#the man city of lover | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

melanieph321 · 9 months

Text

Ruben Dias x Reader - Try Me Part 2/6

Summary - A six part series where reader is a very passionate football player and Ruben is her new and equally passionate football coach. However, the two of them can't seem to get along.

Enjoy!

It was the second match of the group stage. Sixtiy minutes into the game and Ruben still had you seated on the bench.

"Coach?"

He stood with his back to you, facing the pitch, shouting at the girls to "Push!"

"Coach?" You shouted in vain. Either he was completely ignoring you, or he was just that emerged in the game.

"Ruben!"

His head snapped back to look at you. A bit forgetful that you were back there and not on the pitch.

"Please, just put me in." You pleaded.

His smug smile betrayed a hint of amusement. "Not this time," he replied, his voice dripping with condescension. "This will teach you a lesson, not to disrespect me again."

"But we're losing." Your plea turned into frustration as you tried to reason with him. "I've worked so hard. I deserve a chance."

He shook his head dismissively. "Hard work isn't everything, Y/N. There are many factors to consider when playing football, and your attitude towards me is one of them. Maybe this will teach you some humility."

Desperation filled your voice, "Please don't do this!" You stood, ready to walk onto the field and help your teammates weather he liked it or not. However, Rubens outstretched arm altered your steps.

"Sit down or your not playing for this team anymore."

"But..."

His stern gaze told you that he wasn't joking. During his time as the assistant coach he had never once cracked a joke.

"Fuck this." You said, bending down to remove your shin guards, tossing them aside and storming off in a trembling rage.

You didn't bother getting back to the locker rooms. You headed straight for the gates and out of the stadium, towards the nearest bus stop.

Ruben's words stung like a slap to the face. The fact that he was young and handsome only made him more annoying to you. What did he know about football? He had previously played for a team that often threatened relegation from the highest devison. A terrible merit for a coach, along with his alleged knee injury that forced him to put his football boots on a shelf. What did he know about coaching a women's team? What your team needed was a real coach, with real competence. Like your old coach.

"Y/N? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He was shook to see you standing at his front door, dressed in all your football gear.

"It's a disaster." You announced, stepping through the door, without invitation.

"What is?" He asked, wearing a robe with palm trees on. Retirement didn't look good on him, you thought. He had gained weight and moved awkwardly between the furniture in his home.

"The new assistant coach, Ruben. He's taken over as if someone has given him your job already." You sat down in one of his leather sofas, exhaling your frustration.

"Now Y/N, Ruben is most likely to turn into your permanent coach for the next season anyway, which makes him your new head coach. "

"Unless someone else accepts the position, right? Like you?"

"But I am retired dear. Finally after sixty seven years I'm allowed to put down the whistle, sit down and rest."

You frowned. "Is that really what you want to do during your retirement?"

"Mostly, yeah. I've been worked all my life, coaching both women's teams and men's teams in football leagues all over the world. "

He seemed to hold for applause, but you just stood from the sofa. "You know, sitting down all day is gonna make you fat."

He chuckled. "Y/N. You were always one of my favorites. I already had plans to retire after stepping down from my position as the head coach for the mens team. I would have gone through with it years ago, If it hadn't been for a stubborn little bucked tooth girl who kept showing up to train with the boys team, insisiting that she'd do so until the club astablished a girls team.

Your gaze dropped to the floor, hiding your flustered face "I'm glad you didn't." You muttered.

"Me neither dear, me neither. Turns out I still had a few years left in me. As for your new coach, Ruben, his journey has just begun."

"But why does his journey have to begin with our team." You sighed.

"Give him a chance Y/N, he might turn out to be a good one."

You pondered the idea. You came to a conclusion. "I doubt it. Got anything to eat?"

Coach shook his head, rising to his feet. "You football players have the apatite of elephants."

You followed him into the kitchen.

When you were younger coach and his wife were the ones to give you a ride to and from practice after school. They knew that your situation at home wasn't ideal and never hesitated to help out. You never had to buy new cleats, not that you could afford any. Coach and his wife would always gift you with a pair of new ones ahead of the season, saying it was an early Christmas gift for you not to refuse their charity. You often felt embarrassed by it, your situation at home. But as you grew older you learned not to have it way you down too much. If it wasn't for Mimi, you would have moved out of that place a long time ago. But with Mimi's mother gone, you couldn't just leave her. You wouldn't.

"So, how are things at home?" He asked, reading your mind from across the table.

"It's...."

"Olá, estou em casa!"

You were about to answer his question when you heard a key turn in the front door, followed by somone stepping into the house. A man, with a voice that rang a bell.

"Olá, estamos aqui!" Coach replied. Him and his wife were Portuguese, always speaking the language around the house, even if you were there.

"Nós somos?" Ruben appeared in the kitchen doorway, two grocery filled bags in his hands.

"You?" You frowned.

He looked equally suprised to see you. He still wore his coach tracksuit, perhaps coming straight from the game.

"Ruben, I take it you know my former player Y/N. Y/N let me introduce you to my nephew in law, Ruben Dias."

"No way." You shook your head, rising from your chair. "You're fucking with me aren't you coach. "

He smiled. "I am not."

You looked to Ruben who still looked at you with furrowed brows. "This is not happening, this is so not happening right now. "You pushed past the both of them, on your way to put on your shoes on and leave, saddened by the fact that you wouldn't be able to step foot in this house again, EVER.

"Y/N, wait!"

You were out of the house, on your way to the bus stop, when Ruben came running after you, his hair somewhat tousled by the wind.

"He wanted to tell you."

"Tell me what?" You stopped, turning around to face him.

"That I was living with him since my aunt died."

"So why didn’t he?" You were a bit taken back. Ruben didn't look like himself anymore, or at least who you thought he was. Your new uptight coach. His face was more relaxed and he wasn't shouting at you.

"He knows that you and I...." He scratched the back of his head. "...that we've had some problems in training and perhaps if you knew that I was his nephew in law you would stop coming over to his house."

You're damn right. "So you knew about me before we met?"

Coach introduced Ruben to the team just ahead of the summer training. He must have told Ruben about you before that, about you and your home life? Coach and his wife were the only people outside of your family that knew about it, not even your teammates knows.

"I was like you once" Ruben said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"What, a 23 year old girl?"

"No. I mean passionate about my sport. The same passion that fuels you ahead of every game, the passion that makes you work harder than your teammates. I see it in you because I used to have that too."

"And then what happened?" You weren't sure where he was going with this. Unless this conversation would end with him apologizing for keeping you on the bench today, you didn't want to hear it.

"I got carried away and too driven, loosing the sight of what's important."

"Winning?"

"No, to play a good game with your teammates."

"Any game where we win is good game for me. Scoring goals is just a bonus."

He nodded understandingly, his eyes filled with conpassion. "You think that now, until the day you win a badly played game. The victory won't taste the same."

"Well then, I'll let you know when that happens, okay." You turned around, ready to walk away.

"I'll see you tomorrow Y/N and I'm sorry for not putting you on today. Hopefully we can move past this and...I dunno?"

"I..." You were lost for words. Turning around Ruben was still staring at you, hands in his pockets and that compassionate look on his face. Perhaps he was pittying you, knowing the trurth about you? But he had always known, which meant that he had always pitied you.

You adjusted the straps to your backpack, nodding your head his way. "See you tomorrow coach."

There wouldn't be a tomorrow. You'd have to quit the team now.

You lay in bed that night wondering which teams would take you in the middle of a summer cup. A team that didn't train too far from home, because you had to get home to Mimi every night in time for dinner.

You looked to where she slept peacefully. You pulled the sheets to cover your body, ready to sleep too, when your phone lit up, temporally illuminating the room.

You received a notification. From Tinder! Quick. Grabbing your phone, you sat up in bed, eyes adjusting to the light from the display. It was a notification from Tinder alright. Another message from Ruben Dias 26. You tapped the screen to see your conversation thread, rembering the message you sent him a couple of days ago. He had left you on read since then, with you checking every night in vain. But now, he had finally given in, which guys on dating apps often did. Especially around 2:30 a.m., your current time.

"Is this big enough for you?" 😜

The message read. Followed by a picture attached to it.

Immense heat rose to your face as you blew up the image to cover your screen. It displayed a male hand holding on to the shaft of a throbbing cock. Rubens cock?

Tagslist:

@kathb59

#fanfiction #man city #football imagine #manchester city #ruben dias #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias imagine #footballer x reader #footballer imagine #football angst #football #football x reader #enemies to lovers #love and desire

132 notes · View notes

pavardscherie · 1 year

Note

hi love, could you write something about erling haaland being obsessed with the reader?

little touches, erling haaland

pairing erling haaland & reader

summary: erling is obsessed with you.

izzy talks;

i have to say, i love pavard with all my heart. i love writing about him, and yet, i’m quite happy to write about someone else for once, haha. for this one, i changes female reader to the you perspective :)

it’s a little drabble, so nothing too long.

it didn’t matter where you were or who was around.

erling always had to have his hand on your body. fingers caressing over the exposed arms when you wore one of his favorite dresses. a muscular arm wrapped around your waist while talking to friends. his large hand on your thigh while watching a movie or going out for dinner with a couple of his teammates.

those small glances filled with jealousy, and a certain promise to possess you later on, when another man decides to put his dirty fingertips on you. a touch, a moment, they weren’t allowed to share with his precious little thing.

compliments. small ones that made your tummy turn into a swarm of butterflies. the cheeks tainted by a cherry red color, erling could never get enough of the bashfulness on your beautiful face.

introducing you to new people, friends or teammates, erling always had to assure to emphasize the word my or mine. already stating from the very beginning that you were completely off the table, taken and untouchable for any other person. doesn’t matter if male or female.

hands intertwined when walking through the streets. small kisses to the cheek, to the back of the hand or blown gently against your forehead. small gestures that turned out to become a routine for erling.

over the past months of being in a relationship with the football player, you turned out to be his greatest addiction. seconds of not being able to touch you while you were so close to him tortured the blonde painfully.

but when the referee blew his whistle, announced a short break or interruption, erling found a way to at least send you a wink or a wave, while seated between the manchester city fans. small gestures, the team would joke about in the end but the talented striker didn’t care about it, as long as he was able to show you his admiration.

you were his first thought in any situation. after scoring a goal, and celebrating with the fans, the addiction of feeling your pillow-like lips against his own led his body straight towards you in the stands. his coach cursed about another yellow card, he received for leaving the pitch.

but erling shrugged it off, unimpressed by the spoken threats of sitting on the bench.

while you admired the small gestures of admiration, the obsession almost turned into a sick possessiveness. at least that was the exact word the newspapers and media used to describe the constant clinging to each other. a certain, unexplainable neediness.

it’s like erling had nothing else inside of his head. emptiness spread until the one necessary, and important thought was found.

you.

294 notes · View notes

zarophod · 9 months

Text

pretty accurate imo

#two men live on a ship the size of a city for 30 years yet continue to share a room #if that’s not the action of a man lover idk what is #Arnold J Rimmer i know what you are #red dwarf #rimster #arnold rimmer #dave lister #im so good at art

85 notes · View notes

pernillecfcw · 3 months

Text

Ruben with a fresh trim ✂️

#ruben dias #fresh trim #man city #football #footy #football blog #for the Ruben lovers #football player #he got that fresh cut #mirror selfie #manchester city #portugal nt #loving the fit #modelling era #he looks good

22 notes · View notes

leilakisakabiri · 9 months

Text

Just For You (Neymar Jr)

Summary: You’re a reporter for Man City and Neymar dedicates a goal to you, starting a bunch of rumors and a long-lived rivalry.

Warning(s): None.

A/N: I miss the world cup era. Working on TPWK 2, it’s taking so long though.

Word Count: 2.9k+

Masterlist

The first time Neymar had dedicated a goal for you, the two of you hadn’t even been dating yet.

You had met each other during the PSG vs Man City game for the UEFA Champions League.

You were a freshly hired reporter for Man City preparing to interview players for your first game.

You and your co-worker were busy setting up the equipment prior to the game starting when you noticed that one of the players from the opposing team had come out and was giving an interview.

You waited until he was done before shouting for him, beckoning him over.

You made eye contact as he came over.

You launched right into your well-rehearsed speech, “Hello, thank you so much for joining us today, can you please state your name?”

He gave you a weird look but spoke nonetheless, “Neymar?”

Oh shit. This was Neymar. You had heard about him once you started to become more involved in the football world, however, you hadn’t done any research on him since he wasn’t a Man City player.

“Alright. Thanks for that.” You spoke.

“So Neymar how do you feel about tonight’s game?”

Neymar smirked at you, “Aren’t you a Man City reporter?”

You felt your face warm with the question, flustered you responded, “Yes. Why does that matter?”

Neymar shrugged, maintaining eye contact, “Just like to get to know my competition.”

Now your cheeks were definitely turning red, but you were quick to refocus on the original question, “So about the game, how are you feeling?”

Neymar kept his gaze on you the whole time instead of looking at the camera.

He had a sort of unnerving stare as he grinned at you, looking like he knew something you didn’t.

“Pretty good, think we’ll destroy your little team, show them how it’s done.”

You let out a loud laugh, “Please, we both know that Man City has been doing very well this season, and PSG has been barely able to hold their position in the league.”

Neymar’s smile faded at your words as he began to argue back, “Actually our defensive line has been the best it’s been in years, same with our attack. However, after the last game that Man City played it’s clear that their best days are behind them.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, clearly not pleased as he had just dissed your team, but you remained professional,

“I guess we’ll see tonight. How are you feeling about your chances of winning the league?”

“Confident. I’ll be even more so when we beat you.”

You raised your eyebrows at his confidence. “Well, may the best team win.”

He gave you a smile that was anything but nice before he nodded at your statement.

You decided to close out the interview, seeing as the game was beginning soon, “Ok well thank you for your time.”

He nodded once again before you cut the cameras, about to make your way back over to your co-worker before he interrupted,

“What’s your name?”

You turned to look back at him puzzled, “Y/n. Why?”

He looked back at you, his signature smirk back on his face, “I’ll remember that.”

That night Man City had lost 2-0. With the final goal being scored by none other than Neymar himself.

You felt yourself getting irritated as the game began to turn in his favor rather than yours. Your first game as an official team reporter and you would have to announce it as a loss instead of a win.

You only grew more agitated once Neymar scored the final goal in the 84th minute, sealing Man City’s fate. That agitation quickly turned into shock and then anger once you realized just how exactly the PSG player was celebrating.

Firstly, he had run towards the media stands instead of the fans like players normally would. he had then proceeded to give the cameras a kiss, making a heart shape with his fingers and signing an initial, but not just any initial, yours.

To make matters worse he had pointed straight up at you, sending a quick wink before he got tackled by his teammates, leaving you with no doubts about who that goal was for.

You felt your face flush despite yourself as you silently screamed at yourself as you battled between wanting to bash his brains in or simply giving him the finger.

In the end, you couldn’t do either, one because you valued your job, and two because you didn’t want to end up in jail for the rest of your life.

You felt yourself seething as you looked at him.

What a dick. Dedicating a goal to you that he had scored on your team? Major asshole move.

You felt your co-worker shift to look at you, “Did he just point at you?”

You didn’t even know what to say as you glared at the boy on the field wishing more than ever that looks could kill.

“He doesn’t know what he just started.”

And he didn’t. However, neither did you.

That day had started the short-lived rivalry between the two of you, however, it had also brought you into each other’s lives which ultimately ended up being the best gift of all.

Your little squabble that night had turned into a strained relationship filled with little jabs and annoyed glances.

Things had finally reached a tipping point at the annual Ballon d’Or award show nearly six months later.

Everyone knew about the tense relationship you had with the player, including fans, who seemed to love the disdain you had for each other, coming up with crazy theories that the both of you were in a secret relationship and hiding it.

The rumors had been difficult for you, they had just been annoying at first, but soon they started to hinder your actual work after your manager caught wind of the situation. You had worked hard for everything you got, and it made you irrationally angry that people were beginning to believe that you had been handed everything on a silver platter because of the rumors, and your manager not wanting to play into those accusations had removed you from certain cases, that she knew would give you the breakthrough you needed for your career, informing you that she “just didn’t want to add fuel to the fire”.

You scoffed at the thought.

This evolving issue is why you were so surprised when you were chosen as the main host for the award ceremony – the same one Neymar had been announced as one of the nominees for. It was an absolute honor to be selected for hosting the ceremony, and many well-acclaimed reporters and journalists competed for the top spot, which is why you were extremely confused when you had been picked. You had only been a professional reporter for less than a year and didn’t have any high-up connections to get you the position, although that’s what many people believed.

Your manager had come to your desk one random Wednesday afternoon and dropped the envelope onto your desk.

You looked up at her with confusion, “What’s this?”

She raised her eyebrow, one pristine hand going to fix the invisible crease in her custom blazer, “It’s a letter from France Football – FIFA division.”

Your eyes widened at her statement, and you felt your body stiffen, “What? How do they even know who I am?”

Her lips were in a thin line, “It seems they have seen your work and would like to get in contact. Perhaps someone recommended you.”

You shook your head in disbelief, “There’s no way, I don’t know anyone who would do that.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Well it seems you’ve been selected. They often tend to go for more established journalists, but it seems they picked different this year.”

You gulped under her scrutinizing stare, not knowing what to say.

“Well let me know what they want.” She said, finally walking away.

You stared at the envelope in disbelief. You knew what today was. Today reporters across the world were sitting anxiously at their desks, fingers clammy and spirits hopeful as they waited for the mail, praying that they would be one of the few chosen to receive a letter from the FIFA Board of Directors.

Your boss herself, who was head of Man City’s PR and Journalism team, had been locked away in her office all day, coming out periodically every twenty minutes to check if anything came for her.

Your hand shook as you reached for the envelope, fingers lightly tracing the logo imprinted onto the paper, heard pounding at the possibilities.

You opened the letter, eyes scanning the words. Your hand flew over your mouth as you stared at the words in front of you dumbfounded.

You had been selected.

You were going to be presenting at the Ballon d’Or ceremony.

The letter congratulated you for being selected, listing your numerous accolades, refreshing commentary, and unique journalistic approach as reasons you had been selected. The letter also stated that you had been recommended by someone close to the association, enabling them to discover your work.

You frowned at that, so your manager had been right.

But who would have done that?

That question had been left answered till the night of the ceremony.

You had been practicing your speech tirelessly, repeating it like a mantra as you stood behind the red curtains, mic in hand, waiting for your queue to walk onto the stage.

You saw the stage director give you a thumbs up and you took a deep breath, a large smile falling across your face as the curtains opened.

The ceremony had gone without a hitch, you said all your lines perfectly, interacting with the audience, and making a few jokes throughout the evening that had everyone laughing.

You waited patiently as the winners were announced, taking a seat at your spot at the first table, you glanced around the room, accidentally making eye contact with the man of the hour himself.

He sat laid back in his chair, an almost unbothered expression on his face as he locked eyes with you. If you didn’t know any better, you would say he almost looked a little bored – you found it a little ironic considering the Ballon d’Or was being presented next. But you did know better, reading people is what you did for a living, and you could tell by the way he kept unconsciously tugging at the sleeves of his tux he was nervous, even if his eyes remained passive.

You narrowed your eyes at him, but he only gave you a smug smile before being pulled into a conversation with his father. You turned back around, seeing him give you one last glance from your peripheral vision.

You felt your body grow hot under his gaze and you chastised yourself for it. You couldn’t let him get under your skin, the night was almost over, and then you could say that you hosted the ceremony perfectly.

The award was presented, with the nominees being announced one last time, and you caught yourself holding your breath, unsure what you were hoping for.

“And the award goes to Lionel Messi!” The announcer spoke.

Your eyes immediately drifted to Neymar once again, seeing him clapping along with everyone else. You couldn’t help but feel bad for him, although he seemed ecstatic for his friend, you knew how it felt to want something so badly and have it in the palm of your hands, only for it to slip through your fingers, while you could do nothing but watch helplessly.

You shook yourself from your thoughts, walking back onto the stage and closing the ceremony. You finished, a dazzling smile on your face as you gave a bow, letting the curtains close.

Your hands shook as someone took the microphone from your hands congratulating you.

You had done it! You had hosted the ceremony to the best of your ability, and nothing had gone wrong!

You hugged everyone who came to congratulate you before making your way back to your table, ready to celebrate your success with the gala food.

You walked past Neymar’s table distracted, only hearing the tail end of the conversation, but it was enough for your steps to falter.

Messi sat next to him, a surprised look on his face, “She was great! I still can’t believe you recommended her.”

Neymar shrugged, turning back to his food.

You felt your breath catch in your throat, they couldn’t possibly be talking about you, could they?

You greeted everyone as you sat down at your table, accepting their congratulations, but your mind was still swirling trying to piece together the snippets of conversation you had heard. Your manager had said that someone had probably recommended you for the position and you had been trying to figure out who it was, but you had never considered the player sitting not even 100 feet away from you.

You ate your meal slowly as you debated what to do. Should you confront him? Or just let it go?

The answer came a moment later when you saw Neymar get up from his table, walking towards the restrooms.

It was now or never.

Without a second thought, you excused yourself, trailing behind him, the thudding of your heart, and the warm feeling in your stomach outweighing all other emotions.

You saw him walk towards the single-stall restroom and mentally thanked whatever higher power was looking out for you.

You slipped inside before the door could shut all the way, seeing his hands grip the sink, head lowered.

“It was you.” You spoke.

His head shot up, and he whipped around, body relaxing when he saw you, “Shit. Reporta you can’t just walk into the bathroom, you scared me.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” You questioned, watching him raise a brow.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You took a step closer to him, refusing to break eye contact. “You,” your finger jabbed his chest, “You recommended me.”

You saw his breath hitch and you knew he had been caught,

“Why?” Your voice was soft.

He remained silent, and you closed the distance between the two of you until you were standing only inches apart, neither of you daring to breathe.

He continued to look at you, eyes exploring every inch of your face, and you almost melted under his gaze. His eyes looked so pretty, like two pots of honey pulling you in, coating you in their sweetness.

“Because you deserved it.”

A look of disbelief washed over your features, “Why would you do that? We’re not friends.”

“We may not be friends, but even I can admit that you have talent. You’d have to be blind not to notice that.” He shook his head, gently moving your hand that was still pointed at his chest.

He continued, “I heard them talking about who to pick, and I knew it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t give your name. You work twice as hard as everyone else, but people always discredit you because of the rumors, rumors that involve me, and I didn’t want to be the reason you didn’t get a chance.”

You held your breath, unsure what to say, tummy doing somersaults at his words.

“You don’t have any problems with any players – just me. But that’s all they see, and then deem you as a liability, and I just couldn’t sit back and let them believe that.” He admitted.

His hand cupped your jaw gently, tilting your chin to face him, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as he gazed at you, “Y/n you deserve it.”

Your heart began to pound rapidly, it felt like it was going to explode, “That’s the first time you’ve ever said my name.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

He gave you a soft smile, not saying anything.

“Stop saying things that are making me like you.” You said the first thing that came to your mind, mentally cursing yourself for admitting you liked him first.

He grinned at you, “Y/n? Liking little ole me? How can that be?”

You hit his shoulder in annoyance, peering up at him, “I’m sorry you didn’t win. If it’s worth anything, I think you deserved to win – you’re an incredible player.”

You broke eye contact with him, hiding your face in his shoulder, so he wouldn’t see your facial expression, “I’m sorry I just couldn’t say that with a straight face, but I mean it.”

He rolled his eyes at you, pulling you back by your shoulders, forcing you to look at him, “It’s worth a lot. Thank you.”

You saw his eyes flicker to your lips as he spoke, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop what you were planning to do next. Your fate had been decided the moment you followed him into the bathroom.

“Neymar, your gonna hate me for this.”

He looked at you confused, about to speak, but you cut him off, fingers locking in his hair and pulling him down to you, kissing him with everything you had.

He was frozen in shock for a second, and then he pulling you impossibly closer, eyes fluttering shut.

“Definitely don’t hate you.” He murmured in between kisses, hands grasping the back of your dress as he spun the both of you, pressing your body against the sink.

104 notes · View notes