#Antoine Griezmann fanfiction | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

judebelle · 1 year

Note

antoine griezmann angst plz

he only loves me - a.g. x reader

a/n : this req wasn't rlly too specific, but i tried my best to come up w a plot!

cw : swearing, angst, crying, yelling, argument, antoine being an asshole, manipulation, lies, etc

pairing : antoine griezmann x fem!reader

wc : 1.1k

- - -

"so you can go fuck around with your friends but you can't even bother to text me and let me know if you're okay?"

you were standing across from your boyfriend of three years in his large house, arms crossed over your chest. antoine had been avoiding and ignoring you for some weeks now, prioritizing other things over your relationship. you had asked if he could stay and keep you company since you had a bad headache and stomachache and didn't want to be home alone in the house.

whenever antoine wasn't feeling well, you would always stay with him. you would cook him food, keep him comfortable, and make sure he was well rested. you needed to rest, but you were worried about antoine since he had not told you when he was coming home from practice and was four hours late which affected your fatigue.

instead of resting and keeping well, you had spent the last few hours sitting on the large and empty couch across from the front door waiting for your boyfriend with a shaking leg and twiddling thumbs.

"oh i'm sorry! i didn't know i had to inform you of my every move!" antoine rolled his eyes at you and slid off his shoes and tossed his practice bag onto the floor.

"pick up your shit, i'm not gonna do it for you." you were getting annoyed now. antoine knew that you weren't well and was still acting like a child - throwing his bags and rolling his eyes. "it's fine i'll do it later." "no you won't!" you shouted loudly, your voice echoing in antoine's large property. "you never do shit! you're all talk!"

"should i remind you that i am the one paying the bills? it's my house, i can do whatever the fuck i please to in it!"

you ignored antoine's rude comment when your curiosity got the best of you. "what were you doing out so late anyway? why couldn't you pick up your phone and tell me that you were going to be late?" your voice was accusing, and you were unfortunately implying something that you wished you wouldn't have to.

"i was out with my boys. you know that i never get to see them anymore, training isn't enough!" "where were you and your boys?" your eyes were squinted and your hands were rested upon your hips.

"we were at the clu- why am i telling you this? i don't need to prove anything to you!" antoine shouted sharply. "yes you do because i am your fucking girlfriend!" antoine gulped at your words. your voice might as well have been gone from how long and loudly you had been screaming for. your head was pounding harder than before and your ears were ringing.

"three years! three years we have been together and we have never had a problem like this. why so sudden? did i do something? did i say something? is anything bothering you?!" you were really desperate to know why he was suddenly so cold towards you.

"i was out with sylvie."

you weren't expecting that. you weren't expecting that at all. antoine wasn't the type of man to lie to your face like that. especially about staying out late with his ex girlfriend. you were so focused on the fact that he lied to you that it didn't click that he was out with his ex.

"why..?"

"she just um.. she wanted to see me, and i wanted to see her too."

"why?"

"we haven't seen each other for a while. you know that we were very close friends before we had a relationship. she had texted me saying that she missed me and wanted to hang out- no strings."

"why?"

"baby please say something else."

you didn't know what to feel. you couldn't even look at him, your shame and anger making your face turn hot. your eyes were focused on the floor, mind and heart running a marathon, but your body frozen still.

"antoine."

once you regained your composure, you were ready to confront him. you weren't going to let him see you break.

"what did you two do..? and don't- don't fucking lie to me because that seems to be a new habit of yours."

your head finally raised and your eyes locked with his. your finger was pointing at him accusingly. his eyes were looking down and his pink lips were held in a pout.

"y/n please don't get mad-"

"what the fuck did you two do?"

'i kissed her."

it was like the air got knocked out of your lungs. your eyebrows shot up and mouth opened to speak, but nothing but short breaths and gasps arose as your hands fell to your sides. your vision became blurry despite your original plan to not cry, but how could you not? your boyfriend of three years went running back to his ex because he "missed her" and then proceeded to cheat on you.

"okay." your cheeks were now wet with tears, but you wouldn't have noticed if they didn't fall onto your lips since your face felt numb.

"what.. what- what do you mean 'okay'? what- where are you going? y/n! look at me when i'm talking to you, dammit!" you had turned on your heel and stormed to the bedroom, not even giving a second thought as to what you were about to do. you threw open the closet and grabbed a bag, packing clothes and makeup disorderly. you were being so aggressive that antoine was scared to even go near you.

"y/n stop being irrational i can explain!"

you had enough clothes packed to last you a while before grabbing your wallet, charger, toothbrush, and makeup bag as you sniffled, hardly seeing what you were grabbing since your eyes were filled with tears. you felt so incredibly stupid. you actually believed that antoine was out with his friends for hours. you actually believed that he loved you and wouldn't lie and cheat on you after three years of your relationship.

"y/n can you just- fuck!"

antoine cursed loudly before grabbing harshly onto your arms as he pulled you away from your bag that you were throwing thigs in haphazardly.

"don't fucking- antoine let go!"

"let me explain. please. please listen it was all a mistake. i only love you i promise."

"antoine don't-"

"please understand y/n. you're all i have. i love you so much. i've always loved you. i didn't mean to kiss her. you're the only one for me. that was all a mistake - with her. it was just the heat of the moment! i would never hurt you like that - you know it! i mean it with all my heart, cherie. i only love you."

lies and deception spewed from his lips which he connected with yours, working his untruths into your mouth like water, which you drank compliantly.

he only loves me.

103 notes · View notes

footballffbarbiex · 1 year

Text

The Worst Boyfriend In the World

player: antoine griezmann words: 1233 request: Antoine Griezman | 600+ | she / her | buying yet more candles | "Antoine and his gf are shopping and she drags him into a candle shop where she forces him to sample every single autumn candle. He does so begrudgingly but secretly loves how happy she is and ends up buying her the candles she can’t choose between (one smelling an awful lot like his aftershave for when he’s away for games) Had to pick a word count but I’m fine with whatever you end up writing

The temptation to have a big lunch was there but both she and Antoine settled for something warm to drink and just enough to settle their grumbling bellies. Antoine was more than happy to do his shopping online and have it delivered, not feeling the need to leave the comforts of home to go out in the colder weather. But the lure of food that didn’t have to be cooked by either of them was too much for him and as a result, his appetite was mostly satisfied and so was his need for impulsive purchases.

“What are you wanting to do for Christmas? Shop online or go out and do it?”

“It’s not even December and you want to think about Christmas?”

“It’s always best to prepare, no?” she questions and he chuckles. The cold that autumn brings will barely be settling. He’ll be surprised if she allows the first frost blanket everywhere before she��s pulling Christmas ornaments from the loft and beginning the arduous task of opening up the faux tree branches.

“There is preparation and there’s what you do.”

“Which is?”

“Going too far.”

“But does it look good once I’ve finished?” She turns on her heels and looks her boyfriend in the face rather than remaining by his side.

“I have enough common sense in me to know that there is only one right answer.”

“Then you’ve learnt well, my love,” the latter is said with a hint of sarcasm as she runs the flat of her palm down his cheek and gives it a playful tap. Rather than recoil, Antoine stands with a grin. “Speaking of learning, there’s somewhere else I’d like to go,” she says, spying a store that she’s been edging closer to since they left the eatery.

Those bright blue eyes of his snap away from her, scanning the nearby stores until the muscle in his cheek tenses when it clicks into place. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I said no.”

“And we both know how this will end.”

“Why do you never listen?” He asks as she all but skips away from him, the small shopping bags swinging from her hand with every bounce in her step. A store with a little bit of everything except furniture, it was perfect for gift hunting - it didn’t matter if it was for Christmas, housewarming gifts, or something for yourself. But most importantly, it had candles.

Antoine would outwardly say that she had too many. Far too many throughout the house. Some in the entrance hall, the living room, the kitchen, bathrooms and bedroom. There were big block unscented candles in large lanterns out in the garden. Everywhere Antoine looked there were either bundles of different sized candles clustered together or container candles in every colour and seasonal matched scents.

But she knew different.

She would never call him out on it, but she’d come home a few times, hours after he’d come home from training, and smell the lingering scent of a candle that had been lit before her arrival. The melted wax pool was soft, enough to leave a fingerprint in there if she applied just the smallest amount of pressure - even though the wick itself was cool. She would always trim the wick, making sure the mushroomed tip wasn’t there for the next light and yet, when he’d burnt them, he’d failed to clip it. And still, he would deny liking them. She would let him have these secrets and she would sleep comfortably knowing that he plays a part in the candle scents.

She climbs the escalator with Antoine trudging behind her reluctantly until she reaches the designated aisles, eyes already scanning over the shelves for jars of scented goodness that call to her or unusual jars that could be reused once the candle had been melted.

“Are you thinking of a clean, sweet smell or something smokey and musky?” she asks, hands already reaching to grasp a jar and pull the lid off to smell.

“I’m thinking of getting out of here.” he replies, eyes glancing over the options.

“Sniff.” She demands, holding out the opened jar and thrusting it under his nose. This one is a crisp apple. The same sweet smell as though he’d bitten into a fresh apple himself whilst standing in an apple orchard. “Well?”

“It’s a candle.” Anto replies and grins when she rolls her eyes. “It’s nice I guess. Don’t think it would be strong enough for your tastes.”

She gives it another sniff with her own nose before nodding in agreement, securing the lid back on the top and placing it back on the shelf. Various jars hold witches brew, sticky marshmallow, harvest sunrises, vanilla hazelnut and smokey cedars that hold promises of s’mores undertones. Others make her sigh with happiness at the scent reminiscent of the smell after a storm, and walks through autumn woods or stepping into a seasonal store which has hints of gingerbread and cinnamon. Several boast they contain the devil’s own cologne, and some are seductive, musky and what is classed as a traditional “masculine” scent.

Two of the latter are put into her basket that hangs from the nook of Antoine’s elbow, unable to choose between the two of them but they remind her of his aftershave. It’ll be a comfort to snuggle up in a blanket once the cooler months come and she can still smell him without having to bring something he’s worn to her nose - though nothing could replicate that. Nothing.

“I can’t choose.” She comments, pursing her lips as she looks over her possible choices, not including the two already waiting in the basket, she also has another four lined up.

Antoine stands behind her, hands stuffed into his pockets as he sways from side to side, no longer holding the basket as it was taking too long for her to decide. His nose tingles from the scent overload and he’s beginning to get a headache but as she shoves one of her choices under his nose once more, he gives a small smile, obediently inhales as says he really does like it.

He’s not lying, he does like it but he also knows that she won’t be making a decision to choose just one more. She’ll be skipping ahead out of this store as Antoine carries no less than five candles in a bag for her.

“Which do you think you’d burn when you get home tonight?” he asks, knowing perfectly well that the first one she mentions is usually the one she really wants.

“I have to choose first,” she replies and catches the look on his face. “Really?” she asks in a tone that is much higher to the start of her sentence.

“If you can’t decide, it’s only fair we take them all home.” He nods.

“Sure you won’t be complaining about aaaaaall the candles being everywhere?”

“Oh, I’ll complain.” he grins, “but as always, it’ll not stop you from lighting them.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re the bestest boyfriend in the world?”

“My other girlfriend told me that just yesterday actually,” he says, laughing hard as she pushes him with just enough force to unsteady his feet.

“And for that,” she says, swiping another that she had considered but didn’t want another option to have to choose from, “you’re buying these and cooking dinner tonight with no help with the dishes.”

#antoine griezmann one shot #antoine griezmann imagine #antoine griezmann blurb #antoine griezmann drabble #antoine griezmann fanfic #antoine griezmann fanfiction #football one shot #football imagine #football blurb #football drabble #football fanfic #football fanfiction

108 notes · View notes

xratedffbarbiex · 1 year

Text

hi, it’s me ( @footballffbarbiex )

i’ve seen a lot of people reading Shhhh since the start of the world cup, and as of tonight, more people are now reading Falling too.

these are my babies and i’m very proud of them, but i’d love to know what you thought of the series?

as i said, i see a lot of likes, but it gets to the end of the series and... there’s nothing else that follows. i’d love to know your thoughts. these are two very emotional series and to think that you read them and felt nothing afterwards to be able to put them into words to either reblog or send a little ask makes me a little 😞 i’m ngl.

18 notes · View notes

k8kaa · 1 year

Note

pervert! griezmann?

# — A.GRIEZMANN : MY SWEET PERVERT

info — just some hcs of our grizou being a pervert bf ^^

pairing — pervert!griezmann x sub!reader

tws — nsfw , its bf being a pervert. no non con stuff on my blog mdni

a/n — tbh no sub reader recently. we gotta be original sometimes B) much love x sorry if its short!

pervert!griezmann likes it when your all over his lap playing with his hair with yr small mini skirt all cute and over him . you can feel him get hard under you .

pervert!griezmann sneaks up on you when your baking, hugs you from behind. you can feel his cock from behind you “grizou..not here..” you muttered. “hm? mon amour..i just came for a cookie~” he smirks.

pervert!griezmann loves arriving after a bad game and have the best fucking bj.he loves seeing you drool all over his cock .

pervert!griezmann likes “arranging the laundry” but hes just looking at your underwear . all your bras.. all those pretty sets he bought you .

pervert!griezmann loves it when your playfully doing makeup on his face . just having you struggle to get to his height , the small grunts and moans turn him on!

pervert!griezmann adores seeing you struggle while your thigh ride riding him . the small sinffs and hiccups just make him lose it <33

#football #fanfiction #football drabble #x reader #antoine griezmann smut #antoine griezmann x reader #antoine griezmann #france #futebol

181 notes · View notes

pochteta · 7 months

Text

the rodrigriz drabble is now live go insult it in the comments kthxbye

#the fact I still followed my lyric naming scheme with a drabble book oh my range #my delusions #fanfiction #football fanfiction #antoine griezmann #rodrigo de paul #rodrigriz #atletico madrid

6 notes · View notes

edgysaintjust · 2 years

Note

can you write Herault x Reader fanfic 💕?

Awww, hyped to see that hérault content is desirable on this site! I admit I have very little experience with fanfiction, but let me do my best once I have time to work on it ;)

#hérault content!#look i will be pleased to write just anything about our hercule #the only things that prevent me from starting it this exact second are lack of time (currently a lot i have to get done) and no experience #being honest with you the only fanfiction i read was an antoine griezmann one and it was ages ago don't @ me #i promise to educate myself to do it well tho ;)#ask #anon #hérault fic #feel free to send more asks specifying what you have in mind anon #also sorry in advance if it takes me 2 years to write

15 notes · View notes

lenaswritingandstuff · 2 years

Text

@ all Grizi fans (and those who aren't)

If you love stories about Antoine, here is mine on Ao3.

If you speak French, the original version is here on Wattpad.

I'll probably publish it here when it's complete. Enjoy ! ^^

#antoine griezmann #grizi #french nt #soccer #football #atletico madrid #fc barcelona #2018 world cup #original female character #football fanfic #soccer fanfiction #fanfic #my work

1 note · View note

yudgefudge · 10 months

Text

Chapter 2 is up today (Wednesday) as promised!!! the plot bethickens...... griezmann is introduced as a character! hope you like this chapter!!!

#fanfiction #football #football fanfiction #trent alexander arnold #kylian mbappe x trent alexander arnold #kylian mbappe #antoine griezmann #ibrahima konate #just so y'all know #im a firm believer in “filler is pointless”#so each chapter will progress their relationship in a large extent #so it may seem kind of rushed lol #but bear w me

0 notes

iwriteficsandtragedies · 3 years

Text

Birthday Girl

This was supposed to be a birthday fic for @footballffbarbiex but school sucks and I suck but she loves me anyway and I love her too

____________________________________

The sun rises on another birthday spent alone. Antoine is off for international duty, and her family is too far away to visit in the middle of the week. She has every intention of staying in bed and feeling sorry for herself, buried under the coziest blankets and binging all her favorite shows, but the doorbell starts buzzing and whoever it is, is persistent.

She mashes the intercom button in the hall, conveying her annoyance through the system. “Yes?”

“Let me in, I’ve got coffee.”

She briefly considers leaving Meg out on the street, but she does need her caffeine fix. Meg is her dearest friend in Barcelona. She’s introduced her to all the good stuff, which in their case means quiet coffee shops and quaint bookstores.

“Happy birthday! Drink this.” Meg puts the coffee in her hand. “Eat this.” She passes her a croissant. “And get dressed.”

“I’m going back to bed,” she mutters, shoving half the pastry into her mouth.

“Not on your birthday, you’re not. It’s nippy, dress warmly.”

Her refusals fall on deaf ears. Meg gives her ten minutes to get dressed “for a spa day,” which she learns in the taxi includes massages and body scrubs, nails, lashes, and new hair for the both of them. Her friend’s excitement is infectious, and her mood lightens. She’s had worse birthdays than spending a day at the spa, she supposes, and when they’re met at the spa entrance with champagne, cupcakes, and plush robes, she’s cheered up and ready for some pampering.

The massage therapist is a magician with her elbows. There’s a knot in her upper back that’s been making her miserable for months, and the therapist has it loosened and soothed in minutes. She groans in appreciation and relief, giggling at herself, but it’s not long before she’s asleep on the table.

She and Meg have matching face creases when they emerge for their mani/pedi’s. “That was incredible,” she says, sighing into the pedicure chair.

“Look how far I can turn my head,” Meg replies, swiveling her neck. “Remind me to schedule another one before we leave.”

They sit in comfortable silence, enjoying the foot treatment. She feels like she might fall asleep again, til the polish tickles her toes and she has to apologize for nearly kicking the poor nail tech, who waves her off with a smile. “Happens all the time.”

They’re there for hours, and when they finally leave she feels like a completely new woman. She clicks her new long nails against her phone case, admiring the deep red. “Antoine’s going to love them,” she thinks, and feels a twinge of sadness that he’s not here to see them. She’ll have to be careful not to break one before he gets home. Meg is focusing on her own phone, brow creased. “What is it?”

“I’m trying to order dinner to the apartment, but the app keeps crashing. Whatever,” she says, tossing it in her purse and leaning back in the seat. “Did you have a nice birthday?”

“I had a great birthday, thank you.” She smiles. “I’ve got a lasagna in the freezer, if you want to stay for dinner.”

Meg shakes her head. “I hate to leave you alone on your birthday night, but I’ve got to let the dogs out.”

It’s getting dark when the cab drops her off and she bids goodbye to her friend. She pulls her hoodie tighter around her. It’s actually Antoine’s hoodie, one she only wears when he’s away and she’s missing him more than usual, and it takes her a moment to remember she hadn’t spritzed his cologne on it that morning and so there’s only one reason she’d be smelling him in her doorway.

“Antoine?” There’s a wall of red and pink flowers ahead of her in the living room, lit by dozens of flickering pillar candles. There’s a beautifully wrapped, rather large box with a giant bow resting in front of the flowers. “Antoine?” She walks further into the house and the distinctive smell of a roast dinner hits her. “Hello?”

“Hey birthday girl.” Antoine steps in front of the flower wall, grinning from ear to ear.

Her breath catches at the sight of him. “How…?”

“I think I’ve missed enough birthdays, don’t you?” He plucks a flower from the massive arrangement behind him. “Meg and I hatched a plot before I even left.” He holds the bloom out towards her, an easy smile on his face as he takes a few steps towards her.

“You brats,” she says softly, tears brimming at her lashes. “Devious little brats.” She accepts the flower and folds herself into his arms, a joyful laugh bubbling out of her. His arms are tight around her, swaying gently back and forth, and she takes a deep inhale.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he murmurs. “And in the mood to unwrap presents. There are about ten more in the dining room. But first,” he places a loud kiss on top of her head. “This one.” He gestures towards the box on the ground.

She delicately removes the bow, setting it aside. She hates to waste a good bow. There are mountains of tissue paper inside, and she tosses it aside to reveal a huge stuffed Totoro. “Oh, I love it,” she sighs, running her hand over the buttery soft plush. She much prefers these simple, personal gifts, to the expensive jewelry he used to get her at the start of their relationship when he thought he had to impress her. “It’s lovely.”

“There’s a card,” he says, draping his arm over her shoulders, and she bites her lip as she pulls it from its envelope. He always writes the sweetest things; she’s cried with every card he’s given her over the years. This doesn’t look like a traditional birthday card, though. There’s no “Happy Birthday,” no writing at all – only an image of a snow-capped mountain. She looks at him with a quizzical brow.

“What’s this?”

He leans into her neck, leaving gentle kisses against her skin. “Open it.”

Inside the card is a printout of flight confirmations and hotel reservations. “Anto, what….”

“We’re going to Japan for Christmas.” He sounds like an excited child, unable to keep a secret. “Your parents, too.”

“What?”

“Japan,” he repeats himself. “For Christmas.”

“What?”

“Honey,” he laughs again, drawing her into him. “Are you alright?”

She starts to cry, she’s so happy. “Thank you,” she whimpers. “Oh, Anto, thank you.”

“I love you, birthday girl.”

#antoine griezmann one shot #antoine griezmann fic #antoine griezmann imagine #Antoine Griezmann fanfiction #football one shot #footballer one shot #football fic #footballer fic #football imagine #footballer imagine #football fanfiction #footballer fanfiction

55 notes · View notes

football-and-fanfics · 1 year

Text

Antoine Griezmann masterlist

These are all the imagines I have written for Antoine Griezmann (links below the cut). Newly posted imagines for him will be added onto here a.s.a.p.

Last updated: 9 February 2023

Imagines posted in 2020: (💦 = smut imagine)

Playing Truth or Dare

Falling asleep with his head in your lap

Him comforting you

Eiffel Tower proposal

"I don't think I can wait until we get back to the bedroom..." 💦

"Don't tell me to calm down."

Unconscious

"Shh, don't wake him."

"Sorry, I can't be quiet." 💦

Getting attacked by a fan

In the shower 💦

Imagines posted 2021: (💦= smut imagine)

Cheering you up

Panicking

"You've got to stop doing that."

Cuddles

"I think I'm in love with you."

3-Year anniversary

First time together 💦

Dancing around to Christmas songs

Imagines posted in 2022: None

Imagines posted in 2023: None

Imagines posted in 2024:

"I'm so cold." (The Medic)

#antoine griezmann #antoine griezmann masterlist #antoine griezmann imagine #antoine griezmann blurb #antoine griezmann fanfic #antoine griezmann fanfiction #football imagine #football blurb #football fanfic #football fanfiction #footballer imagine #footballer blurb #footballer fanfic #footballer fanfiction

48 notes · View notes

footballffbarbiex · 7 months

Text

Tear You Apart. Ch 3.

Summary: In a world where you don’t physically age past 25 unless you meet your soulmate, at 39, divorced and trying his hand at coaching after retiring from football, Antoine really isn’t looking for love; especially not with his daughter’s friend who is about to stop her own aging process. With his moral judgement compromised and fate trying to intervene, Antoine quickly learns that meeting a soulmate doesn’t mean that happiness comes easily. Warnings (if you don’t like these, do not read the fic. You’re responsible for what you consume): age gap (39-25), voyeurism, angst, oral sex (male and female), squirting/multiple orgasms, cream pie, secret dating, sexting, exchanging of pics, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, mutual pining. (More may be added later)

words: 1,645 warnings: none i don't think.

___

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

___

With your feet curled beneath your body, you lean into the arm of the sofa as you watch the screen. Lottie has cooked and the plates are on the coffee table in front of you both. A glass of water, and mostly melted ice now, is in your hand as your eyes remain on the TV. Antoine’s face fills the screen, his serious expression taints his face as he concentrates on the questions being said, nodding occasionally as his brows furrow and his tongue swipes between his lips as he focuses.

“Yeah, erm” he begins, something which brings a small smile to your lips as you realise he starts a lot of sentences like this when in interviews. His hand lifts, thumb scratches at his forehead as he begins to answer but you find your own attention lowering to his lips.

You’re no longer taking in his words; you’re zoning out of what he’s saying and in on his mouth. Ever since that night, and the way that he’d caught the drip and given the look that he had. You’d find yourself waking up in the middle of the night with the memory of him doing that, the expression upon his face when he spotted you wearing his shirt and the more that you think about it, the more your belly erupts with butterflies.

“How’re you feeling?” Lottie’s voice brings you out of your thoughts and makes you look at her.

“Yeah, I’m good. Why do you ask?”

“Seeing dad on there,” she gestures with her water glass towards the screen and extends her finger to deliver her point. “When you just know him as the fun sucker with good wine.”

“It’s weird.” You admit, casting your eyes back over the man you’d grown used to seeing around in a somewhat normal circumstance. The man discussing his team and the way the season is progressing and how he hopes to continue the good run his team is on, is not the man who you’ve watched walking around in casual wear or making you breakfast. “I know you said he is who he is and I kinda get that. But seeing him on TV? That’s not the man who looked at us disapprovingly for being drunk.”

“More me than you. He couldn’t be mad at you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. I think he wants to make a good impression because he knows I talk about you highly.”

“You do?” The words cause a rush of warmth to spread throughout you, and watching the smile that spreads across Charlotte’s face brings one to your own.

“Always. I think he was starting to think I was making you up.” She chuckles to herself, “you’re the only friend I hadn’t brought home and I don’t think he could understand why. But,” she grins again, “you’re here now.”

“I like this. Being here with you,” you take another drink and try not to make it obvious that you keep trying to watch the screen instead. “And I don’t think I’m getting lost as much here now.” You tease and she laughs. Far too many times you’d taken the wrong turn and ended up in a spare room, the games room, or somewhere else entirely to where you needed. Especially as you tried desperately to navigate the house in the dark.

“Could be worse. You could have got in bed with dad instead of me. And you’re a cuddler, he’d have a heart attack in his old age.”

The thought of slipping between his sheets and the panic he would have makes you chuckle. “It’s actually my biggest worry,” you confess, “though the perfume in your room gives it away and is a huge help.”

“I’ll give an extra spray just to make sure it helps.” She says playfully and the two of you lapse into silence.

“Is it strange seeing him on TV, or are you so used to it now?” You ask after a few minutes when shots of his team begin to fill the screen of them waiting in the tunnel.

“Both. You think I’d be used to it because it’s all I’ve ever known. It was worse when he was a player.” She pauses as she puts her glass down. “There was always something he’d get pulled for. Always something he couldn’t do right for some. But to me, he was just daddy. The one who would come home and play with me, let me put make-up on him and paint his nails. It wasn’t until I started noticing the cameras every time we’d go out that I realised things weren’t the same for my friends. Any time we went out, I remember being scared.”

“It’s strange to think that was your upbringing. I’ve seen enough gossip mags with children in them, faces blurred, being ushered either into the car or building and didn’t really think how it would be for them.”

“It’s scary. Sometimes terrifying. I think it’s different for footballers because they can go from being the most amazing player one week and then should be sold a week later because of a bad match. So we never knew what was coming when fans approached. Hearing them abuse him when I was little, it hurt. I couldn’t understand why they would say such things, especially where his family could hear too.” The idea of her clinging to him as he carried her to safety saddened you.

“So it wouldn’t have become easier when you got older because you understood it all more.”

She nods. “Exactly, it was the opposite, it just got harder. And then I’d get pissed and want to step in but he never would let me. But there’s only so much you can hear wishing hurt or death on your dad. And for what? Over a damn football game? When he “retired”, it became easier. He wasn’t at the front of people's minds, hate wasn’t aimed at him anymore and we had more positive fan encounters. Not that it mattered to mom, she’d already left him and it was just us two.”

She’d always spoken highly of him and the way she felt much safer with him than her mom, so it was no wonder she was so protective over him.

“Was he a good player?” You find yourself asking.

“You really haven’t looked him up have you?” She asks, amusement clear in her expression and tone.

“I’d debated it but it felt kinda wrong?” It was true. You’d googled his name but a sick feeling had crept in and you’d had to click off before you’d really began to dig deep. Anything you wanted to learn about them, you wanted to learn from them. Not from the media, from fans but from them. No-one else’s opinion mattered.

“A bit stalkerish? I get that. Come on. I’ll show you some footage.”

—

By the time Antoine arrives home, his World Cup match highlights are on. You’ve already watched him play the Euros, watched an even younger looking Antoine zooming around the pitch, a playful, childlike innocence about him as he celebrated which only continued into the next huge sporting event.

“I’d have liked to know your family then. He looks happy.” You comment.

“I was.” You visibly jump at his voice, and judging by the cuss and sloshing sound as liquid hits water, so did Lottie. “You better clean that up.” he says in a tone that’s so casual but you know the look on his face. It’s a look you’ve seen from your own family many times. Leaving the room, but not without a roll of her eyes, she goes to get a spillage cloth, leaving you with him.

“Some light entertainment at my expense?” He asks, nodding towards the screen.

“She was...well you can see. I didn’t realise what you’d accomplished. This is incredible. You played amazing.” you reply and then cut yourself off from contining when you realise you were no doubt falling into the fan category.

When his lips curve, you’re not as embarrassed but your cheeks still burn when you realise how you may have come across. “Thank you. It’s nice seeing it on someone for the first time. It’s so easy to see it when you’re in this environment because games happen a lot, and this was years ago now,” he gestures with one hand as he stuffs his other into his pocket, “but to see someone else watch it and comment with fresh eyes? It’s nice.”

“Charlotte said the same thing.”

“She did?”

“Uh huh. She said she was able to have a clean slate with me.”

“It’s refreshing.” He nods in agreement and smiles when she comes back in.

“What is?” She asks, getting to her knees and begins to wipe up the spillage.

“Having a friend who doesn’t know everything.”

“Like…” she trails off and looks at him as he nods and repeats her. Neither say the name but the look and the way they both knew, says that someone had taken advantage and got close for very different reasons.

“What have you watched?”

Lottie looks up at you, I’ll let you take this.”

You tell him, and watch as happiness pours from him. “I loved those games.” He can’t help himself, taking the spot at the end of your sofa as he looks at the screen where the France team at the time were paused on a hug. “This was such an incredible moment.”

“It’s the final next.” You both say at the same time.

“Do you have a favourite match that you’ve seen?” He asks, unable to help himself from asking.

“Promise you’ll tell me if I sound like a fan? Because I got a little excited earlier.”

“She did.” Lottie agrees and laughs. “It was adorable.”

“I promise.” He grins and makes himself comfortable.

“Ok, so, Atletico...”

#antoine griezmann one shot #antoine griezmann series #antoine griezmann blurb #antoine griezmann drabble #antoine griezmann fanfiction #antoine griezmann fanfic #football one shot #football imagine #football drabble

22 notes · View notes

xratedffbarbiex · 3 years

Text

Tear You Apart. Two.

A/N: I am still unsure if this will be a Patreon exclusive or come here too, so please let me know if you like the first two chapters. Like/reblog/send me asks, let me know!

CHAPTER ONE.

____

You remain quiet until you reach her room, following her as she leads you throughout the home. She’s at ease as much as you expected her to be, her voice carrying through the hallways with the small talk she makes until she pushes open the door and leads you into a clean coloured, bright room. There’s enough furniture and personal touches to not look like a showroom, but it’s tidy enough to make you think it is usually this put together and not just because of potential visitors.

“I think he was expecting you to fangirl,” Lottie says, kicking the door shut behind you, giving the two of you some privacy. The image of her father in your mind is fixed firmly there still, burning into you in a way that you hadn’t felt for a long time. Those eyes scanning over you had made your blood come alive. Nothing about the way he’d looked at you was sexual, it hadn’t turned you on in a normal sense. Heat had stirred within your belly but it had felt more intense than that in a way that you hadn’t anticipated.

“Was I supposed to?” You frown. He looked familiar, but you couldn’t place it. Had you just looked at Lottie for too long? Caught a glimpse of him in her photos maybe? You weren’t sure, but to fangirl? That was new.

Lottie pauses her hands as she goes through her drawers, the bag she needs is open beside her, a shirt was carelessly thrown into it and part hangs out. “You really don’t recognise the Griezmann name, do you?” Her expression changes to amusement as yours remains confused. “That’s good. I like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I get a clean slate with you,” she says, sighing and giving a small nod as she comes to this conclusion. “Everyone around me knows him. Antoine Griezmann, famous footballer. World Champion. And now football coach.”

“I try not to make a point to fawn over my friend’s parents.” You grin and she returns it.

“You wouldn’t be the first if you did. As I said, it was his first time meeting you, it’s probably what he was expecting. I think he was relieved you didn’t though. It’s probably why he wanted to check you were the same friend I talk about a lot.”

“I can understand that.” You nod and take a seat, sitting carefully and poised rather than relaxed. “Anyone who comes into your life, if he’s as famous as you say, he must have it at the back of his mind that anyone getting close to you could be for the name, rather than your friendship.”

“He’s cautious of that. We both are. It makes dating hard. For us two at least. It’s easier for mom. The link isn’t as tempting it seems. Dating Griezmann’s ex-wife or date his daughter? I think you can imagine which is more appealing.”

“I can’t imagine having to second guess motives.”

“It’s...an experience. But it’s all I’ve known so it’s second nature now.” Lottie shrugs. “Now, what to take to yours?”

_____

Her words had played on your mind and certain things had slowly clicked into place. How others acted around her, especially if they’ve just been introduced, the way she’d been cautious with you to begin with. You weren’t oblivious, you’d heard they were well known but beyond that, anything else was new. Part of you wanted to protect her, wrap your arms around her and shield her kindness from those who would take advantage of her.

Since the first visit to hers, you began to visit a little more often; though it was mostly when he wasn’t home and overnight stays remained at yours. Until tonight.

“Pleeeeeaaaaaaase?” Lottie had pleaded, hands clasped together beneath her chin and her most innocent expression gracing her face. “Dad always gets the best hangover food in, that huge fridge is fully stocked with good stuff and he’s a wine snob. We can raid his wine cellar collection. He won’t even know because they’re playing away. By the time he’s home, I’ll have tidied up and you’ll be out of there.” You couldn’t say no and she’d all but skipped back to her desk before using the work messaging system to plot out the evening.

The two of you had pre-drinks at hers whilst getting ready with several other friends, music had been playing and the promised bottle of wine had been opened. The wine cellar was bigger than your kitchen diner, maybe even including your bedroom too. Bottles upon bottles of wine, gin and vodka lay on specially crafted shelves. A large clear fronted fridge shows the bottles of beer chilled to perfection. It was a beautiful sight.

She’d walked along the rows, each in their own section - red, white, rose and subsections such as fruity or dry. She trailed her finger along the bottles until she found the one she wanted.

“I’ve had my eye on this one for a while.”

“What if he’s saving that one for a special occasion?”

“You’re staying over for the first time. That is a special occasion.” She’d laughed and gone on her first quest of the evening to locate the corkscrew.

___

Your feet ache from all the dancing, your heels are swinging from your fingertips as your other hand wraps around Charlotte’s waist. The two of you are staggering and she’s singing into her phone, using it as a microphone as she sings a medley of songs that had played tonight. You can’t keep up. She sings lyrics from one song to a completely different tune of another song before shifting to another two. The bag hangs from her inner elbow swings rapidly with every grand gesture when she hits a certain line that requires a big flourish.

“Aaaaand I’m gonna need your heeeeeeeelp,” she wails, “to find the keeeeeeeys to my door.”

You’re more sober than she is, after all, someone had to be the one to look after everyone else, but you’d undoubtedly be refused entry to another bar for being too drunk if you tried. From here though, you notice a figure up ahead as the two of you stumble up the driveway. No amount of squinting can make out the person.

“Lottie.” you pull your arm from her waist and shake hers, “Lottie, there’s someone there.”

“No, it’s just us.” She slurs, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “No-one can get in through the gates but…” she squints, her eyes darting from where the figure stands, to across the yard. “Dad.” she whispers, “shit. I didn’t tidy. I’m sure Mel’s bra is still on the landing.” Her words still slur but the realisation that he’s home early is sobering her a little quicker than expected.

By the time the two of you reach the doorway, he’s tapping his foot, arms crossed over his chest and an expression that makes you think that even though he’s not your daddy, he could still punish and ground you.

“Good morning ladies.”

“Fries?” You ask, holding up the takeaway bag - an action that makes him laugh and defuses any annoyance he may have for having to deal with two drunken women.

“Get in, get changed and you,” he points a finger at his daughter, “try not to vomit. Again.”

The two of you are ushered inside with Lottie unable to resist humming one of the many tunes she has in her mind. She drops her heels to the floor with a loud click and Antoine’s sharp intake of breath does not go unnoticed by you as she sways down the hallway, the takeaway bag now in her hand.

“Sorry Mr Griezmann,” you whisper and offer him a smile. “I tried to take care of her.”

“She’s home safe, making more sense than she usually does and has both of her shoes. You did well. Now go change.” He grins.

You’re about to say something else when a bang sounds overhead, followed by a low wail. “I better..” you click your tongue, jerk your thumb over your shoulder and quickly make your way to where you know her room to be. Lottie is half undressed, one leg still on the bed while the rest of her sprawls out on the floor, a fry in her hand and three in her mouth.

“I had an accident,” she says in a sad quiet voice.

It takes you longer to put her into the bed and keep her there than it does to strip her, remove her makeup, and rummage through the fresh laundry basket for something for her to wear. You’d recognised one of the loose-fitting shirts that she’s worn before and pull it over her head before trying to wrestle with her arms through the holes. Bathing a cat would be easier, you decide as you sober more with each passing moment.

It’s not until you check your own bag that you realise you’ve packed everything but a nightshirt. Had Antoine not been here, you would have happily risked sleeping in just your panties but that’s now not an option. Stretching your arms above your head, you yawn as you look through the basket for something you can wear for the night.

A soft aged white shirt with faded A and a heart as the symbol meets your fingertips. Picking it up fully, you can’t help but bring the material to your face. It’s soft on your skin, far more so than it looks, and the scent of the fabric softener makes you want to bury your face into it even more. It falls softly over your body; falling to the underside of your butt cheek and grazes the tops of your thighs.

The tightness in your throat and burning sensation as you feel parched begins to occupy your thoughts. With a glance back at the bed and seeing her sleeping soundly with a light snore, you tiptoe to the door and listen for any sounds. Pausing a little longer, you try to make sure he’s not about before you slip out of the room and down to the kitchen.

You’re thankful that your much, much, much sober version of yourself earlier had left out a glass where you could find it and make quick work in drinking the first glass immediately. With another two mouthfuls of a refill, you close your eyes and hum to yourself that your thirst may be quenched.

“Sorry, I uhm…” he coughs and clears his throat as he offers you an apologetic smile. His sentence startles you a little, causing some of the drink to drip down your chin, the material of the shirt catching the droplets which fall.

“Sorry, I was just...I needed a...I’m gonna-yeah. Hi.” Your words come out far more flustered than you’d wanted and if the heat in your cheeks wasn’t causing them to colour as much as they feel like they’re burning, it’ll be a miracle.

He steps towards you, his aftershave fills your nose and under his watchful stare, your body reacts. You can feel the tightening at your chest, your nipples puckering into hard buds and the heat you’d felt previously in your belly when you’d first met him, this version is different. You know the alcohol you’ve consumed has no doubt heightened every sense you have and every emotion but you hadn’t anticipated your body betraying you in such an obvious way. Though you don’t know him too well, you can see the telltale signs that he’s trying his hardest not to glance down. You don’t need to look down to know that your nipples are visible to him, you can already feel the way your core pulses as the shirt moves, sending tingles throughout your system until it reaches between your legs.

You watch, almost in slow motion, as his hand lifts and extends towards you. Your instinct to push your chest out to him, to feel his fingers against your breast is the alcohol talking but when his hand continues to lift, you’re surprised by the taste of disappointment. His thumb swipes over your chin, the tip of it brushing over your lip, pulling it with his digit and he catches the wetness there from your drink.

“I should be going to bed.” You hear yourself say, amazing even yourself that you can think logically right now.

“Yeah, you should,” Antoine replies, pulling his thumb from your skin and licking at the corner of his mouth. “Sweet dreams.”

______

Your head pounds and your throat feels like you’ve swallowed tonnes of sand. Your fingers tap your phone screen, showing it’s a disgustingly sensible time and you groan as a result of being awake. You try to move slowly as you turn over, careful not to disturb Lottie in case she’s still asleep but you find her side of the bed empty though the cotton is still slightly warm to the touch so she can’t have been gone long.

In the bathroom, you pee and force yourself to brush your teeth even though you feel like gagging. After pulling on a pair of shorts, because strangely enough you could remember to pack those but not the shirt, you follow the smell of breakfast cooking and find yourself in the kitchen.

Lottie sits at the kitchen table with her head on her folded arms. The coffee cup that remains at the side of her has steam coming from the frothy topped liquid while he stands in front of the hob, spatula in hand as something cooks in the pan. Whether or not he can cook is another matter, but he occasionally prods the contents.

“Coffee? Tea? Mat-” he begins to offer drinks before he rests his eyes on you. “Maté” he finishes his own sentence which draws attention from Lottie who raises her head to look up at you.

“Nice shirt. You know that’s dad’s right?” her eyebrow raises and there’s a small smirk on her lips as she watches your cheeks heat and darken in colour. “You didn’t. This is very awkward.”

“It’s fine.” He replies, dismissing her comment with a wave of his spatula. “It suits you.” He gives you a smile similar to the one he’d given you last night when he caught sight of you in less. Judging from the look on his face, he remembers this too. “If you’re going to stay over, then you’re more than welcome to use it.”

“It’ll be hoodies next.” She comments.

“Not in this heat.” You reply.

“I’ll wait until winter then to notice more of my clothing going missing.” He flashes you a grin that has enough of an effect to make you press a hand to your head as a throb begins in more than one place, but you can’t place a hand for the other. You catch the look he gives her, a scathing warning to shut up but she doesn’t meet his eye, she’s too busy dropping her head back into her arms again. “But coffee and orange juice sound good to me.” You answer his original question and try to ignore the humiliating fact that you’d picked up your friend’s dad’s shirt.

He busies himself putting together a mug of coffee and pouring a glass of orange, doing anything that means he’s not looking at you right now before he extends his hand and offers you the orange first. “Seriously,” he whispers, “don’t worry about it. It probably looks better on you than it does on me anyway. And it’ll be one less thing you need to bring over if you stay again.”

“Can you two stop whispering like gossiping school girls?” Char groans, “I need breakfast. Urgently.”

90 notes · View notes

footbaliimagines · 7 years

Text

green light (an antoine griezmann imagine)

these are intended to be like snippets of a relationship between two people who <3 each other from the start but cant quite get their timing right. Idk it’s all a bit random and jumbled but i like the idea and the individual bits and the song and i hope you like it!! (p.s. the timeline is not 100% nailed tbh there isnt really much of a coherent timeline at all oops but let’s just go with it and not overthink it too much LOL SORRY) also it is ridiculously long so its allllll under the cut down there and also i have basically just lifted and edited one of my other drabbles in here so yeah

I know about what you did and I wanna scream the truth

You’re 18 and you hate him so much that you’re sure you never want to see him again.

(Never want to speak to him again, never want to look at his stupid smile, never want to set sights on another football match again in your entire life.)

He left you, alone, sad, single and still pining, after pledging his commitment to you and your relationship only to have his head turned by a stupid football team.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

It was all so god damn stupid.

“You’re not stupid,” Your best friend rolls her eyes and nudges you with her elbow.

You hum unresponsively, and silence envelops your bedroom once again. Rolling onto your back, you scrunch your eyes shut and groan, “I am. I’m stupid for believing him, and stupid for falling in love with such a stupid guy and I’m stupid because I’m here whining and crying and feeling sorry for myself while he’s out having the time of his life.”

“You’re not stupid.” This time, she laughs at your stubbornness, and flops next to you on your bed. “You’re in love. That’s not stupid. That’s life.”

She looks at you knowingly, and you hum again. It feels like your world is crumbling around you, but her words are probably the wisest you’ve ever heard. “I still feel stupid.” You mumble.

Before you’re about to burst into tears again, she wraps her arms around you and murmurs into your shoulder, “You can, and that’s valid. But you’ll be okay, you’ll move on and in a few years’ you won’t even remember his name. I promise.”

thought you said that you would always be in love

“Wine? Beer? I have some whiskey somewhere if you’d prefer that?”

You shrug, “I don’t mind. Whatever you’ve got open already.”

He pours you a gin and tonic and waits expectantly for you to speak up.

But you don’t.

You stare, fixated, at your glass, and swirl your straw around in the ice with one hand, fiddling with the zipper on your jacket with the other, waiting for him to make the first move.

It feels stranger than you can imagine to be sat here in silence next to Antoine. You want to speak, you feel like you should speak, but the words can’t quite come and there’s an insurmountable lump lodged in your throat. You haven’t seen each other in months, and it feels like there’s been a hole in your heart ever since he left.

(A huge, horrible Antoine-shaped hole.)

It’s not like you don’t see him at all, but his visits have slowly become less frequent and university has begun to occupy more and more of your time, and you’ve inevitably drifted. Awkwardness was never something you feared with Antoine, but now the atmosphere couldn’t be any more uncomfortable.

You cave after a few more minutes of strained silence. “How have you been?”

He’s grateful that he didn’t have to be the one to make the first move, and nods quickly. “Good, good. How’s home?”

“Home’s good too.”

“And yourself?”

“All good.”

(You want the ground to swallow you up.)

“Hey- you know that you can tell me anything, right? You don’t have to hold anything back.”

“Bit difficult when you’ve not been around, but sure.” You say, and there’s a bitterness in your voice that you don’t bother to hide. “And maybe if you bothered to call every once in awhile I’d feel a bit more comfortable spilling my guts to you.”

“Don’t be a dick about this. Calm down.”

He leans back on his seat, sipping coolly at his water. He’s cool and casual and acting like he doesn’t give a single fuck, and the arrogance of it all, the way he swans back home and acts as if he’s the bees knees just because he can kick a ball about for a bit makes you seethe.

“Fuck you.”

Then he laughs - he has the audacity to laugh - and salty tears threaten to spill from your eyes. “What’s so funny?”

You place your glass down on the table with extra force and stare him down, dead in the eye. “I’m sorry- hey, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t treat me like I’m a joke.” You scold him. “You’re the one that left and created all of this. You’re the one who has to pick up the pieces. Not me.”

And with that, you sweep out of the room, only for Antoine to lurch forward, clasping your hands in his and looking at you intently, his blue eyes flaming wildly, begging you, persuading you to stay. “I’m sorry.”

You slow to a stop and bite your lip.

“I think I’m just nervous. Not seeing you in so long - you’ve- you’ve changed. You look so, so beautiful. And it threw me off. I’m sorry. I swear, I’m sorry.”

You glance around his apartment. It’s empty, save for a pile of video games and dog toys. There’s nothing there, nothing of substance, and it feels empty, soulless, not like a home. A pang of sympathy burns through your heart as you realise you can’t leave him like this.

Whispered apologies and breathless ‘i-miss-you’s’ lead from one thing to another.

You pull him in and try not to overthink too much as he leads you to his room.

did it frighten you how we kissed when we danced on the light up floor?

You’re 22 now, and Antoine’s taking on San Sebastian by storm.

(Or at least, that was what you told everyone.)

It’s the end to his first proper season, and the club are hosting a summer party at a swanky hotel in the city centre. You’ve been flown out specially and introduced proudly to his teammates and coaching team, and the way he looks at you makes your stomach tumble.

(It’s like you’re seventeen again.)

He spins you around on the dancefloor with glee, and his parents and siblings are laughing at his goofy behaviour as you twirl with him to whatever was top of the charts in 2012.

(You’re too giddy to be seeing him again to remember properly.)

“I’m so happy for you.” You’re practically shouting to be heard above the music. “There’s no one who deserves success more.”

He smiles bashfully and blushes, before dipping his head and pressing his lips to yours. It’s a quick, short kiss, and probably looked much less romantic to outsiders than it felt to you, but it winds you and makes the blood rush to your head. “I love you.”

You tell him, in a hushed, breathy voice that you love him too.

I whisper things, the city sings them back to you

Now, it’s 2014 and Antoine’s just completed his transfer to Atletico Madrid.

“How’s life treating you in the capital, Senor?”

He laughs, and it’s only then that the amount you miss him hits home. His laugh is homely, it’s comforting and melodic and rumbles through his chest, and you can’t help but grin. “Life is great.” He chuckles, and a pang sears through your heart.

You want him to be happy, of course you do, but you’d be lying if you told yourself that it didn’t hurt to know he wasn’t just coping, but flourishing without you. “I’m glad to hear that.” You say gently. “You deserve it.”

“The city looks so beautiful at night.” Antoine observes, tipping his glass and nodding in the direction of the Madrid skyline in front of you two. “Doesn’t feel like home yet, but the view doesn’t hurt.”

You smile, and nod in agreement. It’s chilly, and before you know it he’s draping his jacket around your shoulders, speaking softly, “I miss you. And I think about you every day.”

His words knock the air out of you, and your face breaks into a smile. You want to reach over and link your fingers with his, but you swiftly compose and refrain yourself.

(You’re over him, completely 100% over him, and it wasn’t worth going back to square one again for one night, only to fly back to France the next morning and then not speak for weeks again.)

Antoine laughs again, and places his wine glass down on the side before gesturing at you to do the same. You down your champagne in one swift gulp and the bubbles rush to your head, making you burp- and subsequently, making Antoine laugh even harder. He entwines your fingers together, tugging you to the middle of the rooftop space. His steps mirror yours and wobble slightly, wavering as the alcohol works its familiar magic, and he pulls you in. You can’t help but let yourself get pulled along, and your hands link between his neck.

His black suit is stiff and ironed, and fitting tightly around his neck, and you press down on the material as he draws you closer. The music from the Atleti Christmas party is faint in the background- some playful, piano sonata serving as little more than ambient white noise- and you can barely make out the notes, never mind the beat, but Antoine starts to dance with you.

(Well, slowly wandering in circles because you’ve both consumed far too much alcohol to dance properly, but the sentiment remained the same.)

“You’re the most beautiful girl in the world to me, you know that, right?” He mumbles into your shoulder, as you slow back to stillness.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, trying to pry yourself out of his grasp to no avail. His arms around you tighten, as if he can’t, won’t, let go, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world and letting go could have disastrous consequences. His voice wobbles, and all of a sudden he’s that small, scared, nervous 18 year old boy you said goodbye to at the airport so many years ago.

“You’re a massive liar.”

He shakes his head determinedly; your quirk your eyebrow at him, challenging him. “The most beautiful, the silliest, the most annoying-.” He continues, and he smiles playfully at you.

“Sorry, do you want me to throw you off the roof, or-?”

He laughs, and his grip eventually loosens.

Antoine follows you as you walk back inside the party, and doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

sometimes I wake up in a different bedroom

You’re 25 now, older, wiser, more mature.

Shaped by life as a working woman with a house and a mortgage and a new swanky job in Paris.

(The fact that seeing photos of him continues to make you swoon to this day and that you still fall victim to his blue eyes whenever he visits makes you kind of hate yourself.)

(God, it’s all so cliche and messy that you can’t even recognise yourself anymore.)

“I don’t know what it is, but I always go back to him.” You mumble.

Your best friend smiles sympathetically. She’s been there for you every step of the way of this horrible, drawn out convoluted Antoine-saga that she’s basically become the third person of your relationship.

(If you could even call it that.)

“He was your first love, your first boyfriend, your childhood sweetheart, if you will.” She reasons.

“Of course you’re going to think about him. He’s not just an average, normal ex.”

“I think he was it for me.” You admit, in a tiny and quiet voice. “Which makes the fact that I don’t know if we’ll ever work so much scarier.”

Years have passed and life has changed, but there’s one thing (well, one person) that remains constant.

You’re not sure if you’ll ever get over him.

I hear sounds in my mind

brand new sounds in my mind

You pick up the bottle of champagne from the bar, letting the heavy glass bottle rock in your hands. The liquid inside warms from your touch, and you sit gingerly at the end of the hotel bed while he lingers by the window. You feel like an intruder invading somewhere where you don’t really belong, but he calms your nerves by smiling reassuringly and reaching out to sling an arm around your waist. “Congratulations.”

It’s the night after the semi-finals of the EUROs, and Antoine’s face is fixated with a rapturous grin, blue eyes fixated on you and scanning your body hungrily.

You haven’t seen him in months’; it feels new and nervous and kind of exciting. “Stop looking at me like that.” You narrow your eyes at him.

He laughs, leaning his head back and tipping up his chin before gently lifting the champagne bottle out of your hands. “Looking at you like what?”

“Like you,” You struggle for the words. “I don’t know, like you like me.”

He replies emphatically, “I do like you. What do you want me to do? Give you evils? Chuck you out of my hotel room, which you rudely barged into with no invitation, as a matter of fact?”

“Very funny.” You roll your eyes.

“You’re my best friend. Of course I like you.”

“I like you too, then.” You take the bottle of champagne back off of him and pad to the side cabinet to deftly pick up two flutes, as he spins you around to hug you from behind.

You can feel his lashes tickle the back of your neck and the smell of his aftershave drifts to your nostrils. The lights are dim and there’s music playing from his phone in the background; he takes your hands and spins you around, laughing maniacally.

There’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

honey I’ll be seeing you down every road

The next time you see him, it’s his summer break and you both return to your hometown. Despite your insistence to everyone that this time, things would be different and you wouldn’t go down that same stupid route again, it’s Friday night and you’re in his old bedroom, lying on the floor with a bottle of red wine sat between you.

“Love is stupid, and confusing, and I hate it.” You moan.

You’re spilling the details of your latest breakup to him, and the wine is making your blood run hot and your view foggy.

“I’ll cheers to that.”

He clinks your wine glasses together and mirrors your body language as you down the rest of it in a rapid gulp. “And breakups are shit. And men are shit, and I hate-”

“Hey, hey, hey.” He interrupts. “I’m not shit. Don’t tarnish me with the same brush.”

You feel a chuckle bubble up in your throat and choke out indignantly, “Oh Antoine, believe me, you’re the shittest. The absolute worst.”

He feigns indignation, but you leap to your feet and point your finger at his face before he can argue back. “You made me think that we were in love, when I was naive and gullible and 18, for Christ’s sake, and you lied to me and told me we’d always be together and all that bullshit.” What had started as mere joking had escalated to something bigger, and your voice seethes with poison and spite.

(You would later come to blame liquid confidence for your outburst.)

“And then we see each other and every now and then, and you tell me again that you love and miss me but you do absolutely fucking nothing about it.” You rub your eyes with your hands and feel them sting with tears. “I’m sick and I’m tired, and I’m so, so fed up. And I can’t do this anymore, being your bit on the side, you know, your convenient fuck buddy because you know I’d do anything for you and that once you go back home you don’t have to deal with the consequences.”

He nods numbly, shellshocked, and can’t bring himself to look at you. For once, for you feel like you have the upper hand.

(It’s a refreshing, empowering, satisfying feeling.)

(So why do you still feel so shit?)

“I understand.”

“I really fucking hate you sometimes, Antoine.” You say, in a small voice. “For what you’ve done to me- for what you do to me. How I’m strong and capable and I have my head screwed on until I see you, and then I’m a mess with no control. And how it happens every single fucking time.”

“Stay.”

One word, like it’s that simple, like it’s that easy, like you’re that stupid.

Like you’d believe a single word that came out of his stupid, piece of shit mouth.

He’s begging and he jumps to his feet, and the look in his eyes and the way his hands tremble is nearly enough to make you crumble again but you stand strong. Because you’re selfish - as you should be, for once - and you refuse to accept it this time.

You’re resentful, selfish and you’re bitter as hell.

He mutters, “You’re all I have these days. Please don’t leave.”

“I can’t be what you need me to be anymore.” You shake your head and back away. “I really can’t.”

It hurts more than you can imagine to reject him at his most vulnerable but there’s a feeling of accomplishment and adrenaline running through your veins as you leave.

honey I’ll be seeing you wherever I go

After that night, you go without seeing Antoine for a good five months, and you’re doing fine.

(Fine. A-okay. Great, even, depending on the day.)

Life, football, the Champions League, your new job - you name it - they all get in the way, and as if following a routine, your friendship returns to sporadic text messages, occasional email exchanges and promises to meet up that never really pan out.

You’ve realised you don’t care as much about the football, and sometimes find it difficult to even hear the word Madrid in conversation, but it’s okay, and all is good and happy and constant in your life.

Change is good, and Paris is incredible. And you’ve discovered a bunch of new shows and singers and artists and you remind yourself constantly that broadening your horizons is beneficial and necessary and nothing bad could possibly have come from it.

Sometimes, you think you spot him in the corner of your eye. A flurry of dark hair in front of you in the street, a broad set of shoulders ordering coffee, a man speaking Spanish lilted with a French accent, a booming laugh and a twinkling smile. You see him and it’s like a switch has been flicked within you, it’s him, you know it’s him immediately, and suddenly it’s like you’ve stepped into a time machine and you want to approach him and say hi, hey, how are you, you look great, we should grab coffee.

(Or something. You can’t guarantee that it would be a friendly exchange, and knowing your temper and the sour way you last left things, the likelihood of an amiable reunion was very slim.)

Then it dawns on you, that it’s not Antoine at all. It’s another man, a complete stranger, and you’ve been staring at him like an idiot for no reason at all.

You think sometimes that you could have simply got it all wrong. Antoine’s invaded your brain, marked his stamp and presence in your head and ruined every other man on the planet with brown hair and a handsome grin and a deep laugh. In fact, if you were never able to form a healthy relationship with another man in your life, he’d be to blame, you often muse moodily. He’s trapped you, preventing you from moving forward, because it’s like you’re stuck in this vicious cycle where everything comes back to him and you see him everywhere you go.

The man you’ve been staring at for the better part of the last 10 minutes’ flashes eye contact with you briefly when he gets up to leave. You’ve been imagining this man as him, projecting a story and a life and a plot onto a random stranger you would never see again, all of that potential.

The possibilities, the what-ifs and all the what-could-have-beens, how your life could have been so different if you’d accepted Antoine’s offer to move out with him so many years ago.

You try to push these thoughts as far as possible out of your mind.

honey I’ll come get my things, but I can’t let go

You’re sitting in the waiting room of the dentist when you spot the glossy cover of Closer in the corner of your eye, photographs of Antoine splashed across the front. He’s holding hands with a mystery brunette, shielding her from the paparazzi’s glares.

You pick it up and it feels like watching as an outsider to a parallel universe, like sitting on the wrong side of a glass enclosure or like a spectator at the zoo watching on. He’s thriving, prospering, blossoming in Madrid, partying with the world’s elite and living the life that you always knew he would get to one day. You should feel happy for him, but there’s an uneasy, gnawing feeling in your gut.

You toss the magazine back onto the table.

I wish I could get my things and just let go

The streets of Paris are beautiful and picturesque, you muse, as you walk home. It’s been a long day at work, and there’s a tempting bottle of chilled pinot grigio waiting for you in your fridge, and a bath calling your name. You stretch your neck, digging out your keys and glancing back up to your front door.

He’s sat there, waiting patiently, fiddling around doing something or other on his phone with his hood up. It’s dark by this point, and if you hadn’t recognised his shadow you’d have been ready to whip out your pepper spray and pounce. He’s in casual wear, presumably after his spontaneous flight out to Paris, and takes his hood off. It’s probably to deter any potential fans or paparazzi, but gives off an awful impression nonetheless. “Hey.” You call out.

Antoine jumps before looking up at you. “Hi.”

“Is there a reason you’re sat on my front step?”

He laughs nervously. Your first glance at him makes your throat dry up and your heart stutter, and suddenly you regret your decision to put a spectacular lack of effort into your appearance today. “I wanted to talk. I was in town and just thought I’d drop by.”

“What, you were just casually in Paris?” You raise an eyebrow at him questioningly and he shrugs in response. “You shouldn’t wait around at people’s doorsteps in all black with your hood up. Could give off the wrong impression. You’re lucky I didn’t attack you or call 911.”

He smiles cheekily, “Duly noted.”

He aligns his steps next to yours as easy as anything, and follows you into your hallway when you unlock the door. The lights slowly flicker on, and it feels like you’re sat on a knife’s edge.

Why was he here? What did he want? Why didn’t he call beforehand? Who told him that blonde and blue highlights would seriously be a good idea?

Your mind fizzes to the brim with unanswered, desperate questions, but you are determined to keep your cool. “I don’t know what to say.” Is what you mumble out instead.

Antoine smiles softly, that ridiculously, perfectly photogenic smile, and your heart starts beating incessantly already.

“Let me speak, then.” He clears his throat. “I just want to apologise.”

“What for?”

He cuts you off, “And I want to explain some things to you.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been a dick.”

You smile and shrug. “Can’t say I massively disagree.”

“But I’m ready to stop that now.”

“So honourable. Jeez.” You mock, and he gives you a look.

(As if to say, shut up, i’m trying here, let me finish my god damn sentence.)

“Because I’m ready now. I know it’s taken me so long but I know now, it’s dawned on me. It’s you, it’s all you and it always has been you. You deserve the best, not just with this, whatever this is, but with everything in your life, and I haven’t been able to give you me at my best, not until now. That’s why I’ve been so hesitant, that’s why we’ve always been so unsure, because I could never give you what you deserved. But It’s so clear to me now. God, I love you more than I ever thought was possible, I love you so much that when you’re not here it’s like I can’t breathe, and food has no taste and it’s all so pointless. I love you. I think deep down I always have. And I want to make the plunge now, because I’m all in. All, 100%, completely, truly, unfailingly all in.”

He offers you a hand which you take, pulled in like a magnet. “I never want to be without you, ever, ever again. Not a single day.”

You gulp, your eyes welling with tears. “Flying out to Paris was probably unnecessary, I know. But- hey, just give me a call when you get the chance, okay? When you’ve made a decision, thought about it-”

“I don’t need to think about it.” You interrupt him eagerly, and you cup his face with both hands.

His chest is heaving with deep, nervous, shaky breaths, mirroring yours, and when you smile it takes over your face.

(You’re probably terrifying him because you’re pretty sure the smile on your face makes you look like a lunatic, but you don’t care.)

His hands find your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and he kisses you roughly, like no time has passed. His lips are soft and familiar and they feel like coming home.

You breathe, “I’m yours.”

“Hm?”

Antoine swings you up and your legs wrap around his waist, as his arm hooks around you with ease and he continues to press kisses to your neck.

“All yours.”

I’m waiting for it, that green light, I want it

“Til death do us part.”

You opt for an intimate, cosy reception, but the music resonating soundly around the hall, your guests’ chatter and laughter, and the never ending clinking of cutlery and glassware makes it sound like you’ve invited the whole population of France. Antoine grips your hand so tightly that his nails leave marks on the back of your hand and before you can even blink (or, as the cliche goes, have a slice of your own cake), you’re whizzing round, saying goodbyes.

(It’s the happiest day of your life by a mile.)

Antoine presses a line of kisses down your neck, marking a pattern from below your ear to the base of your neck. He murmurs, “God, I feel like I’ve been waiting to marry you for the whole of my life.”

“Maybe we should have just eloped when we were like, eighteen.” You laugh. It’s a tongue in cheek comment but you can’t help but feel like there’s some truth in your statement. “ It would have saved lots of back of forth-”

“And lots of pain, crying- the latter, mostly on my part.” He chuckles, and you laugh again, like it’s something infectious and like your entire body has just been taken over by bubbles and champagne and all things light and fizzy.

(It feels like you’re floating on air.)

(And for the first time, you start to think that maybe, all the heartache and the fighting and the angry pledges you made that you would never speak to him again, were worth it.)

(Love did weird things to you.)

“Now, would you like to join me in our wedding suite, Mrs Griezmann?”

It rolls off his tongue like honey and you bite your lip in euphoric anticipation, nodding emphatically. The sound of your shared laughter (there it is again, that hyperactive, constant bubble of laughter) echoes around the empty hotel corridor as you follow him to your suite.

There’s a twinkle in his eyes when he looks back at you.

#my writing #antoine griezmann #Antoine Griezmann fanfiction #antoine griezmann imagine #antoine griezmann fanfic #antoine griezmann fic #antoine griezmann one shot #footballer fanfiction #footballer one shot #footballer imagine #footballer imagines #football one shot #Football Fanfiction #atletico madrid fanfiction

160 notes · View notes

awesometheydontknowiamhere · 3 years

Text

So y'all know I am unecesarrily horny and way too single.

So I am going to be writing Football Fanfiction.

Feel free to leave any asks/ player recommendations/ any thing else you would like to see.

98 notes · View notes

penguintransporter · 3 years

Text

Daisies (a short “anyone you want it to be with” story) Part II

part I | masterlist

According to one of the many dictionaries around the world wide web, the word regret can be described as ‘a feeling of sadness about something sad or wrong, or about a mistake that one has made, and a wish that it could have been different and better’.

No human being is spared of the particular feeling of regret at some point in life, and as such, it exists to teach us new views and ways of doing things differently. After all, we, people are born to make mistakes, to repent and to carry the consequences of things we did or things we do, and in the end, we are made to learn from our experiences.

Still, humans wouldn’t be humans if there weren’t exceptions, and he knows he is one of them.

As he sits up and reaches out for his watch that had been resting on the bedside table, he adds another thing to, what it felt like, a never-ending list of the things he is going to regret sooner or later. Like hypnotized, he finds himself staring at time as it slowly ticks away – each second feeling heavier than the one before, and it takes him a good, full minute before he blinks and looks down at her.

She has a questioning look on her face, but she doesn’t say anything as she pulls the cream-coloured sheet over her chest, which in return, exposes her smooth leg that he eagerly touched, just a handful minutes ago, but now, it makes him sick just to think about his own behaviour. He feels like an awful person for using her as a distraction; for giving in into yet another act of intimacy that meant very little once the moment of bliss and satisfaction left his body.

But, fight fire with fire, they say.

He gives her a small smile – just a lift of one of the corners of his mouth before he looks away and smoothly gets up to put his clothes back.

Both his heart and his head were a mess.

The mess he created with his own behaviour and poorly made decisions.

What are you doing?

He wasn’t supposed to be there, in this minimally furnished bedroom, sitting half-naked at the edge of this enormous bed.

He was supposed to be on the other side of the city, at the airport, just like everyone else who cared about her, and as he slips his t-shirt on, he cannot help but wonder if she even had the tiniest clue about why he couldn’t bring himself to be there? If she expected his absence?

A coward at his finest.

Truth to be told, and he can only be honest with himself when he thinks, he wanted to be there.

He wanted to be there to give her a hug, to wrap his arms around her and breathe in the faint traces of her perfume that seemed to be stuck in every item of clothing she owned – daisies-patterned or not. He wanted to be there for her, like he should, to whisper in her ear to take care of herself and to call him often; to visit whenever.

More than anything, he wanted to admit to her how much he cares, and even if his own idiocy caused her pain in the past, he wanted to be a selfish bastard one last time and ask for another chance for a future together.

He wanted to tell her how much he wants her, every bit of her; how much he needs her.

How much he regrets that he let her slip away.

If only he had the guts to be there and to be honest with her for once. Maybe she would have changed her mind and stayed? Maybe she would have, just like in the movies, turned around just before boarding her flight? Maybe she would have ran into his arms and he was sure that he would have held her, never letting go.

If only.

He knows that he is being foolish.

To think that some empty words would change her mind and make her stay was the most ridiculous thing to do, because, how can he even begin to ponder that he deserves another chance? That he has any right to be selfish?

Deep down he knows that he doesn’t, because, when she held her heart on her sleeve for him to take it, he ignored it, pushing it aside; toppling it over with force and shattering it.

Because all the others were more interesting, more exciting, more everything.

He trampled over the field of daisies, leaving a trail of broken stems behind.

How can he even think that some words would make them heal; make them flower again.

“You can stay, you know,” she speaks as she props herself on her elbow.

He shrugs a little, getting up. “I have some plans for later.”

No, he doesn’t.

She doesn’t say anything, but he knows that she’s watching him because he feels her eyes following his every move, but he finds it difficult to look back. Ashamed, disgusted and annoyed with himself – that’s how he feels because he knows how wrong it is to keep this farce of a relationship going; to keep hurting her, to use her as a distraction. Many men and women would have been more than happy to have someone as stunning as she is as their partner, and at one point in his life, he was one of them, but now, nothing about the relationship felt right.

Empty, shallow conversation that didn’t matter, curt answers, with silence filled moments, and occasional sex was all that was left out of them ever since he realised he was in love with someone else. Ever since he began to imagine some other lips kissing him, some other body in his arms, some other fingers crawling at his back; some other breaths and moans against his cheek – his relationship with the girl who watches him curiously as he dresses himself in a dimly lit room he once was familiar with, deteriorated.

Daisies.

When he finally leaves her apartment, clutching his phone in his hand, he isn’t surprised to see several missed calls and few unread text messages – all of which came from the same person – his teammate, and one of the people who tried to take off the blindfold he carried over his eyes.

As his eyes scan over the screen, each line of the text slaps him harder than the previous one.

You should have been here.

You owe her that much.

Are you really not going to show up?

And then, the last slap that knocks him out – figuratively – is the photograph.

Five people that he cared about so dearly, all huddled together as they grinned at the camera, but his eyes stay locked at one face in particular, and that’s when the regret for not being there overwhelms him even more than before.

Is this how it will end?

Will their story end before it had the chance to begin?

Seeing their faces in that single picture; seeing her bright smile, and those eyes shadowed with sadness – he wishes that he was there as well, next to her, having his arms around his friends, pulling a face or telling a bad pun that would make them laugh before the flash goes off.

The watch on his hand ticks away slowly as he sits in his car, slamming the doors harder than he wanted to. Even if he starts to drive now, breaking every speed limit and ignoring every red light on his way, he wouldn’t be able to get there on time.

He wouldn’t be able to get there on time to hug her, to say every word that was on his mind; to make her stay.

Like writing a poetry book, he adds another verse of regret, lined up perfectly – one after another as he backs his car onto the road, taking the opposite direction to the one that would take him to the airport.

He was late.

🌼

part III

Hope you liked the second part, there will be third part as well, if not tonight then mid-week. I had a really rough and busy patch at work last week so I wasn’t able to update. Make sure to check out my masterlist (pinned post), and to tell me what you think about this one. As before, I kinda want to tag people here because I think they are all amazing writers and mutuals.

@rosie7703, @emwritesfootball, @avenirdelight, @alexajanecollins, @afootballimagines, @footballerimaginess, @footballxwrites, @just-imagines, @donkeykai

If I forgot someone, please message me and I will add you :)

48 notes · View notes