“Go well in your AFCON game, @/edou mendy! 🇸🇳”
via @/chelseafc on Instagram
A replay of Thiago Silva’s goal, 79th minute:
Me: Love that replay of the Thiago celebration. César loved that.
Brother: Yeah, 37 year olds should not be doing a full knee slide. He sort of aborted midway.
Me: I mean, that photo of him was only from the waist up. His body remembered that halfway.
“Relax, but don't get comfortable..!!🤞🏽💯”
via @/hziyech on Instagram
My boys 💙
What I just realised is everyone talks so much shit. In real life, on social media, fucking everywhere. Okay, someone is a celebrity, but do you really have to comment on everything? There’s a reason why celebrities try to keep some things under wraps because they also want to have some privacy. Someone maybe makes a mistake, but they are probably young and if something really happens they will probably learn from their mistakes in due course. And you don’t need to comment and spread rumours before the celebrity in question has confirmed, it probably stresses them out to hear so many rumours. I literally opened this app and after 5 min I could already feel my stress increase because of a few things I read hear. And please, if you really really need to say it, please don’t say it as an anon 😊🤍
Word count: 1.3k
Suggested song: “Body Shots” by Chris Brown
Summary: Christian decides it’s time to stop dancing around each other and makes a move.
Thank you to @toastyrashford for being my beta reader and lovely bestie 🥰
His first Premier League goal of the season. A game winning goal too, putting them up 1-0 over Manchester City, helping Chelsea begin to close the gap to their title rivals. A header that Lukaku sent destined for being off target, nudged in by Christian. One of his more clever goals, if he was being honest.
It isn't like him to brag or go for big goal celebrations, but he couldn't help himself. The fans in the away section went wild when he held his tattooed forearm up to his eyes. He loved it. The rest of the game he played like a tiger, boosted by the fans' chants and the confidence granted by his goal.
In the changing room his team was all over him; they couldn't get enough of telling him how great his goal was. Tuchel promised him more game time and Christian has never felt pride like he does now.
Fuck, it felt good.
Seeing you at the after party just makes it ten times better.
You and Christian have orbited each other for months. He's respected the fact that you've recently gotten out of a relationship and he hasn't pushed anything, though you both obviously have feelings for each other.
His mom raised a gentleman, after all. So he has learned to be satisfied by stolen glances and to find excuses to come to your office- inventing strained muscles and inflamed joints for you to massage out or tape up.
Tonight though, Christian is drunk on his goal and on his win and the way his teammates praised him like a god. When he locks eyes with you from across the room, all bets are off.
Your little grin tells him all he needs to know. He lets his gaze wander, eating up the exposed skin of your lithe legs and the cleavage the deep v of your tshirt shows. Your red painted lips taunt him, tugged up in a self-satisfied smile that tells him you know what you’re doing.
He swipes a bottle of tequila off the bar and threads his way through the crowd like he threaded himself through Manchester's defenders. You don't pay a lick of attention to the physio currently talking your ear off. You only have eyes for Christian.
Your drink is set off to the side, utterly forgotten about by the time Christian reaches you. He snakes an arm around your waist. You mould yourself to his side as he whispers, "Wanna do some body shots?"
Your gaze sweeps over him from head to toe. Thankfully he's showered and changed into a plain white tee and jeans. At least he possessed the foresight to prepare for a chance encounter with you; he never knew if you'd be at these things or not.
"Depends on who's doing the pouring." Your head tips to the side, like a predator assessing her prey. The intensity of it stirs something in him, makes heat pool in his belly. "And who's doing the licking."
The way you bite your lip makes him lean in to nose at your neck. The lavender of your shampoo goes straight to his head. He wants to memorize it and the feel of you along the way.
"I'm stripping," he says firmly. "The first time I see you half naked, it won't be in a room full of witnesses."
Your grin is all teeth. Christian would let you devour him if you asked. "Deal. Find us a table, match winner."
Christian enlists Kepa's help in clearing off the kitchen island. The living space of the rented hotel suite is too packed with team members to warrant using the coffee table and Christian doesn't feel like interrupting Mason's game of beer pong in the dining room.
Your hiss of surprise is all Christian notices when he peels off his shirt. His lips tilt in a dangerous smile as you rake your gaze over his torso, then shamelessly dip lower. He doesn't miss the slight quirk of your brow before you meet his eyes.
"Tequila or vodka," he murmurs, climbing onto the counter. The marble is freezing in contrast to the heat of his body, providing the shock he needs to properly focus in on the moment.
"Whatever." God, he wants to kiss you. He wants your lips on him. Anything to end the teasing he endures constantly and finally find out what you feel like against him.
The second he's settled you crawl up next to him. Your leg swings over to straddle his hips, hands splayed on his bare chest to keep from falling forward. Heat sings along his torso and he swears that you'll leave behind pink, blistered brands on his skin.
There's little Christian wouldn't do to recreate this scene with no audience and far less clothing between you.
You snatches one of the bottles off the counter and take a healthy swig for confidence. Your eyes darken before the alcohol even hits you, which is how Christian knows you want this just as much as he does.
He licks his lips, imagining your wicked tongue on his skin. He's fantasized about it countless times with nothing but his hand for company. And now he's living it. Fucking hell, it's already nothing like he expected and you haven’t even properly touched him yet.
"Pour it out," you purr, dragging a nail between the ridges of his abs. "And be generous with it, Christian. I wanna take my time." You pass him the bottle and he wastes no time fulfilling your command.
Alcohol fills in the lines of his abdomen. He takes shallow breaths so as to not spill it all as he splashes it up his chest. Your eyes are hungry as you follow the path he lays out, deliberately ensuring that you'll taste as much of him as possible.
Christian doesn't know or care who watches the show you put on. The moment your tongue touches his skin he's lost. Your mouth dances over his stomach, licking up every drop of liquor. You nip and suck at him, leaving him to imagine what your mouth might be capable of doing elsewhere.
One of your hands wanders to his thigh as you move up his chest. You lay your body weight on him and Christian knows that as soon as you're done, he's taking you to his hotel room.
He groans when you lick a stripe between his pecks. You sit up slightly and wipe your hand over your mouth. Mason shouts something about the two of you getting a room. Most of his team are too drunk to notice or care.
"You taste better than I imagined."
"Shame that I can't say the same about you yet."
You close the few inches of space between you. Teeth clash and tongues battle. Christian nips at your lip. Your elbows rest on either side of his head. You sigh into his mouth and he swallows the sound whole, desperate for more.
Your fingers tangle in his hair and he relishes the way his scalp smarts when you give a healthy yank on his messy curls. His hand cups the back of your neck, utterly greedy and unwilling to let you put an inch of space between you until Kepa taps his shoulder.
"I think the two of you should find somewhere else to be." The Spaniard looks a little concerned and a little scandalized. Christian supposed he's right though- Kepa is rarely wrong when it comes to matters of the heart- and nods his thanks.
"What do you say?" Christian's hands slide under your shirt to caress your sides. "Come up to mine?"
"I think," you start, tracing your fingers over his lower lip until he sucks them into his mouth, "that's the best bloody idea I've ever heard."
Shoving prior to a set piece, 62nd minute:
Brother: Basically every free kick is pushing and then César cannot believe he has to talk to the ref.
Me: César: REF I HAVE A COMPLAINT RIGHT NOW. REGARDS.
i didnt even connect the dots between the mason-cobham tour video and his “i’m the best tour guide around” pick up line... 😭😭
#CHETOT MAN OF THE MATCH ✨
just kepa’s ass..