#july double trouble

[littleslithewhump]

Day 18 – tickling

His body looks like a fucking pile of twigs. Just skeletal contours on the basement floor. He hasn’t moved since I set his shoulder. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest, I might think the idiot had up and died on me. 

I nudge him with my toe. 

He wakes up, sluggish and dull. He makes his own eyelids look heavy. When he looks up at me, he barely seems to recognize what he’s seeing. 

“Come on, pet,” I tell him. “Sit up.”

He struggles to even do that, hissing in pain as he puts weight on his newly fixed shoulder. It’s funny. It’s pathetic. It makes me want to fuck him. It makes me want to crush his throat with my boot. 

I crouch beside him, grasping his swollen shoulder and shaking him lightly. He whines about it. 

“You’re so tired, aren’t you?”

He nods. 

“You know you’ve been bad, right? I give you a place to live, give you food, I even fucking wash you, and you try to run. You don’t remember who I am. You know I should keep punishing you, right?”

Tears leak out his eyes, and he swallows audibly. But he nods. I can hardly believe it. The self-obsessed prick broke down after only two weeks of harsh treatment. I knew it–I’d known all along he was weak. 

“Look at you. Begging me to hurt you.”  

A wet sob tears out his throat. 

He still has metal manacles jangling around his wrists and ankles. I pull at one experimentally, testing his give, his submission. To me. He’s light and mobile as dandelion fluff. 

“Pet. Know I’m kind to you. I’m as kind as I can be.” 

He bobs his head again, eyes crystalline with fresh tears. 

He doesn’t resist a bit as I scoop him up in my arms, carrying him up the stairs like my waifish betrothed. He’s shaking lightly, crying like a child, but I feel him cling to me. It’s almost sickeningly sweet. I want to tug on his hair and make him moan. I want to tear the fucker apart. 

When I lay him on the bed, his eyelashes flutter. 

“Soft, isn’t it, pet?” 

“M..mhm,” he murmurs. 

I pin his wrist into the cushion above his head, opening his body up to me. I trace my fingers up and down his ribs, thumb his hip bone. It makes him twitch, sensitive skin under my touch, covered in pretty bruises. 

He’s so fucking fragile. I squeeze the soft part of his waist, which makes him jolt. 

I tickle his armpits, along his ribs. He flinches and shudders, a confused giggle escaping him. 

I lay down beside him, kissing his face, rumpling his hair in my hand, tugging it gently. He squirms, trying to reciprocate, I know. But too weak to manage it. It’s an intimacy I haven’t allowed him before. 

“Thank me, pet,” I murmur to him. 

He swallows again. “Thank…thank you.” 

“Good boy.” 

It’s more fun than I’d thought it would be, so I keep tickling him. Scratching him lightly with my nails, finding his sensitive spots, finding what makes him wiggle, hearing him laugh. When he tries to pull away, I hold him close, slinging an arm around his waist, pulling him flush against me. 

I lick up the tears dribbling down his face, rubbing my fingers lightly on the sensitive inside of his thighs, making him open his legs for me, through a strained little giggle. 

After stripping myself, coating my fingers in lube to prevent me from chafing, I push my fingers inside him. I squeeze his waist, holding him against me, which makes him moan and shudder breathlessly. It’s gorgeous; pleasure wrinkling up his brow. I push my cock inside, rocking into him steadily. 

I hold his face in my hand, keeping his face tipped toward me, slapping gently when he tries to close his eyes. “Focus on me, sweetheart,” I whisper. 

He cries the whole time, yes–but he begs prettily, begs for his release, for my release. For me.

Taglist:

@whumped-by-glitter

[thereigning-lorelai]

sunset curve + being 💕 cute ghosts 💕

[narcissusbrokenmirror]

this is not my hottest take really. But sometimes im gald they never renewed jatp. Because the way Netflix is, they probably would've ruined the show, bc they don't know how to present teen shows without making them oversexualized and weird (as we can see w shows like Riverdale and The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, all shows i enjoyed at first, but eventually dropped bc where tf is the plot.). I also dont wish that Disney would've taken over, i was in the The Owl House fandom y'all, Disney is not any better, they're racist homophobic bigots. And at last, but not least, the writers strike!!! All the main cast of jatp is supporting it, if we had the show going on for a secons or third season rn, we wouldn't get it anyway.

So, do i miss them? Hell yeah. Do i want more of the show? Yeah!! Do i think that the characters got what they wanted? No. Did they developed enough? No. Is the story close to and end? Fucking hell no.

But the show has done enough for a good first season, it established the characters' background, it brought them together, it opened doors for other future plots, it showed every character's potential for change and development.

[daintyduck99]

One more: “You can’t even hide your smile. So, spill. Who is this mysterious person that makes you all giddy and insufferable?” for Flynn & Julie, and you can choose who they are smiling about.

“Who did you meet?”

Julie plasters on her who, me? smile, but drops it quickly as Flynn simply continues to stir her coffee with an unimpressed look.

“What makes you think I met someone?”

Flynn waits for the waitress who stops by to take Julie's order and walk away, but she's practically vibrating to answer.

It's probably also a byproduct of how much caffeine she's had, but Julie won't mention that. She's trying to stay on her good side.

“Please,” Flynn starts, laying her hands flat on the table. “The difference in how you're acting compared to earlier? Night and day. And it's not a song, or you'd be humming.”

“You've seen me for all of five seconds,” Julie says, feeble to her own ears.

Flynn scoffs. “And I've known you for forever. You always get a dreamy look in your eye and a silly grin on your face whenever you're interested in someone new—and they're usually a musician.”

Well. She's not wrong. And maybe Julie was smiling like that when she walked in.

But the guy she'd bumped into at the music store had had really good taste! And talent, if the way he spoke and the calluses on the hands that had steadied her were any indication.

He'd also had a really great laugh, and kind eyes. Swoopy dark hair. Cute face.

“Aha!” Flynn cries, jarring Julie from her thoughts. “You can't even hide your smile.”

Damn. Julie tries, but his face is too fresh in her mind, his laugh too bright in her ears, the ink too fresh on her skin. She couldn't conjure another expression right now even if her life depended on it.

Flynn leans back, smug and triumphant.

“So, spill. Who is this mysterious person that makes you all giddy and insufferable?”

It's Julie's turn to scoff. “Insufferable?”

“You can be, when it comes to romance.” Flynn shrugs. “I'm calling it early.”

Julie toys with her napkin, glancing haplessly toward the kitchen. Maybe if she's lucky, the waitress will save her.

She's not, though, and Flynn's waiting.

“It's—I don't know him. I like him—I really like him already—but it's hard to be as optimistic as you after—after everything.”

Flynn waves this away with a flap of her hand. “So your last few dates were duds. That's mostly Tia's fault. But Jules—”

She snaps to regain Julie's attention as she glances toward the kitchen again.

“Jules, you floated in here. Listen, I’m telling you, this one could be different!”

Julie takes a deep breath. “I hope so.”

“Good! So tell me about him. What all do you know? You at least got a name, right?”

Julie pushes up her sleeve to reveal the name and number on her arm, glistening in purple marker and a neat, slanted font.

Flynn squeals.

She also ends up squealing the loudest at the wedding, so Julie can't be too miffed about the well deserved I told you so's.

[invisibleraven]

Keeping Spirits Bright

Day 15: Present + Double Trouble <=AO3

Once Flynn and Julie enter elementary school, they are faced with a problem; none of their parents are able to be home to meet them in the afternoons. Flynn’s parents have never been able to-they have steady jobs, so she usually got the bus home with Julie. But now Rose has more students and Ray earned a big contract that will keep him on sets well into the evening. Julie argues they are totally old enough to be left home alone-they know not to touch the oven, to keep the doors locked, and to not pig out on junk food. 

“Unfortunately mija , the law says that I can’t leave you alone until you’re thirteen,” Rose replied. “Which you still have a few years left to reach. So I am going to sign you up for the afterschool program” 

“Awww mami no!” Julie whined. 

“It’s just for an hour or so, just so I can finish my lessons, and then I’ll be there to pick up both you girls.” 

“Both?” 

“Well Marisol and Xavier already signed Flynn up, I figure she would have told you. So at least you two won’t be separated.” 

Julie pouted, but relented-for one she didn’t have much choice, for two, she couldn’t let Flynn endure the program alone. What kind of best friend would that make her? Plus her mom told her once she was old enough to be home alone, she was old enough to babysit Carlos, and Julie was in no hurry to be given that responsibility. 

So the next Monday after class, instead of running to the bus, or even out the door to walk-she and Flynn trudged off to the library, off with the other kids whose parents couldn’t pick them up as soon as the bell rang. It was rather sad looking, seeing all the neglected children finding seats around the tables. 

They weren’t allowed snacks-a major bummer. But at least they could talk, though the head librarian, Mrs. Simmons did not look happy about it. They were encouraged to study, do homework, or just get a book. There were no games or toys set out, and the few supplies were pretty dismal. 

“What are we supposed to do with twine?” Flynn asked. 

“Make bracelets?” Julie suggested. “There’s at least a few colours here. Could be fun?” 

Flynn sighed, and agreed, though they first had to find a book showing them how to craft them, they caught on quickly. Twisting and braiding the strings together, adding beads and flourishes when they got good. 

Each day they would make one another a new bracelet, until their arms were adorned with them, a swathe of glorious colours and a physical representation of good times spent together. Making the most of a bad situation-it was what they were best at. 

However, the library was now out of string, and it was barely October. 

“Now what?” Julie asked. 

“We bring our own stuff and make more of course,” replied Flynn. “And sell ‘em!” 

Even then Flynn’s entrepreneurial spirit was strong. Her parents didn’t believe in giving her allowance, so she had to find ways to raise money to buy the things she wanted-soda mostly, since her parents also didn’t believe in sugar. Julie was just along for the ride, and through every lemonade stand, yard sale, and hairbrained scheme, there was nowhere else she’d rather be. Plus she usually ended up getting some of their take herself, saving up for the shiny new keyboard her parents had deemed too expensive for right now. 

“I don’t know if I have any of this kinda stuff,” Julie admitted. “But I think I could convince mami to bring us to the dollar store, we could get the supplies cheap.” 

The dollar store was always a treasure trove-full of fun little accessories, craft supplies, and even snacks the girls could get with their own money. Sure most of it was cheap quality, but you got what you paid for right? Still, neither of them wanted to dip into their meagre funds to go to a legit craft store-especially since Rose would definitely have questions enough when all they bought was colourful yarn and beads. 

So the next week they went into production-at first seeing if anyone in the program wanted to buy a bracelet or five. That got shut down by Mrs. Simmons fairly quickly, but they were still allowed to make the bracelets-as long as it wasn’t for profit. Julie was sure Flynn had her fingers crossed when she agreed to those terms. 

Especially since come December they had such an amount Flynn declared they could adorn half the school and be flush come Christmas time. 

“How are we going to do that?” Julie asked. 

“Easy, word of mouth,” Flynn replied. 

That’s where Carrie came in-she had been given a few of the bracelets, even made a few during sleepovers, but since she had classes right after school she hadn’t really been involved. Now she spread word that if anyone wanted one-not as nice as hers, mind you, but still nice, to find Flynn and Julie under the monkey bars. 

This repeated all week, every time in a different location so the teacher on duty wouldn’t catch on and try to break them up. 

“We’re rich!” Flynn declared with glee. 

“Well I mean we did spend a lot on supplies,” Julie replied. “So we probably broke even, but you know math is my worst subject.” 

“Who cares? We have cash and it means we can get really good presents for everyone this year!” Flynn exclaimed. 

“I’d be happy not having to make any more bracelets,” Julie joked. 

“Well then what are we gonna do after school in January?” Flynn asked. “Study?” 

“I was thinking maybe we could start writing a song?’ Julie suggested. “Double Trouble isn’t going to be much of a band if we don’t have any songs.” 

“Only if you wear the shirt,” Flynn bargained. 

“Fiiiiine,” Julie sighed, but she was smiling. She really didn’t mind the shirt-it matched the first bracelets she and Flynn made each other after all; the ones with their names added together to equal their band name, and what she was sure would not only be a kick ass band, but a lifelong friendship. After all, they had the merch to prove it.

[boonalina]

Just wanted to blast from the past. For new viewers wondering, Raine Whispers won btw. The poll ended months ago.

I'm mostly posting this so that I can change my background photo lol.

I give full permission for anyone to use this picture.

~Boonalina

[jatp-scrapbook]

group halloween photo

[dramavinile]

double trouble

[darkphoenix180]

Double Trouble appreciation post. One of the best friendship duo's ever!

[littleslithewhump]

Day 20 - food play

My pet is chained to the leg of the bed by his collar, still languid and tired from coming in the bath. I’ve left his arms manacled behind him, the key to the padlock settled in my pocket. It’s a satisfying image, him, curled up on the carpet.  

I kneel next to him, pulling him to sit up, raking my fingers through his hair. “We’ll rest, pet. And then I have to work, unlike you.” 

He’s very still under my fingers, so I tug gently on his strands until he murmurs, “Ok, sir.” 

The fawning language makes me ruffle him, makes me hold water to his lips. He drinks thirstily, squeezing his eyes shut. When the bottle is empty, I remind him, “I take care of you. What do you say?”

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Good. Now open your mouth.” 

He parts trembling lips. I feel him inhale as I wedge my thumb into the corner of his jaw, keeping his throat open and visible. In my other hand, I lift up an inflatable gag–attached to a breathing tube, luckily enough for him. 

He gags as I feed the tube down his throat. “Sit still.”

It breaches the bend, and he retches. “Swallow, pet.” 

It nestles deep in his throat, settling until I fit the inflatable part of the gag behind his teeth and begin to pump it, swelling and ballooning until it fills his mouth before I seal it off. 

“Try to make noise, pet.” 

I see his throat work, see his chest and stomach flutter as he tries to gag and cough. 

Not a sound. Just the whisper of breath through the breathing tube. 

I smile at him, pinching his ear gently. “Good. Good.” 

I push him to lie down again. “Once I get a good night’s sleep and come back from work, we’ll put your mouth back to work.”

–

Fucking hate work. Hate the middling position the world has left me with. Hate that my value isn’t seen. 

I give my pet a few kicks in the ribs before I go to let it out. He writhes. He’s utterly silent.  

–

I’m early getting home. A package of protein sits on the porch–my pet’s food, to replenish what I ran out of a few days ago; my pet’s complete silence is a reassurance that the delivery person wouldn’t glean a single thing. 

Setting the box on the counter, I brush my hands together, and head to the bedroom.

He’s right where I left him, curled pathetically on the floor, trying to tuck his knees to his chest to protect himself. 

He winces when I touch his bicep, struggles to obey when I tell him to sit up. 

I deflate the gag. He breathes out, gags as I pull the breathing tube from his throat. Heaves in open-mouthed breaths, deeper than he’s been able to for hours. 

“What do you say, pet?”

“Th–thank you.” His voice is throaty, nasally–sore from the tube, sounding like he would when I’d use his throat. I squeeze my cock at the sound of him.

“Get into bed,” I command. 

It’s a pathetic little wriggle to get to his feet, to seat himself on the bed, to lay down so I can pull him on top of me, make him do the work to get me off. I rest my hands under my head, watching him, pleased at his struggle to rub against me without being able to use his own hands. Deserved, after my work.

I do help him, eventually. He tells me he’s grateful for it as I finger him open, as he rides me until I finish. 

He’s completely soft, but I’m sure he’s just tired. Famished. 

“You need to eat, don’t you, pet?” 

He glances at my face before nodding. 

“Ok.” 

When I get to the kitchen, I realize–I’ve been giving him a bottle, but why? He is my pet, after all. 

I mix his serving, sludgy and grainy, into a shallow bowl. An old dog dish, my dog long ran away. 

He’s sitting up in the bed when I return, glancing at the dish with a trace of confusion. 

I set it on the hardwood floor of the hallway, between my feet. 

“Come and get it, pet. Your leash is long enough.”

He stands slowly, his knees wobbling as he takes a single step before dropping to his knees and shuffling over, unable to crawl. 

He looks up at me once he’s close, the chain bouncing against the knobs of his spine, clinking against his manacles. 

“Go on.”

He kneels over the bowl, his abdomen straining and tensing to hold even his minute weight up without the help of his hands, to not fall face-first into his dinner.

“So fucking shameless,” I tell him as he sucks at the shake at my feet. It makes me flood with renewed interest in fucking him, in grinding him into the dirt. “Grubbing at my feet. Right where you belong.” 

I see him nod at the comment. 

When he slows, having to sit up to give his core a break, I shove his face back into the bowl, my hand at the back of his neck. He whimpers, but keeps drinking it up, his muscles straining and trembling like crazy. 

“Lick the bowl, pet. Don’t let anything go to waste.”

I hear him lap at the bowl, ragged inhales breaking through his licking. 

I kick him back when he’s had enough. It’s as easy as kicking a football. He’s shaking and flinching on the carpet once again, but isn’t whining about it, thankfully. 

I rinse the bowl for tomorrow, and order myself a steak.    

Taglist:   

@whumped-by-glitter

[chillychive]

In Flying Solo, Julie is wearing a "Double Trouble" shirt when she sings to Flynn.

[secretly-art]

[image ID: a digital drawing of Julie and Flynn from the “I Got The Music” dream sequence. Both girls have their arms in the air as they sing. Julie is wearing a blue one shoulder top, a multicolored sequined hooded shrug jacket, white jeans with rhinestones on them, a lanyard with a whistle on it around her neck, a gold choker necklace, and a holographic colored jacket tied around her waist. Flynn is wearing pink crop top that has the word “Queen” written on it four times in a row, a multi colored cheetah print furry jacket, white pants with black flame motifs on them, a white belt, a pink and yellow choker necklace, silver stud earrings, and a silver hair tie. The background is a pastel pink covered in purple, green, yellow, and gray dots.]

Double Trouble got the music

[mactheactor]

It stands to reason that July 13th is Chaos Sonic's birthday. 🤖

Sonic Prime Ep 14: "Double Trouble"

Released July 13, 2023

[mapileonxputellas]

Beckham II: 2 That Day

Part 2 is here!!!!!

Short one for this part but I think some context is needed before I bring us back to the present day!

Hope you enjoy! Also in this the third place game doesn't exist.

(Part 1 can be found here x)

2nd July 2019, England vs USA, World Cup Semi-final

25th minute – 1 - 1

“This is a real battle out there isn’t it Sue?” Jonathon Pearce broadcasted to the UK, all eyes on the England team trying to defeat the US. Though they had gone behind very early on, an Ellen White leveller had brought them back onto even terms.

“It certainly is, you can see how much this means to all the players out there. None of this England team have ever experienced an occasion like this before but they seem to be carrying that emotion well.”

Out on the field it felt like an out of body experience. Before this the biggest game you’d played in would have to be a substitute appearance in an FA cup final, now you were starting the semi final at a World Cup. You were 19 and felt like the whole world was watching you.

At the start of the tournament you hadn’t been expecting to start but when Jill Scott picked up an injury in the round of 16 you’d stepped into the starting position next to Keira and never looked back. Receiving praise back at home for the level-headed game you played but still managed to bring out that touch of David Beckham in you.

It was a free-kick in the quarter-final that really brought you to the forefront of the nation. A slick ball which soared into the top corner of the net leaving their goalkeeper stranded and left everyone open-mouthed at home. You were never a nobody but now you were here to stay. Your Instagram following doubled and whenever you left the hotel in the past week the camera had never left you. The pressure was on.

“Fucking hell.” You swore coming up to take a corner for England nestled into the corner of the ground flooded with US fans.

“Nepotism trash!” “Daddy not here to hold your hand!” “Can’t even kick a ball!” “Weak!” “Spineless!”

The insults were flying in from every angle, everything was covered in the thirty seconds you had to wait to take the corner, of course your dad was mentioned but so was your appearance in the media. Newly turned 19 and yet it seemed like you were still the five-year-old girl who had her father carry her everywhere. Everyone just presumed you were an innocent little baby who couldn’t put in a tackle, you hated it.

But now was not the time to let that frustration out. Now was game time when nothing else mattered.

Your in-swinging corner found Millie on the edge of the 6-yard box but she couldn’t quite get the connection on it to trouble Naeher, instead giving her an easy catch but you could feel it coming.

The only problem is now there was now a break on. A quick release from the goalkeeper had set Lavelle free, Keira had stayed back but you couldn’t leave her one on one with Morgan in the centre.

You had one second to make a decision.

One second to work out how to stop her. You could try and get further back but you knew you had to stop it at source.

You were known for your pace so you had no trouble getting back to her but Lavelle was known for her trickery and skill.

In your head you made the best decision you could. You followed the rules you played football by and trusted your instinct.

That was where the world as you knew it slowly began to fade away.

“Oh that’s a nasty one from Beckham there and Lavelle seems seriously hurt.”

You thought it was clean, in fact you were sure of it. The contact with the ball was clear sending it flying out of play, you didn’t touch her other than her leg coming into yours as she came over the top of you and yet as she rolled around on the floor it was like the opposite had happened.

Suddenly you were surrounded by players in red, all screaming at you. “What the fuck did you do that for?” “Learn that one from your daddy did you?”

Millie came to stand in front of you, trying to block you from the players as Steph and Lucy surrounded the others at the referee.

“She didn’t touch her.” Millie defended you. “Tell your own player to stop cheating.”

You thought that would be the end of it. Tempers flared, emotions were high and you would get on with the match again. When the referee reached into her pocket you were convinced it was to calm everyone down, a booking usually helped to send a message out but when you saw it was red and it was flashed in your direction it was like time stopped.

“It’s a red card for Beckham, just like her father that name has once again come back to haunt England.” Jonathon commentated. “It’s a long way back for them here.”

You couldn’t believe what was happening. “Go and have a look yourself.” Millie shouted at the ref to overcome the noise in the stadium. “It was a clean tackle, she didn’t touch her.”

“The contact was enough to endanger the opponent. It’s reckless, dangerous and that it is a red card.”

“VAR has got to overturn this.” Sue Smith pointed out. “She’s nowhere near her opponent, it’s not even a yellow card.”

“When you make a challenge like that you bring about a decision from the ref.”

“But that’s what VAR is here for, to show the referee what actually happened. Beckham has arguably been one of the players of the tournament and yet she could be remembered for just this moment.”

It could have been minutes, it must only have been thirty seconds that you stood there. Waiting for some to tell you it had all been a big mistake. Apologies would come and you’d be able to restart the game.

Instead VAR confirmed the red card. You’d been sent off in the most important game you’d ever played in, maybe would ever play in.

This time though it felt like the impact hit you immediately, looking back it was probably the reason you hated showing any emotion now. Your teammates tried to comfort you as the tears started to come but the guilt was already too much, you couldn’t bare to be around anyone right now so pulling your shirt over your face you walked back inside. Every step towards that sideline felt like you were wading through quick sand, the boos from the US side ringing in your ear as you tried to head to the tunnel.

Before the match had begun your brother had FaceTime’d you, at the time you imagined looking up at them at the final whistle, perhaps celebrating with them. Now you couldn’t face looking where you knew they would be sat. The disappointment from yourself was too much to handle right now never mind disappointing your idol, your father.

You can vaguely remember Karen Carney coming out to meet you on the touchline, a kiss being pressed to your head and a little muttering of “keep it together” in your ear. Maybe it was for the best that everyone else was busy trying to reshuffle the pack a few sympathetic faces were thrown your way but you knew football didn’t have time for sentiment. Maybe it was also for the best that Phil didn’t even look your way, your favourite kitman met you to head back into the changing rooms with you but the rest didn’t even bat an eyelid at you.

It was only when you got inside, when you were all alone that the emotion fully came out.

The anger, the pure sadness, the hatred you felt towards yourself. It started that day and it felt then like you’d received a life sentence. A life sentence hating yourself.

……

“Phil, a lot happened out there today. Can you tell us your overriding emotions right now?”

“Oh I’m just proud of every dingle girl out there who competed to the very end. They gave it their all tonight and this result shouldn’t tarnish their pride in themselves or in each other. They stuck in the game when it seemed like other people threw it away.”

“We can’t shy away from Y/N Beckham, what were your thoughts?”

“As football players we know that every tackle we put in can lead to a card and she made that decision. It’s hard because I know the talent is in there but talent can’t be everything.”

“Do you think it should have been a red?”

“Like I said the referee was put in a position where she had to make the decision. We can all wish for different outcomes on the pitch but sometimes we just have to accept them.”

“How is she doing now?”

“As a team we are all very disappointed right and I think it’s the team we should be focusing on right now.”

“Fucking bullshit.” If this was your own bedroom perhaps you would have thrown the remote at the TV, instead you calmly had to just turn it off.

Maybe it wasn’t the best decision to turn on the TV when you got back to the hotel room. England had lost in the end, going 2-1 down to an Alex Morgan winner, they’d given it there everything but it just wasn’t enough.

In the two hours since the game finished you couldn’t count the number of times you’d cried. Firstly on your own, then with some of the girls, then on your own again on the bus and yet not a single word had been said. You knew you’d never be able to say sorry enough times and they knew it was no use telling you anything right now. Though you were crying it was almost as if you were blank inside, you couldn’t take in anything else right now. Your usual spot on the bus next to Keira was left vacant, instead you found a little corner and tried to kid yourself and other that you were asleep when how could you be with all the thoughts swirling in your mind.

Your phone lay switched off on the other side of the room, that interview being the first real insight you’d got into any opinions on the matter. He was right, he might not have said it outright but it was obvious he blamed you. When Phil brought you in for your first senior camp fans were concerned about favouritism but if anything it was the opposite. He had this almost saintly view of your dad and you would never be anything compared to him.

You knew he would be worried, he tried to protect you from everything growing up but now he was powerless. Yet even knowing that you couldn’t bring yourself to switch the phone on, answer any of the messages or calls you’d received before you turned it off on the couch.

It was all too much.

…..

The plan was always for you to spend the 2 weeks you had off after the weekend in the south of France, a quaint villa in the middle of nowhere which you’d had since you were a child. This place was one of the only true places you could just be yourself. You could vividly remember the holidays there once a year being the only time you felt truly free. Your father would spend every second of the day just being a father and your mother could show you her true self, the fun and carefree woman she was away from the pressures of the public eye. This was the place where yourself, Brooklyn and Romeo would spend hours on the beach with a ball and jumpers for goalposts, where you all taught Cruz to ride a bike and Harper to swim. This place meant so much to you.

It felt wrong to tarnish this place with the thoughts you had right now.

That’s why when you touched down in London the following day instead of rushing back to your apartment to pack and meet your family at the airport, you sat, staring at the clock. Time passed, they would have waited for you to arrive and slowly realised you weren’t coming. They would probably be worried and it was for that reason only that you finally turned your phone on. The messages flooded onto your lock screens, dozens of missed calls came through but you ignored them all simply sending a message to your mum claiming you were fine and didn’t want any company right now, only one of those statements being true.

Maybe you should have expected the phone call that immediately came up from your father but they also should have expected your immediate response, decline.

You always thought you were quite strong about the media. You’d grown up with famous parents, you sadly were used to comments about every aspect of yourself from your appearance to the way you spoke. In your time at Chelsea you’d had your fair share of stick from the fans about your place in football but before this you’d proved everyone wrong.

People called you dumb, you passed all your exams and were studying part time for a degree.

People commented on your appearance, your friends and family’s comments opposed that.

United fans taunted you in an FA cup match, you stuck the ball in the top corner and celebrated right in front of them.

All those times you’d known they were wrong and could do something about it. All that media training and yet in that moment you broke the number one rule and opened Twitter.

The results were more horrendous than you ever could have imagined. Not only were there comments about your performance, but they also came for your family, your friends, yourself. The death threats were constant, every other comment on an article link were suggesting this was punishable in unimaginable ways.

Instagram though more concentrated felt worse when you checked a post from your best friend outside of football, comments were left under her post for even just being associated with your name. Taunting her, taunting you and threatening the both of you. Not only had you disappointed everyone but now you were putting those you loved in danger.

Leaving Instagram, blurry eyed and shaking like a leaf, twitter was opened once again. You couldn’t stop and the more articled you read, the more the panic started to set in. People knew where you lived from media pictures, it wouldn’t be long before they came here again. You lived in a gated community but they’d find a way in. You’d never be alone.

Your throat was closing in, it was becoming harder to breath as you panicked more. The only thing you could do was phone the only person who would understand.

“Dad…. dad I need you.”

……

Everyone probably thinks they have the best family but in this moment you knew yours were the best. Thirty minutes on from that phone call you were in your old family living room, curled up in blankets next to your mum and dad, eating homemade chocolate cake and listening to your sister talk you through her week. The biggest drama in which being a girl who took the last apple juice carton and left her with orange juice, which to an eight-year-old felt like the end of the world.

You hadn’t even said another word on that phone call before your dad was ordering you to pack a bag and promised he would be with you in less than ten minutes.

“Why didn’t you go to France?” Your thoughts came out. “We were meant to go.”

“Like we were ever going to leave you here alone,” Your dad chastised you. “I know you well enough to know you might not have needed us in that moment but we were always going to be there when you did.”

“I didn’t mean to do anything, I thought I made the right decision and now people are threatening me. They’re going to find me.”

“They’re not.” Your mother immediately comforted you. “I’ve watched enough football over the years to know tackles like that are made every week and they never get punished. Football is a game, you live for it but it’s a game and people sometimes forget that. You were a big reason England even got to the semi-final and people need to remember that.”

“What did your teammates say?” Brooklyn asked from the next sofa with my other brothers.

“I haven’t spoken to them.”

“What? You flew home with them this morning.”

“I can’t look at them. They’re all sad because of me, everyone knows it, they were always on the back foot because of me and now they’re going home.”

“Millie messaged me this morning.” Brooklyn said. You were of course very close to the Chelsea girls and they’d met your family more times than you could count. You remember they exchanged numbers before you went away on a summer camp one year just in case they needed to contact your family. “She asked me to look after you, they’re not upset.”

“They’ll never admit it, at least not to my face but how can I play with them again after all this.”

“They’re your friends.” Your mum implored and she was right. You were the youngest in the world cup but yourself Leah, Keira and Georgia had formed a little England squad bond. Your sensible and often shy nature balancing out their craziness.

“They’re better off without me. I need to get out of here.”

“Out of where?”

“Out of England, I can’t stay.”

[mothandpidgeon]

Embers Undying (Pero Tovar x wife!reader)

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

pairing: Pero Tovar x wife!reader

rating: T

summary: Pero returns from the Great Wall with a dazzling gift for you.

contents: fluff, soft!Pero, yearning, kissing, allusions to masturbation and sex moth never uses y/n.

wc: 1.5k

a/n: In my Pero Tovar brain rot era. I wish I'd thought of this idea before the fourth of July. I did about 5 minutes of research into early Chinese fireworks so if you see any historical inaccuracies, no you didn't. Thank you to @lowlights and @ezrasbirdie for beta.

Someone’s coming. Hooves fall hard and fast in the night, their sound growing closer. Your heart stutters in your chest. You’re alone and your little cottage is quite out of the way. If this is trouble, no one will hear you scream. 

You reach for the scabbard that rests beside the front door. You’re not confident with a weapon but your husband refused to leave you by yourself for so many months without protection. The presence of a sword alone may be enough to deter an unsavory character. 

A shadowy figure on horseback nears and you unsheath the blade. 

“Who is there?” you ask into the darkness. 

He slows, the weak candle light from the cottage catching his silhouette and you nearly fall to your knees. You’d recognize those features anywhere though it’s been countless months since you saw them last. 

“Such a warm welcome, mi esposa,” Pero says with a grin. 

The sword slips from your grip, clattering on the ground, but you’re already racing towards him. He jumps out of the saddle just in time to catch you in a tight embrace. Big arms lock around you, squeezing you to his chest.  His heartbeat pounds so furiously you can practically feel it through his leather armor. His scent surrounds you and you breathe it in deeply. Beneath the smell of horse and sweat is a familiar musk that immediately makes you feel at home though you never left. It hasn’t been home without him. 

You pull back to look at him, your eyes brimming with joyful tears. He is unchanged— still rugged and beautiful, still scarred and square— and he looks at you with the same eager delight. His dark eyes flit between your own, a rough thumb brushing over your cheek. You stare at each other, as if making up for all of the hours you wished you could see one another during his absence. 

Finally, you can’t hold back any longer. You kiss him and kiss him, your lips eager to be reunited with his. He’s been gone such a long time, you’re afraid this might be a dream, but the bite of his stubble against your face and the grip of his fingers on your upper arms tells you that this is no phantom. 

His kiss is always commanding, insistent. He cradles your face in his hands, tongue pressing into your mouth. You tangle your fingers into his hair and it grounds you. He’s here again. Finally. 

When you come up for air, your lips swollen from his mustache and the rake of his teeth, you’re staring at him again. You break away just far enough that you can admire him, his features nearly out of focus as you hold him close. 

“I didn’t know when you would return,” you say, breathless. 

His eyes don’t match his gruff exterior. They’re warm and twinkling like melting stars as he watches his thumb trace your bottom lip. He smiles lazily, enjoying the details of you. 

“It would’ve been sooner but I stopped at an inn last night to clean myself up. I wanted to be presentable to you,” he admits. 

“You know I wouldn’t care”, you say. 

“You would not have recognized me. I might’ve met the sharp side of that sword,” he chuckles. 

You playfully swat his chest and he’s kissing you again, the tremble of his laughter on his lips. He guides your hands up to his neck again. His mouth travels to your ear, tracing the shell and nipping at your lobe. Shivers of pleasure burn across your skin, a familiar throbbing between your legs doubling in his presence. 

You moan. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve ached for him, imagining his tongue stroking you instead of your fingers. Dreaming about those nights when you were both so young— sneaking away to meet him, your back pressed against a barn, skirts hoisted around your waist. 

He pulls your hips into him and desire overwhelms you. You feel his muscular thigh through the thin fabric of your night dress and a  whimper escapes you. 

“I missed that sound, querida,” he growls, his mouth on your neck. 

“Take me to bed and I’ll make it again,” you pant. 

He hums hungrily but says, “Soon, hermosa. You must wait.”

“I cannot. Wait. Even a second. Longer,” you say between kisses. 

He smiles against your lips. 

“I have a gift for you,” he says. 

“It can wait until morning,” you say but he’s already stepping away.

At least, he tries to. You refuse to let go of his hand as he retrieves something from behind his saddle. There’s nothing in the world you could want more than him right now. Especially not a cylinder made of paper, marked with symbols you don’t understand.

“Mi amor,” you complain. 

“Needy,” he teases with another kiss. “You missed me, eh?”

You huff. 

“Wait right here,” he says and he goes deep into the garden, taking your strange gift with him. 

Usually when he returns from his travels, Pero is the one tearing at your clothing. He’ll delay a meal to slake his lust. He’s been on the other side of the world and now just a few yards between you feels unbearable. 

He kneels in the field, setting the thing upright. 

“This is a gift from the Chinos,” he explains as he unspools a long string across the distance between you and the tube. “For our heroism. We saw some action.”

You gasp. 

“You worried about me, querida?” he asks. 

“Of course.”

The amusement playing on his features quickly melts into affection. All these years and he’s still touched when he’s reminded you love him. 

He quickly recovers himself. 

“Fetch me a candle,” he urges. 

“Pero,” you groan. 

“Rápida, hermosa.” He taps at your behind. 

You’ve missed your husband but not his stubborn nature. Once you’ve done as you’re told, cupping your hand around the flickering flame, Pero crouches down. 

“Ready?” he asks. 

Before you can answer, he’s touching the fire to the cord and it lights with a hiss. You yelp with delight as a small flame begins to travel down the length of the fuse. Pero laughs and pulls you into him, this time his big palms cover your ears. 

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

“Watch,” he says, his eyes glimmering with the reflection of fire. 

The noise it makes might be the loudest you’ve ever heard, a boom like the thunder of a hundred storm clouds. You scream and bury your face into Pero’s front, heart pounding like a frightened rabbit. 

“No. Look,” he urges, turning you back around. “You’ll miss it.” His voice is all exhilaration. 

You peek up to see something unlike anything before it. 

It’s dazzling, exploding in the sky above you like the sparks off a blacksmith’s anvil. They glow against the darkness and then shimmer towards the earth. Falling, almost floating like snowflakes made of fire. Each ember twinkles out somewhere over your head. 

Your breath catches. What you’re witnessing is nothing short of magic. It’s beautiful, like bottled stars raining above you. What other fantastical things Pero saw in that far away place, you can’t begin to imagine, but you doubt anything could be as astounding as this. 

You turn to Pero and find that he’s not looking at this miracle. His gaze is fixed on you, enjoying the wonder on your face. The warm glow illuminates his features, the strong line of his nose and the tanned cords of his neck. This handsome man, obstinate yet attentive, protective, all yours. 

You’re overcome with a sense of gratitude— thankful that he’s returned home time and again. There were so many nights when you had no idea whether he was alive or dead and how would you even hear if the worst had happened? How would you go on without him? But he’s here and he’s safe. 

And this time he’s brought you a true rarity, something, perhaps no one in the world you know has ever seen. He could have sold it to a king for a wagon full of gold but, instead, it’s just for you to share.  

You want to thank him but you can’t find the words to say it all. The warm look on his face tells you there's no need, that he’s just as grateful you waited. You’re both so lucky to be in this moment. Reunited. He slips his hands around your waist, drawing you close. 

“Now, hermosa, let me show you how I’ve missed you,” he purrs. 

--

thanks for reading! comments and reblogs always appreciated!

[jatp-scrapbook]

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