#angryginge oneshot

[ivy-senna]

sit down and behave — Morgan (angry ginge) x reader

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

summary she said it was for youtube. he said he'd be professional. neither of them managed it.

prompt – outfit react video, established relationship, suggestive, touchy morgan warnings – suggestive content, morgan being feral 🔥 word count – ~2.5k note – ginge blind reacting to his girlfriend's outfits for her youtubechannel?? he had absolutely no business being this much 😭thank you for this request 🫶

requests are open 🎀

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

You needed a react video. Your subscribers had been asking for months — get your boyfriend on camera, we want to see him, does he have opinions on fashion — and Morgan had opinions on everything, so theoretically this should have been simple. You film, he reacts, everyone goes home happy.

What you hadn't fully accounted for was Morgan.

Specifically, Morgan with an audience, a camera pointed at him, and you walking out in a succession of outfits he'd never seen before. You'd done the shopping trip without him deliberately — the whole point was blind reactions, genuine ones — and you'd been very pleased with yourself about it right up until this moment, sitting in the makeup chair while he settled onto the stool you'd positioned in front of the camera with the energy of someone who had already decided he was going to enjoy this enormously.

"Ground rules," you said, pointing at him in the mirror.

He held up his hands. "I'm a professional."

"Morgan."

"I'm sitting on a stool. I'm being filmed. I'm completely professional."

"You need to actually react to the clothes. Not just—" you gestured vaguely at all of him.

"Not just what?"

"You know what."

He grinned. The one that meant he absolutely knew what and had already decided not to comply. "I'll be good," he said pleasantly.

You looked at him in the mirror for one long moment.

"Camera's rolling in five," you said.

The first outfit was safe. Intentionally. You'd ordered them specifically — safe to less safe to the one at the end that you were already slightly nervous about — and you came out in a cream co-ord set, tailored and clean, the kind of thing that photographed well and read as effortlessly put together.

Morgan looked at you.

"Yeah," he said. Nodded slowly. "That's nice."

"Nice?" you repeated, for the camera.

"Really nice." He tilted his head slightly. "Turn around."

You turned around.

A beat of silence.

"Really nice," he said again, with slightly more emphasis.

"Morgan it's a co-ord set—"

"I'm aware of what it is." He was still looking. "I'm reacting. This is my reaction."

"Your reaction is really nice?"

"My reaction is—" he paused, appeared to collect himself, "—it fits well. The colour's good on you. I like it." He nodded at the camera. "Solid start. Good outfit."

You narrowed your eyes at him. He held eye contact, completely innocent.

"Okay," you said. "Next one."

The second outfit was a going-out dress.

Not over the top — fitted, dark, the kind of thing that worked for dinner or an event, the hem hitting mid-thigh. You walked out and Morgan, who had been scrolling his phone while you changed, looked up.

The phone went face down on his knee immediately.

"Right," he said.

"Right?" you prompted.

"Right." He nodded. Eyes doing a full sweep that he made absolutely no effort to make subtle. "Yeah. That one's — yeah."

"Specific feedback, please, for the video—"

"Where are you wearing that?"

You blinked. "Sorry?"

"That dress." He gestured at you. "Where are you planning on wearing it?"

"I don't know, out—"

"Out where?"

"Morgan—"

"I'm asking a genuine question—"

"You're being weird about a dress—"

"I'm not being weird." He sat up slightly straighter. "I'm being informed. There's a difference." He looked at the camera. "It's a great dress. Genuinely. She looks—" a pause, something shifting in his expression, "—she looks incredible. Obviously." Back to you. "But we're having a conversation about the venue later."

You stared at him.

"Next outfit," he said pleasantly.

The third one was casual — oversized vintage tee, wide leg jeans, chunky trainers. The kind of effortless off-duty look that took considerably more effort than it appeared to.

Morgan visibly relaxed when you walked out.

"Now THAT," he said, pointing, "is an outfit."

"You prefer this to the dress?"

"I didn't say I preferred it. I said it's an outfit." He stood up — off the stool, which you hadn't given him permission to do — and walked over, examining the tee. "Where's this from?"

"Vintage find."

"It's good." He tugged the hem slightly, straightening it, the way he touched things that were yours with the casual ownership of someone who had stopped distinguishing between your stuff and his a long time ago. "Really good actually. This is the one you'd wear to come watch me, yeah?"

"Potentially."

"Wear this one." He nodded, satisfied, and went back to his stool. "That's my vote."

"You don't get a vote—"

"I just voted."

"Morgan—"

"Next outfit," he said, in the exact tone you'd used on him three outfits ago. You pointed at him. He smiled serenely.

The fourth was the one.

You'd almost not bought it. Had held it up in the shop, put it back, picked it up again, stood in the changing room for four minutes deciding, and eventually bought it because your subscribers had specifically requested something that would make your boyfriend malfunction on camera.

You were about to deliver.

You walked out.

Morgan was mid-sip of the water bottle he'd stolen from your desk. He looked up.

He put the water bottle down very slowly.

It was a going-out set — a top that was doing a lot of work and wide satin trousers, the whole thing cohesive and objectively not that revealing but fitted in a way that was very specifically and deliberately designed to cause problems.

Silence.

"Morgan," you said. "This is the part where you react."

Nothing.

"For the video—"

"Give me a second." His voice had come out slightly different. He cleared his throat. "I'm reacting internally."

"Externally, please—"

"You bought that." Not a question.

"Obviously, yes—"

"When?"

"Tuesday—"

"Without me."

"That was the point—"

"You went shopping without me," he said, slowly, "and you bought that, and you didn't tell me—"

"Morgan it's an outfit—"

"It's not just an outfit—"

"It absolutely is—"

He stood up again. Walked over, considerably more purposefully than he had for outfit three. Stopped in front of you. Looked at you up close in the way that had considerably less to do with the clothes than he would claim.

"Turn around," he said.

"Morgan we're filming—"

"Turn around."

You turned around. You heard him exhale behind you, quiet and controlled, which he probably thought you didn't hear. You heard it.

"Right," he said. More to himself than to you or the camera.

He put his hands on your shoulders — both of them, just resting there, the familiar weight of them — and turned you back to face him.

"You're wearing this when we go out," he said. "Just us."

"I thought you wanted to talk about the venue—"

"I've reconsidered. Private venue. Just us." He looked at the camera, completely straight faced. "Great outfit. Ten out of ten. No further questions."

You laughed despite yourself — helpless and genuine, head tipping forward slightly — and his hands moved from your shoulders, one going to your waist, pulling you in.

"Morgan—" you started, laughing, "—we're still filming—"

"I know." He wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking at you with the expression he had when he thought nobody was watching, which was ironic given the camera pointed directly at both of you. "You did this on purpose."

"The whole point was genuine reactions—"

"You got genuine reactions."

"The whole point was also for you to stay on the stool—"

"The stool was uncomfortable." His hand at your waist wasn't moving. "How many more?"

"That was the last one."

Something shifted in his expression. "Good," he said.

The camera kept rolling.

Neither of you moved for a moment — you in the fourth outfit, him with his hand at your waist and his eyes on yours — and then you laughed again and pushed him gently toward the stool and started talking to the camera about where everything was from, and he sat back down and watched you with the particular expression he used when he thought he was being subtle about it.

He was never subtle about it. You'd stopped telling him that.

@y/nvlogs : made him react to my new outfits for the channel 🎀 he was SO normal about it as you can see

click to view all comments

@angryginge13: i behaved ↪ @yourusernamex: you got off the stool TWICE ↪ @angryginge13: the stool was uncomfortable ↪ @yourusernamex: 🙂

@jakeydavies: "reacting internally" bro was cooked 😭 ❤️ by angryginge13 @nellarose: THE WATER BOTTLE GOING DOWN SLOWLY I CANNOT @iluvsharky: outfit four really said let me end this man's whole career @plainjade: "private venue just us" morgan really rescheduled their entire evening mid-youtube video 😭🔥 @dragqueen: he stood up twice, put the water bottle down in slow motion, and then said ten out of ten no further questions. he's so down bad. @sharkywifeyera: the hand on her waist while they're still filming and he just. doesn't move it. doesn't even acknowledge it. 🔥 @rawrxdeex: "you did this on purpose" YES SHE DID AND IT WORKED PERFECTLY @gingesgirlera: the way he asked WHERE she was wearing the dress like he was going to personally vet the location 😭 @internetcrying: he watched her talk to camera at the end with that face and i have never felt more single @justhere4this: thumbnail is him with the water bottle. she knew exactly what she was doing posting that thumbnail. she's so funny. @needsginge: "reacting internally" i'm going to think about that forever @chunkzreacts: Jakey commenting immediately because he KNOWS morgan was absolutely not normal about this 😭

[ivy-senna]

eyes on me — Morgan (angry ginge) x reader

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

summary morgan's never been the jealous type. except when he is. except when it's you.

prompt – hot tub, protective morgan, insecurities, established relationship warnings – mild jealousy, insecurities, making out, morgan being a menace 😭 word count – ~3k note – this request was sent in by gravityfalle and i had way too much fun writing it 😭🎀 protective ginge lives in my head rent free now

requests are open :)

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

It started subtly. Which, for Morgan, was already unusual.

The evening had been easy up until that point — a big group, people you knew, people he knew, the kind of relaxed overlap that happened naturally when you'd been together long enough that your social circles had quietly stitched themselves together. Someone had suggested the hot tub. Someone else had agreed. And then somehow there were ten of you out on the decking in the warm evening air, drinks in hand, Heinz already complaining the water was too hot, Chazza positioned suspiciously close to the camera he'd set up on the decking table, Tays and Jakey mid-argument about something nobody else was following.

You'd come out in your bikini without thinking twice about it. It was a hot tub. That was the point.

Morgan had clocked it immediately.

He hadn't said anything. That was the first sign — Morgan always said something. Instead he'd gone slightly quiet in a way that wasn't quite his normal quiet, taken a long sip of his drink, and settled into the water beside you close enough that his arm was pressed against yours from shoulder to elbow.

You hadn't thought much of it. He was tactile like that, always had been, always needed to be near you in whatever room he was in.

Then Jake had sat down across from you.

Jake was a friend — genuinely, completely, someone you'd known for years before Morgan was even in the picture. He was funny and easy to be around and entirely harmless, and you'd immediately launched into the kind of conversation that picked up exactly where it always left off.

Under the water, Morgan's hand found your knee.

Still subtle. Still deniable. His thumb traced a slow circle against your skin and when you glanced at him he was looking at Jake with an expression that was perfectly pleasant and somehow not quite right.

You said nothing. Pressed your knee slightly into his hand. Kept talking to Jake.

Twenty minutes later the subtle had started slipping.

His arm moved from pressed against yours to around your shoulders — fully, properly, the kind of arm that had a point to make. His thumb stopped its idle circles and his hand rested heavy and still on your knee. Not uncomfortable. Just very much there.

When Jake laughed at something and leaned forward slightly, Morgan's grip on your shoulder tightened by exactly one degree.

"You cold?" Morgan said, close to your ear.

You turned to look at him. "It's a hot tub."

"Just checking."

"Morgan."

"What?" The picture of innocence. Completely unconvincing.

Across the tub, Chazza had abandoned all pretence of not watching and was staring with open delight. Heinz caught on a second later, nudging Tays, who nudged Jakey, and suddenly the entire bov boys contingent was very interested in absolutely nothing while watching everything.

You felt Morgan's eyes flick to them. Then back to Jake. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the side of your head — unhurried, deliberate, the kind that was for the room as much as for you.

Jake blinked. Chazza made a sound into his drink.

"Babe," Morgan said pleasantly, still looking at Jake, "you want another drink?"

You held up your full glass. He nodded like this was reasonable information.

"Right." A pause. "Cool."

The moment it stopped being subtle entirely was when Jake reached over and touched your arm — brief, completely friendly, two seconds at most — and Morgan said, "Jake mate, how do you two know each other again?"

The hot tub went quiet.

Jake stared at him. "We've been friends since uni. We've met like four times, Morgan."

"Right, yeah." Morgan nodded slowly. "Uni. Right."

Chazza physically had to look away. Heinz pressed his lips together so hard they went white. Tays and Jakey exchanged a look that communicated an entire conversation in under a second.

You turned to look at your boyfriend fully.

He met your gaze with an expression of complete innocence that would have been more convincing if his arm wasn't locked around your shoulders like a physical claim, if his jaw wasn't doing that thing, if his eyes hadn't gone back to Jake the second you looked away.

"Morgan," you said.

"Yeah?"

"What are you doing?"

"Having a lovely evening." He smiled. Wide. Unbothered. Completely transparent. "In the hot tub. With my girlfriend." A beat, almost too casual. "And her uni friend Jake."

Jake looked between the two of you. Then he smiled, very quietly, into his drink and turned to talk to Heinz. He was a good person. You'd always liked that about him.

Morgan watched him go. Something in his shoulders loosened, fractionally, like a pressure releasing.

You said nothing. Filed it away. Waited.

You got him in the kitchen twenty minutes later.

The rest of the group was still outside, loud and oblivious, Chazza almost certainly filming something that would end up in a video. The kitchen was quiet, just the two of you, and Morgan was getting a glass of water with the focused energy of someone pretending they weren't waiting to be told off.

"Okay," you said, closing the door behind you.

"What?" Eyes on the tap.

"You want to tell me what that was."

"What what was."

"Morgan." You said his name the way you did when you weren't angry but needed him to know you meant it. He knew the difference. He'd always known the difference.

He turned around. Leaned against the counter. Looked at you sideways in that way he did when he knew front-on was too exposing — jaw slightly tight, glass in hand, the tips of his ears already going pink.

"I wasn't doing anything," he said.

"You asked Jake how we knew each other. Four times you've met him."

"I forget things."

"You remembered the exact minute Chazza was late to filming last Tuesday."

He said nothing.

"You were jealous," you said.

"I wasn't—" He stopped. Set the glass down. Something shifted in his expression, the defensiveness dropping slightly, something quieter taking its place. "I don't know. Maybe."

You waited. You knew him well enough to know when there was more coming and when pushing would just close him off. So you stayed quiet and let the kitchen hold it.

He exhaled. Looked at his hands.

"You looked—" He paused. Tried again. "You looked really good tonight. And he was there and you were laughing and he was—" A short, humourless breath. "He's known you longer than I have, hasn't he. Like properly. From before all this."

"Jake?"

"Not just Jake." He looked up then, and the expression on his face was something you didn't see often — not quite insecurity, not quite vulnerability, something in between that he didn't hand out easily. "All of them. People who knew you when you were just you. Before the cameras and the group and—" he gestured vaguely at himself, all of it, "—whatever I come with."

Oh.

"Morgan—"

"I know it's stupid," he said quickly. "I know that. You're here, aren't you. You've been here." He shook his head slightly. "It's just — sometimes I think about what you could have, yeah? Someone normal. Someone who doesn't have Chazza filming everything and the boys in your kitchen and—"

"Hey." You crossed the kitchen. Stopped in front of him. Looked up at him in the way you knew made it hard for him to stay inside his own head. "Look at me."

He did. Reluctantly, then fully.

"I don't want normal," you said. "I've had normal. Normal is boring." You reached up, hand resting against his jaw, feeling the tension still sitting there. "I want Chazza filming everything and the boys in my kitchen and you being completely transparent in a hot tub because some boy touched my arm for two seconds."

The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile yet.

"That was embarrassing," he admitted quietly.

"It was a little bit."

"Chazza's definitely going to use it."

"One hundred percent." You brushed your thumb along his jaw. "But Morgan — it's just you. It's only ever been you. You know that."

He looked at you for a long moment. Something in his face doing that thing it did when he was letting something go — jaw unclenching, shoulders dropping, the exhale that meant the last of it was leaving.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know."

He pulled you in then, arms wrapping all the way around you, face pressing into your hair. You went easily, hands finding the back of his t-shirt, feeling the warmth of him.

"I wasn't giving him a death stare," he said into your hair.

"Morgan. Chazza has it on camera."

He groaned. You felt it rumble through his chest. Then he laughed — properly, finally, the real one — low and warm against your hair.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. The pink at his ears hadn't fully faded. His eyes were soft in the way they only got when it was just you, when the performance was completely off and there was nothing left but him.

"Come on," you said, taking his hand. "We're going back outside."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You smiled at him, and something in it must have told him enough because he followed without another word, fingers lacing through yours as you pushed open the kitchen door.

The group barely clocked you coming back out. Heinz was mid-story, Tays and Jakey had moved on to a new argument, and Jake had fully settled into a conversation with someone else, completely unbothered.

Chazza clocked you immediately. Of course he did.

You ignored him.

You stopped at the edge of the decking, the warm night air settling around you, the noise of the group carrying on around you. Morgan came to stand beside you, close, his hand still in yours.

You turned to face him.

He looked down at you, questioning, something curious in his eyes.

You reached out and took both of his hands. Placed them deliberately, firmly, on your waist. His fingers spread automatically, the way they always did, like they knew exactly where to go.

"What are you—" he started.

You kissed him.

Not a quick kiss. Not a polite one. The kind that made a point — slow and certain, your hands coming up to his jaw, feeling him go still for exactly half a second before he kissed you back with the full force of everything he'd been sitting on all evening.

His hands pulled you closer, fingers pressing into your waist, and you felt the exact moment he stopped thinking about anything else — the moment it was just this, just you, just him finally letting it out. One hand slid down without hesitation, finding the curve of your ass and gripping it like he'd forgotten there were people watching.

Which he had. Completely.

The group noticed.

Chazza made a noise that was somewhere between a cheer and a wheeze. Heinz stopped mid-sentence. Tays said something that got drowned out by Jakey's reaction. Even Jake, across the decking, looked over, laughed quietly to himself, and shook his head with the expression of a man who understood exactly what was happening.

You pulled back slowly. Morgan's eyes opened, slightly dazed, his hands still exactly where they were.

You raised an eyebrow at him.

It took him a second.

Then the grin broke across his face — wide and unguarded and completely, entirely his — and he laughed, low and delighted, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

"Making a point, were we?" he murmured.

"Don't know what you mean," you said sweetly.

Behind you, Chazza's voice carried across the decking. "That is DEFINITELY going in the video."

Morgan pointed in his direction without looking. "Touch that footage and you're fired."

"You don't pay me!"

"I'll start just so I can fire you!"

You were already laughing, face pressed into his shoulder, his arms fully around you now, both of you slightly ridiculous and entirely unbothered by it.

His lips found your temple. Stayed there.

"Just me?" he said quietly, soft enough that it was only for you.

You tilted your head up to look at him. His eyes were warm and steady and still slightly pink at the edges.

"Just you," you said. "Always just you."

He nodded once. Slowly. Like he was finally, fully letting himself believe it.

Then Heinz shouted something across the decking, Tays reacted immediately, and the chaos of the evening swallowed you both back up again — but Morgan kept his arm around you the whole time, solid and certain and not going anywhere.

He didn't look at Jake once for the rest of the night.

[ivy-senna]

wembley's finest — Morgan (angry ginge) x reader

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

summary  one goal. one sweater. and suddenly the whole world knows.

prompt – charity match hard launch, jersey reveal, soft launch turns very public very fast warnings – none, just chaos and a very proud boyfriend word count – ~3k note – this idea was too good cute to write 😭🎀 I've been to obsessed with soccer match Ginge 🫶

requests are open :)

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

Nobody was supposed to know.

That was the deal. Had been the deal for seven months — no hints, no soft launches, no accidentally overlapping locations. You were careful. Morgan was careful. Your management was very, very careful. The kind of careful that involved two separate cars to the same restaurant and a system of pre-agreed stories for if anyone asked.

It had worked, mostly. There had been close calls — a blurry figure in the background of one of Chaz's stories, a comment Morgan had liked and then immediately unliked at two in the morning, a photo someone swore they'd seen on a private account that never got confirmed. The internet had theories. The internet always had theories.

But nothing concrete. Nothing real.

Until today.

It had been Morgan's idea, which you should have known. He'd brought it up three weeks ago, casual as anything, lying on your sofa with his feet in your lap while you were trying to read.

"Come to the charity match," he'd said.

"I go to all your matches."

"No, I mean — come. Properly. Sit with my mum."

You'd looked up from your book. He was already watching you, that particular expression on his face that meant he'd already decided and was just waiting for you to catch up.

"Morgan."

"I'm tired of the two cars thing."

You'd looked at him for a long moment. He didn't look away.

"If I come," you'd said slowly, "and you score—"

"I'll score."

"You're a defender."

"Details." He'd grinned. "If I score, you pull the sweater off. Deal?"

You'd stared at him. He'd looked insufferably confident.

"You're unbelievable," you'd said.

"Is that a yes?"

It was a yes.

The problem with being a world-famous pop star was that being inconspicuous was somewhat difficult.

You'd managed it, barely. Oversized sweater — deliberately, carefully chosen — pulled over the top of what was underneath. Hair tucked up. Sunglasses until you were seated. You'd slipped in through a side entrance with Michelle and Julie flanking you like the world's most cheerful security detail, and by the time anyone clocked who was sitting in the family section the match had already started and moving you anywhere else would have caused more of a scene than staying put.

Michelle had held your hand the moment you sat down, which you hadn't expected and which had done something completely unreasonable to your chest.

"He's going to lose his mind when he sees you're here," she'd said.

"He knows I'm here."

"He knows." She'd patted your hand. "Doesn't mean he won't lose his mind."

Julie, on your other side, had looked up with a small smile that suggested she had seen this kind of thing before and found it entirely delightful. She squeezed your arm once, warm and quiet, and said nothing else. She didn't need to.

The match had been loud from the first whistle. Eighty thousand people generating a noise that wasn't just sound but physical — something you felt in your chest, in the soles of your feet, in the back of your teeth. You'd been to stadiums before, obviously. You'd played stadiums before. But there was something about being in the crowd rather than on the stage that felt entirely different, something about being surrounded by it rather than at the centre of it.

You'd watched Morgan from the moment play started and hadn't really stopped.

He was different on the pitch. You'd seen matches before but always from a distance, always on a screen. Up close he was — more. Louder, faster, the kind of present that filled whatever space he was in. He moved like he knew exactly where everything was before it got there, calling instructions with the easy authority of someone who couldn't switch it off even when he wasn't officially in charge.

Every time play paused near your side of the pitch his eyes went to the stands. Found you. Every time.

Michelle noticed. Of course she noticed. She said nothing, just smiled into her scarf.

It happened in the second half.

The ball broke loose in midfield — messy challenge, no one's cleanly — and Morgan saw the space before anyone else did. You watched him accelerate, that ginger hair unmistakeable, pushing the ball ahead as a defender closed in.

The crowd noise climbed.

You were already half standing without realising it.

He set himself. One touch. Then he struck it — clean and hard — and the ball lifted and curved and hit the back of the net and Wembley absolutely detonated.

The sound was staggering. Eighty thousand people at once, a wave of noise that rolled through the stadium like something physical. Michelle grabbed your arm. Julie was on her feet. You were already there, hands over your mouth, laughing because what else could you do, he'd actually done it, the ridiculous man had actually—

Morgan wheeled away from the net.

Arms wide. Grin taking over his entire face. Teammates swarming him immediately, chaos erupting, Chaz already losing his mind somewhere behind him.

But he was moving toward the sideline.

Toward you.

The crowd surged with him, sensing something, not knowing what yet. Cameras tracked him. The big screens caught him. He reached the barrier and his eyes found yours immediately — like he'd known exactly where to look, like he'd always known — and the grin shifted into something else, something softer underneath the adrenaline.

He pointed at you. Just you.

"Told you," he mouthed.

You laughed, shaking your head, and he reached across the barrier and took your face in both hands and kissed you — warm and certain and completely, entirely public — and the section of the crowd close enough to see it reacted immediately, a fresh ripple of noise that spread outward as phones went up and people turned to each other and the cameras that had been tracking him suddenly had something much more interesting to focus on.

He pulled back, forehead dropping to rest against yours for just a second. His hands were still on your face. His thumbs doing that thing, the slow back-and-forth he did without thinking.

"Go on then," he murmured, eyes bright.

You held his gaze for one more second.

Then you reached down and pulled the sweater over your head.

The roar, somehow, got louder.

His name. His number. Printed across your back in the red of his jersey, the fabric slightly too big on you, the sleeves falling past your wrists in a way that was entirely accidental and entirely devastating.

You turned slightly so the cameras could see it — you hadn't planned that part, it just happened — and the section around you erupted completely. Michelle made a sound that was somewhere between a cheer and a sob. Julie pressed a hand to her chest. In the chaos of the celebration Chaz had somehow clocked what was happening from the pitch and started pointing aggressively in your direction while shouting something that got swallowed by the noise.

Morgan was still looking at you. Still holding onto the barrier. The teammates pulling at him barely registered.

"Seven months," he said, over the noise. "Worth it?"

You looked down at his name on your sleeve. Looked back up at him.

"Ask me after the interview," you said.

He grinned so wide it looked like it hurt.

They dragged him back to the pitch eventually. You sat back down, sweater in your lap, jersey on, eighty thousand people now very aware of something that seven months of careful planning had managed to keep quiet.

Michelle leaned over. "I've been waiting to see that jersey on you for three months," she said, completely calm.

"Three months?"

"He bought it the day they announced the squad. Just in case." She smiled. "He's very subtle."

You looked out at the pitch, at the ridiculous ginger man currently being mobbed by his teammates, and laughed until your eyes watered.

The interview happened pitch-side after the final whistle.

A presenter — bright, professional, already slightly giddy from everything that had happened — found Morgan while he was still catching his breath. You were nearby, close enough to hear, Michelle's hand still loosely holding yours.

"Morgan! What a match — and what a moment. Can we talk about the goal?"

"Yeah, course." He was flushed, hair damp, that post-match energy radiating off him like heat. "Defender scores at Wembley, not bad is it."

"Not bad at all. But I think our viewers might be more interested in what happened after the goal—" she smiled, and he grinned, already knowing. "—because there's a very famous face in the family section today."

"Is there?"

"You know there is."

He looked across to where you were standing. You raised your eyebrows. He pressed his lips together, very clearly trying not to look too pleased with himself and failing completely.

"Yeah," he said, turning back. "She's here."

"How long has this been going on?"

"A while."

"A while," the presenter repeated. "Can you be more specific?"

"No." He said it pleasantly, completely unbothered. "But I can tell you she's wearing my jersey, which I think says enough."

"Was that planned?"

He paused. Tilted his head slightly. "The jersey was planned. The goal — I mean, I always planned to score, I'm very good—"

Someone off camera made a noise. Chaz, almost certainly.

"—but the timing was lucky." He glanced over at you again, just briefly. "She's been coming to my matches for months. Just not—"

"Publicly."

"Yeah." He nodded, something quieter underneath the confidence now. "We're both quite — we like having things that are just ours, y'know? Didn't want to share it before we were ready."

"And now you're ready?"

He looked at you properly this time, not a glance, a proper look. The easy grin softened into something that made the presenter go slightly quiet and the camera operator hold very still.

"She's wearing my name on her back at Wembley," he said. "Yeah. We're ready."

The presenter turned to you, slightly helplessly, as if she couldn't quite believe her luck. "Do you want to add anything?"

You stepped forward slightly. "He said he'd score," you said. "So I had to hold up my end of the deal."

"There was a deal?"

"There's always a deal with him."

Morgan laughed, loud and genuine, and reached out and took your hand without looking, fingers lacing through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you hadn't just done it in front of cameras and eighty thousand people and the entire internet.

Like it was just him and you.

It kind of was.

[ivy-senna]

say something — morgan (angryginge) x reader

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

summary she'd been fine. she kept saying she was fine. she wasn't fine.

prompt – overwhelmed reader, bottles it up, lashes out on stream, morgan ends it immediately warnings – emotional breakdown, argument, angst with a lot of fluff word count – ~3.5k note – this request got me in my chest immediately 😭🎀 morgan doing everything right is everything — also i'm back from my week away and fully back on it, posting every day again from now!! thank you for being patient with me 🫶💌

requests are open :)

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

She'd been fine.

That was what she kept telling herself. And for a while it had even been true — or close enough to true that the difference hadn't mattered. Morgan's schedule was what it was. The trips, the streams, the content weeks that turned into content months, the particular momentum of a career that didn't really have an off switch. She'd known this going in. She'd chosen it with her eyes open.

She was fine about it.

Except that three weeks ago he'd come back from a trip and been home for four days before leaving again. And last week he'd had back to back streams that ran until two in the morning and she'd fallen asleep alone three nights in a row. And this week he'd come home buzzing about Japan — which was brilliant, genuinely, she was proud of him — but had barely stopped moving since he'd landed and she'd found herself eating dinner alone on Wednesday and Thursday and not saying anything about it because what was there to say.

I miss you didn't cover it. I'm struggling felt too big. Can you slow down felt unfair.

So she'd said none of it.

She'd been fine.

Friday was a stream day.

She'd known that. She'd planned around it — made her own plans for the evening, had a book she'd been meaning to read, told herself she was absolutely fine about spending another night in the background of Morgan's schedule.

She'd made it to about nine o'clock before the book stopped making sense and the flat felt too quiet and the background noise of the stream from the other room started feeling like the wrong kind of company.

She got up. Got a glass of water. Stood in the kitchen for a moment.

Told herself she was fine.

Wandered toward the stream room.

Morgan heard the door and looked over his shoulder immediately, the way he always did when she appeared — face opening up, the automatic warmth of it.

"Oi, she's here," he said to the camera, grinning. "Come on, say hello—"

"Morgan I'm just getting—"

"Chat's been asking about you all night, get in here—"

She stepped into frame because what else was she going to do. Stood beside the setup, glass of water in hand, smiled at the camera.

Chat: HI in approximately four hundred simultaneous comments.

"She's been hiding," Morgan told chat, cheerful, completely unbothered. "I've barely seen her all week—"

"You've barely been here all week," she said.

She said it lightly. Or she meant to say it lightly. But it came out with an edge she hadn't entirely meant and the room went just slightly quieter and Morgan looked at her with the first flicker of something — not quite understanding yet, just noticing.

"She's not wrong," he said to chat, still easy, trying to smooth it. "I've been mad busy—"

"Yeah," she said. "You have."

Chat had gone from HI to something else. She could see it in her peripheral — question marks, a few is she okay comments, someone typing uh oh.

She should stop. She knew she should stop. She could feel it — the thing she'd been sitting on for weeks — pressing against the edges of something that wasn't going to hold much longer.

"You alright?" Morgan said, quieter now. Still on camera. Still live. His eyes on her properly for the first time tonight.

"Fine," she said.

"You don't seem—"

"I said I'm fine, Morgan."

The silence that followed was the kind that chat felt too. The stream went very still. Morgan was looking at her with an expression that had moved past noticing into understanding something — not all of it, not yet, but enough.

"Can we maybe talk after—"

"After the stream," she said. And something in the way she said it — the exhaustion in it, the weeks of after the stream and after this trip and after this week settles down — came through in a way she hadn't been able to keep out. "Yeah. After the stream. Like always."

Morgan looked at her.

She looked at him.

And then it cracked. Right there, on camera, with chat watching and four hundred people in the comments and the green live light blinking — she felt her face do the thing it did when she'd been holding something for too long and had run completely out of road.

She pressed her lips together. Looked at the ceiling. The glass of water in her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, voice unsteady. "I'm — sorry, ignore me, carry on—"

She walked out.

Morgan watched her go.

He turned back to the camera. Chat was moving fast — end the stream and go check on herand she's been struggling and Ginge she needs you — and he looked at all of it for approximately three seconds.

"Right," he said. "I'm ending it there lads."

He didn't wait for responses. Didn't do a proper sign off. Just ended it — straight cut, live over — and pushed back from the desk and went after her.

She was on the sofa.

Not crying, not yet — that particular awful stage of trying not to, knees pulled up, glass of water still in her hand because she hadn't put it down. She heard him come in and didn't look up.

He sat down beside her. Not too close — he read the room, he always read the room — just present. Close enough.

"Hey," he said. Quiet.

"I'm sorry about the stream—"

"Don't," he said. Simply. "Don't apologise about the stream."

She looked at her water glass.

"How long," he said.

"How long what."

"How long have you been feeling like this."

She said nothing for a moment. The question landed somewhere soft and she felt it.

"A while," she said finally.

He exhaled. Not frustrated — just absorbing it. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Because—" she stopped. Tried again. "Because you're busy. Because it's your career and it's going well and I didn't want to be the thing that—" her voice cracked on it, "—the thing that makes it harder. I didn't want to be a problem."

"You're not a problem—"

"I know that, rationally—"

"You're not a problem," he said again, firmer. Moving closer now, the careful distance gone. "You are never a problem. You are the thing I come home to. You're—" he stopped, ran a hand over his face, the particular frustration of a man who had just understood something too late. "I've not been here. I know I've not been here. I got caught up in the schedule and I just—" he shook his head, "—I assumed you were fine because you kept saying you were fine."

"I was trying to be fine."

"I know." He reached over and took the water glass from her hand, set it on the table, and then just — took her hand. Both of his around hers. "I should have looked properly instead of just taking your word for it."

She looked at their hands.

"I missed you," she said quietly. "Even when you were here. You were so in your head about Japan and the content and the schedule and I just—" she stopped, "—I felt like I was somewhere in the background of it all and I didn't know how to say that without sounding—"

"Without sounding what?"

"Needy. Difficult. Like I couldn't handle it."

Morgan looked at her with an expression that did something to the last of her composure.

"You're allowed to need things," he said. Quiet and certain. "You're allowed to tell me when I'm getting it wrong." He squeezed her hand. "That's not difficult. That's just — us. That's how this works."

She finally looked at him properly. The tears she'd been holding back arrived then — not dramatic, just the quiet kind that came when something had been held too long and was finally being set down.

He pulled her in without asking. Arm around her, proper, her face against his shoulder, and she went because she was tired of holding herself separate from him even when he was right there.

He didn't say anything for a moment. Just held on. His hand rubbing slow circles on her back, the familiar weight of him.

"I'm sorry," he said into her hair. "For not seeing it."

"I wasn't exactly showing you—"

"Still." He pressed his lips to the top of her head. "I should have looked."

They stayed like that for a while. The flat quiet around them, the stream room dark down the hall, the evening carrying on outside like nothing had happened.

Eventually she pulled back enough to look at him.

"I ruined your stream," she said.

"You didn't ruin anything."

"Chat saw—"

"Chat can mind their business." He wiped her face with his thumb, careful. "And anyone who didn't understand can work it out." He looked at her. "You matter more than a stream. Obviously. That's not even a conversation."

She looked at him for a long moment.

"I'm hungry," she said finally. The most ordinary thing. The tension breaking on something completely mundane.

He almost smiled. "Yeah?"

"I haven't eaten properly since—" she paused, calculating, "—Wednesday, maybe."

Something shifted in his expression. "Wednesday."

"I kept meaning to and then—"

He was already standing up.

"Right," he said. "What do you want."

"Morgan you don't have to—"

"What do you want," he said again. Patient. Completely certain.

She told him. The specific thing — the place she loved, the order she always got, the one she'd been thinking about vaguely for days in the background of everything else.

He had his phone out before she'd finished the sentence.

She watched him order it — standing in the middle of the living room, completely focused, making sure he got it right — and felt something settle in her chest that had been unsettled for weeks.

"Forty minutes," he said, sitting back down beside her. Closer this time. Her shoulder against his. "We've got time."

"For what?"

"To talk. Properly." He looked at her. "About the schedule. About what you need. About what I've been getting wrong." He held her gaze. "All of it."

She looked at him. This man who had ended a stream mid-broadcast and ordered her dinner and sat back down ready to actually listen — who was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room worth paying attention to, which was all she'd wanted for weeks and hadn't known how to ask for.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay," he said.

They talked until the food arrived. And then they ate on the sofa with the TV on low and her legs across his lap and his hand on her ankle and none of the distance that had been building for weeks, just them, in the ordinary quiet of their flat.

Later, when the food was gone and the flat had gone properly dark, she was tucked into his side with his arm around her and his chin on her head.

"I'm going to be better at this," he said. Not a promise made in the heat of something — just steady. Just him. "The schedule. Making sure you're actually alright and not just taking your word for it."

"I'll try to actually say it," she said. "Instead of bottling it."

"Yeah," he said. "That would help."

She laughed, small and tired. He squeezed her shoulder.

"You can always tell me," he said. "Even if you think it's going to be inconvenient. Especially then." He pressed another kiss to the top of her head. "You're never in the background, yeah? I need you to know that."

She closed her eyes.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I know."

She did. She'd always known it, underneath everything. She'd just needed to hear it.

Outside, the city carried on. Inside the flat it was just them — the food wrappers on the table, the low TV, his arm around her — and for the first time in weeks everything felt exactly the right size.

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

[ivy-senna]

eyes on her — morgan (angryginge) x reader

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

summary morgan was fine. he was completely fine. he was just standing here watching some guy talk to his girlfriend for the fourth time tonight and he was absolutely fine.

prompt – charity event, jealous morgan, established relationship warnings – none, just morgan being feral and not even slightly sorry word count – ~2.5k note – jealous ginge requested by anon and I (hope) I delivered

requests are open :)

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

The charity event was Chaz's idea.

Which meant it was loud, well attended, and full of people Morgan only half recognised — YouTubers, creators, a handful of athletes, the kind of mixed crowd that showed up when the cause was good and the press was better. He didn't mind these things usually. He was good at them, actually — the conversation, the energy, the room working. He'd been doing it long enough that it came naturally.

Tonight, however, he was finding it difficult to focus on anything except the man across the room who had now found his way back to you for the fourth time in two hours.

Morgan was fine about it.

He was completely fine.

He was standing with Chaz and watching you laugh at something the man said — tall, dark haired, the kind of easy confidence that Morgan recognised and didn't particularly appreciate — and he was being entirely normal about it.

"You're not fine," Chaz said, beside him.

"I'm fine."

"You've been staring at that corner of the room for eleven minutes."

"I'm keeping an eye on things."

"On her specifically."

"On the general area."

Chaz looked at him. Morgan looked at the general area.

"Who is he?" Chaz asked.

"Don't know."

"Have you asked her?"

"No."

"So you've just been standing here for eleven minutes—"

"Chaz."

"Yeah?"

"Stop talking."

Chaz stopped talking. He did, however, continue to look extremely amused, which Morgan chose to ignore.

The first time the man had approached you, Morgan had clocked it and let it go. You were at a public event, you were friendly, people talked to you — that was just how it was and he'd made his peace with that a long time ago. He trusted you. That wasn't the issue.

The second time, he'd shifted his position slightly. Just to keep a better line of sight. Practical.

The third time, the man had touched your arm when he laughed at something you said, and Morgan had set his drink down with slightly more force than necessary.

Now it was the fourth time and the man was standing closer than he had any of the previous three times and Morgan was done being reasonable about it.

"I'll be back," he said to Chaz.

"Oh, here we go—"

He was already moving.

He didn't rush. That wasn't his style — Morgan didn't rush, didn't make scenes, didn't do anything that would end up clipped and captioned and circulated online by morning. He crossed the room at a completely normal pace with a completely normal expression and arrived at your side and put his hand on your waist.

That was it. Just his hand on your waist.

You glanced at him, something flickering in your expression — recognition, amusement, the particular look that meant you'd already clocked what was happening and had opinions about it.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He looked at you first. Then, as an apparent afterthought, at the man across from you. "Sorry to interrupt."

He didn't sound sorry.

The man — who introduced himself as Jake, which Morgan immediately filed away as irrelevant — seemed to understand the shift in atmosphere even if he couldn't have articulated exactly what had caused it. He was looking at Morgan's hand on your waist with the expression of someone recalibrating.

"This is Morgan," you said. Pleasantly. With a very slight undertone that was entirely for Morgan and meant I see exactly what you're doing.

"Right," Jake said. "The streamer. Yeah, I've seen your stuff — the gaming content, right?"

"Yeah," Morgan said. Still pleasant. Still completely normal. His hand hadn't moved.

"Cool, cool." Jake glanced between you both. The recalibration completing. "I'll let you guys catch up — good to meet you both."

He left.

Morgan watched him go.

You turned to look at your boyfriend with the expression of someone who had approximately four things to say and was deciding which one to lead with.

"You were so normal about that," you said.

"I'm always normal."

"Morgan you materialized out of nowhere and put your hand on my waist like you were planting a flag."

"I came to say hi."

"You came to say hi to Jake?"

"I came to say hi to you."

"In the middle of a conversation."

"I didn't interrupt, he was wrapping up—"

"He was not wrapping up—"

"He seemed like he was wrapping up."

You looked at him. He looked back at you with the expression of a man who had decided on his version of events and was committing to it fully.

"That's the fourth time he came over," Morgan said, and the pleasant neutrality slipped slightly, just enough. "Fourth."

"He's networking—"

"He's not networking with me. Or Chaz. Or anyone else in this room." Morgan tilted his head slightly. "Just you. Every time."

You pressed your lips together. Something in your expression shifting — the exasperation still there but underneath it something warmer, something that was trying not to become a smile and not entirely succeeding.

"You were watching," you said.

"I was keeping an eye on things."

"You were jealous."

"I was—" he stopped. Looked away briefly. Looked back. "I didn't like it," he said, more honestly. "Him coming back over every time. I didn't like it."

The almost-smile broke through properly. You looked at him — this ridiculous, transparent, completely devoted man — and shook your head slowly.

"Morgan," you said. "I love you. And you are being insane."

"Four times—"

"He was being friendly—"

"Very friendly—"

"Morgan." You stepped slightly closer. His hand was still on your waist, which he seemed to have forgotten about or was choosing not to acknowledge. "There is nobody in this room I want to talk to more than you. You know that."

He looked at you. The stubbornness in his jaw softening, fractionally.

"Then why was he—"

"Because people talk to me at events. The same way people talk to you." You raised an eyebrow. "Remember the woman at the last event who found you four separate times?"

A pause.

"That's different," he said.

"How."

"It just is."

You stared at him. He had the decency to look slightly caught out.

"You're unbelievable," you said.

"You love it."

"I love you. I'm still deciding about the jealousy thing."

He looked at you for a moment. Then the corner of his mouth went — the full grin, the real one, breaking through the performance of being reasonable about this. He pulled you in by the waist, close enough that the conversation became its own small pocket within the larger party, and looked down at you with the expression he used when he'd stopped pretending.

"He was standing too close," Morgan said. Simply. Honestly. "Every time."

"I noticed," you said.

"I know you can handle yourself—"

"I can."

"—I just didn't want to stand there and watch it for the fifth time."

You looked at him for a long moment. The event carried on around you — noise, people, cameras drifting — and Morgan stood in the middle of it with his hand on your waist and his eyes on yours and not a single part of him concerned with anything else.

"You're lucky you're cute," you said.

"I know."

"And that I actually like you."

"Also aware."

"Next time," you said, "you can just come stand next to me. You don't have to do the whole—" you gestured at him, all of it, "—territorial materialisation thing."

"The what?"

"You know what."

He was smiling now. Properly. "I'll think about it," he said, which meant he wouldn't, which you both knew.

You shook your head. Let him keep his hand where it was.

Across the room, Chaz caught your eye and gave you the look of a man who had watched the entire thing unfold and found it deeply satisfying. You gave him a look back. He grinned and looked away.

"Come on," you said, taking Morgan's hand and steering him back toward the rest of the room. "Come and actually talk to people instead of monitoring them from a distance."

"I wasn't monitoring—"

"Morgan."

"Fine." He let himself be steered, falling into step beside you, his fingers lacing through yours. "But if he comes back—"

"He won't."

"But if he does—"

"Morgan." You squeezed his hand once. "I'm here with you. I'm always here with you." You glanced up at him. "Okay?"

He looked at you. The last of it settling, the jaw unclenching, the expression going somewhere quieter and more real.

"Okay," he said.

He kept your hand in his for the rest of the night. Not subtly. Not even slightly subtly.

You didn't tell him to let go.

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

[ivy-senna]

that’s my girl — morgan (angry ginge) x popstar!reader

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

summary five days after going public, morgan finds out just how far you’ll go to show him off.

prompt – popstar!reader x ginge, charity match halftime show, surprise performance warnings – none word count – ~2k note – think of reader as Sabrina Carpenter :) I immediately got this idea after the charity match today and SabrinaWood!! hope you all like it <3

requests are open 🎀

⋆｡°✩ 🎀 ♡ 🎀 ✩°｡⋆

Morgan knows something’s going on.

He just doesn’t know what.

Everyone’s moving weird.

Too many looks. Too many laughs. Too many “just wait” comments.

“Why’s everyone acting like this?” he mutters, pulling his shirt down as he looks around.

“Relax,” someone says, already smiling.

“I don’t like that answer.”

“You’ll see at halftime.”

Morgan frowns. “That’s not reassuring, you know.”

—

The match is loud, messy, fast—but he’s not fully in it.

Because every now and then—

his mind goes back to you.

Five days.

Five days since you both posted.

And somehow, he still hasn’t processed it.

People keep coming up to him like—

“bro that’s YOUR girl???”

And he’s just like—

“…yeah.”

(Still sounds mad when he says it.)

—

Halftime.

The whistle blows.

Players start heading off—

then the lights shift.

Not fully dark.

Just enough.

The crowd noise changes.

Confused.

Then louder.

Anticipation building.

Morgan slows, looking around. “Why does this feel like a concert?”

Someone next to him just grins.

“Because it is.”

“What?”

—

The music starts.

And Morgan stops.

Because he knows that intro.

Too well.

“…nah.”

He turns back—

and there you are.

Running onto the pitch.

And the entire stadium ERUPTS.

“YO—” someone grabs him. “THAT’S YOUR GIRL???”

Morgan just stares.

Actually speechless for a second.

“I didn’t know,” he says, half laughing. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!”

But he’s not even focused on them.

Because you’re there.

Actually there.

—

You start with House Tour.

Straight in.

Full energy.

Like you’ve been waiting for this.

The outfit hits first.

Silver, fitted, sparkling under the lights—detailed like the stadium itself.

Then—

the boots.

Red.

Glittering.

And the number.

Morgan’s number.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“…nah, she’s taking the piss.”

But he’s smiling.

Fully.

“YOU SEE THE BOOTS???” someone shouts.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I see them.”

—

You’re moving across the pitch like it’s your stage.

Like this is normal.

Like you didn’t headline Coachella hours ago.

“HOW IS SHE HERE???” someone yells.

Morgan just shrugs slightly, eyes still locked on you.

“That’s her,” he says.

Like that explains everything.

—

Then it hits.

The lyric.

“my house is on pretty girl avenue—”

The crowd SCREAMS.

And Morgan just exhales, shaking his head.

“Yeah… it’s long.”

“What?” someone asks.

“That line,” he says. “Watch.”

—

The beat builds.

You hit the centre.

Dancers fall into place.

And then—

the dance break.

But this time—

it’s different.

Because more people run on.

WAGs.

Girlfriends.

Laughing, hyped, joining you like they’ve been waiting for it.

Morgan blinks. “Wait what???”

“They planned this,” someone says.

“Of course they did.”

You’re in the middle of it.

Leading it.

Smiling, laughing, completely in control.

And it doesn’t even feel like a performance anymore—

it feels like you’re just having fun.

In his world.

With his people.

—

Morgan’s shaking his head, smiling to himself now.

“She’s actually mad, you know.”

“But you love it.”

“…yeah.”

—

The song keeps going, energy high, crowd losing it—

and then it shifts.

Slows.

The lights soften slightly.

And the next part hits.

Your voice changes with it.

More controlled.

More intentional.

-

you end with Goodbye.

The mood flips instantly.

The crowd quiets.

Still loud, but listening now.

Watching.

You’re not running anymore.

Not jumping.

Just moving slower, voice softer.

And Morgan?

He’s not joking now.

Not talking.

Just watching.

Because this part—

this feels different.

—

He's watching you

And for a second—

in a full stadium—

it feels small.

Personal.

At least to him.

—

The final note hits.

Fireworks explode.

The crowd ERUPTS again.

And before anyone can even react—

you’re running.

Straight toward him.

—

Morgan barely has time to process it before you’re there.

Right in front of him.

Breathless.

Smiling.

“Hi.”

He just looks at you.

Then laughs.

“Hi?? What do you mean hi??”

You grin. “Missed me?”

“You were in America this morning.”

“And now I’m here.”

“That’s not normal.”

“I know.”

He shakes his head, still staring at you.

“You’re actually crazy.”

“And you love it.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yeah.”

—

Then he pulls you in.

Fast.

Arm around your waist, bringing you close like he’s been waiting for this since you stepped on the pitch.

The kiss isn’t subtle.

At all.

The crowd LOSES it.

“AYOOOOOO 😭” someone shouts behind him.

Morgan doesn’t care.

Not even a little bit.

—

When he pulls back, he’s still looking at you like he’s trying to process everything at once.

“You wore my number,” he says.

You glance down at your boots, then back at him.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

You tilt your head slightly, teasing. “Thought it looked good on me.”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re claiming me, yeah?”

You smile.

“Maybe.”

His grip tightens slightly on your waist.

“Yeah… I hear that.”

—

There’s a beat.

Then he leans in slightly, voice lower now—

just for you.

“You’re keeping those boots on later, yeah?”

he says with a big smile

Your eyes widen slightly.

“Seriously?”

He smirks.

“They’ve got my number on them.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re so annoying.”

“And you still flew across the world for me.”

“…don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

—

From the side, someone shouts:

“GINGE YOU’VE WON LIFE 😭”

Morgan doesn’t even look.

He just keeps his arm around you, pulling you slightly closer.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you.

“I know.”