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randombush3 · 18 days

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angel of small death & the codeine scene

jenni hermoso x reader

this was supposed to be a blurb but it's too long bc i got carried away so oh well (i also deeply hate this because i got bummed out by the toxicity and had to tone it down)

big thanks to @codiemarin for the idea and the song xx

brief summary: it's a very, very toxic relationship

Hard, unforgiving droplets of water lash down onto the very small window of your bedroom. The sky is grey, your brain is foggy, and you are wondering what decision you made last night that has led you to waking up naked. A muffled groan sounds from somewhere far too close to not be your bed, so you are not alone.

Hungover, naked, and – with an arm now slung over your bare hips – definitely not alone. What a way to wake up.

Your phone rings, jolting you upright as the familiar tone screeches at you to stop running from your future.

You take the bed sheets with you, conserving your modesty.

And, oh.

You have slept with a woman.

She doesn’t look very French, you decide quickly, eyes roaming over the sprawling tattoos decorating olive skin. “Salut,” you attempt, finally uncovering the shrieking device and switching it off – they can’t get you if you don’t give in. “Pas pour être impoli mais je...”

“Hello.”

Your words fall back down your throat and you gulp as if to keep them there. You are well aware that staring is rude, but how could you not?

Her voice is gruff and low and heavily accented. It ignites something that must have been blazing last night, setting the dying embers of your one-night-stand right back on fire, and you… You just look at her.

“Bonjour,” comes her next bullet, aimed right at the centre of you. Your legs weaken and, for once, you cannot possibly run away. “I need to go to, ehh, how you say? Entrenamiento.”

“Désolé, comment t'appelles-tu?”

“Ah.” You continue to wait for her answer, stuck in the rusty cogs of communication. “Eh… Jenni?”

“Is that a question?”

“You speak English?!”

Your nod sets Jenni off into a fit of giggles, amused by the ridiculousness of the situation. You, however, with very little memory of the previous night, are wondering how on Earth this woman ended up here if she doesn’t speak French and was unaware that you speak English. But, if you were to remember, you’d have known that the only words exchanged between you and this Jenni up until now had been your consent for her to do whatever she had wished to you, and her mumbled ‘buenas noches’ after you had finished.

Jenni had not confessed what her initial attraction to you consisted of. You hadn’t minded.

Again, your phone rings, but this time Jenni is awake and cognisant, prepared to detect your reluctance to answer (the only reason you’d gotten up had been to decline the call) and glad to welcome you into her arms.

The previous night, she had mirrored your behaviour, lurching like a stray into an open, uncaring embrace with someone who wasn’t Alexia and therefore not the mistress of her heartbreak. Not that it had dulled her pain, and not that whoever you were mattered.

“You speak good English,” Jenni says a moment later, breathing in the heady scent of dried sweat and desire. “Where are you from?”

The only answer you give her is your mouth unexpectedly taking over her own, lips soft but attacking her nonetheless; it’s almost a warning, it’s almost a… threat. She feels a little threatened, really, but she does not know why. You seem like an angel, a halo of sunlight piercing through the grey skies and shining brightly even if the rain is determined to make her miserable. You are sweet, sickeningly addictive, and, although Jenni needs to get herself to the PSG training ground, knowing football will take her mind off what she is striving hard not to think about, she suddenly realises that you, naked on top of her, are her cure instead.

There is a second time, a third, and then the drawing up of some form of arrangement that neither Jenni’s English nor French permit her to fully understand. You appear when you need her, usually in the café opposite her apartment building, and Jenni makes a point to position her furniture so that they face her windows. She teaches herself patience, but hopes that you are there – sipping your coffee, smoking your cigarette – almost every waking moment.

Jenni decides that sex with you makes her feel alive, so enlightened that her eyes are open when they are shut and she just knows things. It has never happened to her before, not with Alexia, and certainly not with anyone else. You bring her Heaven, and she begins to learn your body like it is the Bible. She is on her knees for you, praying. She chases her petite mort, which you benevolently extend to her like some winged saviour, with abandon and devotion.

Jenni might have started to chase you, though each and every one of her attempts is shrugged off and denied into non-existence, somewhere between the plane of her imagination and the real world. At times, she has to convince herself that she is not telling herself some self-soothing tale about sex with a woman who disappears seconds after the act is done.

You are burning hot liquid in her hands. She cups her palms together and she tries to catch you, but some of it slips through her fingers and she can only stare at what she has lost. But, even then, she is glad you have seared her skin and made her feel something, and is thankful for the scorch marks you have left on her.

She often verbalises her gratitude, accustomed to her partner needing to be praised to the ends of the Earth, but you simply laugh at her. It’s not too patronising – it never is – but if Jenni wanted to, she would hear the venom behind it. And, whenever your Spaniard pants out a gracias/thank you/merci, you hold back the lashing of your tongue, choosing to slice her body instead of her heart.

It’s not really Jenni’s heart that you care about, though.

Well, at least, the metaphorical, poetic understanding of the organ.

You like that it pumps her blood around her body and keeps her alive. You like that she is alive. You like that she uses her oxygenated fingers to fuck you beyond the knowledge of your ever-approaching future and that the muscle is efficient enough to keep her going until there are tears of ecstasy streaming down your face and you lay upon the precipice of euphoria and total obliteration, tiptoeing across the boundary.

You care about Jenni in the same way a dictator cares for his prized weapon; obsessive, hungry, and overpowered by the idea of having such a thing in his possession. It is callous, and you know that, but it is the necessary mechanism to cope.

They will come for you within the next year. Jenni will be gone by then, and the armies you have rallied will have been slaughtered.

You are running with the knowledge that your legs will give out, but there is a woman, an impeccably rebellious choice, who soothes your aches like a decent dose of codeine.

“Are you in danger?”

The question is misplaced in the situation, and you are surprised that Jenni is brave enough to ask.

“Non,” you reply, using the language she can’t speak to quite literally avoid whatever communicative conversation the footballer has dreamt up.

“You flinch when your phone rings,” she accuses, tattooed arm extended and tensed, index jutting out towards the device lying face-down on the surface of the table. “You hide, I think. You speak very well. I am… confused, and my brain can’t work you out.”

“Good thing you don’t need to work me out to fuck me senseless.”

She cringes at how crass you sound, wondering if the sentence has left a bitter taste in your mouth too. She finds herself glancing at your coffee and taking in the stub of your cigarette. You smoke an expensive brand, not that she is well-acquainted with the various types of cancer-sticks (she would play football forever if she could).

“Are you English?”

You blink at her, but that is all you give.

“Are you French?”

You pull on the sooty edge of the glass ashtray and drag it towards you, eyes fixed on the brunette as you put out your cigarette.

“Why are you in Paris?” Jenni asks desperately. “Why are you here? Why do I not even know your name? Why, if you hate me, do you not just leave me alone?”

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Your frown may not be genuine, but Jenni’s regret rushes in fast and strong, and she is barking out, “no! No, please!”. Her dignity loses sight of its owner and she would have been embarrassed once upon a time.

But that was before she met you.

When you stand, it is with precise and good posture, and it seems as though the entire world pauses to hear your next words. Jenni moves closer with a deft adjustment of the weighting in her hips, darting around the table and overwhelmed by the fear that this is the moment you are going to walk away.

Her fingers hook onto your flesh, the warmth of the skin a confirmation that you are human, and she lays her heart down to rest at your feet. It’s bloody and raw on the cobbled street, but it is throbbing for your attention and you are wearing a little smile that she has never seen before.

“Alright, Jenni,” you say, and she swallows her surprise that you have used her name, “I won’t.”

Jenni and you think, at the same time, of the omitted word: ‘yet’.

Her contract expires with PSG and you disappear. It happens at the same time, but Jenni is never granted another chat to determine whether the events are related.

The time that passes after her time in Paris does so in a way that makes Jenni want to both forget and remember her experience. Madrid is her home, but it feels dull.

Barcelona is worse. Alexia doesn’t… compare.

Of course, like Jenni and Alexia always do, they break up. Jenni is reminded of how you were running from something, and, inspired, she flees.

She tries to centre her focus elsewhere. Alexia, over the last three years, has grown frustrated with her constant distraction, claiming the forward to be trapped in her head as though it brought her bliss.

In truth, Jenni is experiencing leash-less confusion. She was a stray, she was fed, and now she has been released into the wilderness with no hint of your whereabouts and nothing to prove any of it was real. Apart from what is in her head; those memories.

A million unanswered questions weigh her down, though the Mexico sun is bright enough to help her see through the fog.

Is she better now, having survived?

Jenni does not know about the small hands that cling to your dress as you step onto the hot tarmac of the Mexican airport. Jenni is unaware that the newest share-holder of her new club, Tigres, is paying a visit, wanting to be introduced to his teams.

She is still relatively new – comfortable, but a stranger to the institution nonetheless. They push her to the back of the huddle of players, although she is tall enough to peer over their heads at their owner and his family.

He has two sons, she sees, and one is much more timid than the other. Neither react to the cooing of her teammates, nor do they seem to comprehend the conversation being had in Spanish.

“Dites ‘hola’, mes chéris.”

She knows that voice.

Your eyes are piercing and full of recognition. The quieter of the two boys follows your gaze, curious about the woman with drawings on her arms. Held by you now, he pokes your neck to get your attention and points at Jenni, leaning comfortably into your body to whisper something in your ear in a way that Jenni can only attribute to that of a son. You nod softly, and let him wave.

Jenni waves too, forcing her hand into motion and telling herself she is pathetic if she is unable to function at the sight of a married woman. (Had you always been married?! Is the older boy young enough to have been born after Paris?)

It works, briefly, and she begins to fumble through her French in her head to formulate a sentence so that she can talk to the little boy, but, too soon, you are waving at Jenni as well and your wedding ring is catching the sunlight and blinding the Spaniard before she can weave her way through the crowd.

The same ring falls to the floor hours later, rolling off the bedside table as your hand knocks the wood on your quest to find purchase somewhere. It hits the ground of Jenni’s bedroom with a clatter, but she barely registers the sound from her place between your legs.

Your back arches earlier than anticipated, but Jenni’s tongue is steady and practised. She is an addict with her drug in the palm of her hand, and when she kisses you, it is the heat of your breath in her mouth which makes her heart pound, keeping her alive.

Years ago in Paris, Jenni named you her angel of her orgasm, of what made her feel better after leaving what had been her home and a devastating failure of a relationship. Now, Jenni is unsure whether the euphemism fits. She translates it, instinctively to English (you’re right here with her), and deems it to be better.

Her Angel of Small Death.

She bleeds and bleeds, sliced by the weapons you wield, but then you soothe her pain like the opiate you are and she is ready to go again.

It’s your phone ringing that ruins the post-orgasmic silence between you.

Jenni observes as you reach out to check it, still tentative, still running from something. “Were you married?” she asks, and you discover her interrogation skills haven’t changed. “Were you married all this time?”

“I was engaged.”

“When we…” she trails off because she isn’t certain how she should describe the ritualistic nights you’d spend together, “you were engaged?”

You have toyed with her, leading her somewhere between loved and abused.

And you…

You give her a little smile.

“Sorry, Jenni.”

#woso x reader #jenni hermoso #jenni hermoso x reader #woso imagines #woso #woso fanfics #barca femeni #alexia putellas

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photmath · 9 months

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13 Laughing Emojis | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappe x Female Reader

Summary: Wanting to see Barbie during Kylian's transfer incites chaos on Twitter.

Word Count: 1.5k (blurb)

Warnings: cursing, kissing, perhaps typos, transfer??, mention of barbie but no spoilers, brief social media usage

Note: To get me back in the writing mood before I drop a 10k chapter of Comme Les Fleurs. Also my first time adding a Twittter section---never again!

Kylian’s phone would not stop ringing as the two of you laid in the cushions of the couch. He would grumble with each vibration, kissing your forehead and whispering his sorry’s before carefully slipping out of the couch to answer the call.

There were days where his phone would constantly ring, especially when he was away from his mother. Some mornings you would find the other side of the bed empty, him already awake and talking in the kitchen with Fayza. She’d greet you as if you had been there this entire time, shoving a cup of coffee in your hand and ushering you to sit down next to Kylian. He would give you a sympathetic smile, kissing your forehead while rubbing circles on your back.

You had always been in Paris, your life was here. Your friends and family, they all lived down the street of your childhood home.

Kylian told you late at night, after coming back home from a disappointing loss. He said he wasn’t renewing, that he’d leave PSG in a year and start a new adventure. You were excited, wanting him to make his dream come true of playing with Real Madrid but you thought you’d have a year to get it settled.

Now, practically hidden in the shadows of Madrid, you were growing restless, wanting to feel the breeze or even the sweltering sun outside.

“No, mi amor, we can’t go out—”

“You know I’m good with disguises,” you scowl.

He pulls you into his chest, his lips meeting yours in a chaste kiss, “What do you want to do?”

“Anything, Kylian,” you groan. Your hands clasp around the nape of his neck, staring down at the overgrown stubble he was refusing to shave, not that he had the time. Having to pack your bags with haste before catching a private jet to Madrid, none of you had time to double check vanities and necessities.

His hands slide down to your thighs straddling him, squeezing them lightly before tracing your bottom to settle on your back. His eyes narrow almost immediately, a smirk drawing on his lips, “Anything?”

“No,” you smack his chest although his eyes don’t leave your lips. “Can I just walk around the lobby?”

He shakes his head with a frown, “Come on, amor, you know you shouldn’t. One more week, yeah?”

“I didn’t have to come this early,” you grumble.

You were hesitant about leaving, of course you were. You only had two months to gravitate that you were uprooting your entire life with the same boy who would knock on your door everyday with a flower he picked from the neighbor’s yard. You knew what you were getting into, but for his transfer to be regarded as the most talked about, the most sought out one, nothing could’ve prepared you for the way the media would’ve twisted the entire saga. Every hour they mentioned Kylian news, whether it was true or not.

You have been here before, hell multiple times now. People would stop you at your job, recognizing you and asking what Kylian was going to do. But this time it was different, it was official. Kylian was in Madrid, ready to be presented within a week.

Kylian’s hand moved to your cheek, his smile straining to not diminish, “Do you want to go home?”

His eyes go tender, taking one of your hands and pressing a kiss against the bone of your wrist. He’s gentle, the lamp’s incandescent light glowing against his cheek as his dark eyes await your answer. Warmth encompasses you almost instantaneously the longer your stare at him.

You don’t feel the lull of wanting to retreat back to Paris. You don’t feel the guilt for leaving so suddenly, for resenting the year’s notice you suddenly no longer had. All the mornings, nights, and dates interrupted by phone calls and meetings. You were used to them, yet sometimes they still made you upset. Kylian was always attentive to your subtle change in emotions, making up for the lost time in the sweetest of ways, but it was only a reminder of what you were to experience for the rest of your life.

You shake your head, snapping out of your trance, “No, why would I go there? You aren’t there.”

A small smile forms, “If you ever want to visit, don’t hesitate to tell me, yeah?”

“Of course.”

He craned his neck to kiss you, chuckling within it, “If you want to leave, we need to go somewhere that’s private.”

“You’ll be surprised with what strings I can pull.”

“Yeah?” he raises his brows. His arms secure around your back and swiftly lays you against the couch. “What strings can you pull, belle?”

“Two tickets to Barbie!” you snicker.

He scrunches his nose, “There’s people there.”

“No, I called around and found a place that is very private, big names go there. They have a separate entrance and everything,” you reason. His hips dip down to meet yours, a huff escaping you as he plants his deadweight against you. You laugh, snaking your arms around his shoulders.

His eyes crinkle, “You were going to go with or without me, weren’t you?”

The mischievous grin grows before you can stop it, “Maybe.”

“Ow,” he feigns before collapsing on top of you to kiss you. His stubble scratches against your chin, and you nearly push him off hadn’t he been Madrid’s most prized possession at the moment. “I’ll buy the tickets after this.”

You pull away from his kiss, "We have to wear pink!"

"Pink?"

"Please."

"You don't have to beg, love," he snickers. "Of course we will wear pink. I have a shirt."

"Oo," your eyes widen, "the one that exposes your chest?"

He nods, finally quieting you down with a kiss.

---

Kylian knew to shut off his phone before the movie started, you followed as well. The both of you hated interruptions at movies and it wasn’t like the two of you went to a cinema often.

Once the credits begin the roll, Kylian presses his lips against your nose upon hearing your sniffles. You pushed him away, not wanting him to see you crying although it was nothing new. He chuckles, sliding his phone out of his pocket and turning it on.

Within seconds of his phone loading, it’s bombarded with notifications.

“Sheesh,” he whispers, briefly scrolling through them. Your eyebrows furrow when you see your name within his messages, something about your Twitter.

Your eyes bulge, “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What?” he mutters, turning towards you and then turning back to his phone. He brings his phone closer to his eyes, reading along the messages that his mother and other family members have sent him. “Amor?”

Turning on your phone seems to be the most difficult task in the world, nothing wanting to load and Twitter glitching as you tap your profile. “Fuck!”

“Bébé, why is Mom talking about your Twitter, that you—posted something?”

Once the tweet finally loads, you realize in horror that your account was no longer private. Your last tweet had reached 500 thousand likes and millions of views. Your cheeks burn as you turn towards Kylian, who’s still focused on his messages instead of his Twitter.

“I think…” you start. Kylian’s head snaps in your direction at the sound of your trembling voice. His phone slips out of his grip and bounces against his thigh, landing on the floor. He doesn’t glance at it, only scanning your face for answers. “When Lana was playing with my phone yesterday, she might have made my Twitter public. When I had her in my lap, she was looking through my photos, and then I got distracted with us talking to Melissa. I’m sorry.”

You hand him your phone as he reads the tweet, skimming down to the comments and reading the first few. You wait for his face to change. You wait for anything to happen but nothing changes. The crease near his brow is still etched, his breathing ragged. Perhaps you were expecting anger? Disappointment? But none of it came.

He blows a raspberry, suddenly chuckling while handing you your phone back, “Amor, that has a lot of views.”

You cover your face with your hands, “Your mother is going to kill me. Kylian I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think to check—”

“It’s okay,” he leans towards you, his hands pull yours away from your face and clasps them. “I’m not mad. She’s not mad either.”

You were still too shocked to cry, despite feeling the bubbling and choking feeling in your throat. However, he seemed relaxed about it, his eyes twinkling as the lights turned on in the private area the two of you were in. He could only smile as he pulled your head into his chest.

“No te preocupes, mi amor. It’s not your fault. You might’ve just broken Twitter like that tweet said, but you didn’t do anything wrong. It was going to be announced anyway. I can just subtweet it with a bunch of laughing emojis and boom, all the attention will be back on me. You’re okay,” he kisses your forehead. “We’re okay.”

You nod against his clothed chest, hearing and feeling the rumbles of his giggles. Even amidst his transfer bomb, he was still laughing and being the most unserious man you were used to.

---

Note: Now let's all gather around in a cirle, draw our hands together and manifest a transfer asap (and for this man to continue being unserious).

#kylian mbappe x reader #kylian mbappe fanfiction #kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian mbappe x you #kylian mbappe imagine #kylian mbappe one shot #kylian x reader #mbappe x reader #em.writes

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boobo13cambridge · 4 months

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Skyfall | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé | OC

As she gazed out of the window, her eyes lingered on the sprawling cityscape of Paris below, a tapestry of lights and shadows. With a resolute heart, she made a silent vow to herself - to live fiercely, to be the champion for those silenced in the shadows. The path ahead was fraught with challenges, but her resolve was unyielding, a debt of honor to the one who believed in her when doubt cast its long shadow. He had been her mentor, her guardian; he had taken her under his protective wing at a time when skepticism clouded her every step. His unwavering presence had been her fortress, standing valiantly by her side, a solitary defender against a sea of naysayers in those echoing halls of judgment that was the Assas.

A solitary tear, a crystal testament to her inner turmoil, traced a path down her cheek, caressing her skin like a whisper of the past. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply, though the city's air was tinged with the bitter notes of reality, but mostly pollution (and was that piss?). A sudden, sharp cough, rattled her body, breaking the spell of her reverie. A rueful smile touched her lips as she mused on the cinematic trope of the enigmatic lawyer, solitary and contemplative, gazing out over a city - a scene far more inspiring in a James Bond movie than in real life.

With a finger raised towards the dark sky, the young woman whispered a prayer into the night. 'Vae victis,' she breathed, her words a soft caress against the chaos of the world, 'woe to the conquered.' Her whispered incantation rode the winds, a spectral force, stirring an unseen tremor that resonated through the city, a silent herald to those who would stand against her.

Chapter One

August 12th, 2023

Parc des Princes

8:00 p.m.

One hour before kickoff, Laila was seated in the office of President Nasser Al-Khelaifi, wishing he would just get to the point. She had to admit, Kylian Mbappé possessed an almost uncanny ability to send the club's president into bouts of extreme hypertension. The obsession with the young French star seemed borderline obsessive to Laila, almost creepy. She often marveled at how Mbappé managed to maintain his composure and resist the urge to confront the old geezer. From a business standpoint, however, she could grasp why the PSG president was so adamant about retaining the French prodigy; after all, money makes the world go round.

Despite her desires to be anywhere else, fate had different plans. Her late mentor had insisted that she start her so-called mission with the French football club for reasons he didn’t entirely foreclose. It was in these moments, she felt a deep kinship with Harry Potter who also had a mentor who seemed to leave the world with more questions than answers despite the world going to shit. Even from beyond the grave, he seemed to enjoy watching her struggle in this unexpected role. Being a lawyer for PSG was far from what her teenage self had envisioned for her future. But such was life.

“Je ne peux pas croire qu’après tout ce que nous avons fait pour ce connard, il ne veut pas renouveler. Il veut quoi de plus put-” the president grumbled in his accented french.

“Avec le plus grand respect, Mr. le président,” Laila interjected, “vous devez comprendre que les résultats du PSG après le mercato n’étaient pas satisfaisant. Vous lui avez promis un bon mercato, et pourtant, ils ont été éliminés dès les huitièmes de finale en ligue des champions. Et pourquoi? Parce que vous avez mis tout l'accent sur l'acquisition de stars. Sérieusement, qu’est-ce qui vous a traversé l’esprit en voulant avoir Messi, Neymar, et Mbappé dans la même équipe? Et vous pensez vraiment que Messi allait s’essayer si proche de la retraite?”

The words tumbled out of Laila before she could stop them, her frustration with the president's incessant complaints reaching its peak. Sometimes, he acted like a petulant child.

“Et alors, c’est de ma faute ça ?” President Al-Khelaifi retorted defensively.

“Si vous voulez des stars dans votre équipe, Mr. le Président, vous devez avoir un entraîneur capable de gérer leurs égos astronomiques. Messi venait du FC Barcelone, et il était évident le respect qu’il avait pour le PSG. Malheureusement, un coach comme Christophe Galtier ne fait qu'empirer les choses,” Laila countered.

“En tout cas, passons à autre chose. Je veux que tu ailles voir Mbappé et sa famille et que tu essaies de le convaincre. Ils vont être là ce soir pour voir le match.” (As usual, the president didn’t want to discuss anything that put him in a bad light)

“Peut-être que la première chose à faire serait de lui dire qu’il ne sera plus dans le loft?”

“Oui, oui, dis-lui qu’il peut revenir, mais je veux qu’il reste. C’est compris?”

“Sí, señor,” she replied sarcastically, exiting the room swiftly as she noticed President Al-Khelaifi’s eye begin to twitch.

As Laila stepped out of the president's office, she let out a deep sigh and made her way down to the Salon Louvre. Truly, Nasser should’ve been smarter than this but money does have a way of blinding a person. Regardless, she had a job to do and if it meant that she had to play Nasser’s little games, she would do it. Laila knew exactly what the end goal was and she wasn’t going to get distracted.

As she made her way to the Salon Louvre, where Chef Arnault had promised to reserve some of his renowned crème fraîche and caviar deviled eggs for her, she couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement for the match. Parc des Princes always pulsated with infectious energy and passion, which she adored. The stadium itself was incredible, and the Ultras knew how to light up a stadium. Every time she scrolled through Twitter or Instagram, she saw the tifos they made. The huge banners were truly works of art, and she deeply admired and respected the fans for the effort they put into them.

Her thoughts drifted to her three musketeers, her closest friends, and how carefree they had been before life's harsh realities had intruded. She reminisced about that summer night of August 14th, 2021, when they had come to watch PSG vs Racing Club de Strasbourg, the first match after COVID restrictions were lifted. How different things were back then. She yearned to reconnect and mend the fractures time had caused, but deep down, she knew it was perhaps a futile wish. With her eyes brimming with unshed tears, Laila wandered through the hallways leading to the salon, lost in her memories. Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn't notice the figure in front of her and walked straight into what felt like a very warm wall.

“Tabarnak-,” she swore, instinctively rubbing her nose.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” a voice apologized.

Startled, Laila looked up and found herself face to face with the French captain. Flustered, she took a step back, momentarily at a loss for words. Kylian Mbappé stood before her, and she couldn't help but notice how strikingly handsome he was. Dressed casually in a white Dior t-shirt and paired with stylish brown pants, which complemented his athletic build. His confident posture and the easy smile playing on his lips added to his striking appearance. He naturally carried a certain air of charisma that left her with a dry throat and a racing heart.

And God, those dimples...

How was she supposed to argue with this living reincarnation of big dick energy? Much less, convince him that he would be better off staying in a club where it was quite unlikely that he would ever win a Champions League, forget a Ballon d’Or. Her professor was so lucky to be lounging in the afterlife, because when she did find him, she would make him pay for putting her in this situation.

Kylian's gaze met Laila's, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes at her evident surprise. "You okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah, just... wasn't expecting a human roadblock," Laila joked, trying to mask her nervousness. The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile, those famous dimples making a brief appearance.

"I've been called worse," he chuckled. Kylian's smile took on a knowing edge, his gaze sharp yet playful. "So, Laila Soltani, the lawyer Nasser has brought in to convince me to stay at PSG, eh?"

Laila's eyes widened slightly, her eyebrows arching in surprise."Yes, that's me. How did you know?"

Kylian leaned in slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. “See, now I’m more inclined to be offended. Athletes can read too, you know?” he teased, nodding towards her badge.

Laila felt her cheeks warm. “Oh, n-no, that’s not... I mean, I wasn’t—” she stammered, her words tumbling over each other in her fluster.

He laughed, a light, easy sound that seemed to echo around them. “I’m just messing around with you. Besides, it’s not every day the president hires someone specifically to deal with me. You must be quite persuasive.”

Laila laughed, a sound more relaxed than she felt. "I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Mbappé. But yes, that's why I’m here, in part. Though, convincing someone of your caliber to stay... that's a tall order. My greatest adversary so far."

Kylian's eyes glinted with amusement. "Greatest adversary, huh? Sounds like you’re ready for battle. Just remember, I'm not so easily swayed."

"Oh, we'll see about that," Laila retorted, her own eyes sparkling with the challenge. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Looking forward to it, Mademoiselle. May the best person win."

With a final chuckle, Kylian turned and strode away, leaving Laila to ponder the intriguing encounter. She shook her head, a smile lingering on her lips, and continued her journey to the salon Louvre. As she entered, she was immediately greeted by the buzz of fans, whose enthusiasm seemed to infect her immediately. The modern design boasted a sleek and refined look, with geometric light fixtures casting a constellation of warm, ambient light across the polished floor.

She found Chef Arnault behind the mini bar, a silver-maned sage in the world of haute cuisine. With the twinkle of seasoned joy in his clear blue eyes, he beckoned Laila over with a broad grin that seemed to know more than it let on.

"Well, well, if it isn't our lawyer," he teased, the light in his eyes matching the mischief in his tone as he took in her flushed appearance. "You look like you've just spent the whole evening sweating in a sauna. Let me guess, Mbappé charm in action?"

Laila rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth turned upward involuntarily. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those who know," he chuckled, presenting her with a plate of deviled eggs, each a small culinary work of art with creamy filling and a crown of caviar. "Here, I made these just for you. They might just give you the boost you need for the evening to deal with the capitaine."

Laila decided to just brush off Arnault's teasing and, not wanting to wait another second, she tossed back a whole deviled egg. The taste was amazing—so good it almost made her moan right there at the bar.

With a quick thanks to the chef, she slipped through the crowd of fans as she heard Michel Montana's voice encouraging the Ultras to cheer for the team. Their chatter was just noise against the hum in her head as she moved to her seat. It was pretty close to the president's spot, giving her an incredible view of the field.

She dropped into her seat, taking in the low buzz of the stadium and the distant echo of the players getting their game faces on. The excitement was kicking in. This wasn't just another day at the office for Laila; it was like stepping onto a chessboard where every move counted. The match was about to start, and she wasn't just thinking about the football. It was game time on all fronts.

___________________________________________________________

A/N: Hello, my lovelies. I'm back 😘

#kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian mbappe smut #kylian imagines #kylian mbappe #kylian mbappé #kylian mbappe imagine #kylian mbappe x y/n #kylian mbappe angst

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starrysharks · 4 days

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what do your ocs sound like? i’ve been obsessed with your universes as of late and i’m really curious.

i have a few but they're pretty old and kinda inaccurate. i used to watch those "voiceclaims for your OCs" tiktoks for hours looking for the best voices lol

i'll just write down the reassassination ones cuz i had the most for those -

octavia - limestone pie (MLP)

savory/krankenstein as he's been rechristened - ghiaccio (JJBA) (this one is pretty inaccurate because it's hard to find the specific neurotic, unstable voice i imagine kranken to have)

onion - brief (PSG) (but like. slightly higher? idk)

vivica - asuka (NGE)

lunette - the whoopi goldberg lion from the lion king

cavity - lefty (FNAF)

and that's all i got! i have dreams of making one of those cool voiceclaim videos with all of the effects and shit, but i don't know how X/

#ask zeno #reassassination #ocs #oc rambling

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paddockbunny · 1 year

Text

Ancient History

Summary : Gabriel was the man you were planning to spend your future with. The only issue is the (brief) history you had with his best friend, Pierre Rating : this part would be 16+ but part 2 will be 18+ Pairing : Pierre Gasly x Reader Word Count : 1,646 Trigger Warnings : another cheating trope one in here! Lingerie mention but nothing particularly graphic enough for a warning Gif Credit : @housepandacrimes (not sure if this is the right tag so if this gif is yours please let me know so I can update to the right tag!!)

Your arms felt like they were about to break from being weighed down by shopping bags. You never really got to go shopping very often because you had such a packed work schedule. Being a business owner was hard but the hard work paid off when you made your first million, then your first ten million and well, let’s just say you would never have to work ever again if you wanted. But today you were taking a well earned break and done a little retail therapy.

Thing was, when you pulled into your parking garage and saw several very nice expensive luxury cars near by you had an incline your fiancé was not alone. There was a PSG match on this afternoon and you considered getting back into your car and driving off again because seriously, you couldn’t cope with his friends. One or two were ok - the settled down ones - but the the single ones were absolute nightmares. Especially Pierre fucking Gasly.

See, you had actually (and rather naively) “dated” Pierre for the summer months, two ago before he introduced you to Gabriel and the rest was history. You fell for Gabriel the second you lay eyes on him and thankfully vice versa. However, Pierre seemed to resent you and Gabriel and he continually made things feel awkward for you by being incredibly over familiar and suggestive. He would openly flirt with you in front of your fiancé and always laugh it off with the insulting phrase “been there, done that” like I was some car or rollercoaster to ride and be done with.

As you purposefully strolled over to the elevator from the car park up to your penthouse floor, you saw the car with his PG10 licence plate and internally screamed. Fuck! You groaned aloud as you pressed for the elevator. Why him? Gabriel knew you didn’t like him in your home, preferring to keep him on neutral ground so he didn’t snoop and pry too much.

You just needed to say hi. You just needed to be civil. He was here to watch the game he wouldn’t cause any drama. You left the elevator and entered your apartment, heels clacking on the floor signalling your arrival. The loud roars coming from the lounge were evidence that something must have happened in the game and you thought you might have been able to sneak upstairs without them even noticing. But your name was called by your fiancé seconds later and you groaned. The rest of his friends were fine in general, rowdy, single types that did nothing more than break girls hearts. But Pierre was the gang leader and you knew he had tried to break you and Gabriel up for his own selfish egotistical reasons.

“You had a good time?” You boyfriend asked when you appeared after taking a deep breath and putting on your game face. “Wonderful.” You replied and held up your numerous shopping bags. Gabriel tore his eyes away from the game to come over to you, kiss you gently and ask if you had brought him anything. You smirked and quietly suggested it isn’t something he himself could wear but he would certainly enjoy it. “…In fact, I’m going to go upstairs and try it on right now to make sure it fits.” You winked and he bit his bottom lip playfully. It was the best way to get out of the room.

You felt eyes on you - ones that didn’t belong to your man. He was so arrogant and his behaviour that comes out around you is almost possessive. He still can’t comprehend you chose another man over him.

Fixing the bra in place you pushed your tresses back over your shoulders and inspected the barely there sheer black fabrics JUST covering the important parts of your anatomy. The garter belt was a touch too small and you perhaps should have sized down on the bra but overall it was pretty and when Gabriel saw it you wouldn’t be in it very long anyway. You had put some music on while you got to trying the things you had purchased on and so when the door opened slightly you missed it. You kept looking at different angles of yourself in the mirror. Twisting and checking out how good the thing part looked and how peachy perfect your ass was. All the work with your personal trainer was pulling off. You readjusted the too tight garter belt again, trying to make it work but also trying to make sure you could breathe, and a low purring came from the doorway.

Gabriel. You thought instantly. So excitedly turned to show him the items you bought for him - but not FOR him - eyes wide and smile equally so. Expecting he really couldn’t wait any longer and he forgot all about the game downstairs an electricity shot through your body at the prospect of him coming to fuck you while his friends waited for him. But your eyes did not meet familiar coffee brown ones. They met a pair of steely slate grey ones that you had tried so hard to forget over the past two and a half years.

“What are you doing?” You gasped through gritted teeth. He was casually leaning against the door frame, arms crossed snuggly across his chest with his signature overtly confident smirk painted upon his mouth. His ignored your question in favour of simply holding your gaze and you knew he wanted you to crumble. He persisted in continually telling you he knew you still wanted him over the years and it only got worse after Gabriel proposed to you. It was almost as if Pierre couldn’t stand not coming out the winner and viewed you as the ultimate prize - even though he very much enjoyed the fruits of his celebrity and had a multiple girls on the go at once because commitment was not his strong suit.

“You have to leave.” The words rushed out of you after his eyes trailed slowly down your body. Drinking in the sight of you in expensive lingerie. For a second you allowed the fact that he wouldn't be able to control his mind and all of the dirty thought raging in it. He wouldn’t be able to refrain from getting hard just from looking at you like this, knowing what lies underneath. He’s looking at you like he wants to tear you apart. Rip the items off your body and consume you right there not giving a single fuck if he lost the decades long friendship of the man sitting watching football downstairs. You swallowed. You couldn’t think about that. Pierre had been a moment of madness that lead you to meeting the love of your life. The ring on your finger proved that. And yet, as Pierre stepped foot inside of the room and closed the door behind himself you couldn’t help but remember how good Pierre was in bed. How commanding and in charge he was. How no one had ever made you get off faster, or harder, than he did.

“Pierre, don’t. You shouldn’t be here.” You tried to get the upper hand as he took long, slow steps toward you like he was a lion stalking his prey. “You look insane, Mon amour.” You didn’t focus on the words that left his mouth. You knew how much of a seducer he was. A modern day Casanova. You went to grab the shirt from the bed that you had taken off earlier and he took several confident, quick strides toward to you stop you.

“Don’t cover up.” He growled “let me see you.” “I’m not yours to see, Pierre.” You fought back. Stating nothing more than a pure and simple fact. He had done this before. Stayed overfamiliar and confident when he really shouldn’t have been. The man didn’t know decorum and boundaries.

“And whose fault is that?” He asked, now almost close enough you could smell his expensive foreign cologne. You rolled your eyes. He had done this before. Tried to convey it was you that ruined what the pair of you had by falling in love with one of his best friends. But he knew the reality, he knew his own playboy behaviour called endgame for the pair of you. You don’t really come back from finding another girls panties under your boyfriends pillow 10 weeks into your new relationship. Pierre simply didn’t want to feel like he was the one at fault and always tried to paint you as the “girl who got away”. His head dipped a little and that fucking grin appeared on his face before he said your name. “Pierre, I’ve warned you. Please leave.” You stated as you felt a sudden ache appear between your thighs that you felt you had absolutely zero control over. You swallowed again, hoping it wouldn’t be noticeable how your body wanted to react to him.

“I can see you don’t want me too.” His eyes cast down to your sheer bra and your responsive nipples gave you away. “Gabriel is downstairs. If he comes in here and sees you…” It didn’t nothing to Pierre. Mentioning his friends name did nothing. He had no reaction. He didn’t seem to care. He just kept his eyes focused on your practically naked body still on display to him. He had to see how fast your heart was beating in your chest and how your breathing was rapid. He always enjoyed making you squirm, making you feel awkward around him. But this was another level.

“Pierre….” You breathed when he was close enough to touch.

“When will you give up the notion that he wants you more than I do?” Pierre’s words almost took the air right out of your lungs. “That silly little ring means nothing.”

There will be a part two to this but please don’t hound me and ask me when!!!

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nahkyl · 8 months

Text

PSG vs FC Lorient : Luis Enrique's first is a success despite the draw.

Ladies, Gentlemen, Gays and Theys. It is the official start of the 2023-2024 football season and for us PSG supporters, that means the comeback of the most entertaining drama show that gives Game of Thrones a run for their money. But today, we'll talk football.

I am delighted to anounce that it also means the comeback of the Football theses. For those of you that are unfamiliar with this format, they're game reviews where I try breaking down what I think we did right, what's missing, and where I give my tops and flops.

This is the first game. Therefore it's way too early to draw conclusions, which means it'll be brief. It's also a new season with a hectic but diverse mercato, and a brand new coach who is one of the greatest in Europe and who we should give time to adapt. Yet, I think he's already made his mark.

Lorient is very far off posing any kind of threat. They ranked 10th last year and we've won both games against them last year. So a final score of 0-0 might send everyone into panicked frenzy, and people might already decide the faith of our team this season.

That is if you haven't watched the game.

Because let me tell you : we might not have scored, or had that many great opportunities, but we played football. And as ridiculous as that sounds, after last season, that in itself is a HUGE step in the right direction for the club.

Enrique has brought in his Spanish football way, which is the ball possession way. 97% possession in the first 10 minutes, 77.8% by the end of the matcch and a total of ONE. THOUSAND (1000) passes, making it the first team to do that in a Ligue 1 game in History. Ball possession can be a questionable play choice in an era where football leans more towards transition, but we'll take it for now because that was the most eager pressing I've seen from a PSG team in years.

Not only did Paris dominate in keeping the ball, they were also masters in ball recovery. They were such a compact block some thought there were 13 players on the pitch, not 11. *Hang on, I need to wipe my tears. Never in my LIFE did I ever think I would type that about PSG.* The Red and Blues have recovered a total of 24 balls in the opposite half, making it the HIGHEST TOTAL for a Top 5 European team in the last 10. years. I know, I can't believe it either. PSG, you guys. PSG recovering balls. I'm about to go in the lockeroom put salt in the corners to protect our players from evil eye.

Anyway, this shows that Enrique has brought in a real game identity and that is something I am ecstatic about.

So what did we miss ?

With PSG, there's always something missing. We finally have an eager group that wants to play together, our defense is finally FINALLY reassuring. But unfortunately, when one problem is solved, another arises.

The midfield is no longer the black hole it was last year, but it is now...loading. Despite WZE's talent and Vitinha showing more capability than he has last year, new players need time. We no longer have a creative player in the squad, a playmaker, and most importantly : we lack dynamism and percussion in the attack. We need players that are quicker, not only in pace but in decsion making, that are capable of that spark of genius that will unlock the trick. They were in the stands last night.

Tops:

Danilo Perreira: THE real capi. I don't care, he was one of the best players last night, and he lead by example in intensity.

Lucas Hernandez : I pray that he doesn't get hurt. Dude is monstruous and deserved getting that first applause of the game.

Warren Zaire-Emery : absolute crack. I cannot wait to see him become one of the best midfielders of his generation.

Flops: it's too early to tell. There was a lot of great potential shown, and although some players took some time getting their head in the games (Hakimi), they still ended the game properly.

Carlos Soler.

Hugo Ekitike.

Overall, I am very optimistic despite the frustrating result.

As some of the Lorient players interviewed said: PSG is now more about teamwork, and less about individuality and talent. To make a great team, you need both. The truth always lays in the middle.

Thank you for reading !

#psg #paris saint germain #psg 2023 2024 #football thesis

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cant-get-no-worse · 6 months

Note

I like that some sensed people are still able to recognize that whether Erling Haaland or Leo Messi take the award home, it's valid. Changes from all the others ~ wave hand in a general direction ~ people. Not even to mention how past and current football figures agree on it too. Soothes my mind.

Honestly I'm just tired of talking about it, since 1) it's silly 2) it's settled 3) it's simple. Let's make it plain.

"Why not just put the goals?"

There are awards for the best goalscorer. This isn't one of them.

Brief comparison

Haaland had a maddening records breaking season, won the treble, but didn't show up for the semi and finals of those. Messi did an average club season (equal to, if I remember correctly, the "excellent" season of Antoine Griezmann so, there's that.) and an all-time World Cup campaign. It's a WC year; it has since after 2010 (year of change of criterias + voting participants) weighted on the BO's results.

The reason it's a close call this year is cause of the treble (huge weight) balanced by the ghosting of Haaland during those crucial points vs WC all time balanced by the average club season of Messi. Haaland being a 9 means that when he's not there, he doesn't do anything for the team. Stems from his position. Whereas if Messi doesn't score, he still has his passing and playmaking which, picture me surprised, actually make him having more impact as a player for his team.

Look at the pic. Make the needed mental gymnastics. To get to the conclusion that one of them is robbing the other is mental. Both are deserving.

WC's weight

It's ultimately this and the WC's weight (and I sure ain't about to get into an argument comparing the treble, insane achievement that can be achieved every year, to the WC, insane achievement that can be achieved once every four, and being the MOTT of said tournament) that makes it tip towards Messi, even though I expect the votes to be close. The WC has been held over Messi's head for more than a decade. Everyone knew that if he put a consistent season and a good WC campaign, he'd been a strong contender. He had a consistent season and had an all-time, MOTT WC campaign. Point's made.

Criteria : Vital role

Another point: the "vital role in the team and honours" criteria. Haaland makes this City team dominate, not a shadow of doubt. But Kevin de Bruyne is the one that's vital to it. Take away KDB and Haaland isn't there (once again: stems from his position. He's a 9.)

Due to his national team not being in the WC (which once again : he's indeed from Norway, a NT which hasn't much WC history. But, in 2018, Messi single handedly drew Argentina to the WC. Haaland wasn't capable of this.), he couldn't prove himself to be crucial there either. So, Haaland is important but not vital to this City team, whereas Messi was important in PSG (a-fucking-gain, 40 G/A, this isn't an argument) and vital for his NT. There you go, one criteria more.

Sweet sweet "robberies"

When you got R9, Wenger, Henry, some France NT (Griezmann and others, can't recall), Hazard, Silva and co - current/former players who played and know the weight of the WC - saying Messi deserves it; the club coach of Haaland saying they'd both deserve it ; and you arrive to the conclusion that Messi is robbing Haaland (or, for that matter, that Haaland would be robbing Messi), then the true reason of your positionning can't be clearer.

And finally,

Those are what you call robberies. Can't be one when both deserve it. Haaland will be just fine and will have plenty of WC-free seasons to destroy every records available and show up at crucial points. Chill. I'm done talking about this, people are to stuck to their own opinions to be changed atp.

This is a fun night, I'm so ready to make fun of everyone's fit and awkward talk. It ain't that deep. Hope everyone, whether for Haaland, Messi or bloody Musiala has fun!

#anon ask #ballon d'or

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findingnemosworld · 7 months

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𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 - 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐬

・𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬

( 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 𝐑𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐨𝐛 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭. 𝐇𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 )

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐛𝐛𝐲, 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐛𝐲!! 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲

Did he ever think he'd reach a point in time where he found himself in an entirely different place than where he once was? never, and yet here he was - living in Paris for over three months, his chapter with PSG had gone somewhat well, he dove into the style of play quite easily that it worked in helping him forget about how he had left Madrid and most importantly the state he was in when he left Madrid which suffice to say, wasn't the best kind of state, Paris was different in the sense of a new culture, a new language and an opportunity for him to not be reminded of what had transpired three months back.

He had yet to truly get to know his surroundings in the neighborhood he was living in, hence why on one morning just two hours before he was set to go training, he decides to stop at a café nearby - he parks his car, switches off the engine then steps out to walk up to the front door and just as he walked in, he collided with someone which resulted in a generous amount of coffee to be spilled over his sleeve causing him to let out a small hiss and the person who had spilled it to gasp and say, " I'm so sorry, oh my gosh " she said before hastily running to get a wet cloth before she returns back, " I am so sorry for that "

" It's fine " The Spaniard states with a chuckle, " It was only an accident, you didn't mean to do it "

They'd spent that brief moment exchanging brief words before she quietly excused herself to return back to work, but not before getting his order, he sat down and waited until someone else had gotten him his order, he then left the café not thinking much of the incident as he fully believed that it was a singular mere accident, there wasn't much to it - except it wasn't.

Each time he paid a visit to the establishment, she had either spilled coffee on the table he was sitting in, or spilt coffee on him, or basically stumbled and fell in front of him which didn't make sense to him seeing as he observed her interactions with others, she seemed to be fully composed and at top shape yet each time they so much as look at one another, it was as if she becomes an entirely different person, he'd gotten to know her name throughout the following weeks as well as getting to know bits and pieces of who she is, such as her preferred hair style which was a braid to the side, her favorite brand of soft drinks that she seemingly kept next to her while she was working, and he had gotten a small glimpse of a sketchbook one time when he approached the cash register.

And while on more than occasion he wanted to ask her if he had done something wrong, ( or worse, she might be one of the many people that hate him ) yet each time it seemed that something interrupted him, however he didn't stop visiting the café and rather amusedly watching as she struggled to remain composed in front of him, and on one morning while he was training, he decides that perhaps asking one of his teammates might help shed light on the matter, he decided on asking Kylian. " Hey Kyl "

The Frenchman looks up, " What's up? "

Sergio recounts every incident that happened between him and the barista, from their first encounter all the way to their latest encounter which resulted in Kylian chuckling softly, as well as Marco who had listened in on the matter. " What? " The Andalusian wonders, " What's funny? "

" Maybe she hates you " Marco shrugs with a confused smile.

" No " Kylian shakes his head, " I think she likes you "

" She likes me? " He echoed.

Kylian shakes his head once again, " Yes, because it's a basic fact that when we like someone we tend to act like idiots in front of them, it's basically something that happens, there's no logical explanation, why do you I think I tend to lose my focus whenever I see Marianne " he silently gestures to the woman in question who was standing not too far from where they stood snapping pictures.

" Because you're a big idiot " Marco laughs, yelping when Kylian smacked his shoulder.

" So you think she likes me? " Sergio deduced.

" Yes, I think she does and if you're so curious, after training, stop by the café to see if she's still there? " Kylian suggests.

And so he did, the training session had concluded and Sergio decided to follow Kylian's advice, driving towards the café which thankfully was still open, he stops his car then steps out and walks up to the front door where through the window he spots her sitting behind the counter, her head hunched over as she seemingly sketched something, he pushes the door which caused her to look up, her eyes widening in surprise, she quickly shuts the notebook and smiles. " H ... Hi, Can I ... " she swallows the lump in her throat, " Can I help you? " she blurts out quickly.

" Yeah? " He nods with a smile, " I was wondering if I can have a hot chocolate with your signature red velvet cake? "

She fiddles with the bracelet on her wrist before smiling, " sure " she gestures to the table on the side, " I'll be there in a second "

He opens his mouth, " Actually " he starts before chuckling, " Do you mind if I help? just to be safe "

" Oh " She said before shaking her head, " I can't -um- ... besides, it would be a mess like every single time we comes across each other " she chuckles.

" Well, can I stand over and watch? to keep an eye out and make sure nothing happens " He states with a soft tone, " Please! "

She chews on her bottom lip for a brief moment before letting out a soft sigh, " Ok! but please don't touch anything, otherwise I'm going to get in trouble "

" I promise " He raises both hands with a smile.

She leads him into the work station, he kept a safe distance while she began to make his cup of hot chocolate, at first it was complete silence between them before he decided to break it by saying, " Are you French? "

" No " She shakes her head before adding, " I'm Colombian actually "

" Oh? that's interesting " He smiles, " How long have you been living here? "

" Erm, five years ... " She said, " I finished school, now I'm working towards my masters degree in business and communications "

" That's very impressive " He nods with a soft smile.

She hums in response, and silence falls between them again but not for long as he said, " Do you hate me? " and just then, half of the spot spills over her hand causing her to yelp, " Oh no " he said, taking her to the sink and opening the faucet to allow the cold water to spill over her skin. " I'm so sorry "

" No " She retorts, " I am, I can't behave like a normal person all because of my stupid crush on you and I " her eyes widen as she covers her mouth with her other hand.

" Your stupid crush? " He echoes, " You have a crush on me? "

She reaches over to turn off the sink, then she wipes her hand and says. " The reason why I have been acting like a complete idiot, is not because I hate you, not at all ... it's because I like you, a lot, I'm a football fan, and I've been a big fan of Real Madrid because of you, don't ask me why cause it'll take forever to list the reasons but " she said, avoiding his gaze. " When I heard that you moved here, I was genuinely excited to see you play, I just didn't expect to actually meet you and in turn embarrass myself each time "

He remained silent for what felt like an eternity before a chuckle erupts from him, a chuckle that turns into laugh.

" See, embarrassing " She murmurs.

" It's not embarrassing, it's cute because you know why? " He said.

" Why? " She wonders.

" I came to Paris to forget a bad relationship I had endured, I didn't think I would end up drawn to anyone yet here I am, wondering why a clumsy and adorable Colombian barista was behaving like that with me because I genuinely want to get to know her " He said, " So, what would you say to me taking you out on a date? no clumsy acts like this "

She smiles, " Are you sure? "

" One hundred per cent " He smiles.

" Ok, I would love that " She beams.

He grins, " Perfect "

#sergio ramos #sergio ramos fanfiction #sergio ramos fluff #sergio ramos one shot #sergio ramos blurb

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alexbkrieger13 · 7 months

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"What’s up the new danish coach 😂

Can someone give us brief details about his style of play"

From the danish pod Jeglertz guested he in summary said he has to start digging where he stands. It's a swedish expression. He looks at the player types available and decides the style of play from that. What kind of football are they able to handle. He's spoken with each player and asked what they want to do. Everyone wanted to talk about what they as a team need to do to take the next step. They want to play attacking football. With the players onboard it'll be easier for him to say "you want to play attacking football and to do that you need longer attacks and for that you need to play through the middle and not just hit service (into the box)", instead of him just telling them what to do and risk they think he's a crazy swede with weird ideas.

He also said the most important relationships he has aren't to the players but to their club coaches, so the players don't get mixed messages what they need to work on and he and the club coach say the same things. It's harder in countries where they don't speak so good english so with Vangsgaard for example he speaks more with her than with the Psg coach.

He describes himself as a humanitarian and thinks if you feel well off the pitch you'll perform good on the pitch. Also in terms of outspoken players. He wants the best players and if someone says something controversial it has to be dealt with then if so. He's aware of the issues with Nadim but that's not why he didn't call her up. She's had the big three letter knee injury and he thinks she has a bit left before she's ready for the national team.

He makes sure to speak slowly so the danes can understand what he's saying and has noticed it's easier to understand the danes in and near Copenhagen since it's so close to Malmö where he grew up. But the further from Copenhagen they come from the harder it is to understand them. It's easier face to face than on the phone too.

With the first squad he said he trusts his assistant coaches and the most important for him was their opinions on the players weren't much different from his and they weren't. It was decided it'd be easier for him to keep the same backroom staff since it's short time to prepare before facing a tough opponent in the Nations League, which he btw said is not the same as in men's football.

He's coached Umeå in their glory days 20 years ago with players like Marta, Elaine, Sofia Jakobsson, Johanna Frisk, Ramona Bachmann, Hanna Ljungberg, Lisa Dahlkvist, Hanna Marklund and Hanna Östberg on the squad. They were not only dominant in Sweden but also in Europe. Won Champions League and reached several finals in a row, or the Women's Cup as it was called before the format was changed in 2007. Back then the final was also played over two legs home and away.

For women's national teams he's previously coached Finland and been assistant coach to Herdman iirc for Canada.

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