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⤷ ゛WELCOME TO MY BLOG ˎˊ˗
಄ MERI ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀⠀ ⠀♱ ⠀ BRAZILIAN GIRL ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀⠀⠀she⋆
𐙚 ̊. jjk, naruto, attack on titan & barcelona
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Eren Yeager, having to deal with a jealous brother. ˖ ࣪⊹ Eren Yeager x reader!ackerman
Being an Ackerman brought her many responsibilities, even so young. It was his first official "mission" without his brother by his side, to help in the arrival of Shiganshina refugees. And it was from that day that you had to put up with an older brother, jealous Levi Ackerman.
If only I could remember my school work the way I remember fanfiction.
Rio de Janeiro - Brasil
how i look getting nervous to search a new character name knowing damn well i’ll be reading the filthiest smut about them in less than 24 hours
How it feels logging onto Tumblr to read fics after joining a new fandom
How I look after reading angst as if it was me personally in that situation
we need a jealous lamine fanfic!!!!!!!
JEALOUS BOY
Pairing: Lamine Yamal x Reader
Warnings: fluff, mention of y/n. Jealousy.
Author's notes: Oh Lamine, date me 😭 (my birthday is on the 7th) DON'T TRANSLATE.
Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789
My native language is not English! So if there are spelling mistakes, it's just my bad English and the translator.
The sun from the coast of Barcelona was setting, painting the sky with oranges and roses over the group of friends scattered on the towels. Lamine Yamal, with a wide and carefree smile, had just returned with an ice box full of drinks, distributing them with jokes. You, your girlfriend, watched him with an affection that still felt butterflies in your stomach, even after a few months together.
He bent down to give her a quick and salty kiss from the sea. "How are you, princess?"
"Perfect," you replied, snuggling on your shoulder.
That's when Lucas, a friend of a friend from Lamine's team, arrived. Tall, blond, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. The presentations were brief, and soon the group plunged into a lively volleyball match.
Lamine was a hurricane on the field, agile and competitive, his attention completely absorbed by the game. It was when you moved away to get more sunscreen in your bag, under the parasol, that Lucas appeared.
"Do you need help? This your back is... unprotected," he said, his voice a tone lower than necessary, discreetly blocking his exit.
You forced a smile. "No, thank you. I can do it."
He got closer, ignoring his discomfort. "You know, I saw you and thought: 'How did Lamine, a boy, get a woman like that?' It must be too lucky."
The sentence fell like a bucket of cold water. "He's not a boy. He's my boyfriend," you replied, your voice firm, but the embarrassment burning your face. You looked at Lamine, who was celebrating a point, alien.
In the following moments, whenever Lamine got distracted - helping to fix the net, looking for a ball further away - Lucas appeared. An invasive compliment here, an "accidental" touch on the arm there, a very personal question. You tried to move away, give short answers, but he was persistent. The worst was the look of complicity he threw at the others, as if you two shared a secret, which only increased your discomfort.
Lamine, at first, didn't notice. Until, during a snack, he saw you shrink when Lucas sat very close, under the pretext of passing the juice. Lamine's face closed. A dark cloud passed through his eyes, usually so bright.
On the way back to the towels, he grabbed his hand harder than usualy.
"Are you enjoying the attention?" The question came out rougher than he intended.
You stopped, shocked. "What? Lamine, no."
"I saw him glued to you all the time. And you didn't even move away properly."
The injustice of the prosecution made his eyes burn. "I moved away! He's insistent, and I didn't want to create a mood... You were busy playing."
"Create a climate? So there's a mood?" His voice was loaded with a youthful ferocity, the new and raw jealousy, which he still didn't know how to dose.
The discussion was brief, but cutting. You moved away, sitting alone on the water's edge, feeling small and misunderstood. Lamine stayed behind, ruminating on his own words. He saw your dropped shoulders, the way you hugged your knees, and pride began to fall apart, replaced by a sharp shame. He was wrong. Very wrong. He, who should be her safe haven, had discounted in her the insecurity she had felt when she saw another man invading her space.
He approached and sat on the sand next to him, in silence for a moment. The sound of the waves filled the gap between them.
"I'm an idiot," he said, his voice hoarse, without looking at you. "A complete and selfish idiot."
You didn't say anything.
"I saw you uncomfortable. I saw and ignored it, because what I felt was stronger. It was anger, jealousy... a new thing that scared me. And instead of protecting you, I attacked you." He finally turned his face, and his eyes were sincerely distressed. "You didn't deserve this. You deserved me to ask if you were okay. That I put that asshole in place. I failed. And I'm sorry, really. Forgive me?"
His fury dissolved before his genuine humility. You took your hand. "I'm also sorry for not being clearer. He made me very embarrassed, Lamine. I just wanted it to stop."
He raised his hand and kissed his knuckles. "He's going to stop. I'll guarantee it. And I'll learn to deal with it better. I promise."
The reconciliation was sweet, sealed with a soft kiss that tasted of forgiveness and promise.
The day followed, and the group gathered around an improvised bonfire. Lucas, feeling that the initial tension had passed, saw his chance. While Lamine was talking to another friend, he leaned towards you, who was roasting a marshmallow.
"It looks like I made peace with the prodigy boy, huh?" he whispered, with an air of superiority. "Thank good. Now we can talk without... intermediaries."
Before you could react, a figure got in the way. Lamine was no longer a few meters away. He was there, next to him, and his arm found his shoulder naturally, but his posture was of absolute firmness.
"Lucas," Lamine's voice was calm, clear, cutting through the night air. Everyone stops talking. "I think you misunderstood some things today."
Lucas tried a carefree smile. "What do you mean, Lamito? I was just being friendly."
"No. You were being inconvenient. Persistent. And it made my girlfriend uncomfortable. Several times." Lamine looked at the friends around - Pedro, Ana, Marc, Carla -, people who knew you both. "We don't tolerate this. None of us."
The silence was heavy. Lucas laughed, nervous. "What an exaggeration, man. It's just a joke."
It was Ana who spoke, her voice usually sweet, now firm: "She wasn't laughing, Lucas. We saw it."
"It's true, bro," Pedro added, crossing his arms. "The stop was weird. Better to make sure."
Lucas looked from one to the other, realizing that he had no support. The mask fell, revealing spite. "Oay, then. The boy prodigy club is exclusive. You don't need to be offended."
"It's not a club," Lamine concluded, his natural authority, usually used on the field, taking care of the situation. "It's respect. And here, you haven't shown any. I think you'd better go."
No one moved a finger to stop him. No one protested. Lucas, defeated and embarrassed, took his things and fell, swallowed by the darkness of the beach.
The relief that invaded you was physical, like taking a weight off your shoulders. Lamine turned around, and instead of triumph, his face showed only concern. "Are you okay now?" he asked, just for you.
You nodded, a true smile finally returning to your lips. "Everything. Thank you."
The rest of the night was perfect. The bonfire crackled, the stories flowed, the laughter returned, louder and more genuine. Lamine didn't leave his side, his touch was constant and comforting, not possessive. He had learned, there, in the sand, that protecting was different from arresting. And you had learned that you could count on him, even when he stumbled.
Lying later, with your head on his chest, listening to the sea and your heart beating in unison, you looked at the stars.
"Today was... intense," he murmured.
He kissed your hair. "It was. But in the end, it was good. I learned. And most importantly: you're safe."
Pedro here is not pedri, Ana here is not Ana from gavi and Marc here are none of our marc's! And Lucas was inspired by the idiot asshole who was homophobic with me just for dating a woman
Heard you need something for Marc Bernal - Hear me out
Him telling the Reader to be ready at 7pm for him to pick her up, because he planned a picknick at the beach (he set everything before, to surprise her) and after eating, laying, cuddling, kissing a while -when the sun set- marc grabs her and they run with clothes into the beach and play around.
BEACH DAY
Pairing: Marc Bernal x Reader.
Warnings: fluff, mention of y/n.
Author's notes: Addicted to him 🙈
My native language is not English! So if there are spelling mistakes, it's just my bad English and the translator.
The ringing of the cell phone brought the message that made his stomach wrap with anticipation, even after all those months.
Marc: Be ready at 7pm. Punctually. I'll pick you up.
The simplicity of the order was misleading. You knew, by the peculiar cadence of his words, that there was something behind that firmness. No "please" or "if you can". It was an instruction, a soft command that promised something up to obedience.
At 7 p.m. sharp, his car parked in front of him. When he opened the door, his heart jumped. Marc Bernal was not wearing his usual stylish clothes. He wore a simple white T-shirt and light pants, and the back seat was occupied by a sturdy wicker basket and a soft blanket.
"What is all this?" You asked, getting into the car.
One side of his mouth rose, in one of those rare and precious smiles that were only his. "One thing or another. Trust me."
He didn't give any more explanations. The trip was accompanied by a playlist that he had made himself, songs that were like soundtracks of his moments alone. And when the car stopped, it wasn't in a fancy restaurant or a viewpoint, but in the parking lot of an almost deserted beach, the air loaded with salt and the night breeze that began to blow.
"Let's go," he said, taking the basket and the blanket with a naturalness that made it clear who carried the weight of the things.
He had thought of everything. The blanket was big and thick, weighing on the still hot sands. The basket revealed cheeses, fruits, crispy breads and a bottle of sweet wine that he knew was his favorite. Nothing was said at random; every detail was a silent proof that he noticed, he remembered.
"Did you do all this?" You murmured, impressed, as you settled face to face with him.
Marc just shrugged his shoulders, filling his glass. "I wish it was perfect."
And it was. They ate laughing at silly things, his fingers meeting theirs to get a piece of bread, their eyes meeting and deviating, loaded with a heat that rivaled that of the day that ended.
When the last crumb disappeared and the sun began its glorious descent, painting the sky orange and purple, he rearranged things efficiently and stretched out his arm. "Sit down here."
It was an invitation, but it sounded like a place where you had always belonged. You fit sideways, your back against his warm chest, and he wrapped you, his strong arms creating a fortress around you. His chin rested on the top of his head, and for a long moment, there was only the sound of your waves and synchronized breathing.
Then, he turned slightly, and his lips met his temple, then the curve of his cheek. A soft kiss, almost questioning. You turned around more, and the question was answered. The kiss deepened, slow and deep, a taste of sweet wine and the promise of twilight. His hands got lost in his hair, and his in the fabric of his T-shirt, pulling him closer, as if it were possible. They kissed until daylight was just a golden thread on the horizon and the stars began to blink, shy.
Suddenly, he moved away, his dark eyes shining with a light you knew well. A light of mischief, of impulsiveness.
"Are you ready?" He asked, his voice a little hoarse.
"For what?"
He didn't answer with words. In a fluid movement, he got up and, in an instant, took you in his lap, as if you weighed no more than a feather. You gave a surprised little scream, clinging to his neck.
"Marc!"
"Shhh," he laughed, a low and victorious sound. And then he started running.
He ran towards the water, with you in his arms, the clothes of the day entirely inadequate for the game. The night breeze howled in his ears. He didn't stop at the edge, entering through the cold foam that broke on his legs, until the water hit their waist.
"You're crazy!" You screamed, laughing, trying to let go.
"I'm crazy about you," he replied, without any trace of embarrassment, and then, with a playful grunt, he simply threw himself back, taking the two to the dark and refreshing waters.
The water enveloped them, and for a second, the world became silent and underwater. When they emerged, panting and soaked, his hair was dripping on his face, and his was open in a wide, genuine smile, one of those that he reserved only for the moments when he forgot to be strong all the time.
He pulled her close again, in the water, the bodies fitting perfectly between the soft waves. And there, under the first glow of the moon, with the heavy clothes stuck to the skin and the smell of the sea in everything, he kissed her again. And you understood that the surprise had not been the picnic, or the sunset, or even the crazy race to the sea.
The surprise was that: to see Marc Bernal, the man of steel, falling apart in laughter and rushing, just because it made her laugh. And in that salty kiss, you tasted the sweetest flavor of all: that of being, unquestionably, his reason.
Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789
Don't translate
hi darling! feel free to ignore but i noticed your requests are open and i figured i’d request a joao felix fic, idm the length, you can be as creative as you want but ill give you saudi as a prompt and do as you wish with that!
love you and your fics! xoxo - s ❤️
LISBOA
Pairing: João Félix x Reader
Warnings: fluff, mention of y/n. A little Portuguese
Author's notes: I didn't understand your request very well, because the translation is wrong. So I did what came to mind and sorry for the delay of months 😭
My native language is not English! So if there are spelling mistakes, it's just my bad English and the translator.
The sun of Lisbon dressed the city in a golden mantle, and the smell of the Tagus mixed with the salty breeze that rose from the hills. You walked next to João, your intertwined hands swinging gently between them. For you, that wasn't just a simple walk; it was an immersion in his childhood steps, in the memories he carried in his accent and look.
"Are you enjoying it?" He asked, his accent softly musical, as they went down a cobbled street in Graças.
"I'm loving it," you replied, trying to imitate the intonation. "But I'm a little lost. Everything is so... new."
João smiled, one of those smiles that reached his eyes, full of mischief and sweetness. "New is good. And today, let's deal with the most important thing: the food. Forget the guidebooks. You're going to taste my Lisbon."
The first stop was in a small pastry shop with the intoxicating aroma of sugar and cinnamon. A gentleman in a white apron greeted João with a familiar nod.
" Dois doces de creme e dois galões, por favor," João asked.
In seconds, they were in front of two small golden wonders, sprinkled with cinnamon. You observed the deliciousness, the puff pastry looking fragile like porcelain.
"That's how it is," he instructed, taking one. "Give a little bite on the side, to let the steam out. Be careful, they always burn."
You followed the advice. The peel snapped under his teeth, hot and buttery, giving way to a silky, intense and slightly caramelized vanilla cream. His eyes widened.
"Oh, my God, João," you exclaimed, with your mouth still half full. "This is... heavenly."
He laughed, satisfied. "It's the taste of coming home after a game away. It's the smell of Sunday mornings. Keep a special place here," he said, pointing to his own chest.
While they were drinking the gallon - a creamy coffee with milk that you thought was perfect to accompany the sweetness of the pastel - João pointed to streets and squares, telling stories of when he was a kid and ran around with a ball in his feet.
The next stop was a tiny tavern, with blue and white tiles covering the walls. The air was heavy with the aroma of garlic, coriander and fresh fish.
"Now, something more serious," he announced, with a conspiratorial air. "You will try cod pastries with tomato rice."
They sat on a high counter, and soon two golden and crispy balls appeared before them, accompanied by a vibrant red rice.
"Cod?" You asked, hesitantly.
"Trust me," he encouraged, with a soft look.
You cut a piece of the cod pie and dipped it in the tomato rice. The combination was an explosion of textures and flavors: the crispy outside of the cupcake, the creamy inside of shredded cod and potatoes, and the comforting acidity of rice. It was substantial, homemade, a hug in the form of food.
"It's amazing," you muttered, surprised. "I never imagined that cod could be like this."
"It's our soul, this fish," he explained, proudly. "It's hard to prepare, but in the end, it's always worth it. Like everything that is good in life."
They walked further, digesting the meal, until João stopped in front of a kiosk. "To finish in sweet," he said, buying two queijadas. The small curd pie was sweet, slightly acidic and melted in the mouth.
As the sun began to descend, painting the sky with shades of orange and purple, they sat on a wall of a viewpoint, the city at their feet.
You looked at João, his profile illuminated by the light of the late afternoon. He seemed more relaxed here, more himself. The city was an extension of it, and you were finally beginning to understand its colors and flavors.
"So?" He asked, turning to you, his knee touching yours. "What do you think of my land?"
You didn't answer right away. Instead, he took his hand to his face, caressing his unmade beard.
"I'm learning," you said, softly. "Learning that your wider smile appears after a pastel de nata. That your voice gets softer when you talk about the smell of cod at your grandmother's house. I'm learning that tasting Portugal is like deciphering yourself a little more. And I like the taste of both."
João held his breath for a second, his gaze getting lost in his. The noise of the city seemed to fade around him. He leaned over and kissed you, a slow and sweet kiss that tasted like cinnamon, sea and longing.
When they parted, he leaned his forehead against hers, a tender smile on his lips.
"Then you have to come back," he whispered. "Because you still have a lot to prove. And I can't wait to see your face when you taste a cherry."
You laughed, your heart full of a new and delicious happiness. At that moment, under the sky of Lisbon, you were not just a visitor. It was part of his landscape, his history, a new flavor to be discovered and savored, together.
Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789
Don't translate.
Hello, Can you write something for Marc Bernal. Where they are roaming around in another city and an old couple notices them and compliment them for being so in love with each other.
Thank You☺️
.
YOUTH
Pairing:Marc Bernal x Reader
Warnings: fluff, mention of y/n.
Author's notes: I idolize him so much, I want him all to myself.
My native language is not English! So if there are spelling mistakes, it's just my bad English and the translator.
The afternoon sun gilded the stone facades of the unknown city, and every corner hid a surprise. It was in one of those cobblestone streets, narrow and full of stories, that Marc Bernal and you got lost on purpose, leaving the map in the back pocket of your pants as an invitation to chance.
He walked next to her, his fingers intertwined swinging slightly between the two, a silent pendulum that marked the quiet rhythm of that exploration. They stopped to admire the window of an old stuff store, full of broken clocks and books with worn spines, when a soft voice, loaded with the accent of the place, cut the air.
"Just look at you two."
They turned around at the same time. On a small wrought iron bench, an elderly couple watched them with eyes that time had filled with a deep sweetness. He, with his hands resting on a staff, she, with a wool shawel on her shoulders, despite the heat.
The woman smiled, and the corners of her eyes were filled with a map of fine lines. "Hifty years ago, my Eduardo and I were like this," he said, his voice a velvety whisper. "We walked the streets of Lisbon, lost in the world and found in each other. Their eyes shone just like yours now."
Eduardo, the man next to him, nodded, his own memory dancing on the surface of his gaze. "It's the light," he agreed, his voice deeper, but equally tender. "There is a special light around two hearts that beat at the same beat. You can see from a distance. It's like a soft lighthouse."
Marc, who until then had observed in silence, lightly shook his hand. A soft blush rose to his faces, but it was not of embarrassment, it was of a warm and expansive happiness. He looked at you, and in his dark eyes you saw reflected not the compliment of the strangers, but the confirmation of what both already knew.
"Thank you," Marc said to the old people, his voice a little more hoarse than usual, loaded with emotion. "Yeah... it's a beautiful place to be lost."
"The best way to get lost is with the right person," the lady philosophized, blinking an eye. "Don't miss it. Keep that shine. The world needs more headlights like yours."
With a last nod, the couple got up and went on their way slowly, leaning on each other, two shadows that merged into one on the irregular pavement.
When they turned to continue, the world seemed quieter, more focused. Marc stopped, gently pulling him into the shadow of an arcade. He just put his hand on his face, his thumb caressing his temple, and leaned his forehead against hers. His smell, familiar and safe, mixed with the aroma of jasmine that came from a nearby garden.
The praise of those strangers had dissipated in the air, but the truth he carried had taken root. In that silence that spoke louder than any word, under the sky that witnessed endless love stories, you were simply... found. And it was more than enough.
Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789
hi!!! can you do one with reader being raphinha’s little
sister and having a huge crush on hector/ pau cubarsi, (u can decide) , fluff please!!! thank uuu🤍 have a wonderful day
SWEET LOVE
Pairing: Pau Cubarsi x Reader!sister!raph
Warnings: fluff, mention of y/n.
Author's notes: I finally managed to fix myself on this new phone and I can post it for you! 🙏🏻
My native language is not English! So if there are spelling mistakes, it's just my bad English and the translator.
The afternoon sun in Barcelona tinged the apartment's windows golden, creating small triangles of warm light on the wooden floor. Sitting on the sofa, she twirled the end of a strand of hair between her fingers, trying to focus on anything other than the phone beside her.
The device remained stubbornly silent.
"Is someone expecting an important message?" came the voice of his brother, Raphinha, from the kitchen, laden with a familiar mockery. He appeared in the doorway, an apple in his hand and a mischievous smile on his face. "Or is it from someone important?"
“Stop messing around, Raph,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. Her gaze drifted to the dark phone screen once more.
He laughed, a wide, infectious sound. "Relax, little sister. I saw the way he looked at you at that last cast party. The kid almost tripped over his own foot trying not to be obvious."
“The 'boy' has a name,” he retorted, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “And he didn’t do it.”
But he had. Pau Cubarsí. The newest and most dazzling prospect in the defense, with clear eyes that seemed to see everything and a shy smile that managed, with effort, to disarm his serious demeanor on the field. And, yes, at that party, he had looked at her in a way that made her stomach turn into a construction site of butterflies.
Her brother knew everything, of course. Raphinha was like an open book, especially when it came to her sister's emotions. He traveled to join Barcelona and took her with him, and since then he had become her best friend and, despite his pranks, her biggest matchmaker.
The cell phone finally vibrated.
A jump. A fright. A racing heart.
Raphinha raised her eyebrows, chewing on a piece of apple with a victorious expression. “Don’t look at me. Look at this.”
She grabbed her phone. Her heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest. It was an Instagram direct message.
Pau: Hey. How are you? Sorry for the delay, training was tough today.
She smiled, unable to contain the silly expression that spread across her face.
Pau: Raphinha mentioned that you wanted to see the city better off the tourist trails. If you don't have any plans tomorrow... I can take you somewhere cool.
“So?” Raphinha approached, peering over his shoulder. “Let me see. What does the Wall want?”
“He’s not a wall, he’s a defender,” he corrected, securing the screen to his chest with a gentle push. “And he… he invited me for a walk tomorrow.”
"Oh, yeah?" His brother gave a wide, genuine smile, placing his hand on his shoulder. "See? I told you. He's a good kid. A little quiet, but he has a heart of gold. And he's way nicer than most of these guys out there."
His approval meant everything. She felt a weight of anxiety she hadn't even known she was carrying dissolve.
The next day, the "nice spot" turned out to be a small park tucked away in the Gothic Quarter, with stone benches beneath ancient trees and the muffled sounds of the city in the distance. Pau arrived before her, wearing jeans and a simple T-shirt, and looked as nervous as she felt.
“Hi,” he said, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Hi,” he replied, feeling a shy smile appear.
The tour was initially marked by awkward silences, punctuated by comments about the weather or the architecture. But gradually, the tension dissipated. He showed her a small record store his grandfather used to take him to, pointed out a balcony, and told a funny story about when he was a child playing ball in the nearby square.
"It's strange," he commented as they walked down a cobblestone alley. "Everyone sees me in the countryside, with thousands of people shouting, but my favorite places in the city are the quietest."
“It’s not weird,” she said, looking at his profile. “It’s just… you.”
He stopped and turned to her, his pale eyes meeting hers. The afternoon was beginning to fade into dusk, and the soft light made his hair appear lighter. "I like it. That you see me like this."
“It’s easy to see you like this,” he whispered, and the sincerity of the sentence made the air between them fill with something sweet and electrifying.
It was then that his hand found hers. A hesitant touch, his fingers intertwining with hers in a silent question. As she accepted the hold, she felt his body relax beside her.
“Your brother… Raphinha… he really intimidated me, you know?” Pau confessed, with a small smile.
She laughed. “Did it make you sweat?”
“A little. He said if I made you cry, he’d make me the penalty taker in practice for the rest of the season.”
“It sounded more like a death threat than intimidation.”
“That was exactly the intention,” he laughed, a low, pleasant sound. “But I like him. And I… I really like you.”
They stopped in front of a small stone wall, from which they could see the sunset beginning to paint the sky orange and pink. There was no longer any rush, no nervousness. Just the peace of the moment and his warm hand in hers.
Pau turned to her, his face illuminated by the warm light.
“May I?” he asked, his voice a thin whisper of sound, as his gaze dropped to her lips.
Instead of answering, she leaned forward, closing the small distance between them. The kiss was soft, slow, sweet as the twilight falling over Barcelona. She knew the promise of new beginnings and the peaceful discovery of a feeling that needed no rush to blossom. When they pulled away, her smile was more confident, and her eyes shone.
“Raphinha will know in five minutes, won’t he?” he joked, leaning his forehead against hers.
“At most three,” she agreed, chuckling softly. “But I think he knew before we did.”
Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789
Don't translate!
IN WHERE: your boyfriend is a single dad and for the first time you will see him play with his son.
THIS ONE SHOT IS: fem!reader x marc bernal
note: i don't speak english, only spanish n a little portuguese. any errors are the translator's fault.
w: none.
Marc always said that being a dad was the hardest job he had ever had, and that was saying something — he’d played matches where they’d made him run until he almost fainted. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to trying to get a baby to sleep when he had no intention of doing so.
From the moment you met him, you knew his life revolved around two things: football and his son. There was no in-between. There were days when the exhaustion seemed heavier than the world itself, but even then, he would get up before dawn to prepare a bottle or look for a lost pacifier between the sheets.
He told you that, at first, he felt completely lost. That when the baby’s mother decided to leave, he had no idea how to go on.
“No sabía ni cómo se calentaba la leche, y/n,” he had said on your first date. (“I didn’t even know how to warm up the milk, y/n.”)
Now, with a clumsy routine, Marc had learned to move with the child in his arms as if he’d been doing it all his life. He held him with one hand while making coffee with the other, rocking him against his chest while answering messages.
You loved seeing him like that in the mornings — messy hair, dark circles, pajama pants halfway up, and a tired smile as he said to the baby:
“¿Eh, campeón? ¿Mañana dejarás dormir a papá?” (“Hey, champ? Tomorrow will you let daddy sleep?”)
And the little one, barely ten months old, would laugh and light up his father’s face.
Sometimes you helped him. You’d prepare the milk while he tried to put the baby’s bodysuit on without losing his patience. There were mornings when the baby woke up crying, and you were the one who took him in your arms, humming softly until he calmed down. Marc always appreciated it — especially now that he was getting minutes again and had to manage his sleep schedule carefully.
Today was an important day. Not only because Barça was playing in the Champions League, but because Marc could finally get minutes again after months out.
“Dicen que me pueden meter al final,” he told you that morning while searching for a shirt among a sea of clean diapers and chewed-up toys. (“They say they might put me in at the end.”)
“Y tú no te la crees todavía,” you replied with a smile. (“And you still don’t believe it.”)
“Hasta que no esté en el césped, no,” he laughed, glancing up only when his son babbled from the crib. “Aunque creo que este enano ya confía más que yo.” (“Not until I’m on the pitch. Though I think this little guy already believes more than I do.”)
He approached and lifted him. The baby clung to his father, playing with the string on his pants. Marc kissed his forehead, whispering something you barely caught.
While he got dressed to head to the field, you stayed with the baby. It was the first time you’d take him to the stadium, and the idea both thrilled and made you nervous.
“Vamos a cambiarte,” you said, taking the baby in your hands before looking through his drawers for comfy clothes. (“Let’s get you changed.”) You rummaged until you found that Barcelona jersey with “Papá” on the back. “Mira, la de tu papi, Adri, ¿quieres esta?” you asked, shaking the shirt in front of him, and he laughed. (“Look, your daddy’s shirt, Adri — do you want this one?”) “Eso es un sí.” (“That’s a yes.”)
You started dressing the baby slowly — he was so playful it was hard.
Marc laughed, looked down at his son, and kissed him again. “Pórtate bien con mamá, ¿vale?” Marc said as he left the room. (“Behave with mommy, okay?”)
“Me ha llamado tu mamá,” you told the baby, squeezing his cheek. (“He called me your mom.”) “Eres tan mono,” you began to shower his face with kisses, overcome with love. (“You’re so cute.”)
“¡PODEIS DEJAR DE DARSE AMOR Y VENIR!” Marc shouted from the door. (“CAN YOU STOP GIVING EACH OTHER LOVE AND COME HERE!”)
“¡SII, YA VAMOS!” (“YES, WE’RE COMING!”)
You were sitting in the stands next to Bernat, Marc’s best friend, while the joyful noise of the stadium filled every corner. Barcelona was winning by a landslide.
Adri was sitting on your lap, calm for the moment, nibbling your finger while his curious eyes followed the lights of the field.
“Míralo,” Bernat said, pointing toward where your boyfriend was warming up. (“Look at him.”) “Se nota que está nervioso, ¿eh?” (“You can tell he’s nervous, huh?”)
You searched among the players and found him right away. Marc stood there, still wearing the substitute bib, hands on his hips, watching the game before starting to jog again.
“Le van a dar minutos, lo sé,” you whispered. (“They’re going to give him minutes, I know it.”)
Time passed, and with every substitution that wasn’t his, your heart tightened a little more. Until, at the 80th minute, the fourth official raised the board.
Number 8 lit up in red. Pedri off. Below it, 22 in green.
Marc.
“¡Vamos, Berni!” Bernat shouted, jumping to his feet, infecting everyone around. (“Let’s go, Berni!”)
Suddenly, the entire stadium began chanting his name.
“¡Berni! ¡Berni! ¡Berni!”
You bounced your knee with each chant, making Adri giggle. At first, he looked startled by the noise, but when he saw his father running onto the pitch, he laughed and waved his hands, babbling something that sounded too much like pa-pa.
“Sí, cariño,” you said through laughter. (“Yes, darling.”) “Ese es papá.” (“That’s daddy.”)
Marc crossed the pitch with the biggest smile you’d seen on him in weeks. He high-fived Pedri and glanced toward the stands. There was no way he could see you among thousands, but you swore he did.
Bernat nudged you and stroked the baby’s belly, murmuring: “Tu papá, Adri, tu papá.” (“Your dad, Adri, your dad.”)
You nodded, eyes fixed on the field. Marc touched his first ball, and the crowd roared again. Adri clapped his little hands, and you couldn’t help but laugh, kissing his chubby cheeks.
The rest of the match went by in a blur of emotion — you couldn’t take your eyes off Marc. Every time he touched the ball, your heart skipped.
When the referee blew the final whistle and the crowd started to leave, you took Adri in your arms and told Bernat:
“Vamos a esperar un momento. Todavía queda nuestro jugador favorito.” (“Let’s wait a bit longer. Our favorite player’s still there.”)
You went down the nearly empty stairs, dodging the last fans and staff cleaning up. At the tunnel entrance, Marc appeared among the last players leaving the pitch. His eyes found yours almost immediately.
“¡Ahí están!” Bernat shouted, already pulling out his phone for a picture. (“There they are!”)
Marc walked toward you, tired steps, and Adri, recognizing him, started flailing his arms and babbling happily. “Pa-pa… pa-pa…”
Marc bent down and took him in his arms, you steadying the baby’s back as Marc placed a long kiss on his forehead.
Of course, Bernat took a photo right before that. Cameraman instincts.
“Hola, mi niño,” Marc whispered, then turned to you. (“Hi, my boy.”) “Gracias por venir… y por cuidar de él mientras yo estaba ahí.” (“Thank you for coming… and for taking care of him while I was out there.”)
You smiled and caressed Marc’s cheek gently, feeling his exhaustion and euphoria. “Siempre, sabes que siempre,” you replied. (“Always, you know always.”)
The baby nestled between you both, and for a few seconds, everything stilled.
Bernat raised the phone, and the click of the camera broke the moment.
“Listo. La foto familiar perfecta,” he said, satisfied. (“Done. The perfect family picture.”)
“Mándamela luego,” Marc said. (“Send it to me later.”)
Bernat nodded, smiling, and patted his shoulder. “En serio, tío. Me alegra verte así. Hoy jugaste de diez.” (“Seriously, man. I’m glad to see you like this. You played a ten today.”)
“Y con el público coreando mi nombre…” Marc raised an eyebrow, pretending to be modest. (“And with the crowd chanting my name…”) “ No está mal para un papá con ojeras.” (“Not bad for a dad with eye bags.”)
You rolled your eyes, adjusting Adri on his chest. The baby yawned, exhausted, and Marc gently stroked his back.
“Creo que este ya se durmió,” you whispered. (“I think he’s asleep already.”)
WHO THE HELL GAVE HIM A BABY PLS PLS PLS TAKE THEM BACK MY OVARIES JUST SUPER OVULATED AND I REALLY CANNOT HAVE A TEEN PREGNANCY 😭
hi would you be able to write a oneshot about hector. him having a girlfriend but the public doesn’t know yet. And reader having tiktok account and the fans cant help but notice how Hector is in the background of each video.
(Sorry if i didn’t explain well, English is not my first language!)
FAME
→ Pairing: Hector Fort x reader
→ Warning: no.
→ Author's note: All my drafts of him are from his time Barça😭
And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for. photos taken by me!
The sun of Barcelona entered a jet through the stained glass windows of the apartment, illuminating the dust that danced in the air. Hector was lying on the couch, a clumsy giant in his refuge, his eyes closed and an expression of rare peace stamped on his face. On the other side of the room, you adjusted the tripod of the cell phone, a discreet smile on your lips.
"Don't move" you whispered, even though you knew he wasn't sleeping, just resting after a hard workout.
He opened one eye, a corner of his mouth rising in a half-smile.
"I'm the best paid extra on your TikTok, you know that, right?
You laughed, softly, and started recording. It was a simple video, showing the new makeup I had bought. You talked about skin care, what are your favorite products, the daily routine. All normal. All common. Except for the fact that, in the blurred background, Hector Fort, the young promise of Barcelona's right-back, stretched out on the couch with the naturalness of someone who belonged to that place. What, in fact, he belonged to.
It had been like this for months. A cozy secret that the two kept under lock and key. While Hector faced the pressure of wearing the Barça shirt and being compared to the legends who preceded him, that apartment was his safe haven. And you, your anchor. Your TikTok account, a hobby you kept to talk about makeup, books and occasional culinary disasters, had unintentionally become Hector Fort's biggest unofficial fan club.
It all started innocently. A video about a cake that collapsed, with Hector passing in the background, in a towel, towards the shower. Another about a reorganization of his dressing table, with him sleeping in bed, one arm hanging to the side. Small fragments of a life shared with you, distracted, you didn't realize you were exporting to the world.
The comments started light.
@culeradelcorazon:OMG, IS HECTOR FORT IN THE BACKGROUND????
@Força_barça: Someone tell the TikTok production that our lateral is running away from the spotlight lol
You showed the comments laughing to Hector, who rolled his eyes, but didn't ask you to stop. There was a tacit comfort in that. It was a way, without assuming, to show a piece of it that the press did not reach. Hector away from the spotlight of the fields. The domestic Hector.
But the thing escalated.
A video of him, showing the sunset view from the balcony, had the audio burst by Hector's shouts of celebration, who was watching a rerun of a classic in the living room. The internet didn't forgive. They edited the video, put the narration of the goal, and the meme went viral: 'Hector Fort celebrating the 2015 Barça goal at his girlfriend's house(?)'
The 'girlfriend(?)' It was the spark that ignited the gunpowder.
The fans became detectives. They analyzed every pixel of their videos. They identified the t-shirt he wore (it was his, but from a training from three years ago). They saw the kettle that appeared in the background and associated it with an old interview where he mentioned that he loved tea. They were good. Very good.
Hector started to get tense. The sports press, previously focused only on its football, began to ask indirect questions. 'Hector, are you adapting well to the city? Do you have a quiet life outside the fields?' He smiled, talked about soccer.
The internal pressure in the club also increased. The marketing and communication departments saw that organic exposure with a mixture of fascination and terror. It was pure engagement, but out of control. Out of the script.
The stone was a simple video, posted on a Tuesday night. You were trying to knit, and Hector, sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, was reading a book. He didn't appear full body, only his back, the back of his neck, the hand that turned the pages. But it was unmistakably him. And what caught was the naturalness, the intimacy of the scenario. He, the golden boy, reading quietly while you tried, and failed, to make a scarf.
The comments were no longer just jokes. They were a choir.
@Hectorsrightfoot: I NEED TO KNOW IF THEY ARE TOGETHER. MY MENTAL SANITY DEPENDS ON IT.
@Barcagirl99: This is the cutest thing I've ever seen in my life. Look how calm he is. He's at HOME.
@Transfermarktupdates: If he plays as he is low-key, we have a legend in our hands.
The next morning, Hector was called to the communication director's room. The message was clear: 'Hector, we love engagement, but this is a time bomb. The next news about your personal life needs to come from us, in a controlled way. Either you count, or the press counts for you. And maybe it won't be beautiful.'
He came home dejected. The peace of the apartment seemed fragile, threatened.
"They have a point" he admitted, throwing himself on the couch, the same sofa that was the star of his videos. "This thing of being a mystery is cool for a while, but now... it seems like we're hiding something. And we're not."
You sat next to him, taking his hand. The simple silver wedding ring they both wore - their little secret - shone under the light.
"So let's not hide anymore."
He looked at you, his brown eyes looking for yours in search of certainty.
"Are you sure? Your life will turn upside down. They will chase you. Curse you. Love you. They will dig your whole life."
"Hector" you said, your little finger hooking on his "I already have you. The rest is just blurred background."
The decision has been made. But they would do it their way.
On Saturday, Hector played one of the most solid games on the side. He was safe in defense, incisive in attack. At the end of the match, sweaty and with shining eyes, he was chosen for a quick interview on the edge of the field. The reporter, following the script, asked the usual questions about the tactic, the victory.
Hector answered politely, but then looked directly at the camera. A genuine smile, different from the usual smile, lit up his face.
"Before I go, I just wanted to say something to the social media detectives" he began, and the reporter seemed confused. "You guys are amazing, and yes, you're right. The TikTok person is the most important person in my life. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a half-crooked scarf to help undo it."
He didn't give any more explanations. He just waved and ran towards the tunnel, leaving a reporter gaping and the internet on the verge of collapse.
Minutes later, you posted your first TikTok in weeks. It wasn't a normal video. It was a montage. Photos of the two of them: their hands intertwined on the coffee table; their feet intertwined on the couch; the reflection of him cooking on the oven glass. And finally, a new video, recorded that morning before the game. Hector, already in uniform, adjusting the camera for you. He approaches, gives you a quick kiss on the forehead and whispers, 'Don't spoil the scarf while I'm not looking'.
The caption was simple: Only the blurred background, focusing on what matters.
The apartment was silent when Hector returned. He came in, dropped the bag and looked at you, who was standing in the middle of the room, cell phone in hand, heart beating fast.
"What's up?" He asked, his voice a thread of hope and tiredness.
You showed him the screen. The video had a million likes. The comments were a flood of hearts, messages of support and 'I KNEW!'.
"The world knows," you said, your soft voice.
Hector smiled, the same quiet and domestic smile that only existed in that space. He crossed the room, pulled you close and buried his face in your neck, as he always did when he got home.
"Good" he murmured, his body finally relaxing against yours. "Now I can be the protagonist of your videos."
And at that moment, under the soft light of Barcelona's late afternoon, there were no more cameras, no fans, no press. Just the comfortable silence of a secret that no longer needed to be kept, and the promise that, from then on, the whole scene would be theirs. Together.
Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789
Hi sorry for the bother I recently found your blog and I'm sucker for it. If it's not a problem can I request something with Marc Bernal where reader and him in long distance? Thank you
HOME, MARC BERNAL.
➤ Summary: You and Marc were dating long distance, because your college was in a small town next to Barcelona, so he decided to come visit you after three months of not being there.
➤ Warning: fluff.
➤ Author's note: I really love him, I LOVE HIM SO MUCH 😭
English is not my native language, so there may be errors due to translation and me not knowing 100% of English.
The sound of the key in the lock was enough to make your heart race, almost painfully. You shot up from the couch so quickly that the cozy blanket fell to the floor, but you didn't even care. The long months of waiting, the never-enough video calls, the cold nights... all of that was going to end now.
The door opened and there he was. Marc Bernal. He looked a little more tired, with a large backpack and a small rolling suitcase, but the smile that spread across his face when he saw you was exactly the same—the one that made the corners of your eyes crinkle and lit up any dark corner.
"My life," he said, his voice a little hoarse from the journey, but filled with an emotion that made her eyes well up.
Without a word, you ran to him. He dropped his backpack on the floor with a thud and opened his arms, engulfing you in a hug that smelled of airplanes and of him, that unique scent of his that you tried to remember every night on your pillow. You buried your face in his chest, feeling his cool coat against your face, but his warmth was already beginning to win out.
“Finally,” you whispered, voice shaky, clinging to his back as if he would disappear.
Marc wrapped his arms tighter around her, a deep, relieved sigh escaping his chest. He pressed a long, wet kiss to the side of her neck. "See? I told you it would work. I'm here."
You pulled your head back, just enough to look up at his face. Your eyes roamed over every detail of his face—the tired but happy eyes, the nose, the mouth that smiled just for you. He did the same, his expression softening even further, filled with an adoration that left you breathless.
"I love you," you said, the words coming out in a whisper, like a secret only he could hear.
The declaration made her eyes shine. "I love you more."
He then lowered his head and captured your lips in a kiss. It wasn't a kiss of desperation or frenzied lust, but of recognition. It was slow, deep, and sweet, filled with all the pent-up longing of the past few months. His lips moved with a familiarity that sent a shiver down your spine. It was your safe haven, your home. You cupped his face in your hands, feeling the texture of his skin, slightly rough from the journey. Leaving your feet at his toes so he wouldn't have to bend down too far.
When they broke apart for air, he rested his forehead against hers, and they both lay there, panting, just looking at each other, absorbing each other's presence.
"I need a shower," he chuckled softly, his warm breath mingling with hers.
"Later," you murmured, pulling him into another kiss, this time even sweeter, an 'I don't want you to move an inch away' kiss.
He chuckled against your lips and allowed you to guide him to the couch, never breaking contact completely. He sat down and pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you as you snuggled against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart. His hand began to trace slow circles on your back, a soothing, loving touch you missed every day.
"How are you?" he asked, his chin resting on top of her head. "Really."
"I'm perfect now," you replied, pressing yourself closer to him. "Before, I was... incomplete. Without you here."
He pressed his lips to her hair. "I know. Me too. But it was worth every second away, knowing that in the end I would come back to you."
He pulled you back to see you again, his large, warm hands cupping your face with a gentleness that contrasted with their strength. His thumbs caressed your cheekbones.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life," he whispered, the sincerity in his voice making her stomach churn with happiness. "And you're all mine."
"All yours," you confirmed, turning your head to leave a kiss on the palm of his hand. "Always."
And they stayed there, entwined on the couch, in the dim light of the apartment. The silence was comfortable, broken only by their synchronized breathing and the distant sound of traffic outside. Marc's hand never stopped caressing you: gliding down your back, up to your hair, playing with the ends, down to your arm, always with a tenderness that spoke more than a thousand words.
Suddenly, he sighed, a deep sound of contentment. "Remember that night on the phone, when the connection was so bad and we were trying to hear each other for almost an hour?"
You laughed, your face still hidden in his neck. "I remember. You were telling me about training and suddenly your voice became robotic. I was so frustrated."
"Me too," he admitted. "I was so angry at that sign. I just wish you could hear me properly. I just wish you were there." His voice softened. "Or here."
“I’m here now,” you whispered, lifting your face to meet his again.
This time, the kiss was a little more intense. The longing was beginning to transform into a more palpable, more urgent need. His hands moved from your face to your shoulders, pulling you closer to him. You felt his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging lightly, and a shiver ran through you.
You shifted on his lap, adjusting yourself so you were kneeling on the couch, facing him, so you could wrap your arms around him completely. Now you were the one holding his face, kissing him with a devotion that made him moan softly. It was a sound you loved, a sound that meant he was as lost in that moment as you were.
Between one kiss and another, words continued to escape, as if they both needed to fill the void of months of forced silence.
"I thought about you every day," Marc breathed, his lips trailing along her jawline. "Every damn day. At the café, I'd think, 'She should add more sugar to this.' In the locker room, I'd hear a song and think, 'I need to send this to her.'"
"Me too," you confessed breathlessly as he found that sensitive spot just below your ear. "Everything reminded me of you. I missed everything."
He paused for a moment, just to look into her eyes. The dim light of the room captured the dark brown glow of his eyes, filled with such raw emotion that they seemed almost vulnerable.
"You make me so strong," he said, his voice deep and serious. "Knowing you're rooting for me, believing in me... There's nothing I wouldn't do for that. For you."
The words echoed inside you, filling every empty space the distance had created. You couldn't speak, so you just fisted your fingers in his hair and pulled his lips to yours again, kissing him with all the gratitude, all the love, and all the promise you felt.
Gradually, the slight urgency of the kiss faded, returning to its slow, lazy rhythm. The initial anxiety had dissipated, replaced by the comforting knowledge that they had time. All the time in the world.
"Okay," Marc murmured, after a long, sweet kiss. "Now I really need that shower. I smell like a plane and an airport."
"I like it," you protested softly, still clinging to him.
He laughed, a rich, warm sound that vibrated in her own chest. "You're the only person in the world who would say that. But will you come with me?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in invitation. "Tell me everything I've missed these past few months. Every detail."
He got up from the couch, pulling you with him, never letting go of your hand. His touch was firm, secure, as if to say 'no more distance.' And as he led you toward the bathroom, your suitcase still abandoned in the hallway and the blanket still on the floor, you knew that no matter what the future held, it didn't matter. In that moment, with your hands intertwined and the sound of his voice filling the house, everything was absolutely perfect. The long distance was over. Now, it was just them.
Do not copy or translate. Copyright @pedriosofia on Tumblr!
Could you write something about Pau Cubarsí going on a hike with reader but reader gets tired at some point and he’s sweet and understanding towards her but he still can’t resist to tease and annoy her a little. He also takes randomly pictures of her during the hike where he found her “cute” and “beautiful” in that moment? (Yes I got inspired by the pic he posted yesterday 😖)
A DAY WITH MY LOVE
→ Pairing: Cubarsí x reader
→ Warning: fluff.
→ Author's note: Feeling bad, because this request is from May, I swore I had posted it, sorry anonymous
And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for. photos taken by me!
The sun filtered gently through the leaves, painting the forest floor with golden flecks and creating a perfect backdrop for the trail. For Pau, each step felt natural, an easy, comfortable rhythm. For his companion, however, the climb began to become a little more challenging with each meter gained.
He noticed it first in her breathing, a little more labored than usual, and then in her rhythm, which gradually slowed. When he stopped to wait and turned, he saw her a few steps back, her hands resting on her knees, her face flushed from exertion.
"Are you okay?" His voice was a sweet, calm trickle, filled with genuine concern.
She nodded, too breathless for many words. "Just... a minute."
Pau closed the distance between them in two long strides. His eyes, filled with infinite patience, met hers. "There's no rush. We can stop as long as we need." His thumb gently stroked her cheekbone, wiping away a trace of sweat. "You look beautiful, you know? All flushed."
She rolled her eyes, though a small, tired smile escaped. "I look like a poached lobster."
"Looks like my poached lobster, then. The cutest." He laughed, a low, warm sound that mingled with the rustling of the leaves. He opened his backpack and offered the bottle of water. "Drink. And rest."
As she drank, he couldn't resist. His sweet, understanding gaze took on a mischievous glint.
"You know, for a top-class couch athlete, that's a heroic effort."
Her eyes narrowed in mock warning.
"What did you call me?"
"A prodigy of rest. A champion of relaxation." Her smile was wide and disarming. "That's a compliment! Specializing in something is admirable."
She patted his arm weakly, but couldn't help but laugh. "It's unbearable. And stop being so... good at it!" She gestured toward the trail leading up.
Pau shrugged, amusement written all over his face. "Practical. But I love seeing my relaxation champion go on adventures. It's inspiring."
After a few minutes of rest, they continued, but at a much slower pace, dictated by him. It was during these quieter moments that he did something that caught her off guard. Without warning, his cell phone appeared in her hand. The click of the camera was discreet but unmistakable.
She turned around, surprised. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing." He tried to hide it, but the telltale smile betrayed him.
Further on, she stopped to admire a small flower sprouting between the rocks, leaning slightly. Click.
This time, she listened. "Damn! Stop taking pictures of me! It must be horrible!"
He stared at the image captured on the screen: her profile smooth against the rough texture of the stone, a tender expression on her face as she gazed at the flower, a few strands of hair escaping from her ponytail and framing her face.
"Horrible isn't the word I'd use," he muttered, showing her the screen. "Look."
She hesitated, but she looked. The image wasn't posed or perfect. It was genuine. It captured a moment of pure, exhausting authenticity. And he was right. There was something beautiful about it.
"It's just a picture," she said, trying to be nonchalant, but the silent compliment warmed her insides.
"This is my favorite one so far," he declared, tucking his phone away from any attempt she might make to delete it. "The next one will be when we reach the top. You'll be so tired and so happy that it'll be even better."
The rest of the hike was punctuated by more stolen photos—of her drinking water, of her facing the climb with exaggerated determination, of her laughing at a stupid joke he'd made. Each capture was a little secret, a treasure he'd collected.
When they finally reached the summit, the stunning view of green valleys and distant mountains was overshadowed, for Pau, by only one thing: the expression of pure, triumphant joy on her face, her arms stretched skyward as if she could embrace the world.
He didn't take a picture. Instead, he walked over and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "See? It was worth every step, wasn't it?"
She snuggled against his chest, her breath still catching, but her heart full. "Thanks. Especially since you're here to tease me and carry me if I need to."
"Always," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "And I can't wait to tease you on the way down."
“Oh no, Pau!”
Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789