MARS.

𝑞ue 𝑠era, 𝑠era...

[dilemmars]

twenty one s her spanish─────procastinator too many untouched notebooks stars doodles on the margins worn out black converse curly hair warm coffee gaze cats silver jewellery loud laughter improv trips !

dive into the ‎‎𝗺𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 🐚 or check the 𝗱𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘀 of the blog.

this is a sideblog / i follow from #seandsins.

produced by mars ! twenty twenty six .

[porcelainbae]

[versains]

JUDE BELLINGHAM prior to being subbed in for ENGLAND v. FRANCE third place play-off

[dilemmars]

i come back from my trip on friday, so expect a ferrán fic this weekend! i don't know if anyone non-spanish knows about the kiss between iker casillas (spain's goalkeeper last time we won the world cup, 2010) and sara carbonero (a spanish journalist that was her girlfriend at the time and interviewed him after they won the final) but it's heavily based on that moment where they revealed they relationship amist the happiness and chaos of the celebration..

[glossiercheek]

⋆˚꩜｡ TATTED UP ╱ ferran torres 𝑥 𝒻!reader 𝄞 SYNOPSIS: you find out your boyfriend has tattoos all over his back. it turns you on beyond words. ⁕ WARNINGS: 18+ (mdni), oral (f!receiving), munch!ferran, petnames, he’s sooooo kind and sweet and lovey dovey

“you look beautiful in this dress, angel.” ferran says with a slight grin when he kicks open the door to his bedroom. his brown hair is tousled from your date night, and you’re all giggly from a glass of wine too many. “oh really?” you retort with the apples of your cheeks burning from smiling so hard.

the night you’ve been spending with your fairly new boyfriend is slowly coming to an end, and you feel like a princess and an angel wrapped into one. how can you not, when ferran’s strong arms are wrapped around you as he carries you into his sacred space.

don’t get it twisted, though: you’ve been dating ferran for a while, but today is the day you’re finally spending the night at his place after a lot of “please, baby!”s.

his room is tidy and neat, the corners of his duvet tucked into sharp corners, his pillows all fluffed up. a random, dark green hat lies on top of his dresser, as well as a random watch, but that doesn’t matter. you’re more focused on your boyfriend, anyway.

especially when he plops you on his soft bed, your body softly bouncing back on the mattress. and ferran leans down with two arms planted on either side of you and looks at you like you’re the light of his life: his eyes scrunched up in delight, that adorable smile he’s always wearing around you. his brown hair peeking out from the back of his neck, his blushy cheeks.

you’d be an idiot to think he’s not in love with you.

“really,” ferran affirms, voice warm and thick like treacle, descending his face down to yours to press a short, but sweet kiss to your lips. “you always look beautiful, my love. always.” he says against your lips. you can feel your heart stutter at his words, the profoundness of his confession. why’d he have to be so cute? you’ve never been so caught up in a guy.

your boyfriend stands back up straight, grabbing you by your hands to pull you up too. “you wanna wear something of mine to bed?”

you hum back affirmatively, already all sleepy and sated as you stare at how ferran opens the door of his closet, rummaging through his array of shirts before grabbing the softest, most comfortable piece he can find. 

you swiftly change into the piece of clothing he chose, the fabric reaching mid-thigh and the fabric soft and comfortable around your frame. perfect to sleep in. and ferran thinks so too. that you’re perfect.

you know that, because he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

“you’re such an angel,” he tells you, his hands finding yours, voice cracked open in vulnerability and wonder. he spins you around slowly in the middle of his room, because here, in the dim yellow light of his bedroom and the stale quaintness of barcelona around you two, all he can focus on is sharing this moment with you.

he pulls one of your hands to his mouth before placing another light kiss to your knuckles, his brown, gooey eyes never leaving yours. “prettiest girl on the planet.” your insides get all mushy at his gravel voice, because all you can think of ferran is how he’s cute. respectful. beautiful. never pushy. accommodating. lovely. excited. he has the humility of a child, the gentleness that reminds you of the bfg, somehow. 

ferran takes a step back, away from you, before turning his back to you to get himself ready for bed too. he sits down on his bed, just doing his thing, plugging his phone into the charger.

but when he hooks his hand around the sturdy fabric of the tee he’s wearing and pulls the shirt over his head, all the innocent, sweet thoughts about him vanish like snow before the sun, because—

well, his entire back is covered in fucking ink.

and you’ve never felt your knees buckle this fast. you genuinely have to hold yourself up, one hand planted on the soft duvet of his bed to prevent yourself from folding. ferran draws up his arm to scratch the back of his neck, and the tendons and the muscles shift underneath his tanned skin.

because now, you think of your boyfriend as sexy. hot. undeniably attractive, as opposed to cute and adorable.

“wow,” is all you can muster, tentatively walking on your knees across his bed until you’re within touching-distance. “i didn’t know you had, y’know—” you vaguely gesture around your boyfriend’s back, “all of this.”

it’s as if ferran can feel the nervous air around you, because he huffs out a self-satisfied, attractive chuckle. “it’s nothing,” he lets his arms rest on his spread legs, his crumpled up shirt still clutched between his fingers, giving you all the time in the world to look at his tattooed back. “it’s just ink on skin.”

the air is pulled taut between you when you reach out your hand, the warmth wavering over ferran’s skin. “can i touch them?” you let the question linger in the air. “can i— can i touch you?”

“you want to?” he shoots back, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

the tension crackles in the air all of a sudden. it’s sizzling, ferran’s warm, balmy skin under your fingertips. you hear the brunet suck in a small breath when your fingers brush over the chess pawn on the upper left side of his back. “did they hurt?” you decide to ask, your voice so light and broken with curiosity.

ferran can feel himself going absolutely insane. your touch is soothing yet torturing, it’s feathery and delicate, just like you. “not really,” he answers, drawing up his shoulders, his breath weighing heavy in his lungs when he speaks. “can handle the pain.”

the scrape of your nails over his skin has his head falling between his shoulders in delight. the scene looks so intimate from afar: you gently tracing the swirly, intricate designs on your boyfriend’s back, and him revelling in your touch.

“i like this one.” you whisper, both of your hands travelling to the laurel wreath on his lower back, just where the hem of his jeans begins. under the light scratch of your nails, goosebumps erupt across ferran’s skin.

“you do?” he questions, a little playful, a little heartfelt. his voice is strained. his back is like one giant treasure map, every tattoo a new area for you to explore, the empty pathways of skin in between leading you to a new piece.

“and this one—” your fingers meander all the way to his upper back, where the angel wings are. “really fits that name you always call me.”

“yeah, because you are,” he tells you huskily, trying to turn his head so he can look at you. the look in his eyes makes slick dribble on the gusset of your panties. “you’re my angel, baby. you know that.”

ferran’s reassurance is everything you want in life. knowing you’re his. knowing you’re the only one who is able touch him like this, knowing you’re the one who sees the vulnerable, the good, the bad.

you noiselessly move your head down, brushing your lips over the anatomical heart on the upper right side of his back. remnants of your glittery lip gloss stick to his skin like a reminder of you, forever on him.

ferran hums something indecipherable back, something between a jumbled grunt and a helpless whine. “baby…” he breathes exasperatedly, but you just continue to place small, cloying kisses all over him: the set of brains on the other side, the tattooed word below it.

your hands slide over his shoulders, easing the tension away. he smells so clean, like citrus and musk. “what?” you murmur, bringing your face up to his neck, placing kisses there. his faint stubble tickles the sensitive skin of your plump lips. you move your lips to the underside of his chin, the line of his jaw. “can’t show my boyfriend how much i like him?”

“let me kiss you please,” the brunet pulls your face away from him, now finally able to turn around fully. he drops one lingering kiss to your lips, the squelching sound of your lips joining echoing through the tension-ridden bedroom. “gonna show you how much i like you, baby.”

it doesn’t take long until ferran turns around fully and hovers over you, looking at you with stars in his eyes. “i adore you.” he simply confesses, a little out of breath, chest rising and falling with every intake of oxygen. as if you didn’t know.

“show me then.” you reply, hooking two fingers through his belt loop, pulling him in. and all of a sudden, ferran’s weight wavers over you, dipping you back into the mattress of his bed. and you just acquiesce, flexing open your thighs to fit his frame between them.

his lips find yours like a compass needle always pointing north. this time, his hands are hot and heavy on your skin. “i love you,” ferran declares, eyes flitting between yours and your lips before stuffing his face into the sensitive column of your neck, “you’re my girl.”

“i know— i know,” you agree, your voice all trembly, knowing what’s about to happen when you feel his thick fingers hooking under the elastic of your panties before pulling them down. from your point of view, the mop of brown hair moves all the way down your body, kneading the soft of your hips.

“i love these,” ferran hums into the flesh of your thighs, blatantly ignoring the seeping arousal leaking out of you. the subtle scratch of his stubble stimulates you in a way you’ve never felt before. “love taking my time with you.”

the push and pull of his lips on your skin is electrifying. the small tingles of his teeth nipping at your flesh are quickly soothed by the slide of ferran’s wet tongue. and your hands? your hands crawl into his brown hair, pulling the strands taut as a signal for him to do something. anything.

you’re thinking about forever with him, truly. somewhere between a minute and a lifetime.

at last, ferran looks at your weeping pussy. his hooded eyes flick to your face and you watch him with a pleading look. just anything, now. “and i love eating y’r pretty pussy up.” is all he says, voice full of gravel and sin, before his tongue meets your clit.

your hair splays out all around your head like an invisible halo, your head digging further into his spongy, fluffy mattress. his tongue laves up all the slick that’s gushing out of you, his lips brushing gently over your walls, making you a jumbled mess of moans and mewls.

“love the sounds you make,” ferran mumbles into your pussy before prodding his tongue at your entrance. “and that pretty face of yours—” he squeezes into you, his gentle hands adjusting its grip around your legs, keeping you open and accessible to him. “especially when you come f’me.” his stare deepens into something mischievous, a teasing glint in his gaze.

ferran’s tongue works into you like a metronome, keeping his tormenting pace stable and consistent. “talk t’me, angel,” he tells you, tongue-deep into you. your slick dribbles on the duvet, leaving embarrassingly wet patches behind. “tell me what you’re feelin’.”

his accent gets all slurry and deep, literally pussy-drunk. now it’s your turn to babble out an incoherent mess of sounds.

“speak up, baby.” ferran taunts between flicks and thick stripes of his tongue.

“i’m— close, don’t stop,” you try to do your best to meet him halfway. the way your eyes are clenched shut, the little quirk of your eyebrow, ferran knows you’re close. very. your hands are shaky between his strands, tension convoluting all through you. “fer, seriously—”

“give it t’me, baby—” is all he says before squeezing his tongue right into you again, alternating between little presses of his fingers to your pulsating clit. it’s almost as if he’s more eager for you to come than you yourself. “know you can.”

you shatter with a broken moan, feeling as if the dam finally broke. the apples of your cheeks burn up, a shiver running up your spine, and ferran keeps on feeding you subtle pokes of his tongue, fleeting touches of his warm hands around your legs. he really guides you through your orgasm.

when you finally catch your breath with a gratified smile on your face, ferran reaches up to you. his lips and chin are shiny with your slick, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing a quick kiss to your lips. “you’re perfect, honey.”

honey. it’s weird how the simplest words can sound so… intimate when it comes from him. you almost want to squeal at how adorable your boyfriend is.

“all because i traced your tattoos?”

“well, i’m easy when it comes to you, baby.”

a/n: i felt like a fucking whore when i constantly had to look at those pics of his back to inspect his tattoos 😭😭 also reqs are so open for him. so so so so so open, but read my rules firstttt!

[glossiercheek]

ㅤ˚༘࿐ㅤ. ✿ㅤ ‿︵ DON’T BLAME IT ON ME! ╱ ferran torres 𝑥 𝒻!reader 𝄞 warnings: suggestive yet romantic + making out in a pool, tease!ferran, scratches on the back? just a big mess of feelings and vibes 😭

the air smells like chlorine, summer and the faint sweetness of sunscreen. the sky transitions into a dark blue, almost purple hue, but ferran’s face in front of you is as clear as day. the dry air burns your throat, the tension around your shoulders is tight.

the brunet sits on the other side of the pool, the water swishing around his shoulders, water droplets sticking to his skin. his hooded eyes inspect your face, and with the remnants of the spanish sun hitting the side of his face, he looks more like a god than just your boyfriend.

“why you sittin’ so far?” ferran’s voice is low, deep, sleep-ridden, and it sends a thousand tingles down your spine, up your neck. the effect that just his voice has on you, a little slurry, has your breath hitching in your throat. “i don’t bite, baby.”

“sure you don’t.” you huff indifferently, not moving an inch even though you have the urge to fucking pounce on your boyfriend. you can feel that familiar sense of warmth spread across your cheeks as you pull your lips into a small, shy smile.

and ferran just beams at you, feeling all accomplished in making you blush with his mere words and a flirtatious tone. suddenly, your swimsuit feels too snug around your shoulders. you can literally feel the material cling, your hair sitting in your neck.

“come to me, baby.” he tells you, and this time you obey. it is you, breaking through the carapace of your safe bubble. ferran looks rather ecstatic than lustful when you clumsily float over to him on the other side of the pool. his arms that were resting on the edge immediately find your waist to pull you to him as soon as you’re within touching-distance.

his arms settle carefully around your bare skin, through the swarm of frothy bubbles surrounding you. “you’re precious,” he says, a heartfelt smile on his face. so heartfelt, his eyes smile too. his fingers fondle with the strap of your swimsuit, a little teasing. it has your heart stuttering. “just perfect for me.”

“don’t push your luck, boy.” you giggle curtly, sliding his hand away before he can undo the knot. and instead of letting your hand hit his, ferran is quick to intertwine your fingers together. your sharp defiance is refreshing, and somehow it makes him surer that you’re the one for him; the one to share life with.

before you can even process what’s happening, ferran has you turned around. now you’re the one pushed against the poolside, the coping lightly scraping against your neck. your legs float awkwardly about, until your boyfriend hooks them around his waist to hoist you up.

and suddenly, he’s way too close to you. not that you’re complaining though.

“i’m always pushing my luck, baby,” ferran laughs, his face descending to yours. his breath smells like those strawberry ice lollies, the little red spots on his cheeks from the sun turn darker as the night looms above you. his voice drops lower, more quiet, more intimate. “you should know that by now.”

he gives your chin one last teasing pinch, tilting your head up before slotting his lips against yours. even under the water, ferran’s skin feels warm, soft. tender. you two join like two lost puzzle pieces, when his tongue swipes across your lower lip. his fingers dig deeper in his hold around your leg, and your hands travel to his back, letting your polished nails gently scrape along his tanned skin.

all you can focus on is the silence around you. it settles around you like a thick layer of dust, quelling the lively world around you, letting the world within your little bubble with ferran bloom.

“you’re a good kisser.” your boyfriend tells you once the melding parting of your lips has finished. your burning gaze lights up a match in the overflowing chamber of ferran’s heart.

“i know.” you tell him coyly, and ferran huffs indignantly.

“oh my god. you have a complex—” he smiles, giving your side a quick, fleeting pinch. gone before you can even realise.

your lips meet again in a nippy kiss. “i have given my girl a fucking complex.”

your nails stay digged in the skin of his upper back, but one hand snakes up to the curled up strands of wet, brown hair in the nape of ferran’s neck, giving the wet locks a firm tug. “just shut up and keep kissing me.”

he lowers his head to yours, lips a breath away from yours. “or else?” he asks, a little mischievous grin plastered on his mouth.

your stare goes from incisive and astute to pleading in no time. “please, fer, don’t make me beg.”

“never, baby.” and with that, the two of you dive back into the kiss, a little hungrier, a little bit more feral. it’s the way ferran’s body shields yours, the way his hands cradling your cheeks swallows you whole.

it’s the way he always needs to have his hands on you, it’s the melancholy he feels in the sockets of his eyeballs when he’s not near you at all times.

it’s in his kiss. the way this all translates into the delve of his tongue against yours, the scrape of his jaw against the soft of your cheek. it’s in your physical responses: the bright red scratches your nails leave behind on your skin, his shoulders and back, leaving your undisputed mark on your boyfriend, for everyone to see. 

it’s the very first breath ferran takes after coming up for air. seeing your face, smiling up at him, all sleepy and sated, water clumping your lashes together. “i love you, precious.”

the consequences of your night together face ferran the next day in the changing room.

“i see you, my man,” pedri claps the brunet on his tattooed back. ferran looks back with a questioning look in his eyes, totally unaware of the dull red lines on his back, between the ridges of muscle and swirly ink.

“what—?”

“you’ve been giving your girl a very good time.” 

ferran thinks back to your previous night, a faint smile blooming across his face upon remembering how you smiled so prettily up at him, your plush lips against his. he grabs his training shirt, thrown somewhere on the bench before swiftly tossing the article of clothing over his head.

“something like that.”

[dilemmars]

and then he said “come to me, baby”

[dilemmars]

ㅤㅤ𑣲ㅤ━━ㅤCASANOVAㅤ⦂ㅤFERRÁN & PEDRI .

you had promised to be there on time, but occasionally promises turn into wishful thinking. when the car your boyfriend was taking to his work event leaves without you, your only option is to take another one, and arrive fashionably late.. with another man.

welcome to casanova beach club, what can i get you? fedri x f readerㅤ( 6556w ) ── warningsㅤthrouple content slightly angsty at the beginning because of #stress spanish terms of endearement used are 'mi vida' = my life / 'mi niña' = my girl / 'amor' = love slightly ferrán centered because he appears more please wear seatbelts when in a car guys! also joder means fuck in spanish, i think i dropped one around thereㅤno use of ynㅤ⟡ ㅤfluff , proofread ! .ㅤ⸝⸝ㅤclick to masterlist .

The big screen attached to the furthest wall from you was a blur of words and data you couldn't quite focus at the moment. You had your laptop opened in front of you, where the next presentation was on queue, and you were going through all the information you had memorized the day before over dinner while your boyfriend pretended to hear.

It was six forty something in the afternoon, AC turned on and the blinds dimmed so the bright May sunlight wouldn't bother you, and after all the preparation and lack of sleep now you were the one pretending to hear your colleague. The meeting, which had started almost three hours ago, was already running late.

And now you were running late.

You felt your phone vibrate against the wooden surface of the table, merely inches away from your hand, and picked it up before it could tremble a second time—not even daring to disrupt the monologue that your coworker was sharing with you about the content she wanted to include in her show during the following days.

As a senior content producer, you were supposed to be paying active attention, and even interrupting with constructive feedback as an expert in your field. You were also, however, allowed controlled slips from the gathering, if it had to do with work. And with the amount of projects and contacts that you had, there was always a chance that the next message was an important one.

At least if the device that you had left over the table at the beginning of the meeting was your work phone, which it wasn’t.

You unblocked your personal phone in a swift flick of numbers that were more reflex than memory, and disabled the sound in your phone in a heartbeat when you felt it buzz once again. At that time, that day, only two people could be the authors of the texts. A conversation that had started in the group chat because of a picture, so you lowered the screen light a notch before you went over the messages.

pedri: [attachment]

pedri: what do you think? too formal?

You bit back a smile, zooming in the selfie mirror that your boyfriend had sent you. You recognised behind his lithe figure the messy sheets he had forgotten to fix after leaving the bed that morning, and also the familiar way the reflection was slightly bathed by the evening sunlight. He was asking about the white button up shirt he was wearing, and the slacks and the matching suit jacket, but not about the nervous curve of a smile in his lips.

ferri: you look like you’re going to a wedding

ferri: drop the button up or the blazer and wear something more casual

And you agreed. The other third of your group chat, Ferrán, your other boyfriend, had a more enhanced sense of fashion, and it almost pained you that none of you could be in the room with Pedri to help him decide what to wear.

But the meeting was important, and you had already asked for days off for the rest of the week, so you had to be there. Even though in your very organised schedule, you were supposed to have already left—and you should have already done your presentation, but your boss had completely lost track of time and you were left with a cute picture and a conversation you could not be a part of instead of getting ready with him.

pedri: answer to @ ferri ‘you look like you’re going to a wedding’ my mom told me to look handsome

ferri: you always look handsome, don’t worry

You felt eyes on you, and when you lifted your gaze, your best friend in the office was looking at you. She had just written a quick sentence in her notebook, something your coworker had said and you had completely missed, and she delivered a short nod in your direction to check that everything was fine.

You answered with a tight smile, nodding back. Everything was as fine as it could be.

pedri: ha ha

pedri: what are you wearing, then?

ferri: [attachment]

ferri: casual but elegant

His clothes were still draped over his bed, but you could tell the classy details in his pants, and how well they unconciously matched the dress you had chosen for the occasion. You had sent a picture from the store the day you had bought it, and while you knew Pedri had cared, it was clear that it had been Ferrán the one to really take in the design.

pedri: you're a dork

pedri: it’s better if i wear black, right?

ferri: black goes with everything

ferri: stick to a dark colour palette

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a moment, hesitating. You wanted to respond, but your fellow editor was still going on and on about how to announce certain news in the roster; besides, you had already spent an increasingly suspicious amount of time with the phone between your hands. You desisted, this time shoving the phone into your bag, that was hanging from the back of the chair, and pretended to cough as you fell back into focus.

7.12PM

You couldn’t help but check the time just once again. The number had changed, but not as fast as you had wished for only one minute ago. Your presentation had finished not that long ago, followed by a positive commentary from your boss, and now that you were done, escaping that meeting had turned into your one and only priority.

Your friend had picked up where you had left it, changing slightly the subject into her direct field of expertise, and you wanted to listen to her, but your head was running over all the options to still, somehow, manage to get there on time. Arriving late was really not an option, since it was the first event from your boyfriend’s work you were going to attend with his arm around yours.

It had been a long conversation, throughout the days that followed the big parade in the bus around the busy streets of the Catalonian capital their football team had organised, when Pedri had locked eyes with you and sent you a flying kiss. In the heat of the moment it had seemed innocent, because there were a lot of people, and it could have been for a random fan, but after reflecting on it and following a couple of dangerous threads about it on X, you had decided to officialise your relationship with one of them.

That way, if someone actually saw something, you could control the narrative. It was basic journalism.

But you could not announce anything if you were not actually there, and you didn’t have time to go back to Pedri’s house and get changed in time to leave with him. Your work clothes were not that bad, but you could tell you were not going to be dressed properly—or maybe way too strict, too professional. More like a member of the directive than a plus one guest. And if you went straight from your office to his house, it was still a fifteen minute drive.

With a deep, anxious sigh stuck in the back of your mouth, you pulled the texting app in your laptop.

you: i cant leave yet

you: lara is talking about the data for this weekend’s articles

you: our articles

You saw the silly picture you had taken of Pedri during the recovery of his latest injury pop up in the chat as soon as you had sent the last text, and then the bubbles forming and popping while he wrote an answer.

pedri: how long do you think it'll take?

pedri: i have to leave in 10 minutes max, the car is already here

Right, the rental car his club had chosen to pick him up, because you had decided to go together and then come back with Ferrán, since he lived so close by. You failed to avoid muttering a low fuck under your breath, but no one around you seemed to be too invested on what you were doing, rather than in Lara’s words.

you: it's ok, you go

you: either i arrive late or i dont go and we'll make it official another day

pedri: hey, you still got time

pedri: you can make it, dinner’s supposed to start at 8.30

pedri: everything will be fine

pedri: just keep us posted about what you decide

You pouted to the dimmed screen of your laptop while your friend started to pick up her notes from the lectern, and then swiftly looked over to your boss, still typing, to check what was next in the agenda for that afternoon.

you: i know

you: i just really want to go and this meeting is stressing me out

The coordinator of editors for LaLiga content shifted the papers in front of him at the head of the table, and exhaled a sigh with the next point you were supposed to talk about. You tried really hard not to defeatedly sink further into your seat, and listened to his questions.

ferri: we know, mi vida

ferri: for now focus on your job

ferri: that's the important part

7.29PM

There were no more presentations scheduled for the day, but you couldn’t stop looking at the bottom corner of the screen’s right side, where a couple of pixels flickered into existence every few seconds. It made the light numbers of the time appear and disappear, and you wanted to swear that it made minutes pass faster, but you were not entirely sure.

It was almost seven thirty, and in one hour you had to be in the restaurant that FC Barcelona had rented for the occasion. You knew how it looked already because you had written an article about the celebratory dinner that the club had organised to gather all the players, coaching staff and even the management, including their families and spouses, to praise everyone for the good work during the season.

And after dating two of those players for almost a year, this time you were going to be inside the beach club, surrounded by their teammates, instead of in the office, writing about whatever information the photographers of your company had collected in the time they waited outside the building.

The thought of introducing yourself to the footballers that already knew you in your most professional mindset as Pedri’s girlfriend would’ve had you restless if you weren’t already preoccupied about how to get there in the first place.

You slid your finger along the touchpad of your laptop to check the time one more time, and saw a new notification. It was Ferrán.

ferri: @ you do you want me to go pick you up?

The seat sighed under your weight when you sat up straighter, writing an answer as quick as possible.

you: don't worry

you: if i leave to go back home and change, i'm going to be late anyway

you: i'll probably go directly as soon as i'm done here

ferri: in your car?

You winced, knowing that he was going over the same path of options you had gone a while ago. Taking your car would be useless, because you didn’t have any type of identification or invitation to the event, so security wouldn’t let you pass. But if you went by walking, you could go up to the entrance as another fan and then ask Pedri to help you in.

To get there, unfortunately, you had to take a thirty minute suburban train, which right now was your last resort.

you: no

you: train

pedri: taking the train to castelldefels is a nightmare, amor

You knew. Of course you knew. And you also knew that he was trying to help, but with the echo of your boss’ voice in the back of your head, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of one of your coworker’s pen against the table, and the annoying speed in which the corner of the projector’s screen was flickering, you couldn’t even begin to explain how his words were only stressing you more.

you: i don't see any other option

And you saw him typing once more, but you closed the texting app before glancing at the answer.

7.51PM

When the clock on the wall—because you had decided to stop looking at the screen, for the sake of your sanity—had hit ten minutes to eight in the evening, you had already set your mind on just not going. It was not fair to the organisers of the event, it was not fair to the punctuality values your parents had taught you and it was certainly not fair to your heart, that had been stammering against your ribcage at an alarming pace.

Now it was calm, and even though you felt like you were disappointing your boyfriends in some way, you were also very at peace with yourself.

Everyone at the celebratory reunion knew you, and you were not about to appear in your work clothes, out of breath and slightly dishevelled, when they all had praised your professionalism, and your elegant composure in all the interviews you had performed with them. It was pride, but also your personal brand, that was in the line.

So for a while you had focused back into the meeting, earning approval and corrections in your plans for the following week. All national competitions were over, and now the football branch of your company was turning their focus on complete coverage of the upcoming World Cup, so they had decided to talk about it right then and there since you were going to be gone until the following Monday.

Great.

You took your phone from the leather bag hanging from the back of your chair, and opened the group chat with your boyfriends once again to a picture—the latest message of twenty three.

pedri: [attachment]

pedri: i just arrived

pedri: there's a lot of people

It was a cute selfie, with the curve of his chin slightly cropped and a dreamy background. You could see the beach in the back, thin and darker towards the shore, and the profound blue of the sea that was way darker than the one in the pool to his left, light twinkling over the water. The decorations were a haze of white and esparto grass and straw, and you couldn’t really see who was the player in the table behind Pedri, but there were drinks already half finished.

Still, you could tell he was nervous in the tightness of his sweet smile.

you: here they're still going at it

you: it feels like it will never end

you: going over some world cup prep

You crossed your legs under the table, trying to conceal the fact that you were paying more attention to the conversation held between your hands than to the chosen correspondents to travel to the USA during June and July. You knew your name was among them, because you had signed off those papers two days ago, so you really didn’t need to listen to the same list once again.

ferri: tell them you have an emergency

you: what emergency?

ferri: a relative is in the hospital

You almost snorted, your eyes rolling in exasperation. Ferrán was the one that teased the most when he was in a good mood, but he also had a good sense to understand when you were not in the right place to be teased. The problem with it came when he tried to make you laugh within your sour temper. Most of the time it worked, but not when it was job related.

And after all the risks you had gone over when talking about going official with one of them, it seemed like they didn’t remember a thing and you were the only one still going over all the possible terrible outcomes of a small slip.

you: they will see the pictures tomorrow and know is not true

you: i’m not risking my credibility at work, thank you

pedri: answer to @ ferri: ‘a relative is in the hospital’ that's too much, ferri

ferri: shut up, i'm working on a solution

Now, that was the message you had been fearing. Because Ferrán was not going in a rented car but his own, and he was also the most impulsive out of the three of you, he was more prone to stupid ideas that ended up in chaos—and you were not taking the chance for that to happen.

Your fingertips danced over the keyboard of your phone, deciding what to type, and then you heard someone clearing their throat. 

“Something you want to add?” your boss asked, strict and low, with a wrinkle of annoyance around his sharp eyes.

“No, sir,” you called back, setting the phone screen down on the table like it burned. “All clear.”

8.04PM

By the time the meeting followed the sweet path of the last point in the agenda, your fingertips were already twitching in anticipation to open the text message app in your laptop and check if Ferrán had said anything else about his possible ideas. But every time that you didn’t follow with your gaze the conversation, that you didn’t nod to the words of your coworkers or added your own input, you felt your boss’s eyes over you.

So you waited until the final part of the meeting, when the secretary of the director read the minutes of what you had agreed on during the neverending hours of non stop babbling, to sneakily open a new tab over the wallpaper picture of your hometown.

pedri: ferri, i think some spots in the parking lot are reserved for us so you can park there when you arrive

ferri: got it

You smiled, somewhat relieved, that everything seemed to go according to their original plan. Pedri was already there, having fun, and Ferrán was on his way, ready to spend some nice time with their team in a deserved celebration of their hard work.

You added a message, typing as slow as you could to avoid suspicion.

you: i will try to get out in 5 minutes if they don’t shut up by then

you: i’ll check if i have some extra clothes in my office

you: but if when i get there is too late, i’m going back home

pedri: hey, take it easy, it's ok

pedri: im not trying to stress you, amor

The tip of your friend’s sandal nudged your shin, and your eyes went upwards immediately. She pretended to cough, and proceeded to add some information to one of the points—the one you had been working on about the details in the farewell to Robert Lewandowski from FC Barcelona. Old news, but a nice article to complete all the information from your web.

She left her last sentence hanging just in the right way so you could continue for her, and actually add your voice to the discussion, and when you finished, the meeting continued smoothly.

You winked at her. Nice save.

you: i know

you: we all know what time is it, anyways

you: are there any cameras?

pedri: yeah, a lot. i think everyone sent journalists here

Of course there were. It was not just any football event, where all the companies would send their fair amount of photographers to capture every second, on top also of the usual fans that wanted to earn some signatures and pictures; it was a domestic dinner where sports met privacy and everyone got to have a glimpse of the footballer’s inner circle. Known and unknown spouses and girlfriends, and the way they interacted with each other, feeding the public’s morbid curiosity.

You looked over to your right, where the director of photography seemed as close to falling asleep as you were to flee the room any given minute, and considered the names you had talked about before the meeting, trying to remember if he had mentioned who he had selected to take pictures of the event that afternoon.

you: yeah i know

you: i don’t know who javi sent to cover the entrance tbh

pedri: everything is going to be alright, mi niña

pedri: let me know when you arrive and i'll go out to escort you

pedri: there's no rush

When your boss’s voice picked up in one last sentence before ending the meeting, you tried not to look too eager to leave. You closed the laptop in a heartbeat, and grabbed your bag so fast you almost tripped over the chair on your way out.

You heard your friend, probably confused, throwing some questions at you, but you shouted over your shoulder something messy and quick that you wished it sounded like ‘Talk to you later, promise!’, but really just came out as gibberish in the empty corridor.

The flat sole of your sneakers barely left any sound over the tiled path to your office, and when you arrived, you had less than an exhalation to leave your blazer in the little closet by the corner and take a cute, warm shawl that you kept there for emergency situations like that one. You put the laptop and the agenda into the key-secured drawer of your desk, and grabbed the black heels that you had left under the table some time last week in between meetings and projects.

Then you took off, making sure that the light was off and the door was closed, and didn’t even think twice before rushing to the hallway and down the stairs, too full of adrenaline to take the elevator.

Your bag was big enough to keep the items you had just gotten, and you juggled it with one leather handle over your shoulder to take your phone and check when the next train was going to be. You would have enough time to freshen up and get ready on the way to Castelldefells.

When you unblocked the device, instead, you had a private message from Ferrán:

ferri: i'm outside

ferri: no need to run

And someplace between a heart attack and absolute relief, you sighed his name out of your mouth—there had been a plan, after all. You should have known.

You ran your hand over your face in a defeated gesture, quick feet flowing over the stairs, until you got to the private parking of the building. Not the underground one, more hidden from the public eye, but the one upfront, where everyone could see who parked there.

And in the first row, in a shadow of luxury and care, there was a hybrid model of the Cupra deal FC Barcelona had made with the car company, waiting for you. And leaning into the driver's door, but outside of it, the strong silhouette of Ferrán, with his black, simple T-shirt folding into the curves of his arms with reverence. He was smiling, almost grinning, under the stupid cap he had at least decided to wear to pick you up.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” you muttered under your breath, approaching him like a storm brewing behind the horizon. The afternoon had been a carousel of emotions, but certainly the permanent one since you had started dating them was anxiety at everything Ferrán did that decided not to share with you two.

Like risking your privacy by appearing, out of nowhere, in your work place for everyone to see.

“Get inside,” you all but snapped at him, punching him strengthless in his chest, brows furrowed into the poor attempt of masked anger. You couldn’t stay irritated at him for too long, but every time you had to try a little longer.

“Not even a ‘thank you, amor’?” he asked, the grin still dancing on his lips, but taking the heels from your hand and opening the car for you nonetheless. “Joder, tough crowd.”

You ran to the passenger side, settling into your seat in an exhalation, and prayed for your coworkers to wait a couple of seconds before leaving the building. They were all sports journalists for LaLiga—even with the cap on, there was no way they didn’t recognise Ferrán’s face driving you away. They all would know anyway, when the pictures of your arrival appeared in their mail that night, but there was no need for them to find out beforehand.

“What were you even thinking, amor?” you hissed, lowering your bag in between your legs while he started the car.

“Well, my sweet girlfriend was stressed out of her mind trying to figure out how to get on time to dinner,” he answered, taking his cap off and throwing it in the space between you, then rearranging his hair with one swift move of his hand.

Your heart melted a little at his words, leaning back into the leather of your seat.

“Thank you,” you murmured, and when his free hand found yours in your lap, you held it for a second too long before he lifted it to kiss it.

“I know it was risky,” he told you, and you fought the need to scoff in his face, back to the playfulness that you two usually shared. “But it'll work, I promise.”

“I'm still going to look a mess, but I guess you're right,” you conceded, anticipating the incredulous way he opened his eyes.

“‘I'm right’?” he rested his hand on your thigh, and teasingly squished it, “Walah! Hold on, I need to record it or Pepi will never believe it happened! Can you repeat it?”

Warmth spread over your chest when you heard his laughter and joined him in a fit of happiness, pretending to roll your eyes at him. He hadn't even taken his phone to record it一this was just him messing with you enough to make you relax.

“It's your word against mine,” you said, “and you know my sister is a lawyer, so I'll probably win anyway.”

“Like Pedri wouldn’t take your side just because it's yours,” he added, glancing sideways between you and the road before making a turn. “You don't need no law一Ok, wait, hear me out. In the next red light, which will be in like a minute, I need you to change seats and move to the back.”

You frowned, setting your hand over his in your leg, “Why?”

“Well, I took the liberty to sneak into your apartment on my way to you,” he explained, the enigmatic curve of his lips merely a gesture of mischief. “So, unless I fucked it up, you should have everything you need back there to change.”

“You what一” but you were already looking backwards, his hand leaving the softness of your flared jeans to rest it on the wheel.

In the seat right behind you there was a hanger that you recognised as one of the set of ten you had bought in Ikea when you had first moved out of your parents’ house, an elegant, dark dress flowing into the clean carpet of the car. In your smaller travel bag, tossed carefully over the leather of the car seat, you could see the zip open, but none of its contents.

When you looked back at him, he had a faltering smile plastered on his mouth, clearly waiting for you to confirm if he had made the right call or not.

Instead of trying to word an answer, you slid your hand into his hair and whispered a tender kiss on his cheek.

“Graciès, guapo,” but your eyes were saying much more.

Before you could even begin to notice the reddish hue in his ears he stopped the car, red light right in front of you, as he had promised, and patted you gently in your knee, “Go, go, go!”

You opened the passenger's door in a shriek, and while you heard his chuckles from inside, turned immediately to the door behind, taking the travel bag over your lap and wincing to the loudness of the door when you closed it after you.

“Done!”

Ferrán glanced towards the bag you had left on the floor by his side, putting it where you had been seconds ago, looking for something you could use to cover yourself, and you missed the way he bit his lips in concentration through the rear mirror.

You were too busy going through the stuff he had taken for you, and preparing what you were going to use first. There was a dark, strapless bra, carefully wrapped in its original box, because you didn’t get to use it that much, and a small toiletry bag with some make up.

“Take this,” his voice made you connect your gaze with his in the mirror, and you took your own shawl without thinking twice. “I think it's a little bit see through, but with the tinted windows, and this wrapped around the backrests, no one should see anything from outside.”

“Perfect,” you called, but he knew you had already fallen into the simplicity of your usual routine to get ready. And, as he started to drive again, twenty minutes away from the beach club you were going to, all he could think was that even if it was a little bit see through, the only one to actually see anything would be him一and if that was the case, he wouldn't be too sad about it.

8.22PM

Ferrán had tried his best to behave behind the wheel. He really had, especially when you had asked him to let you know when he was going to stop at any red lights, to work on your make up without unfortunate movements that messed it up.

But at the same time, he was just reckless like that, and even more so when he knew his girlfriend was half naked in the back of his car. It was that haze of trouble in his gaze every time he glanced in the rear mirror and you caught him, and the sinful way in which your dress had flowed over you and you had put it on.

The jeans had been a little bit complicated to take off, but now everything was folded and kept inside the travel bag, and you had your phone in your hands. You were talking to Pedri, you had said, and he felt the vibrations of new notifications in his phone every time you sent a message.

“How’s he doing?” he asked, turning his head towards you.

“He's nervous,” and your voice sounded as agitated as he assumed Pedri would be feeling. He waited for more information, but you kept quiet, still typing, cornered in the further seat to him.

He was a touchy person, he couldn’t help it. His twitching fingertips longed for your presence in the passenger seat, close enough so he could feel you under his hand. But you were putting distance between the two of you on purpose一if he got used to it during the drive to the restaurant, then it would be less difficult for him to keep his hands to himself during the actual dinner.

But seeing you there, with your silky dress, and those thin straps that threatened to slide down your shoulder under the least amount of breeze, he thought it was close to torture. The heels you were going to wear were beside you, black and short and delicate, and the bag he had chosen was discarded by their side, its chain dangling over the carpeted floor of the car.

You were close to your destination, and the closer you got, the more wrinkles that appeared in your dark tinted lips. If Pedri was on edge, waiting and holding the secret of your relationship by himself in the restaurant, he couldn’t even imagine how you were feeling, about to step into the other side of a world you thought you were used to.

“Pedri says in two minutes he will go outside, to wait for us,” you murmured, but you didn’t even look at him while saying so.

“In two minutes we will be arriving, so it's perfect,” he answered, and he tried to sound as reassuring as reassured he wanted you to feel.

There was a pause, a pause of you putting your phone back into the bag he had taken from your so-well-organised closet, a pause that exhaled a sigh from your mouth and into his ribcage, and then he talked again:

“Hey,” and your name sounded so soft when he pronounced it that you couldn't not look at him. “Everything is going to be fine, and I mean it.”

“I know.”

He chuckled under his breath and used the flashing lights. You could already hear the fans screaming names一though you couldn't make out whose name they were saying.

“You know,” he repeated, “but you don't believe it.”

“I know that people will see me exiting your car, and assume I'm your girl, and then I will have to go up to Pedri and act like I'm just his for the night,” you explained, a pained little sound escaping your throat right at the end of the last word, “and it's not fair to you.”

He felt a knot of vulnerability building up in his chest, and said nothing after that. You were too close to security and the slow looming of reality, anyway.

He stopped the car right where the gate of the Casanova Beach Club started, and lowered the window so he could get identified by the agents in charge of security. They gave him the thumbs-up, and he drove a couple of meters to the first free spot in the parking lot.

Silence was beginning to swallow you whole by the time he finally turned the engine off, a myriad of journalists and fans buzzing outside, but he took a second to look at you一really look at you, with his hand in the passenger's backrest and his body turned to you一and smile.

“I love you,” he said, and there was not a glimpse of regret or doubt or the resentment you had expected in his chocolate eyes. “Nothing anyone could say will change that I love you, you and Pedri, and I don't care that I have to pretend to just be your friend out there if that means that I get to love you both quietly when no one is looking.

“Ok?” he asked, a heartbeat later, when all he could see was a shadow of tears in the waterline of your nude gaze.

“Ok,” you repeated, and his smile widened.

“Let's go then.”

He exited his seat gently, all gracious elegance and a troublesome smirk, and he waved at the fans while walking in front of the car to your side, the keys dangling from his hand.

You took his phone from the space between seats to give it to him later, and slid the thin chain of your purse over your shoulder, waiting for him. Your work bag and all the clothes were inside the travel bag, so when he opened the door for you, you gave it to him. He took it with his free hand, and then offered the other to you.

As graceful as possible, you put on the heels, and then rested your hand into his, getting out of the car. In one last look that belonged to you two only, and making sure that his frame hid your words, you murmured, “I love you too, by the way.”

His smirk softened into something sacred, something that disappeared when he remembered where he was, and he just nodded, helping you into the sidewalk.

He went back to the trunk, to leave your travel bag secured, and you just stood in the entrance of the restaurant, in front of the flashes instead of behind for the first time in your life. You felt rather awkward, under the heat of May, still and useless over the pavement. You were not even processing what the journalists were shouting at you, and for a moment your mind betrayed you into the image of a deer caught in front of a car.

You were standing in front of Ferrán’s car, after all, and you felt your heart stammering in the back of your mouth rather sickly.

Until one of the journalists actually said your name, and you abruptly turned in his direction一one of the journalists of your company. You didn't properly remember how he was called, just his surname after hearing it around the office.

And before you could even conjure up a way to smile without looking terribly uncomfortable with the situation, you felt your boyfriend’s hand around your waist. The left one, with no ring in his index, so it was Pedri.

You smelled him first, soft and barely there, then turned towards him, and only that way your smile felt genuine.

“You ok?” he asked, his grip slightly tight over the thin fabric of your dress.

“All good,” you said, resting your hand over his and squishing reassuringly.

“Can I just kiss you on the cheek?”

“If you don't,” Ferrán said, his back to the public as he approached you two, “I will. And then a lot of people will have a lot of questions.”

You giggled, shoulders relaxing now that you had your favourite people next to you, and nodded at Pedri. He lowered a bit his hand, slightly protective over you, and drew a circle with his thumb over the bone of your hip, leaving a cute peck on your cheek.

And as they greeted each other the same way they had been doing for years, the voices of the journalists came clearer, like you had just woken up from a dream and reality was settling around you. It was Pedri's touch on you, Ferrán close enough for his presence to feel grounding, and the multitude of questions about who you were thrown right before you.

Pedri guided you through the entrance, politely waving at everyone while security followed you along the way, and you knew Ferrán was somewhere behind your back. When you got to the outdoors corridor right before the hall to go inside the restaurant, you took a big breath.

You had come all the way already, the rest was going to be the easy part. You knew everyone inside, either because you had interviewed them, or because you had come across their name while investigating for your articles. They would be surprised when Pedri introduced you as his girlfriend, but not necessarily that much.

The hired photographer in front you didn't even ask before taking a couple of pictures of you entering the gathering, and you caught a glimpse of the director of the FC Barcelona already inside, as well as some of your boyfriends’ closest friends.

You felt Pedri's exhalation against your temple when he looked down at you, “Ready?”

You took a glance back towards Ferrán, who was already smiling at you in all supportiveness, and mirrored it with a curve of your lips. You leaned slightly into the Canary Islander next to you, and released the puff of air you had been holding.

“Ready.”

After your first step inside, you heard a big applause coming from the table where Gavi was sitting, and once you couldn't contain the laughter, the rest went as smoothly as it could go.

🍸ㅤ𝗔𝗖𝗞𝗡𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗗𝗚𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦.ㅤi think this fic might be my baby. i'm obsessed with it and i got overboard with it - i created a 2k word document with info about their backstory before being together haha but it's fine. they're cute. shout out to my partner in crime @aaksuitac for always supporting my craziness and being there to 'give me her life if i wrote fedri x reader'. esta vai pa ti, guapa. i hope you guys liked it 🤍

production of maars ! do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[dilemmars]

i left the ferran x pedri x reader fic scheduled at 10.45PM spanish time because im about to board the plane, so ill see you guys' reactions when i land..... hopefully with good news from the match if im not able to connect and see it 🥲

edit: here's the fic

[fishandshesmygills]

the point of fanfiction is to write something so self indulgent that nobody else has thought of it before or cares

[zerocoded]

KISS AND MAKE UP !

You only meant to spend the morning doing absolutely nothing. Your boyfriend, however, has other plans—and apparently no shame whatsoever when it comes to making out with his girlfriend on his parents' sofa.

WARNINGS ◦ sfw content ◦ slow morning makeout with jude there i said it ◦ established relationship bc i'm a lonely bih ◦ detailed descriptions of making out ><

2,892 ━━━━━ drabble jude bellingham x reader

۶ৎ 𝓩 , this is my official ballblr debut... please be kind 😔 i've been spending way too much time on wc twitter lately and those people know how to appreciate fine men, so if this exists... blame them 😝😝

━━━━━ read on ao3

A half-empty mug of coffee sat beside yours, still faintly steaming, while Jude’s was already drained except for the faint ring at the bottom. The blanket you’d pulled over your legs sometime after breakfast had slipped halfway to the floor, one corner pooling near his bare feet. Denise had left earlier for her yoga class; you’d caught her in the kitchen making coffee and the two of you had chatted softly about nothing important while Jude was still half-asleep upstairs. Now the place felt gently emptied out, just the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the occasional distant sound of traffic filtering up from the street below.

You were curled into the corner of the big sectional sofa, legs tucked under you, still in the soft Alo workout set you’d thrown on after your early Pilates class. The fabric was comfortable, slightly sweat-damp from the session, and it smelled faintly of the lavender detergent you used at your own place. Jude lounged at the other end, barefoot in white joggers that rode low on his hips and an oversized black T-shirt that had seen better days. He had one arm stretched along the back of the sofa, the other holding the remote loosely as he scrolled through YouTube with the casual indifference of someone who wasn’t really looking for anything specific.

A football skills compilation started playing, some kid in Brazil doing ridiculous step-overs, and Jude let out a soft huff of amusement, tilting his head. “Look at that touch,” he murmured, more to himself than you, though his gaze flicked your way for half a second. His fingers tapped idly against the cushion near your shoulder, a small unconscious rhythm. You kept scrolling through your phone, smiling faintly at a friend’s story, the comfortable silence stretching between you like it always did on these mornings. No need to fill it.

After a few minutes the video switched to a chaotic British cooking clip, someone attempting to make Sunday roast in what looked like a student kitchen. Jude laughed under his breath, the sound low and easy, and shifted his weight so his leg stretched out, his bare foot nudging gently against your ankle. “You seeing this? Bloke’s about to burn the whole flat down. Reminds me of that time I tried cooking for the lads last year. Disaster.”

You glanced up, lowering your phone a fraction. “You mean the time you set off the smoke alarm making toast?”

“It was fancy toast tho,” he corrected, grinning. His foot stayed resting against yours, warm skin against skin, a casual point of contact that neither of you acknowledged. He reached over without looking away from the screen and stole your phone for a second, tilting it to see what you’d been looking at. “Instagram again? You’re ignoring my superior entertainment over here.”

You snatched it back with a quiet laugh, bumping his knee with yours in retaliation. “Your superior entertainment is a man crying over lumpy gravy. I’m catching up on actual human lives.”

“Harsh,” he said, but his eyes crinkled with amusement. He stretched, the oversized shirt riding up slightly, then settled again, this time scooting a little closer under the pretense of adjusting the blanket. His hand landed lightly on your thigh, just above the knee, thumb brushing once in an absentminded circle before it stilled.

The YouTube algorithm wandered next to a funny animal video, then back to a quick highlight reel of his own goals from last season. Jude watched himself on the screen with a small, self-deprecating shake of his head. “Still can’t believe that one went in. Felt terrible off the boot.”

You set your phone down on the cushion between you, finally giving the screen more attention. The sunlight shifted, warming the side of his face and highlighting the details across his nose that only showed up in certain angle.

Minutes passed like that, easy, unhurried. He commented on the videos occasionally, voice relaxed and expressive, and you offered small replies or teasing jabs that made him chuckle. Jude's hand stayed on your leg, fingers occasionally tapping along to some internal beat only he could hear. At one point he nudged your foot again with his, hooking his ankle loosely behind yours for a moment before letting go, all without taking his eyes off the TV.

Eventually the videos looped into something quieter, a travel vlog through Spanish countryside. Jude’s thumb resumed its slow, unconscious sweep on your thigh. “We should do something like that one off-season,” he said softly. “Just drive somewhere. No schedule.”

You turned your head to look at him properly. He was already watching you instead of the screen, that playful spark still in his eyes but softened around the edges by the lazy morning. “Only if you promise not to turn it into a fitness bootcamp.”

He smiled, slow and genuine, the kind that showed how much he was enjoying his morning off.“No promises. But I’ll let you pick the playlist.” The teasing lilt in his voice lingered, and something in the way you held his gaze made the moment stretch.

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me? Generous of you.”

That earned a quiet laugh from him, warm and close. He leaned in just a fraction, as if to deliver another retort, but the words didn’t come. Instead the look held: comfortable, familiar, the kind built from nights spent side by side and mornings exactly like this. His smile softened further, you smiled back, raising your eyebrows in an attempt to mirror the question in your head: "what's wrong?".

His thumb continued its slow sweep on your thigh, the motion so habitual it seemed he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. The oversized black T-shirt had twisted slightly around his torso from all the shifting, and a faint line from the sofa cushion pressed into his cheek where he’d been leaning earlier.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said after a beat, voice low and a little rough from the quiet morning. The corner of his mouth quirked higher, like he could see the question behind your raised brows. “Just thinking you look comfortable. Proper relaxed. Suits you.” He gave your thigh a light, affectionate squeeze, the kind that said he liked having you here more than any grand statement could. His foot found yours again under the slipped blanket, toes brushing lazily against your ankle before hooking gently behind it, anchoring the contact.

You let out a soft breath of amusement, the kind that wasn’t quite a laugh but carried the same ease. “High praise from someone who just spent twenty minutes watching himself on YouTube.”

Jude chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating faintly where his arm still rested along the back of the sofa near your shoulders.

He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in a fraction more, drawn by the familiar rhythm of your teasing. The travel vlog played on, forgotten now, rolling hills and olive groves flickering across the screen while neither of you glanced at it. His free hand lifted from the remote, landing lightly on the cushion between you before his fingers found the edge of your workout top, tracing the seam near your hip in an absent, exploratory way. Not purposeful. Just the natural drift of touch when words felt secondary.

“Oi, I was scouting technique,” he murmured, eyes still on yours. The Brummie lilt thickened a touch with the lazy drawl of morning. “Important research. You should be impressed.” His thumb brushed higher on your thigh, then stilled as he tilted his head slightly, studying the way the sunlight caught in your hair. The space between your faces had narrowed without either of you deciding to close it, close enough now that you could feel the warmth of his breath, coffee and the faint mint from his toothpaste earlier.

One of his knees pressed against yours, solid and warm through the thin layers of clothing. His fingers at your hip slipped under the hem of your top by a centimeter, not seeking, just resting skin to skin in that unconscious way he did when the morning felt slow and safe.

Then you said something small, half a tease about his “research methods”, and Jude’s eyes crinkled with another quiet laugh. That laugh brought him the last inch. His lips brushed yours lightly at first, almost an extension of the shared smile, the kind of accidental contact that happens when two people are already leaning into the same small orbit. He exhaled softly against your mouth, the sound carrying a hint of surprise and delight, before pressing in again with more intention. The kiss stayed gentle, exploratory, his lips warm and slightly dry from the morning air. You felt him smile into it, the curve unmistakable, and when your noses bumped he pulled back just enough to let out a low, breathy chuckle that fanned across your cheek.

“Clumsy today,” he whispered, voice laced with amusement, but he didn’t move far. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, palm broad and steady, fingers splaying naturally against the curve there as he drew you a little nearer. The other hand came up to cradle the side of your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek in a slow sweep. He leaned back in, the rhythm unhurried, kisses that lingered and shifted, sometimes softer, sometimes a touch deeper, guided by the quiet give and take of breathing together. His fingers threaded lightly into the hair at the nape of your neck, not gripping, just holding with the same casual affection he showed in everything else.

You tasted the lingering coffee on him, felt the faint scratch of stubble against your skin when he tilted his head. Another soft laugh escaped him when your hand found the front of his oversized T-shirt, bunching the fabric slightly. He paused once, forehead resting against yours, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you up close, really looked, the kind of pause that said he was savoring the ordinary miracle of this exact moment.

Then Jude shifted, the sofa creaking faintly under his weight as he rearranged himself. He leaned back more fully into the corner of the sectional, stretching one long leg out along the cushions before patting his thigh in a clear, casual invitation. His gaze stayed on you, playful but soft, the corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar half-smile. “Come here,” he said quietly, voice low and easy, like it was the most natural suggestion in the world.

You hesitated, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes properly. “Really?”

He raised his eyebrows, nodding once with an amused little tilt of his head, as if to say yes, really. “What, you acting shy now?” The teasing lilt crept back into his tone, warm and familiar. “Not like it’s our first kiss or anything.”

Your gaze flicked briefly toward the direction of the front door, the quiet of the apartment suddenly feeling a little more fragile. Denise could walk back in from yoga at any minute. The thought made you pause, even as the warmth of his hand lingered at your waist. Jude seemed to read it on your face immediately. He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

“Oh, c’mon,” he said, patting his thigh again, more insistently this time. “My mum likes you more than me anyway. She knows we sleep together—she’s not blind.” His fingers gave your side a gentle squeeze, reassuring and playful all at once. “She’s probably doing extra sun salutations just to give us time.”

The silence stretched for another beat, your hesitancy still written across your expression. Jude’s eyes softened further, the competitive edge melting into something gentler, more coaxing. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “C’mon baby,” he murmured, the endearments slipping out naturally. “Come here.” He patted his thigh one more time, an open invitation, then added with a low, boyish laugh, “Let your boyfriend have some motivation this morning, yeah? Before I have to go get shouted at on the pitch.”

The words, delivered with that expressive, slightly cheeky grin, finally tipped the balance. You moved, and Jude helped guide you with easy hands on your hips, settling you astride his lap so your knees sank into the cushions on either side of him. The position brought you closer, chests brushing, his oversized T-shirt bunching between you. His hands settled naturally at your waist, thumbs tracing small circles through the soft fabric of your workout set, while he looked up at you with open affection. No rush. Just the same comfortable intimacy that had carried the whole morning, now wrapped a little tighter.

“See? Not bad at all,” he murmured, voice low and warm with that playful lilt, one eyebrow raised like he was proving a point. His hands gave your waist a gentle squeeze, more reassurance than anything else, before one slid slowly up your back, palm broad and steady against the fabric of your top. “Come here,” he added softly, the words almost under his breath as he tilted his chin up.

You leaned down and the kiss picked up where it had left off, slow at first, familiar. Jude smiled against your mouth the moment your lips met, the curve of it impossible to miss. His hand at your waist stayed put, thumb still moving in those absent circles, while the other drifted up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. The contact was constant but easy, like he simply preferred some part of him touching you at all times. When your noses bumped awkwardly he broke the kiss with a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours for a second as he caught his breath.

“Seriously?” he teased, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Every time.” But he didn’t pull away. He just tilted his head the other direction and leaned back in, the kiss deepening a touch, unhurried. His fingers at the back of your neck rubbed gently, a soothing rhythm, while his other hand slipped lower to rest on your thigh, palm warm through your leggings. You could feel the faint rise and fall of his chest against yours, the steady beat of his heart.

He kept the little comments coming between breaths, nothing elaborate, just the natural flow of his thoughts. “Missed this,” he whispered against your lips at one point, the words slipping out like they were nothing and everything at once. When you smiled into the next kiss he let out another soft laugh, the sound vibrating between you, and paused again, forehead to forehead, eyes half-open as he studied your face up close. “You alright?” he asked quietly, thumb brushing along your jaw now, checking in the way he always did: casual, genuine, never making a big deal of it.

You nodded, and he smiled again—the make-out stayed lazy and affectionate, the kind that ebbed and flowed with the quiet morning rather than racing anywhere. His hand on your thigh gave a light squeeze when you shifted closer, then moved back to your waist, anchoring you gently.

Eventually the kisses slowed of their own accord, not because either of you wanted to stop, but because there was nowhere left to rush. They dissolved into smaller moments instead—his lips lingering once against the corner of yours, another absent kiss to your cheek, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. His breathing gradually evened beneath you, the lazy rhythm matching your own until the room fell quiet again.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The travel vlog had wandered somewhere along the southern coast now, the narrator enthusiastically explaining a tiny seaside village neither of you had been paying attention to for the last ten minutes. Sunlight had crept further across the living room, warming the edge of the coffee table and catching the forgotten mugs still sitting where you'd left them after breakfast.

Jude's hand never really stopped moving.

It rested against the small of your back now, fingertips tracing slow, thoughtless patterns through the fabric of your top while the other remained comfortably around your waist. It wasn't an attempt to start anything again. It was simply what his hands seemed to do whenever you were close enough to reach.

You let your head settle against his shoulder, your cheek brushing the soft cotton of his T-shirt. From here you could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath it, slower now than it had been only moments before. His chin came to rest lightly against the top of your head.

For someone whose life was measured in fixture lists, departure gates and recovery schedules, Jude had always been unexpectedly good at doing absolutely nothing.

He never seemed to grow restless in moments like these. There was no instinct to reach for his phone, no urge to fill the silence simply because it existed. He was content to let the apartment breathe around the two of you, to let the television chatter unnoticed in the background, to trace absent patterns against your back without any destination in mind. It was one of the first things you'd learned about him, and somehow one of the things you cherished most.

author's note — no one is going to read this so wtv heheheh BALLBLR PLS ACCEPT ME. cozy makeout with jude >>>>>

[dilemmars]

i will post a ferrán x pedri x reader after the world cup final on sunday! i wanted to write something for pedri as well, based on a spanish song, but if you want to request something for ferrán, pedri or gavi, feel free to send an ask!

edit: here's the fic

[doinggreat]

[glossiercheek]

HIM TAKING CARE OF YOU WHEN YOU’RE SICK   𖤓 ferran torres 𝑥　𝒻!reader 𝄞 warnings: fluffy + he’s jealous of spencer reid :,)

when you woke up with that stultifying fug of dread settled deep within your bones, and that queasy feeling of a thousand hammers digging into your spine, you already knew that today would be difficult.

because now it feels as if the world is burning under your skin. you’re face down in a decorative throw pillow, the smell of warm soup swirling through the air as you feel the sofa dip next to you. from the corner of your eye, you’re able to see ferran’s jean-clad leg.

“babe…” he says softly, concern laced in his voice. you’re pretty sure his brown eyes are set in that evenly concerned stare. ferran’s warm hand carefully brushes your stringy hair out of your sweaty neck, but you’re quick to smack his hand away: “don’t touch me, ferran.” you grumble.

your boyfriend pulls his hand back, albeit morosely, because since when do you call him by his full first name? “you gotta eat, my love,” he tells you, his eyes raking over your blotched cheek, your shaky hands. “c’mon, be a big girl and sit up for me.” his trusty hands still slide around your hips to gently flip you over, help you up.

it pains ferran to see you like this. suffering. even though it’s a regular, simple fever, along with a cold, he can’t help but feel his heart break at the sight of your face, bereft of its usual liveliness.  

you’ve been like this the entire day: your weak, flabby body slung on the sofa like a doll, doing nothing but feeling sick, and hopelessly miserable, and tired. the ache in your body unintentionally impinging your mood. but with a boyfriend as overbearingly sweet as ferran, you can’t help but feel smothered— in a good way, that is. spoiled.

the entire day ferran spent looming over you like an overprotective mother. “you good? hot? cold? heater on?” he asks when you shiver once. when you sneeze, he appears beside you as if a medium summoned him, a box of tissues in hand. or when you adjust the blanket around your body, he immediately assumes you’re cold. “you need another hoodie?” he says, a tinge of eagerness in his voice as he already pulls down the zipper down of his hoodie.

but now the steaming bowl of soup sits in front of you on the coffee table. your throat begs for something warm. your head feels heavy, but still, you try to reach for the remote. ferran, however, is quick to gently push your body back into the soft sofa. “wait— let me,” he whispers, grabbing the remote.

“can we watch something?” you ask, voice still a little hoarse from all the mucus stuck in your throat. your head feels so heavy, you can’t help but immediately rest your head on ferran’s shoulder.

the brunet next to you shoots you a simple smirk. “say less, i already know what you’re gonna pick.” it doesn’t take long before his nimble fingers fumble about with the remote, finding the half-finished criminal minds episode you were watching yesterday.

the two of you watch the rest of the episode in comfortable silence, ferran occasionally bringing spoonfuls of soup to your lips while you look at how spencer reid spits out unnecessary statistical facts, all enamoured.

“still don’t know what you see in him,” ferran mumbles lowly, shaking his head in disbelief, obviously catching your loving gaze at the profiler on the screen. “he’s like— ain’t no way my competition is him?” he throws you an incredulous look.

“he’s just cute,” you admit, a little giggly, all cute with your reddened nose. “don’t worry about it too much, big man. you’re the one i love at the end of the day.” you chuckle gleefully, pushing yourself further into ferran’s warm body.

it’s like his touch is some sort of remedy, his hands around your waist instantly dissolving the dark plum of smoke clouding your mind. “hell yeah,” he says, all smug and proud of himself. he places a chaste kiss to your hair. “take that, spencer reid. she’s mine.”

after finishing your soup, you feel somewhat stronger again. your bones don’t feel like jelly anymore, your head feels clearer. you actually feel strong enough to stand up without ferran having to stabilise your body with an arm snaked around your lower back. 

he soon registers what you’re doing: your motions still a little wobbly and uneven, the empty bowl cradled between your fingers as you try to shuffle to the kitchen.

“whoa— let me handle that,” he jumps up from his seat on the sofa. he wordlessly takes the bowl from your hands, cups your cheek with his free hand. “you just sit, do nothing. you’re sick, baby.”

a/n: bro those psg rumours have me shaking like my g is really leaving barça, there’s no point in denying now. but WHYYY psg out of all clubs like 😭 mans gonna benchwarm. he’s gonna be the first striker againt le havre on a rainy saturday night? like come onnnnn man. against a serious opponent there’s literally no space he can fill i’m so DEADASSSSSS. not as a striker, not on the flanks, not in midfield.

[glossiercheek]

⋆˚꩜｡ DIARY OF A DORK WHO IS HOPELESSLY IN LOVE WITH HIS NEIGHBOUR FROM ACROSS THE HALL ╱ pedri 𝑥 𝒻!reader 𝄞 warnings: he’s a stuttering mess + gratuitous use of italics + pacy writing!

you moved in six months ago and pedri still doesn’t know what to do with himself.

it’s not like you’re a stranger: he’s passed you countless times in the hallway. exchanged short and sweet “hi”s and “bye”s by the dawn’s early light whenever you leave for your part-time job at the bakery you work at, and when he leaves for early morning training. he’s helped you carry your heavy boxes when you just moved in and couldn’t carry them to the eighth floor all by yourself.

hell, pedri even let you borrow his screwdriver when you wanted to assemble a little shelf for your frivolous little fiction books.

and still, pedri doesn’t know what to do with himself. because here he stands, in front of your mahogany door, the golden numbers of your flat number glaring back at him in the bright sunlight. pedri genuinely can’t believe that he, maybe the most promising midfielder in the world right now, is scared to knock on his cute neighbour’s door.

what is he supposed to do with his face? should he smile? look serious? no, his teammates constantly tell him he looks cross when he looks serious. a poker face, then? oh, and his arms. why does he even have arms? what are they good for?

pedri doesn’t have time to think, because just as he’s about to draw his fist up to knock on your door—

“oh, hey, neighbour!” you chirp, almost instantly, as you open your door. did you cut your hair? or dye it? it looks so flowy and your lashes are doing that fluttery thing he likes—

pedri almost tumbles into your flat. your normally 1,74, agile, stable and steady neighbour stumbles into your fucking doorpost like an idiot. he still smells like that putrid smell of sweat from training today. why couldn’t he just spritz some cologne on his shirt, he thinks dourly. and you smell like vanilla clouds on a sunday morning.

“oh— hello! hi, neighbour,” he laughs awkwardly, cheeks all blushy and eyes squinted as he smiles. “i was wondering when you’d be home. not that i— i waited for you to come home. i was just, y’know— you’re my neighbour and all. just, looking out for the good ol’ neighbour,” the brunet trails off, physically feeling his brain shut down as he stares at your pretty, expectant face.

pedri scrapes his throat to brush off the awkwardness. and you? you just stare and giggle lightly at his antics. “anyway— here’s— here’s your package.”

“you good over there, big man? coach wearing you out too much nowadays?” you tease as you accept the parcel.

whereas pedri is awkward, you’re full of self-assuredness. where pedri is a little nervous and jittery every time he finds himself in a conversation with you, you are stable and confident.

not too much, but enough to see through the peephole that your neighbour across the hall has stood in front of your flat door for at least five minutes, too nervous to knock. pacing back and forth, practicing what he should say to you.

“what? no— i’m good. i’m fine— just, champions league prep, you know?” pedri stutters, the redness on his cheeks deepening and the smile on his face wobbly yet straining at the same time.

at his comment, you briefly squint your eyes, a little skeptical. “it’s… july? i thought the champions league didn’t start until september?” you absentmindedly cradle the little cardboard box between your arms, still with an amused look on your face.

fuck. he’s digging his grave deep. very deep. pedri lets out another airy chuckle, waving his hand all dismissively. “you can never be too… prepared? anyway— uhm—” he swallows audibly, pretending he didn’t just blather on about whatever the fuck. “have you eaten yet?”

you shake your head silently, leaning your hip to the doorpost. “was just busy with some paperwork.” you sling your arm towards your little dinner table for two, where your laptop is, and pedri envisions himself sitting there, next to you. maybe there’s a candlestick placed on top of the table while you two eat spaghetti, and there’s some frank sinatra playing in the background—

“whaaaaat? it’s like—” he passes a curt look at his watch, “ten? you gotta eat something.” he huffs out humorously, his big eyes unwavering when they connect with yours.

pedri’s undeniable caring side instigates a warmth — a flame that can’t be put out — within the dark chamber of your heart. and you know what he’s about to do.

fucking finally, you think.

“just forgot.” you jerk your shoulders up, pursing your lips together in a small smile.

damn, even with sleepy eyes and a mellow smile you look precious.

“if you’re down— only if you’re down— we could grab a — y’know — a bite,” pedri proposes, “there’s like, a— uhm, pasta place down the main road. but if you’re busy, i can leave you alone—”

this guy. he’s so endearing, but so, so, so dorky and clumsy. it pains you, but it also melts something solid and untouched within you. before pedri can make himself even more of a stuttering mess, you interrupt him with a simple touch of your fingertips to his forearm to still his wobbly movements.

pedri’s expressive eyes flit to your face. your touch burns him. it sets free at least ten thousand little butterflies in his stomach. it’s the same feeling as going down a rollercoaster.

“sure. give me a couple of minutes,” you say calmly, stepping aside so that pedri can enter your flat. you watch how your cute neighbour from across the hall looks around your space as if it’s a museum.

a tiny smirk spreads across your face upon seeing him in your flat, your humble abode. “now you can tell me aaallll about that champions league prep you’re doing in july.”

[dilemmars]

　　　𝗡𝗢 𝟭 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗬 𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠 　　𝖺 𝗌𝖺𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒; 𝖻𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗎𝗌 𝗅𝗎𝗉𝗂𝗇

✦.　situationship w sirius black　🕰️　yearning angst ── 3519wc !

he's been there before. he met you in that same pub, when his best friend introduced you as the new singer of his group. he came back on purpose, wanting to ask you out, thinking the feeling was mutual, but maybe he just was tragically wrong.

　　　f reader and no use of yn.‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎────── ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎ ‎‎ cw on drinking !

“I didn’t think you were into this sort of thing.”

The whisper of your smooth, suave voice washes over him, and his breath catches in his throat. He didn't expect you to find him in that corner outside the back door of the pub before his ocean gaze could stumble across your figure in the crowd first. He didn't think that it could be a possibility, the fact that you would remember. That you would recognise him, when you had only seen him once.

“What sort of thing?” Remus mumbles, taking a drag from his fag, and you tilt your head slightly to your right, cheeky grin pulling at your lips.

“Y’know, all the noise. The heat, the mob,” you mutter, stretching the silence between words like a gum you forgot you were lazily chewing. “The loudness.”

“Maybe I’m into it when it’s you on stage,” he exhales, the mist from the lit cigarette swirling over you, but he doesn’t take another drag out of it, momentarily frozen.

He can’t believe he just blurted that out.

But you don’t seem to care. You’ve probably had a couple of beers already, he thinks. He can tell in your glossy gaze, in the absence of shivers dancing over your shoulders when the door behind you opens and closes. It’s there, in the way your mouth fills with laughter, in the way it spills into the space between you two when you giggle.

Remus watches you, raising his own beer to his lips, and they glisten with that golden liquid after he finally takes a long swig. He just cracks a slow, magnetic smirk. You’re not able to focus your eyes enough to see the way the corners of his mouth twitch, not entirely confident of looking genuine, but it doesn’t matter. He’s had a couple of beers too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have acted like that—too bold for his usual self, at least around pretty girls.

Then you lean into him, stealing the air out of his lungs with the secrecy of your proximity.

“I hope you enjoy it, then,” you say, whispering once more, despite the fact that it’s just the two of you out there.

Remus's smile falters, thoughts swirling in a haze at the suggestiveness in your voice, too overwhelmed to lean into you as well, but too overwhelmed to pull away. He stands perfectly still instead, fearful that you can hear the heavy pounding of his heart against his ribcage, and holds the cigarette so tightly between his fingers he’s sure it will break.

Because he can feel the warmth of your body next to his, mere inches apart. He can bask in the soft trace of fruity scent clinging to your skin, get drunk on it instead of beer, and he closes his eyes when he realises it’s the aftertaste of some sort of perfume you wear like it’s your name. He noticed it the last time. It’s intoxicatingly delectable.

And then it’s gone.

“Always do,” he manages to choke out, swallowing his shame, but the curve of your body is already a soft shadow on the fogged out glass of the pub’s door. He considers for a moment how long is long enough to avoid appearing desperate for your company, and a beat later he’s throwing away the cigarette—a memory of ashes and you—and stepping on it with his reddish Converse on his way inside.

You are the star of the night, after all—the brightest of them all. The clamped up entrance of the pub eats him alive when he finds his place by his hiding corner. Thick air, laughter clattering around, flickering lights over the crowd. He remembers how he got there in the first place, with a couple of shots already down his throat and his arm thrown over Lily’s shoulders, after joining her and some of her workmates at her place.

They’d had to take the bloody bus, but they had arrived before most of the people still, and he watched his redhead friend and some other girls dance around while more and more people jammed up the space. Remus stuck to his corner, trying to identify who had shown up because they usually went to the pub, and who had attended because of the posters Sirius had put up everywhere the day before, announcing their first gig.

He leaves the empty casket of the beer nearby, not even bothering to check where, and looks at the time in his watch, in a flick of his wrist. Of course you had abandoned him so suddenly, then. The show is about to start, and he’s not sure you were entirely ready when you met him outside—eyeliner smudged, a shirt too big for you sliding down your bare shoulder and a random tie wrapped around your neck like a creative afterthought of a scarf.

But not even three minutes have gone by before the spotlights dim their light, drifting over the multitude until they finally fall over the stage. Remus manages to make out Sirius's outlined silhouette to the right, ebony hair brushing his shoulders as he adjusts his guitar strap. If he tries hard enough to distinguish the shadows in the background, he can even catch a glimpse of the shapes of James' body, behind the drum kit, tossing and catching the drumsticks in a nervous gesture.

He watches the drummer roll his neck, then crack his knuckles like a bad habit. James loves the rush of getting on stage, but in the minutes before it starts he always seems to let the quivers of excitement creep up his tanned arms.

The atmosphere quiets around Remus as one of the spotlights reflects on Marlene's blonde hair, casting darker shades on her roots, and when she bends down to pick up her sticker-covered bass, you finally emerge, attaching your hand to the microphone placed in the middle of the stage almost instinctively.

The lights grow brighter, and Remus notices your gaze dancing over those who had made it to the front row, grinning. He knows Lily is there, ready to support her boyfriend, and for a moment he regrets not having followed her just so he could admire you more closely. You won't be able to flirt with him in the furthest part of the pub—near the entrance, where he’s hidden—, because there is no way you could actually see him.

You raise one of your hands, and the room falls silent.

Mischief beams in your eyes as you bring your lips closer to the microphone, letting the anticipation sink in. You curve your mouth in a sly grin, and Remus thinks half the people in there might fall in love with you if they stare long enough. He knows, because it happened to him. You’re addictive.

“Alright, you lot,” you announce, and your voice seems to drift across the room, “let’s make a mess, yeah?”

As soon as the first thump of James' drumsticks echoes, Remus closes his eyes. Marlene’s bassline takes over immediately after, and suddenly your smooth tone curls around him like a whirl of summer wind. It’s the very same indie cover you were singing when he first saw you, slow-burn and warm, with a melodic heartbeat that makes him twist like a sunflower towards you.

He had never listened to that song until the day before, spilling right from your mouth.

Maroon cherry cola lips, curving into a troublesome gesture as soon as he stepped into the dimmed lights of the pub, Sirius by his side.

Remus had put on one of the leather jackets he had hanging in the hall wardrobe of his shared dorm as soon as he realised he was way too late, collar up and sunglasses perched on the neckline of his old T-shirt. His friends had told him the week before during dinner, absolutely thrilled and too loud even for them, that they had finally found the missing piece in their band. You.

And he had been late for the rehearsal session the day before their first concert, because the previous night perhaps he’d had a little bit too much to drink at Junior’s birthday party, and had not heard the alarm go off that afternoon.

You were in the middle of the stage, sitting lazily on a high stool, and your voice was a wildfire, crackling a cappella over the surfaces of the vast room, while James approached him and Sirius with a shit-eating grin.

“Sounds amazing, doesn’t she?” he asked, with a gleam in his gaze that Remus couldn't tell whether it was the product of his glasses or his lit-up eyes.

“That she does, mate!” answered Sirius, placing an arm around Remus' shoulders, all but ignoring what he had to say about her, the new star of their show. About you.

So he didn’t respond at all. Instead, he let his eyes return to your figure, helplessly, as if gravity were pulling him towards you. You, and your hair messily tied in a ponytail, your wrists full of chunky bracelets, the way that short black skirt moulded to your hips, and how the smudged eyeliner transformed your eyes into something dangerous, as if you'd rubbed them too much—or slept without removing your make-up.

He smiled, without even thinking he was doing it.

You did sound amazing.

Well past the first chorus of the second song—you were warming up, he'd been told—Remus realised he had no idea what your name was. Or any information about you, for that matter, but especially your name: a word that captured the tempestuous mayhem you seemed to be.

He almost hadn't been able to spot the pause that separated the indie song you'd been singing from the original one that was flowing from your vocal cords then, because the music hadn't stopped at any point—the music hadn't started playing at all, in fact, he noticed. You had been creating the whole setting with your voice alone. But Remus could recognise the lyrics he had composed for his friends even with his eyes closed.

In the middle of that room, and with James and Sirius engaged in a conversation he hadn’t even been paying attention to, Remus felt the certainty pounding in his chest that there was no one who could sing those songs like you did.

It seemed like magic, a spell you conjured with your voice, meant to bewitch all those who could hear you.

And then you looked up from the paper in your hands, your lips still spilling with music, and you saw him. Shining under the spotlight, your voice unwavering, the corners of your mouth had twitched upwards, as if you knew him already and just remembered an old joke he'd told you, as if you could turn his life upside down for just a second by his side—almost as if you were singing just for him.

By the time the song had ended, and your lips had met in a mischievous curve, the pub had fallen silent. A dense, soothing silence, like the breathless comfort you feel after an orgasm. Just your ragged breathing, your flushed cheeks, and the hurried way Remus swallowed the lump in his throat before joining in the applause that Sirius didn't hesitate to start.

“Well done, gorgeous!” the guitarist exclaimed, moving away from Remus to get closer to you.

You snickered, your voice still amplified by the microphone, and it got stuck to Remus’ brain as the tune of his new favourite song. He tried to stop looking at you, but his gaze kept going back to your figure in the middle of the stage, and prayed no one realised this absurd addiction.

Then you just hopped off the high stool, your old Docs thudding against the wooden floor, and Remus had heard you whisper, voice slightly hoarse, “‘Right, lads—you're up. I'm gonna take five while you mess about with the instrumental.”

“Been runnin’ through the whole bloody set for ages,” James told him. “Reckons she’s gotta measure up.”

Remus had nodded absently while he watched Sirius help you off the stage—your arms outstretched towards him, him holding you as if you were nothing, his hands curling around your soft skin. He almost hadn’t felt James' pat on his back, chuckling as he set off to join Marlene and Sirius. It was their turn to practise the instrumental part of tomorrow's gig, and then they would practise everything all together.

“Off you go, lover boy!” exclaimed Marlene, all pale undertone for her multiple tattoos and wicked laughter.

As she climbed to the stage, her bass hanging from the strap at her back, Remus stayed behind. He hadn't even had time to process Sirius's response to her, the heat creeping up his cheeks at her remark, when he realised you were approaching him. The slow swaying your hips, when his breath caught in his throat, and then the bittersweet disappointment of realising that you were just fetching some water from behind the bar.

“You do know you’re about as subtle as a brick, yeah?”

“Huh, what?”

You turned slightly, mischievous glint in your eyes as you interjected him, and leaned backwards into the bar, resting your elbows on the wooden surface. 

“A fan of the group?” you asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“No, actually,” he chuckled, trying to find some kind of ease under your cheeky gaze. “I'm—I'm with the group.”

“Oh.”

Your whole demeanor changed as his friends started to play in the background, sharp eyes turning soft and allowing yourself to sip some water from the bottle you had just fetched.

“You've got guts, y'know?” he said, after a heartbeat, dying to keep the conversation flowing with you. “Joining this absolute mess.”

Remus saw you tilting your head, like a confused puppy 

“This absolute mess?”

“Well, Sirius is the definition of attention seeker and thinks he's some kind of guitar God, James plays like he's possessed and trying to wake up half the country and Marlene seems fun but is actually one snapped string away from throttling them both,” Remus chimed, sarcastic grin playing on his lips.

“Well,” you remarked, taking a step nearer to Remus. “That definitely sounds like my kind of mess, if I'm being honest.”

Remus swallowed, feeling your body heat perhaps too close to his.

“Good, then.”

You had taken another step, and he knew right there that what he felt puffing against his chest was that uneven breathing of yours, still ragged from your stubborn singing—but he actually wondered if it could also be his heart, trying to escape from his body.

“Good,” you exhaled, your soft gaze drinking him in, and he had to fight the urge to take in that shared breath with an unprompted kiss.

Or just revel in your closeness and finally give in with that bewitched twitch on his fingertips, ticklish and painfully desperate, dying to touch you like Sirius just had done.

His thoughts had gone too far.

He had just met you a few seconds ago, for Merlin’s sake, and he felt like he knew you for years already.

It drove him insane.

“Do you come here often?” you whispered, lips pursed, eyes on him.

“To—hm, to the pub?”

You shrugged, an ambiguous tilt of your head guiding him to give you an answer.

“Sometimes,” he said, shrugging as well, and you’d smiled—smiled and snickered, like he had just given the only right answer. “Why? You think you might already know me?”

“Oh, I don't know who you are,” and you leaned a little bit more, playing with the boundaries of his sanity. “I would remember.”

“Sure you would,” Remus managed to utter, his Adam's apple bobbing overwhelmingly enough to catch your attention, making you still for a moment and then take a step back.

“Will you come tomorrow, at least?” you asked, and you seemed to really want a real answer that time. “It’s the gig part of your sometimes yes or part of the no's?”

Remus cleared his throat, and nodded even before offering a response.

“I will.”

“Good,” you pronounced, and he saw the way you savoured the word as you said it.

He didn't find the strength to repeat it back to you, and just nodded again, hearing the thunderous beat of his heart on his ears instead of the banging tunes he had composed flowing over from the stage.

He wasn't usually that bashful, even around pretty girls. But you had that magnetic pull that made him forget all the words in his vocabulary, and act like a fool. A foolish bastard, he thought. One look at you and he was absolutely doomed. One look back and he’d found himself wishing you would do to him whatever you wanted, as bad as it could be.

And still, he hadn't even asked for your bloody name.

Remus asks for another beer, a longneck with enough alcohol to make him even more courageous. He starts it with one long sip after thanking the bartender, and leaves a couple of notes over the bar, turning towards the stage.

Night is always young if you have the right people by your side—that much he knows. He doesn’t need to check his watch, even though he wouldn't be able to see the numbers under the dimmed lights of the pub. The gig is still going; he follows the hollows and highs of your voice like a hopeless fanatic. And still, he is sure the night is still young because he is with the band, and those are the best people ever.

Especially you.

You, with the flawless way you enamour everyone in the room and your easy laughter. After the indie cover, you sing that catchy song he came up with one lonely evening when he took the bus home. And then the one he composed with James, that summer night by the pool. He knew the set by heart, but he feels like he is listening to it for the first time.

It’s not his music anymore—it’s yours now.

And the group has chosen to end the gig with a ballad. A painfully breathtaking ballad he wrote thinking about someone he couldn't have, someone too close to his heart but far enough for it to be manageable, and Remus can't help but feel a little bit less broken when he hears you sing those words out loud.

It's like an answer. He bled his feelings into a melody he designed to contain the mourning of a love story that wasn't going to be, and now you repeat it—note by note—looking for him among the audience. 

Your sharp gaze, making out every person in the crowd, jumping from one to another when you realise it's not him, until he moves forward and then you see him.

And you sing to him, soft and quiet and warm—delightfully right. And maybe those are his delusions, but then the chorus picks up its pace, Sirius's fingers drifting among the strings of his guitar, and you smile at him, microphone between your hands, like you’re dedicating each second to the stranger you met the day before. 

So Remus curves his lips, giddy, and makes his way to one of the sides of the stage—the one he knows that has a door to the backstage, where he will approach you, find his words and ask you out.

He's no expert in love, but the eyes never lie.

And you've got something in that clear gaze…

But your voice trembles as you take the microphone out of its pole, surely ready to end the show near the drummer, next to James, as good vocalists do. And Marlene starts to approach the drum kit, as does Sirius, following your lead, running after the sweet end of the song.

James hits it one last time, soft and mellow, and the silence stills for a second.

Before Remus can process the scene unfolding, you laugh—loud and free and wild—and turn to your left, to his best friend, to the ready arms of your guitarist.

Instead of an exhilarated hug, one to shake off the adrenaline of the gig, you caress his cheek and bury your hand into his curly hair, pressing your winery lips to his in a hungry kiss.

Before Remus can understand why you would do it, he realises neither James nor Marlene are surprised, and he just knows it's not the first time this has happened. He sees the light in your face, and the smug grin on Sirius’ as he kisses you again, and knows he should stay—it's your first gig, they would want the feedback, you would too.

Instead, he turns, feeling the lump in this throat growing by the minute, and walks towards the exit of the pub. He should have known better. Of course a girl like you would already be taken. Of course it would be with someone like Sirius and not someone like him.

So he takes his sunglasses from the neckline of his t-shirt and puts them on, wondering. There's no use in looking for love, anyways. The moment is gone.

𝖬𝖠𝖱𝖲𝗧𝗔𝗟𝗞𝗦 . first and foremost, this is a repost from my old marauders sideblog @ lupuslupiin. according to the og post, i got this idea from watching the biopic bohemian raphsody, and also i tried to make it obvious that this is sad, since i got asks about not being explicit enough the first time i posted it haha i hope you liked it cause it took me (embarrassingly) way too long to figure out how to work the past tense with the flahsbacks for someone stuyding english..

production of maars ! do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[dilemmars]

i used to have this side blog exclusively dedicated to marauders content, but since i decided to turn this one into a multifandom one, i'm going to move the remus lupin fic that i had in there to this account..

[dilemmars]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ#SATURDAYNIGHT────ferrántorres .

saturday night or the rest of your lifeㅤ( f reader )ㅤ2843w── warningsㅤslice of life ⋆ domesticity descriptions of making out spanish terms of endearement used are 'guapa' = pretty girl ⋆ 'mi vida' = my lifeㅤno use of ynㅤ⟡ ㅤfluff , proofread ! .ㅤ⸝⸝ㅤclick to masterlist .

A sudden breeze of sweet, Catalonian air slid into your apartment and passed the long curtains you had bought not that long ago for the room you had started to share with your boyfriend. They were beige and soft and barely a whisper of privacy between one of the busiest streets of Barcelona and the giggles you let fall in the space between your mouth and Ferrán’s bare back.

He looked quite silly like that, you had to admit, and he knew it too一you could tell in the giddy gleam in his eyes when he stared at you through the reflection of the big mirror that rested on the wall一, with small chocolate strands of hair clinging to his broad shoulders and random locks pulled back by pins you usually used in yourself. And every time he shifted and the plastic bags stuck to the wooden floor with duct tape rustled, you couldn't help the incredulous chuckle that escaped your lips.

Some of those times, Ferrán could feel it against the back of his neck rather than hear it, barely a puff of breath against his skin, but he tried to stay still to avoid messing up the work you were so tirelessly doing on his head. It was your laugh and the machine sliding against the hair at his nape, while you shaped up his hair.

And when the faint buzz stopped, and you left the clipper cautiously on the floor, he couldn’t help but face you. He had been sitting backwards in one chair you had brought from the kitchen for far too long, his arms resting in the back of it, spine straightened, and now that you had finished he shaked his shoulders, some of the stray strands of hair falling to the plastic on the floor.

“All done?” he asked, an amused smile curving his lips while turning in the leather of the chair. You didn’t say anything to his shuffling, so he changed the way he was sitting, back finally resting for a while, while you held up a finger in front of him.

“Just wait a second,” you instructed, crouching, and selecting one of the scissors you had left among the other utensils, in the part of the carpet that didn’t have cut-outs of plastic bags to keep the cut hair from scattering around.

His eyes closed when you threaded your fingers through his hair, that was still a little bit damp from the water he had poured earlier in the shower, and started to comb and select the parts that you wanted to cut a little bit shorter. That summer he had left it longer than usual, per your request, and that afternoon, when he had mentioned that maybe he should get a trim, you had taken matters into your own hands—quite literally.

Still, now that he had parted slightly his legs to let you stand in between them and work better, it was impossible for him not to hold his hand softly against the back of your thigh, sliding it upwards while you suppressed a knowing grin, tongue poking to your cheek inside your mouth.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, tugging tenderly at his hair as a warning, knowing that he was going to ignore you and slid his hands under the clear T-shirt you had bought in the regional festivities of his village, in March, when visiting his family.

“What do you mean?” he retorted, eyes not leaving your face, and waiting for you to finish using the scissors to pull you by the curve of your ass to fall into his lap. You grabbed his shoulder with your free hand in a squeal, but gave in to the warmth of his embrace.

“You know you’re making it really hard to work like this,” you said, scrunching your nose with a chuckle.

“I think you’re managing just fine,” he shadowed your cheeky gesture in a heartbeat, his thumbs drawing circles in the skin below your ribcage like a mantra when they settled on your hips.

It was almost done—his new haircut and the music album you had started playing in your speaker before sitting him down in the chair—and you knew it hadn’t fallen into his plans to spend nearly an hour without you tucked tightly next to him in the couch, especially when you had already organised a hangout with his friends and time was running against his love for cuddles. But as you kept trimming and pulling out pins and doting over your boyfriend’s hair, you felt him sigh, leaning slightly towards you.

Your hand faltered, not risking it to cut now that he had lowered his head.

“We should start getting ready in a while,” his voice was low in the sensitive crook of your neck, and you combed through his hair a couple more times before resting your hand over the slight stubble of his jaw, softly making him meet your gaze.

“You don’t sound like you want to go.”

He leaned into the palm of your hand, breathing out half a laugh, half another sigh.

“I might not be that eager to go anymore, to be honest,” he confessed, and you felt him flush in embarrassment under your skin, darkish eyes avoiding yours. “I’m not tired, but…”

“We can just stay here,” you proposed, tilting your head to one side.

His chest puffed against yours when he exhaled yet a third sigh, but he pecked your lips before you could say another thing. He really looked like he wanted to just stay at your apartment, have a nice evening cooking together, and then maybe watch a movie—the usual tradition in slow weekends—but he was also very adamant with respecting his friends’ calendars, and he was not about to cancel on them when it had been somewhat difficult to agree on a date where everyone was free.

You knew it, so you didn’t push, and instead kissed him back with a kind smile on your lips.

Then he slid one of his hands higher under your T-shirt, lifting it slightly, and then both of them down, down, just under your ass, like he couldn’t decide how to hold you when you turned so pliable under his touch. You shuddered over his lap when he pulled you closer to him, and he opened his mouth for you in a silent exhalation when you teased him with your tongue.

Temperatures had been rising all day, but now that the June heated daylight dimmed into a chilly evening, it was the way he tightly dug his fingers into your bare thighs, fingers twitching from time to time, that gave away how hard he was trying to hold back. You were on a schedule, you whispered distractedly into your mind, too lost into Ferrán’s sweet, deep kisses, like you already knew you were going to ignore yourself.

But then you cracked one eye open to take a look at him, your free hand halfway into pulling his freshly cut hair, the other tightly gripping the scissors and the comb you forgot you were holding, and you managed to exhale a breathless laugh when you untangled your mouth from his. You hadn’t even realised the music from your speaker had come to an end.

“All done?” you murmured against his lips, and his eyes gleamed at you repeating his words when he finally opened them.

“Unfortunately,” he said back, clearing his throat.

“I think we officially should get ready to go out,” but instead of standing up, you left a chaste peck on his mouth.

“We should,” he parroted, already turning the blissed out expression on his face into a teasing gesture.

“We don’t even know what time it is,” you added, giving him another kiss, and then breathing in like you were preparing to list more reasons to stay home.

After that kiss, your judgement was a little clouded. Ferrán could see it in your eyes.

“We don’t,” he repeated again, but you both knew you only had to turn to your left to check the small clock on the wooden nightstand.

“Maybe we could—” 

A shriek pierced through your room when Ferrán took you in his arms, standing up suddenly, and you dropped the scissors and the comb to hold onto his broad shoulders, heart stammering against your ribcage, laughter loud with joy. You tightened your legs around him, and the plastic bags you had set in the floor, under the chair, shuffled under his bare feet when he turned and whirled with you clinging to him.

“Stop, stop!” you giggled, closing your eyes, while all the colours in your room faded into the background until you could only see him. His face, his wide grin, and the space between his Adam's apple and your mouth.

He chuckled outloud, holding you as tight as you were gripping him, and after another twirl he set you into the bed, slightly out of breath. He tried to rest his weight with his hands around your head but ended up halfway standing, and you settled between his knees, sitting up with your weight resting on your elbows.

“We have twenty minutes to get ready, guapa,” he let you know, his hands still warm over the sliver of skin between the rolled up T-shirt and the waistband of your underwear. “We can stay at home tomorrow.”

“Okay,” you agreed, taking him by the drawstrings of his short sweatpants, and he leaned down to give you a kiss. “You can take a quick shower to get rid of all the hair that fell to your shoulders, and I’ll tidy this up.”

“We can do it when we’re back,” he protested, feigning a pout, “together.”

“You goo…” you sing-songed, pushing him back with your palm in his chest, “I’ll take care of it. You know we’ll be back late and then we won’t want to do anything besides sleep.”

He gave you an incredulous look, followed by a teasing wink, but complied with your words, and entered the bathroom in a couple of quick steps. You shaked your head, still smiling, and left the comfort of your bed to go pick up all the stuff that you had used to cut his hair, putting them in the towel you had left over the chest of drawers next to the balcony door.

You parted a little bit the curtains, peaking outside, and let the remaining golden rays of sunlight wash over you一it was not night yet, not yet either time for the longer days of the year. You closed the glass door after you, and cleaned up the floor, and the hair, and the mess you had made in pretending to be a hairdresser, while Ferrán started the shower and you let his sweet dogs into the room.

It had turned into a natural routine, you realised. 

Not that long ago, you had secured a good job that allowed you to rent a small apartment in the center of Barcelona all by yourself, and now everywhere you looked there was a little bit of your boyfriend whenever you looked. He had started to leave little details of his life all over your things in the same way you had done at his house, and lately you had started to divide the days of the week into in which bed you were sleeping at night一sometimes alone, but most of the time, next to each other.

That weekend you had chosen your apartment because it was closer to the restaurant Ferrán and his friends usually went to have dinner with when they gathered outside of the football pitch, and you would end your Monday in his bed, with his dogs guarding your feet. It was way calmer over the months he was on vacation, and you were able to enjoy a visibly relaxed boyfriend by your side, even if you still had to work most of the days he rested.

When you entered the bathroom, halfway done with your make up, Ferrán had left the shower, and he splashed some water droplets over you, making you wince and stick your tongue out at him. You had stubbornly decided to play more music even though you would have to turn the speaker off in a couple of minutes, and Maroon 5 was singing when Ferrán walked into your room, only a towel around his waist, to change into something else.

You sighed as you finished with your lip combo, doing your hair into a quick bun. Your boyfriend didn't take that long to get dressed, and you still felt giddy when you had gone to your wardrobe to pick up a nice dress and some sandals, and found half of it occupied with his clothes. You took your time, hearing the soft ruffle of his dark jeans when he put them on, and how he sneakily changed the song that was playing.

“Ready?” you heard him ask over the new record, while he sprayed some cologne.

You shouted back a “Yes!” which you both knew meant you still had to choose accessories, and he was to take your bag as he waited, making sure that you had enough battery in your phone. And with that non-rehearsed complicity, in less than five minutes he was closing the front door of your apartment with the keys you had given him two months ago, leaving two sleepy dogs on your couch, and intertwining your hand in his.

“Do you think Laura will be there?” you asked, leaning your back slightly into his chest as you rode the elevator, “Last time she wasn't able to come and I'm not sure she actually likes me.”

He chucked as he left a quick peck to the top of your head, hands sliding around your torso “You only saw each other twice. And one was at an event.”

You pouted, turning in his embrace so he could take a closer look at your pitiful gesture, and asked him if Dani Olmo, Laura's boyfriend, had said anything about it.

“No, I haven't asked him if his girl has talked shit about you with him,” he said, sarcasm curving his lips into his signature smirk, “but I'll make sure to ask him next time we're alone.”

“That's not fair,” you protested, taking your purse from his shoulder when you got to the ground floor, and he waited for you to exit first, even though he knew you were going to storm out, pretending to be offended.

“I know you want her to like you, mi vida,” he conceded, falling into pace beside you, his arm around your waist, when you got to the street. “But you just met her. I'm sure before preseason starts you'll be texting, at least. She's pretty reserved.”

You leaned into him, embracing him, happily sighing, and just nodded.

“I’m happy to see the boys, though,” the tightness in your shoulders halfway gone, feeling less pressured into the company you would have at dinner. “It's been a while.”

“Yeah, that's cool,” he answered, guiding you through the few streets between your place and the restaurant. “I get to show you off a little bit. You're always busy.”

“You are the busy one,” you scoffed, grabbing onto the fabric of his light jacket to bring him closer to you. “Barça's precious shark.”

He just cockily smiled at your words, and you punched him softly into his side, making him laugh. He set you up, sometimes, because he knew you always avoided bringing up the public side of his job unless he started the conversation一just in case he didn't want to talk about it. As relaxed as he felt on vacation, he was in the mood to joke around about it, which said a lot.

“Besides, you already see the boys all the time,” you added, gazing at him. You could see the sign of the restaurant getting closer, all bright, golden neons and elegant furniture through the glass of the window. “You work with them.”

You managed to catch a glimpse of Pedri inside, sitting next to Eric一you thought you had seen his car parked a block from there一both of them engaging in a conversation that had a lot of laughter and some hand gestures from the latter. Their presence meant that if they already were inside, then Dani and his girl were probably too, they just weren’t in your sight.

You were not usually late, but if they arrived earlier than you, they liked to tease Ferrán for being the last one. Because the last one was always late, even if according to the clock he was on time. Any excuse was good to mess with each other.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ferrán said, opening the door for you. His smirk had trouble written all over it. “It's been too long since the last time I saw Pedri.”

You almost tripped at that, holding onto his forearm while he laughed. You were used to this, but you answered either way:

“一you saw him two days ago!”

author 's noteㅤ✶ㅤhello againnn! this is the first time in a whole year i actually felt like i was in the right state of mind to flow while writing. call it ferrán's magic if you will haha i hope it doesn't suck too much because it sure feel like it while i edited it, be patient with me while come out of this writer block i was in. hopefully you liked it! 🤍

production of maars ! do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.