alexia blinked. “Your soul?”

Y/N nodded solemnly. “And maybe my ankle. But mostly my pride.”

The medic arrived, already rolling his eyes. “She’s fine. She just got clipped.”

Alexia turned to him, dead serious. “She said her soul is injured.”

The medic sighed. “Her soul will recover in five minutes. Maybe less if someone brings her snacks.”

Y/N peeked one eye open. “Do we have gummy bears?”

Alexia groaned, flopping backward onto the grass. “You’re unbelievable.”

Y/N sat up, grinning. “You ran across the pitch like I’d been shot.”

“You screamed like you were being exorcised!”

“ I like being dramatic” she smiled “ it gives another emotion to the game”

“ You like being stupid that’s at you like”

“Can you both not start please?” Marta Asked “we are in the middle of a game “

The ref gave her a yellow card for “excessive drama.” The crowd applauded. And Losada , from midfield, shouted, “Next time just roll once, not twelve times!”

Y/N stood up, dusted off her shorts, and jogged back into position — completely fine, slightly bruised, and very proud of her performance.

Alexia followed, muttering, “You owe me a heart rate monitor.”

“ Oh Alexia Putellas the one who was insulting me a hour ago is now worried with me”

“Callate idiota”

“You were worried little alexia ” she teased.

“I was hoping you’d stay down for five minutes of peace.”

“You love me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“You love me.”

Alexia didn’t answer — just shoved her lightly and kept running.

But her smile?

Totally gave her away.

“Omg she loves me “ Y/n murmured for herself 

[thewosocollective1]

jealousy

The sun was high over Ciutat Esportiva, casting sharp shadows across the pitch where the senior team warmed up. Maya González stood just outside the rondo circle, toes nudging the grass, silently gnawing the inside of her cheek as her eyes followed one pair in particular.

Vicky López and Alexia Putellas.

Again.

They were laughing—like, the kind of laughing that made Maya irrationally annoyed. Vicky kept nudging Alexia in the ribs between touches, and Alexia leaned in to say something that made Vicky squeal and cover her face with her sleeve. The ball rolled past, untouched. They didn’t even care. They were lost in their own little bubble of sparkly midfield chemistry and inside jokes Maya wasn’t invited to.

Not that she wanted to be.

Except she very much did.

She knew it was ridiculous. Vicky and Alexia trained together all the time. They were close. Really close. But lately it felt like Maya had been replaced as the chaos sidekick in Alexia’s life. For the last few days, Alexia had posted workout clips with Vicky, tagged her in memes, called her "mi arquitecta" and didn’t even add Maya to the group chat where they were planning tactical fun-passes for the upcoming match

Now, standing stiffly on the sidelines, Maya watched as Vicky flicked the ball behind her leg and Alexia clapped dramatically.

“¡Vamos, Vicky! That’s insane!”

Maya rolled her eyes so hard they nearly fell out.

“What’s up with your vibe today?” Mapi León asked, walking up next to her.

“I’m fine,” Maya said.

Mapi paused. “You’re literally squeezing your shin guards like they insulted your mom.”

Maya looked down at her hands. “I’m just focused.”

“Oh,” Mapi grinned, “focused on Alexia and Vicky’s Bestie Hour?”

Maya sighed. “It’s not bestie hour. It’s tactical development. I just think they should include me. As a part of team unity. For democracy.”

Mapi snorted. “Okay, President Jealousy.”

Nearby, the rondo broke up. Vicky and Alexia walked toward the benches together, still smiling, still radiating the sunshine of shared midfield wavelengths. Vicky paused to tie her shoelace, and Alexia ruffled her hair before walking off.

Maya practically chewed the inside of her soul.

Pau Cubarsí—who happened to be visiting the Femení session—to blink in alarm.

He was Maya’s oldest friend—the one who knew the difference between her “I’m tired” and her “I’m drowning.”

And right now? She was sinking.

He caught up with her during cooldown, grabbing her towel and tossing it at her like always. But instead of her usual “thanks, loser,” she just muttered and sat down, back toward everyone.

That was the final straw.

Pau sat beside her, stealing a breath. “Okay. Spill.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying with the posture of a building in ruins.”

She shot him a glare but didn’t answer.

Then vicky passed by them laughing, making maya roll her eyes

“So…” Pau continued carefully, “What did Vicky do? Or say? Or breathe?”

Maya stiffened. That was the bullseye.

Pau blinked slowly. “Es ella, ¿no?”

Maya didn’t look at him. “They’re always together. Laughing. Hugging. Inside jokes. And me? I’m just an extra chair in the room. I see it and I smile like it doesn’t cut. But it does.”

Pau leaned back on his elbows. “You know Alexia loves you.”

“I know,” Maya whispered. “But lately I feel like I’m the kid she outgrew. Like I was the special chapter until Vicky became the sequel.”

Pau reached over and flicked her forehead—not hard, just enough. “You’re not a chapter. You’re the headline. Vicky’s a footnote.”

Maya snorted, half laughing, half crumbling. “It’s not her fault. She’s amazing. And funny. And tactical.”

“And not you,” Pau added gently. “Which is why Alexia will come back. She always does. Your chaos is her favorite season.”

Maya finally turned to face him, eyes glassy. “Do you think she noticed how I avoid her now?”

“Noticed? She asked me twice today if you were mad or just constipated. She’s worried. She loves you.”

Maya laughed—shaky, but real.

Then, from across the field, Alexia looked over. Her gaze met Maya’s for the first time in two days. It held something soft. Concern. A pull. Not guilt—something deeper.

“She’s waiting for you,” Pau whispered.

“Maybe,” Maya replied. “Or maybe I just need to stop sulking and talk like a functioning human.”

Pau stood, offered her a hand, and grinned. “Start functioning after churros?”

Maya took his hand, stood up, and said, “Churros solve 73% of my emotional issues.”

As they walked toward the bench together, Maya stole one last glance at Alexia and whispered to herself—quiet, almost inaudible:

“I just missed being her favorite.”

____

Maya spent the whole week spiraling into a silent storm of feelings—jealousy tangled with guilt, confusion dressed up as stubborn pride. And Alexia? She’d been patient, but distant. Like she knew something was wrong and was waiting for Maya to speak it first.

Alexia entered the room holding two mugs—one chamomile for herself, one chocolate milk for Maya, who always pretended it was juvenile but drank it faster than water.

She handed Maya the mug, then sat beside her. No words. Just warm silence.

Maya exhaled.

“I was mad at you,” she said finally, voice half-buried in the hoodie she was wearing—Alexia’s hoodie, of course.

“I figured,” Alexia replied softly.

“You’ve been spending so much time with Vicky... and Jana... and it’s like I just disappeared.”

Alexia didn’t flinch. “You didn’t disappear. I saw you every day.”

“But not really,” Maya whispered. “Not like before.”

Alexia rested her mug on the table and turned to her.

“You think I love them more?”

Maya shrugged. “Not more. Just... newer. Less complicated.”

Alexia scooted closer, pulled Maya’s knees toward her chest, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

“Mimi,” she said, using the nickname that only existed between them. “You’re my chaos. My home. My leftover hoodie thief. Vicky is brilliant and Jana is fierce, but you—you are heart. You’re family. You’re the sound of my mornings and the curl in my Fridays.”

Maya’s eyes prickled, but she refused to blink.

“I didn’t want to admit I felt jealous. It felt childish.”

Alexia chuckled. “Jealousy isn’t childish. It’s just love wrapped in insecurity. It happens. You’re not less for feeling it.”

Maya leaned into her. “I just want to be enough.”

“You’re not enough,” Alexia said quietly. “You’re more. Always have been.”

There was silence after that, but not the heavy kind. It was soft. Safe.

Maya picked up her chocolate milk and took a long sip.

“Vicky’s still annoying, though.”

“I’ll allow it,” Alexia smirked.

[thewosocollective1]

Hello my loves, this week I have absolutely no ideas about what to write or who to write about, so I wanted to know if anyone has a request or any ideas? I'll do anything hahahahaha