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lilac-5ky · 10 months

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Sex with a Ghost (TojixFem!Reader)

Chapter 1: Date with a ghost

Chapter 2 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist | Requests | AO3

Summary: Being at the bottom of the ladder in your class with a non-combat oriented technique, you are prompted by Gojo to summon a dead sorcerer as a learning experience. However, when none other than Fushiguro Toji appears in your room, you find yourself practicing more than just your cursed technique.

Tags: Student!reader, Ghost!Toji, Age Gap(reader 18, Toji early 30s), Oral Sex (both f. and m. receiving), Manipulation, Corruption Kink, Praise, Degradation, Pet Names (princess, baby, etc), Cowgirl, Toji being a horny asshole that gets redeemed at the end? Sort of.

Word Count: less than 6k.

“But, sensei, is this really necessary?”

You tilted the sphere between your fingers, sizing it up. It weighed no more than a baseball ball did, yet its price must be comparable to that of an entire stadium. A cursed item among cursed items given to a mere grade 3 sorcerer who barely stood out amidst the renowned prodigies of Tokyo Jujutsu High. This was a waste of both time and effort and yet the white-haired man before you begged to differ, eyes glinting a vibrant sky-blue hue from underneath his dark shades.

“Doubting your favorite teacher, Y/N?” he chuckled only to sulk a second later when you asked him what deluded him into thinking he was your favorite.

Undeterred, he continued “I feel like a broken record here, but do yourself a favor and have a bit more confidence. Graduation is two months away, don’t you wanna prove your worth till then? It’s not too late to climb a couple of steps up the ladder. You could easily shoot up to Grade 2. Look at the rest of your class—”

A firm albeit reassuring grip latched itself onto your shoulder, gently twisting you in the direction of your classmates.

The heatwave must have gotten to them for good, blood boiling under the vicious sun rays. Their sleeves and pants were rolled high above their elbows and knees respectively, foreheads glimmering with a thin sheen of sweat that dribbled down their necks.

Just looking at them made your skin crawl with uneasiness.

You didn’t understand why anyone in their right mind would willingly trade the shade of these blessed pine trees for the scorching furnace that the schoolyard was, but when you stopped paying attention to their clothes and took in their blissful expression, you felt a lump swell in your throat.

The two of them were practically beaming, giggling, and prancing around the water fountains without a care in the world— and why should they have anything to worry about when they were Grade 1 at seventeen? A Kamo and a distant cousin to the Zen’ins, both guaranteed to walk a path strewn with rose petals since birth. No trial or tribulation whatsoever.

Your teacher’s voice was muffled into white noise while you were busy shooting daggers at the duo, part of you wishing to join them in their harmless idiocy, and another silently praying that in your next life, you’d be lucky enough to be born into one of their clans. No one questioned the value of a Kamo. No one went against a Zen’in with an inherited technique.

“So, we good? Tell me I didn’t waste 15 minutes of my precious time for nothing.” His fingers squeezed at your shoulder, causing your attention to shift.

You had no idea what he’d been saying, though you’d sat through plenty of pep talks already to guess the gist of it. “You have potential, Y/N. Don’t bring yourself down like this. You can do it!” All empty words without real meaning. Worthless. Not everyone had what it takes to become the next Gojo Satoru. Some people were born to be stepping stones for others, and you were perfectly fine with it. No half-assed aspiration would spur you on.

“If I do this… will you leave me alone?”

A Cheshire cat grin spanned from one corner of his mouth to the other. If one didn’t know any better, they’d mistake Gojo for an overzealous teacher whose earnest goal was to see his students succeed. Not you. You’d spent enough time in his presence to know that his whole “Teacher of the Year” shtick hid an agenda of its own. It was a matter of time to find out what his true motive was.

“What’s the plan?”

“Now we are talking,” he sang in glee. “Very simple, really. You just hold this between your palms and channel as much cursed energy as possible to its center. The ball will absorb it like a magnet and continue drawing from you until you have a clear picture of your target. Then, assuming all goes well and you don’t pass out,” a quiet “What?!” was overwritten by his voice, “you’ll get your very own date with a spirit. Isn’t that exciting?”

Nothing about your expression screamed excitement, eyes squinting in slits and bottom lip quivering into a frown. “And who’s my target, exactly?”

“A Zen’in sorcerer,” he said.

“A Zen’in sorcerer you say,” your eyes wandered again to that soaked blockhead in the distance, the black mop he had for hair flapping left and right. “Ain’t the one over there good enough?”

Shaping a cone around his mouth, Gojo yelled at the top of his lungs for the kids to wait up so they could play together. The duo cheered excitedly, shouting some sort of inside joke you knew nothing about right back at him. Wasn’t the first time you were excluded, and it certainly wasn’t the first time you questioned how this man came to be the world’s most talented sorcerer, either.

“If he was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” his smile softened as he lowered his voice. “The Zen’in I’m talking about has been dead for a little more than a hundred years now. Unfortunately, his name is erased from our logs,” of course it is “but that shouldn’t hinder you too much. He was an immensely powerful sorcerer with a great amount of cursed energy to back his technique up. An anomaly, if you like.”

“What kind of technique?” “The ten shadows technique,” he answered. “Out of all the Shikigami users, he is perhaps the strongest there’s ever been.”

“Stronger than you, sensei?”

The way his nose scrunched made you regret asking, knowing that a haughty declaration was dangling from the tip of his tongue, begging to be unleashed in a never-ending spiel of self-praise.

“And why should I invoke him in particular?” you quickly changed the subject. “I thought our goal was to hone my spirit-channeling technique and increase my cursed energy flow while we’re at it.”

“That we are doin’, but why not kill two birds with one stone? A new ten-shadow user has risen. I’m sure whatever trick that old dog has up his sleeve will be useful to our little Meg—” He feigned a smile of innocence at his slip. “All you gotta do is chit-chat him into giving you some info. Toss in a few compliments, butter him up. Shouldn’t take more than a few words to convince him, spirits are dying to be summoned— Oh well, unfortunate choice of words. What do you say? You’re in?”

Your groan was all the answer he required to beeline straight to the water fountains, his chirpy laugh echoing from afar. This guy, you huffed, examining the crystal ball anew. There was no way out of this. Either you did his bidding or you’d be forced to endure the obnoxious sound of his voice all summer long.

“Couldn’t you have chosen anything more cliche than a crystal ball?” you snarled, convinced he hadn’t heard you.

“Ouija board was already taken,” he warbled unexpectedly, voice meshing with that of your peers as they ran around in circles, dark-colored uniforms turning darker with every splash of water. “Besides, this has a bit of pink in it,” he referred to the rosy shaded base. “Much cuter than a bunch of rusty letters, right?”

You groaned as you shoved the item into your tote bag, making no mistake to talk out loud again as you turned on your heel. A pinch of jealousy punctured your chest, relieved by every step you took away from the scene and away from the fun the three of them were having.

“Looks like we’re having a date with a ghost tonight.”

It was a quarter past twelve when you decided to put that little experiment to work, the coast clear of overbearing parents and annoying little brothers who wanted nothing more than to disrupt your so-called “studying session”. As far as your family was concerned, Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College (Tokyo Jujutsu High for short) was your average educational institution that had somehow recognized the value of your mediocre grades and scouted you when you were still in middle school— no questions asked from either side.

You wouldn’t go as far as to call your own family a bunch of dimwits, but the signs were all there. A teacher merely four years older than you were, his odd sartorial decisions only second to his eccentric personality. A class made up of four students dramatically and suddenly decreasing to a party of three. An unknown man in a suit and tie driving you back and forth between “emergency study dates” in the dead of night. The lack of studying material in your backpack as opposed to the exams you constantly stressed over. Your unreasonable reaction when your mother stored a cursed tool in with the silver cutlery.

Even if you straight up walked to them with a banner that read “I exorcise curses”, you doubted they’d have anything more to say than a plain “Good for you”, not because they were stupid, but because they simply didn’t care at all.

They didn’t care enough to bat an eye when seven-year-old you tugged at daddy’s trousers, whimpering about a squid-like creature sneaking in your closet, and didn’t care enough to try and justify the stream of water flooding down the corridor. They didn’t care that your imaginary friends were more akin to monsters, and they didn’t care about you being away from home 350 days a year. It was convenient not to. That’s how they were able to drink their woes away at the local bar on a Thursday night with a clear conscience, having offloaded that pest of a brother at your grandparents’ for the fifth consecutive night.

Poor kid. If he wasn’t so despicable, your big sister instincts might have kicked in and raised an objection, though as things currently were suited you best. Rituals required focus, and you needed to make sure no one would bust through the door and interrupt your conversation with Mister Whatever-his-name-was.

You’d taken care of all your basic needs —eating a reheated portion of lasagna, cleansing your body of the worldly filth that stained it, catching a rerun of your favorite show’s latest episode, and cursing Gojo for making you miss it in the first place— and were now seated on your room’s floor with the crystal ball nesting between your bare thighs, the cold sensation much welcome on this excruciatingly warm evening where sitting on the fuzzy carpet seemed like the greatest torture imaginable.

It was only March and you were already in your skimpiest outfit of all; a frilly pair of dusty-pink shorts and a matching low-cut tank top dressing your sweat-beaded body. Dark spots saturated the fabric, demanding your fingers fanned it every two seconds. The worst had yet to come. By the time summer arrived, the final thing for you to crawl out of would be your own skin.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you returned to the item at hand. It’d been fairly long since you’d last performed a seance. Your role in the recent assignments was to support your classmates from the sidelines, exorcising whatever lower-grade curse got in their way with the aid of various cursed tools.

The white-haired nuisance could claim your technique was useful all he wanted, but at the end of the day, yours were simply not meant for combat. Best case scenario, after graduation, the higher-ups would put you on a 9 to 5 job, where you could dig whatever intel they wanted from the comfort of your cramped-up desk; away from your haughty classmates, and away from Gojo Satoru.

You rolled your fingers around the globe’s surface, pads tingling with waves of cursed energy as they seeped into the crystal. Slowly, a dark purple aura came to distort its translucence with colors and shapes of various magnitudes. Shadow-like forms gathered at the seams, remnants of pent-up energy colliding and converging with one another at one focal point. All ready to go!

You began mentally chanting the surname of your target, over and over again until the slideshow of foggy faces diminished to that of a select few candidates from the same bloodline. Some, you would imagine had died when they were still in their prime, measly fledglings of sorcerers with eyes retaining that youthful glossiness, while others seemed to have lived enough to see themselves turn into dehydrated raisins with next to zero cursed energy left.

Once you’d gone through your classmate’s entire family tree at least three times, you caught yourself admitting that despite their faults and innate air of pretension, the Zen’ins weren’t particularly hard on the eyes. Especially that one guy whose mug kept reappearing at random intervals, the slanted scar of his lips lingering in your mind well after the next contender’s appearance. There was something about him, be it the lack of aura he emitted or the viridescent hue of his eyes that had you replaying the frame at the expense of your own energy.

You were drawn to him in an inexplicable way that, at the time, you attributed to fate. It had to be him, right? That must have been why the dope you had for a mentor insisted on calling this a date. Even if he didn’t know the sorcerer’s name, he must have known how insanely attractive the guy was, right?

And suddenly, you felt a sliver of gratitude overcome you, eyelids snapping shut with the Zen’in sorcerer’s face as clear as day behind them, while you chanted the incantation Gojo himself had taught you.

“From the murky shroud of oblivion, I invoke thou out the shadows and blight to bask in heavenly light. Through me gain life, and through life gain thine blessed power.”

No more than a few seconds had passed when you heard a thud, your gaze meeting with that of the very man you’d summoned.

The orb barely did him any justice. Not as if crystal balls were ideal measuring instruments, but you’d need about ten more of those to depict his height as he towered over you, the bulky frame of his shoulders casting a large shadow on the wall behind your head. He was dressed in a much more casual manner than one would expect of someone who’d been dead for over a century, with corded veins and taut muscles peaking underneath a black compression shirt, waist accentuated where his hips met with a pair of baggy pants. And once you got to his face— you must have lost track of time staring into the gem-like green orbs of his eyes, considering you didn’t notice the scowl his lips wore until his tone pointed it out.

“The hell is this?” He sounded just like he looked, the bass of his timbre ringing most pleasantly in your ears.

You wouldn’t know what being dead felt like, but if it was anything remotely close to sitting on a dead leg for hours on end, you guessed he’d rather take a moment to adjust over an answer.

His soles circled the tiny space, eyes dancing between the fairy lights on the wall, the moonless sky —and by extension the empty driveway outside your window—, the three Polaroids on your desk that depicted an old family trip to Seoul (your mother silently accusing him from the frame for the crime of wearing his shoes inside the house), and lastly, you. His gaze feasted on your body as if he’d been starved for ages and you were the first oasis in the desert, his expression gradually easing into a lopsided smile as he cocked his head to the side.

“Got a name, sweetheart?” he asked in a syrupy sweet tone, the nickname he’d come up with making you doubt he’d use your actual name even if you shared it.

You set the ball aside and hopped on your feet, standing on somewhat more equal ground, though not equal enough to completely diminish the difference in height. He was massive, and you were still processing the kind of person that possessed the power to end this man’s life.

“Name’s Y/N,” you extended your hand. “You must be master Zen’in, nice to meet you!”

He merely glanced at your gesture, leaving you to embarrass yourself without a single qualm. “No one’s called me that in some time,” he expressed wryly. “You know about me?”

You nodded, wiping your palm against your shorts. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen a spirit act all high and mighty, a Zen’in at that. “Who hasn’t heard of the greatest sorcerer there’s ever been?” you chuckled, Gojo’s bootlicking advice coming in for the clutch. “You are somewhat of a legend in the Jujutsu world. The one who mastered the ten shadows technique like no other.”

“Is that who I am now,” he pondered out loud, his index briefly scratching his jaw. “I guess I am,” he grinned with confidence. “That why you summoned me? Wanted to meet with great ol’ me in person?”

“Something like it,” you admitted, finding it hard not to smile back. “I just so happen to be acquainted with this idiot who’s a big fan of yours. Had me use my technique for a passing grade.”

A low hum prompted you to continue. “He’s a real pain in the ass,” you groaned. “Calls himself ‘the strongest’ and acts as if he’s ‘teacher of the year’ when he forces me to fish out intel like some lackey— Actually, you might have heard of his family name before, they’ve been around for ages. Gojo,” quickly adding “Satoru.”

At the sound of your teacher’s name, the man’s eyes widened, his darkened pupils blown with an emotion akin to rage. You weren’t sure what great calamity the Gojos had brought upon him in his previous life, but being familiar with their descendant you doubted they put much effort into it.

“The six eyes is your teacher?” he asked, not giving you enough time to question how on earth he knew that title before he pitched in another question. “So, ya just a kid, huh?”

“I’m not!” you objected. “Turned 18 a while ago.”

“A while, you say?” he arched a brow.

“I’m closer to 19 if anything,” you crossed your arms over your chest.

“19,” he mocked, his droopy eyelids incapable of hiding the way he sized your figure up.

You didn’t even think to put on a bra before the ritual started. Just like you could vividly picture what his pecs looked like under his clothes, your flimsy outfit left little to the imagination, the sweat that’d shimmered across your collarbones and cleavage working in your favor.

“Nah, you are right. No kid could ever have a body like that. Plump and ripe in all the right places,” his tongue lapped over his bottom lip, salacious stare prodding at what your arms kept hidden. “That’s a woman’s body, no doubt.”

Heat spread from your chest all the way to your cheeks, and for once, it wasn’t because of the room’s overbearing heat. Your toes sunk inside the carpet, thighs awkwardly rubbing together. You’d found yourself in such a position before, yet never with a boy like him— never with a man like him.

“Th-thank you,” you mumbled, your fingers hesitantly sliding down your elbows.

He took a step closer, lacking hesitation as he lifted your chin with two fingers, his thumb gently caressing it.

“Gonna let me look at the rest, baby?” his other hand encompassed your hip, the size of his palm alone making you feel oh-so small and fragile before him. “I’ll make ya a deal if you lemme. Tell ya anything you wanna know and more— heh, I’ll make sure ya pass with flying colors.”

“I don’t… I’m not-”

Depriving you of the chance to deny his advances, the man slotted his lips between yours and pulled back almost instantaneously, overjoyed to catch you leaning into his touch for more.

You weren’t sure why this was happening— why you were letting this happen. He was a stranger who barely qualified as being alive, and at the time of his death, he was closer to your father’s age than yours. But he was there, and he was paying you attention, and the way he spoke to you as if he already knew your answer ahead of your mouth had warmth spiraling to the lower parts of your body.

Rather than giving in to your pouty lips, the man whose name you didn’t even know cupped your breasts in both his hands, calloused thumbs making quick work of your nipples as they peaked below the drenched fabric, rolling the sensitive buds into full hardness.

“Such a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he praised, kneading at your supple skin almost adoringly.

The straps of your top slid down your shoulders, and you felt the ghost of a smile press onto your neck, his warm mouth smearing wet kisses right to where your neck and shoulders connected. You bit back a sigh, your breath audibly strained.

“Bet you wanna be touched, hmm?” he continued, finding the sweet spot you didn’t know you had, and pressed on, his sharp teeth digging into your flesh coaxing a purr from deep within your throat. He chuckled, the vibrations making you shudder. “That why you’re dressed like a slut? Wanna be treated like one, mm?” his lips parted again, tongue lapping over the delicate bruise his teeth left as he pinched your nipples harshly. A moan was ripped from your slack jaw, the insult he carelessly threw adding to the slick between your thighs.

“Sounds about right,” he smirked. “Well, I’m not complaining. You’re a sight for sore eyes, kitten.”

He didn’t ask for permission before he tugged at your shirt, your breasts spilling out with a single bounce. You saw him wet his lips once more, fingers seizing your now-exposed nipples and lustful eyes admiring them up close. You hadn’t noticed how close he was standing until his hips bucked against yours, alerting you to how painfully hard he’d gotten underneath his pants. The six-year-long refractory period his body was subjected to was far too cruel— though you wouldn’t know about that until much later.

“Tell me,” he requested, pausing just so he could look you dead in the eye. “Have you ever done this before?”

His lips traversed the valley of your breasts, rough palms sliding languidly across your ribs and waist. You could see him hold you like that while being inches deep in you. Slamming your frail little set of bones against your desk’s wooden surface. Pounding your hole for your parents to return to their precious daughter bent in half by some stranger. Bruising Gojo’s star student until the smug smile was wiped from his obnoxious mouth for good.

All those reasons made you nod at his question, not caring that he’d be ten times rougher because of your white lie. If anything, you looked forward to that.

“Sure you’re not lying to me?” he read your mind like an open book, the elastic of your shorts being torn away from your body. “Won’t be mad if y’are. I love myself a sweet little virgin. Love how whiny their voices get. How,” he lowered himself onto his knees, palm pushing you to sit on your bed “cute their little tight cunts look all stretched around me.”

His hot breath fanned over your soaked panties, index lazily rubbing back and forth between your clothed slit, the added friction sending a pleasurable tingle up your spine.

“You really aren’t one, are ya?”

You shook your head repeatedly like a bobblehead doll, propping your weight onto your elbows as he lifted your legs on his shoulders, the reality of his choppy raven hair nuzzling to your thighs finally hitting you.

“You said all you wanted to do was look, right?” the finger that was hooked around your underwear stopped. “That was the deal…”

For a brief yet conscious second, his eyes bore into yours with such spite that you thought you’d completely messed up. Only a virgin would dare say something this stupid. If he wasn’t bound to you by the ritual, he’d be out the door the moment you spat those words, you knew it, but then his knuckles brushed over your abdomen to find the hand that clenched onto the sheets, and you realized that wasn’t the case.

“Deals get altered and terms renewed all the time,” he mumbled distractedly, deeply inhaling your scent on his nose, while your fingers unfolded between his lips. You gasped, the sight of him fucking them in and out his mouth —tongue slithering right in the middle and saliva dribbling down his chin as he popped them out— enough to hypnotize whatever sense out of your brain.

“I’ll make ya a new deal,” he hummed, gently directing them to your mouth as if he beckoned you to do the same. A smirk tugged at his scar as he watched your pink lips obediently part and round around your own fingers. He didn’t let go until he heard you choke, secretly plotting to replace them with something else—sooner, than later.

“My technique is what interests you, right? How about instead of telling you, I show you?”

You tried to remove your hand, but he shoved it back in, his true colors pouring into a devilish smile. “I’ve had enough of your voice. All you gotta do is sit back like the good little girl I know you are and keep your legs nice and spread for me. How’s that?”

The only thing your head could manage was pathetically bob up and down in agreement, your fingers stuck in your mouth like a damn pacifier, while your cunt pulsed at every single word he uttered; derogatory or not. Were it any other guy talking down to you like that, your knuckles would be leaving an impermanent imprint on his cheek. Were it any other guy treating you as if you had no volition of your own as if you were just a toy for him to break, and you—

There wouldn’t be any other guy for you ever again. He’d make sure of it.

He ripped the fabric into a single shred and tossed it over his shoulder without caring where it landed- your bedside lamp. He looked down at your pussy, debating to himself whether to start with his tongue or fingers first, calculating the time it’d take for him to prep you for his cock down to the last second. He might’ve been a lot less nice than he pretended to be, but he wasn’t about to go out of his way to hurt you. Not intentionally, at least.

“Let’s see,” he tipped forward, the way his forefinger slipped between your folds without any resistance whatsoever bringing you shame. It didn’t go unnoticed by him, his digit triumphantly pulling out and smearing your slick all over your puffy lips. “Is that all for me, sweetheart? So fucking wet just for me?”

Your hips bucked forward as an answer to his question and he thought he wouldn’t mind taking things slow for once— see how much you could take before you came completely undone.

“Girls like you make the best fuck,” he cooed, voice echoing right through your core. “Surrendering to the first sweet word they hear.” His thumb circled your clit, flicking at the little bundle of nerves. “Leaking at the slightest of touch.” His middle and ring fingers joined in the action, burying themselves as far inside walls as your tight hole let him push. “Breaking so easily.” He drooled, coating your entire pussy in his thick saliva before allowing himself a taste, tongue lapping at the mix of juices straight from the source.

Your thighs clenched around him, muffling the lewdness of a whimper as he looked up at you, his smirk loosening with every kitten lick across your flesh. You wanted to say something, to call out his name and moan for him, but it all felt so unpracticed— similarly to how unpracticed your cunt was when it came to the girth of his fingers; much bigger than yours, more experienced too. He reached depths you didn’t know existed, bringing your body such pleasure that had you writhing for more, hips slamming against his face.

He groaned, his own arousal throbbing against his lower abdomen, begging him to get this over with. “Wanna fuck my face, baby?”

You felt your cheeks ignite anew, the eyes you’d fallen for at first sight overflowing with lust, convincing you it felt as good for him as it felt for you.

“Can’t let ya do that,” he parted your folds, fingers spreading your thighs apart while his tongue darted between your lips, his nose intentionally nudging the pink nub with each deep stroke against your spongy spot. “Gotta earn it first.”

You stared at him like an idiot, wondering to yourself if somewhere between his refusal to shake your hand and his eagerness to quench his thirst with your body you’d passed away because that was what heaven ought to feel like. That was what angels ought to look like.

“Got something to say, princess?” his eyes shot up and he gestured for you to unlatch your mouth.

“S-so pretty,” you whispered.

“What was that?” his ears perked up, not because he hadn’t heard you the first time, but because he could do with some affirmation himself.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this… f-fuck—” a yelp punched its way out of your lungs as he folded you in half, pinning your thighs onto your stomach, and crawling onto the bed right after them.

He’d had enough of this little game.

“Good girls shouldn’t cuss like that. Six eyes didn’t teach ya that?”

Holding you down with one hand, he dived back into your pussy, his fingers pumping in and out of you at a furious pace that had your upper body tossing and turning, the first unregulated moans ushering him to keep going. His tongue toyed with your swollen bud, the squelching of your cunt growing significantly louder from this angle, reverberating throughout the four walls of your bedroom. You were close, and so was he to getting his dick wet with all the mess he’d helped create.

His mouth watered just at the thought of his seed being the one to dribble down your thighs instead of his spit. He could picture you in one of those cute blue-navy skirts hanging from your closet and hoped you weren’t a tights person. He wanted to see you off to school every morning with your thighs sticking together so deliciously that anyone smart enough would understand how meticulously he’d fucked the brat out of you—

If only there was a mirror for you to see how stunning you looked. All fucked out and writhing, disheveled hair stuck on your tits and forehead while you nuzzled to the pillows, your shaky voice calling out to the surname he’d left behind. Would you still do that if you knew he played you like a fiddle? If you knew he was no esteemed Zen’in or sorcerer, for that matter, but a man hell-bent on ruining you for his own sick satisfaction?

Your body reciprocated his vile thoughts, your pussy fluttering around his digits. “Gonna cum for me?” he panted, forcing your legs to the side lest he missed a reaction.

Neither of you realized how his one hand had sneaked into his pants, stroking his veiny cock closer to the ecstasy he craved. Precum leaked hot out of the reddened tip, his thumb frantically swiping it over his length in sync with his thrusts. He’d stopped listening to your pleas and instructions. He fucked his fingers in you as he pleased, slowing down only when his balls began to dangerously tighten. Only then did he tear his fingers away ‘cause God forbid he busts his load in his palm like some fucking untouched teenager— regardless of how obscenely pretty you appeared for him or not.

Once he regained his composure, words made sense again. Harder. Faster. More. He hated being told what to do but absolutely loved how pliant you were. A people-pleaser, he bet. Going above and beyond what was asked of you, bending and breaking into whatever molds others force you to fit. He could work with that. Shape you into a mold only he could fit in.

“Cum for me, baby. Show me how much prettier y’ can get.”

His cock twitched as he felt your walls clamp down around his fingers, your sweet face contorting with pleasure, lips swollen with how hard they’d tried to contain the last bits of debouched decency.

How cute.

He set your legs down and moved up to meet your face with his, a wave of genuine softness rushing over him as he thought to kiss your lips tenderly, hushing whatever emotion had you spasming. You were so sensitive. Even if you’d been with another guy before him, he doubted they knew what they were doing— not like he did, anyway. He’d make you scream out his name for the neighbors to hear what a dirty slut lived just next door from them.

After a short while of his stroking your hair and whispering filth into your ears, he decided he’d been good enough to get his trick. He took your hand in his and guided it to his cock, grinning like a little kid as your smaller palm traced the outline over his pants, knowing full well both hands would do nothing to cover his girth.

He’d really missed this— so much that he didn’t mind letting a grunt out in appreciation, certain that more would follow.

Your eyes met, the spark in them telling him you understood what he expected you to do, and even if you didn’t, he’d teach you. He’d teach you everything, snatch you from that piece of shit and make you into his star student, so long as you kept touching him and let him do all the things he’d spent the last thirty minutes fantasizing about.

Everything and anything, all for you to take—

The thoughts that failed to reach your ears along with all traces of the man whose weight alone -up until a moment ago- threatened to crush your body into a fine powder evaporated, the smooth sound of his voice replaced by the crude breaks of your father’s car as he pulled into the driveway— your mother’s kitten heels soon clicking atop every step they climbed.

Shit.

A/N: I actually intended for this to be a one-shot, but I guess it sort of ended on a cliffhanger so, oops. Lemme know if I should write a second and final part, or if you have any Toji ideas/requests ♡

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zot3-flopped · 7 days

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Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

#this review is everything #anti taylor swift #taylor swift #travis kelce #3.6 !!!#hope Pitchfork comes for her too #jack antonoff #taylor swift reviews #the department of tortured poets

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outsideratheart · 4 months

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Queen of what now? (Mary Earps x reader)

A/N: I’m sorry this took so long. I hope you guys like it! Also, I’m going through a big Mary Earps phase right now so this was very fun to right.

Were you there to support friends, accompany a team mate or to see someone who has been on your mind for the last 104 days? You knew it was the latter but if someone one were to ask you would say a mixture of the first and second.

“I can’t believe you came with me. You have to be back in Barcelona tomorrow” Jana asks as you leave the hotel.

What she said was true. You picked up a calf injury during the El Classico which made you unavailable for the international break. It did mean that you could go to England but only for the night.

“It’s Wembley and I’m here to support Keira and Lucy” was it a lie? No. Was it the whole truth? Absolutely not.

“If that’s true why aren’t you wearing one of their shirts?”

The shirt you chose to wear, the England one, wasn’t on show but Jana saw you put it on before leaving the hotel. Now she was digging but you didn’t bite.

“Because I didn’t swap shirts with them”

Your answer seems to please the young defender because she didn’t continue her interrogation. Instead the conversation steered towards the game and how it would end. Jana, here to support Jill, favourited the Dutch but you knew the difference a home crowd could make and when you put those fans in Wembley stadium, England become a different team. You also have the upmost faith in the woman between the sticks, the same one that would captain the team.

You walk down Wembley way, taking in the atmosphere and stopping for as many fans as you can.

“You quite popular for someone who beat England in the final” Jana remarks.

“I’m still not used to it and I can’t say I’m a big fan of the attention”

Your performance throughout the season with Barcelona and during the summer at the World Cup earned you the most coveted trophy in football: The Balón d’Or. Since then you had been exposed to a spotlight, one which wasn’t always welcome.

It was cold in England, in fact to your Spanish blood it was freezing. The moment you entered the stadium you got a hot chocolate and went to your seat. When Mary joked about you coming to game she told you that she would put some tickets aside for the family section but when Leah saw that you were at Wembley she invited you to watch the game from one of the boxes with her and Millie.

You didn’t really know the defender well but you appreciated the invite. The first half was less than great so not a lot was said. You could tell the two blondes were getting stressed but Jana was loving it.

The moment the ball crossed the line for the second goal you knew Mary would punish herself for it.

“Mantén la calma” you wish she could hear you.

“Oh Mary, keep your head up” Leah says from beside you.

“She will blame herself” you add.

“She is. I know that because she’s my team mate. How exactly do you know what she’s thinking?”

“A guess”

The look the Arsenal player gives you lets you know she doesn’t believe you but the whistle is blown for half time before she can question you further.

The people is the room seem to split up for the half time break. You stick with Jana who is obviously having more fun than the rest of the box.

“Dial down the celebrations J, we are in an England box” you whisper to her during half time.

“Jill’s winning though” Jana says innocently.

“Maybe save your celebrations until after the game when you are with her” you raise your eyebrows playfully.

“Fine” she agrees to keep her cheering to a minimum not that it makes a difference because the second half is in England’s favour.

You can’t believe what you are seeing. First Georgia Stanway scores then Lauren Hemp scores two minutes later. As a football fan you were taking it all in. 71,000 people were on their feet as they celebrate the possibly of a come back.

When Ella Toone scores in the 91st minute you can feel the stadium shaking. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

The whistle blows and you see the blonde beside you breathe a sigh of relief.

“That was quite the performance by your team Leah” it was a compliment but in a professional way.

“It was. I take it you are here to see Lucy and Keira?” Leah asks.

“No, ella no es” Jana says from your side.

“Cállate” you shake your head whilst being thankful that Leah didn’t speak Spanish.

“The girls, as well as some of the Dutch team,” Leah looks at Jana as she says that part “are going to a bar called Three Lions. I’m not sure if you have plans but I will let the security know to expect you”

“Gracias Leah. I have something I need to do but I’ll come”

“Me too” Jana also accepts the invite before turning to you once Leah has gone “Jill already invited me. What do you have to do? Nobody knows you are in London”

“Somebody does and I want to see her before anyone else. If anyone asks just tell them I had a call”

And that is what is what Jana does. By the time everyone arrived to the Three Lions bar news has spread that you attended the game. You, as planned, texted a certain goalkeeper and asked her to meet you at a different part of the stadium. Her reply wasn’t words, it was a thumbs up to your message.

The way she walked towards you told you everything you needed to know. Her gaze was on the floor with her shoulders hunched.

Much to your surprise Mary is the first to talk.

“I can’t believe you came” she stands less than a meter in front of you but doesn’t move closer. You may have been talking every day but you hadn’t seen her in person since the final and you desperately wanted to hug her.

“You asked me to”

“I did but you weren’t sat in the seats I sent you tickets for and you’re injured so I thought that maybe you had to stay in Barcelona”

“People saw me and it became a bit much so Leah invited me to watch the game with her in the box”

“Does she know —“

“No. She assumed I was here to watch Lucy and Keira. I didn’t correct her”

Here’s the thing. Nobody knew about you and Mary. The reason why things were so good between you was because there was no pressure to label it, no interference from your friends and no need to force anything.

You saw the way her face dropped and you knew her well enough to know the reason why.

“I’m wearing your shirt” you un tie your coat and pull your hoodie down revealing the green England shirt “they may think I’m here for my team mates but I’m here for you Mary”

“You picked a bad game to come and watch”

“Mary—“

“Don’t. Don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault”

“I wasn’t going to. I know better than to tell someone how to feel after a game” you grab her hand a pull her towards some seating where you pull her down next to you “What I was going to say is that moments like that are a tough pill to swallow but it was a mistake and the best players in the world make them”

“I let the team and the fans down. I let my family and you down”

You hated seeing Mary this distraught. She was normally so full of energy and confident. This wasn’t a side you were familiar with.

“You didn’t. There are people in that room over there” you point the bar behind you “that are proud of you and as for me, well you could never let me down Mary. I swear to you”

Mary couldn’t help the smile that grew on her face. In a moment when she was down, you managed to lift her up. When she feels you reassuringly rub her thigh she leans onto your shoulder.

“You’re quite a big deal here Mary. I saw young girls wearing your shirt and many people wearing scarfs with your face on. I didn’t know you had a nickname” you took a pause as you try to remember what the green scarfs said.

Mary sees you struggling to remember the fan given nickname so she helps you out.

“Mary Queen of stops” her mumble is barely audible.

“Queen of what?” You didn’t hear her.

“Stops. The fans call me Mary Queen of stops”

You only hum in response. Maybe you knew what the fans called her but she needed to hear it too. If for no other reason than to reinstate some confidence.

When Mary stands she holds her hands out to help you up. You walk side by side but she stops before you get the door, far enough that you both are still out of side but close enough that her nerves are building.

“Will you take this off?” The keeper tugged at the drawstring on your hoodie.

“But it’s cold, no?”

Mary felt ridiculous for suggesting it yet she didn’t want to give you her reason. As embarrassment flushed her cheeks, Mary’s gaze found every part of the room that wasn’t your face.

“It’s stupid, forget I said anything”

She doesn’t wait for you to respond and instead walks towards the bar. She assumes that you are right behind her but it is only when she opens the door for you does she realise that you haven’t moved.

“Y/N”

“Mary” with you stood rooted in place it leaves mary with no option other than to return to where she was mere seconds ago “Are you cold? Is that why you want me to take it off. Here, you can have it” without further question you give Mary the hoodie.

“I’m not cold. I want them to see you in my shirt. I want them to know that you came here to support me and that you still do”

“They will have questions”

“Let them ask, It doesn’t mean we have to answer them” Once again Mary leads you to the door put again she stops “Can I wear this?” She holds up your hoodie that she is still carrying.

You nod your head and the smile that appears on her face must be infectious because you are soon grinning ear to ear.

When you enter the bar you try your hardest not to attract any attention but Mary’s absence seems to have worried her team mates and her family because she is pulled away from you.

You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t want to stand by yourself so you search for the three women who you actually know. Lucky for you the three of them are together with the addition of Jill, Beth and Viv.

“Nice shirt” Lucy nudges you.

“Was it a gift from our keeper or—“

“We swapped” you saw no harm and you hoped that telling the little truths might get you out of revealing the big ones.

You wasn’t really involved in the conversation taking place between the English and the Dutch. Something that Jana was quick to pick up on. You watched Mary from a distance as her parents pulled her into their arms, something you desperately wanted to do earlier.

“Go see her. It’s why you’re here” Jana detaches herself from Jill’s hip to talk to you.

“She’s with her family” you say just loud enough for the young defender to hear you. Whilst doing so you turn around so it isn’t obvious that the goalkeeper is the only person you are interested in.

“She is but she is looking at you, oh she want your attention”

Jana was telling the truth because when you turn back around Mary is calling you over. You shake your head, now wasn’t the time for her to introduce you to her parents. Mary on the other hand thought differently because before you can run away she is walking towards you, grabbing your hand and leaving you with no choice other than to follow her.

“Mary, no”

“Y/N, yes”

You suddenly felt nervous. Not necessarily for meeting her mum and dad but to find out how she would introduce you. It wasn’t a conversation you have had yet and you weren’t ready to hear that she didn’t feel the same way as you or even worse she felt nothing at all.

“Mum, dad. This is Y/N, she is—“

“The woman that you won’t shut up about”

Mary cheeks flushed red but she didn’t deny it, in fact she confirmed it.

“It is, she is. She is also the reason why I was late”

Her parent give you both a look, one which isn’t warranted. It does let you both know that they think something else happened and that is the reason for you both arriving later than everyone else.

“We were talking” you were quick to correct their thoughts.

“She calmed me down” Mary slightly squeezes your hand as a thank you.

“Well Y/N, we know how hard on herself Mary is so thank you being there. As her parents it makes us very happy to know that she does let someone in and listens to them”

The woman in question simply listens to what her parents were telling you. Is that really what she had done? Had she let you in without realising?

“She is a good person and she needs to learn that she cannot blame herself for what happens on the pitch” at this point you turn to Mary “We play a team sport. Win or lose, we do it as a team. She isn’t alone”

You mean ever word you said. You spoke as a player who knew what Mary was feeling but the last part you said sincerely. As long as Mary wanted you around then she wouldn’t be alone, ever.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Mary asks.

“Porfa”

You say goodbye to her parents and go to the emptiest spot at the bar.

“I just met your parents” you cannot help but laugh a little.

“Was that ok? They wanted to meet you after I told them about you”

“What did you tell them?” You take a look around. You were surrounded by people, maybe a more private setting was best for the ‘what are we’ talk.

“That I met a girl in Australia. When I was at my lowest she showed up and got me to smile through my tears. Every day I look forward to talking to her, I wait for her texts and our FaceTimes are the best part of my day”

You looked at Mary with a foreign feeling in your gut. You could compare it to butterflies but that didn’t seem like justice. When she moves forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear you don’t flinch. In fact you welcome to closeness.

“Carino, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to kiss you now” Mary’s tone is confident but the look on her face didn’t convey the same confidence.

“I won’t stop you but look around. People are —” The woman standing opposite knew exactly what you were going to say but she didn’t care. Her focus was on one thing; you.

Everything with Mary has been new but the way she kissed you felt familiar, as if this wasn’t your first kiss. Your body was screaming for you to deepen the kiss, to strengthen the connection but you knew you would have to wait. Mary obviously faces the same conflict only she has given in to her desires. You have to push her away when you felt her tongue on your lips.

“Mary, we can’t do this here”

“But I want to”

She leans back in for more but only gets a peck on the lips.

“Cálmate”

Mary felt frustrated but she really couldn’t complain. She had been dreaming of kissing you for months now and every scenario she came up failed in comparison to the real thing.

“Will you come back to the hotel tonight? We don’t have to share a room. You can stay with Keira or Lucy”

“I have a very early flight in the morning Mary” you wished you could stay but you needed to go home and you could not miss your flight.

“I know but please, I’m not ready to say goodbye to you yet”

“I don’t want to either but I can’t” Mary’s head dipped in disappointment and it wasn’t a sight that you liked “Maybe I could spend a few hours there and then go back to my hotel”

“You have yourself a deal” Mary was happy to compromise.

Later on you went back to the hotel where the England team was staying. As imagined you were subject to a lengthy interrogation by her team mates. You answered most questions and then played the ‘I don’t understand the English’ card when you didn’t want to answer certain ones. You barely left Mary’s side the entire night which only made your departure worse. She was adamant on walking you to your car and you didn’t fight her on it.

“Thank you for coming tonight” Mary says as she opens your door for you.

“I had fun” you absentmindedly run your finger of your lips as you mind wanders to the multiple kisses you and Mary had throughout the night “I have come to London, now it’s your turn to come Barcelona”

It wasn’t a bad deal. The sun was shining in Barcelona, whereas it hasn’t been seen for days in London.

“I’ll be there as soon as my schedule allows it” Mary hated that she couldn’t just hop on a plane and come see you.

This was the hard part. You and Mary could find time to text, call and FaceTime but in person visits were difficult due to your schedule and the year the two of you had. You were only able to visit because of your injury and as much as you knew you would miss Mary, you didn’t want her schedule to become clear for the same reason.

“Until then we will make it work. We have done so far and look where it has lead us”

“I certainly didn’t think my night would end with me kissing you”

“It hasn’t”

Mary leaned forward and quickly stole a kiss.

“It has now”

You couldn’t help but laugh at her antics.

“I need to go now”

“I know. Call me when you get back to your hotel”

Once in the car, Mary watches you drive away. There is a pain in her chest as she already misses your company. You do end up FaceTiming her that night although it is different now. Seeing her face on the screen was nice but it didn’t compare to being with her in person. Still, you enjoyed your night with her and on the other end of the line Mary was already planning her trip to Barcelona. If the two of you have learnt one thing that night it was that you both wanted each other and you were willing to do whatever it takes to make it work.

#Mary Earps x reader #Mary Earps one shot #Mary Earps imagine #woso x reader #woso one shot #woso imagine #engwnt x reader #engwnt one shot #engwnt imagine #muwfc x reader #muwfc one shot #muwfc imagine

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houserautha · 17 days

Text

These Destined Ends

Part 7

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: depictions of killing/death, a blood oath, oral sex f receiving, fingering, edging, dirty talk, p in v, no protection, breeding/pregnancy kink, creampie kind of

A/N: I hear wedding bells🎉 This took me a hot second to write up and edit, but it's also a little bit longer than I usually post. I hope you enjoy💕

Sleep evades you. The day of your wedding slips in uninvited, a wash of sunlight to chase away the shadows from your room. The bed is empty. Feyd-Rautha hasn’t returned or, at least, hasn’t visited you since.

You convince yourself that you don’t care.

But still your thoughts stray traitorously to him — where he is, what he’s doing, what he’s thinking and if it’s of you.

You stare out at the Grand Arena. It’s more or less attached to the Harkonnen fortress and, to your understanding, typically reserved for political rallies. It’s the only place large enough to host a wedding where the entire planet is invited, though, plus the added benefits of its close proximity.

A platform has been erected and already citizens are filing into their stadium-style seats despite the early hour. They will wait all day to sit front row at the marriage between House Atreides and House Harkonnen. A historic event, you realize with detached clarity. To be remembered for generations to come.

This does nothing to quell your roiling stomach.

You turn at the sound of your bedroom doors opening, hope lifting stupidly in your chest. Because it is not Feyd-Rautha who enters, but Lady Jessica.

She looks more radiant than ever, though you suspect this partially has to do with the time apart that you’ve spent.

“Mother?”

Perhaps your lack of rest has warped your vision.

Jessica smiles softly, confirming both your deepest fear and most shameful want. “Daughter.”

For the first time in your life, you run to her. She embraces you, cradling your face into her neck. She smells like home and the memory of Caladan has you blinking back tears. “Why are you here?”

“Did you really think we would miss your wedding?” Jessica brushes your hair back. “They are treating you well? You haven’t responded to any of our correspondences.”

“They are treating me well,” you tell her. You can’t help but think of Feyd-Rautha’s lips on your skin, between your legs, but quickly dismiss it. “And I haven’t received any correspondences.”

“Mm, as I suspected. Your father thought that you might be too busy to write but I knew better.”

“He’s here, too?”

“Of course.” Your mother presses something cold and metallic into your palm, curls your fingers around it. “I wanted to give you this.”

You frown. After closer inspection, you realize that it’s a necklace. Simple, elegant, with a thin silver chain and delicate pendant. “What is this?”

“I wore it when I first met your father. Although we are not married, our relationship has obviously grown past that of an arranged partnership. I can only hope you find similar happiness.” She pauses then, examining you. “I know you are aware that your birth was…orchestrated. But that does not change our love for you. You are our greatest treasure, Y/N.”

Your mood falters, slipping from between your fingers and shattering on the ground like glass. “This is a fertility necklace.”

“Yes,” Jessica says, dipping her chin.

You have the overwhelming sense to grind the necklace under your heel. The tears in your eyes now belong there for an entirely different reason.

“I thought you came here today to support me but instead you’re just carrying out your Bene Gesserit schemes,” you hiss. A dry laugh rattles in your throat. “I’m such a fool! You don’t care for me. You only care about what I can provide. My whole life, everything has been for them. Everything.”

Jessica’s jaw clenches. “That’s not true.”

Aggravated, you spin on her, teeth bared. “Then tell me you came here today of your volition.”

Jessica holds your gaze but does not reply.

“I knew it,” you all but snarl at her.

“I thought these past few months would’ve opened your eyes to your potential, the importance of your duty,” Jessica snarls back, matching your viciousness. “But still you are blind to the truth. You blatantly refuse to accept a plan that has been in effect for centuries. Ten thousand years of deliberate planning and you act as if you are here as punishment. You are living proof of the Bene Gesserit’s power, Y/N.”

Chest heaving, you shutter your raging emotions. “Leave me.”

“That’s no way to speak to your mother.”

“I speak to you not as a daughter,” you retort, “but as the na-Baroness of House Harkonnen. And seeing that you are nothing but a concubine to the Duke, I demand that you leave.”

You know that with The Voice, Jessica could force you to bend to her will, to do any inexplicable amount of things. But she does not. She stands there, wavering, before striding back from which she came from without another word.

You hide the fertility necklace in the pot of a synthetic plant, and no one is the wiser when they come to prepare you. For the servants this is a joyous occasion and you do not want to dampen their enthusiasm. You mask your growing unease, laughing and joking with the girls as they recreate you into the image of na-Baroness.

“You look stunning,” Asha tells you privately. There’s quite some time before the ceremony starts, and she’s pulled you into a quiet corner of the room. “The na-Baron isn’t going to know what to do with himself.”

Oh, you very much doubt that. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

Your wedding dress is a subtle combination of both Atreides and Harkonnen culture, a blend of elegance and functionality.

The dress itself is made from a lightweight, flexible material that mimics the look of metallic plates. Featuring overlapping panels that creates a segmented, scale-like effect, the bodice gives the illusion of Harkonnen armor. But the skirt, full and flowing, is entirely Atreides — layers of fabric cascading to the floor. Small, metallic accents line the hem that shimmer with your every step.

And, completing the look, a headpiece that forms a sort of M over your forehead and down your cheeks, adorn with jewels.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek. “Have you seen him today? The na-Baron.”

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“No reason.”

Asha’s mouth quirks teasingly. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” you say, too quickly, “well, yes. But not because of him, because of the ceremony. This will be my first time in front of Giedi Prime.”

“They will adore you,” Asha says. She waves a hand flippantly. “And if not, then your husband will have their heads.”

You grin. “I suppose that’s comforting.”

“Of course it is.” She squeezes your hand.

Your moment with Asha passes as you’re both pulled back into the revelries — spice-laden champagne, food that looks suspiciously like harvested organs, and the pounding, ear-splitting music that’s popular among the Harkonnens. By the time you’re called for the ceremony, your mood has lifted significantly, almost enough to make you forget that you’re the reason for celebration. It’s a sobering reminder.

Your heart threatens to burst from your chest. From inside the walls of the fortress, the roar of the crowd crests and falls like a tidal wave sent to sweep you away. The corridor is alive with mumbled conversation. A procession will precede you to the altar — noblemen and the likes, your parents, who you avoid — along with your betrothed, who is nowhere in sight. The gathered members of your bridal party shift and part, panic seizing you with white-knuckled fingers as the Baron maneuvers toward you.

He greets you with a saying repeated to you many times that day, one that after several iterations you’ve come to understand means, “May your death be swift in battle”.

How it relates to marriage, you are too nervous to inquire about.

“What a wonderful day,” he muses in a rasping lilt. “It would be a pity for someone to ruin it.”

“Indeed,” you reply, eyes narrowing.

“You understand the importance of the ceremony, don’t you?” You don’t respond, sensing that he will tell you nevertheless. “This is just one more step for Feyd-Rautha toward taking my place as Baron. How the ceremony goes will influence his standing with his people.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Of course this was just another political move. What did he think you would do, riot in the middle of the ceremony? You retort, “I understand.”

“Welcome to the family, Y/N.”

The chill that brushes down your spine, seeping into your bones, is deterred by the sudden clash of a gong. War drums erupt in tumultuous exalt. The very sound of them resonates deep within you, invoking a primal response of adrenaline, as if your body is preparing you for battle.

Which, you suppose is fitting.

And who else to be summoned by the promise of war then Feyd-Rautha.

He enters the room as he always does, commanding the attention of everyone in it. The effect is only amplified today, though, in his polished ceremonial armor and resolute intensity, a heady combination of brutality and valiancy.

Gazing at him us purifying fire, searing you from the inside out, and you take your time charting the unholy beauty of his face, gazing back at you with terrifying reverence.

In that moment, you possess no past or future — there is only him. An eternal now.

And then he steps past you and into the black sun, exultant, thrusting the knife above his head.

A championing cheer follows, impossibly louder than the thunder of the drums. Feyd-Rautha lingers and something in your chest expands at the sight of him dwelling in their approval, their admiration, somehow transcendent of any humanity he manages to have.

He truly is a god.

From your secretive position, you peer at him as he strides down the aisle to the platform where the officiant is waiting for him. At the top of the stairs, he turns and faces his people. In an act that surprises you, everyone who isn’t already on their feet rises, and in sync pound their fists to their chests. One two three.

Their utter devotion to him is staggering.

Feyd-Rautha raises his chin, simultaneously moved and expectant of this. He then takes his place at the altar.

Which means it’s your turn.

You loathe having to follow such a devastating display of power and love. There’s no telling how Giedi Prime will react to you, after all, considering that you are technically the enemy. Asha’s words come to you, emboldening you, and you lift your gaze. You will not falter.

A shushed quiet falls over the arena as you stride out, then enormous applause. You can only imagine what you look like to them, your people, but the only one who matters looks upon you with such unwavering devoutness that it nearly brings you to your knees. As you climb the steps to the altar, Feyd-Rautha’s hands clench into fists, a gesture you interpret as a sign of restraint.

Oh, if only he could touch you with those hands.

The officiant, a representative of the Imperium, begins to recite the traditional Harkonnen wedding script. A translator repeats the words to you, but you let the harsh language wash over you as you focus instead on the row of guests at the base of the altar. Your parents — looking fiercely protective, Leto smiling somewhat reluctantly; Jessica maintaining her cool demeanor — the Baron, emotionless, and beside him Rabban.

Did he wish it was him on the stage?

He catches you staring and flashes you a sickening smile. You look pointedly away, a fist forming in your stomach.

The beginning of the ceremony is tediously long and drenched in tradition, most of which you don’t understand even with the translator’s help. Marriage is not generally a romantic affair for Harkonnens, and the proof can be found in their strangely clinical rites. Again it’s impressed upon you that you are preparing for battle, one in which you would reside besides the most fearsome of its participants.

A pause on the officiant’s part draws you back to the present. You know what comes next, and the thought repulses you — Harkonnens of the Imperial House do not get married with the weight of enemies on their shoulders, pursuing a clean slate of sorts. You watch as a row of prisoners are led before the altar, hooded and bound and forced to their knees by a Harkonnen guard. You shiver despite the insurmountable heat.

You are familiar with war, with combat, the knife-thin edge upon which each fight balances. Life or death. But you can hardly stomach the idea of executing a helpless opponent, even if they are an enemy of your House.

Your throat thickens as Feyd-Rautha is bestowed a ceremonial blade.

Each hood of the prisoner is removed except for one, a man at the end who wavers to stay upright. Feyd-Rautha ignores this man, starting at the opposite end. His grin is apparent as he slashes through the throats of the prisoners, the blade his brush and the bodies his canvas, painting them both with ink-colored blood.

When Feyd-Rautha makes it to the still-hooded man, he pauses, shoulders heaving with the exertion of his wicked precision. Rivulets of blood stream down his armor. He says something unintelligible to the man, then removes his hood.

Your blood runs cold as you recognize him.

Ze’ev.

Now that you know who it is, you inspect him closer. There’s hardly any traces of the man you briefly knew. He is emaciated, bones lining his scarred flesh, clearly beaten within an inch of his life. After your encounter with Feyd-Rautha, you know that Harkonnens heal quickly, and the scars on his body indicate to you that he had been torn open again and again.

Feyd-Rautha turns. When he approaches you, his face is full of such naked adoration that it causes you to take a step back. He offers you the bloodied blade.

“For you,” he rasps.

You whisper fiercely, “What are you doing?”

“He is a gift, for you. On the day of our wedding.”

Every fiber of your being is screaming at you to refuse him. But to do so would be to decline your husband, shame him in front of his people — bile rises in your throat as you accept the blade, your fingers wrapping around the handle.

You breeze past him, refusing to meet his eye.

Ze’ev trembles as you advance on him. Though from his delicate condition or fear, you can’t be sure. His lips form a sneer. “You won’t do it.”

“It’s nice to see you, too,” you say dryly. “I thought you were dead.”

“I should be. Your husband certainly brought me to the brink of it and back, telling me that he was saving me. For you.” Ze’ev spits at your feet then, a dark and bloody glob.

On Arrakis, this would’ve been a sign of respect.

But this wasn’t Arrakis.

You raise your arm in an upward swing, then across your body with exuberance, his blood hissing as it splatters the ground. Splatters you.

The crowd applauds your demonstration, and the sound of their approval echoes in your ears as you take the stage once more, the prisoners’ bodies carted away quickly. You feel numb. Bewildered.

But also deliciously righteous.

You face the man who put you in this position, who put the blade in your hand as a gift without considering the consequences. And he smiles because he knows — he knows that you are delighted, that the freckles of drying blood elicit an indisputable, terrifying delirium in you.

He coaxed this from you, what was better left in the dark.

And you don’t know if you should thank him.

The officiant switches to the common tongue. “The time has come to bind these lives together in the sight of their people. As na-Baron and na-Baroness, they pledge their loyalty and protection to one another, their flesh and blood now shared in duty and alliance.”

A second blade is brought out on a satin cushion.

“na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, do you swear to protect and defend na-Baroness Y/N, to uphold her honor and safeguard her well-being, as your duty demands?”

“I swear.”

“na-Baroness Y/N, do you swear to protect and defend na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, to uphold his honor and safeguard his well-being, as your duty demands?”

You dip your chin. “I swear.”

“Then, as symbol of your shared duty and alliance, I ask you to exchange your blood.”

Feyd-Rautha takes the blade and, with surprising gentleness, turns your palm over and kisses it before gliding the tip of the blade over it. Your blood wells, bright red.

You take his own hand — large, scarred and calloused — and repeat the action.

Before he can heal, the officiant wraps a white cloth around your now joined hands, red blood mingling with black.

“You are my body, an extension of myself,” Feyd-Rautha rasps.

You tense. This isn’t part of the ceremony.

Feyd-Rautha, one hand still clasped in yours, uses the other to beat his chest. One two three. You watch as the crowd responds in kind: the same gesture, reverberating throughout Giedi Prime.

It’s incredibly intoxicating, to be the focus of such a powerful gesture. You let it wash over your skin and infiltrate your bloodstream, alter something inside you, rearranging your very cells into what it takes to be a fearless ruler. You would do anything to garner such a response again.

The officiant waits until the last thump can be heard before he declares, “May your bond be as unbreakable as the strongest fortress. United by duty and alliance, I present to you — the na-Baron and na-Baroness!”

Having spent so much time dreading the ceremony, you never stopped to think about what would happen after it. Currently you sit atop the dais in the throne room, accepting an endless line of Harkonnens who want to congratulate you on your feat of an arranged marriage. Your palm that the blade cut stings with every hand you shake.

After what seems like a small eternity, it’s time for you to join the nobles at the reception. Memories of the last time you sat at the table trickle in through your exhaustion — which you promptly shove away.

The feast passes in a blur. You don’t have the appetite for any of it, but hopefully do a convincing job of moving your food around on your plate.

And then: it’s time for your first dance.

Reluctantly you let Feyd-Rautha sweep you into the center of the room, the usual security you feel in his presence succumbing to your own fears. He holds you tight against him. His tone is clipped, political, plush lips on the shell of your ear, “You had never killed before.”

Ah, your first words as husband and wife.

“No I had never killed before,” you snap at him. “Not everyone goes around just slaughtering whoever they feel like.”

Feyd-Rautha is a surprisingly agile dancer, though you figure that it isn’t all that removed from fighting. “I didn’t intend to upset you.”

“Perhaps, but you did.” Your throat thickens. “What I did is irreversible.”

“You told me you wanted him to pay for what he did.”

“I-I did. I just didn’t think —”

“If you let someone who crosses you live, then others will try,” Feyd-Rautha says, incensed. “You must strangle the serpent while it’s a hatchling, for once it grows, it will seek you out while you lay in your bed and slip around your neck.”

You can’t suppress your shudder. What a lovely metaphor. Apparently Giedi Prime has loads of fun phrases alluding to death.

“You could’ve told me,” you mutter in lieu of a response.

“It was a gift.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek. Was that all it was? Another part of your game?

“Most people give jewelry as gifts,” you retort.

Feyd-Rautha’s lips twitch. “I am not most people.”

“I know.” To prove your point, you coast your fingers over his side where the dagger went in.

He pulls you tighter against him. “I would have you right here in front of everyone if you’d let me.”

You can’t help but smirk. “I know.”

He opens his mouth to continue but he’s interrupted — by Rabban, nonetheless. “na-Baron, I request a dance with my sister in-law.”

Feyd-Rautha’s grip on you tightens. “No.”

“Yes,” you say, loosening his fingers from around your waist. “It won’t be long.”

Feyd-Rautha stares after you unhappily as his brother leads you away. Other couples have now taken to the floor in an elaborate dance that you don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway, seeing that Rabban just drags you after him for each step.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” he says finally.

“You suppose?”

“If it was up to me, Feyd-Rautha would be the one extending his congratulations.” Rabban’s small, dark eyes examine you. “Though the Bene Gesserits have chosen well for a Harkonnen bride. You are a formidable force.”

“Thank you,” you reply, sensing more.

“There are…things…in order that will happen because you will not submit to me,” Rabban says.

Your jaw sets. “Like what?”

“You’ve made your choice.” There’s a twinge of pity in his voice. Not for him. For you? “I thought I should forewarn you.”

“Rabban, what are you talking about? You never said anything about —”

“The day of the Crucible. I told you my wishes and you denied me them.”

“You said nothing that would warrant a warning. I thought you just envious of your brother for obtaining something else that you can’t have.”

“Envious? No. More deserving? Perhaps.”

Behind Rabban, a soldier materializes from the crowd. Sardaukar. You stiffen — it hadn’t come to your attention that anyone from the Imperium had attended your wedding.

“Excuse my interruption,” the soldier says. “I wanted to congratulate you on your union on behalf of the Emperor. He extends his deepest apologies that he isn’t t able to be here himself.”

You nod curtly.

The soldier’s gaze slides to Rabban. “May I have a word with you?”

Begrudgingly, Rabban releases you with a final look. You watch his retreating form, mind reeling with confusion. What did the Sardaukar want with Rabban? And why did the soldier look so familiar to you? Idly, you wonder if the violent nature of the Sardaukar soldiers remind you of the Harkonnens.

No, that isn’t it. That soldier had been here before, at the dinner a few weeks before. He had been the one to call the Baron away, you recall. But he had been dressed as a Harkonnen soldier then, not a soldier of the Imperial army.

The revelation creeps over you uneasily.

Before you can give it much thought, however, someone whisks you away into the next dance. A protest forms on your tongue before you realize it’s Asha — cheeks pink and beaming at you.

“Asha!” You can’t help but laugh, partly out of relief. “I thought you were another terrible admirer.”

“I am an admirer,” she says, “though I would hardly consider myself terrible.”

“Terrible for taking so long to get to me.”

“My apologies, but the na-Baroness is in high demand.” You settle into a comfortable rhythm as the music plays and Asha leads you in the unfamiliar dance. After some time, she grows uncharacteristically serious. “I know your feelings for the na-Baron are…complicated…but your ceremony was beautiful.”

You raise a brow. “Really?”

“The way he saluted you…” Asha trails off, waving her hand as if to ward off tears. This reaction spurns your curiosity.

Trying not to sound too interested, you ask, “What does it even mean?”

A slightly dreamy expression crosses Asha’s face. “Generally it’s reserved for military generals as a sign of respect, something that soldiers do to show their loyalty.”

“So when he did it to me…?”

“He was signaling that he sees you as someone superior to himself, someone to respect. That he is your willing soldier.” Asha grins. “Everyone has been talking about it.”

“Oh.” It’s all you can think to say. “Should I have done it back?”

Asha shakes her head. “Definitely not. It would’ve been an insult to him. His judgement. You did the right thing.”

You’re not sure what the right thing was, but you let the subject go. It lingers in your mind, however, to the point that you over-analyze the moment during the ceremony, replaying Feyd-Rautha’s expression as he saluted you.

You want to confront him about it, but apparently your first dance is all you will see of your new husband on the eve of your wedding. Even trying to catch his eye is impossible as you are both continuously pulled in different directions.

“Is this a bad time?”

At first you bristle, afraid that you’ve been caught sneaking away from the festivities. You have no idea of the time but it has to be well into the morning now, and you just wanted a moment to collect your thoughts. The spot you’ve chosen in a darken alcove gave you a perfect vantage point of Feyd-Rautha, infuriatingly charming as he speaks to a pair of nobles out of earshot.

You tear your gaze from him.

“Father!” You run into the arms of Leto, Duke of Arrakis, who ambles down the hall to you. It’s reflective of your greeting with Jessica this morning, but he inspires only warmth and fond memories. The brush of his beard across your cheek fills you with longing. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

“I apologize for not going this morning to visit you. Your mother insisted she go alone.” A frown tugs on his handsome features but disappears as quick as it appeared. “You look breathtaking.”

“Thank you,” you sigh. It’s as if you are a child again, the light of your father’s attention basking you in a sunny glow.

“I…” Leto pauses, deliberates. Your father is usually not someone to be lost for words. “I wish I had done something to prevent this.”

You touch his arm. “It’s not your fault.”

“I blame myself, it’s true. What kind of father willingly hands his daughter over to that…monster?”

“You had no choice. Neither of us did.”

“Listen, Y/N, your mother regrets how your conversation went this morning. She has only wanted the best for you,” he adds softly.

His words prick at you, and suddenly the warmth of his light diminishes. “We both know that’s not true.”

“Her intentions can be…muddled by her Bene Gesserit training. But that doesn’t change the love she feels for you.”

“Her love.” You chuckle bitterly. “All that she loves is what others can do to forward the Bene Gesserit agenda. You. Me. Don’t you realize?”

Leto’s expression softens. “Just come with me. She’s waiting for us. She wants to try again.”

Anger seizes you with white-knuckles and stifling heat, blooming in your chest. “I’ve given her too many opportunities to make things right. You just told me that you wish you could’ve prevented this. She could’ve prevented this. I do not wish to speak another word to someone who has orchestrated my entire life since conception.”

Perhaps you can blame the time that you’ve spent apart, the exhaustive events the day has presented you, but there is a side to Leto that you have forgotten — his frightening, unwavering loyalty to Jessica. A loyalty that not even you, his daughter, can temper.

His voice is that of a diplomat, detached and commanding as he says, “You will not speak of your mother in such a way.”

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but jumping to the defense of your mother cuts you deeper than any knife can. You swallow your disappointment.

“You’re fooled by her just like everyone else.”

Leto’s mouth tightens into an angry slash. “You are not the daughter I remember.”

“No.” You tilt your chin. “She is gone.”

“Then I have no business with you.”

Your tongue rolls in your cheek, over your teeth, carefully selecting your next words. “So be it. I won’t inconvenience you with my company.”

You can’t stand to witness his expression, or let him see the grimace of pain that graces yours, so you turn from him before either happens. You go, not back towards the party, but away — you can’t be here any longer. It feels as if your bones are trying to flee from your skeleton, your skin suddenly stretched too tightly.

Truthfully you have no destination in mind but your feet carry you to the one place that you know will guarantee silence.

Feyd-Rautha’s strategy room.

In the dark your fingers find the seam of the door and you ease it open, slinking inside. For the first time since this morning, you’re alone, and there’s no auditory assault of voices or music.

Back against the wall, you slide down to the ground and pull your knees to your chest. You will tears to your eyes but there are none to summon, lost to the icy numbness claiming you. Any other feeling is cast adrift.

Could it have only been three months ago that you were on Arrakis, sparring with Gurney?

You no longer recognize yourself.

The closest identifying factor is when the door open and Feyd-Rautha appears. There’s a resemblance there, a call of darkness in him that something within you answers. Your mouth twists in distaste. How did he find you?

“Go away.”

“No.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“I don’t care. This is my strategy room, and I can come and go as I please.” Cast in shadows, you can barely make out his face, but the scorch of his gaze is telling of his scrutiny. “Get up off the floor.”

“No.”

“Get up or I’ll make you.”

You weigh his words. Then you reluctantly rise to your feet, unable to look at him.

“This…attitude is unbecoming of you.”

“You’re a prick,” you fire back.

“A na-Baroness, brooding alone — and on the floor, nonetheless, like a common stray. I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior.”

“Or what?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw. “I will have to remind you who you are.”

Heat flickers in your belly, a weak flame. “And what is that? A whore, a womb? I am nothing but what others have made me to be.”

Feyd-Rautha laughs.

He actually laughs.

The sound of which is so unnatural, so unnerving, that your muscles tense like they’re anticipating a fight. You flush with shame — anger — and raise your hand to strike him but Feyd-Rautha catches your wrist. His words lilt with ill-timed amusement.

“Surely you don’t believe that.”

You struggle to wrest yourself from his grasp, but the effort is futile. “Let go of me.”

“No. Never.”

Feyd-Rautha’s lips crash into yours. He steers your back to the wall, colliding with your spine. He swallows your cry of pain with his mouth, slanting it over yours, hands bracketing either side of your face. His fingers delve into your hair, pads of his thumbs pressing against your cheeks. The weak flame inside you ignites into a raging inferno.

He kisses you with a fierce, concentrated energy, as if his sole purpose is to bruise your mouth with his own. His tongue flickers across your bottom lip, behind your teeth. You moan at the same time Feyd-Rautha chooses to coast his hands down your sides and your head lolls back, neck bared.

He grabs onto you as his mouth flies to your exposed throat, hands greedily clutching at your waist. Feyd-Rautha presses a series of kisses that turn swiftly into nibbles, bites. He sucks and licks at your neck, no doubt creating a necklace of love marks, eagerly staking his claim on the sensitive skin. Each bite and lick winds you closer and closer to an orgasm, the idea of his lips marking you wickedly delightful.

Feyd-Rautha moves his hands to your ass, to the underside of your thighs, and hikes you up. Without thinking, you lock your legs around him. The action brings his hardened length nudging against your center and you whimper, grinding into him, desperate for friction.

“I want you so fucking bad,” you pant. “Please.”

He hums against your neck. “What did you say you were — a whore?” His hips roll with yours, the memory of him inside you inciting a moan from your lips. “The na-Baron doesn’t bother fucking whores.”

“Please,” you say again.

In response, Feyd-Rautha bites down on the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You wince even as pleasure floods over you. “Beg all you want but I won’t fuck a whore.”

You fail to conjure a response as he pins you to the wall with his hips, your arms thrown around his neck, and effectively loosens his hands in order to hoist your dress up. Your flesh pimples as it’s exposed to the cool air of the strategy room.

Feyd-Rautha’s hands skim over you, brush over your center. You whimper, “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me who you are,” he rasps.

Feyd-Rautha teases your clit through your panties, drawing lazy circles with his fingers. You buck your hips in an effort to gain reprieve but he denies you this.

Your voice pitches nearly into a whine. “I-I don’t know.”

And you don’t — not after the sequence of your day, not with Feyd-Rautha unraveling you with his his hands and his mouth. You are infinitesimal, insignificant, clay waiting to be shaped in his capable touch.

“Then I will remind you,” Feyd-Rautha says. He pushes your panties to the side, ghosting his digits over your entrance so that you writhe in desperation. “You are my wife, the na-Baroness of the House Harkonnen. You will raze cities to the ground and bring men to their knees. I will fuck you often and fill you with my seed, keep you pregnant so that you bear my children. You are not nothing, you are magnificent.”

His words are punctuated by his short, breathy pants, fingers pressing to your cunt without giving you any of the pleasure that you seek.

“Now — tell me who you are.”

“I-I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife.”

A wail looses from you as Feyd-Rautha plunges his fingers inside you, relieved from your aching by his careful ministrations. Each pump of his hand brings his palm to your sex, quick and authoritative. A hand that had killed six men today, saluted you, bled with you, and the severity of the situation has your walls clenching around him — he is Feyd-Rautha, and he is fucking you with his fingers, littering your body with bites and kisses and mumbled, appreciative praises.

It’s not surprising that this drives you to orgasm with record speed, to alleviating the pressure building between your legs —

Feyd-Rautha removes his fingers, depriving you of your release. You almost howl in frustration.

“Close,” he says. “But I’m not convinced.”

“No, please —”

“You can cum once you’ve convinced me that you remember who you are. Until then — your pleasure will be withheld.”

Again, he punishes you with his fingers, splitting you open as he inserts them. Your back bows.

“Now,” he pants, “tell. Me. Again.”

“I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife,” you repeat, mustering as much conviction as you can. You would tell him anything if it meant cumming on his fingers.

Harder, faster, wrist snapping: “And?”

“And…I am magnificent.”

Feyd-Rautha’s satisfaction is evident even in the dark, judging only by the pulse of his fingers, the breathy laugh fanning into your neck. He removes his fingers again, though, to your chagrin, trading positions for one that allows him to see your face. “Oh, you are,” he purrs. “And I bet you taste even better.”

You hitch your legs around his shoulders at his prompting. Feyd-Rautha sinking to his knees while applying enough weight to keep you trapped against the wall. You suppress another whimper. Your thighs are nearly flush with your chest as Feyd-Rautha dips his head to greet your cunt, driving you higher up the wall and forcing you to grab onto his armor for support.

You can’t see him with the skirt of your dress in the way, but you feel his mouth hovering your entrance.

Feyd-Rautha presses a kiss to you. He flicks his tongue over your clit, then licks a stripe up your center back to it, lapping eagerly between your thighs. His mouth works in tandem with his tongue, his teeth, treating you to the same nipping and sucking that he administered to your neck. Your hips buck to meet his every stroke.

And then, there it is again, your orgasm fighting for completion, raking claws of molten lava through your belly, your pelvis.

From between your legs, Feyd-Rautha rasps, “Convince me and I’ll let you cum.”

You swallow down a cry of protest. If you don’t get your release, you might actually implode. You do your best to summon his words from before, “I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife. And I am magnificent.”

“And how will I fuck you?”

Your teeth grind as you recall, “Often.”

“Why?”

“To-To keep me pregnant,” you stammer out. You rarely allow yourself to imagine your body in such a state, afraid of what it will invoke, but you do now: belly swollen with Feyd-Rautha’s child, breasts full, a physical manifestation of the vigorous fucking he regularly bestows.

And just like that, like the snapping of a rubberband, he returns his mouth to your cunt and laps at you until you finally, finally, reach your orgasm. Feyd-Rautha holds you steady as the prolonged release cleaves you in half, shuddering against his mouth, your vision swimming with stars. Tears wet your cheeks with your relief.

You sag into him, and he effortlessly lifts you back to your feet, still trapping you to the wall, one hand lazily skimming your hip.

“Do not, ever again, think so lowly of yourself. Do you understand?”

Your head bobbles stupidly. “I understand.”

“Good.” He brushes hair back from your face, runs his finger along the scattering of angry welts he’s left on your neck. “Now, my jewel, how do you want me to fuck you?”

You commit him to memory, this renegade angel, a contrast of darkness and your own personal deliverance. “I’ll let you choose.”

Without missing a beat, Feyd-Rautha carries you to the strategy table and lays you flat on your back, maneuvering to grab your ankles, one in each hand and spreading you wide. He takes his straining cock from his pants and strokes it as he admires you. “Mm, my beautiful wife, so eager for me to fuck her.”

He traces your entrance with his fingers, then notches his cock there, sliding the tip of it between your slick folds. You ache to take him but with your ankles in his grip, he keeps you firmly in place. Like a silly, wanton thing, you try desperately to grind against him as he drags himself, up and down, teasing you.

“Please, Feyd,” you beg, “please fuck me.”

“Say it again.”

“Fuck me, Feyd. Please.”

The ridges and crests of the strategy table bite into your back as he drives into you. The ecstasy of finally having him inside you is almost too much to bear — hips snapping, groans rumbling through his chest. He is inspired like this, immersed in the feel of your walls clamping down on his cock, pupils blown, plush lips parted with each panting breath.

If you only you could bottle up this moment, savor the way you both rise to meet the other like waves upon the shores of Caladan.

He pounds into you in a borderline frenzy, each near-violent thrust surging your orgasm higher.

Then Feyd-Rautha releases your ankles, your legs returning around his waist, and he captures your wrists instead, holding them over your head. The angle allows him to press himself to you, spearing you deeper, winding your desire tighter and tighter.

“My wife,” he rasps, “my jewel. Look at me.”

You meet his gaze. Feyd-Rautha smirks, pleased with himself, with you, and thrusts into you with swift finality. Your orgasm peaks and suddenly you’re shuddering and convulsing beneath him, pleasure wrought from every fiber of your being.

Distantly, you feel your cunt draw out Feyd-Rautha’s own orgasm, hips rolling against you as he spills himself inside you. He collapses on top of you, both of you panting, greedily drinking in lungfuls of air. Ostensibly, he recovers first and peels himself from you, tucking his cock back into his pants.

He helps you to your feet and you thank him breathlessly, thighs quivering as you stand, the wrinkled skirt of your dress cascading back to the ground.

“I suppose no one will question whether or not we’ve consummated our marriage,” he says.

Your cheeks burn. “Does it matter?”

“It’s typical for someone to watch to confirm,” he tells you, lifting a shoulder. “I said that it would be obvious enough.”

You gasp and swat his chest. “You didn’t.”

“The alternative was some noble peeking in on our fucking. Would you have preferred that? I do know you like to watch.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t,” you admit.

“Precisely.”

Feyd-Rautha’s eyes flicker over your face, and you can only guess what he sees there — you’re coated in a thin sheen of sweat and, undoubtedly, love marks, hair tangled and headpiece askew.

You shy away from him. “Do we have to go back to the reception?”

“No,” he nearly snorts, affronted that you would even suggest such a thing. “I fully intend on taking you to my bed and fucking you until you’re a mewling, quivering mess.”

Your cunt, still full with his cum, dripping with it down your thighs, clenches in anticipation.

“Then what are we still doing here?”

Part 8

Taglist:

@moonsoulk @heartarianagran @torchbearerkyle @unicoreads @taleah @mamawiggers1980 @jovialeggsbailiffsoul @harkonnin @avidreader73 @unicorntrooper @beebeechaos @kamcrazy123 @wo-ming-bai @kpopnstarwars @m-indkiller @dacreshoney

#feyd rautha #dune #feyd x reader #feyd x you #fanfic writing #writers on tumblr #writing #fanfic #feyd smut #feyd rautha harkonnen #mrs feyd rautha Harkonnen now

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mossfrg · 11 months

Text

Jersey Gotham

Okay as someone born and raised in Jersey, I feel like we as a fandom are missing out on truly Jersey-ified Gotham. Like, c’mon, Jersey Girl Brucie Wayne??? So here I am to present a list of things I need more of because god damn it make Batfam— mostly Bruce, Jason, Tim, Steph, and Duke— Jersey (all based on my own personal experiences/real things that have happened to me):

Bruce cannot pump his own gas. He just. Doesn’t know how to. It’s not like a rich person thing, he just never learned cause he’s from fucking Jersey and never leaves Gotham. Jason didn’t know how and Talía lost her shit “How??? You are child superhero??? Who died and spontaneously came back??? But you can’t pump gas??” Tim kinda knows cause of Titans but again, he never really had to. (There’s a Twitter threaded dedicated to the Wayne family titled “is this rich or Jersey”). Steph and Duke can but they both pretend not too.

There have been fist fights over whether it’s pork roll or taylor ham. Jason and Bruce are very adamantly pork roll like the good Southern Jersey boys they are— it’s the one thing they can agree in most days— but Tim is taylor ham. Steph and Duke, despite being South Jersey, like to cause chaos and flip sides constantly. Dick, Damian, and Cass couldn’t care less.

The Absolute Hatred of New York/NYC. Doesn’t matter which kid it is, Bruce (and Alfred) got them all on board with this. Don’t even get them started on the Statue of Liberty; it’s a Wayne family tradition to try and buy it from NY because technically it’s more in NJ than NY and it’s closer too. They’ve yet to be successful but Bruce has hope for when it’s Damian’s turn.

And bc of this hatred of NYC comes the support of Philly!! None of them are super big sport fans, but they do cheer for Eagles, 76ers, and Union. Bruce, thanks to Alfred, is a big fan of soccer (“it’s football, master Bruce, I didn’t raise you in a barn”), and is a member of the Sons of Ben. He can be found in the River End of the stadium with Jason cheering for Union at pretty much every home game. There are multiple videos of Brucie Wayne and Jason Wayne screaming at refs, launching fireworks off the roof, and cursing out opposing teams’ players. Duke and Tim can be found 76ers games, while Steph frequents Eagles games.

Accents. Pls for the love of god give those boys (and Steph) accents. They are from New Fucking Jersey. They say “cawfee” and “tawlk.” They pronounce 0% of their t’s in the middle of words— kitten is ki’en, Trenton is tren’in. Jason and Steph drop letters when they gets pissed, Bruce slurs words, Duke and Tim drop passive-aggressive “y’all’s” to piss people off.

Driving. Now it’s not that they’re shit drivers, it’s that everyone else is a shit driver, and it’s not helped that majority of them learned to drive in the Batmobile. Steph has a loudspeaker on her car and frequently yells “fucking Pennsylvania turn your goddamn blinker on!” while driving. Bruce has a room in the manor dedicated to his speeding tickets. Tim as gotten into multiple fists fights at lights because people were driving slow in the fast lane. Jason is infamous for doing the Jersey Slide.

Jason, Tim, and Steph have gotten mugged before. They talked their way out of it and gave tips to the mugger. Bruce has kicked a rabid raccoon while walking home before because what else was he supposed to do? Duke has ordered a “pork roll egg and cheese on an everything” before in Not-Jersey and cried because they don’t have it. Several foreign benefactors of WE have asked for translators at meetings with Brucie cause Brucie’s accent is so thick and exaggerated. IN CONCLUSION: making Batfam (and gotham) Jersey is funny as hell and presents so many good opportunities. Make Batfam Jersey! (again these are all just my personal experiences, big state yada yada, different experiences, blah blah idgaf I jsut need batfam fist fighting over pork roll)

#batfam #richard grayson #bruce wayne #brucie wayne #jason todd #tim drake #stephanie brown #duke thomas #cassandra cain #alfred pennyworth #gotham #Please make them Jersey #Gotham is literally in Jersey #Make batfam jersey #Yes I did kick a raccoon once worth it

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scribblesofagoonerr · 3 days

Text

Burntout

I got upset and cried, and then I decided to try and write something that I am currently relating too, right now.

Lifes' full of up and downs, and sometimes its' okay to admit that you're not okay.

pairings: lotte wubben-moy x reader, alessia russo x reader

warnings: angst, meh.

The morning sun painted streaks of gold across the training grounds as you took part in another intense training session ahead of the upcoming game at the weekend.

You had joined the team just shy of a few months ago with dreams as big as the stadium in which they were due to play in, but beneath the facade of determination, you carried a weight that threatened to crush your spirit.

With each day that passed, you felt like the pressure mounted even more. The expectation were high, the scrutiny, the relentless pursuit of perfection - It all bore down on your shoulders like a somewhat invisible burden.

You found it easy to smile for the cameras, laugh along with your team mates jokes but inside, you felt like you were drowning.

There were a few of your team mates who were quick to note your struggles, 2 familiar faces from your past club, Lotte and Alessia, who had sensed the change in your demeanor. Of course they knew you all too well to be fooled by any of the facade you worse so carefully, they were able to see the cracks forming beneath the surface, the fragile threads that held you together.

Lacing up her boots, Lotte exchanged a knowing glance with Alessia, they both understood that something was amiss, something that needed to be addressed before it was too late.

During a break in the training session, Lotte and Alessia decide to approach you, concern etched in their expressions. "Hey, kid. Are you okay?" Lotte asked gently, her voice filled with geninue worry.

Your facade faltered, just for a moment, before you hastily plastered on a smile, "Of course, I'm fine," you replied, your voice a practiced melody of reassurance.

However, your team mates didn't seem entirely all that convinced. You should have known they would see through you and be able to recongise the pain hidden behind your smile.

You failed to keep your act up.

Lotte and Alessia were like 2 big sisters, you weren't that much younger than them, but you adopted the nickname as the kid, they were both fiercely protective of you and fought anyone who vowed to say anything bad about you.

"You don't have to pretend with us," Alessia stepped closer to you, her eyes searching your face, "We know that you're struggling. It's okay to admit it,"

Tears welled up in your eyes straight away as they threatened to spill over, the dam that you had built around your emotions was crumbling and you could no longer hold back to the flood any longer.

With a shaky breath, you finally let go of the facade that you had been wearing for so long.

"I'm not... I'm not okay," You whispered, your voice barely above a whimper. "I'm just finding it hard to cope right now, you know? I guess its' hard to try and fake a smile, act happy and that, when I don't feel like I'm truly happy."

"Oh kid," Lotte murmered, enveloping you in her comforting embrace, that Alessia joined in as well, both of them offering silent support as you let your emotions flow freely.

"Listen, Y/N/N, we know that you're finding things difficult here, but it will be okay and eventually, you will get used to it," Alessia said softly. "You've got so much potential, you're going to take the world by storm. We believe in you and your not alone in this anymore."

Lotte nodded in agreement with the blonde, "Less is right there, kid. We're going to be here with you every single step of the way, you can always talk to us about anything at all, remember?" she paused and waited for your response of a nod before she continued. "Your like a sister to the two of us and we hate to see you struggling at all, we love you so much, kid."

As the embrace with the two older girls lingered, the weight on your shoulders slowly began to lift and felt like it was replaced with a sense of relief that you hadn't felt in a long time.

"Thank you," You whispered, pulling back slightly both of them, meeting their concerned gazes with newfound determination. "I promise I'll talk to you both and be more open about how I feel from now on. I don't want to keep pretending like everything is okay when its' not."

Lotte smiled softly while her eyes were filled with understanding, "We're here for you, always," she reminded you, her voice unwavering in its' support.

"Together, we'll help you get through this," Alessia rested her hand reassuringly on your shoulder, "You're not alone," she repeated, her voice filled with conviction.

#woso x reader #arsenal x reader #arsenal women x reader #arsenal wfc x reader #woso one shot #woso fanfics #heavy angst #scribblesofagoonerr #lottewubbenmoy x reader #alessiarusso x reader #woso imagine

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russos-one · 6 months

Text

Not my gif

Look at how cute she is in this gif I actually can’t 🤩

Vivianne Miedema x !Fem!MccabeReader

[I love you so much]

Can’t find the request but I combined it with another one a got hope you don’t mind

Act like Jordan never left and Leah Viv and Beth never got their yk what injured

Act like the car teleported to the stadium idk

Finally finishing this at 3am when I’m supposed to be sleeping

Not proof read cause I’m lazy

Warnings- mention of injury, Viv being the softest gf ever, pure tooth rotting fluff, protective Viv, Protective Katie

Word count- 1.5k+

Summary- Reader gets Injured in a away match against Tottenham and Katie and Viv go into protective mode

——————————————————

Today was the game against Tottenham, unfortunately it was an away game so we had to travel up to The Hive Stadium for the game.

As me and Viv are talking about the game that’s happening in a few hours while walking to the coach Katie yells

“Wait up!” To us as she runs up to me and Viv, she quickly catches up to me and Viv and I say

“Hello Katie” while turning to her

Viv does the same and says “Hi Katie” with a smile on her face god I love her smile. We continue walking to the coach and when we reach it Katie asks

“You guys seen Caitlin?”

“Yeah she’s just behind Stina and Cloe” Viv replies cheerily Katie quickly pushes through us and runs to her girlfriend while we walk up the steps to the coach

Viv turns to me and says “God she’s whipped” while turning back to Katie intently watching Caitlin with a wide smile on her face, I agree with her and we then walk to the back of the coach to sit together while holding hands.

I lean my head on her shoulder and she whispers “You tired baby?” I nod into her neck and she quietly chuckles and says “Go to sleep my Schatje” while running her hands through my hair

3 hours later

“Schatje wake up” Viv says while softly kissing my forehead

“Five more minutes” I mumble while shoving my head further into her neck

“Liefde we have to get off the coach and get ready for the game” I reluctantly get up from my chair. Viv happily grabs my hand and drags me off the coach, as soon as we leave the coach Katie turns around and says

“Keep it PG” while side eyeing me and Viv

“Katie we are literally just holding hands” I said while groaning

“Still, you don’t know what that can lead to” Katie then runs up to catch up with Caitlin

I groan into Viv’s neck and say “God I’m sick of her”

Viv chuckles and says “She’s only joking babe”

“I know but it doesn’t make it any less annoying”

We quickly rush into the stadium and get ready for the game.

30 minutes later

Before the game starts we have to warm up, luckily me and Viv are both starting so we get to warm together with the team.

The trainers inform us that we need to get in to pairs for the drills. The drills consisted of 1 touch passing and crossing balls to eachother along with penalty kicks.

15 minutes later

15 minutes later we are lining up getting ready to walk out for the game.

Viv is standing behind me massaging my shoulders and whispers in my ear “let’s win this baby”

Kim then yells to us “let’s win this ladies!” And then we walk out and line up, we shake hands with the opposing team, take our team photo and then run to our positions. As a midfielder me and Viv link up beautifully, I send her long balls and she skilfully gets through the back line and scores.

The ref blows the whistle which indicates that the game has started. Straight away Caitlin passes the ball to me and I run it foward with my teammates by my side, as I’m about to cross it into the penalty box I get harshly tackled by a Tottenham player which sends me to the ground immediately, as soon as I hit the ground my teammates are by my side, well all but two are. I look down at my ankle and it’s bleeding I look back up and I can see that Viv and Katie are screaming at the ref to give the Tottenham player a card and how it clearly wasn’t a fair tackle.

“You alright y/n?” Leah asks me worriedly

“No, I don’t think I can play anymore. I’m going to have to get subbed off”

As I’m saying this I can hear Katie and Viv in the background, I can’t hear it very well, but by what I did hear both Katie and Viv got a yellow card for foul language and almost getting into a fight with Tottenham.

Kim quickly pulls them away from the ref and the Tottenham players and they quickly run over to me.

Viv and Katie crouch down my side immediately and Viv asks “Are you okay, I’m sorry for not coming here straight away I was just angry”

I reply “Don’t worry about it, I am going to have to get subbed off though. My ankle is killing me”

Katie is still death staring the ref but that doesn’t mean she isn’t listening intently and Viv is just giving me a soft look while rubbing my hand. Katie quickly kisses my head and Viv kisses my hand while Stina singles to Jonas we need to sub me off. Viv and Katie help me off the pitch and then they get back into there positions and Victoria Pelova takes my place.

I get escorted to the medical room by the medics, luckily it has a tv so I can still watch the game while the doctors check up on me. After some check ups and tests the doctors inform me that nothing serious is wrong with my ankle and I should just rest it for 2 weeks with ice.

As I’m watching the tv with the game on it I see Viv score and absolute banger of a goal and as her celebration she blows a kiss towards the camera which brings a smile to my face.

25 minutes later

25 Minutes later it’s half time and Arsenal is up by 3.

Viv and Katie quickly come into the medical room and rush to my side, Viv on my left and Katie on my right instantly Vivs hands grab my own and Katie is rubbing my leg asking if I’m okay and what the doctors said.

“The doctors said I’m okay and it’s nothing to serious I just have to rest if for 2 weeks and ice it twice a day to reduce inflammation and I have to strap it”

“That’s good, we are glad that your okay” Katie replies while smiling at me while still rubbing my leg softly.

Viv then says “Did they say you can walk?”

“Yes”

“No”

“Wait what do you mean no? The doctors said I could and just not to put to much pressure on it”

“No, I’m carrying you everywhere”

Katie just looks at me and Viv and laughs while saying “yeah I agree with Viv, your not allowed to walk anymore. Don’t want to injure yourself even more”

“Wha- I- how is that fair? The doctors said I could and they are professionals. I don’t think you two are professionals are you?”

Before the two could retaliate Leah comes in to inform us that the game starts again in 10 minutes and they need to discuss tactics

Before I could say anything Viv kisses me on the head and mumbles a “Goodbye, love you see you in a bit” while Katie just messes up my hair and walks away with Viv and Leah

I lay back on the medical bed and sigh and pull out my phone to inform my parents about my injury and I’m totally not searching up Vivianne miedema edits on tiktok instead of texting my parents

13 minutes later and Viv scores another banger of a goal and not even 2 minutes later Steph chips the ball over the keepers head and scores which makes Arsenal up by 5 to 0

30 minutes later

The game has finished and arsenal have won 7 to 0 a hat trick by the one and only Vivianne Miedema a chip by Catley an absolute banger from McCabe scoring from just over halfway in the oppositions side along with Kim little scoring a penalty due to a handball and a wonderful stoppage time goal by Caitlin Foord.

Before I can even process it the whole team comes into the medical room dancing and singing and all I can do is just sit there laughing and enjoying my time with my Arsenal family, after a bit it dies down and Jordan quickly asks

“Y/n are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah I’m going to be oka-”

Before I can finish my sentence Viv quickly cuts in and says “No she isn’t she’s going to be bed ridden and is not leaving the house for a month”

“Excuse me what? I’m not leaving the house for a month? Your actually joking? You can’t be serious”

“Just taking precautions baby” Viv says while looking at me cheerily and all I can’t do is just groan and lean further into the medical bed

“Someone’s a bit grumpy”

“Shut up McCard”

“Rude”

While me and my sister are arguing I don’t realise it but she leaves and comes back with a wheelchair and I’m brought out of my argument with my sister when I realise what Viv has in her grasp, Katie pisses herself laughing and so do the rest of the girls.

“Okay darling let’s go”

“Viv please, are you joking? I dont Need a wheelchair. Your acting like my leg got amputated or something” all the girls still continue laughing

“It’s not funny, i don’t know why your all laughing right now”

Viv brings the wheelchair next to your bed with a wide smile “Viv please tell me your joking right now, I don’t need a wheelchair” the girls exit the room getting ready to leave to go home.

Viv picks me up from under my thighs and whispers in my ear “let’s go baby” and puts my in the wheelchair and pushes the door to the exit of the medical room open and we leave together heading for the exit of the stadium to the car.

Viv quickly unlocks the car, picks me up from the wheelchair and plops me into the passenger sit of the car and puts the wheelchair in the trunk and she then goes to her side if the car to start it.

“You ready to go baby?” Viv asks cheerily

“Yeah, let’s go”

Viv starts the car and immediately puts one hand on my thigh and for the rest of the ride that is where her hand stays.

After a while I fall asleep knowing it’s going to be a long ride and we will get there in an hour or two

2 hours later

“N/n, it’s time to wake up. We are home” Viv whispers in my ear while softly shaking me. I slowly open my eyes and let them adjust to the lighting of the car.

Viv unbuckles her seatbelt, turns off the car and opens her door and comes to my side of the car to open my door and undoes my seatbelt and picks me up from under my thighs, I quickly shove my head further into her neck and whisper

“I’m tired” sleepily. She quickly locks the car while whispering in my head “I know my darling” and walks is to the front door of our house and unlocks it. She pushes the door open with her foot walks in our home and closes the door behind her. She places me on the couch I groan and she says

“I’ll be back in 2 minutes baby I’m gonna run a bath for you” while running her fingers through my hair.

She quickly goes up stairs and starts a bath for me and quickly comes back to take me to the bath.

She places me on the bench next to the sink and gives me a kiss on my forehead and I smile contently.

She take off my shoes along with my socks and the rest of my clothes and makes sure the bath is warm before she places me inside.

She picks me up and places me in the bath and washes my body and my hair, after a while she takes me out and dries me off with a towel, dries my hair and dresses me. She then brings me to the bed and gives me a kiss on the cheek and says

“I’ll be back in 15 minutes love, I just have to have a shower” I groan and reply “hurry up, I want my cuddles” grumpily.

She chuckles and grabs her clothes from our shared closet and enters our bathroom to shower.

She emerges 17 minutes later with fresh clothes and freshly washed hair.

Viv walks over to our shared bed, lifts up the blankets and lays down next to me I instantly lean into her and whisper “you lied”

“About what love?” She asks in a concerned way

“You took longer then 15 minutes. Liar” Viv just chuckles and runs her hair through my hair once again and says

“How can I make it up to you my love”

“You have to give me a kiss and then I’ll maybe forgive you if the kiss is good enough” I reply smugly

She lifts up my head from my chin and slowly leans into bringing her lips to my own she kisses ne slow and sensually. Unfortunately after a while we have to part for air

“Was that good enough my love” I lean myself into her neck while she chuckles I whisper

“Yes, it was perfect”

“Good, only the best for you my love”

I sigh and whisper “goodnight, I love you so much”

“I love you too baby, more then you’ll ever know”

We then fall asleep peacefully together dreaming of eachother.

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noellesturniolo · 2 months

Note

I don't know if you are taking requests, but i was wondering if you can do one where the reader and Chris are secretly dating and the reader is a popular singer and she gives the guys tickets and she writes a song to Chris but only he knows it's about him and after the show they reveal to Matt and Nick that they are dating? Maybe the song could be into you by Ariana Grande. Thank you 😊

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 - 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐎

SUMMARY: The ask!!

WARNINGS: explicit language,reader pov, slightly suggestive, not proofread man it’s 2:43 am I will after I get some sleep

The overwhelming cheers of fans are heard from behind the set, the sold out stadium show. The nerves creeping up on me as I felt as if I could hear my heartbeat.

Thump…thump…

“Y/n it's time.”

I look at my manager as I nod my head as I step onto the platform as I slowly rise into the air and the intro plays.

The overwhelmingly bright lights fill my vision as I step foot onto the stage.

I see the the warm smile that I began to love around 8 months ago, and that confidence boost from my chris’s smile as I begin to sing.

“I'm so into you

I can barely breathe”

The cheers grow louder…the blood rushing to my head as I confidently dance with the spotlight pointed at me. My eyes slowly drift around the crowd meeting the triplets faces yet again.

“And all I wanna do

Is to fall in deep

But close ain't close enough

'Til we cross the line, hey, yeah

So name a game to play

And I'll roll the dice, hey”

in my ear piece my managers voice booms.

“Y/N, YOUR TENSE FOCUS”

I lock eyes with chris, my handsome boy. Dressed in all black with messy sweaty hair and a black wife beater with jeans that barely fit him.

That hair…the hair that my fingers have entangled with the past few nights. That chain that’s dangled in front of my face for the past two days.

“So, baby, come light me up

And maybe I'll let you on it

A little bit dangerous

But, baby, that's how I want it

A little less conversation and a little more touch my body

'Cause I'm so into you, into you, into you”

Nobody knows about me and chris. Sure speculations, but nobody knows about the nights I spent in his bed. Nobody knows about the nights we spent texting each other for over 5 hours straight.

as the choreography intensifies, I drop to my knees and crawl towards the edge of the stage right in front of chris. my eyes still on his beautiful pupils.

Grabbing chris’s chin to lift his head up so he can get a better look at me.

“Got everyone watchin' us

So, baby, let's keep it secret

A little bit scandalous

But, baby, don't let them see it

A little less conversation and a little more touch my body

'Cause I'm so into you, into you, into you

Ooh, yeah”

The sweat droplets clearly forming on chris’s forehead. as I stand up and finish the set list. The fans going wild, and I just know that chris is too.

“Thank you! miami for the great night!”

I exit the stage and see my three favorite boys.

“Miss ma’am, do you have something to spill” Nick sassily speaks.

“mmm..possibly…” I go to grab chris’s hand and enter-twine my fingers with his,

“So like, we’ve been dating…for like ever…” chris says smiling, his handsome and sweet innocent smile.

“I FUCKI- I CALLED IT I TO- I TOLD YOU NICK.” Matt points

“OH YOU SHUT UP MATT I DIDNT WANNA ASSUME ANYTHING SO ZIP THAT SHIT LOCK THAT SHIT AND PUT IT IN YOUR FUCKING POCKET” Nick yells back at the boy.

“okay but like can we talk about the hard launch effort?” I throw my hands in the air.

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futbol16 · 10 months

Text

Just an FYI • Ana-Maria Crnogorčević

Request: can I please request jealous protective anamaria over R?

Word count: 3k

Going into the Champions league semi final you were quite surprised to see that Barca would be going up against Arsenal. Nonetheless, you were excited. Especially because of how the last games ended two years ago. You knew the reds have improved their team and game a lot since then, but that didn’t stop you from picturing all the goals your team would send soaring past Zinsberger.

You sat next to your usual bus buddy, Ana, on the way to the stadium and the two of you spent the bus ride laughing and sharing the snacks you were allowed to eat.

“How many goals do you think we’ll score?” she questions with the same cheeky smile on her face that you are wearing, the both of you more than ready for the match.

“I reckon 2, maybe 3.” you nod confidently, following your statement by your own question. “What would you predict for the end result?”

“3-0” she shrugs nonchalantly and you chuckle at her antics, leaning into her side more. Your cheeks are dusted with a light pink shade as Ana keeps an arm around you.

“Okay, 3-1 if we get unlucky.” You can only nod along to her words, knowing that the team is in its best form and a strong Arsenal won’t stop you from scoring.

Walking out into the tunnel already clad in your Barca jersey you take your place behind Jana. Your focus is solely on the pitch just outside the tunnel but you’re also aware of the stares of some players from the Arsenal line to your right.

You breathe in deeply to calm your nerves and then you slowly exhale. Ana senses your slight distress from behind you and without a second thought she slides her hand into yours, giving it a squeeze. It seems like her gesture has the desired effect because the pounding of your heart is becoming less intense and you feel more at ease. Your thumb rubs over her knuckles in appreciation and the Swiss international’s heart swells at it. Just as quickly as her hand slipped into yours, you let go of it though and Ana’s eyes snap down to your hand in confusion, only to then be nudged from behind and she realizes the team has started walking out.

The game is intense to say the least. It is apparent that even without Vivianne and Beth, Arsenal are more than capable of creating chances. Barca is doing good too and although the possession remains mostly in your team’s, Arsenal’s defense is proving to be hard to get through.

You’re experiencing it first hand because as soon as you're near the penalty box, a certain defender takes you out in some way or another. Every single time. More than half of these tackles have been borderline fouls which frustrates you and your team on no end. Irene and Ana can barely contain themselves enough to not spring into action and give the defender a bit of their own medicine.

The first time you were brutally side tackled, her boots catching a bit of your ankles, you thought you knew who it was. The flash of the red jersey and the aggression of the tackle is one you’ve experienced from an Arsenal defender before. However, when you catch sight of the name on her back, you’re beyond surprised to see it’s not McCabe who’s been trying to end your career.

“Bloody hell, what has gotten into her?!” you mutter under your breath as Ana helps you up and the referee finally blows her whistle. There’s a fire in Ana’s eyes as she glares at Catley, one that you recognize in every other Barca player’s eyes too. They’re all ready for revenge. It’s a well known fact about Barcelona, any Barca team. If they mess with one if you, they won’t come out alive.

“What? Ref that was nothing, it was the ball! The ball!” Steph shouts in fury, mimicking a ball with her hands.

“You might need glasses, honey.” Mapi retaliates and while Ingrid tries to stifle her laugh, Ana next to you doesn’t hold back. The referee interferes before it can go any further and hands the ball to Irene, telling her that the team is going to be awarded a free kick. Steph Catley’s expression falters slightly as she watches the ref write her name on the yellow card.

“You confident to take it?” she raises an eyebrow with a small smile, knowing just how much you enjoyed shooting from long distances.

As you stand behind the ball just halfway in between the halfway-line and the penalty area, your eyes rake over the players scattered around in front of the goal. Your gaze connects with Ingrid’s and all you need is the small nod she gives you before you’re sending the ball into another dimension with the force you kick it with. The Arsenal players expected you to line your shot up for a header but when the ball goes soaring above them and straight into the goal, they stare after it with wide eyes, their bodies still in a position that tells you they were ready to head the ball away. Dumbfounded, that’s what they were. All of them.

In an instant you’re surrounded by the team as you do a knee slide in celebration before getting into the group hug.

“I fucking told you they weren’t ready for you!” Ana shouts in your face as she touches her forehead to yours and you laugh at her words while your body heats up. Even as the team moves back into position, the winger stares after you with a prideful look.

Your happiness is short lived because barely fifteen minutes later and just before halftime, Frida manages to slot the ball into the goal, just out of reach for Panos.

Despite the equalizer, the girls' heads are held high as you head to the locker room, ready for the halftime speech Jonatan would be giving.

Ana-Maria’s hand subtly resting on your thigh grounds you enough to absorb everything the coach says like a dehydrated plant. Ana on the other hand, keeps most of her focus on you during those fifteen minutes and she doesn’t miss the pink tint of your cheeks as her thumb grazes your skin just below your shorts.

Truthfully, the two had been dancing around your feelings for each other since the start of the season. It started when the team was out for team bonding and you ended up dancing with a girl at the bar - far too intimately you had to admit. It resulted in endless teasing from your friends and a scowl on Ana’s face. You didn’t understand why she was upset, and for the first few days neither did Ana. But as the weeks went by and her urge to be closer to you only grew, she had come to the realization that she had strong feelings for you.

You shared these feelings, you’ve always found Ana attractive but you were scared to shoot your shot with the older woman, scared of the embarrassment you’d feel when you would be rejected. The blonde never made a move on you either, only giving small signs here and there that weren’t enough to give you a clear indication as to how she felt. She has only recently gotten as touchy as she was now, her hand rarely leaving you.

The second half of the game is a hard fought one. Frida and Stina are on the move any chance they get and Steph still hasn’t given up on trying to sprain your ankle. In spite of their clearly good advances on goal, your team has switched up their strategy as well. Zinsberger can’t catch a break in goal with each shot Caro and you send her way, and you’re proud to say that Sandra has stayed clean in your goal. The defenders are working extra hard to keep the ball away from the penalty box.

Just as the clock hits the 60’th minute mark, Ana sends a through ball that ends up in front of Aitana’s feet who continues the pass towards you. You know you have to make a quick decision before Catley comes pouncing on you. Pass or shoot. The ball is still in the air. Pass or shoot. The red of Steph’s shirt appears in your peripheral vision, you can’t let her close. Shoot.

With a jump, your back still facing the Arsenal goal, your foot connects with the ball in an overhead shot. On your descent towards the ground you merely manage to crane your neck and watch as Zinsberger attempts to punch it over the crossbar.

You aren’t given a second to react before a body lands on you, many following behind and you lay under the pile of blaugrana players with a satisfied grin on your lips.

“VAMOOSSS!!”

The switch flips after that and Barca take advantage of Arsenal’s momentary discouragement. Another shot fires into the back of the goal, courtesy to Caroline and you don’t even bat an eye at the way Steph barrels into you when the game is resumed because it is only five minutes after that when the full time whistle is blown. Barca is through to the final.

You ignore the Arsenal players around you and the crowd as you dance around in happiness with your teammates, celebrating the win.

“3-1 like I told you.” Ana winks at you and you roll your eyes at her.

“It’s not like I said it would be different.” she chuckles at you and then breaks out in a laugh when you gently shove her.

Once everything has calmed down a bit, you shake hands with the one red player you haven’t shaken hands with. You’re surprised when you’re pulled into a hug by the defender but you pat her back anyway. Steph pulls back from you though she keeps her hands on your biceps and looks you over with a smirk.

“You made my job extra hard today, you know.” she informs you as her thumbs rub into your bicep and you let out a nervous laugh.

“Yeah well I didn’t know the yellow card McCabe’s spirit would possess you.” The Australian throws her head back as she laughs and her hands slide lower on your arm before her fingers graze over yours.

You barely resist from pulling back from her touch, mildly uncomfortable in the situation you’ve found yourself in with the defender who’s been trying to separate your ankles from the rest of your legs.

“Do you want to swap shirts?” the heavy accent rings out close to your face and she doesn’t give you time to answer as she pulls the shirt over her head. You can’t refuse now though. Steph’s hands play with your Barca kit but she’s quick to put it on once you’ve handed it to her.

Steph’s eyes remain glued to your toned abdomen as she continues lightly praising the way you’ve played. Just as her fingertips are about to make contact with where she’s been staring, a hand slides across your torso.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you’ve been holding as you recognize the arm and your body relaxes into hers. Ana’s hand remains on the waistband of your shorts, clearly displaying not only her protectiveness but also rubbing it into the defender’s face when her fingers softly scratch the skin of your abdomen, soothing you more than possible.

Steph’s eyes finally part ways with your abs and her head snaps back up to your face. You almost laugh at the frightened look that washes over her expression.

“Everything okay here?” That's not a question, all three of you know that.

The Swiss international stares her down, a mix of emotions swirling in her eyes but Steph can tell none of them are good. The brunette clears her throat in discomfort, averting her eyes back to yours as she rushes out a goodbye.

“It was nice to meet you - well formally, you know, apart from the many tackles.” she huffs out a laugh but stops when Ana raises a daring eyebrow, urging her to finish.

“Erm, well thank you for the shirt and goodluck in the final” the Australian almost squeaks out and you decide to cut her some slack as you give her a quick hug. Still, the blonde’s hand remains on the small of your back and she gives Steph one last glare over your shoulder before the defender practically sprints back to her own team. Ana snorts at that and you lift your gaze to meet the older woman.

“Thank you” you tell her sincerely as you lean into her side and you discreetly press a small kiss to her shoulder. The winger’s face heats up right in front of you for the first time ever and she struggles to say anything for a second. A smile forms on your lips as you see her all flustered. You’d be lying if you said your knees weren’t close to giving out from the softness of her eyes and the seemingly star struck expression on her face.

“I’ll go catch up with Ingrid and Frida, okay? I will see you after” you give her arm a squeeze and Ana nods at you. She stares after you as you join your national teammates while you struggle to pull on the shirt and she chuckles under her breath when Ingrid gives you a helping hand.

“Du bist eifersüchtig” A voice speaks up next to her and Ana jumps slightly. Lia grins at her with a knowing look and Ana can’t stop herself from rolling her eyes.

“Nein.”

“Ja. Don’t think I didn’t see whatever that was just now. Oh and the hand holding before the game?” the Swiss women share a look and then Ana sighs in defeat as she finally pulls her national teammate into a hug. However, she is quick to redirect the topic as she instead opts to ask about how her friend has been doing since the last time they’ve seen each other.

A few minutes later both teams start heading inside and you hug Frida goodbye as you detach from your Norwegian group. You lean your head on Ana’s shoulder, who without your knowledge glances down at you with a fond smile.

“Hi Lia” you greet the Swiss Arsenal player and she hugs you.

“I also better get going. See you next time” she tells the two of you and then she gives Ana a teasing smirk who thinks she knows what her friend is about to say. “Sag ihr, dass du sie liebst!” the confusion on your face is one she expected but the blonde next to you had been totally caught off guard by what she said. But, a second later, she does give a small, shy nod.

“Come, let’s not make them wait.” you follow the blonde into the changing room and then onto the bus.

It doesn’t come as a surprise to you when by the time the bus leaves the car park, half the team is passed out and deep in sleep. The dark sky outside the window can only hint as to just how late it is. You’re sitting next to Ana in one of the last rows in the bus, like usual.

Unlike the rest of your friends though, the two of you are wide awake. You’ve always been known to be very energetic so you can’t even think of resting your eyes. Meanwhile, Ana-Maria next to you is deep in thought about what Lia had told her.

You linking your pinkies together is what breaks her out of her trance and she turns to you. The dimmed lights of the bus give you a halo and as the light from the street lamps shine through the window Ana recognizes the glimmer in your eyes.

“What’s got you lost?” you whisper, mindful of all the girls who are sleeping around you. The blonde’s eyes are dark with desire and the urge to tell you everything. She swallows hard as you patiently wait for her to say something.

“Look Y/N/N, I just really-” she stops mid sentence, wondering if it was the right thing to tell you. You reach out with one hand to cup her cheek gently, bringing her gaze to meet yours again.

“You really what?” Ana opens her mouth again and her eyelids flutter at the way her body heats up when your thumb strokes over her cheek. She has never felt so flustered around someone. She can feel your breath fanning against her face, only now noticing that she has subconsciously leaned closer to you. “Ana?”

“I really like you” she chokes out and she’s ready to panic but your soft touch calms her slightly. “Actually, maybe I'm in love with you. I don’t know if that’s a wrong thing, I get it if you don’t feel the same way. Just like, an FYI” she rambles in a hushed tone and you swear you’ve never seen her act so nervous.

The butterflies in your stomach are going crazy however and you’re overwhelmed with joy knowing that the Swiss woman feels the same way you do.

“Ana, I’m in love with you too” you tell her softly - although truthfully you thought it was obvious - and her eyes meet yours. The adoration in your gaze makes her blush deeper and you smile at her, your own face heating up at the close proximity as well as the confession.

“Just an FYI” the two of you giggle quietly and you press your face into her neck to muffle the sound. Ana lets you stay there for a second before she eases your head back and her eyes move to your lips. Your mouth falls open in anticipation and you gently squeeze her thigh.

“Can I?” Ana breathes out.

“You know you can” is all it takes for Ana to dive right in and claim your lips. You softly gasp into the kiss, your senses heightened and utterly in love with the way she kisses you so passionately, like she’s been waiting for decades. It’s only for a second that you pull away to take a breath and then you’re back in, lips molding together and moving against each other in a fervent yet loving way, uncaring of the people around you.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” Ana whispers against your lips while your fingers tangle in her hair.

“I’ve wanted you to do this for so long.”

#ana maria crnogorcevic x reader #woso imagine #futbol16 #woso x reader

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magics-neptunes-things · 4 months

Text

BabySister (2)

It been asked, it's here ladies and gentlemen!

I didn't realize that there is so much people asking for Leila's content but here it is!

You can find the requests here and here and here and here too

It's the part 2 of "Babysister*t that you can find here :) Please enjoy!

TW : Jealousy

______________________________________________________________

Despite the fact that your sister is aware of your relationship with Leila, you both decided not to make an official annoucement for now. Your friends are starting to be nicely made aware, but you’ve never been for the big announcements and you just talk about it to people who are interested in you and your personal life.

Shortly after the revelation, Jenni had to go back home. Two days later, it was Leila who had to return to Manchester and you are back alone in Barcelona. Even if you have friends and family here, their departures aren't easy. Especially Leila’s, of course. Seeing her go through airport security after one last long hug will probably break your heart every time.

Your week then went on, between work, a few drinks with your friends and the routine that settled back after the holidays. You regularly called Jenni during the week and every night you call Leila, but it’s clearly not enough compared to being able to see them every day while they’re in Barcelona.

"Is everything okay?" Leila asks you Friday night, having noticed your morale at half-mast.

"Yes" you answer simply by shrugging your shoulders.

Leila is preparing herself something to eat, you see her stop to look more closely at the screen of the phone. It's true that you are less local than usual, something that was obviously quickly noticed by Leila. She knows you well.

"I can tell when you’re lying, you know?"

You sigh softly, letting yourself go on your back on your bed. Of course she can.

"I’m fine. I miss you, that’s all"

"I miss you too, Cariño. What are you planning for your weekend?"

"Tomorrow we go out for a drink with my colleagues probably. And Sunday afternoon I watch my girlfriend play on TV"

"I like the second part, but the first? Will there be Aida?"

You roll your eyes when you hear her. You don’t understand why Leila reacts every time she hears that name, you already have had a few comments about her from your coffee with Jenni. All turned around a jealousy that absolutely doesn't deserve to exist.

"She wasn’t sure she could come" so you answer honestly.

"Perfect. Let her continue like this"

********

The following weekend is a little more glorious, since you have the opportunity to fly to Manchester to see Leila play. With Manchester City at home, you can enjoy Leila’s apartment while she’s at training before joining her at the stadium to be on time for the game. You’re happy to see her start the game, just like Laia Aleixandri, your compatriot.

The match ends with a draw and you quickly notice the disappointed look of Leila. She likes to win when you come to see her, probably to add pride.

"You were perfect" you smile at her when she comes up to you after the game.

"We didn't win" Leila objects but you smile tenderly while shrugging her shoulders.

"Not everyone can be as perfect as you."

An amused smile appears on her face when hearing you and you know that her morale isn't as low as you might have feared.

"The girls want to go out tonight, you want us to go too?"

You willingly accept, freeing Leila so that she can go to take a shower and warm up a little. You have time to go home for a while before going out again and you enjoy having her only for you for a few hours. You can imagine that once in the evening, things will be a little less easy.

You spend a little more time than usual in the bathroom getting ready, wishing to impress Leila. Now that your sister knows about you two, you’re a little less afraid of getting caught by someone and ending up on social media. And you can say just by seeing Leila’s look when you come out that it’s successful.

"Do you like it?" you ask Leila, looking down at your outfit.

"You are to die for" Leila assures you, eyes wide open.

You can't hold a small smile and you gladly accept her hug even if her hands are a little wandering on your body.

"Be good, we have to go" you remind her by laying a kiss on her cheek.

Despite a grunt of protest, Leila finally lets you go and drags you to the bottom of her building. Both planning to drink, you preferred to use an Uber rather than taking risks on your way back home. Maybe one of Leila’s teammates can take you home if she doesn’t drink, but you’ll have plenty of time to check in later.

Most of Leila’s teammates are already at the bar when you get there, your hand in Leila’s. You greet them or you greet them again, even if you are easier to communicate with those who speak Spanish. Your English is great actually and that's a good thing.

The evening goes well and you have a good time, dancing or just chatting and talking with the girls. After a long time of dancing on the dance floor, you went back to sit with Leila and other girls.

"I’m going to the bathroom, I’m coming back" Leila whispers in your ear before getting up.

You nod, smiling as you feel her letting a kiss on your neck before shifting your attention to your glass, to see that it's empty. Given the heat, you don't hesitate long before getting up to go get another one.

You take the time to ask those around you if they want something and you refuse the proposal of Laia who asks you nicely if you want her to accompany you, despite the arms of her boyfriend passed possessively around her.

The crowd is dense and you have to go around the dance floor to reach the bar. But you finally get there, leaning on the corner of the bar waiting patiently for someone to come and serve you. There are a lot of people so it takes time, but you wait while looking at your phone. When you feel a hand on your shoulder you turn around smiling, expecting to see Leila. But it's actually a smiling blonde you’re facing, who you absolutely don’t know. The surprise must be read on your face since she apologizes almost immediately.

"Hi! Sorry, but I saw you’ve been waiting for your drink for a while. I’m not working today, but I work here, so I’m gonna put you in front of the others."

"Uh… thank you?" you mumble.

You look at her hand still positioned on your shoulder but you are quickly turned away from it when she shouts what you imagine to be the name of one of the bartenders. And indeed, in two seconds he's facing you to take your order.

"You’re not from here, are you? I can hear your accent"

There was a time when her hand got off your shoulder while taking the order, but she continues to smile cheerfully at you.

"I am Spanish" you answer simply with a slight smile.

"Oh so great. I’ve never been to Spain, but I’d love to."

You smile at her and don’t know what to answer at that. Unlike your sister, you’ve never been very comfortable interacting with other people. It's always much better for you when you are introduced into a group by someone you completely trust. The way Jenni quickly attracted people’s sympathy has always been something you admired about her.

Fortunately, however, you are saved by the bartender who comes in front of you with the glass you asked him for.

"I’m offering it to you" says the blonde, watching you grab your purse, putting her hand on yours. "Sorry about the question, but you’re a lesbian, right?"

"What?"

The surprise can be seen on your face again in front of the question she just asked you. Yes you are and no you never hid it, but you don't understand why this question was asked to you now.

"Don’t take this the wrong way" continues your smiling interlocutor "But I don’t know, it’s just something I can see. You’re like very gay, right?"

"She’s also very in a relationship" makes an icy voice behind you.

You turn around and see Leila and her black eyes. She really doesn't seem happy about the situation but tries to remain cordial. And now that you see her behavior, you finally understand that the girl was hitting on you.

"And I’ll pay for her drink thanks."

Her voice is calm when she grabs her bank card and her other arm slips around your waist to squeeze you against her. But you know perfectly well that inside her, her brain must be exploding.

"Lei" you whisper to try to get her attention.

Talking normally would have been enough, given the ambient noise, but you especially wanted to prevent the blonde from hearing you. You study Leila’s gaze at length when she puts it on you. You don’t have a lot of time together this weekend and you really don’t want to waste time arguing.

But before you have time to draw conclusions, her payment is accepted and she leads you to the table you left a few minutes ago. It's now almost empty, there is in truth only Laia and her boyfriend who discuss by looking tenderly the other in the eyes, probably forgetting the rest of the world. Moreover, Leila chose to sit opposite them.

"I told her not to leave you alone" Leila groans, glancing at Laia.

"I told her I didn’t need her to come" you explain, not wanting her to blame Laia.

"Well, she shouldn’t have listened to you" said the brunette, raising her voice.

"Leila, please"

You give her your best little sad puppy look by laying your hand on her knee. Leila is looking at you and it seems to work even better than you had hoped. She finally sighs softly and you take the opportunity to lean against her, kissing her elbow.

"That’s exactly why I don’t like it when you go out without me. It already happens when we are together, I prefer not imagine what happens when you're alone"

"Believe it or not, this kind of situation only happens when I’m with you. It never happens in Spain, I guess people are more used to the Latin charm there" you smile softly.

"Maybe it’s not a good idea that I suggest you come and live here then"

You freeze suddenly, your brain recording what she just said. You take off from her to observe her, falling face to face with her amused smile.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. My contract is coming to an end, and I don’t know where I’m gonna go next, but I don’t think you’re gonna have a hard time finding work around here for some months. And even if you don’t, you don’t have to spend a dime since I’ll be there. Now that Jenni knows, it makes things less complicated, no?"

You can’t help but smile softly as you imagine Jenni’s face when you will announce her that you're leaving Barcelona to join Leila in Manchester. You know your parents aren’t going to be against it, you’ve been living alone for a long time now. And anyway, you’re an adult and vaccinated.

"What do you think?" Leila asks after you’ve been quiet for a few seconds.

"I’d say yes, but you said it wasn’t a good idea" you joked mischievously.

But the joke doesn't seem to be Leila’s taste since, after pouting, she imprisons your lips with hers for a long and tender kiss.

"Come and live with me" Leila whispers against your lips after your kiss.

"I’d love to" you answer with a smile.

This will probably require a lot of adjustments, but you don't hesitate a single second. You know Leila won’t be against you going back to Barcelona whenever you feel the need. But the idea of waking up every day at his side is already filling you with happiness.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #leila ouahabi #leila ouahabi imagine #leila ouahabi x reader

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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 1 year

Text

His Longhorn Jersey - Jake "Hangman" Seresin x f!reader

Summary: 1.4k words. At a Texas Longhorns football game, y/n bumps into a stranger and spills beer all over both of them. Good thing the handsome stranger is forgiving and willing to lend y/n his jersey.

Warnings: alcohol, fluff!!!!, she/her reader pronouns

a/n: this was supposed to be like. a couple short paragraphs as an intro for another jake fic i'm writing but then it turned into ✨this✨ and it is now its own independent thing. which is a great thing for everyone bc the other fic is very angsty. enjoy!

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Jake and y/n met at a Longhorns football game. She was in her senior year at the University of Texas when she quite literally bumped into the cocky blonde. He was about to bite out a harsh “watch it” but the words died on his tongue when he caught a glimpse of y/n’s face. He nearly got lost in her kind eyes before she started profusely apologizing.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going and-ah hell, I spilled beer on your jeans,” y/n’s mind was running a mile a minute. Her eyes frantically darted around the crowded vendor and food lot outside the stadium, searching for the nearest napkins she could offer the incredibly handsome stranger. She might’ve been more composed and level-headed if she hadn’t walked into a wall of pure muscle.

Jake chuckled, the small stains on his jeans long forgotten before he reached for y/n’s shoulders to steady her frame and racing thoughts. She stopped short at the feel of his calloused hands on her exposed skin, wide eyes peeking up at the stranger through her eyelashes.

“It’s alright, darlin’. I was in your way. How ‘bout we get you out of that shirt?” Jake suggested with a flirty grin. y/n blinked a few times. What the fuck did he just say to her? She was sorry, but not sorry enough to strip on command. Jake saw the confusion turning to disgust on y/n’s face and he quickly backtracked. “Because of the beer! You’ve got beer all over your shirt, sweetheart. You can wear my jersey if you’d like,” he finished, hoping the damage wasn’t already done.

Oh. In her haste, y/n hadn’t even realized she’d spilled beer on herself. A lot of it, actually. The plastic cup still grasped in her hand was almost empty from how much had sloshed on her white shirt. The shirt was quickly becoming see-through from the sticky liquid, garnering side eyes from some nearby fans. Shit. There weren’t enough napkins at the nearby food trucks to soak up the mess she’d made of herself. She really didn’t feel like dropping $50 on an overpriced Longhorns t-shirt either, but she couldn’t possibly accept the man’s jersey.

“I can’t ask you to do that-” y/n trailed off, realizing she didn’t even know his name. Before she could finish, Jake had smoothly pulled his jersey off with one hand. Looking respectfully was becoming increasingly difficult when his white tank top left little to the imagination.

“You’re not asking, darlin’. I’m offering,” Jake’s dimples popped out with his gentle smile. y/n opened and closed her mouth a few times. Was this even real? The determined look in his eyes had her giving in far too quickly.

Jake led her toward a less crowded area of the tailgate lot. In between the cover of several pickup trucks, y/n quickly swapped her ruined game day shirt for Jake’s jersey. The name ‘Seresin’ was embroidered on the back of the jersey. She practically had the Longhorns team roster memorized, so she knew damn well that there was no player named Sersin on the team. Mystery Man Seresin. The man before her must’ve been a serious fan to have a custom jersey made.

“So, Seresin, you got a first name?” y/n asked the taller man with a raised eyebrow.

“Jake Seresin, at your service,” he introduced himself with a wink, holding out his hand to shake. y/n told him her name and his grin grew.

The pair ditched the respective friends they came with and headed toward the stadium. Jake bought them new beers, refused to let y/n pay, but insisted on carrying both drinks back to their seats, teasing y/n’s clumsiness. Jake was impressed to find y/n knew more about the game and players than he did, often calling out before the refs. By the end of the night, both of their throats were raw from cheering and yelling. While the rest of the fans headed out of the stadium to celebrate Texas’s win, Jake and y/n stayed seated for a while. Conversation between the two flowed easily and endlessly, despite the fact that they’d both lost their voices. It wasn’t until lights started shutting off around them that they realized how late it had gotten.

Jake wasn’t exactly the gentleman his mama raised him to be some days, but for y/n he was ready to pull out all the stops. He walked her to her car and reached to open the driver's door for her before y/n stopped in front of him, turning to rest her hip against the vehicle. Jake mirrored her actions and placed a hand on the hood, leaning over her shorter frame. y/n studied his face for a moment, memorizing his moonlit features. Jake did the same, his eyes gravitating toward y/n’s lips. When they broke out of their shared trance y/n broke eye contact and cleared her throat. With a gentle tug to the hem of Jake’s jersey, y/n looked up to grin at him cheekily.

“You know, I normally make guys buy me dinner first before I start undressing for ‘em,” y/n joked, moving to shed the jersey and return it to Jake. Jake’s free hand planted itself on y/n’s waist, holding the jersey in place and making her eyes snap toward him.

“Keep it, darlin’. You can give it back next time,” he replied with a smirk. y/n wondered how many girls he had charmed before her. She couldn’t even be mad–it was working on her too. She rolled her eyes, but the butterflies in her stomach gave rise to a blush spreading across her face. Even with the minimal light, Jake could see the way her face shifted.

“Next time? That’s a little presumptuous, cowboy,” y/n said pointedly, though she was mostly teasing. Jake nodded. Fair enough.

“Next time,” Jake said definitively. He wordlessly gestured for y/n’s phone and she gave it to him. She had a questionable amount of trust and faith in a man she’d met less than five hours ago. He typed his phone number into her contacts, saving it as “Jake 🍺🍺”. y/n threw her head back in laughter at the clever addition of the beer pints, earning a chuckle from Jake as well. After the laughter faded, she was still left with a lingering smile. When she stepped away from the car, she was careful not to kick her boots against Jake’s. He tutted when y/n tried to reach for the door handle herself; instead, he reached across and held the door open for her.

With the car door serving as a barrier between their seemingly synced bodies now, they were caught in another quiet moment. y/n had half a mind to get in her car and drive off, leaving the man who was five hours short of a stranger in her wake. The other half of her mind had a far better idea though. Before she could think twice, she grabbed Jake by the strap of his tank top, pulling his lips down to meet hers. The kiss was gentle for a split second before Jake’s brain caught up with his body and he leaned in deeper. His fingers ached to pull y/n in by her waist, but he settled for cupping her cheek and the back of her neck in either hand. A breathless minute later they pulled away. y/n took pride in the way Jake’s chest rapidly fell and rose; he took the same pride in her slightly mussed hair and flushed cheeks.

“Next time,” y/n stated in agreement as she got in her car. She rolled the window down and Jake immediately leaned in through it, his face inches from y/n’s once again.

“Next time, darlin’.” He left her with a final peck to her lips that was far too short for y/n’s liking before he patted the roof of y/n’s car and walked away. Right before y/n pulled out of the parking lot, y/n caught a glimpse of her new favorite Longhorn fan pumping his fist in the air with a wide grin as he saddled up into his lifted truck.

a/n: pls lmk what y'all think! this is the first fic i've written in one sitting in a long time and it was v fun :)

get notified when i post new fics!

#hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin imagine #hangman imagine

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twopoppies · 3 months

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Gina, have you seen the article about Hs workout routine for LOT? I mean, we all saw the results… but I find it almost even more impressive to learn how its been done! His dedication and work ethic is so inspiring and surely part of why I adore him so much 🫠🫶

Holy hell. No wonder he’s in such great shape. Just a note that Thibo David was his old trainer with Live On Tour. I assume Brad Gould was his new trainer for Love on Tour. But I doubt his regimen was any less insane.

[…]

If you include the one-mile run and bodyweight challenge, this is the hardest warm-up I’ve ever done, but, given the intensity required for the next two elements I’m promoting them to workout status.

[…]

David says Harry Styles can run a mile in an impressive 5min 13sec—a standard some of the professional athletes David coaches can’t match—but I was urged to run my own race.

[…]

This was far closer to my wheelhouse as a CrossFit fan. I chose to tackle it in alternating sets of 10, transitioning quickly between exercises to finish within the eight-minute limit. But even commando rolling from push-up to sit-up then springing into the squats left me little time to spare.

[…]

I took 7min 39sec, and, somewhat unexpectedly, given I can barbell squat more than 300lb, it was my quads that blew up the most. Whether this was the result of the one-mile run before it or heavy front squats the day before, I couldn’t say, but my thighs were on fire by the final rep.

“I like to say that I train very smart, but you also have to be very stupid sometimes, you know? Do this type of workout in the most stupid way; go hard at the task at hand, like when you throw a ball for a dog and it goes super crazy.

“This is a very good workout for that. Very good at building everything that needs to be added after the aerobic base; aggressiveness, speed, that go-hard mentality.”

[…]

Things did become particularly spicy during round three and four though, as my body began to tire with the sustained effort.

My posterior chain (the muscles running along the back side of the body) took a battering from the kettlebell swings and sandbag-over-shoulders, my already-fried legs felt heavy during the box jumps, and my shoulders grew tired from two minutes of straight clean and presses—it was a serious test of muscular endurance.

[…] I also did 12 total rounds—I wanted the full Styles experience, after all—but I’d live to regret this. The hill I chose grew progressively steeper as I worked my way up it, and by the eighth round I felt like death. My sprints turned to slogs, and the time it took me to complete the distance I established in the first interval grew longer.

[…] The prior running and box jumps didn’t help either, but I got it done eventually in less than 30 minutes.

[…]

This was a relaxing way to wrap up a far from relaxing morning of training, and gave me a second to catch my breath after a monumental effort which lasted a little over two hours.

I swapped his day of training for one of my usual CrossFit sessions and had a lot of fun doing it. Every part of my body felt like it had been put through the ringer thanks to the muscle-burning circuit and lung-taxing running elements. I was also very, very hungry.

Another thing that impressed me was Styles’ evident fitness levels and work ethic; how he has the energy to perform for two hours during a stadium tour is no longer a mystery.

Another thing I liked about my chat with David was his openness and honesty. I often see articles online saying celebrities do a few Pilates classes or HIIT workouts each week to stay in unbelievable shape, and he was keen to dispel this myth.

“Collaborating with Harry Styles was an absolute delight; his commitment is unparalleled,” says David.

“But it’s important to note that this level of training isn’t suitable for everyone. Harry was inherently fit, but achieving the level of fitness needed for this session still required time, work and effort. Rushing into such high-volume workouts can pose risks.”

David also stressed that sessions of this intensity weren’t done every day, and the nature of his workouts will often “depend on the day and the state of the athlete”.

“It’s crucial to emphasize the significance of proper periodization,” says David. “Not every day constituted an intense session. In fact, we strategically incorporated recovery sessions which often involved a light run combined with core exercises and mobility work. Every workout was thoughtfully placed within the overall training plan.”

Read, full article here

#exercise Harry #workout Harry #fitness Harry #thibo david

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bluehourbucky · 1 year

Text

Surprise

rockstar!dad!bucky x f!momreader

summary: last show of Buckys tour where he gets a special surprise

part of the same universe as Love from afar but can be read as standalone

a/n: so I'm kinda soft for rockstar dad bucky you might see more of him in the future I already have 2 more fic ideas sushdbbd

main masterlist

bucky masterlist

-more rockstardad!bucky

hope you enjoy! if you have any questions or feedback my asks are open!

DO NOT COPY OR STEAL MY WORK

_________________________________________

Tonight was the last stop of tour, and Bucky was feeling all kinds of things. Nervous, sad that the tour was done, but also incredibly happy to finally get home to his pregnant wife and two boys.

"Good evening everybody!" Bucky yells into the mic and does a riff on his guitar.

"Tonight is the last show-" before he finishes he's cut off by screams of "noo" of their fans.

"I know, I know. This tour has been a real dream come true. I wanna thank everyone who's here tonight and everyone who saw our show in the last six months. And of course, to those who support us from afar."

Bucky stops talking and looks at the huge stadium screaming his name and almost tears up.

"Let's have fun tonight!"

Bucky starts singing the first song, and the crowd goes wild. He loves this so much the adrenaline the energy it makes him feel high.

It's getting close to the end of the show. Only the last song is left, and it's a surprise song for the last show. This song Bucky wrote for you when he was leaving for tour the first time after having a kid. Its not a song they usually play as it is a slow farewell song, but why not.

"Thank you for such an amazing show. You are such an incredible crowd. But can I ask for a little more of your time and energy?!"

The crowd yells out a yes. Bucky and other members of his band smile, him and Steve share a look that says "we made it".

They start singing, and the crowd starts singing the lyrics with them, some people start crying and the stadium is lit up with phone flashlights

When they finish the last song the crowd chants their name.

"Thank you!" Bucky bows lowly.

and then the crowd screams louder and Bucky turns around.

"I know the show is over. But I thought I could ask for one last song?"

Bucky is speechless when he hears your voice, and when he sees his 7 month pregnant wife on stage, he almost collapses. The crowds screaming dies out, and the only thing Bucky sees is you in a pretty purple dress standing a few feet away microphone in your hands.

"So? Just my favourite I'm sure no one would mind? Right Steve?"

Steve smiles at you softly, he knew you were coming and helped you pull this thing off without Bucky knowing.

"What's one more song?" Steve says and starts singing.

Bucky takes the microphone and starts singing to you. He slowly walks over, scared that you'll disappear any second. You wouldn't call this song particularly sweet and romantic since Bucky wrote it about your wild hookups in unconventional places when you were like 18. But still, it remains your favourite song.

By the end of the song, Bucky is close to sobbing he started crying at some point.

"My beautiful wife, everybody!" He says through tears. The crowd has been screaming since you came out on stage.

"Thank you! Sorry to keep you a bit longer I'm sure everybody is very tired. Get home safe." you say and leave the stage waving, but not before kissing Bucky softly and telling him you'll see him in a bit.

While you wait for the show to finish, you log into Buckys Instagram since you don't have your own. Already, there are thousands and thousands of posts about you coming on stage.

Bucky didn't publicly announce the pregnancy, and neither have you. This time, you somehow managed to hide it for so long since the attention was mostly pointed at the tour.

You're sure that by tomorrow, every tabloid will have your picture splattered everywhere but you couldn't care less. What Bucky doesn't know yet is that the boys are here with you and you can't wait to see his face.

"DADDY!" Theo screams and jumps into his fathers arms, and Bucky catches him.

Bucky holds onto his son like he's going to disappear any second.

"What are you doing here? How? When?" Bucky asks in between kisses that he's giving your son.

Leo crawls and hugs Bucky's legs, with Theo still in his arms, Bucky picks up his other son and starts kissing each of their cheeks in turns.

"We wanted to surprise you. I guess it worked, no?" you tease him a little and snap a picture of the sweet scene in front of you.

Somehow, Theo ends up clinging onto his dad's back, which gives Bucky enough space to pull you into a group hug.

"Ew you're sweaty and smell. Theo get down you'll get stinky too."

Bucky doesn't let either of you leave his embrace, and the menace he is, he snuggles Leo even closer to him. You smile into his neck, you missed him so much.

"Alright, I'll go shower, then we can go. Don't go anywhere."

"Daddy wait I'm still here!" Theo screams into Buckys ear trying to get down but Bucky is still holding him.

"Oh right, I guess you're not showering with me." Theo giggles happily and walks over to you.

"The other one too Buck." He rolls his eyes and let's his 3 year old down from his arms.

He doesn't take long, and the four of you are on your way to the hotel.

In the car, boys talk to their father, and Bucky listens very carefully, not to miss a single word.

When you get to the hotel suite, Bucky gets the boys ready for bed and reads them a bedtime story. They fall sleep almost instantly, Theo on his right shoulder and Leo on his left.

Bucky manages to wiggle out without waking them up and makes his way over to you.

"God I love you. You're incredible. How did you even do this we talked this morning and I-" you cut him off with a kiss.

"I love you too. And I can't belive that we've been married for so long and I still get to surprise you." Bucky smiles and put his hand on you belly, feeling the little movement.

"My pretty baby, I'm sorry daddy hasn't talked you I promise I'll make it up to you, I'm gonna be the only thing you hear for forever!" Bucky talks to the baby in your belly.

"I love you more than anything, Bucky I love our family and I missed you so fucking much." you start to tear up, holding onto Buckys hands. It hit you all at once that you're having another baby and that he wasn't there and that you can't believe you found a soulmate.

"Doll, you're my forever. I love you more than there are stars in the universe. I can not thank you enough for being there and supporting me and being the mother of my children. The last 6 months have both been the best and worst of my life. I want you to know that you and the boys were all I could think about. I can not wait to get home, our messy, lively home. Soon, I know we'll be getting zero sleep, and we'll be exhausted, but I will be doing it with you. That makes me extremely happy. You were my dream then, my dream now and my dream forever."

You sob into his chest, holding him tightly, as if he's going to disappear into thin air. The hug is a bit weird as your bump is in the way but it's the thing that you needed the most right now.

"If I could I would fuck you right now you look incredibly sexy." you say through tears and Buckys chest vibrate from the laugh.

"I'll make it up to you my love. I will have you in bed for a week straight, you'll be all mine. My pretty doll." He plants a sweet kiss on top of your head.

"Let's get you in bed. I'm sure you're tired." you only nod and let Bucky take care of you.

When you fall asleep, Bucky is wide awake looking at his beautiful family. He can't wait to get home and take care of you.

[THE END]

*extra*

*comments*

omg such goals!

want someone to look at me the way bucky and his wife look at each other!

how does one looks so gorgeous while that pregnant she's literally glowing! Bucky is so lucky!

family goals

#bucky barnes #bucky imagine #bucky masterlist #sebastian stan characters #bucky barnes x reader #dad bucky x reader #bucky x reader #rockstar!bucky #james buchanan barnes #bucky fic #bucky fluff

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