[kccisfuckingmagical]

Masterlist

Arsenal :

Stina Blackstenius:

Home Sweet Home

Katie McCabe x Caitlin Foord x Chloe Kelly

Roses and Thorns

Alessia Russo

You’re Enough

Chelsea:

Nathalie Björn:

Rival all the way

Man City:

Kerstin Casparij:

Bach to you

Bayern Munich:

Lea Schüller:

Historic Win (and an even more historical celebration)

Barcelona:

[kccisfuckingmagical]

I need to start a campaign to have Alexander Straus to replace Grainger as Norwegian head coach.

He is

1. Norwegian,

2. Knows how to win,

3. Knows some younger players from his time managing U19 and U23.

4. He knows how to work with super stars and gel them together (such as in Bayern where they have all those star players and manage to bring 120% out of them).

5. He doesn’t experiment game plans at last minute and put one of the best winger ever to be a left back, whilst Tuva is perfectly capable in left back and Ingrid is a tested and trusted centre back back in Barcelona.

I still don’t understand most of Gemma Grainger’s tactical decisions, nor the fact that Ada Hegerberg was allowed to take the penalty again after her miss against Switzerland, when Guro Reiten, arguably one of the best penalty takers in the WSL, was right there (who was to be fair is fuming with the game, possibly because of her position, and with that fire, i personally believe she would rocket it into the net).

Nor do I understand the decision to play Gaupset as a left winger (yes she had an amazing match as left winger in the match against Iceland, but in club level, when is actually a midfielder who plays right midfield or a 10), Guro as a left-back, or in previous matches where she had Caro the left wing while Guro played as a left midfielder and Frida as a right winger. What kind of insanity is it to have half your squad playing out of position? This was fucking Euro and not some kind of closed door friendly you are mucking around!

Anyways, I don’t necessarily need Alexander Straus to be the new head coach, but I do desperately need someone logical, sane, and capable of making halfway decent tactical decisions to refresh the squad. For once, I’d like to see these so-called "best players in the world" play football that isn’t downright embarrassing to watch.

Thank you for taking your time to reading my rant.

Would have wanted to say happy Frida Maanum day but oh well.

[kccisfuckingmagical]

You’re Enough

Alessia Russo x Chelsea! Reader

Warning: Mild angst, insecurities

The night was still warm when you pushed the door open, a soft hum of laughter still buzzing in your veins.

Chelsea’s team dinner had been everything you’d hoped for — champagne, speeches, wild toasts.

Hannah had nearly made you spit out your drink with her toast about Aston Villa and Arsenal — how Villa’s trashing the reds basically handed Chelsea the title early.

"Thank you, Villa!" Hannah had grinned, air toasting to her former club, and you'd all laughed, a little tipsy, a lot giddy.

You still had your heels dangling from one hand, your jacket slung over your shoulder, when you stepped into the house you shared with Alessia.

"Less? Babe, you up?" you called, cheerful, humming from the celebration.

No answer.

Your smile dimmed a little.

You walked further in — and then you saw her.

Alessia Russo, England’s golden girl, Arsenal’s number nine, the one they sang about — on her knees on the living room floor, scrubbing at a stain like it had personally wronged her.

There was an open storage box next to the shelf where her trophies used to be — now empty.

The golden boot? Gone.

Player of the month? Gone.

Goal of the month? Gone.

Every hard-won piece of recognition, stuffed away.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

The buzz from the champagne and the laughter vanished in an instant.

"Baby," you said, soft as anything, already kneeling down beside her.

She didn’t respond — just scrubbed harder, her hands pink and trembling.

You wrapped your arms around her from behind, resting your chin lightly on her shoulder.

She flinched, just slightly — and then sagged back against you like a crumbling wall.

"Hey, hey," you murmured, holding her tighter. "What’s going on?"

For a long, shaky moment, she didn’t answer.

Then —

"I’m not good enough," Alessia whispered, voice wrecked and raw.

You pulled the brush gently from her hand and tossed it aside.

She let you.

She just sat there, breathing brokenly, eyes fixed on the carpet.

"You’re gonna have to explain that one to me, Less," you said softly.

She swallowed hard, finally turning her tear-glossed eyes toward you.

"I didn’t win anything," she said, voice cracking. "I’m just the one who stayed healthy. Bunny missed half the season. Everyone’s injured. I just... I just happened to be there."

You opened your mouth — but she kept going, words tumbling out like she couldn’t stop.

"I couldn’t even score when it mattered. Brighton, Villa — we had the possession, the chances — I couldn’t do it."

Her voice dropped to a shattered whisper.

"They praise me for tracking back, for passing — not for goals. A striker who doesn’t score. What kind of nine is that?"

You felt her pain like a physical thing between you, heavy and suffocating.

"They’re only giving me awards because there’s no one else left standing," she said. "Not because I’m actually good."

You cupped her face, thumbs brushing the tears from her cheeks.

"Less, no," you said fiercely. "You earned every bit of it. You fought every minute. You gave everything you had — for your team, for your dream."

She squeezed her eyes shut, another tear slipping free.

"You didn’t get lucky. You stayed. You showed up. Even when it was hard, even when it hurt, even when your physios tell you you need to rest."

You kissed her forehead gently, cradling her close.

"And that counts for more than you think."

She stayed against you, silent for a long moment — and then, finally, the sobs broke free.

You held her through it all, steady, patient, your hoodie growing damp where her face pressed into you.

You rocked her gently, whispering quiet, grounding words against her hair.

When her breathing finally evened out, you pulled back just enough to press a kiss to her temple.

"Come on," you murmured, wiping her cheeks tenderly. "Let’s do something good tonight. Just you and me."

She sniffled. "Like what?"

You smiled.

"Blanket fort. Ice cream. The dumbest movie we can find. No trophies allowed."

A watery laugh escaped her.

"You’re such a dork," she said, voice hoarse but a little lighter.

"Yeah," you said, grinning, helping her up, "but I’m your dork."

You didn’t let go of her hand as you led her away from the trophies, the bleach smell, the stain she couldn't scrub away.

You would build something better — a safe little world where Alessia Russo didn’t have to be anything but herself.

Where she was enough, just like she always had been.

[kccisfuckingmagical]

Roses and Thorns

Pairing: Katie McCabe x Caitlin Foord x Chloe Kelly

Warning: cheating, angst, comfort

Chloe Kelly’s life wasn’t supposed to look like this.

Fresh off England’s near-mythical summers, with a Euros medal around her neck and a World Cup final in her back pocket, she was supposed to be untouchable. Instead, she sat frozen out at City, the minutes drying up until there was nothing left but hollow training sessions and smiling through clenched teeth. Gareth Taylor said all the right things in press conferences — "competition is healthy", "rotation is key" — but Chloe knew. She wasn't part of the plan anymore.

At home, things weren’t much better. A freshly signed marriage certificate was supposed to be a beginning, not another thread unraveling. Manchester was their future. They had picked the house together. Decorated it. Dreamed in it.

And now? Chloe lived out of a suitcase in London, sleeping alone in an unfamiliar apartment, clinging to a loan move to Arsenal like it was a life raft.

"You could have gone to United," he said the last time they fought over the phone. "Stayed close to me. To us."

"United?" Chloe had snapped. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Arsenal was her home. As a kid, she'd worn their kit until it was threadbare, watched Kelly Smith highlights on repeat until she knew every shimmy by heart. Arsenal was familiar faces, Leah’s permanent frown, Beth’s loudness, KIM FUCKING LTTLE.

It wasn't about proximity. It was about belonging.

Still, Chloe had been wary when she arrived. Katie McCabe and Chloe Kelly had history.

A ball to the head — an actual ball swung to the Chloe’s head — courtesy of Katie, during a heated Arsenal vs City clash. Chloe hadn't exactly covered herself in glory either, full of shithousery and physical battles, but... still.

There were words. Glares. A lot of unnecessary smugness. Chloe had been ready for frostbite.

Instead, Katie greeted her with a crooked grin and a casual, “Still got that egg on your head, CK?”

And somehow, that was it.

Katie was relentless. Loud and hilarious and infectious, dragging Chloe around the training ground like an excitable golden retriever. (“Everything’s changed, you dinosaur, keep up!”)

And Caitlin — Katie’s girlfriend, Caitlin Foord — was somehow worse.

All sunshine and muscles, an arm slung easily around Chloe’s shoulders, grinning up at her like she was the best thing since flat whites. "Ignore Katie, she’s just bullying you because she likes you."

They took her everywhere.

Dog walks in muddy fields. Coffee shops tucked behind training ground fences. Impromptu BBQs at Leah’s place where half the team piled in like a traveling circus.

Caitlin would lean against Chloe while they watched telly, casual and warm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Katie would wink across the dinner table, nudging a plate of chips her way.

They made her laugh again. They made her feel something besides the gnawing emptiness inside her chest.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because Chloe Kelly — newly married, newly adrift, newly lonely — was very much in the process of falling for both of them.

Women.

Loud, brilliant, chaotic women.

Women who were very much in love with each other, not with her.

And Chloe?

She was supposed to be living her dream.

Instead, she was about to ruin everything — and maybe herself — for something she was never meant to have.

———————————————————————————

"Come on, Brody, Otis — keep up!" Chloe called her dogs, tugging lightly at the leashes wrapped around her wrist.

Brody — the elder statesman — trotted obediently beside her, but Otis, younger and always a little wild, strained against the lead, tongue lolling happily.

Typical.

Ahead of her, Katie sauntered up the trail, takeaway coffee in hand, wearing a smug grin.

"Yer dogs are as bloody dramatic as you," Katie teased, half turning to smirk at her.

"Means they're brilliant," Chloe fired back automatically, a little breathless but grinning.

Beside her, Caitlin chuckled, the sound soft and warm. She reached down, letting Otis barrel into her legs before giving him a firm scratch behind the ears.

"They love you," Caitlin said, tone light but there’s something under it. Something soft.

Chloe shrugged, heart twisting.

"They're mine," she replied simply.

One of the only things she couldn’t bear to leave behind.

They found a small clearing, overlooking the misty North London skyline. It's grey and a little cold, but Brody and Otis were delighted, noses buried in the wet grass.

Katie flopped down onto the ground without a care in the world. "Get your arse down here, CK," she called lazily, patting the ground between her and Caitlin.

Chloe hesitated — not because she didn’t want to — but because sometimes it felt too easy, being with them.

Too dangerous.

But she sat. Otis immediately scrambled into her lap, wriggling like he’s five pounds instead of fifty.

Katie snickered. Caitlin cooed, "Good boy, Otis," and ruffled his fur, so natural and familiar that Chloe's chest ached.

"You know," Katie said after a while, voice unusually casual, "you and the boys could move in."

Chloe blinked, thrown.

"What?"

Katie shrugged, tossing a twig Brody's way. "Our place is massive. Coopurr’ll have to learn to deal with some dog drama, but he’s a tough little bastard."

"Plus," Caitlin added, smiling softly, "I miss having a dog around."

And suddenly Chloe remembers — Peach.

The way Caitlin went quiet whenever someone mentioned the winter break. The way she still paused whenever she walked past the empty hooks where a leash used to hang.

Peach, who had been Caitlin’s shadow until January.

Chloe swallowed hard.

"You don’t have to decide now," Caitlin said quickly, reading her face. "Just... it's home, if you want it to be."

Brody pressed his head against Chloe’s knee. Otis nosed at her hand, impatient for another cuddle.

Chloe looked at Katie’s crooked smile, Caitlin’s steady kindness, her two dogs sprawled like they own the place.

And for the first time in months, she didn’t feel like she’s drowning.

"Yeah," Chloe said, voice rough around the edges.

"Maybe I will."

Katie bumped her shoulder. Caitlin looped an arm around her back — casual, safe.

And Chloe leaned into them, just a little, pretending she didn’t feel like she's already halfway home.

———————————————————————————

It started with Brody whining at the door.

Chloe shushed him gently, curled into the far end of the sofa with Otis snoring against her thigh, one hand mindlessly stroking soft fur.

She was not ready to move yet. Not ready to check her phone.

Not ready for anything outside this tiny, fragile world she had been borrowing.

The house smelled like them — Katie’s coffee, Caitlin’s lavender laundry detergent, the faint lingering trace of Coopurr prowling somewhere upstairs.

It felt like home.

It was not.

It never was.

Brody whined again, more insistent. Chloe buried her face in Otis' fur.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. Again. And again.

The screen flashes:

8 missed calls.

All from him.

Chloe’s chest tightened.

She knew she should answer.

Knew she should explain why she hasn’t come home on her free day, why she’s here instead, wrapped in someone else's life, someone else's warmth.

But what would she even say?

‘Sorry, I’m busy falling in love with two women who aren’t mine?’

‘Sorry, I don’t know who I am anymore?’

The door clicked open.

Katie strolled in first, tossing her keys onto the counter with a familiar clatter. Caitlin followed, carrying bags from the corner shop, swinging one into Chloe’s lap with a grin.

"Got your crisps, Chlo," Caitlin said brightly, pulling off her jacket. "And a cheeky beer."

Chloe forced a smile. Takes the bag.

Said nothing.

Katie frowned, instantly alert. "You alright?"

Brody pressed harder against Chloe's leg, whining low.

Otis lifted his head, sensing it too.

"I'm fine," Chloe said, too fast. Too sharp.

Katie didn’t buy it. Neither did Caitlin.

Katie crossed the room in three strides, crouching in front of her.

"Chloe," she said, voice soft and careful. "Talk to us."

Something inside Chloe snapped.

Maybe it was the missed calls. Maybe it was Brody’s worry. Maybe it was the way Caitlin was looking at her like she had already forgiven anything she hadn’t even confessed yet.

"You don't get it," Chloe said, voice shaking.

"I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to..."

She stopped herself before too late.

Katie’s eyes narrowed. Caitlin stepped closer, frowning.

"Not supposed to what?" Caitlin asked, gentle, but Chloe could hear the hurt bleeding through.

Chloe shoved the bag away, standing up too quickly.

Otis yelped at the sudden movement.

"Fall in love with you," Chloe spat, wrecked and furious at herself, not them.

"With both of you."

The silence was deafening.

Katie straightened slowly, mouth open like she was trying to find the right words but kept losing them.

Caitlin just stared at her, wide-eyed, heartbreak written clear as day.

"And I’m married," Chloe finished, a broken, helpless whisper. "I’m fucking married."

The words hang there, ugly and irreversible.

Her phone buzzed again, vibrating violently against the coffee table like it was accusing her too.

Brody whined. Otis barked once, sharp.

Chloe flinched.

Katie stepped back like she’s been hit. Caitlin reached for her hand without thinking — a reflex — and Chloe felt the ache in her bones.

"Chloe..." Caitlin started, soft and pained.

But Chloe was already grabbing Brody’s leash, fumbling with Otis’ collar, anything to move, to run before they say something kind, something that might shatter her completely.

"I need to go," she muttered, voice cracking.

She didn’t look at them.

Coundn’t.

She was out the door before they could stop her, two confused dogs tugging at their leads, the grey London sky swallowing her whole.

And she didn’t stop running — not even when the first tear fell.

———————————————————————————

The final whistle blew, and Chloe dropped to her knees.

The stadium roared around her — Arsenal fans chanting, clapping, pounding the air — but all Chloe could hear was the ragged sound of her own breathing.

She did it.

They all did.

She hauled herself up, blinking sweat from her eyes just as Caitlin crashed into her, arms flung wide, laughter bubbling out of her.

"You were unreal," Caitlin beamed, practically bouncing.

Katie was right behind her, a breathless grin splitting her face.

"Fucking hell, CK. Didn’t know you had that in you."

Chloe laughed — sharp and wild — letting herself be sandwiched between them for a second longer than strictly professional.

It felt like a balm.

Like breathing again after weeks underwater.

But as the cheers fade, replaced by the low hum of post-match logistics, the three of them stood there — sweating, battered, vibrating with adrenaline — and the other thing settled back between them.

The unsaid.

Katie was the first to crack.

She jerked her head toward the tunnel. "Come on. We’re talking."

Not a request.

Chloe followed without protest, Caitlin was a quiet, steady presence at her side.

They found a tucked-away hallway, cool and dim and blessedly empty.

Katie turned on her the moment they stop.

"You can’t fucking do that to us again," she said, not shouting, but fierce.

Chloe flinched.

"You don’t get to kiss us with your eyes," Katie growled, voice shaking, "and run away like it meant nothing."

Caitlin stepped in, gentler but no less determined.

"We’re not mad you feel something," she said, quiet. "We’re mad you think you’re not allowed."

Chloe shook her head, arms wrapped around herself.

"I’m married," she whispered, and the words sound hollow now. Weak.

Katie’s mouth twisted.

"And are you happy?"

Silence.

Caitlin took another step closer, voice soft but unyielding.

"Are you still her?"

Chloe opened her mouth.

Closed it.

The truth sat heavy on her tongue.

"I don’t know who I am anymore," she confessed finally.

Katie blew out a breath, some of her fury bleeding out.

"Then start here," Caitlin said, simply, "With us."

Chloe lifted her head.

Katie’s eyes — fierce, bright — met hers without flinching.

Caitlin’s hand hovered, not touching, waiting for Chloe to choose.

And for the first time in months, Chloe didn’t feel like she was drowning.

"I don’t know if I can fix everything," she said, raw with emotion.

"I don’t even know what I want half the time."

Katie’s mouth quirked in a tired grin.

"Welcome to the fucking club, mate."

Caitlin laughed — soft and real — and finally, finally, Chloe felt the tension ease out of her body.

She stepped forward, lets Caitlin’s hand land on her hip, feels Katie’s shoulder bump against hers in that clumsy, perfect way.

Not perfect.

Not easy.

But real.

"Okay," Chloe said, voice breaking and sure all at once.

Katie threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a one-armed hug that’s rough and careful at the same time.

Caitlin pressed their foreheads together for a second, a touch full of messy promises.

Not everything was solved.

Not everything was healed.

But for the first time — maybe ever — Chloe knew she's not alone.

———————————————————————————

The end of Chloe’s marriage didn’t come with fireworks.

No screaming, no final dramatic fight.

It just... unraveled.

A thousand tiny cuts:

the missed calls, the cold silences, the "why are you so far away" arguments that stopped being about geography a long time ago.

When she traveled back to Manchester during the break, it was already too late.

He looked at her across the dinner table like he didn’t know her anymore.

She looks back, realizing she didn’t neither.

There was no villain here. Just two people who wanted to be happy and got lost along the way.

They didn’t even fight about it.

They just —

stopped.

And somehow, that hurt even worse.

———————————————————————————

Back at Arsenal, the tension didn’t exactly... stay hidden.

Chloe was quieter. Lighter, somehow, but heavier at the same time.

Katie hovered near her in the gym like she might punch anyone who asks the wrong question.

Caitlin slipt her energy bars between drills, brushes Chloe’s fingers with hers, casual and secret.

The rest of the team noticed something, but couldn’t quite pin it down.

Beth side-eyed Chloe once in the cafeteria, muttered to Lotte, "Did she always get that clingy with Caitlin and Katie?"

Alessia — bless her heart — whispered loud enough for half the table to hear, "Maybe they just really clicked?”

Frida shrugged like she couldn't care less.

And then there was Lia.

Lia Wälti — still impossibly calm, sipping her coffee, watching Chloe, Katie, and Caitlin with the lazy amusement of someone who’s been there, done that, bought the heartbreak t-shirt.

She caught Chloe’s eye across the room one day —

gave her the smallest, most knowing smile.

A nod, like:

You’re allowed. You’re seen. It’s okay.

Chloe nearly choked on her electrolytes.

———————————————————————————

It’s not easy.

Some days Chloe still wakes up twisted in old guilt.

Still picks up her phone and scrolls through old messages she doesn’t know how to answer.

But most mornings?

Most mornings are softer.

She wakes tangled between Katie’s fierce warmth and Caitlin’s sunlit sweetness, Brody snoring against her hip, Otis sprawled across Caitlin’s legs, Coopurr perched resentfully on the headboard like he’s judging everyone.

Katie always wakes up first — always grumpy, always muttering — and presses her face into Chloe’s hair with a gruff, sleepy grunt.

Caitlin stirs next, slinging an arm across both of them with the lazy strength of someone who’s spent a lifetime throwing herself into things without fear.

Chloe stays still in those moments.

Soaks them in.

Feels the way the ache in her chest finally eases.

They don’t rush.

They don’t demand.

They just are.

It’s messy. It’s complicated. It’s nothing she ever planned for.

It’s hers.

And this time, she’s not running.

[kccisfuckingmagical]

Historic Win (and an even more historical celebration)

Lea Schüller x Bayern!Reader

The gold medal hung heavy around your neck as you stood on the pitch of Cologne’s RheinEnergieStadion, the roar of 45,000 fans still ringing in your ears. Bayern had done it—the historic double, league and Pokal, sealed with a ruthless hat-trick from the woman currently grinning through her Player of the Match interview just a few meters away.

Lea Schüller was radiant under the floodlights, her cheeks flushed, her hands gesturing animatedly as she spoke to the press. Silver confetti from the trophy celebration still littered the grass around her like fallen stars, crunching underfoot as you shifted nervously.

"You’re seconds away from fainting," Lea and your mutual best friend Lena Oberdorf observed, appearing at your elbow with a smirk. She had not yet play a match ever since her devastating injury in early 2024, but she looked far too pleased with herself as she discreetly pressed the small velvet box into your palm. “Just don’t drop it. Or cry. Actually—maybe cry a little. It’ll be cute.”

You shoved her shoulder, but your grip on the ring box was iron-tight.

You swallowed hard. "If I vomit, it’s your fault."

Lena rolled her eyes. “It definitely will not be my fault, but I’ll even help you clean it up with my broken knee if you really spill out, because I’m such an amazing friend.” Her expression softened for a moment when she saw your shaking hands. “Go.” She nudged you forward gently.

The moment Lea stepped away from the cameras, you called at her “Schülli!”

She turned, still grinning, and then froze when she saw your face. “...Why do you look like you’re about to yell at me?”

A laugh burst out of you, nervous and too loud. Around you, the team’s chatter dimmed. Tuva stopped mid-celebratory scream. Giulia’s eyebrows shot up. Somewhere in the background, Pernille whispered something to Magda, who immediately pulled out her phone.

You dropped to one knee.

The stadium noise—45,000 fans, still buzzing from the intense 4-2 match—muffled into white noise. Lea’s hands flew to her mouth.

The Werder Bremen fans—still lingering in their sections—let out a curious murmur as you dropped to one knee on the silver-strewn pitch. A hush fell over the Bayern end.

Lea’s eyes went comically wide. "What are you—"

"I had this whole speech planned about how you’re my favorite person, my best teammate, the reason I never mind doing defensive dirty work…, in a perfect rooftop restaurant with an amazing sunset views in Munich” you started, voice cracking, yet it somehow carried across the suddenly silent stadium.

“But then when you went and scored a hat-trick in a Pokal final to win us the double like a some kind of football goddess, my brain screamed to myself, I have to make this historical day even better, I’ll make this the Lea Schüller day. So now, I’m proposing to you while you’re literally glowing under this beautiful Cologne sun.” (Gestured at her sweat-and-confetti-covered glory.) “Unfair advantage, Schülli."

The crowd laughs. Lea’s already tearing up, biting her lip.

You took a deep breath, softening slightly: “But that’s the thing—you’ve always been unfair. Unfairly kind when I mess up crosses. Unfairly patient when I’m grumpy after losses. Unfairly you every single day."

You flipped open the ring box. “So… let’s make it official. Would you make me the happiest woman right now and marry me? Preferably before Lena sells the video of this to Bild?”

You can faintly hear Lena yelled “I would never” incredulously. Which you knew, she definitely would.

Someone in the Werder stands actually aww’d.

The sound Lea made wasn’t human. She launched herself at you so forcefully you both tumbled backward into the confetti, her “YES! YES, YOU IDIOT—" muffled against your lips as the stadium erupted. The Bayern fans chanted her name. The Werder supporters—good sports, apparently—started applauding. And your teammates?

Chaos.

Tuva Hansen was already ugly-crying into Giulia Gwinn’s shoulder (Giulia, ever unflappable, simply patted her back while snapping pictures). Magda and Pernille were clasping hands like proud parents. And Lena? Lena was taking a dramatic bow for the cameras, as if she’d personally arranged the entire proposal.

Lea pulled back just enough to glare at her through happy tears. “You knew!”

"And I didn’t spoil it!" Lena shot back, grinning. “Buy me champagne!"

You laughed into Lea’s hair, the weight of her against your chest, the silver confetti sticking to both of your jerseys. History had been made tonight in more ways than one.

And as the Cologne stadium lights bathed you both in gold, you decided—some love stories were meant to be written in trophies, hat-tricks, and 45,000 cheering witnesses.

[kccisfuckingmagical]

Home Sweet Home

Stina Blackstenius x French!footballer!Reader

Stina Blackstenius x kid OC x Reader

Warning: alludes to death (reader’s sister passed away). But it will be mainly domestic fluff. Kid fic.

London's January air bites at your cheeks as you step off the plane, Aurélien bundles against your chest like a tiny, disgruntled burrito. His little face scrunches against the cold, nose pink beneath the woolen scarf you'd wrapped him in.

"Tatie, j'ai froid," he mumbles into your coat, fingers clutching at the fabric. (Auntie, I'm cold.)

You kiss the top of his head, adjusting your grip on your duffel bag. “Je sais, mon cœur. On y est presque." (I know, sweetheart. We're almost there.)

The airport buzzes around you, all hurried footsteps and echoing announcements, but your mind is elsewhere—on the pitch at Montpellier where you'd first met Stina, on the quiet evenings babysitting your nephew in your sister's house before everything changed, on the phone call with Renée that had thrown you this lifeline.

"We'll make it work," Renée had said, her voice steady through the phone. "All of you."

And then—

There she is.

Stina Blackstenius, leaning against the arrivals gate like she's been waiting forever (she has—her texts had grown increasingly dramatic over the past hour, culminating in: If I die of Heathrow boredom, tell Aurélien I loved him more than football). Her beanie is pulled low over her ears, her shoulders hunched against the cold, but when she spots you, her whole face lights up.

Aurélien sees her first. “Stinaaaa," he breathes, like she's magic.

(She is, a little.)

She's already moving toward you, her hands steady as they take his weight. “Tu m'as manqué, mon petit," she murmurs into his hair, and you watch her throat tightens as she swallows hard. (I missed you, my little one.)

Then she turns to you, her free hand cupping your jaw, her lips warm despite the London chill. “Et toi aussi," she whispers against your lips. (You too.)

Behind her, the city stretches out—gray and busy and unfamiliar. But here, in the circle of her arms, with Aurélien's laughter ringing between you, it already feels a bit easier now.

The car ride to Arsenal’s training ground is quiet, Aurélien dozing against Stina’s shoulder, his tiny fingers still clutching the hem of her jacket. You watch London blur past the window—cloudy skies, red buses, the occasional flash of green from a park. It isn’t home, not yet. But Stina’s knee presses against yours in the backseat, steady and warm, and that is enough.

Renée Slegers meets the three of you at the entrance, her smile sharp but her eyes soft. "Right on time," she says, high-fiving Aurélien, who looks a bit chirpier now with fresh air. "We’ll keep today light—meet everyone, settle in."

Aurélien holds both your hand and Stina’s hand tightly, The moment you walk into the with locker room, the chatter dies down.

“Oh. My. God.” Caitlin Foord is the first to break the silence, eyes locked on the toddler hiding behind your legs.

Leah Williamson immediately crouches down to his level. “Hey there, little man,” she greets him softly.

Aurélien blinks up at her, then buries his face against your thigh.

“This is Aurélian. He doesn’t speak English yet,” you explain. You crouches down, and prompts him to say “hello”.

“-ellooooo!” Aurélien parrots back.

Instantly, the girls coo over him. And your new team captain Kim Little grins, rummaging through her bag. "Good thing toys are a universal language." She pulls out a mini Gunnersaurus plushie and holds it out.

Aurélien’s eyes goes wide. "Un dinosaure!" He gasps, snatching it eagerly.

Frida Maanum smirks, “Oh, so now he likes dinosaurs? Stina’s been trying to get him to say ‘Gunnersaurus’ for weeks."

Stina chuckles from her locker, “Aurie called it a ‘chicken’ last time when he saw a Gunnarsaurus on a team photo."

The entire team lost it.

Stina, leaning against her locker with her arms crossing, watches the girls interaction with Aurélian with a soft expression.

“Wait, hold on.” Katie stands, after shaking hands with Aurélien like he is an adult, looking between you and Stina. “Is he… yours?”

You nod softly, not wanting to shine more lights to the tragic situation of your sister’s sudden death.

Frida Maanum, as a good friend she is, diverts the attention, adds. “But yeah Katie, Stina’s basically his other mum.”

The locker room erupts.

“STINA? OUR STINA?!”

“I don’t even know you have a girlfriend, Stina!”

Stina rolls her eyes, but her ears are pink.

That night, you come home after finishing your newcomer physio session to find Stina on the floor, surrounds by crayons while Aurélien scribbles on a large piece of paper wildly.

“Qu’est-ce que tu dessines, mon cœur?" (What are you drawing, sweetheart?) you asks.

Aurélien holds up a chaotic green blob, “Gunnar… saurus!"

Stina bursts out laughing triumphantly. “Finally!"

Later, as you tuck Aurélien, who is clutching his new Gunnarsaurus plushie tightly, into Stina lingers in the doorway.

Stina recounts her evening with Aurélien, and tells you softly, “He asked if I’d read him a story tomorrow. In French."

“And?"

She steps closer, voice low. "I told him I’d read him a thousand."

You pull her into a kiss, heart full.

London may not be home yet, but you know you are already home when Stina is right beside you.

[kccisfuckingmagical]

Bach to you

(Kerstin Casparij x ClassicalMusician!Reader)

The front door clicked shut with a quiet finality, and you didn’t need to look up from your sheet music to know who it was. The heavy sigh, the shuffling of boots being kicked off, the way the air in the flat seemed to sag with exhaustion—it was all unmistakably her.

Kerstin.

You kept playing, your fingers dancing over the keys of your oboe, the rich, mournful tones of Bach’s Oboe Concerto in A minor filling the space. The melody was steady, deliberate—a lifeline if she wanted to take it.

A soft thud told you she’d dropped her bag. Then, silence. You glanced up just in time to see her lean against the doorframe of the living room, still in her training gear, her hair a messy halo of blonde strands escaping her ponytail. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her shoulders were slumped in a way that made your chest ache.

She didn’t say anything. Just watched you, her expression unreadable.

You finished the movement before lowering your oboe, offering her a small smile. “Rough day?”

Kerstin exhaled sharply, rubbing her face. “Becks’ done her ankle in training. Again. That’s twice in three months.”

You winced sympathetically. “God, not before Chelsea?”

“Exactly.” She groaned, sinking onto the couch beside you, her body collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. “And now we’re down another defender. It’s freaking exhausting.”

You set your oboe carefully on its stand and reached for her hand, threading your fingers through hers. Her skin was warm, calloused from hours of training in the gym, her nails short and practical. You squeezed gently, voice soft and careful. “You’re allowed to be tired, love.”

She let out a shaky breath, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I know. It’s just—sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever catch a break.”

You hummed, leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. “Want me to keep playing?”

Kerstin nodded, her eyes fluttering shut. “Please. It’s the only thing that doesn’t feel like it’s asking something from me right now.”

You chuckled softly, lifting your oboe again. “Bach it is, then.”

As you played, the music wrapped around her like a blanket, the familiar phrases weaving through the tension in her muscles, coaxing her to relax. By the time you reached the adagio, her head had dropped, her breathing slow and even.

You smiled, moved over to her side, pressing another kiss to her hair. “Better?”

She mumbled something unintelligible against your shirt, but the way her fingers tightened around yours was answer enough.

Cheesy? Maybe. But sometimes, after a day like today, cheesy was exactly what she needed.

The morning of the Chelsea match dawned with that particular Manchester gloom that clung to the windows and made the city feel hushed. Kerstin had left before sunrise, her pre-match routine beginning in the dark. You'd felt the bed dip as she rose, her lips brushing your temple in a silent goodbye.

By the time you woke properly, the flat was empty save for the lingering scent of her coffee. You stretched, your fingers itching for your oboe—match days always made you restless. Settling at your music stand, you flipped through your performance binder until you landed on the glossy sleeve of your album with the Berlin Radio Symphony Orchestra. Bach: The Oboe Concertos.The recording engineers had captured the rich, woody timbre of your Loreé oboe perfectly.

You send the recording through your family shared Apple Music and sent it to Kerstin:

You🎵: For when the pitch feels too loud. Track 3. xx

The three dots appeared immediately:

Kerstin⚽️: Stealing my pre-match playlist spot from Stormzy. This is abuse.

Kerstin⚽️: Thank you. 🩵

Kerstin waited until the physio had finished strapping her ankles before pulling up the album on her phone. She'd downloaded it months ago—of course she had—but never dared play it where anyone might hear. Now, as the dressing room buzzed with pre-match energy, she connected her headphone with Bluetooth. (the nice one you'd bought her last Christmas) and let the opening notes of the A minor concerto fill her ears.

The effect was instantaneous. The tightness between her shoulders eased as your oboe's familiar voice wrapped around her. She closed her eyes, imagining you in your concert blacks, fingers flying over the silver keys—

"Bloody hell, is this classical?"

Kerstin's eyes flew open to see Jess Park looming over her, peering onto her screen, one eyebrow arched. Across the room, her best team buddy Mary Fowler's head snapped up like a meerkat's.

Kerstin stopped the track. "It's just—"

"Wait." Jess squinted her eyes. "Is this—?"

Jill Roord was already crossing the room, looking into Kerstin’s phone, her grin widening. "No. Way. This isn't just classical, this is y/n’s classical." She jabbed a finger at Kerstin's phone. "That's your missus!"

The dressing room erupted.

“Ooh, let's hear!" Laia abandoned her last minute hair adjustments.

Kerstin made a valiant attempt to shield her phone, but Jill was quicker, connecting her phone into the locker room’s speaker, and cranking the volume until your cadenza soared through the room.

Viv Miedema actually paused mid-stretch. "Jesus, she's good."

"Course she is," Jill crowed, dodging Kerstin's swipe. "She's at the Hallé! This is what you called? The real posh stuff!"

Kerstin buried her face in her hands as Mary started dramatically conducting an imaginary orchestra.

The game was everything they'd feared—physical, relentless, with Chelsea pressing high from the first whistle. By the 65th minute, Kerstin's kit was streaked with grass and sweat, her voice hoarse from organising the backline.

Then it happened: a late tackle that sent her sprawling, the ref waving play on. Kerstin rolled to her feet, blood roaring in her ears—

And there it was. The melody.

Not through any headphones, but in her bones, in the rhythm of her breathing. The opening phrase of your adagio movement rose unbidden, and before she could stop herself, she was humming it under her breath as she jogged back into position.

Lauren James, marking her tightly, gave her the most bewildered side-eye. "What the hell?"

From nearby, Jill choked back a laugh. "She's gone full Mozart!"

Kerstin ignored them, only mentally correcting her national teammate. It’s fucking Bach, you uncivilised barbarian. Focusing on the imaginary oboe line as she tracked back. The tension in her chest unraveled note by note.

After the loss against Chelsea four days ago, Man City finally won this Champions League 1st leg match 2-0 courtesy to Viv’s brace.

You were annotating a new orchestral score in the living room when the front door slammed.

"I'm never living this down," Kerstin announced, flopping onto the sofa face-first.

You marked your place with a pencil. "Let me guess—"

"Jill made the entire bus listen to your album. Twice." Her voice was muffled by the cushions. "Lily Murphy keeps calling me 'Maestro.'"

You bit your lip. "And did it—"

"Work?" Kerstin rolled over, fixing you with a glare that lacked any real heat. "Unfortunately." She tugged you down beside her, your oboe calluses catching against her warm palms. "Next time I’ll listen to your tracks under a Taylor Swift album cover"

You giggled and pressed a kiss on her cheek. "Pretty sure that’s copyright infringement, mijn liefje."

kerstin_casparij Shoutout to my personal oboist for the pre-match playlist upgrade 🎶 Bach being superior to Chelsea. @yourinstagram

[kccisfuckingmagical]

Rivals all the way

(Nathalie Björn x Arsenal!Swedish!Reader)

Warning: none

You are a Swedish fullback.

It is almost comical how you and Nathalie always end up in rival clubs.

Djurgården is in your blood. Ever since your great grandfather’s neighbours’ second cousin Lars played for said Stockholm club, for generations, your family has been loyal supporters of the Blue Stripes (Blåränderna). So, when Djurgårdens IF knocked on your door and scouted you after playing a stellar season for your local third tier club at the age of 14, you were committed immediately. Which, of course, your amazing break in the first tier league Damallsvenskan did not happen as Djurgårdens were relegated just several months after you signed.

Yet, you still developed greatly after playing in a much more professional environment, and your role was instrumental in promoting your club back to 2016 Damallsvenskan after four years of hard work and grit, and with the obscene amount of headers you scored, placing you the 2nd most scorer for the Sweden 2nd tier league.

You had known Nathalie since youth camps, but it was during your final years at Gymnasium in Stockholm that your bond solidified despite playing for a rival club in Stockholm.

And when she moved to Rosengård in 2018, you transferred to Kopparbergs/Göteborg FC (which later merged and renamed to BK Häcken in 2021). And for the women side, it had an even more intense rivalry than your local Stockholm AIK vs Djurgårdens derby, with both teams fighting top places in Damallsvenskan.

In 2018 Damallsvenskan season, your club Göteborg came 2nd when her club Rosengård, came 3rd. In 2019, Rosengård became champions when Göteborg still ranked 2nd. And finally, in 2020, your club came first and her club came second. 2021, Nathalie transferred to Everton after half a season into the Swedish league, and your club still came second when her former club Rosengård reigned champions again. You stayed in the renamed club BK Häcken until 2022 summer window, where you have received a lucrative offer from a WSL club.

It was a newly repromoted team, the Merseyside arch-rival of Everton, the REDS, The Liverpool who wanted you after their reformation, and they were willing to make one of the most lucrative offers ever for a Swedish female footballer with guaranteed game time and an ambitious tactical talk with Matt Beard sealed the deal.

So you moved to Liverpool, and moving straight into your girlfriend of seven years’ apartment, which she cleared half of the closet, half of the sink, half of the walls, half of the shelves, half of the couch, and half of the bed.

And you filled her originally Rosengård and Everton’s blue themed (with occasional black with yellow accents of AIK) apartment with unapologetic Liverpool’s red mugs, Kopparbergs/Göteborg’s blue and white cusions, BK Häcken’s yellow and black blankets, and your very own Djurgården legend Daniel Sjölund’s signed jersey was framed upon the apartment wall amongst your jerseys from the 2020 Tokyo Olympic where you won your silver medals alongside with your national team.

It was almost comical when Nathalie’s teammates from Everton stepped foot on your now shared apartment after you moved in.

Gabby George did a double take when she moved pass the hallway, Izzy Christiansen dramatically gasped when she looked into the living room, putting her right hand over her heart, and your Swedish teammate Hanna Bennison whom Nathalie previously played with in Rosengård, looked at Nathalie like she’d committed treason.

Or maybe because she did.

Aggie Beever-Jones, the loaned Chelsea homegrown, was wheezing with laughter, “what a fucking live size Mighty Red is doing in your living room mate?”

Hanna looked at Nathalie warily, “you aren’t a secretly BK Häcken fan right? That’s a Häcken wine glass. Why does anyone need a glass with Häcken emblem on it?”

Megan Finnigan looked as though she was betrayed by her own child. When she started walking backwards, as if she was going to burst out from the front door, she spotted on her peripheral vision a new IKEA shoe shelf filled with Adidas cleats and footwear, as opposed to Nathalie’s sponsored Nike merchandise, and it finally clicked in her head.

“Are you dating an enemy, Nathalie Björn?” Megan asked cautiously.

“Not dating, I married one! Min älskling, y/n, come on out and say hello to my teammates!” Nathalie beamed at her own teammates and called out to the kitchen.

And you, who just finished your second training session with Liverpool, with wet hair and flushed pink cheeks, left your kitchen, hands balancing a giant board of sliced fruits. Nathalie grabbed Hanna and rushed to kitchen and brought back out two large jars of unsweetened lemonade, a pot of honey to self serve, and utensils to go with.

You, who were wearing a blazing red hoodie with a Liverpool crest larger than a your head, popped yourselves amongst the Blues like it was just a random Tuesday afternoon and you were all friends hanging around for a coffee, and with the same beaming smile Nathalie was having.

“Hi, enemies!” You greeted the toffees enthusiastically.

Hanna stared. “Nej, nej, nej. No ‘hi, enemies’. I helvete (in hell), since when are you married? Better question, to your mortal enemy Nati? Your biggest rival who somehow landed in your rival club again?” she exclaimed incredulously.

“Hanna, I thought we were friends!” You looked betrayed.

“Nej, only in national camps, otherwise you are my enemy. And she is your enemy too Nati!”

Nathalie was unfazed. “We married just before I decided to transfer to the blues. Couldn’t bear the idea of a longer long distance than ever. And Y/N is having my last name on her Liverpool jersey, crazy right?”

Izzy was stunned, and high-fived Nathalie, “that’s clever, one way to infiltrate into the enemies nest.”

“What do you mean mortal enemy and rival club again?” Aggie was curious.

“Oh, I was playing for Djurgårdens when she played for AIK, which was a bit like a North London derby but a Stockholm one. And when she played for Rosengård, and I played for Kopparbergs/Göteborg, and it was a bit like Arsenal—Chelsea rivalry, both gunning for the top spot.” You explained absentmindedly, cutting a grape in half to remove the seeds inside with a small fork and a paring knife.

“And out of every club there is in WSL, you chose Liverpool!?” Hanna was still very much in shock.

“That’s just football my friend.” You answered absentmindedly, popping the now peeled and deseeded half green grape into your mouth. Nathalie stole the other half with a swift motion with her fork from your plate.

Needless to say, you had been quite integrated into the Blues despite being a Red after this small spontaneous gathering.

Fast forwards to 2024.

Nathalie Björn adjusted the collar of her new Chelsea jersey, the royal blue fabric still feeling foreign against her skin. The move to London had been a whirlwind—new teammates, new tactics, and a city that buzzed with a different energy than Stockholm or Merseyside. But one thing hadn’t changed: the way her heart still skipped when her phone buzzed with a notification from y/n.

[Min älskling]: Guess who are signing to the red side of London?

Nathalie nearly choked on her coffee.

[Blue Nathalie]: You’re joking.

[Min älskling]: Nope. They needed a left-back after Catley’s injury. Beard wasn’t happy, but… it’s a two-year deal.

Nathalie groaned, tipping her head back against the locker room bench. Of course you’d end up at Arsenal. It was almost poetic—the universe’s way of balancing the scales after she’d dared to marry a player that had been her rival ever since the beginning of her career.

"Everything alright, Björn?" Millie Bright clapped her on the shoulder, eyebrow raised.

"Fine," Nathalie muttered, locking her phone. "Just… family stuff."

Chelsea squad had acclimated to Nathalie quickly. She was sharp in training, dryly funny during film sessions, and—most importantly—unshakable in defense. She was unproblematic, and quickly found herself immersed into the squad with the help of her Swedish teammates, and ex-Everton teammate Aggie Beever-Jones.

At least until…

Two days days later, when the transfer news break out, Nathalie was halfway through her morning coffee when Aggie Beever-Jones slammed her phone onto the breakfast table.

*ARSENAL SIGN SWEDISH INTERNATIONAL Y/N BJÖRN FROM LIVERPOOL*

"Björn. Explain."

Nathalie blinked. "Explain what?"

Aggie turned her screen around. The Sky Sports notification glared back at them:

*BREAKING: Arsenal sign Swedish international Y/N Björn from Liverpool – two-year deal confirmed*

Johanna who was sitting beside Nathalie peered into the screen, blinked, and all of a sudden, bursted out with laughter. “Ooh, Iconic Y/N behaviour, just to keep the rivalry alive!”

Sam Kerr who overheard was curious. “Y/N Björn, are you two sisters or something?”

Nathalie didn’t even glance up. "Nej, Y/N is my wife."

Silence. Then—

"Your what?" Lauren James screeched.

Nathalie blinked, realizing her mistake. She’d been so used to Everton knowing, so used to the WSL’s gossip mill spinning her business, that she’d forgotten: Chelsea didn’t know.

"...So," Erin Cuthbert said, voice dangerously calm. "When were you going to tell us your wife is Arsenal's new left-back?"

Nathalie shrugged. "I thought everyone knows!”

“What the actual hell, mate?” Sam Kerr squinted. "I thought you were literal fraternal twins. You’ve got the same brunette hair, brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, long legs and the Scandinavian superiority complex. I could have sworn you both used the same blocking technique when I played against Liverpool and Everton!"

Millie was astonished. “I just thought Björn is just a common last name in Sweden?”

Nathalie took a slow slip of her coffee, “Nej, Y/N and I have been married since we were 23 years old. Come on guys, no need to make a fuss, it is really not that dramatic.”

"Not dramatic?!" Jess Carter threw her hands up. "You’re telling me you’ve been married to Arsenal’s new signing for four years and the WOSO gossip mill missed it?"

Nathalie didn’t blink. “I’m sure some fans must have speculated it, and how is it my fault when you don’t have friends from Everton or Liverpool who can share all the gossips with you? Aggie, the Swedes, most of the Scandinavian in WSL knows about us.”

Ashley Lawrence, ever the voice of reason, tilted her head. "Wait. If you married in 2020… does that mean when you were at Rosengård—"

"—y/n was at Göteborg" Guro Reiten finished, who somehow heard of the rumour but didn’t pay too much attention beforehand, amused. "And then, you were in Everton, and she was in Liverpool. Gud, Nathi. You’ve really got a type, don’t you? Rivals."

Nathalie shrugged, fighting a smirk. "What can I say? I like a challenge."

And the London derby couldn’t come soon enough.

The tunnel at Emirates Stadium hummed with pre-match tension. Nathalie was starting this match (a last-minute substitution with Millie injured) and tried to ignore the way her pulse thudded when she spotted you.

You were stretching near the Arsenal squad, your red-and-white away kit a stark contrast to Chelsea’s blues. But then you turned, caught her eye, and winked.

Nathalie bit back a smile and discretely did a finger wave to you.

“Oi, Björn!” Aggie hissed. “Quite flirting with your rival on a derby day!”

Nathalie coughed and crouched down, pretending to check her shin pads to hide her blush.

The match was brutal. Arsenal pressed high, Chelsea countered fast, and the tackles flew in like neither side remembered this was technically a non-contact sport.

At 18th minute, you overlapped down the left wing, and Nathalie flattened you with a clean but brutal shoulder charge. The crowd roared. You shoved her back when you got up. She grinned.

34th minute, Chelsea corner, you knew full well Nathalie’s airborne ability. So you kept on pushing her while her elbow kept digging into you. Your squabble got a bit too much out of hand and the ref decided to give both of you a warning. Manu pushed away the header from Aggie’s attempt and you swept it out for a Chelsea throw in.

37th minute. You tackled Nathalie cleanly when she decided to run up the field to make an offensive run. She fell and rolled over, groaning dramatically, claiming for a foul while you complained to the ref for her “diving”, and should give her a warning instead for her unsportsmanlike behaviour. You got a yellow card for talking back to the ref, and she got a yellow for time wasting.

Five minutes later, when Beth went down from a foul by Ashley Lawrence. The cameras caught you sharing a water bottle. The commentators were confused. “Are they…laughing? They were gunning for each other all day?!"

Then, in the 63rd minute, it happened.

You intercepted a pass meant for Lauren James, dribbled past two blue shirts, and went 1v1 on Nathalie. You could’ve passed. You should’ve passed. Caitlin was waiting on an overlap, Kim was not too far away. But you saw Stina was sprinting towards the back post, pace unmatched.

So, you nutmegged her. Nathalie’s face was priceless—half fury, half pride—but you were already gone, and setting a cross so perfect that Stina headed it into the net with utmost ease.

1-0 to Arsenal.

Frida, who just went off to the bench screamed in joys and jokingly told with Amanda in a hybrid of Swedish and Norwegian: “SHE’S SLEEPING ON THE COUCH TONIGHT!"

The Emirates erupted. You turned toward the Chelsea half and grinned directly at Nathalie and kissed your taped ring finger. Nathalie knew that you would probably write the cutest little N and a red heart beside it on your tape. And you turned your heel and ran towards Stina, your best friend from Swedish National Team, and pampered multiple kisses onto her head, while eyes locked directly into Nathalie.

Erin gaped. "Did she just—"

"Kiss her ring finger? And proceed to kiss our best friend just to rub it in? Yes." Nathalie deadpanned. "We’re one goal behind. Erin. Focus."

But when the final whistle blew (1-1, thanks to a last-minute Kerr’s equaliser), Nathalie didn’t high-five her own teammates just yet, and instead jogged toward the Arsenal bench—where you were substitute off at 68 minutes for Katie McCabe.

The cameras caught it all: the way you pulled her into a hug, the way she muttered something in your ear that made you laugh, the way your hands lingered just a second too long, the way you brushed her stray stand of sweaty hair off her face, and the way Guro and Frida crackling with each other, fingers pointing at you both, when you two smiled at each other a bit too much.

And the internet got hold of it.

@ReitenFans03: Nathalie Björn (Chelsea) and Y/N Björn (Arsenal) just hugged it out after the derby. Are they related?

@WOSO_Insider: Breaking: Arsenal New Defender Y/N Björn from Liverpool shares a bottle with Chelsea’s New Defender Nathalie Björn after 1-1 London derby draw.

@FootyBanter: Swedish invasion! The Björn siblings taking over London derbies!

The speculation lasted exactly 37 minutes until Hanna Bennison, ever the agent of chaos, quote-tweeted a fan account with:

@HannaBennison8 (verified): Not sisters. Married. Also, their old apartment had a life-size Liverpool Mighty Red in the living room and a set of Häcken tableware. Yes, really. No, I’m not okay.

On instagram, ChelseaFCW posted:*[Highlights of Nathalie’s tackles]*

In response, ArsenalWFC posted: *[Clip of your nutmeg on Nathalie and assist to Stina]* with a cheeky caption *Björn MAGIC 👀👀*

WOSO_Memes posted a side-by-side photos: Nathalie shouldering you to the ground vs. you side-tackling her with a shit-eating grin. Caption: *Marriage*

Then, the pièce de résistance – an old photo resurfaced, courtesy of Hanna: You and Nathalie in your first rival derby (AIK vs. Djurgården, 2015), mid-shoving match. The caption?

*Some things never change.*

Later in the evening, you posted some match photos alongside with a frame of Nathalie’s foul on you, a goal celebration with Stina, a post match moment of you and Nathalie hugging together, and lastly, a photo of you two cuddling each other under a Swedish national team blanket on your sofa, her Chelsea hoodie and your Arsenal one tangled together, a Häcken wine glass in frame, and a framed Djurgården jersey behind you, with Nathalie cuddling an Everton throw pillow and the life size Mighty Red just sitting beside you. Caption: *Another Björn vs Björn. Scoreline: 1-1. Truce until next derby.*

[a-lexia11]

Honestly, being an Arsenal fan is like being in a toxic relationship—no matter how many times they disappoint me, I keep running back, hopeful, just for them to break my heart all over again.

[kccisfuckingmagical]

The thing is, you know they are good, you know they are kind, and you know they can absolutely do better, but then they just cannot step up when things are important. And you feel sorry for them, so you just keep supporting them, and just hope they can get their shit together, and hopefully, one day, they can go back to those glorious sweet old days when they repeatedly proved themselves to be the best.