cariño

#8 #8 #8

[persianmom-deactivated20251026]

agonizing over all the time you wasted or lost is useless. it’s gone now. you survived in the only way you knew how. doesn’t your survival deserve some recognition too?

[persianmom-deactivated20251026]

like toni morrison said, “sometimes you don't survive whole, you just survive in part. but the grandeur of life is that attempt. it’s not about that solution. it is about being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances.”

[midfieldmaestro]

Been wanting to go back to write. Send me your request please :)

[midfieldmaestro]

As many children as he wants

[midfieldmaestro]

anybody else is still going thru #it and cannot talk about pedri’s 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 i’m like . oh

[midfieldmaestro]

Nice Skirt

Summary: This is your first time watching Spain National Team’s 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, don’t fall in love with a footballer, they warned. There is only a 1/11 chance that they are a keeper—in spite of their positions. 

You promised yourself that you won’t. You are not that into sports, anyway. You consider yourself as a casual enjoyer, knowing just a handful of names in sports—never been a die-hard. So you are very normal, very unfazed by those high-ranked athletes. However, it’s 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. 

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. 

You figured it would be a match. Turns out it’s an open training session. Everyone is welcome to attend. Or perhaps it is your friend’s doing. Either way, you are grateful.

Now, unlike your friends and all the other people who come, you don’t 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. It’s a necessity for you by now. 

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 don’t 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 kits—from yellow with red and baby blue lined shirts and fully-red shirts—all 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 won’t hurt.

“Nice goal!” 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. “Nice skirt.” 

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 attentions—yet his gaze stays fixed on you, alarmingly unwavering.

“Don’t have a jersey with you?” he queries, to you. Specifically. Hands busy with a ballpoint pen to sign some more jerseys.

“Nope.” You moisten your lips. “But I brought a notebook with me, though. Hope that’s okay?” 

Half a laugh slips past his lips. Not patronising, just warm. Your heart skips. And he takes your notebook anyway. 

“First time here?” 

You fidget with the hem of your shirt. “Is it that obvious?” 

He chuckles. Again. “Let me tell you something.” 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. “Men are the same everywhere. You wouldn’t 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.” 

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 weren’t looking. Your cheeks turn rosy.

He slides back your notebook and flashes you a smug smile. Like it implies I told you. Like it’s easy. Like his breath wasn’t literally hitting the back of your ear seconds ago, causing your thoughts to evaporate. “Well. Can’t say I wasn’t guilty of the scrutiny either.” 

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. 

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 can’t stop repeating in your mind.

Pedri.)

[midfieldmaestro]

Wishlist Summary: Wedded to Pedri, you’ve convinced yourself that you two do not need a child just yet—until one fateful FC Barcelona family gathering shatters that illusion.

Content: Pedri González 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. 

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. 

You can never ask for more from Pedri.

Until. 

“Mamá!”

Your whole body freezes when you hear that nickname.

They take turns hosting a mini gathering among FC Barcelona players and their families. It’s 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 Raphinha’s family’s turn to host.

You try to hold back your shock when suddenly Gael, Raphinha’s son, calls you mamá 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.

“Oh! Lo siento mucho, preciosa.” Natalia, Raphinha’s wife, springs up as she picks up Gael in her arms. “Gael had a fever this morning. She must have mistaken you as me.”

You give Natalia and Gael a sheepish smile. “That’s fine. And hey, nene.” You lift up one of your fingers to poke Gael’s nose. Gael grins, and so do you. “Feel better really soon. Don’t want you to miss out on your Papá and Uncle Pedri’s match this weekend, mmm?” 

Gael hides his face in the crook of her mother’s neck, but instead of feeling dejected, you just smile at the sight. Kids can be really adorable sometimes.

“He really won’t forgive himself if he misses out on the next match.” Natalia answers. And then, she shoots you a teasing smile. “‘Uncle Pedri’, huh?”

You are confused. “Yeah …? Of course?”

“You were not with us when this happened minutes ago, but he mistakenly called your husband ‘papá’ 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.” Natalia chuckles. “But now it got me thinking. Maybe this little trouble did it on purpose.”

You blink in uncertainty. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean—”

“Are you sure there’s nothing you want to keep me updated about?” Natalia arches one of her eyebrows. Again, she says so in a teasing tone. Her eyes fall to your flat stomach. “You know, I’d be delighted to be taken into your confidence …”

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. “Oh, Natalia. It’s—there is nothing like that, seriously. I’m not … pregnant, in case that’s what you think of.” 

Natalia’s face drops. “Oh. I’m sorry,  preciosa. I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s fine.” You interject and laugh midway. It’s really fine. 

You know Natalia never means any harm. And it’s really fine.

It’s really fine, even though it’s been a year since you and Pedri tied a knot—three years since you two have been in a serious relationship—and Pedri still thinks you both don’t need a child. Yet.

Well, he doesn’t say it blatantly—that he doesn’t 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. 

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. 

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. 

So, really, it’s fine. 

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 didn’t expect it to be hurt. It hurts because it finally hurts, after many moons of not. It hurts because you didn’t realise how badly you wanted someone to call you that lovely, endearing name until a child that is not yours did it.

“(Y/N)?” 

You almost jump from your heels upon being called. You turn around, momentarily shocked. 

Joan.

“Are you …” the goalkeeper looks hesitant to ask. “Are you okay?”

“Oh. Yes. Don’t worry.” You answer awkwardly, turning your eyes the other way. Unlike other teammates that Pedri has, you haven’t really interacted much with Joan, as he is still the new kid on the block. 

“Are you sure? Should I,” Joan moistens his lips. “Should I call Pedri?”

“What? No!” 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 taste—bright, boyish, and aimed at some private joke you are too far away to catch. “Don’t—breathe a word to Pedri about me. I’m fine.”

“...Okay.” Joan answers, albeit his tone doesn’t 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 players’s gazes or your husband’s reach.

Joan, of course, tells Pedri what he saw.

“Hey, hermano.” Joan lands a firm pat on Pedri’s 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. “You might want to go and check on your wife. She seems a little unwell.”

“My wife?” Pedri frowns.

“Yeah. I don’t know. She was gripping the table and palming her stomach.” Joan continues, trying to rack his brain for any recollection. He then shoots Pedri a look of warriness. “Could it be that she …?”

Pedri tilts his head quizzically. Joan clears his throat before he opens his mouth. “...Could it be that she, I don’t know, bears your child?”

“What? Oh. No. It’s … nothing like that.” Pedri response stumbles out, hands flapping in vague dismissal, although he fails to conceal his worries. “...At least not that I know of.”

Joan doesn’t 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.

“I feel like I’m being watched.” Pedri mutters.

“Well.” Frenkie is the first to break the silence that befalls them. “‘s fine. We understand that you were always married to the game from day one.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Raphinha adds. “I mean, Gael is the best thing that ever happened to me. But to each their own, man.”

“Sometimes I be having a shitty morning randomly then my son’s face pops up in my mind and I instantly have energy for the rest of the day.” Andreas provokes. “You will get there soon though. No pressure.”

So they are suddenly divided into the “father” team and the “non-father” team. But every single one of them are ganging up to corner him. Great, Pedri thinks.

“Why do I feel like I’m being pressured here?” Pedri jests.

“Nah. They just make fun of you.” Joan reaches over and quickly scruffs Pedri’s hair into a mess. “We have a more pressing issue, though. Why don’t you go check on your wife?”

Pedri, eventually, finds you. 

“Hey, cariño.” 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. “Are you okay?”

You get lost for a while, but it doesn’t take long for you to understand that it’s Joan’s doing. Damn him. You force a smile. “I’m okay, love. Is something the matter?”

“Okay.” Pedri continues kissing the back of your neck. Gentle and pure. “Nope. Nothing. Just missing you.”

“I’m alright. What about you?” you answer. “Tell me about your friends. What did you guys discuss over there?”

And Pedri does tell you about his friends. He yaps about Raphinha’s brand-new cooking hobby and Gavi’s dad jokes and some other things that you can barely follow because suddenly your brain and your ears are a little foggy. 

It’s fine.

It’s fine, when Pedri drives you home and he still doesn’t second-guess your answer. It’s 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. It’s fine, when tomorrow and the day after comes and the routines loop back into itself like nothing ever shifted. It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s 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.

“You look—exhausted.” You mumble as you cup his cheeks with your hand, running your thumb across the damp heat of his skin. It’s soft. Softer than it has any right to be. “Come in. I will cook you something. In the meantime, wash yourself up, mmm?”

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. “Why are you avoiding me?”

You blink your eyes repeatedly. “...What?”

“Yes, baby. You’ve been avoiding me and you can’t convince me otherwise.” He pulls you close and closer. Now one of his grip stays on your waist. “No amor, no love, no darling, not even ‘Pedri’. Just no nothing. You are mad at me, aren’t you?”

You chuckle. “Pedri … you’re spouting nonsense.”

“No. You’ve been mad at me.” As if everything just makes sense to him, he continues to mumble. His breath hits your nose. “For days. I can feel it. I’ve been trying to shrug it off, convincing myself that I was just being overly sensitive, but no. I’m sure of it now. You’ve been mad at me. Why?”

“It’s—nothing. Really. Mmm. Pedri—” you trail off when Pedri nuzzles his face against the crook of your neck, leaving gentle kisses.

“I miss you.” He whispers under his breath, gripping your waist even tighter as his tongue traces a slow, lazy line across your skin. “I miss you, amor.”

“Okay.” You manage to answer albeit the growing sensation, trying your best not to hold onto Pedri’s shoulder when one of Pedri’s 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. “Mmm—no, Pedri. Stop. We shouldn’t—have sex.”

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 heavier—crestfallen.

“What do you mean?” Pedri questions, upping his jaw as his eyes meets yours, searching for an answer. “I can’t miss my wife now?”

“You can.” Your voice is as small as an ant, trying your best not to let it quiver with a raw emotion. “You can miss me … without touching me.”

With that, you spin fully away from Pedri, leaving your husband all by himself. “Go take a bath.”

Pedri stands rooted, the air surrounding him suddenly strange. His arms drop like dead weight, fingers twitching once before curling into loose fists.