home of football

Multiple people asked for NurseyDex corn maze AU, so…please ignore the fact that it’s almost December.

Dex hates Halloween. He hates it ever since the family meeting when he was fourteen years old, where his parents presented the farm’s budget and baldly told their kids that the farm would be sold if they couldn’t come up with ways to make money.

He also hates it because Sarah suggested a corn maze. And the corn maze means people, giggly teens trying to sneak in alcohol, and toddlers with their parents, and his Dad spending hours at the computer working on the design each year. And then the whole family planting the seeds so they’ll come up in the right pattern, and don’t get Dex started. Don’t.

Instead of his parents coming to Samwell for Fall Weekend, Dex has to go home (“to help with the fucking corn maze”). And he’s brought Chow and Nurse with him (“Dude, it’s chill, neither of our families are coming either” overlapping with Chow’s “That sounds awesome!” and so he had to invite them, they’re his best friends). Nurse hasn’t tripped over anything yet. Dex knows it’ll be spectacular when he does.

Right now Dex is wrestling with the cables for the floodlights, checking that everything is plugged in before he hits the switch and drowns the maze in bright light. They’re borrowing from the high school, no home football game tonight, so even more families coming to the Poindexters’ farm.

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Y’all familiar with the baseball sex metaphor? Because do I have a story for you.

One day I was minding my own business in first hour and a cool (self-described) queer friend of mine called me over to her table. I expected more than I got because, as I already mentioned, this friend of mine is cool and I admire her. So I came over to her table and she said, “We need a certified lesbian for this discussion.” I was excited to finally be recognized for what I am, a certified lesbian. Then an f-boy acquaintance of mine says, “What’s fourth base for lesbians?” My heart sank, but then again, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting. A girlfriend, maybe? A Home Depot gift card? An interview with Ellen herself? Anyway, he proceeds to explain: “If first base is kissing, second is feeling, third is oral, and fourth is…” he made that awful hand motion that has cursed me since the sixth grade. “And this is the same for gay men, but we were wondering what fourth base for lesbians is.” The other students nodded, verifying what he was saying. I remember saying something along the lines of, “I don’t know, I’m pure!” Then he said words that are still chilling to me. “Is it…tongue slides in?” I swear, high school boys are the worst. That table and I proceeded to discuss this matter. I remember someone saying, “Maybe third and fourth bases are kind of a gray area?” I was tired of this conversation. I looked straight at the friend that had called me over and said (alas, I haven’t a filter), “Maybe the baseball metaphor doesn’t translate to lesbians. I think it’s more like football: no one besides the players really understand it but for some reason straight guys like to watch.” Then, I left. 

So that’s my story and I hate it so it goes here on my trash blog : )


Work From Home (Paulo Dybala Imagine)

“Maybe we lock them in a room together and hope for the best,” the team’s good-crazy suggested while nonchalantly biting into his apple

Marko stared in horror at Daniel’s suggestion, “Absolutely fucking not,” he retorted, “This is something they have to come to on their own. And if we try and intervene-”

“Then what?” Dani protested, “Neither of them are happy right now, so we might as well try something. I mean, Paulo’s eyes practically fall out of their sockets when she walks by.”

Gigi chuckled, affirming Dani’s enthusiasm for his grand ‘master plan.’ “You see, even the old man agrees with me,” the Brazilian rationed, “and if Gigi thinks it’s a good idea,”

“Hey, I never said this was a good idea,” the elder Italian laughingly interrupted, “But he’s right. They can’t just keep going on like this and ignoring the obvious.” Marko slumped in his seat, muttering to himself about how this was and undoubtedly a poor decision, while Cuadrado added his two cents into the discussion.

“I say, we lock them in the closet together for no more than an hour,” Cuadrado announced, simultaneously causing Dani’s eyes to brighten while Marko repeatedly banged his head against the cinderblock wall. “But,” he continued, “It has to be on her lunch break, I mean, don’t the physios have lunch around the same time we do?”

“Exactly the same time,” Dani added as he ebulliently took another bite into his apple, “So that’s the plan, we lock both of them in the storage closet next to the dining hall, for no more than an hour, and hope to god they come to their senses,” the Brazilian concluded.

~ You loved your job. Working for one of the world’s biggest football clubs had always been a dream for you, so when you got the call that Juventus was considering hiring you as a physio, you packed your bags and caught the next flight to Turin as soon as possible. Walking into a deafening stadium every weekend, getting to rehabilitate legendary footballers from injuries, and playing a small part in the exuberant football atmosphere was ineffable. Recently, you had been working with an prodigious forward, by the name of Paulo, who was having some unidentifiable hamstring injuries. Despite the countless diagnostic tests you had ran with him, you still couldn’t manage to discern what affliction had been causing him to be in so much pain. As you made your way towards the dining hall and theorized about the handsome young man’s injury, you felt a pair of unfamiliar hands grip harshly onto your shoulders engendering you to almost scream in consternation. Soon after, the hands hastily wedged the the door to the storage room open enough so that the width of your slender frame could get in, and not the figure who was pacing around in distress. Nethertheless, the masculine frame capitalized on the opportunity, while charging head-on towards the light of the hall, simultaneously plowing into you, as you were being pushed in.

“Y/n!” you heard Paulo’s remorsefully voice quaver, “I’m so sorry.” As he crouched down, the pair of green eyes scanned frantically at you, trying to access your condition.

“It’s alright,” you huffed, shaking off the initial hit that had knocked the wind out of you, “I just think I need a second- to you know-catch my breath.” Paulo shook his head in stark disbelief at his teammates collaboration.

“I think,” he began while helping you up gradually, “This is the work of my lovely teammates.” He bit on to the flesh of his lower lip and began to pace around nervously.

“Why the hell would they do this?” you questioned angrily precipitating etches of red to appear on Paulo’s cheek bones.

“No idea,” he retorted while pools of olive glanced towards the floor and then locked onto your gaze. “So,” he said trying to change the subject, “We’re still meeting after practice today, right- you know, to work on my hamstring problems?”

“Yeah,” you reasoned, as the propinquity of distance between you and Paulo, made you nervously babble, “I think it could be the Semimembranosus Muscle, because pain your describing is medial, but what I don’t get, is why nothing has shown up on the MRI.”

Paulo looked at you guiltily, as he came closer to you. His hot breath on your neck sent shivers running down your spine, “I think I know why my teammates did this,” he admitted placing his hands on your shoulder blades, “It’s because, um, I may have some- uh- feelings towards you.” Your eyes gaped at him in response to his disclosure, engendering him to remark, “And it’s totally okay if you don’t feel the same way.” “I get that,” he trailed off as you interrupted him by pressing the pink of your lips onto his, as he smiled into the kiss.

“So,” you smirked mischievously as you tossed your glance to the side, “that hamstring condition.”

“You know, that just may go away,” Paulo added, “If I get to go to lunch with you instead.”


On 22 October, 1966, Robert Sims, his wife, Helen, and their 12-year-old daughter, Joy, were at home listening to a college football game between Florida State University and Mississippi State. The couple had two older teenage daughters, Jeanie and Judy, who were both out babysitting.

Jeanie arrived home that night at around 23:00 and was horrified to discover that her parents and younger sister, Joy, had been brutally murdered. All three had been bound and their mouths stuffed with stockings. Robert and Helen had been blindfolded and shot dead while Joy was raped and stabbed six times before being shot in the head. Helen was miraculously still clinging to life but fell into a coma before she could give any information as to who could have done such a thing to a family who had seemingly no enemies.

Among a few suspects were a teenage couple who had stood out to authorities but they were never named due to never being made official suspects but authorities recall them acting quite odd and being strangely obsessed with the investigation. The case still remains unsolved today.


Home (x)  (Marc Bartra Imagine)

“It’s not like I hate Borussia Dortmund,” you began while pulling on a crimson jersey, desperately trying to search for the nearest television remote. “It’s just-”

“That you support our Bavarian rivals,” Marc interrupted while raising his eyebrows skeptically at you. “You do realize that team is practically the emblem of corruption. They’re all criminals over there,” he argued, hoisting the television remote in the air just above your reach.

“Marc,” you playfully pleaded, “Give me that remote; the game is on in fifteen minutes.”

“Are you wearing a Lewandowski kit?” Marc questioned incredulously, his hands resting on his hips. “That man is practically satan himself.” “Who are they even playing anyway,” he groaned while eventually giving you the remote. “I guarantee it will be some lower level team that’s barely passing relegation, and it’s going to be a blow out.”

You don’t know that!” you laughingly retorted while pulling Marc down on the sofa with you. “Here, let’s watch the game,” you triumphantly announced against Marc’s adamant protests. You outstretched the the length of your legs across Marc’s lap affectionately, as he sighed and placed the palm of his hand supportively on your thigh. However, as soon as lime green jerseys inscribed with the letter “w” appeared on the pitch, Marc interjected, “Oh for the love of god, y/n. It’s Wolfsburg. Do you know how much they’re going to get crushed by?”

“You never know,” you said trying to conceal the smirk that was forming on your lips.

“That’s it,” Marc announced abruptly while standing up, “We need to get you some help. Tonight, you’re coming out with me and you’re going to meet the boys. Now take off that thing,” he said while gesturing to your jersey, “before it burns holes into my eyes.”

“But what if-” you pleaded as pools of emerald gazed playfully back at you.

“Don’t worry,” Marc assured, turning off the television, “You’re boyfriend already scored the opener,” he huffed. “Must be the stupid blue eyes, huh? He has me beat there.”

“Marc,” you laughed while shaking your head in disbelief, “You have the most beautiful eyes in the world, so shut up.”

“Make me,” Marc taunted, flopping down next to you on the sofa.You wrapped your fingers around the nape of Marc’s neck and pressed your lips against his mouth, breathing every inch of him in. “That was nice,” Marc whispered behind his flawless smile.“But don’t think that’s getting you out of dinner tonight,” he smirked.


“Marc, I can’t do this,” you said as the two of you walked hand-in-hand towards the clubs entrance. “I’m going to look like a joke around all of the other chicks.” Just as you began to lament to Marc about your impending embarrassment, several of the player’s girlfriends began to file out, one-by-one, with their Jimmy Choo heels and their Louis Vuitton purses. “You see what I mean,” you declared spitefully while glancing in their direction.

“Babe,” Marc conceded while biting onto the flesh of his lip, “I couldn’t care less about what you wear. And if they want to look down on you, than that says a lot more about them than it does about you.” His refulgent gaze stared into your eyes, as he lightly brushed the skin of your cheek. “You still look just as sexy,” he laughed, as pools of sage hungrily glanced up and down your body. “C’mon,” he reassured, interlocking his hand within yours protectively, “I’m sure my team will love you.”

Upon walking into the hall, you felt the eyes of players decked out in yellow and black stripes gape at you. “Finally,” you heard an ebullient voice pipe out in excitement, “It’s about time Marc brought his girlfriend.” You whipped around to face the direction of the voice, and smiled at Erik who was beaming at you encouragingly. Marco, the edgy blonde who was standing next to him, continuously shot you pejorative glares of disapproval as you continued to meet with the rest of the team.

“Yeah, and y/n is also a Bayern Munich fan,” Marco disparagingly grunted towards the rest of the boys lining up to meet you. The line dissipated like dominoes falling one after the other, as the walls confined the awkward silence between you and the rest of the team.

“Please, y/n,” Marc spoke into your ear hastily, “Don’t mind Marco. He’s just protective of me considering what happened between me and my last girlfriend. And how I- um,” he hesitated while quickly glancing over his shoulder, “was cheated on.”

“Okay,” you whispered, playing with the food on your plate. “I just don’t understand why supporting Bayern automatically makes me an evil person. I’ve been a fan of them since I was five, and I love cheering you on, but I’m not just going to abandon my interests because I’m your girlfriend,” you rationed while slightly amplifying your voice to capture Marco’s attention across the table.

“Anyone care for more garlic bread?” Christian bursted out in attempts to quell the precarious tensions between you and Marco. “It sure is good,” he added hastily, while raising his eyebrows as if he was advertising the superb quality of the bread.

“Actually yes,” you admitted, happily taking a bite into one of the pieces while smirking at Marco’s look of disgust. “Thanks, Christian,” you remarked affirmatively, causing hues of blush pink to grow on the young boy’s cheek.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Marco,” Aubame chuckled amongst fits of cackling laughter as the rest of the team followed suit. You grinned as the tensions that once filled each corner of the room evaporated into thin air. “I like her,” the friendly face added, “She seems pretty chill and doesn’t put up with any of your bullshit- just like the rest of us.”

Marc cheerfully glanced around at his teammates laughter, while his fingers further intertwined within your grip. “Who would’ve guessed it? A bavarian becoming a part of our family,” Emre happily declared while playfully elbowing Marco’s side. Marco eventually rolled his eyes whimsically, and smiled at the two of you.

“Welcome home then I guess,” he concluded spiritedly, while taking a sip of his drink.