Aug 10
well it’s not my fault #he has a roster
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Russia
seen from Russia
seen from Germany
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from Albania
seen from United States
seen from Albania
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Belarus
well it’s not my fault #he has a roster
la scaloneta art dump
my insta
'when your bestie scores a pretty free kick goal and does your celebration' reaction
PAULO DYBALA
Paulo Dybala
franco and paulo dybala 🇦🇷
Skin-to-skin
Pairing:Paulo Dybala x Reader
Word Count:1282
Request open!
Kenan Yildiz Masterlist | Football Masterlist | Football Masterlist II
Juventus Masterlist
You wake up to crying.
Not the soft, sleepy kind. The desperate kind. The kind that scrapes at your nerves at 3:07 a.m.
You groan into the pillow, body heavy, eyes burning. The baby monitor crackles again with another wail.
Beside you, Paulo shifts.
“Amor,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “I’ve got her.”
“You’re supposed to be resting,” you whisper. “Your leg,”
“I said I’ve got her.”
There’s no argument in his tone. Just certainty.
You hear him sit up slowly, careful. Even in the dark you can tell he’s favoring his injured thigh. The doctors said minimal strain. Limited movement.
Apparently that doesn’t apply when his daughter cries.
The nursery door creaks open. The crying gets louder before it softens into hiccupping sobs.
Then his voice.
“Shhh, princesa… papá’s here. Hey, hey.”
The crying doesn’t stop immediately, but it shifts. Less sharp. Less panicked.
You drag yourself out of bed and pad down the hallway, stopping just outside the nursery.
The lamp is on low. Warm. Golden.
Paulo stands there barefoot in gray sweatpants, hair messy, holding your daughter against his bare chest. Skin-to-skin. Her tiny fists clutch at him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.
“¿Qué pasó, mi vida?” he whispers. “Bad dream? Hmm?”
She cries into him, face red, little legs kicking.
He presses his lips to her head. “I know. I know. It’s okay.”
You lean against the doorway.
“You’re limping,” you say quietly.
He glances over at you, softening instantly. “Go back to bed.”
“You need sleep.”
He smiles faintly. “So do you.”
She lets out another broken cry, and his attention snaps right back to her.
“Okay, okay. Let’s walk. We’ll walk.”
“You’re not supposed to,”
“It’s fine.” He starts pacing anyway, slow and careful. “She needs me.”
You watch him sway slightly with each step.
He hums something under his breath. It takes you a second to realize it’s the Champions League anthem, but slowed down, turned into a lullaby.
You snort.
He looks offended. “What?”
“You’re singing football to her.”
“It’s soothing,” he insists.
“She’s two months old.”
“And already has good taste.”
The baby hiccups, then lets out a softer whimper.
He presses his cheek to her hair. “There you go. That’s my brave girl.”
You step fully into the room. “Want me to take her?”
His grip tightens instinctively.
“No.”
You raise a brow. “No?”
He exhales slowly. “Just… give me a minute.”
There’s something in his voice. Something fragile.
You step closer instead of arguing.
“She won’t think you’re weak if you sit,” you say gently.
He huffs. “I’m not worried about that.”
But he lowers himself carefully into the rocking chair anyway, settling her against his chest again.
She quiets more with the movement.
You kneel beside him, brushing your fingers over her tiny back.
Paulo’s eyes don’t leave her face.
“I hate this,” he says quietly.
“Her crying?”
“No.” He swallows. “Not being able to fix it immediately.”
Your heart squeezes.
“You can’t score a goal at three in the morning, Paulo.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It kind of is.”
He doesn’t smile. He keeps staring at her like she might disappear if he blinks.
“I know what to do on a pitch,” he says after a moment. “I know how to read defenders. I know how to handle pressure.”
She squirms. He adjusts her instantly.
“But this?” he whispers. “She’s so small.”
You rest your chin on his knee.
“You’ve handled stadiums of seventy thousand people screaming your name.”
He nods.
“She weighs less than a football.”
He looks down at her like that comparison offends him.
“She’s not a football.”
You grin softly. “I know.”
He shifts her gently, her tiny ear pressed over his heart.
“She depends on us for everything,” he continues, voice quieter now. “What if I miss something? What if I’m away for matches and she needs me?”
“She’ll have me.”
“I know. But what if she thinks…” His jaw tightens. “What if she thinks football is more important?”
There it is.
The real fear.
You stand slowly and perch on the arm of the chair, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“She won’t,” you say. “Do you know what she sees?”
He doesn’t answer.
“She sees the way you look at her. Like she’s magic.”
His throat moves when he swallows.
“She won’t remember missed away games,” you continue softly. “She’ll remember you singing to her at three in the morning.”
He huffs lightly. “That’s embarrassing.”
“It’s adorable.”
He finally glances at you.
“You think I’m doing okay?” he asks.
The vulnerability in his voice hits harder than any injury update.
“You’re doing more than okay,” you say. “You got up even though you’re in pain.”
He looks almost confused. “Of course I did.”
“Exactly.”
Silence settles between you, warm and steady.
The baby’s cries fade into soft snuffles.
Paulo lowers his voice even more.
“Hey,” he murmurs to her. “You scared us, hmm? Can’t do that to mamá.”
You roll your eyes. “Blame me.”
He smiles faintly now.
“You’re safe,” he whispers to her. “Nothing will ever hurt you. Papá promises.”
“You can’t promise that,” you say gently.
“I can try.”
You lean down and kiss his temple.
“You don’t have to protect her from everything,” you tell him. “Just love her.”
He looks at you like that’s the hardest instruction he’s ever been given.
“I can do that,” he says quietly.
The room goes still.
Her breathing evens out. Slow. Warm against his chest.
He barely moves, like he’s afraid to disturb the moment.
“You want me to put her in the crib?” you whisper.
He shakes his head immediately. “No.”
You laugh under your breath. “Paulo.”
“She just fell asleep.”
“So?”
“So she’s comfortable.”
“She’ll be comfortable in her crib.”
He hesitates.
Then softer: “Just… another minute.”
You study him , the world-famous forward who faces defenders without fear, now completely undone by a sleeping baby.
“You’re wrapped around her finger already,” you murmur.
He doesn’t deny it.
“She smiled at me today,” he says suddenly.
“She smiles at gas.”
“No,” he insists. “It was at me.”
You smile. “Okay.”
“I think she knows my voice.”
“She does.”
That answer makes him go quiet again.
He looks down at her like he’s memorizing every detail.
After a moment he whispers, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For her.” His eyes lift to yours. “For making me a father.”
Emotion tightens your chest.
“You made me a mother,” you say back.
He reaches one hand out and pulls you closer carefully.
“We did this,” he says.
You nod, resting your forehead against his.
The baby sighs in her sleep.
Paulo closes his eyes briefly.
“I’m going to score for her next match,” he murmurs.
“At three in the morning?”
He smirks faintly. “You know what I mean.”
You do.
After another quiet minute, he finally stands, slow and careful, and places her gently in the crib.
She stirs.
Both of you freeze.
She settles again.
He exhales like he just survived a penalty shootout.
You slip your hand into his as you walk back toward your bedroom.
Halfway down the hall he squeezes your fingers.
“I’d get up every night,” he says softly. “Even if I was perfectly healthy. Even if I had a final the next day.”
“I know.”
“For her… I’d do anything.”
You believe him.
Because the same man who wears a mask when he scores?
Takes it off the second he steps into this house.
And in the quiet dark of your hallway, with your daughter finally asleep behind you, Paulo leans down and kisses your forehead like you’re the one who needs protecting too.
