Real Madrid X Reader - Tumblr Posts

one of those things ────── aurélien isn't ready to let you go.

♡ ────── pairing : aurélien tchouaméni x reader ♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified, but they are described to be smaller than aurel. no smut but aurel is very touchy here... viewer's discretion is advised. kiiiiinda toxic idk they're exes and also drunk. aurel is sorta an asshole but idc he's so hot omfgggg sorry he is JEALOUS. important to mention that he's a bit forceful here but reader (& me) lowkey likes it... NOT proofread!!! it's a bit messy sorry ♡ ────── wordcount : 1,431 ♡ ────── notes : i am blushing as i write this. there is no plot to this, it's literally just banters. the stranger can be whoever you want but i am imagining trent from lfc omggg hes so fine. i GOTTA stop talking so much on the tags. not based on cowboy like my by taylor swift, but i was listening to it the whole time i was writing this ♡ masterlist.

“Stop looking at him.”

Aurélien has his lips hovering against the side of your neck, glowering at the general direction of the bar, like he was a wolf trying to protect his slaughtered prey.

“I’ll look at whoever I want,” you roll your eyes, hands gripping his arms—much bigger, much stronger—that are wrapped around your waist, trying to pry him off you. He has refused to let go of you ever since his drunken gaze spied you on the bar, biting your lips as you tug on the sleeve of a stranger of a man you’ve met only tonight.

You were flirting with him, because obviously you were.

It’s a club. It’s 1 A.M. And you are single.

Why wouldn’t you flirt with the next piece of hot ass you see?

“Come on,” Aurélien whispers, focusing all his hazy attention on you. “Should I go over and talk to him? S’that what you want? What do you think, baby?”

The fun banters were cut short when you felt an all too familiar farm wrapped around your waist, whisking you away.

And before you know it, you are settled on your ex’s lap, thirty feet away from the stranger on the bar, somewhere between his footballer friends, too busy with themselves and too accustomed with Aurélien’s antics to pay you any spare attention.

“I think,” you keep your eye contact with the man in the bar, fingers trying to slip between Aurélien’s hand, “you’re drunk. And stupid.”

“Drunk?” he chuckles, fully burying his face into your neck, an enticing feeling that you haven’t felt in a while, as he breathes in your scent. “Maybe.”

You shift on his lap, knees aching to get up, but he holds you down.

“But I’m not stupid, baby—”

“Don’t call me ‘baby’.”

“—don’t call me stupid.”

“Don’t call me ‘baby’,” you repeat, leaning away from his head, trying to push his face away from the tender skin of your neck. Ex-lovers definitely shouldn’t be all over each other like this. “We’re over, Aurélien. Remember?”

“Remember?” He chuckles, still keeping his chin on your shoulder despite your eagerness to get away. “Ouch.”

“Get used to it.”

You glance back at the bar as Aurélien’s fingers find their way to the hem of your shirt, ungodly intention laced in every stretch of his muscles before your shaky hand stops him, somewhat affected by the couple of shots the stranger had bought you too.

“Fine,” he murmurs, pouting, as though you will melt for that age-old trick. “I’ll apologise for calling you ‘baby’, and then we’ll go home and have some fun.”

You scrunch your nose at his offer, turn to glare at him, only to meet his lazy grin.

“I’m not—”

You breathe in a deep sigh, and you can feel his jaw clench.

“—If I’m going home with anyone tonight, it won’t be you.”

“Why not?” He whines, pulling you in even closer, if possible, and you bite your lips as your ass rubs against his crotch, the friction causing you to shut your eyes as the blood rushes away from your brain.

The night just gets more hazy.

And seeing you distracted, Aurélien steals the moment to continue his way under your shirt, his fingers digging deep into the side of your torso.

“Aurélien,” your murmur, your voice drawing out to a drawl. You almost forgot about the stranger in the bar—when you look back at him for a short second, he is holding a glass of shots against his lips, a smirk etched on his lips like he’s enjoying the show Aurélien is putting on for him.

Aurélien grits his teeth, grazing them against your neck when he notices that your attention is centred on the guy more than on him. “Answer me.”

You huff, gripping his wrist over your shirt. “Because we’re over. We broke up.”

An irritated sigh escapes his lips, somehow returning his lips on your neck, nipping softly on the skin. “You’re being stubborn.”

“I’m being stubborn?”

“Come on,” he pretends that he isn’t in denial. “I’ll take you home and I’ll fix whatever was wrong with us, yeah?”

His hand continues to knead on your flesh, lips moving up your neck, to your jaw, to nip on your earlobes. 

“That’s not,” your grip on his wrist tightened, “how it works.”

“Of course it is,” he whispers, pulling you back. “That’s exactly how it works. We’ll talk, just you and me, back at my place.”

You shake your head, one hand on the velvet couch beneath you two, to find leverage as your feet find the floor—a sad attempt of getting up. “I want nothing to do with you.”

“You sure about that?” His hand leaves your shirt, and finds itself gripping your thigh to pull you back down. He sounds inviting, and you almost fell for the alluring tone of his words. “Don’t make me prove you wrong.”

You slant your eyes. “Don’t be a dick.”

Aurélien laughs, seeming to enjoy riling you up, like he wants to see you break.

“Or what?” He cups the side of your hips, rocking you, his fingers drawing aimless patterns against the fabric of your jeans. “You gonna do something about it? Gonna punish me, baby?”

You grit your teeth, drawing in a sharp breath, a hot sensation stirring in your chest—a mixture of exhilaration, and annoyance, and interest, and anger.

You can backtrack. You can forget about your break up, and go home with him, and let the alcohol take over the night. But your ego is higher than whatever pedestal Aurélien has decided to put you on.

And you? Well, you are just not the type of person to get back together after a break up.

It’s pathetic. It’s embarrassing.

Aurélien tilts his head at the way your bottom lip juts and pouts as you rake your brain for some sort of response. He can’t help pushing you over the edge—that feeling of dominance over your feeble resolve, having you on his lap, small and bothered; he loves it.

And he loves you. He is pretty sure that he does. And he’s pretty sure that you would come running back to him if he just pushes the right button.

“Cat got your tongue, huh?” He kisses your cheek, and you don’t miss the way his eyes dart towards the bar for a second. “I’m tryna talk to you, baby. I can’t have you go home with ‘nother man, now can I?”

“Fuck,” you jolt when you feel him dig even further into your hip, “I’m fuckin’ sick of you, Aurélien.”

He chuckles. “Say it again.”

You scoff, throwing your gaze away, trying to distract yourself with the arbitrary coloured lights on the dancefloor. “You got a sick kink?”

“I do,” Aurélien laughs, fond of the way you are feisty, of the way you hold back out of pride. “Only for you, though.”

It’s what he likes about you, he guesses, you keep it interesting for him. 

“Say you want me back,” he coaxes, his breath hot against your neck, lips just inches away from the one spot he had been lapping on all night. He would love to see you tomorrow morning—he just knows that his bite marks will develop into pretty bruises tomorrow, and the thought latches his teeth on the skin above your collarbone. “I know you want me, baby.”

“You’re dreaming,” you sneer, though it leaves your mouth more like a whine. He raises an eyebrow. “M’gonna say this—last time I’ll ever say it. We broke up.”

Aurélien groans, shutting his eyes, annoyed. “You’re so difficult.”

His large palm rubs against you, returning once more to the warm skin under your shirt, nails lightly scratching on it.

“You’re not protesting against me, though,” he points out. “You still love me, dontcha?”

You bite your lips, and it takes two seconds too long to answer him. “No.”

The way you whine, the way you shift—deliberately or not—on his lap. Aurélien murmurs, “You’re a shitty liar.”

“Fuck off.”

“Ohh, that’s not the language that a pretty baby should use,” his drunken slurs scold. You feel annoyed—and helpless—just listening to him. “Shouldn’t you mind your manners, considering you’re sitting on my lap?”

“Well,” you swallow, turning to look back at him. “Maybe you should consider letting me go.”

“And let you go back to him?” Aurélien shoots another murderous look at the bar. “No. Besides, I’m not done with you.”

You sigh, biting your lips, and a small smirk sprouts on his lips. You’re in for a long, long night.

Kylian!bf headcanon?

our hearts are free ────── i'm a flower, you're my bee.

♡ ────── pairing : kylian mbappé x reader ♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. ♡ ────── wordcount : 513 ♡ ────── notes : i have another ky headcanon post that you can read right here!!. this is pretty short :( sorry. title and desc is from father john misty's real love baby ♡ masterlist.

This man is expensive—literally, and well, figuratively. He lives beyond comfortable, and has everything on the tips of his fingertips, including: you!

He does not like seeing you work! He will be the first to admit it! Call it his ego or whatever, but he feels as though you don’t gotta do it, you know? He doesn’t mind seeing you work, but Kylian has got probably enough money to propel you into early retirement—and he would do so happily.

Sometimes he sees you working after a long day, eyes heavy and shoulders slump, and his gentle voice, coaxing you to strip bare of your profession, would always begin.

He genuinely stresses seeing you so stressed out! You’re his baby, and he has to take care of you! But he won’t really force it upon you—while he doesn’t see the rationale behind you having to work when you have him, he understands the mindset of having to stand alone.

And he understands you. (As long as you understand that he is there for you too ♡ )

Kylian wants to get married. There are footballers who prefer not marrying— hell, there are people who prefer not marrying. But him? Nah.

He simply does not believe in not locking it down; he lets you know early into the relationship about his end goal. The matter of kids or no-kids is something that can be discussed and negotiated, but he wants to be your husband.

Boyfriend is cute the first two years, and fiance even better for the next. But he wants to call you his, in every sense possible—literally, lovingly, and legally.

And another reason why he wants that ring on your finger… he’s possessive.

He’s territorial, he’s possessive, he gets jealous easily—what the fuck! Name it whatever the fuck you want! Kylian does not like seeing you with other people—with other men.

But he keeps his cool whenever jealousy begins to run through his veins. He doesn't make a scene, he does not flip a table outside down. What he does is pout. He trusts you enough to not actually get upset, but he still lets himself the luxury of being immature by wallowing in his self-made misery.

“I’ll marry you.”

There you two are again, on the bed. He’s propped on top of you, arms clinging around your waist. You are scrolling on your phone, barely paying him any attention as your hand pats the back of his head up and down.

Kylian presses his nose to your neck.

“That sounds like a threat, Kylian.”

He scoffs hearing that. “It will be if he keeps touching you.”

You can’t even find it in yourself to be upset at how silly he is being, chuckling softly.

“He wasn’t touching me, baby.” 

“He was,” he whines quietly, still hiding away in the crook of your neck. “Once I get that ring on your fingers, he’ll know.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you kiss the top of his head, before focusing back on your phone. “Make sure to get my size right, huh? We don’t want the ring not fitting.”