#Cristiano Ronaldo smut

[findingnemosworld]

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 - 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐨

・𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲: 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐬

( 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭? 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐞? 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞? )

𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐬!!!

Y/N L/N had made her triumphant return to the film industry after a year and a half hiatus to look after her twins Mateo and Luna as well as support her husband’s new chapter in Saudi Arabia as Al-Nassr’s brand new football player, tonight however was all about her role in the new film Beyond The Pines a children's fantasy film.

The family of four were in attendance and had walked the red carpet with bright smiles, once they were lead to the theatre; they sat down for the entire film and once the credits rolled, everyone stood up to applaud her for her performance, Cristiano was the first to speak by saying, " We’re so proud of you amor "

Y/N gratefully accepted the praise before embracing both of her children who cooed at clapped for their mother. Afterwards, they declined the offer of attending the after party in favor of heading home and resting after an exhausting day.

_____________________________________________________________

Once she checked up on the twins, she returns to the bedroom right around the time Cris had stepped out from the en-suite bathroom after a quick shower, she sits in front of her vanity mirror and grabs the jasmine scented body lotion, she pours a generous amount to rub it across her limbs while Cris stood and watched her with a soft smile, and it wasn’t until she finished that she looked up to notice him, " What? " she giggled.

Instead of responding, he walks up to her then leans down to press open mouthed kisses to her shoulder. " You’re so perfect "

She smiles, " I think that’s only you amor "

He doesn't respond, instead hoisting her up in his arms which elicited a soft giggle from her, " Cris, the kids are sleeping "

" Guess that means you'll have to be quiet " He shrugs then chuckles before he places her down near the edge of the bed, his hands roam over her body before grabbing the ends of her nightgown to remove it, " Perfect " he murmurs just as he dips his head down to capture her lips in a gentle kiss that she happily reciprocated with a soft moan that escaped her lips into his.

Her hands roam down, gently removing the towel off of his body. He then pushes her onto the bed, wrapping one arm around her waist while his hand rests over her neck while they exchanged the sweetest most passionate kiss, his lips then trail down to her neck to press open mouthed kisses across her neck then alternate between nibbling and kissing the skin which elicited soft sounds from her trembling lips. " Oh " she sighs. " Just like that! "

He trails his hand from her waist down to her thighs, " Spread your legs amor " he whispers, and she happily complies before gasping when his digits teased her slick walls. " You're so wet for me "

She whines in response " Please Cris "

" Patience amor " He tuts, spending the next few minutes teasing her walls with his digits, inciting the softest sounds from her which in turn made him groan. " You sound so sweet amor, keep making those sounds "

Her back arches off of the bed just as she reached her high, " Oh my god, just like that " she sighs.

His digits were soon replaced by the length of his cock, he thrusts inside of her without so much of a warning. " Cris " She whimpers, wrapping her arms around his shoulder to press her lips on top of his.

" I know amor " He murmurs, pecking her lips while he continued to thrust in and out at a leisure pace he soon picked up. " You're so good to me, so perfect "

His praise helped spur the sensations she felt, " Oh " she whines, " It's so good ... just like that "

" Are you close amor? " He cooed in her ear, " You're going to cum for me "

" Yes " She moans, arching her back off of the bed until she reached her high. " Oh my god "

" So good " He grunts, his eyelids tightly shut as he chased his own high before he collapsed on top of her, pressing soft kisses on her chest, " You did so good amor " he pulls back, then heads to the bathroom to grab two wet cloths, he then returned and cleaned the two of them up before discarding the cloths, he then pulled her into his embrace, " I love you amor "

" I love you too " She smiles.

[neymarismyfave]

Every Good Thing Comes With A Price.

Parings:Cristiano Ronaldo x Y/n

Warning: Angst, cussing, fluff.

Summary: Y/n and Ronaldo absolutely hate each other.

Requested: Yes

..........................................................................................

"You ready yet?" Sarah called from the living room. "No! Almost!" Y/n responds running a brush through her H/C hair. She then sat the brush down and checked her appearance. After she was satisfied she made her way out of the bathroom and into the living room. "So?" Y/n asked, looking at Sarah. "Oh wow..." Sarah mutters, her mouth slightly agape. "Is that a bad oh wow, or a good oh wow?" Y/n asked oncemore, anxiously biting her lower lip. "It's, a great oh wow, trust me." Sarah awnserd, admiring the shiny black dress that hugged Y/n figure perfectly.

"Good to know." Y/n said after Sarah had stopped staring at the dress. "Sorry, anyway ready?" Sarah asked. "Mhm." Y/n mumbles. "You have nothing to worry about." Sarah said with a small smile before grabbing Y/n's hand. Y/n then allowed Sarah to guide her out of the house and down the driveway. Sarah then let go of Y/n's hand once they arrived at the car. The two women hopped in and Sarah started the car.

___________

After about a 20 minute drive they arrived. And when Y/n stepped out of the car she way awestruck. There was flashing lights, beautiful veiw and the tallest mansion she had ever seen. "Wow." Y/n said breathlessly. "I know right!" Sarah said with a squeal. "What are you waiting for?" Sarah asks. Y/n gives Sarah an excited smile before walking toward the building Sarah close behind her. As soon as Y/n and Sarah walk through the door after getting through security they're greeted with loud, ear bleeding music and the smell of achohol.

"Holy shit its loud in here!" Y/n called out to Sarah, over the loud music. "Isn't that the idea of a club?" Sarah called back. Y/n shrugged. "I'm gonna go get a drink!" Y/n called out again. Sarah nods and Y/n walks off making her way to the bar. As soon as she makes it over to the bar, the slight smile she had on her face instantly faded. There right in front of her was Cristiano Ronaldo her greatest enemy. "Well shit." Y/n mumbled under her breath before taking a breath.

"What may I get you?" The bartender asks. "Oh um, a strawberry margarita, please." Y/n mumbles. "Is that all?" The bartender asks again. "Yes please." Y/n says with a small smile. "Coming right up." The bartender mumbles before getting started on her drink. "Well hello." Y/n's eyes instantly squeezed shut. "What do you want Ronaldo." She asked as he sat down. "Oh nothing. Just here to get under your skin." He says with a smirk. "Well congrats, you succeeded." Y/n says through gritted teeth.

"Not in my opinion." Ronaldo mumbles as Y/n drink gets handed to her. "Y'know, you can be a real asshole sometimes." Y/n mumbles taking a sip of her drink. "Why thank you." Ronaldo says with an eyeroll. "Why dont you go talk to someone that actually cares about you. For example, your girlfriend, oh wait she left you for Neymar. Who would've thought." Y/n says laughing to herself. Her laughter instantly died down when Ronaldo grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of her seat dragging her behind him.

"Let go, you bastard!" Y/n yelled. But before she can say another word she way pushed into a room. "God, the fucking audacity you have!" Ronaldo spits out slamming the door shut. Y/n swallows heavily. "I-" Y/n starts. "Save it!" Ronaldo grumbles through gritted teeth. Y/n was prepared to get yelled at and get into a huge fight that would ruin both their nights and egos. But what she wasn't prepared for was the simple word spilling out of Ronaldo's annoying mouth.

"Strip." Ronaldo mumbles. "W-What." Y/n stuttered. "You fucking heard me. Strip." Ronaldo mumbles, taking a few steps closer to her. Y/n backed away but was blocked by a bed. Ronaldo stepped closer and closer to her until he was leaning over her, his arms pinned on each side of her head. "Do I need to do it myself?" Ronaldo mumbled, his eyes clouded with anger and, lust?

"I-I" Y/n was to shocked to speak, all the nasty and hateful things had dissapeared from her mind as she imagined him thrusting into her roughly, making her feel good with a simple touch of his long slender fingers. Her breath hitched as she felt his finger tips trace her thigh. "Awnser me." Ronaldo ordered. "Yes." Y/n says, still attempting to remain cocky. "Dont act all cocky. Your dying to fucking feel me." Ronaldo whispered in her ear, his hand trailing under her dress pulling the dress up the farther he goes.

His hand traveled further and further until the dress was pulled up past her breast revealing her black lacy panties and matching bra. Y/n's mind became foggy. She did want to feel him. No she needed to feel him. "God your soaking." Ronaldo practically groaned out. "Please." Y/n blurted out. Ronaldo looked up at the small girl with a smirk. "Please what?" He asked. "Fuck me." Y/n breathed out. She regretted it. But at the moment she needed it. Before she could say another word Ronald's surprisingly soft lips were pressed against hers.

Y/n moaned out giving him the opportunity to slide his tounge into her mouth. As their tounges fought for domanice Y/n ran her hands along Ronaldo's shoulder gripping onto his biceps. Ronaldo pulled away and stood up pulling his shirt over his head. He then returned to pinning her down and pressed his lips against hers oncemore. Y/n couldnt hold back, she need him. "God please." She mumbled once he pulled away for air. Ronaldo smirks before slipping his hands under her thighs lifting them up ove his shoulders. He then slowly pulls her lacy underwear down and tosses the small cloth somewhere across the room.

Y/n sucked in a breath as cold air rushed against her cunt. She let out a small moan when she felt Ronaldos warm tounge make contact with the bundle of nerves. She whimpered as his tounge instantly started moving at a fast pace. She slowly moved her hands down to his hair and ran her fingers through the short strands. She moaned out oncemore as his tounge lapped at her cunt roughly. She felt a warm feeling build up in her abdomen and knew she was close. She moaned out louder as Ronaldo's fingers dug into her thighs.

"S-So f-fucking close." Y/n mumbled, bucking her hips up into his face. She felt Ronadlo smirk against her cunt. She wanted to make him regret this but it just felt to good. She felt the warm feeling in her abdomen build up and soon it felt like it would snap at any moment. "Please let me cum." Y/n said with a moan. "I'm not stopping you." Ronaldo groaned against her cunt as she bucked up into him. That was all Y/n need to hear before she was coming undone. She had let out the loudest moan she had ever let out before. She continued bucking up into him letting out smaller moans.

Once she was done and caught her breath and Ronaldo had lapped up any leftover cum she she mentally cursed at herself. She then looked over at Ronaldo who was now standing. "Good luck." He simply said before walking out leaving Y/n to clean up their mess. "Fuck you." She mumbled under her breath.

Sorry if this wasn't as good as your expected! Have a nice day and thanks for reading!

[p0orbaby]

Extinguish the Flames with Some Champagne and Pills

summary: your may or may not be in denial about your feelings for alexia

warnings: mention of smut, alcohol and drugs and nothing major

a/n: a whole lot of words based on this request. set after this but you don’t have to read it if you don’t want to

word count: 3k

-

You’ve been ignoring Alexia’s messages for weeks now, every one of them its own little bomb you’re too terrified to defuse. Every time her name pops up on your screen, your stomach flips, your breath catches, and you somehow experience the full spectrum of human emotion in a split second. But mostly there’s terror and something closer to shame than you’d like to admit.

It’s a game of avoidance that doesn’t come easily to you; after all, you’re usually the one with a glib reply or some devil-may-care response, the kind of person who thrives on chaos. But this time, it’s different. This time, there’s something closer to shame nestled beneath the familiar terror, a sensation like a splinter lodged deep under the skin—small enough to ignore at first but persistent enough to drive you mad.

Your friends—of course, always your friends—keep bringing her up, as if they can somehow sense the crisis you’re trying to keep contained. It’s usually after a few cocktails too many, when your circle is gathered around a dimly lit table in some trendy restaurant or at a rooftop bar where the music is loud enough to drown out the awkward pauses but not loud enough to stifle their teasing. “She’s the best footballer in the world,” they slur with a kind of drunken reverence, like they’re invoking some untouchable deity rather than a woman who once had her strap buried inside you in a strangers bathroom. “You know she won the Ballon d’Or twice, right?” As if you haven’t been low-key stalking her career, watching those achievements pile up like monuments you’ll never come close to matching. “She’s beautiful and talented,” they declare, their words slurring into a familiar refrain, as though her accolades have somehow slipped your mind, as though you might have failed to notice her brilliance or her impossible grace.

But the clincher, the one they love to throw at you, is always: “And she’s Spanish”

There’s a certain relish with which they say it, that singsong tone like they’re divulging some magic spell or a punchline they know gets a laugh every time. It’s as if her nationality carries some kind of exotic allure, like there’s something intrinsically romantic or mysterious about being Spanish that you’re pre-programmed to fall for. Ridiculous, really, but your friends don’t care about nuance. They only remember the endless stories you told about summers in the Balearics—the drunken nights under hot stars, the hazy afternoons spent nursing hangovers and catching fragments of conversations in Spanish that you pretended to understand. “You love Spanish women,” they insist, as if your type is as predictable as your go-to drink order. Conveniently, they overlook the fact that your type mostly translates to ‘emotionally unavailable,’ as if that’s some universal trait of Iberian women.

It’s not that they’re entirely wrong, of course, but they’re oversimplifying. Your attraction to Alexia isn’t some exoticism or romantic fantasy you’ve spun out of nothing. It’s her unapologetic drive, her resilience, that hooked you—though God forbid you’d admit that to anyone. “She’s an athlete,” you shrug whenever the subject comes up, swirling the last melting ice cube in your Old Fashioned like it’s a magic eight ball that might give you a different answer this time. “They’re all players.” The line slips out with just the right amount of indifference, a practiced dismissal, as though you’ve been brutalised by every athlete from Cristiano Ronaldo to Wayne Gretzky. It’s a complete fabrication, of course. You’ve never actually dated a footballer, let alone the best in the world. But who can resist a good story, especially when it’s your own and you get to embellish the details?

It’s easier, you think, to act disinterested than to admit you’ve been replaying that night in the bathroom, the feel of her breath against your neck, every time you catch your reflection in some shiny surface. You thought you were done with all that—had filed her away in the mental drawer labelled ‘Temporary Distractions,’ right alongside the male model who could never quite remember your birthday and the painter who had the audacity to try to psychoanalyse you on the third date. One-night stands are supposed to be transient, fleeting, the kind of thing you can bring up in therapy one day with a detached air. “I think this is worth mentioning,” you’d say, as if it happened to someone else, “but it’s not really important.” Another plot point in the story of your life, never quite making it past the cutting room floor.

But Alexia doesn’t stay filed away. She starts turning up everywhere, not quite a haunting, but a presence you can’t shake no matter how you try. At first, it’s incidental—just a casual Instagram scroll, a stray click on some football gossip account that you don’t even remember following. There she is, grinning in some post-match group shot, looking too happy for someone who’s supposed to be just another fleeting chapter in your book. It’s the kind of unguarded joy that can’t be faked, not even for the camera, and you can’t help but wonder if she’s always this free, or if it’s something that only comes out when she’s on the pitch, away from people like you.

You hardly even realise it, but suddenly you’re following three different Barcelona fan accounts. Then, as if by some magnetic force you’re unwilling to acknowledge, things escalate. She likes one of your posts—a shot from the Venice Film Festival where you’re all decked out in head-to-toe Prada, looking expensively bored, like you couldn’t care less about anything in the world. She comments on one of your stories: just an emoji. A single fire emoji, to be precise. Harmless, you suppose. But the comments start getting specific—little in-jokes that only someone who’d had their mouth on your skin could know. There’s a familiarity in her tone that feels invasive, like she’s reminding you of things you’ve deliberately chosen to forget.

You don’t reply. Cowardice? Yes. Masochism? Possibly. The most crucial thing is that replying would imply there’s something worth talking about, and something always becomes complicated. You’ve already got enough complicated in your life: a demanding agent who keeps sending you scripts for roles that are ‘outside your comfort zone,’ a wardrobe full of designer clothes you’re required to wear for sponsorship deals you didn’t even negotiate, and an on-again, off-again affair with mindful meditation that never seems to stick. You’re in the middle of wrapping up a film that everyone assures you will ‘change the trajectory of your career,’ though they’ve said the same about the last three projects, and you still get recognised more for that face cream advert you did when you were twenty-one than for anything of substance.

The film’s an indie about a morally ambiguous antiheroine, a character so damaged and charmingly dysfunctional you’d think you were being typecast if the role didn’t feel like an emotional excavation. She’s got a drinking problem; you’ve always favoured substances that can be discreetly indulged in penthouse bathrooms, though you’re certainly not going to point that out to the director who keeps going on about ‘authenticity’ and ‘method acting.’ He seems to think you’ve got some untapped well of emotion just waiting to be accessed, as if there’s this depth beneath your flawless skin that’s going to pour out on cue. If only. Most of the time, you’re trying not to let your co-star notice the faint tremor in your hands that’s mostly a byproduct of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

Then one day, while you’re lounging in your trailer, pretending to enjoy a green juice that tastes like the inside of a lawnmower—another post from Alexia. She’s on the pitch, holding some trophy aloft, her face flushed with victory. Her hair is slicked back, still damp with sweat, strands clinging to her skin in a way that seems impossibly intimate despite the vastness of the stadium behind her. That smile… Christ. It’s like she’s been sculpted out of bronze, an ancient statue come to life, as if she’s somehow timeless and ephemeral all at once. There’s something almost mythic about her, an enduring quality that makes your breath hitch in a way that feels both familiar and unnervingly new, like an old friend who’s overstayed their welcome but you’re not quite ready to let go.

It’s moments like these when you notice how precariously you’re balancing on the line between fascination and obsession. You catch yourself humming the anthem of Barcelona’s football club, the tune woven so deeply into your subconscious that it startles you. You aren’t even sure where you picked it up, but it plays on a loop whenever your mind wanders, like a soundtrack you didn’t choose. Then there are the little things—reading the match reports in the sports section like you actually know what half the terms mean, or memorising obscure facts about the team’s history as if they’re somehow relevant to your life. You’ve started following the scores like they’re stock prices, pretending it’s just casual interest, though a part of you wonders why you keep needing to know how well she played, how many minutes she was on the pitch, whether she looked happy in the post-game interviews.

It’s a form of self-deception that’s becoming harder to maintain. You’re drawn to her orbit, pulled in by a force that feels magnetic and entirely outside your control, as though your fascination is bleeding into the rest of your life, filling the gaps you didn’t even know existed.

You decide, in a moment of what can only be described as poor judgment, to attend one of her matches. It feels impulsive and reckless in the way most of your decisions do, a haphazard pairing of curiosity and a kind of dangerous longing. You book a front-row seat like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just ticking another item off some glamorous bucket list rather than treading into unfamiliar territory. Naturally, you show up dressed to the nines—your favourite Gucci sunglasses perched on your nose, an Alexander McQueen coat draped over your shoulders with that deliberate, careless grace that suggests you’re either oblivious to or entirely aware of its price tag. Your hair is styled in that kind of artful chaos that takes hours to perfect but is meant to look like you rolled out of bed effortlessly chic. You’re not here for the football. You’re here for her.

The atmosphere in the stadium is overwhelming, almost suffocating, a heady cocktail of chants, horns, and the sharp, greasy scent of fried food that turns your stomach. It’s a kind of chaos you’re unaccustomed to, this all-consuming fervor where the world narrows down to the pitch, to the twenty-two players moving with a purpose you can’t fully grasp. You understand about three percent of what’s happening on the field—just enough to know when the ball’s in play but not enough to follow the strategies unfolding before you. You’re mostly people-watching: the sea of jerseys, the faces contorted with passion, the rhythmic clapping that you can’t quite catch the beat of.

When Alexia scores, it catches you off guard. The stadium erupts, thousands of people leaping to their feet with a collective roar that vibrates through your bones. You react half a beat late, your applause more polite than enthusiastic, like you’re at a black-tie gala instead of a football match. You stand, clap along with the crowd, and try not to feel like an imposter. As the cheers die down, you catch her eyes from across the distance, just for a flicker of a moment. There’s something in her gaze—an awareness, a spark—that slices through the noise and zeroes in on you. It’s like she sees you, actually sees you, in the middle of this thrumming, chaotic mass of bodies, and for a split second, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the entire stadium.

After the game, you somehow find yourself swept into the exclusive VIP area, a place filled with the kind of people who can glide between worlds as easily as they switch languages. A flute of champagne appears in your hand almost before you’re aware you’ve been handed one, and you sip it absentmindedly as you let the buzz of conversation wash over you. You’re halfway through your second glass when she appears, slipping through the crowd with a kind of effortless poise, her hair still damp from the shower, the strands curling at the ends. She’s wearing a loose tracksuit, looking every bit the casual athlete, as though she hasn’t just been commanding the attention of thousands.

There’s an insufferable confidence in the way she moves towards you, that familiar swagger that borders on arrogance, as if she’s amused by the fact that you actually showed up, that you dared to step into her world. “I didn’t think you were a football fan,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice, though her eyes betray something else—a darker, more searching intensity that you recognise all too well from that night in the bathroom, the one you keep trying and failing to forget.

“I can appreciate a good performance,” you reply, lifting your glass in a mock toast, your voice slipping into that arch tone you’ve perfected over years of industry parties and press tours. “I’ve seen Cats live on Broadway, you know.” It’s a flippant comment, the kind that’s designed to deflect, to distract, to keep the conversation light and meaningless.

She laughs, a rich sound that feels like an indulgence. It’s not so much at your joke but at the way you’re playing this little game, like she’s letting you have your moment, humouring you. “And did you enjoy the show?” she asks, her voice dropping just enough to suggest that her question has nothing to do with the theatre and everything to do with the performance she just gave on the pitch.

“I think you already know the answer to that,” you say, holding her gaze longer than you probably should. There’s a challenge in the way you look at her, an unspoken dare, and for a moment, you wonder if she’ll take the bait. Her lips curl into a small, devilish smile, a private expression that feels like a confession meant just for you.

The moment stretches, teeters precariously on the edge of something you’re not quite ready to acknowledge. It feels monumental, like a line about to be crossed, but then she steps back, just a fraction, and the spell breaks. She turns away with a dismissive grace, leaving you standing there as if you’ve just been defeated in a game you didn’t know you were playing. “Good,” she says simply, and with that one word, she slips back into the crowd, leaving you with nothing but the faint taste of champagne on your lips and the lingering sense that you’ve been left wanting.

After that, you start to notice the divide. There’s Before Alexia and After Alexia, and it’s not a clean break but a jagged line that cuts through your life, shifting everything off balance. You used to think of yourself as someone in control, or at least someone who could fake it convincingly enough to fool everyone else. There was always an understanding that if you messed up, someone would be there to fix it—your agent, a publicist, some overworked assistant who could call in a favor to make the headlines disappear. But now, your phone has become an instrument of anxiety, vibrating with texts and notifications that you crave and dread in equal measure. It buzzes with messages from her that you read but don’t answer, with updates from your agent about the press tour you keep dodging, with reminders of responsibilities you keep pushing aside.

Even after filming there has finished, you start booking last-minute flights to Barcelona under the guise of ‘business,’ convincing yourself that it’s all perfectly legitimate. Your agent rolls his eyes and hounds you to schedule interviews and appearances, but you find yourself at the airport anyway, boarding another red-eye that will land you in some unfamiliar city just in time to catch her match. You’re finding yourself in strange places at ungodly hours, indulging in the kind of fan behavior you’d have found pathetic if you saw anyone else doing it. Ninety minutes of football passes in a trance, where the world narrows down to her figure gliding across the pitch, the fluid grace of her movements cutting through the static in your head like a hot knife through butter.

Afterwards, you’ll send her a coy, inconsequential text—“Not bad,” or “You could work on your footwork.” And she’ll reply with that maddening charm that dances the line between sincerity and sarcasm, always leaving you guessing. “Come and coach me, then,” she’ll say, as if she’s issuing a challenge, or perhaps an invitation.

There’s this one time, after too many drinks and not enough sleep, when you actually consider it. You catch yourself scrolling through Spanish real estate listings, as if browsing apartments for sale in Barcelona is a casual hobby rather than a subconscious form of planning. You tell yourself it’s just idle curiosity, a way to pass the time, yet you’re finding out the details—locations near the stadium, neighbourhoods with the best views, penthouses with terraces that would catch the Mediterranean breeze. You click on the photos of sun-drenched balconies and tiled kitchens, pretending you’re only fantasising about a different kind of life, one where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder for the next tabloid scandal or PR crisis.

But then you sober up. You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror of a five-star hotel suite in Madrid, taking in the disheveled hair, the dark circles under your eyes, and you remember who you are. You’re not the kind of person who throws away their life for someone else, certainly not for a woman you haven’t even kissed since that one stolen night, a night that’s become less real and more like a story you tell yourself to explain this unshakable obsession. Besides, you’d probably make a terrible coach.

[awesometheydontknowiamhere]

Okay time to bring this back.

I genuinely don't know what I'll do with myself after the WC is over.

Help a girl maintain her sanity out here and lemme know if you gus want to see anything specific.

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

So I am going to be writing Football Fanfiction.

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

[xndrexcruz]

『••✎rules!••』

i will write fluff, angst, smut, as well as smau’s (social media alternate universe)

i don’t really mind writing for most topics im not limited when it comes to certain things such as death, and themes of that kind so feel free to ask

fem! reader only, it’s just a preference i don’t have anything against male! reader

if i’m taking requests at the time feel free to ask for anything and write a little summary of what you would like me to write or/and include also if you want a certain face claim

i will be writing for the following players:

joão félix

pablo gavira | gavi

pedro gonzález | pedri

fermín lópez

héctor fort

lamine yamal

marc bernal

pau cubarsi

marc guiu

jude bellingham

kylian mbappé

vinicius junior | vini jr

neymar júnior | neymar jr

cristiano ronaldo | cr7

[multifandomfanfic]

Futball Players Masterlist

no smut requests on this blog, please!

^ - fluff

# - angst

Cristiano Ronaldo - requests for Ronaldo are closed for the time being

Cold Air #

Enzo Fernández

Héctor Bellerín

Stretch Marks ^

Julián Álvarez

Lionel Messi

Being Lionel Messi and Antonela Roccuzzo's Daughter Would Include... ^

A-List Actress x Messi Insta AU

English Football Player x Messi Insta AU

Messi x age gap!reader Insta AU

Messi x English!royal!reader Insta AU

Daughter’s 18th Birthday Insta AU

Messi x model!reader Insta AU

Messi x Neymar!reader Insta AU

Messi x actress!daughter (also Mbappe x Messi!reader) Insta AU

Neymar Jr.

obsessed!Neymar x ex!reader Insta AU

Kylian Mbappe

Mbappe x Messi!actress!reader Insta AU

[nuchester]

Intro post <3

Here’s a little introduction post for those who are curious!

me!

- my name is chloe

- I’m a big fan of metal (mostly every subgenre)

- I’m big on KoЯn, SOAD, Metallica, Oingo Boingo, Slipknot, Green Day, DMSOB and Megadeth

- I’m Danish-Canadian 🇩🇰 🇨🇦

the blog!

- what I plan on doing:

- writing fanfics

- doing headcannons

- posting pictures

- answering asks

fanfics / hc’s!

- who I’ll write for:

- SOAD: all members

- KoЯn: Jon Davis, Munky, Head

- Metallica: all members

- Oingo Boingo: Danny Elfman

- Slipknot: Corey Taylor, Joey Jordison, Mick Thomson

- DMSOB: Daron Malakian, John Dolmayan

- Megadeth: Dave Mustaine, David Ellefson

- Green day: Billie Joe, (maybe?) Mike Dirnt

- Other: horror movie characters (mostly antagonists), Connor McDavid, Jude Bellingham, Cristiano Ronaldo

**this list will expand!**

- what I’ll write:

- smut

- fluff

- angst

- open to literally any suggestions!

- my limits:

- anything illegal

- scat, piss, vomit

- noncon, cnc, things like that

- age play (age gaps are alright)

That’s it!

My asks are open in case there’s any questions!

[dignitymore]

꩜ I WILL WRITE. . . smut, angst, fluff, female readers, male players and drivers, short posts.

꩜ I WON’T WRITE. . . rape or non-con, vomit, piss, crap, minors, male or gn reader ( just because it’s more comfortable for me to write with a female reader or oc )

꩜ LANGUAGE. . . all my posts are first written in Spanish and then translated into English, so it's common to find mistakes in grammar, expressions, vocabulary, etc. Also, I’ll do my best to correct them properly.

꩜ HATE COMMENTS. . . i don't read hate comments about my writing or the people I write about, so keep your opinions to yourself.

꩜ PLAYERS I WRITE ABOUT. . . leo messi ♡, cristiano ronaldo ( because they’re my goats ), pedri, gavi, joao felix, jude bellingham, enzo fernandez, julian alvarez, neymar & more.

꩜ DRIVERS I WRITE ABOUT. . . charles leclerc ♡, carlos sainz jr, franco colapinto, lando norris, max verstappen, oscar piastri & more.

[teewritessmth]

Rules :

Masterlist

Do not ask for 1nc3st, weird family dynamics or r4p3 of any kind.

Be kind, everyone here wants to have a nice time.

Do not ask for harassment, discrimination or forms of bullying, fiction is meant to make people happy.

Smut is allowed and will be mentioned before a fiction/post.

Minors DNI.

I write for :

Youtubers

The Sidemen

Beta Squad + Harry Pinero, Darkest man, Johnny, Yung filly

Kpop groups-

BTS

EXO

IKON

Footballers-

Neymar jr

Jude Bellingham

Lionel Messi

Cristiano Ronaldo

Kylian Mbappe

Games-

Ikemen Sengoku

Ikemen Vampire

Actors-

Engin Ozturk

Series-

Big Bang Theory

The Office

How I met Your mother

Modern Family

Brooklyn 99

[findingnemosworld]

I want request a Cristiano Ronaldo smut. The story can go like this,

He comes home after a long training session. Surprisingly, no one's at home. As he gets closer to his room, he sees his wife on the bed fingering herself and moaning his name.

And the rest is up to, my dear. 😉

hey precious, sure thing, hopefully this weekend ❤

[sinswithpleasure]

What sport do you follow? Just so I can compare you properly since you don't follow basketball.

You could be the Tiger Woods? Tom Brady? Rafael Nadal? Lionel Messi? Cristiano Ronaldo? Usain Bolt? Magnus Carlsen? Michael Phelps? Of KPop smut writing.

Professional wrestling. That's pretty much the only thing I do follow.

[yourfavwag]

BUKAYO HAS A GIRLFRIEND THEY'RE SO CUTE OH MY FUCKING GODD🥲🥲🥲

[urgirlceci]

Graphics in eFootball (previously known as PES)

[neyney-bartra]

Ok, hello. Can anyone help me? So this stupid safe mode thing got me fucked up. I am legally 18 (5.5.99) so I should be able to turn it off. However, when I go to my settings, I cant find a “Filtering” section anywhere. That’s where all the Tumblr directions say to go to. So wtf do I do now…? Is anyone else having this problem… Wtf.

I know I’m 18 on Tumblr bc if I lied about my bday, I’d only go higher than it actually is, and that still makes me 18…

PLEASE HELP!! PLEASE MESSAGE ME WITH ANYYYY SUGGESTIONS! I’d appreciate it so so much!

*** I have a stupid Android rn btw… Not an iPhone ***

[footballrecs]

for a fracture of a moment

characters: cristiano ronaldo/sonja (oc) chaptered: 3/? - one, two, three  by: catharticallysarcastic

Warnings: explicit sexual content, language

[barcaavengers]

Imagine Masterlist

Football Imagines

Neymar Jr. Imagines

Out In The Open Series: Finished

part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 4 || part 5 || part 6

Playing With Fire Series: Finished

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

Illicit Affairs: In Process

Part 1 || Part 2

Relaxing (smut)

Rafinha Alcantara

He Knows Series: Finished

part 1 || part 2 || part 3 || part 4 || part 5 || part 6 || part 7 || Part 8

Changes: Unfinished

part 1 ||

Dinner

It makes me love you more (smut)

Cristiano Ronaldo x Reader x Neymar

Complicated

Marc Andre Ter Stegen

You Got This

David Luiz x Reader x Neymar

It just happened

Aleksandar Kolarov

If Its Meant To Be

Sergi Roberto

Baby Boom (smut)

Hector Bellerin

Support

Childish

Marco Asensio

Choosing Sides

James Rodriguez

Gamers to Lovers

Miami Vacations (smut)

Roman Burki

Maybe a Little (smut)

Alex Chamberlain

Surprise Me

Marvel Imagines

Loki Laufeyson

Change of Plans

Coming Down Series: Finished

Part 1 || Part 2

Erik Killmonger

Special Attention (smut)

T'Challa

Stay Series: Finished

Part 1|| Part 2|| Part 3|| Part 4

Peter Parker

Warriors: Finished

Part 1 || Part 2

Bucky Barnes

Weakness Series: In Process

Part 1 || Part 2 ||

The Maze Runner

Newt

Decisions

Complete Safe Haven

New Beginning

Irreversible Series: In Process

Part 1|| Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

Air Vents (smut)

Others

Daveed Diggs

Misunderstandings

John Ambrose McClaren

Letting Go: In Process

Part 1 || Part 2

Harry Wells

Willing to Wait for It