love letter ― hotel balcony talks ― anniversary letters ― dance with me ― the necklace ― sunscreen duty ― the height difference ― first confession ― window shopping ― lazy morning ― shy girl ―
⌗ diego lainez
proposal at the stadium ―
⌗ kevin alvarez
beach sunset ― matching jewelry ―
⌗ carlos acevedo
home after training ― sunshine and strawberries ― jealousy looks good on you ― wearing your goodbye ―
⌗ gilberto mora
first crush ― study date ― first flowers ― first 'i love you' ― the lucky bracelet ― handwritten note ― family approval ― jealousy's favorite audience ― first kiss ― sol for hoy ― cheeks full of love ―
⌗ brian gutierrez
friends don't look at each other like that ― young hearts ―
⌗ edson alvarez
noting here . . .
⌗ armando gonzalez
noting here . . .
⌗ joao felix
five minutes (and a little bit of you ) ― just one more game ― forever starts here ―
⌗ neymar jr
noting here . . .
⌗ jude bellingham
noting here . . .
⌗ lamine yamal
noting here . . .
⌗ cristiano ronaldo jr
fala comigo ― first love, first everything ―
all work belong to @ochoaslut do not copy, republish, or translate any of my work
꒰ 🧁 ꒱ edson álvarez. ৻ꪆ after a rough training, u comfort ur tired & loving husband ꒰ঌ ໒꒱ the bakery 🍨
the clock reads 7:26 pm, and you’re curled up in bed in your softest pajamas, watching a romcom you and edson have seen a hundred times. the smell of his favorite food—creamy pasta and wine—lingers lightly through the house.
a little while later, you hear the front door click open. heavy footsteps drag through the floor, followed by a long, tired sigh. you’re already halfway out of bed when his voice calls out, soft and worn: “¿amor?”
“voy!” you answer gently.
you meet him by the doorway, still in his training clothes, jersey damp with sweat, hair messy and shoulders slumped. his face lights up just a little the second he sees you, but you can see his eyes are heavy with exhaustion.
“hola, guapo.” you greet him with a smile, stepping forward to hug him.
edson doesn’t say anything at first. he just wraps his arms tight around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of your bodywash.
“long day?” you murmur.
“mhm,” he rumbles against your skin, voice rough. “el profe se pasó de lanza… no siento las piernas. todo se sintió pesado hoy, mi vida.” he pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. “pero ya estoy aquí contigo… así que ya estoy un poco mejor.”
you smile softly. “hice tu comida favorita. ve a bañarte, okey? mientras caliento la cena.”
edson shakes his head, tugging you back toward him, arms looping around your waist. “en un ratito, ¿sí?… déjame abrazarte un poquito más, por favor.” he says, almost whining.
so you stay there, his chin resting on your shoulder, his hands rubbing slow, soothing circles over your back as he rambles quietly about training. about missing a pass that should’ve been easy, about how much he just wanted to be back here with you. you listen, pressing soft kisses to his jaw and temple, letting him pour it all out until his voice loses its sharp edge.
when he finally pulls away, he leans down to press a slow, sweet kiss to your lips.
“te amo muchísimo,” he whispers. “no sé qué haría sin ti.”
“yo también te amo, mi vida,” you tell him, brushing hair out of his forehead. “ahora si vete a bañar, guapo. tienes que comer.”
he grins, the first real, bright smile you’ve seen all day, and steals one more quick peck before heading towards the bathroom. you head to the kitchen to plate everything, your heart warm and soft. because no matter how hard his days get, you’re always gonna be the place he comes to rest.
note! - i have come to the realization that people don’t really write for edson alvarez. so be the change you wanna see in the world or whatever it is they say! also im in the process of aquiring a passport so i can go to tijuana and go to a xolos game!
it was no secret why edson álvarez was nicknamed “el machín”. edson was extremely confrontational and had no problem getting into fights, especially when it came to defending his teammates.
it was during the last 15 minutes of a game that a player on the opposing team tackled mexico’s youngest player in a manner that was unnecessarily violent. whether it was out of desperation or a desire for vengeance, edson did not care.
the moment he saw their youngest teammate go down he immediately marched over to where the opposing player was.
when he was close enough, edson shoved him to the ground as he yelled at him. the other player did not take this lightly and tackled edson.
they scuffled around for a bit until edson pinned the other player to the ground. they were eventually separated and both were escorted off the field.
edson had to admit it, his face hurt like hell. the other guy landed at least one good punch but edson definitely landed more.
you waited on the sidelines as edson was walked over to you. as he approached, you could see a cut underneath his eye and a bruise beginning to form.
when his eyes landed on you he gave you a crooked smile.
you shook your head at him with exasperation, “¿no te cansas de ser peleonero?” (don’t you ever get tired of fighting?).
“es parte del juego” (it’s part of the game) he shrugs.
you look at him in disbelief as you begin to take out your medical supplies.
you crouch on the ground and look up at him expectantly. he sits on the ground infront of you.
you pressed a clean cloth beneath his eye to stop the bleeding. you tried your hardest not to stare at him while you worked, but it was impossible.
edson had closed his eyes in an attempt to relax as you cleaned his wound. your eyes traced the sharp lines of his face as you worked to stop the bleeding. you were eventually successful.
edson opened his eyes as you began to place the bandage on the cut. his gaze settled on you without the slightest hint of embarrassment. you pretended not to notice but it made your pulse quicken.
you quickly finished applying the bandage and backed away from him.
the two of you sat in silence as you put your supplies away. you eventually gathered the courage to look at him again and he simply smiled knowingly at you.
“¿qué tanto me ves?” (why are you staring at me?) you questioned.
“que hermosa eres” (you’re beautiful) he responded calmly.
you stared at him in shock as you feel your face heating up once again.
you were at a loss for words when edson stood up.
“bueno, creo que ya me necesitan. adíos preciosa” (well i better go. i think they need me, goodbye sweetheart) he teases.
you watched as he begins to walk away.
“¡edson!” you yell out.
he turns around and looks at you expectantly.
“no se te vaya ocurrir pelearte otra vez” (you better not get into another fight) you scold, half joking.
his crooked grin returns to his face, “no te prometo nada, hermosa” (i can’t promise you anything, beautiful).
you laugh as you shake your head at him.
he smiles at you once more before walking over to his teammates.
despite what you had just told him, you couldn’t help but hope that he would get into another fight so you could speak to him once more.
Heyyy!! Oooooo you had me hooked with the LigaMX prompt girlll😝 i’m thinking fine ahh papa Edson Álvarez and we’re enemies to lovers. (Personally I like when it’s take a little bit to get past the enemies point but that’s js me.) Maybe reader boos him specifically at games js for the fun of it? Idk you’re the mastermind here🤑
#arribaelamérica
-ˏˋNi se te ocurraˊˎ-
𖤓˚࿔ paring: Edson Alvarez x reader
𖤓˚࿔ summary: Two rivals hiding an obsession behind insults finally break.
𖤓˚࿔ tags: enemies to lovers,angst,fake hatred
The tension between you and Edson doesn't just exist it occupies physical space. It’s a third person at the table, a suffocating weight that has been building since the very first day he was introduced to your friend group.
From the beginning, you saw exactly what he was the classic footballer. He had that untouchable posture, the casual confidence of someone who knows the stadium screams his name, and a sharp tongue that matched your own entirely too well.
Every single group outing for the past six months had been an exercise in mutual provocation. You didn't just dislike him you made a sport out of it, and he never ever let you win without a fight. Even when you were out at a simple casual hangout, the air would sour the second you both walked into the room. If he breathed too loudly, you had a comment if you offered an opinion on anything from music to movies, he was right there to tear it down with a infuriating smirk. Your friends had gone from mildly amused to completely exhausted by the constant crossfire.
That tension always boiled over at the Estadio Azteca. Even though you were a die hard América fan, sitting in the stands surrounded by your friends, you made it a personal mission to ensure everyone knew you were not an Edson fan.
Every time he touched the ball, you didn’t cheer you let out a dramatic sigh, or just yelled to see if you could pierce that focused armor.
Tonight, under the blinding stadium lights and the downpour, the match is a high stakes derby where the air practically cracks with pressure. In the 73rd minute, a brutal collision sends an opposing player sprawling right in front of your lower row seats.
The referee blows the whistle, calling a foul against Edson. Your friends scream in protest, but you lean over the concrete barrier, your knuckles white as you grip the cold metal rail, yelling directly at him, "Oye Álvarez ya ponte a llorar a ver si a la otra sí le pegas al balón y no a las piernas!"
Edson freezes. He doesn’t look at the referee, nor does he look at his protesting teammates. Instead, his head snaps directly toward your row. He knows that voice. The rain falls down his face, clinging to his eyelashes and highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw. He walks over to retrieve the ball his frame casting a long shadow over you as he stops just yards away, growling, "Nunca te callas la boca verdad?" His voice is low, raspy from shouting commands all night, but it cuts straight through the roar of eighty thousand people like a knife.
"Por ti nunca, Álvarez” you shoot back, a smug smile plastering your face even as your heart does a sudden violent thud.
He lets out a harsh, humorless laugh, spinning the ball in his hands, murmuring, "Mira bien lo que queda del partido, mi amor, porque te voy a dar una razón de verdad para que llores." True to his word, in the 89th minute, a corner kick sails into the box. Edson rises above the defenders like a ghost, his header slamming the ball into the back of the net.
The stadium explodes into a roar, your friends jumping up and down, screaming in celebration. But Edson doesn’t run to the main supporter section he sprints straight back to your corner of the pitch. He slides on his knees through the slick grass, pounding his chest right in front of you, his eyes locked dead onto yours with a burning arrogance. You glare down at him, your chest heaving, hating how desperately your eyes want to trace the line of his throat, hating the way your pulse is racing for all the wrong reasons.
The lingering heat of that moment follows you into the next two weeks, compounding every single time the group meets up, until it reaches a suffocating breaking point. Tonight, the friend group is celebrating a birthday at a crowded, upscale restaurant in the city before heading to a lounge. The table is loud, filled with laughter and clinking glasses, but the space between you and Edson might as well be an active minefield.
You're seated directly across from him, and the passive aggressive energy has been thick since the appetizers arrived. When a shared platter of luxury appetizers is placed in the center of the table, Edson reaches out with casual indifference, taking the final artisanal cheese slider without looking up. You let out a dry, audible scoff, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair, saying, "Uy, ninguna sorpresa siempre tomando lo que quieres sin pensar en nadie más en la mesa."
Edson’s hand freezes mid air. He slowly lowers the food back to the plate, his dark eyes snapping up to lock onto yours with an intensity that instantly silences the conversation of the friends sitting right next to you, responding, "Si tanto lo querías, hubieras estirado la mano. Pero prefieres quedarte ahí sentada, quejándote de todo lo que hago. Como siempre."
"No me quejo de todo lo que haces, Álvarez. Solo de lo insoportable que eres" you fire back, your posture stiffening as you lean forward, matching his aggressive stance. "Te crees el dueño del mundo solo porque sabes patear un balón. A ver si aprendes a compartir, tanto en la mesa como en la cancha, porque el fin de semana pasado casi te sacan la roja por andar de envidioso y no soltar el pase."
Edson lets out a cold, cynical chuckle, tossing his cloth napkin onto the table. "Tú no sabes absolutamente nada de lo que pasa en esa cancha. Así que mejor guarda tus opiniones de experta para alguien a quien realmente le importen. Siempre tienes algo que decir, pero cuando se trata de hablar de frente, solo sabes hacer berrinches."
"Berrinches yo?" Your voice rises, a sharp laugh escaping your lips. "Por favor el que se la pasa haciendo caras y actuando como si le hicieran un favor a los demás con su presencia eres tú. No soportas que alguien no te lama las botas como todo el maldito mundo."
"Ya, de verdad, cállense los dos" one of your friends snaps from the end of the table, rubbing their temples in sheer aggravation. "Dios mío, parece que tienen cinco años. Venimos a celebrar un cumpleaños, no a escuchar su reality show de divorciados. Ya dejen de estar chingando."
"En serio, ya estamos hasta la madre," another friend chimes in, putting their fork down with a loud clatter. "Cada vez que salimos es la misma maldita historia. Si tanto se odian, siéntense en mesas separadas, pero ya dejen comer en paz a los demás. Cero ganas de aguantar sus escenitas hoy."
Edson doesn't even look at them. His jaw tics, a muscle jumping violently in his cheek as he keeps his eyes burning straight into yours, completely ignoring the protests of the group. "Si no te importaran mis opiniones, no te pondrías tan pinche de malas cada vez que abro la boca," you mutter sharply, leaning in just a fraction closer, the space between your plates practically humming with a toxic current.
He leans back slowly, his eyes tracking you with a heavy intensity that says more than any insult ever could. For the rest of the dinner, the air remains thick and suffocating your friends completely stop trying to include either of you in the conversation, entirely over the drama.
An hour later, the group migrates to a secluded, dimly lit lounge down the street. Your friends immediately head to the bar, pointedly leaving you and Edson on opposite sides of the crowd, clearly exhausted by the atmosphere you both created.
The heavy, thumping bass of the music inside is making your head pound, and the relentless buildup of unspoken animosity has left your nerves completely frayed. Desperate to escape the suffocating weight of his presence, you slip away from the booth and navigate the crowded room, stepping out onto the outdoor terrace. The patio is mostly empty, shadowed by large potted palms and illuminated only by the faint, amber glow of string lights.
You lean heavily against the cold stone balustrade, closing your eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath of the crisp night air, trying to force your chaotic pulse to slow down. The heavy glass door clicks open behind you. A tall shadow immediately blocks the light. You don't even have to turn around the sheer, commanding presence he radiates is unmistakable. Your entire body stiffened, your hands gripping the stone railing until your knuckles turned white, muturing, "Viniste hasta acá afuera solo para seguir jodiendo, Edson?"
He responds, his voice rough, completely stripped of the defensive, mocking edge he had used at the restaurant "Vine a ver por qué saliste corriendo."
You lie, keeping your eyes fixed on the distant city lights, refusing to look at him because you knew what would happen if you did, "No salí corriendo. Quería aire. Quería alejarme de ti."
He whispers "Mentirosa," stepping even closer, trapping you between his broad shoulders and the stone railing, forcing you to look up at him. The arrogance from the pitch and the petty attitude from dinner are entirely gone, replaced by a raw vulnerability. He looks completely exhausted, his dark eyes searching your face with a desperation that makes your throat tight, adding, "Ya no están nuestros amigos aquí afuera. Ya no tienes que actuar para nadie. Dime la verdad... por qué me odias tanto? Qué te hice?"
You finally snap, turning your head to face him fully, your chests practically brushing as the anger, the denial, and the agonizing buildup of the last six months finally boil over, "Porque eres insoportable! Porque desde el primer día entraste a mi vida creyéndote intocable, ignorando a todo el mundo. Y porque me da un coraje maldito que tengas razón!" Your voice cracks, the sheer angst of the confession choking you as tears of frustration sting your eyes. "Odio que me vuelvas loca. Odio que cuando estoy en ese estadio, rodeada de miles de personas, no me importe el maldito partido... solo me importas tú. Me la paso aclarándole a todo el mundo que no soy tu fan, solo para ocultar que me muero por dentro. Odio buscarte con la mirada en cada rincón, y odio saber que esto es un error porque se supone que nos caemos mal."
Edson stares at you, his breath hitching audibly in the quiet night, your words hanging in the air, heavy and devastating. A profound, aching realization breaks through his stoic expression, his eyes darkening into something fierce, wild, and completely unhinged as he says, "Crees que eres la única que se está muriendo por esto? Te busco cada vez que piso esa cancha. En cada maldito segundo del partido. Busco a la única persona que sé que me va a gritar, que me va a retar, porque ahí adentro, con tanta presión y tanto ruido... tu odio es lo único que siento real. Tu voz es la única que necesito escuchar para saber que sigo vivo. Estoy harto de pretender."
The space between you completely vanishes. When his lips meet yours, it isn't a gentle, romantic collision it’s a violent, frantic shattering of months of built up friction and unexpressed anger. It is a kiss fueled by pure desperation, a mutual surrender to a fire you’ve both been trying to extinguish with gasoline.
Edson pulls you flush against his chest, his powerful hands gripping your waist tightly, lifting you slightly against the stone railing as if he were trying to anchor himself to you in the middle of a wreckage. You kiss him back with a fierce, aching intensity, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pouring all the stubborn pride, the dinner table arguments, and the hidden longing into him. It tastes like a beautiful, ruinous mistake it feels like burning down the dynamic of your entire social circle, and yet, you only want to burn hotter. His tongue tangles with yours, possessive and deep, demanding every single thing you’ve kept hidden behind those stadium taunts.
When he finally pulls away, he doesn't let you go. His forehead rests heavily against yours, both of your shaky, uneven breaths mingling in the quiet dark, the silence between you thick with a sudden, suffocating reality. The music from inside is still humming, and your friends are just a few yards away, entirely over the drama, completely unaware that the fire they've been complaining about just burned the whole house down. You whisper against his lips, the absolute angst of the situation choking your throat as the reality of your friend group starts to settle back in, cold, unforgiving, and complicated, "Qué vamos a hacer?" Edson closes his eyes, a pained expression crossing his features, his grip tightening on your waist just for a second longer, pulling you into his warmth one last time, hiding his face in the crook of your neck before he slowly, reluctantly forces his hands to drop to his sides. The sudden coldness where his palms just were is brutal, leaving you trembling and breathless in the shadows as he says, his voice thick with an emotion that cuts deeper than any stadium loss, "No lo sé. Pero el próximo fin de semana... cuando estés en la grada con los demás... ni se te ocurra dejar de buscarme."
