coupdemendes @coupdemendes - Tumblr Blog

lilboreddev-blog

reblog if your name isn't Amanda.

thatblackwatchdouche-blog-blog

2,121,566 people are not Amanda and counting!

We’ll find you Amanda.

world-heritage-posts

world heritage post

wheezecheese

I HAVE to reblog this eleven million note post. That’s the most notes I’ve ever seen on tumblr. Also my name is Jade, not Amanda.

paucubarsisimp

campeón

pairing: pedri x reader

summary: in which your boyfriend is a champions league winner

warnings: none!

a/n1: this is the football build a fic for my 1.5k follower celebration!!

a/n2: manifesting this

you don’t remember the moment the final whistle blew. not really.

what you do remember is the sound.

a roar that felt like it came from the center of the earth, shaking the stadium, rattling your chest. the kind of sound people write poems about. the kind of sound that means something ended—beautifully.

pedri had done it. they had done it.

fc barcelona were champions of europe.

you stood in the stands, frozen for half a second, mouth open, hands pressed over your face. people were screaming, hugging, crying, spilling beer. it didn’t feel real. none of it did.

until you saw him.

right there on the pitch. hands in his hair. smile breaking his face in half. and then, like he knew exactly where you were standing in that giant stadium, he looked up—right at you.

you swore he grinned wider.

you didn’t wait. you didn’t care about security or timing or anyone yelling “please stay in your seat!” from the sides.

you ran.

some poor stadium worker tried to stop you and you just pointed at your lanyard like it was a magic wand. player partner, it said. official. laminated. shiny.

you didn’t even slow down. you just whispered, “i’m his,” and the guy nodded like he knew. like that was all the explanation he needed.

you stepped onto the pitch and your feet almost gave out.

confetti was still falling. camera flashes. players lifting the trophy. teammates shouting, singing, crying. and then—there he was.

pedri.

he saw you and everything else melted. it was like the chaos went mute. all you could hear was your own heartbeat, and the way he whispered, “amor…” like he hadn’t just played the best game of his life. like he hadn’t just made history.

he jogged over, half-running, arms wide, eyes glossy, and you collided in the middle like a movie scene.

he picked you up off the ground—literally lifted you like you weighed nothing—and spun you around once, laughing against your shoulder. you clung to him like if you let go, the world would spin off its axis.

“you did it,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“we did,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i told you we would.”

you cupped his face, thumbs brushing the sweat and tears. “you were… insane. i think you levitated at one point.”

he laughed, nose brushing yours. “i was just trying to impress my girl.”

“congratulations, champion,” you said, cheeks pink.

and god, the way he smiled at that.

you’d never forget it.

the locker room was a mess.

music thumping. shirts half-off. champagne flying everywhere. someone was dancing with the trophy. someone else was facetiming their grandma.

you stood in the doorway, still in your jersey, watching it all with a hand over your mouth.

pedri was glowing. he looked like the sun. like every childhood dream had just come true all at once. he turned, mid-laugh, and spotted you—and instantly, it was like he remembered you were his favorite person in the world.

he walked over, pulled you out into the quieter hallway, and closed the door behind him.

“couldn’t breathe in there,” he said, forehead pressed to yours.

“kinda smells like socks and beer,” you whispered, scrunching your nose.

he laughed again, that warm sound you’d heard a thousand times but still made your stomach flutter. he wrapped his arms around you and just held you there, swaying slightly in the quiet.

“is this real?” he asked softly.

you looked up at him. “as real as the fact that you now have champagne in your hair.”

he groaned dramatically, burying his face in your neck. “i don’t even care. i could die happy right now.”

you smiled. “please don’t. i still need you to do the dishes at home.”

“okay, yeah, you bring me back down to earth,” he said, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

and then… he got this look.

like nervous-excited. the kind of look he had before big games. or before he asked you to move in with him. or that time he tried to cook pasta for you and nearly burned the kitchen down.

“what?” you asked, suspicious and fond all at once.

he didn’t answer. just reached into his bag—still half-zipped—and pulled out a tiny black box.

your heart stopped.

“pedri…”

“i wasn’t gonna do it tonight,” he said quickly, holding it between both hands like it might explode. “i had this whole plan. like… beach proposal. candles. maybe a guitar guy? i don’t know. but—tonight happened. and i just kept thinking—why wait?”

you blinked at him. “you’re not just proposing to keep the celebration going, right?”

he grinned. “no. i’m proposing because i love you. and because this… this is everything i’ve ever wanted. and i want youto be part of every next chapter.”

he opened the box. the ring was simple, delicate, perfect.

you stared at it. then at him. then back at it.

“say something,” he whispered.

you were already nodding. “yes.”

“wait—really?”

“yes, you idiot,” you laughed, tears slipping down your cheeks. “of course yes. always yes.”

he slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, then kissed you like the world was ending. and beginning. all at once.

the next morning, you woke up in a hotel room with sun in your eyes and pedri’s arm around your waist.

his head was buried in your shoulder, breathing soft and even, hair still slightly damp from last night’s very chaotic champagne shower. you looked down at your hand—the ring catching the morning light—and felt a little dizzy with how much you loved him.

“you’re staring,” he mumbled, voice raspy with sleep.

“you proposed to me after winning the champions league,” you whispered.

“yeah. kinda felt like a good time.”

you rolled your eyes, grinning. “you’re lucky i love you.”

“so lucky,” he said, pulling you closer and pressing a sleepy kiss to your jaw. “also, i think i dreamed that gavi tried to catch the trophy like a football and dropped it.”

“…that wasn’t a dream.”

he groaned into your shoulder.

a week later, you were back in barcelona. the parade was wild—people flooding the streets, music, colors, fireworks. pedri kept a hand on your waist the whole time, waving to the crowd, laughing with his teammates.

at one point, he turned to you, eyes soft, and said quietly, “this is the best year of my life.”

and you believed him.

months passed. interviews. awards. training. plans for the wedding. life didn’t slow down, but you moved through it together.

and one night, curled up on the couch in pajamas, he turned to you out of nowhere and said, “you know, winning the champions league was the second-best thing i ever did.”

“oh yeah?” you teased. “and the first?”

he leaned over, kissed you slow and sweet and certain.

“asking you to marry me.”

you didn’t say anything. just kissed him again.

because yeah. same.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @meganesanchez, @linnygirl09, @spidybaby,, @vicolette, @bernalswifeyy lmk if you want to be added/removed!

pedripics

time flies 🫶🏼🎂

canirove

comraderoscoes

sports is about picking one favourite special guy who can do no wrong and running with insane (sometimes baseless but always intuitive) agendas against the people you don’t like . good luck to the rest of you