i need you all to know when evie is older and starts making her senior debut for barça she is put in a press conference and instantly freaks out journalists. everyone knows she's evie bronze-walsh england youth international so they all collectively decide they need to speak english to her because she's so young and all practice the night before and rehearse their questions.
then evie shows up is given the microphone to introduce herself and does so in the most perfect catalan and no one asks her questions for a solid minute because they are so shocked and scrambling about what to say but evie thinks oh catalan was the wrong choice, apologises and says the same thing in PERFECT spanish. the journalists are in awe.
the only journalist that picks their jaw off the floor to get a question in is from the BBC and they ask in english about the international fight for her from the likes of bayern munich, man city, lyon, arsenal, the nwsl etc and whether she'd ever consider a move and evie pulls out the most manchester british accent ever and is like:
yeah no i'd absolutely lovta play for citeh obviously they were like me childood club and ulimaly the club i've always suppor-ed in me har- but righ- nah i'm appy in barça. me famly is ere an all but in the fu-ure i can defin-uh-ly see meself potentially playing for lyon or citeh. like me mum, i luv winnin' an it wud be fun oexplore diferen leagues and -eams ya know an i alredy speak like spanish, ca-alan, german, french an por-ugese so i'd ne-er rule any-hing ou- bu- righ- nah i'm buzzin' ta mayke me debu for barça
(let me know if you need a translation to spell a manchurian accent phonetically)
the non-english journalists have NO idea what she's saying, what questions to ask anymore or what language to speak and eventually the barça manager intervenes and says that all questions directed at can be asked in spanish, catalan or english, whatever language the journalists are most comfortable speaking. evie is just sitting there smiling innocently, completely unaware of the chaos she's causing.
she's asked a question by a french journalist and a german journalist in those languages as well and the whole press conference goes completely viral mostly for her perfect accents (though her german is notably austrian) that would make you think the language she is speaking at the time is her first language. (some people question how she's keira's child but her language skills are so good but then others point out the english accent is VERY keira)
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Sprinting to your inbox to request Shanks and "Open your legs for me, baby. I wanna see you” from that prompt list… 👀
SHANKS x Y/N
Request: smut dialogue prompts (thanks to @delusionisaplace for making this fantastic list! 🎀)
(cw: daddy!shanks, restraints (hands only), fingering, cunnilingus, mention of safe word, dad/daddy are both used, shanks shows you your princess parts 😳)
(a/n: this is wholly inspired by your between what was and will be, which shall live forever in my brain and inspire everything i write about shanks from now until the end of time :)
Songs: "Brooklyn Baby" by Lana Del Rey
words: 965
Shanks sits at the edge of your bed, stroking one hand over your bare thigh. He’s wearing his blouse open to the waist, his cargo pants barely hiding how turned on he is by you. You’re naked, for your part, besides the pink ribbons tying your wrists together above your head.
“Ready for me, angel?” He asks, skipping thick fingers over your knee. You flinch a little, nervous but excited.
“Yes, dad,” you kick your legs a bit, coltish limbs trembling in your restraints. “‘M ready.”
“I need you to spread your legs, baby,” he coos, shifting so he’s in front of you. He kneels on the bed, strong hands tickling each of your knees. Slowly, you let them fall open.
He gasps.
“So pretty f’me, baby,” he sighs, running his fingertips over both your pussy lips, “I love seeing you like this. Prettiest pussy all on display just for me,” he grins at you, smiling wide in the amber light of his bedroom. You pull at your bonds, slightly.
“Touch me?”
“Shh, shh,” he hushes you, leaning forward to kiss your impatient lips. “All in due time, sweetheart. Lemme show ya first, okay?”
You nod, kicking your legs again. He places a big hand along your calf, soothing your anxious fidgeting with the warmth of his touch. He gives your ankle a delicate squeeze. “Want daddy to show ya your pussy parts, baby? Ya want dad to help ya with the ache?”
“Mhmm!” You moan out, squirming a little. He chuckles, his red hair framing a scruffy face. You want him closer, closer, so much fucking closer, please, Dad--
Finally, he traces one large, calloused finger over your clit. “D’ya know what this is, babygirl? It’s the part that makes ya feel so good,” he leans forward to place a kiss on your swollen rosebud. He traces two fingers down either side of your major lips, pressing kisses as he goes. “These are my baby’s pussy lips,” he explains, voice soft and gentle as he rumbles against your heat. You buck into his face, wanting more.
“Ah ah,” he warns, pressing the flat of his hand down on your pelvis. His palm scratches the slightly wiry hairs that lead down to the crest of your thighs. His thumb circles lazily on your clit. “Dad’s not done.”
“Okaay,” you whine out, trying your best to stay still. You wrap your hands around the ribbon, pulling slightly at the bonds. The tension of the restraints—firm and taught—builds a heat in your core that Shanks is currently stroking.
“Here,” he muses, sliding the finger pads of his third and fourth digits along your soaking folds, “Are your minor pussy lips. They’re so sweet for me, baby. D’ya know how much Daddy loves tastin’ ya?”
He lays down on his stomach, and starts licking you clean.
“Fuck, Dad—!”
You whine, arching your back against the bed. His messy sheets wrinkle under you, already too-hot in your lustful state. Shanks licks your pussy up and down, doing figure eights around your slit.
“Please, daddy…,” you whimper, struggling with your ribbon restraints, “I wanna cum. Make me cum? Please, please, please—,” he cuts off your begging with a sharp slap to your clit. You gasp, stung, but bite your lip against a complaint. No need to make your punishment worse, after all.
“Dad’ll make ya cum, okay? Since ya asked so nicely,” he slides two digits inside your entrance, rubbing softly as he sucks your clit. His lips wrap warm and firm around your bud, and you hiss at the contact. And the suction—
“Fuck,” you curse, breathy and hoarse. Shanks laughs against your pussy.
He pushes his fingers in deeper.
“Take it, baby,” he soothes, stroking your thigh with his other hand. “Dad’s so fuckin' proud of ya,” his thumb presses sweet circles against your inner thigh, and you croon. “There ya go, sweet thing,” he whispers, between sucking your clit and spelling his own name. His tongue moves in swift circles: a pattern you’ve long since memorized. “Ready for Daddy to make ya cum?”
He crooks his fingers up, scissoring in and out gentle against your finest spots. He gasps, watching you arch. Your orgasm hits you like a sucker punch: loving and violent, with the bittersweet aftertaste of overstimulation. Your legs shake, and he croons.
“Sweet girl,” he’s saying, pressing kitten licks to your swollen clit, “Such a good fucking girl f’me, baby.”
You nod, whispering the word that gets you out of your bonds.
He’s up, swiftly undoing his sailor’s knots so that you can wrap your arms around him, pulling him in as close as he can get. His weight shifts over you (trying not to crush you) but you huff in frustration. You pull him tighter on top of you, and he laughs.
“Closer!” You complain, burying your head into his chest hair. You breathe him in: salty and sweet. Like a caramel macchiato with steamed milk. He smells comforting, like home.
“Love ya, girly,” he whispers into your hair, softly stroking the top of your head. He lets you pull him over to the side, so your legs are around his waist and his arms are bringing you in tightly to his chest. He’s warm. You wrap your arms through his shirt, between fabric and skin. He pulls you in. “Love ya s’much.”
“Love you too,” you whisper, lips moving against his chest. His muscles are strong and taut beneath you, even at rest. You sink your fingers into heated skin; his breath flutters, and you grin. “Did you like it?” You ask, already sure of the answer but still wanting to get drunk off his praise. He squeezes you in tighter, somehow.
“Loved it, baby.”
“Good,” you snuggle in for bed, “I liked it too.”
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