agonizing over all the time you wasted or lost is useless. itâs gone now. you survived in the only way you knew how. doesnât your survival deserve some recognition too?
like toni morrison said, âsometimes you don't survive whole, you just survive in part. but the grandeur of life is that attempt. itâs not about that solution. it is about being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances.â
anybody else is still going thru #it and cannot talk about pedriâs gf right now⊠i mean good for him and i am sure she made him happy and content but every time the news passes by my fyp iâm like . oh
Summary: This is your first time watching Spain National Teamâs training session.
Content: Fluff. Meet-cute. 800 words. Reader is Espana-born. Reader is a corporate woman.
Author Note: Comments and reblogs feed the soul :)
If you are planning to settle, donât fall in love with a footballer, they warned. There is only a 1/11 chance that they are a keeperâin spite of their positions.Â
You promised yourself that you wonât. You are not that into sports, anyway. You consider yourself as a casual enjoyer, knowing just a handful of names in sportsânever been a die-hard. So you are very normal, very unfazed by those high-ranked athletes. However, itâs hard not to root for your national football team even though you have absolutely zero idea about its positions except, perhaps, striker and goalkeeper while the upcoming World Cup is all your friends talk about in the office.Â
So when your friend group asks you to attend their training, you brush off the dust from your skirt, sit up from your chair, and tag along.Â
You figured it would be a match. Turns out itâs an open training session. Everyone is welcome to attend. Or perhaps it is your friendâs doing. Either way, you are grateful.
Now, unlike your friends and all the other people who come, you donât have jerseys or any other fan item to be signed with you. But you thought a notebook would suffice. What could go so wrong with a touch of old school charm, no? Besides, you are glued to your book at the office all the time. Itâs a necessity for you by now.Â
Training starts. One pass. Two strikes. Yells. Hurrahs. Weirdly, you feel a surge of joy.
The session comes to a halt. The players dismiss to say hello to the supporters. The crowd around you thrums. You donât have a clue who the man coming toward your way is; the guy with sticky hair and thick eyebrows. He is handsome. He is nice to look at. Certainly a sight for sore eyes. Fans pass him kitsâfrom yellow with red and baby blue lined shirts and fully-red shirtsâall with the number 20 on the back until the gradient blue-red ones with 8 stamped on the back.
You recognise him from the incredible goal he scored outside the box during the session minutes ago, so when he stops by where you are standing, separated only by a low platform, you suppose that a quick compliment wonât hurt.
âNice goal!â you say, voice bright.
His head turns. The pen in his grip is still signing, but his eyes are on you, flicking down to what you wear before he shoots you a smile. Soft. Amused. Intoxicating. The kind of smile that makes your stomach do a somersault. âNice skirt.âÂ
You look down on your outfit. Charcoal shirt that hugs your hourglass figure. Micro-mini skirt that rides way too high for your legs. One slight bend and you could give the whole world a free view of your underwear. Completely doable. And risky.
Perhaps he notices the speechlessness that comes from you, except everything around you both is far from quiet. People shove each other, calling out the names of the players to attract their attentionsâyet his gaze stays fixed on you, alarmingly unwavering.
âDonât have a jersey with you?â he queries, to you. Specifically. Hands busy with a ballpoint pen to sign some more jerseys.
âNope.â You moisten your lips. âBut I brought a notebook with me, though. Hope thatâs okay?âÂ
Half a laugh slips past his lips. Not patronising, just warm. Your heart skips. And he takes your notebook anyway.Â
âFirst time here?âÂ
You fidget with the hem of your shirt. âIs it that obvious?âÂ
He chuckles. Again. âLet me tell you something.â He murmurs, scrabbling something onto your notebook before he leans over the platform to whisper down your ear, leaving you no time to even retreat yourself. âMen are the same everywhere. You wouldnât want to come here with that pretty skirt of yours had you known those perverts back there were going to be staring at your legs all the time.âÂ
You do a sharp glance behind. Guilty faces everywhere. Most men avoid your gaze, but anybody can tell that they have had your legs under scrutiny when you werenât looking. Your cheeks turn rosy.
He slides back your notebook and flashes you a smug smile. Like it implies I told you. Like itâs easy. Like his breath wasnât literally hitting the back of your ear seconds ago, causing your thoughts to evaporate. âWell. Canât say I wasnât guilty of the scrutiny either.âÂ
You blink your eyes, heart thudding.
He leaves you holding the notebook against your chest, returning back to the grass pitch. The sight does something to you.Â
You are not in love. Love is measured and paced meanwhile this, whatever is this, is a too-hasty sprint. Is something that only a footballer can master, that only a footballer or anybody who is hungry for thrill and inevitable heartache can pull off. This is not your forte. Not for a girl like you. So you are not in love.
You are not in love, but you suppose watching the view of his back from afar like this is akin to one.
(Later when you finally flip open your notebook, the autograph plasters across the paper, and right below it, written the name you now canât stop repeating in your mind.
Wishlist
Summary: Wedded to Pedri, youâve convinced yourself that you two do not need a child just yetâuntil one fateful FC Barcelona family gathering shatters that illusion.
Content: Pedri GonzĂĄlez x Reader! WAGs appearances. Minor angst. Suggestive leading to smut. 2000 words.
Author Note: My first ever Pedri fanfiction ever. Please be nice and leave a comment if you think part two is needed. :)
Pedri is everything you look for in a man.
He is comely in appearance, never raises his voice when he talks to you, and just a proper gentleman in general.Â
From the start of your relationship until you two tie the knot, he makes sure that you eat well and your heart is always content. Between his jam-packed schedule, he always squeezes in time to make sure that you fit in there.Â
You can never ask for more from Pedri.
Until.Â
âMamĂĄ!â
Your whole body freezes when you hear that nickname.
They take turns hosting a mini gathering among FC Barcelona players and their families. Itâs not every month they do this. Sometimes the matches are too packed and there are just too many away games in a short span of time that they have to postpone it until next month. And this time it is Raphinhaâs familyâs turn to host.
You try to hold back your shock when suddenly Gael, Raphinhaâs son, calls you mamĂĄ and hugs your legs with his tiny arms. You are too confused as to how to act or what to say that nothing but an awkward smile makes its way to your face.
âOh! Lo siento mucho, preciosa.â Natalia, Raphinhaâs wife, springs up as she picks up Gael in her arms. âGael had a fever this morning. She must have mistaken you as me.â
You give Natalia and Gael a sheepish smile. âThatâs fine. And hey, nene.â You lift up one of your fingers to poke Gaelâs nose. Gael grins, and so do you. âFeel better really soon. Donât want you to miss out on your PapĂĄ and Uncle Pedriâs match this weekend, mmm?âÂ
Gael hides his face in the crook of her motherâs neck, but instead of feeling dejected, you just smile at the sight. Kids can be really adorable sometimes.
âHe really wonât forgive himself if he misses out on the next match.â Natalia answers. And then, she shoots you a teasing smile. ââUncle Pedriâ, huh?â
You are confused. âYeah âŠ? Of course?â
âYou were not with us when this happened minutes ago, but he mistakenly called your husband âpapĂĄâ too. It got us confused for a second. And Rapha was a bit offended, because, yeah, how could his own son fail to identify him.â Natalia chuckles. âBut now it got me thinking. Maybe this little trouble did it on purpose.â
You blink in uncertainty. âIâm sorry. Iâm not sure what you meanââ
âAre you sure thereâs nothing you want to keep me updated about?â Natalia arches one of her eyebrows. Again, she says so in a teasing tone. Her eyes fall to your flat stomach. âYou know, Iâd be delighted to be taken into your confidence âŠâ
You try to do the math inside your brain before finally every piece just makes sense. You bite your lower lip, unsure of how to string your words without offending your sweet friend. âOh, Natalia. Itâsâthere is nothing like that, seriously. Iâm not ⊠pregnant, in case thatâs what you think of.âÂ
Nataliaâs face drops. âOh. Iâm sorry, Â preciosa. I didnât mean toââ
âThatâs fine.â You interject and laugh midway. Itâs really fine.Â
You know Natalia never means any harm. And itâs really fine.
Itâs really fine, even though itâs been a year since you and Pedri tied a knotâthree years since you two have been in a serious relationshipâand Pedri still thinks you both donât need a child. Yet.
Well, he doesnât say it blatantlyâthat he doesnât need a child. But you can tell without him having to be upfront about it.
Sex with Pedri is, of course, otherworldly. He knows where to hit. He knows how to make you scream. He knows how to make you beg for more.
He also never finishes inside you.Â
You get it, really. You have never pushed the topic, but you understand that having a child would rather be a nuisance for him at the moment. Though wed, he is still very young, and still considered a footballer in his prime stage. Having a kid would mayhaps mess up with his schedule. Having a kid might hinder his progress.Â
So you never really ask, never really make sure, because you guess that already.
Besides, you, too, are still very young. You have your own dreams to chase. You have your girl friends to hang out with every week. You have your short dresses that you are still dying to wear.Â
So, really, itâs fine.Â
But here you are in the corner, distancing yourself from the crowd, palm clutching onto your chest because apparently it hurts. It hurts because you didnât expect it to be hurt. It hurts because it finally hurts, after many moons of not. It hurts because you didnât realise how badly you wanted someone to call you that lovely, endearing name until a child that is not yours did it.
â(Y/N)?âÂ
You almost jump from your heels upon being called. You turn around, momentarily shocked.Â
Joan.
âAre you âŠâ the goalkeeper looks hesitant to ask. âAre you okay?â
âOh. Yes. Donât worry.â You answer awkwardly, turning your eyes the other way. Unlike other teammates that Pedri has, you havenât really interacted much with Joan, as he is still the new kid on the block.Â
âAre you sure? Should I,â Joan moistens his lips. âShould I call Pedri?â
âWhat? No!â you nearly shout. You avert your gaze to where you can spot Pedri. He sits on the chair between Raphinha and Ferran, shoulders shaking with a laugh that rolls out warm and unrestrained, the kind you can almost tasteâbright, boyish, and aimed at some private joke you are too far away to catch. âDonâtâbreathe a word to Pedri about me. Iâm fine.â
â...Okay.â Joan answers, albeit his tone doesnât sound so convincing. You force him one last brittle smile before pivoting sharply, heart jackhammering as you melt into the house, desperate to vanish from the radar of the playersâs gazes or your husbandâs reach.
Joan, of course, tells Pedri what he saw.
âHey, hermano.â Joan lands a firm pat on Pedriâs back the second he secures a seat beside him. He leans toward Pedri, masking his mouth with his palm, although it seems to be no use as the circle of players around them falls abruptly silent, every pair of eyes snapping to the two of them. âYou might want to go and check on your wife. She seems a little unwell.â
âMy wife?â Pedri frowns.
âYeah. I donât know. She was gripping the table and palming her stomach.â Joan continues, trying to rack his brain for any recollection. He then shoots Pedri a look of warriness. âCould it be that she âŠ?â
Pedri tilts his head quizzically. Joan clears his throat before he opens his mouth. â...Could it be that she, I donât know, bears your child?â
âWhat? Oh. No. Itâs ⊠nothing like that.â Pedri response stumbles out, hands flapping in vague dismissal, although he fails to conceal his worries. â...At least not that I know of.â
Joan doesnât say anything. So do the other players who ring around them. Fermin, who has been silently eating while eavesdropping, stops munching on his croissant. Gavi toys with the back of his hair while carefully listening. Lamine and Balde pretend as if they are fixated on their phones, but Pedri knows those two little bastards are hanging on every word that Joan and Pedri share. Rashford just blinks. He can barely understand Spanish.
âI feel like Iâm being watched.â Pedri mutters.
âWell.â Frenkie is the first to break the silence that befalls them. ââs fine. We understand that you were always married to the game from day one.â
âYeah, yeah.â Raphinha adds. âI mean, Gael is the best thing that ever happened to me. But to each their own, man.â
âSometimes I be having a shitty morning randomly then my sonâs face pops up in my mind and I instantly have energy for the rest of the day.â Andreas provokes. âYou will get there soon though. No pressure.â
So they are suddenly divided into the âfatherâ team and the ânon-fatherâ team. But every single one of them are ganging up to corner him. Great, Pedri thinks.
âWhy do I feel like Iâm being pressured here?â Pedri jests.
âNah. They just make fun of you.â Joan reaches over and quickly scruffs Pedriâs hair into a mess. âWe have a more pressing issue, though. Why donât you go check on your wife?â
Pedri, eventually, finds you.Â
âHey, cariño.â You just finished helping Mikky and Natalia clean the table when suddenly he wraps his arms around you from behind, kissing the back of your neck. âAre you okay?â
You get lost for a while, but it doesnât take long for you to understand that itâs Joanâs doing. Damn him. You force a smile. âIâm okay, love. Is something the matter?â
âOkay.â Pedri continues kissing the back of your neck. Gentle and pure. âNope. Nothing. Just missing you.â
âIâm alright. What about you?â you answer. âTell me about your friends. What did you guys discuss over there?â
And Pedri does tell you about his friends. He yaps about Raphinhaâs brand-new cooking hobby and Gaviâs dad jokes and some other things that you can barely follow because suddenly your brain and your ears are a little foggy.Â
Itâs fine.
Itâs fine, when Pedri drives you home and he still doesnât second-guess your answer. Itâs fine, when you two crawl onto bed and Pedri kisses your forehead goodnight but all you can feel is a crack of disappointment in your chest. Itâs fine, when tomorrow and the day after comes and the routines loop back into itself like nothing ever shifted. Itâs fine, itâs fine. Itâs fine.
That day, Pedri comes back from training earlier than you expect him to be. All sweaty and looking tired. Cheeks blazing like he has sprinted the length of the city.
âYou lookâexhausted.â You mumble as you cup his cheeks with your hand, running your thumb across the damp heat of his skin. Itâs soft. Softer than it has any right to be. âCome in. I will cook you something. In the meantime, wash yourself up, mmm?â
You put down your hand, already turning toward the kitchen when Pedri holds your wrist. He pulls you closer, delicate but insistent, until his forehead rests against yours. âWhy are you avoiding me?â
You blink your eyes repeatedly. â...What?â
âYes, baby. Youâve been avoiding me and you canât convince me otherwise.â He pulls you close and closer. Now one of his grip stays on your waist. âNo amor, no love, no darling, not even âPedriâ. Just no nothing. You are mad at me, arenât you?â
You chuckle. âPedri ⊠youâre spouting nonsense.â
âNo. Youâve been mad at me.â As if everything just makes sense to him, he continues to mumble. His breath hits your nose. âFor days. I can feel it. Iâve been trying to shrug it off, convincing myself that I was just being overly sensitive, but no. Iâm sure of it now. Youâve been mad at me. Why?â
âItâsânothing. Really. Mmm. Pedriââ you trail off when Pedri nuzzles his face against the crook of your neck, leaving gentle kisses.
âI miss you.â He whispers under his breath, gripping your waist even tighter as his tongue traces a slow, lazy line across your skin. âI miss you, amor.â
âOkay.â You manage to answer albeit the growing sensation, trying your best not to hold onto Pedriâs shoulder when one of Pedriâs hands dips under your shirt, his warm palm meeting your stomach and he slides his hand up your torso. You are familiar with this move. You are familiar with this demeanor. âMmmâno, Pedri. Stop. We shouldnâtâhave sex.â
You successfully get out of his grip with the energy within you that you alone are surprised you have left. Pedri blinks at the rejection, confusion flickering across his face, then something heavierâcrestfallen.
âWhat do you mean?â Pedri questions, upping his jaw as his eyes meets yours, searching for an answer. âI canât miss my wife now?â
âYou can.â Your voice is as small as an ant, trying your best not to let it quiver with a raw emotion. âYou can miss me ⊠without touching me.â
With that, you spin fully away from Pedri, leaving your husband all by himself. âGo take a bath.â
Pedri stands rooted, the air surrounding him suddenly strange. His arms drop like dead weight, fingers twitching once before curling into loose fists.