girl hello!! i dont know if you remember me but i used to go by the same username and i wrote this one gavi fic about him and reader being childhood friends that you commented on dhajksjhdajk
i deleted my tumblr back in dec (longgg story) and i just made a new one and the first thing i wanted to do was drop a hello in your inbox (and reread your fics OBVI) :)
i really want to write for fcb again but im feeling so demotivated since all my fics that i already wrote are gone now sajhbjakj mypoorbabies
anyway i hope youre well and that you have a good day // night 💓
omggg of course i remember you!!
i'm so sorry that i'm so late to this, but i haven't been logged into this account for so long 😭
i absolutely adore your writitng sm, you're one of my favourite writers! if it's on a google doc send it me ([email protected]) or dm me!!
Are you still writing to Ferran?
I have a request, that the girl be a professional and famous footballer and play in the Barca Femeni team, as a striker, and Ferran be interested in her, but Ferran is not sure if the girl likes him or not, so he tries to attract the girl somehow, I don't know, for example in joint training or team events, and the girl's reaction is like she knows Ferran likes her but wants to tease Ferran a little, you know what I mean?😼
staring.
masterlist requests word count: 1.67k (heh)
a/n: i'm back!
genre: fluff.
warnings: kissing.
summary: ferran finally gets his girl.
You first notice Ferran staring when he thinks you're too busy to catch him. It happens during recovery sessions, team barbecues, and even on those rare joint training days where the women’s and men’s squads share space on the same pitch. He always looks away the second your eyes meet his. At first you think he is just spacing out, but the way his ears turn pink gives him away.
You do not mind the attention. Actually, you enjoy it a little. You just are not planning to make things easy for him.
The day starts like that. Barça Femeni finishes a morning session, and both teams gather for a mixed shooting drill to promote academy integration. You plant your feet, adjust your stance, and send a ball curling into the top right corner. A few younger girls cheer. You grin, brushing the hair from your forehead.
That is when Ferran appears at your side, casual but not actually casual.
“Nice shot,” he says. His voice is steady, but his fingers fidget with his training bib.
You wipe sweat from your brow and lean slightly toward him. “Thanks. Try to keep up.”
His eyes widened. “Keep up? I can score too, you know.”
“Prove it.”
You watch him jog toward the ball like he is trying to act relaxed while being painfully aware that you're watching. He strikes it cleanly into the left corner. Good shot. You nod.
He smiles like a kid who has earned praise. “So. Keep up?”
“Not bad,” you say, walking past him. Your shoulder brushes his on purpose. “You get half a point.”
He stares after you for a full three seconds before following you. “Half? Seriously?”
“You're improving.”
“I play for Barcelona.”
“Exactly. You should aim higher.”
He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as if you have personally ruined his day in a way he secretly likes. He keeps glancing at you, and every time you catch him, he pretends to focus on something else. You know exactly what you're doing. He knows exactly what you're doing. No one says anything about it.
During the water break, he ends up next to you again. There is plenty of space on the bench. He chooses the exact spot where your knees will almost touch.
“You coming to the team dinner tonight?” he asks, sounding casual again. Too casual.
“Maybe,” you say, sipping water. “Why? Are you planning something?”
He blinks. “What would I be planning?”
You raise a brow. “I have no idea. You tell me.”
His mouth opens, then closes. “Nothing. Just making conversation.”
Your lips twitch, but you do not give him any more than that. Let him sweat a little.
He tries again during rondo, aiming soft passes toward you, giving you looks that last a little too long. At one point, he steals the ball just so he can spin away dramatically, hoping you notice. You do. You just pretend not to.
By the end of training, he looks a little defeated, but he still walks toward you. “So. Dinner tonight?”
You stretch your arms over your head, slow and relaxed. “Sure. I will come.”
His face lights up like you have scored a winning goal. “Great. I mean. Cool. Casual.”
You laugh under your breath. “See you there.”
The restaurant is lively that night, filled with players from both squads, staff, and way too many conversations happening at once. You arrive a few minutes late on purpose. When you walk in, Ferran almost drops the glass he is holding. He straightens his posture so fast it is almost funny.
He makes his way to you like he has been waiting near the door for half an hour. “You made it.”
“Of course,” you say. “Wouldn't miss it.”
He offers you a seat next to him, a little too eagerly. You take it, crossing your legs, leaning an inch closer than necessary. His breath catches for a second.
You slip into easy conversation with a few teammates, but Ferran keeps trying to join in. Every time someone makes a joke, he checks to see if you laughed. When dessert comes out, he slides the plate closer to you without saying a word.
“Thanks,” you say sweetly.
His cheeks flush. “I thought you might want some.”
“Do you want some?”
He shrugs, but he is clearly not shrugging. “We can share.”
You take a bite, then hold the fork near his mouth. “You want?”
He hesitates only a moment before leaning in and taking it. The table goes quiet for a second. A few teammates exchange looks. Alexia raises an eyebrow your way. Aitana smirks openly.
Ferran does not notice any of it. He is too focused on pretending that sharing a fork with you has not short-circuited his entire brain.
When the plates are cleared, he leans toward you. “Do you want to step out for a bit? It’s noisy in here.”
“Sure.”
You follow him outside into the warm Barcelona evening. The air smells like the sea and grilled food from nearby streets. People pass by, but none pay attention to the two of you standing near the railing.
Ferran rubs the back of his neck. “So. How was dinner?”
“Nice.” You tilt your head. “You seem tense.”
“Tense? Me? No.” He tries for confidence, but his voice cracks slightly. “I'm good.”
You take a small step closer. “You keep looking at me like you want to say something.”
He freezes. “Do I?”
“You do.”
He swallows hard. “Maybe I'm thinking.”
“About what?”
He hesitates. “Stuff.”
You bite back a smile. “Very specific.”
“What about you?” he asks, desperate to shift attention away from his nerves. “What are you thinking about?”
You let your eyes scan his face, slow enough for him to feel it. “You, actually.”
His breath catches again. “Me?”
“Mhm.”
He blinks, then looks away like he is scared of what he might see if he meets your eyes. “Why?”
“Why do you think?”
He does not answer, and you can tell his thoughts are racing. You could make it easy for him. You choose not to. Not yet.
You walk past him and lean on the railing, watching the street below. “You’ve been staring for weeks, Ferran. Anyone could see it.”
He looks horrified. “Anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my god.”
You laugh softly. “Relax. It is cute.”
“Cute?” He steps closer, but not too close. “I was trying to be subtle.”
“You failed.”
“I gathered that.”
He joins you at the railing. His shoulder is a breath away from yours. “You're unbelievable. You knew this whole time?”
“Yes.”
“And you never said anything?”
“I wanted to see what you would do.”
He groans, face turning bright red. “I cannot believe this. I made a fool of myself.”
“You did not.”
“I really did.”
“Ferran.”
He finally looks at you. Really looks. And this time you stop teasing long enough to let him see something honest in your expression.
“I like it when you try,” you say.
His breath leaves him in one soft exhale. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“You're not messing with me?”
“Not now,” you say. “I tease you because I like you. Not because I want to push you away.”
He is quiet for a long moment. The street noise fades, leaving only the soft hum of Barcelona at night. His voice is barely above a whisper when he speaks again.
“So you like me.”
“I do.”
He stands still, processing each word like it is fragile and he is scared to break it. Then he laughs, soft and disbelieving. “I thought you were out of my league.”
“You're the one who kept staring.”
“I could not help it.”
“I noticed.”
He licks his lips, nervous and hopeful. “If I told you I wanted to take you out, would you laugh at me?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I would say yes.”
His eyes fully light up now, warm and bright and finally confident. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He shifts closer, slow enough that you have time to pull away if you want to. You do not. Your shoulders touch. Then your arms. He watches your face for permission, and when you do not move, he lets his hand brush yours.
“Can I?” he asks.
You take his hand first.
His fingers tighten around yours like he has been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. He looks down at your intertwined hands, then up at you again, smiling in a way he never lets cameras see.
“You have no idea how long she's liked you,” he says quietly.
“I think I do,” you say. “I'm a striker. I read the field pretty well.”
He laughs, hands running through his hair in disbelief. “This is crazy.”
“Is it?”
“I finally get the girl she's been staring at like an idiot for months.”
“I guess you do.”
“And she's even better than I imagined.”
You lean in, brushing his shoulder with yours. “Careful. You're getting cheesy.”
“I'm allowed. I just got the best news of my year.”
You roll your eyes, smiling. “You're impossible.”
“Maybe. But I'm your problem now.”
“Good. I like that.”
He stares at you one last time, but this time it is not shy or uncertain. It is confident. Steady. Real.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
You nod once.
He closes the small distance and kisses you, soft at first, then firmer when your hand slides up to his chest. The world fades away, leaving only the warmth of him, the steady press of his mouth, and the sound of someone walking by whispering something about Ferran Torres being in love.
He rests his forehead against yours when the kiss ends. “You know this is only the beginning, right?”
“I hope so,” you whisper.
“Oh, it is,” he says, grinning. “I'm not letting you get away now.”
You squeeze his hand. “I was never going anywhere.”
He kisses you again, smiling into it this time, and you think he has never looked happier.
hey my idea would be Ferran meeting his girls family for the first time and he's super nervous because they aren't from Spain. Turns out they, especially her grandparents absolutely love him
really kind.
masterlist requests word count: 1.1k
a/n: family man ferran 🥰
genre: fluff.
warnings: none.
summary: ferran is nervous to meet your family for the first time, but relaxes and fits in almost immediately.
You can tell he is nervous long before you pull into the driveway.
Ferran sits in the passenger seat with his fingers tapped together, knee bouncing in tiny restless jumps he keeps trying to hide. He straightens his shirt for the fourth time, checks his hair in the mirror for the fifth, and then lets out a breath that sounds way too shaky for someone who plays in front of thousands every week.
“You’re sure they like football?” he asks, pretending it is a casual question even though he has already asked it twice.
“You’re dating me,” you say with a smile. “I think they’ll survive.”
He laughs, soft and sheepish, and it only confirms what you already know. He is terrified and trying so hard not to show it.
Your house looks the same as always when you stop the car. The garden your mother loves. The front steps your father rebuilt. The windchimes your grandparents insisted on giving you, even though they sound like a weather warning every time someone opens the door. All of it feels familiar and warm.
Ferran looks like he is about to walk into a battlefield.
You take his hand before you reach the front door, giving it a gentle squeeze. “They’re excited to meet you,” you tell him. “Not just because of who you are. Because you make me happy. That’s enough for them.”
His shoulders soften a little. “I hope so. I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t.”
Inside, it is louder than usual. Someone is laughing in the kitchen. Pots clatter. Something smells like cinnamon. You barely get the door closed before your mother appears with a bright smile.
“There you are. And you must be Ferran.”
He looks like he tries to bow and shake her hand at the same time, resulting in a strange halfway gesture that would be funny if it wasn’t so sweet. Your mother just chuckles and pulls him into a warm hug.
“Relax. We don’t bite.”
Your father steps in next, much calmer but just as welcoming. He shakes Ferran’s hand firmly, nods in approval, and says, “Good grip.” Which is apparently his version of a compliment.
You see the tension in Ferran’s jaw loosen.
Then the real test arrives.
Your grandparents make their dramatic entrance from the living room, both of them walking slower than usual so they can pretend they are not rushing over to meet him. They stand in front of him like he is a visiting prince. Your grandmother’s eyes sparkle with mischief. Your grandfather looks like he is already planning a conversation that will last hours.
“So you’re the boy she will not stop talking about,” your grandmother says, hands on her hips.
Ferran blinks. “She talks about me?”
You groan under your breath, but your grandmother hears you and waves you away.
“Of course she does. You make her smile. She thinks we do not notice, but we have eyes.”
Ferran turns bright pink.
Your grandfather steps closer and studies him with the seriousness of someone examining a museum artifact. “You look taller in person,” he says.
“Grandpa,” you mumble.
“What? It is true.”
Ferran laughs, unsure but pleased, and your grandfather breaks into a grin. “Good laugh. Come. Sit. Tell me about your career. And do not leave anything out.”
You shoot Ferran an apologetic look, but he shakes his head, grateful and relieved. It is written all over his face. They like him. They like him a lot.
Your grandmother takes your arm and pulls you aside as Ferran is dragged into the living room. “He is lovely,” she whispers. “And so handsome. You did well.”
“Grandma.”
“What? If you don’t marry him someday, I will.”
You’re still laughing when you join them on the sofa. Ferran is sitting between your grandparents like he has been adopted into the family within five minutes. Your grandfather is asking about training sessions. Your grandmother is asking if he eats enough vegetables. He answers every question with complete respect and a tiny bit of fear, which only makes them adore him more.
At one point, your grandmother pats his knee and says, “You can call me abuela now.”
You nearly choke on your drink.
But Ferran laughs.
Dinner is a blur of laughter and stories. Your father tells an embarrassing childhood tale about you. Your mother hugs Ferran more times than any normal person would. Your grandparents insist he tries every dessert on the table, even the one nobody likes. He eats it anyway and pretends it is delicious.
Every now and then, you catch him glancing at you. His eyes are warm. Comfortable. Safe.
After dessert, when everyone is distracted by leftovers and packing containers, you sneak him outside for a breath of fresh air. The sun is setting behind the houses, painting the sky in soft gold.
“So,” you say. “Still nervous?”
He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head with an almost disbelieving smile. “No. They’re amazing. I thought they wouldn’t understand me or that I’d say something stupid. But your family is just... kind. Really kind.”
“They like you. That’s all.”
“I noticed.”
He steps closer, his voice lower now, calmer than it has been all day.
“I was scared,” he admits. “Because you matter to me. And I wanted them to see that. I didn’t want to get it wrong.”
Your hands slide into his without thinking. “You didn’t get anything wrong.”
He leans down, forehead almost brushing yours, the softest smile on his lips. “Your grandmother wants me to visit again next week.”
“She’s already planning the menu.”
He laughs quietly, then looks at you with a certainty that makes your stomach flip.
“I really like your family,” he says. “But I love how you look when you’re around them even more.”
Your cheeks warm. “Ferran.”
“What? It’s true.”
You whisper back, “I love how you fit here.”
He exhales, slow and content, like something inside him settles. His hands rise to your cheeks as he presses a kiss to your forehead, gentle and lingering.
The front door opens a second later. Your grandmother sticks her head out. “Ferran, sweetheart, do you like apple pie or chocolate cake? I need to know for next time.”
He freezes.
You burst out laughing.
He answers, voice flustered, “Both are good.”
Your grandmother beams. “Perfect. I’ll make both.”
She disappears inside.
Ferran looks at you, face flushed, eyes wide, but his smile is bright and full of something hopeful.
“Your family might love me more than you do,” he whispers.
hiii soph can u please write a fic about eric garcia, where reader, comes from an emotionally abusive home and her father yells at her cause she wants to move out. So she spends the night with Eric and he comforts her.💌
safe, wanted, home.
masterlist requests word count: 1.95k
a/n: good boyfriend eric ☹️
genre: angst/comfort.
warnings: toxic parent, shouting, degrading language.
summary: you seek refuge at eric's place and in his arms after a serious argument with your father.
You knew the shouting would start the moment you opened your mouth. It always did. The second you walked into the living room with your bag half packed and your voice steady enough to fake calm, your father’s eyes had narrowed in that way that made your stomach twist. You’d lived with that twist for years, long enough to recognize it like an old scar.
“I’m moving out,” you’d said, quiet but clear.
The reaction was instant. A storm ripping open. His voice rose, sharp and booming, filling the house in a way that made the walls feel small. He demanded to know who put the idea in your head. He demanded to know why you thought you could just leave. He accused. He spat out old failures you’d never committed. He made you feel small again, the way he always did when he needed control.
You tried to keep your breath even. You really did. But your hand shook around the strap of your bag and your throat tightened until it hurt. There was a moment where you thought you’d apologize just to make it stop. You’d done that so many times that the word had become meaningless to you.
But something in you had shifted over the past few months. Something had changed because someone had shown you what gentle sounded like. What patient looked like. What safe felt like.
Eric.
And maybe you weren’t brave enough to say that to your father’s face, but you were brave enough to step back when he took a step forward. You were brave enough to keep your voice steady when you said, “I just want space.”
He didn’t hear it. He never did. He kept shouting. You kept shrinking. Until eventually, you grabbed your keys with a trembling hand, whispered something that wasn’t quite goodbye, and walked out the door.
You didn’t realize you were crying until the cold air hit your cheeks.
Your vision blurred as you climbed into your car. Your hands shook so hard you had to grip the steering wheel until your knuckles ached. You could hear echoes of his voice in your head, the way it always stayed long after the argument ended.
You didn’t have a destination. Not really. But your body chose for you. It always did when everything fell apart.
You drove to Eric’s place.
You texted him only once when you parked outside, fingers barely functioning.
Can I come in?
He answered in less than ten seconds.
Of course. Door’s unlocked.
Your chest loosened by a tiny notch.
You got out of the car and went straight to his front step, wiping your cheeks with your sleeve even though it didn’t help at all. Your eyes stung. Your throat was burning. You felt heavy and empty at the same time.
When you pushed the door open, the warm light hit you first. Then Eric turned the corner from the kitchen and froze.
His face softened so fast you almost broke right there.
“Hey,” he said quietly, already stepping toward you, already reading you with that careful attention that made you feel seen instead of judged. “What happened?”
You opened your mouth to reply but the words didn’t come. They never did when emotions got too big. You pressed your lips together, trying. The second you inhaled, a shaky breath escaped instead.
Eric didn’t push. He never did.
He just moved closer, slow enough that you could step back if you needed. When you didn’t, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and guided you inside, gently closing the door with his other hand.
The moment his arm settled, your body snapped. Tears spilled again, harder this time, and you choked on a sound you didn’t recognize.
You felt Eric pause. Then both arms came around you. Strong. Steady. Warm. His chin rested lightly on top of your head. You felt the slow rise and fall of his breathing against your cheek.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You didn’t know how long you stood there in the hallway, crying into his chest while he held you like nothing in that moment mattered more. His shirt grew damp. Your breathing stuttered. He kept rubbing slow circles on your back, the kind that made your shoulders drop from your ears, the kind that started to loosen the knots in your chest.
Eventually, the tears slowed into shivers. You leaned back slightly, wiping your face again even though you knew you looked awful.
“Sorry,” you muttered.
Eric frowned gently. “Don’t be. You’re allowed to cry.”
You shook your head. “I hate it.”
“I don’t,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “Means you trust me.”
You looked down at his hand. Your throat felt tight in a new way now.
He took your bag from your shoulder and set it aside. “Come on. Sit down for a bit.”
You followed him to the couch without thinking. Your body felt drained, like every step was heavier than the last. You sank into the cushions and Eric sat beside you, close enough for your knees to touch. He didn’t say anything for a moment, giving you space to gather yourself.
You stared at your hands. They were still shaking slightly.
He noticed. Of course he did. His hand slid over yours, warm and steady, grounding you in a way nothing else could.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asked, voice soft.
You hesitated, then nodded.
“My dad started yelling,” you whispered. “I told him I want to move out and he lost it.”
Eric’s jaw tightened, just a little, before he eased it again. “He shouldn’t talk to you like that.”
“He always does,” you muttered. “It’s normal.”
His fingers tightened around yours. “It shouldn’t be.”
You took a shaky breath. “He said I’m ungrateful. That I think I’m better than everyone. That I’m disrespectful. He kept going and going and I just… I couldn’t stay.”
Eric listened without interrupting. He always listened like what you said mattered.
When you finished, your voice was barely audible. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“You always have here,” he said instantly. “I’m serious. You can come any time.”
Your chest twisted again, but not painfully this time.
You hadn’t realized how cold you felt until Eric pulled a blanket over your legs. He adjusted it gently, then leaned back with you, his shoulder brushing yours.
He didn’t force you to be strong. He didn’t tell you to stop crying or calm down. He didn’t minimize anything. He just stayed beside you, solid and patient, letting you breathe.
After a minute, he spoke again. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that. Not by anyone, especially not someone who’s supposed to protect you.”
“It’s been like this for years,” you whispered. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to get used to pain,” he said. His voice stayed soft, but there was something fierce under it. “You deserve a place where you feel safe.”
You stared at the wall for a moment. Then, quieter, “I feel safe here.”
Eric blinked. The reaction was small, but you saw it.
He cleared his throat lightly. “I’m glad.”
Another silence passed, this time comfortable. When your breathing finally steadied, Eric shifted just a bit closer.
“You don’t have to go back tonight,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll sleep on the couch if you want the bed.”
You shook your head fast. “No. I don’t want you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable if it helps you,” he replied without missing a beat.
Your chest warmed again.
But you didn’t want him sleeping on the couch. You didn’t want distance. Not after everything.
“Can I stay in your room?” you asked quietly.
His eyes softened. “Yeah. Of course.”
He stood and offered you his hand. You took it, letting him pull you up. You followed him to his room, where he flicked on a warm lamp instead of the overhead light. The room looked soft in that glow.
He grabbed an extra hoodie from his dresser and handed it to you. “Here. It’s soft. You’ll like it.”
You smiled a little, the first one all night. “Thanks.”
He stepped outside while you changed. When you opened the door again, he peeked inside with careful eyes.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Better,” you said. “Thanks to you.”
He hesitated for a second, then stepped inside. He didn’t reach for you right away. He waited, letting you choose the pace. When you sat down on the bed, he sat beside you, close but not crowding.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he murmured. “I wish you didn’t have to carry it alone.”
You swallowed. “I don’t feel alone when I’m with you.”
Something in his expression changed. Softer. Tender in a way that made your stomach flip.
He lifted his hand, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted. You didn’t. His fingers brushed your cheek, light and warm.
“You deserve better than the way he talks to you,” he whispered. “You deserve someone who talks to you with kindness.”
Your throat tightened again. Not painfully. More like you were full of something you hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Thank you,” you said, voice shaky.
He shook his head gently. “You don’t need to thank me for caring.”
You looked at him. Really looked. The soft eyes. The gentle expression. The quiet protectiveness you felt every time he spoke to you.
You didn’t mean to lean into him, but you did. Your head rested on his shoulder, and he froze for a moment before relaxing, letting his cheek brush your hair.
His arm wrapped around your waist, careful and warm.
“You’re safe here,” he whispered. “I promise.”
You closed your eyes. For the first time all night, your lungs filled fully.
Eric kept holding you, steady and patient, as if he had all the time in the world. His thumb traced slow lines up and down your arm. Your breathing matched the rhythm of his.
After a few minutes, he spoke again, even softer.
“If you ever decide to move out, I’ll help you,” he said. “I’ll help you pack, I’ll help you find a place, whatever you need. You don’t have to do it alone.”
You felt your chest swell.
“You’d really do that?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I’d do anything for you.”
You didn’t mean for tears to gather again, but they did. Soft ones this time. Ones that didn’t hurt.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. His eyes flicked to yours, searching gently.
“Eric,” you whispered. “Thank you. For everything.”
He smiled quietly. “I’m just glad you came here.”
You nodded, wiping a stray tear. “I always feel better here.”
“I’m glad,” he repeated, brushing your hair back. “And you can stay as long as you want. Even if that means staying forever.”
Your breath caught.
His expression shifted when he realized what he’d said. Not embarrassed, just sincere in a way that made your stomach flutter.
He cleared his throat a little. “I mean it. You’re not a burden. You’re not too much. You’re never too much for me.”
You felt something settle inside you. Something warm. Something steady.
You leaned forward again, resting your forehead against his shoulder. He let out a quiet breath and wrapped both arms around you.
Neither of you moved for a long time.
And for the first time in years, you didn’t feel small. You didn’t feel wrong. You didn’t feel like you were surviving someone else’s storm.
hi!! i absolutely adore your writing and already eaten up every pau fic you’ve released multiple times over 🙈 could i request a pau cubarsí x reader fic where reader is lewandowski’s niece (or even his daughter if you’d be cool with that, too!!)? and she comes to watch training and matches often, which is how she and pau meet & get together? thank you!! :)
gentle boy with gentle eyes.
masterlist requests word count: 1.6k
a/n: he's so cutesy
genre: fluff.
warnings: none.
summary: as robert lewandowski's daughter, teammates have always been off limits... until a certain shy, catalan boy comes along, that is.
You’ve been around football for as long as you can remember. Being Robert Lewandowski’s eldest daughter means you’ve grown up on the edge of pitches, tucked into stands, sitting quietly during press moments, slipping inside training facilities while pretending you’re not witnessing half the squad make fun of each other. You’ve always blended into the background, gentle and quiet, content just watching your dad do what he loves.
That’s how most people describe you. Gentle. Soft. Sweet. You don’t mind. It fits you.
It’s also probably why Pau Cubarsí notices you long before you realize he has.
You first catch his eye during a random weekday training session. Your dad had told you he wanted you to come along, since you hadn’t visited for a couple of weeks. You sit a little away from the staff, sleeves of your jacket tugged over your hands, watching the drills repeat and repeat again. The boys are sweating, laughing, shouting instructions, and it’s all so familiar that your thoughts drift.
Until someone’s gaze hits you.
You look up. Pau’s staring. He’s mid pass, completely forgetting to move as the ball bounces away from him. One of the guys shouts his name, and Pau jolts back to life. His ears go bright red. You pretend not to notice, though your lips curve without your permission.
From then on, he looks at you a lot.
At first you think you’re imagining it. He’s shy. Really shy. But every time you visit, without fail, Pau finds you. Not in a bold way. Not in a confident way. More like he’s drawn to you and doesn’t know what to do with himself once he gets there.
He always gives you a small smile. You always give one back. Your dad teases you once about how bright you suddenly get whenever Cubarsi does anything remotely impressive, and you swat his arm, face burning.
You and Pau never talk much, just little greetings here and there. But somehow every interaction leaves your heart running faster than it should.
Eventually, those short greetings turn into soft conversations.
He starts asking if training was fun to watch. You say yes. You always say yes. He starts asking if your uni classes are going well. You tell him they’re alright, even though you hate math and he laughs at the way you scrunch your nose every time you bring it up.
You ask him about his studies too. He lights up every single time. You love it.
You slowly grow closer, and everyone notices. Except your dad. Or so you think.
Match days make everything worse. Or better. Or just unbearably flustered.
You always sit near the pitch when possible, and Pau glances your way so often that Ferran once nudges him and whispers something that makes Pau’s whole face turn pink. You see it, of course. Your dad sees it too. He raises a brow at you, but you pretend to be fully invested in the warm ups.
It’s adorable. Painfully adorable. And your dad has definitely started piecing things together.
Which leads you to today.
A home match against a mid table team, nothing too stressful, but you’re still nervous, because you have a plan. A very specific, very embarrassing plan.
You bought Pau flowers.
You don’t buy players flowers. You barely give people gifts at all. You’re very quiet and very private, but the idea popped into your head and refused to leave. You’d walked past a florist after class and the bouquet practically called your name. Soft white roses with a few light blue accents. The kind of thing that reminded you of Pau. The kind of thing that made your heart flutter for no rational reason.
You hold the bouquet tight the whole match, though you try hiding it behind your legs. Your dad glances at it once, then gives you a little smile like he knows exactly what you’re doing and is trying very hard not to tease you. You ignore him.
The match finishes in a comfortable win. Pau plays beautifully. Predictably, he keeps glancing your way after the final whistle, searching for you. Your stomach twists in the sweetest way possible.
Your dad’s still giving you that look.
You don’t wait for him. You slip away toward the tunnel, bouquet clutched so close your knuckles ache. There’s a mess of media and staff around, but you wait at the edge, heart pounding.
Eventually, Pau appears.
He’s talking to a teammate at first, but the moment he spots you, he stops mid sentence.
He walks over with that shy smile that always threatens to melt you.
“Hey.” His voice is soft. It always is.
“Hi.” You feel like you’re vibrating out of existence. “You played really well.”
“Thanks. I saw you watching.” He blushes right away. So do you.
You hold out the flowers before you can lose your nerve. “These are for you.”
Pau freezes.
You swear you’ve never seen anyone go as red as he does in that moment. His eyes go huge, cheeks warm enough to heat the entire stadium. He takes the bouquet with careful hands like it’s made of glass.
“For me?” His voice cracks. It actually cracks.
You nod, shy. “I thought you might like them.”
He looks like he might pass out.
“I love them.” He stares at the flowers, then at you, then at the flowers again. “I really love them.”
He’s so emotional that you laugh quietly. He catches it and immediately reaches out, pulling you into the gentlest hug known to mankind. It’s quick, barely a second, yet you feel the warmth of it everywhere.
Your face is burning. His is worse. You’re both smiling at each other like complete fools.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“Of course.”
Someone coughs behind you. You jump. Pau jumps. Your dad stands a few meters away, arms crossed lightly, amused beyond belief. He doesn’t say anything though, just raises one brow and gives Pau a slight nod of approval. That somehow makes Pau even redder.
He mutters a goodbye, promises to text you later, and disappears back into the tunnel with the flowers pressed to his chest.
You stay frozen for a moment.
Your dad waits a few seconds before speaking. “Ready to go?”
You nod, refusing to meet his eyes.
The car ride home is quiet at first. Your dad hums along to the radio, totally normal, totally casual, totally pretending he didn’t witness the most painfully obvious budding romance in club history.
You hope he won’t bring it up.
He absolutely brings it up.
“So.” He doesn’t look at you, still focused on the road. “You and Pau seem close.”
Your head snaps his way. “We’re not. I mean. We’re friends. Just friends.”
“Mhm.” He hides a smile. “He looked happy about those flowers.”
“Dad.”
“I’m just saying.”
You cross your arms. “It wasn’t anything.”
He finally glances at you. His face is too calm. “If you say so.”
“You’re not believing me.”
“I never said that.” He chuckles under his breath. “You can tell me if you like him.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Alright.” He nods, obviously entertained. “I believe you.”
“You don’t.”
He laughs outright this time. “It’s fine. Really. Pau’s a good kid.”
You stare at him. “A good kid?”
“A very good kid.”
“You didn’t say that about my last crush.”
“Your last crush was an idiot.”
You groan, sinking into your seat. “This isn’t a crush.”
“Of course.”
“It’s not!”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking you’re my daughter and you can tell me anything.”
You soften a little. “I know.”
He gives your knee a gentle pat. “And for what it’s worth, if something is happening with Pau, I approve.”
Your face heats again. “Nothing is happening.”
“Not yet.”
“Dad!”
He laughs.
You try to stay annoyed, but you can’t. The embarrassment fades into something warm. Something proud. Your dad’s protective, always has been, but he trusts Pau. That means something.
It means a lot.
Later that night, your phone buzzes.
PAU: Thank you again for the flowers. They made my whole day.
Then another.
PAU: I wanted to ask something. If that hug wasn’t weird or too fast or anything.
And another.
PAU: Can I take you out sometime?
Your heart stops, then restarts in a sprint.
You smile into your pillow, typing back with fingers that shake a little.
YOU: I’d really like that.
There’s a long pause. Then:
PAU: Good. Because I’ve been wanting to ask for a while.
Another pause.
PAU: I hope your dad didn’t tease you too much.
You stare at the screen.
You groan and bury your face in your blanket, giggling.
PAU: I’ll make it up to you on our date.
YOU: You better.
You fall asleep smiling.
The next morning, your dad catches you at breakfast and raises an eyebrow again.
“You’re glowing,” he says.
You sip your orange juice without meeting his eyes. “No I’m not.”
He laughs. “Sure.”
But he doesn’t ask anything else. He just gives you a small, knowing smile that tells you he’s happy for you. Really happy.
And you know, without saying it out loud, that things with Pau are only just starting.
Your gentle boy with gentle eyes. The one who goes red every time you smile at him. The one who carried your flowers home like they were the most precious thing in the world.
You’re starting something with him.
And you already know it’s going to be the sweetest thing you’ve ever had.
I have a Ferran request: there's one girl working for club or country he's kinda close to and his gf is not happy seeing that. That's causing a little drama bug he surprises his gf with a celebration for her and the biggest bouquet of roses ever
roses.
masterlist requests word count: 2.6k
a/n: finally back guys yay 😁😁
genre: angst - comfort.
warnings: jealously over another woman.
summary: you see ferran with another woman from the club and panic. he does everything he possibly can to assure you that you're the only one for him.
You are pissed. Not in a loud dramatic way, more in that slow burn, quiet storm way that sits low in your chest and refuses to leave. The kind of annoyed where you look perfectly calm from the outside, but inside you are ready to punt someone into the sun.
And unfortunately for both of you, Ferran can see it written all over your face.
It starts on a Saturday. You show up at Ciutat Esportiva to drop off something he forgot, and you do not plan to stay. You know the drill. Quick drop off, maybe a kiss if he is not surrounded by teammates, and then you dip before anyone ropes you into small talk. Easy. Until you spot her.
She is standing with him near the entrance. One of the media staff for Barcelona. Pretty in a clean, polished way. Good at her job, good communicator, good with people. She smiles without trying too hard. She also happens to be one of the few women in that side of the environment, which automatically gets Ferran’s soft attention because he cares about everyone feeling comfortable.
Normally, that would not bother you. Normally, you would hype him up for being that guy, the one who always goes out of his way to make people feel included. But today, for some reason you don’t have the patience.
Maybe it is the way she touches his arm when she laughs. Maybe it is the way he leans in slightly so he can hear her better. Maybe it is the way you are so aware of them before he even sees you.
You approach with the bag in your hand. You do not raise your voice. You do not glare. You just hand it over.
He looks happy to see you. That makes it worse somehow.
“Ay, amor. You didn’t have to bring this,” he says. He steps toward you, arm halfway lifted for a hug.
You allow it, but it feels like something brittle is lodged between your ribs.
“No problem,” you say.
She greets you too, cheerful and polite. You return a small smile that feels like it belongs to someone else.
“I told Ferran I would remind him to pack his boots for Monday,” she adds lightly. She glances at him. “You forget them more than you think.”
He laughs, and you feel your jaw tense just the tiniest bit.
He does forget his boots sometimes. You know that because you have been the one to drive home and get them more than once. You are the one who covers when his head is somewhere else. You are the one who keeps track of the thousand little things that orbit his career.
But lately there are things you don’t know. Things she seems to know. Small things. Harmless things. Yet they sting today.
They keep chatting for a moment. You stand there with your arms folded, trying to act unbothered. Then training staff calls her name and she waves bye to the two of you.
Once she is gone, Ferran leans in for another kiss. You give him one, quick, barely there.
He pulls back a little, brows drawing together. “You alright?”
“Yep.”
“Sure?”
“Yep,” you repeat.
He studies you for that extra beat that means he knows something is off but cannot figure it out yet. You redirect the conversation before he can push.
“You should go,” you say. “You are going to be late.”
He hesitates, but he has to go. He gives your hand a squeeze, jogs off, and you walk away feeling the frustration simmer higher.
The annoying thing is that it does not go away. It follows you home, sits with you while you fold laundry, clings to your shoulder in the shower. You try not to replay the interaction in your head, but your brain is stubborn and nosy. You don’t want to be jealous, but jealousy arrives anyway, kicking the door open like it pays rent.
By the time Ferran comes home that night, you are curled up on the couch scrolling your phone in that aggressive, I am totally fine but don’t talk to me way.
He drops onto the couch beside you with a soft sigh. He rests a hand on your knee, gentle, testing. “Cariño.”
You do not look at him. “Hi.”
He nudges you playfully, shoulder to shoulder. “You are mad at me.”
“I am not.”
“You’re lying.”
Your phone lights up. You scroll with more force than necessary.
He takes the phone from your hand and puts it on the coffee table.
“Hey.” He leans in close, voice low. “Talk to me.”
You keep your eyes ahead. “It is nothing.”
“Then why are your eyebrows doing that thing.”
“My eyebrows are literally just existing.”
He huffs a soft laugh, but his expression stays serious. “Did something happen?”
Silence settles between you for a few seconds. Heavy, uncomfortable.
Finally you say it. “I don’t like how close you are with her.”
Ferran blinks, caught off guard. “Who.”
“The media girl. The one from today.”
He sits up straighter. “What. Why.”
You wince, annoyed at yourself as much as him. “Because she knows things. Because you talk to her in this easy way. Because you look comfortable with her. I don’t know. It just feels like she is around you more than I am.”
Realization dawns across his face. Then confusion. Then something like hurt.
“Cariño, she is my coworker. That is it. I promise you, there is nothing going on.”
“I know nothing is going on,” you say quickly. “I trust you. I don’t trust how she looks at you sometimes. I don’t like the way she acts around you. And you just let it happen.”
He rubs his hands together slowly, thinking. His voice is soft when he finally speaks.
“I didn’t know you felt like that.”
“Yeah. Well. I do.”
He shifts closer, searching your face. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel ignored.”
You stare at your lap. The jealousy is embarrassing. You hate the feeling. You hate that it got to you enough to cause this tension.
“You are allowed to have friends,” you say. “I just felt replaced today.”
Ferran’s face twists like that physically hurts him. “You will never be replaced. Not by anyone. Ever.”
He takes your hands, warm and firm, grounding you. “I care about her as a coworker. I want the environment to feel good for everyone. But that is all it is. I swear.”
You breathe out slowly, finally meeting his eyes. “I know. I just felt insecure.”
He nods, thumb brushing your knuckles. “Thank you for telling me.”
You almost soften. Almost.
But the ache is still there, quiet but present.
He feels it. He always does.
He presses a kiss to your temple. “Let me fix it.”
“You don’t have to fix anything.”
“Yes, I do,” he murmurs. His voice sounds certain in a way that makes you blink. “Let me try.”
And before you can ask what that means, he stands up and walks into the bedroom with his phone in hand, typing something quickly.
You frown.
He is obviously planning something.
And knowing Ferran, it will probably be dramatic.
Which should not make your heart pound the way it does.
You wake up the next morning with that same little knot sitting in your chest, the one that has been hanging around since yesterday. You hate that it is there. You hate that it makes you feel petty. You hate that it makes you feel insecure when you know your relationship with Ferran is solid. Except watching him joke around with someone else who clearly gets to spend whole workdays next to him had hit a weird nerve you didn’t expect.
You roll out of bed and drag your feet to the kitchen. The apartment is quiet, too quiet for a morning when he is supposed to be home. Ferran had texted you last night saying he would be home late because their recovery session had dragged, which made sense. He does that sometimes. You had told him good night and pretended that it didn’t sting.
You grab a glass of water, take two sips and shut the fridge with your hip. That is when you notice the door to the balcony is cracked open. You freeze a little, heart lifting and dropping at the same time. You walk over, push it wider and step out.
He is there.
Cross legged on the outdoor couch with the hood of his grey training jumper up, hair messy, eyes on you in this soft, almost shy way. He is holding a small cardboard box on his lap.
You blink.
He stands instantly.
You swallow hard.
“Morning,” he says. It is gentle, barely above a murmur.
You nod. “Morning.”
He steps closer, slow, like he is approaching a stray cat he does not want to spook. He smells like fresh laundry and a little like the aftershave he only uses on match days. His hair is sticking out in all directions, and he looks like he slept maybe thirty minutes.
“I wanted to be here when you woke up,” he says.
You stare at him, confused but warming despite yourself. “You texted that you were staying late.”
“I did,” he says. “I changed my mind.”
You look at him, searching his face. He has that guilty little pinch around his eyes, the one he gets when he knows he has messed up.
Before you can say anything, he shifts the box in his hands, clearing his throat. “I brought something.”
He lifts the lid.
Inside are twelve red roses. Deep red, velvety, spaced perfectly so they don’t crush each other. They look fresh, like he picked them up the second shops opened. Under the roses sits a bar of your favorite chocolate, wrapped in the exact brand and flavor you always grab on stressful days.
Your heart thumps. Hard.
“Ferran…”
“That’s not all,” he says quickly. His voice is careful, trying not to scare you off. He reaches into the box again and pulls out a folded card, thick, cream paper, clearly handwritten. Your name is on the front in his neat but slightly uneven handwriting, a red heart drawn underneath in the crayons you have for when you babysit little cousins.
He does not give it to you right away. He holds it for a second, looking straight into your eyes. “I stayed up writing this,” he admits. “I needed you to understand how I feel before we talk about anything else.”
He hands it over.
Your fingers brush his.
You feel that spark you always feel with him. It hurts a little today.
You unfold the card slowly. The handwriting fills the entire inside. Not just a short message. Not just an apology. Paragraphs. Lines squeezed in at the bottom. A whole page turned over because he had more to say.
You start reading.
He writes about how much he loves you. Not dramatic declarations, just honest stuff. How he wakes up thinking about you. How he feels calmer when you are near. How you ground him when football gets overwhelming. How he never wants you to doubt that you matter more to him than anyone else in the world.
He writes about the girl from the club too. Not defensively. Just clearly. He explains that she is a coworker who has been helpful in stressful situations. That he appreciates her work but nothing about their dynamic ever crossed a line. That he should have been more aware of how it looked. That he hates hurting you even unintentionally.
You blink several times because your eyes start stinging. You are halfway through the next paragraph about how proud he is of you, how he loves your ambition and your stubbornness and how you light up rooms without even noticing.
Your throat closes.
When you finish the last line, your hands are shaking a little. You fold the card shut and look up at him.
Ferran is watching you like every breath he takes depends on your reaction. He is not fidgeting or trying to cover up anything. He just stands there, open and sincere and waiting.
You take a step forward. “You really wrote all that last night?”
He nods. “I kept thinking about your face when you saw us yesterday. You looked hurt. And I hated it. I hated that I did something that made you feel that way.”
“That girl is nice,” you say. “I know she is doing her job, and maybe I reacted too strongly.”
“No,” he cuts in softly. “You reacted like someone who cares. And even if it was small, I should have been more aware of how things looked. I should have checked in with you.”
You pinch the inside of your cheek. “I just felt blindsided.”
“I get that,” he says. He moves closer, lifts his hand slowly until it rests on your cheek. “And I should have done better. I want you to feel safe with me. Always.”
You lean into his palm. Your voice is barely a whisper. “I didn’t want to fight with you.”
He shakes his head. “We didn’t fight. We hit a bump. And I am here to fix it with you.”
Your eyes drop to the roses. “You brought flowers.”
“Seven,” he says, a small smile finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. “One for each year we have been together. And I plan to bring more next year. And the year after that.”
Your lips twitch, trying not to smile but failing. He looks proud that he got even that tiny reaction out of you.
“And chocolate,” you say.
He shrugs. “I know you. Chocolate solves at least half of life’s problems.”
“And the card?” you ask, feeling your chest warm again.
He takes a breath. “The card is everything I do not say enough.”
You look down, overwhelmed but in a good way this time. Slow warmth spreads through your chest, wiping away the knot that had lived there since yesterday.
You step into him. He wraps his arms around you instantly, like he was waiting for that moment for hours. You bury your face in his shoulder. He presses a kiss to your temple, gentle and steady.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “And you never need to feel threatened by anyone around me.”
You pull back enough to look at him. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he says immediately. “You’re it for me.”
Your chest loosens completely.
He nudges your forehead with his. “So. Will you forgive me?”
You smile, soft and slow. “I already did.”
He breathes out a laugh, relief flooding his face. “Good. Because I reheated your favorite breakfast and it is probably freezing by now.”
You roll your eyes. “You reheated it?”
“In my defense, I didn’t expect you to read the card that slowly.”
You smack his chest lightly, and he laughs again. The tension between you dissolves, replaced by something warm and tender.
He lifts the roses. “These are going in a vase. Top shelf. Proud display. No arguments.”
You snort. “You are so dramatic.”
He grins. “Only for you.”
He takes your hand, squeezes it once and leads you back inside.
The moment the door closes behind you, you feel something settle in your chest.
Maybe you needed this.
Not the jealousy. Not the worry. But the reminder that Ferran chooses you, loudly, clearly, without hesitation.
And as he fusses with the vase, trying not to drop the roses, muttering to himself in the most chaotic way possible, you realize something else.
He is trying. Always.
And that is what makes you stay.
heyy! i don’t know if it’s a good idea but maybe you could do one where reader and pedri are not together anymore but they have kids and the kids are trying to get them beck together and it works
neon rings.
masterlist requests word count: 1.2k
a/n: such a cute idea!
genre: fluff.
warnings: none.
summary: your kids organise a park meet up to try and get you and pedri back together.
You never expected parenting with an ex to feel this normal. Comfortable, even. You and Pedri had fallen into this weird rhythm where you passed the kids back and forth like dance partners. He always showed up early. You always pretended not to notice. It was civil, it was warm, it was a little messy, but it worked.
Except recently, both kids had been acting suspiciously. Like full spy mode. Whispering. Running off whenever either of you walked into the room. And your daughter, Luna, had started giving you these looks. The kind that said she knew something you didn’t.
Today was pick up day. He texted that classic be-right-out message, and you caught yourself checking the mirror before opening the door. You told yourself it was because your hair was chaotic. Not because it was him.
Pedri smiled when you stepped outside. He always did. The easy kind. The kind that used to make your chest feel too full. He was sitting on the edge of the back seat, trying to fix the clasp of your son Mateo’s jacket. Mateo immediately looked up at you like he had been waiting for his cue.
“Mami, can we do the park again?” Mateo asked.
You blinked. “The park? On a school night?”
“It’s Thursday,” he said. “That’s not a school night.”
You lifted a brow. “It is literally a school night.”
Mateo frowned like you had just blown the most important plan of his life. He glanced over at his sister. She stepped forward, eyes shining with something way too deliberate.
“Mami,” Luna said. “Please. We want both of you at the park.”
Pedri coughed. It was subtle, but you caught it. He stood up straight and brushed off his shirt like he had not heard a thing.
“That sounds fun,” he said. He looked at you gently. “If you’re up for it.”
You told yourself your stomach did not flip. “Sure,” you said. “Fine. A little bit.”
The kids lit up so aggressively that it was instantly suspicious.
The park was empty except for a few joggers cutting through. The late afternoon sun painted everything gold, and the air felt warm enough for pretend summer. Mateo ran straight for the swings, while Luna hung back with this look that was way too knowing for a seven-year-old.
Pedri gave you a small smile. “Want to sit on the benches?”
You shrugged like it did not matter, even though it did. Every little moment with him still held weight. You thought it had gone away after the breakup. It had not.
He sat next to you, elbows on his knees, watching the kids. You watched them too, but really you watched him watching them. He laughed when Luna pretended she was about to jump off the swing, hand instinctively twitching like he was ready to run in and catch her.
“You still do that,” you said.
“Do what?”
“Act like they’re about to fling themselves into space at any moment.”
He grinned. “Have you met them?”
You snorted, and he looked so proud of himself that your heart did something embarrassing. You leaned back on the bench, letting the silence settle. For once, it did not feel heavy. Just warm. Familiar.
The kids were whispering again. A lot. Something was brewing.
Pedri noticed too. “They’re plotting.”
“Absolutely,” you said. “They’ve been weird all week.”
He looked genuinely amused. “Think they’re trying to get us back together or something?”
You stared straight ahead. “Don’t joke like that.”
“I’m not joking,” he said. Not flirtatious. Not dramatic. Just honest.
Your breath caught, but you played it cool. “They’re kids. They don’t think about stuff like that.”
He tilted his head. “Luna absolutely does.”
You knew he was right. She had always been too observant for her own good. She had clocked the breakup before you two had even said the words out loud.
A shout interrupted you. “Mami, Papi, come here!”
Both kids were standing at the top of the slide. Luna had this grin that had trouble written all over it, and Mateo had that you’re going to love my plan expression.
Pedri looked at you. You looked at him.
“We should probably see what they’re doing,” you said.
“Probably,” he agreed.
The second you reached the slide, Luna pointed at the ground. There were two little plastic rings sitting in the dirt. Neon green and bright pink. The kind you get from those cheap vending machines in grocery store entrances.
“These are for you,” Luna said, hands behind her back like she was giving a presentation. “Because you two obviously still like each other.”
You choked. “Luna.”
“No, hear me out,” she said. “You always smile when he texts. And he always stares at you when you’re not looking.”
Mateo nodded. “And you make pancakes better together.”
Pedri raised a brow. “That is the reason?”
Mateo crossed his arms. “It’s a very good reason.”
You wished the ground would swallow you whole. “Guys, you can’t just decide something like that.”
“But it’s true,” Luna said. She held up the rings. “Try them on. Just to see.”
You opened your mouth, closed it again, then finally managed a weak, “Sweetheart, love doesn’t work like that.”
“Actually,” Pedri said softly, “sometimes it does.”
Your head snapped toward him. His expression was steady. Sure. Nervous, but only a little.
Luna’s eyes lit up. The kids were standing too close for either of you to say what you actually felt, but you couldn’t deny the warmth in your chest.
“You don’t have to put them on,” Pedri said quietly. “But they’re right. I still like you. A lot.”
The world stilled. The air went warm and heavy. Your heartbeat got loud in your ears.
You swallowed. “You can’t just say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” you hissed, “we tried. It didn’t work.”
His voice stayed calm. “We tried when everything was loud and rushed and confusing. We tried when we barely slept, when the kids were tiny, when I was barely home. It wasn’t fair to either of us.”
You felt something in your chest shift. The painful part of the truth was that you had loved him the whole time. It had just felt impossible back then.
Luna shoved the pink ring into your hand. “Please. Just talk. We’ll be over there.” She dragged Mateo toward the monkey bars before either of you could stop her.
Silence settled again, but now it thrummed.
Pedri shifted closer. “I’m not saying we jump into anything. I just… want to try. Slow. Careful. For us. For them. For you.”
Your fingers toyed with the cheap plastic ring. You looked up at him. His eyes were soft. Hopeful. Scared. Honest.
“I never stopped loving you,” you said quietly. The words came out before you could stop them.
His breath caught. He reached for your hand, slow and gentle, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t.
He slid the neon ring onto your finger. It barely fit. It looked ridiculous.
He grinned. “Beautiful.”
You laughed, pushing his shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot,” he said before he could stop himself. Then he froze. “If you want.”
You let the moment hang in the air, warm and glowing.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “I want.”
His smile was the brightest you had seen in a long time.
Mateo screamed from across the playground. “I knew it!”
Luna jumped up and down. “I made this happen.”
Pedri laughed under his breath. You leaned into his shoulder, not worrying about what came next. The kids were right. It did not have to be complicated. Sometimes love really was this simple.
Sometimes you just needed two little masterminds and a pair of plastic rings.
hey girl so glad ur writing again!! could u write a pedri fic where reader is in medical school and constantly stressed out with studying, barely sleeping. pedri and her are rly good friends but he notices her like fading away and losing the light in her eyes. maybeeee ends in a confession or just a will-they-won’t-they that’s up to u!!
half-melted candle.
masterlist requests word count: 1.46k
a/n: lowk i love writing best friend pedri
genre: comfort.
warnings: burnout.
summary: pedri sees you burning out from med school and helps before you even admit it yourself.
You always swore medical school would not break you. You said it with your whole chest, too, like you were built from titanium and iced coffee. But after weeks of nonstop lectures, labs, clinical observations, and study groups, you feel more like half-melted wax. A tired little candle that keeps flickering no matter how tightly you shield it with your hands.
Pedri sees it before you even admit it to yourself.
He always does.
It starts small. You begin leaving texts on read for longer than usual. You show up to plans with your hair tied in a loose bun that looks like it's begging to be put out of its misery. You mumble half-coherent sentences about pharmacology and anatomy, and you always sound like you’re apologizing through every breath.
He asks how you’re doing. You smile and say you’re fine, which is such an obvious lie that it feels almost disrespectful to the craft of lying.
Pedri doesn't push. He never does, but he watches.
It becomes a habit for him to swing by your place after training, claiming he is craving whatever snack you keep in your pantry. You always let him in, too tired to question it, and he sits there while you study. You forget he is even there sometimes. He just vibes on your bed or your sofa, headphones in, messing around on his phone while you drown in textbooks.
He never interrupts. Never judges. Never asks you to stop.
Sometimes he just looks at you. You never notice it, but the boy stares like he is trying to figure out how someone could lose the light in their eyes so slowly that it almost feels like watching a sunset dragged across a whole month.
You realise how bad things have gotten the night you fall asleep on your notes.
It isn't a cute, movie-style fall asleep either. It's the type where your hand goes slack, your pen rolls off the table, and your cheek smacks the page like you just tapped out of a fight and you wake up with a slightly bruised, red eye. You are out cold before your brain registers it.
You wake up in bed.
Your blanket is tucked around you. Your lamp is off. Your textbooks are stacked neatly on your desk. There is a little sticky note on your pillow in handwriting you recognise instantly.
You fell asleep. I didn’t want you to get a cramp in your neck. You should rest more. Goodnight.
There is a tiny heart beside his name. You stare at the heart longer than you need to.
When you see him the next afternoon, he looks at you like he wants to ask twelve different questions and bite his tongue at the same time.
You try to brush it off. You act normally. You make a joke about med school being a scam. He pretends to laugh along, but he keeps looking at you like a puzzle missing important pieces.
A week passes before everything snaps.
it's late. You should be asleep. You are instead hunched at your desk, shoulders tense, eyes burning. You cannot focus, which only frustrates you more. You slam your pen down and breathe out a shaky sigh that feels like it's scraping out of your ribs.
Your phone buzzes. You don’t need to check the screen to know who it's.
You up?
You respond without thinking.
Studying.
PEDRI: Can I come over?
You hesitate, because you know you look like a ghost who got rejected from haunting school for being too messy. But Pedri doesn’t care about stuff like that. He never has. So you type back a small yes.
He shows up ten minutes later in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair still damp from a shower. When you open the door, his smile falters for the shortest second. He sees your tired eyes. Your stiff posture. The dark circles under your eyes could probably get their own medical classification.
He steps inside without waiting for you to invite him properly.
You expect him to make a joke or tease you, something light. Instead, he turns to you with a serious look that knocks the air out of your lungs.
"You are burning yourself out."
You don’t even get a chance to deny it. He shakes his head before you open your mouth.
"You don’t eat right. You don't sleep. You are always stressed. It feels like you are disappearing."
You blink at him, startled. Pedri never talks like this. Not about you.
"I am just trying to keep up," you mumble.
"I know," he says softly. "But you cannot keep going like this. it'sn't healthy."
He steps closer. You feel your heartbeat stutter.
"You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to take care of yourself. You don't need to punish your brain to prove anything."
Your throat goes tight.
"Pedri, med school is kind of my whole future."
"And you are mine."
The words slip out so fast he freezes.
Your breath catches. You don't know if you heard him right. You stare. He stares back like he wants to rewind time but also doesn't regret a single syllable.
"I mean," he starts quickly, voice cracking a little. "Not mine in a weird way. I just mean that you matter to me. A lot. I worry about you all the time. And it scares me seeing you like this."
You don't speak. You cannot. There is something warm and heavy behind your ribs that you cannot name yet.
He runs a hand through his hair, flustered.
"Can we just take a break together? One hour. Just breathe with me."
You nod. Not because you feel obligated, but because the idea sounds like the first good thing in weeks.
He leads you to your sofa and pulls you down beside him. You lean into him without meaning to. His arm slides behind you in that natural, almost unconscious way he always does when he sits with you. You let your head rest against his shoulder.
"Close your eyes," he says.
You do.
You feel his breathing. Slow. Steady. Safe. Your muscles loosen for the first time in what feels like forever. When your body finally relaxes, you realize how tense you have been this entire month.
Pedri shifts a little to look at you.
"You have no idea how much I care, do you."
it's a statement, not a question.
You open your eyes and meet his. He is close. Too close. You feel the heat of his skin.
"Pedri..."
He shakes his head.
"I don't need you to say anything. I just need you to stop hurting yourself like this. Let me help you. Let me be here. Please."
You swallow hard.
"I did not know I was pushing you away too."
"You were not pushing me away. You were drowning. I was just trying to keep you above water."
Your chest tightens again, but this time it'sn't stress. it's something softer, something that scares you in a good way.
"Thank you," you whisper.
He gives you a small smile, the soft one he rarely lets anyone see.
"Always."
You sit like that for a long time. Minutes blur into something warm and gentle. His thumb draws slow circles on your shoulder without him noticing. You notice. You feel every point of contact like it's lighting small sparks across your skin.
When you finally pull back a little, he meets your eyes with a look that feels dangerously close to a confession.
"Pedri," you say quietly, "what you said earlier... about me being yours."
His cheeks flush, which would be funny if your heart did not feel like it was climbing into your throat.
"I meant it," he admits. "Maybe not in the way it sounded but... I care about you more than a friend should."
Your breath stutters.
"Same," you murmur before your brain can overthink itself into panic.
His eyes widen just slightly. Then soften. He leans in, not all the way, not enough to cross the line, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of the almost.
"We don't have to rush anything," he says. "But I am not going anywhere."
You smile, tired but real.
"Good. I kind of need you."
He laughs once, a soft low sound.
"You can have me whenever you want."
And maybe that isn't a full confession. Maybe it isn’t the leap. But it's the step that pulls both of you closer to something neither of you can ignore anymore.
For now though, he pulls the blanket over you, settles against you, and lets you sleep. He keeps watch while you finally rest.
And for the first time in weeks, you wake up with light in your eyes again.
Hi! Thank you so much for all your work, it's amazing.
I was wondering if you'd be interested in writing a story about Ferran, where he and the reader have been friends for a long time, they're secretly in love, and Ferran is constantly flirting, but the reader thinks it's just his normal behavior and doesn't take him seriously, while he's actually thirsting.
señor coqueto.
masterlist requests word count: 1.4k
a/n: love writing for ferran yay
genre: fluff.
warnings: none.
summary: ferran keeps flirting, but you don't seem to pick up what he's putting down.
You swear you do not know how Ferran Torres ended up in your kitchen again. One minute you were texting him about something stupid that happened at work, and the next minute there was a knock on your door and a very smug six-foot-something footballer was standing there with two iced coffees like he owned the place.
He slips inside without waiting for your permission. He never waits. He just wanders in like he pays rent.
"You looked stressed," he says, handing you the coffee he knows you like. "Thought you needed this."
You roll your eyes, trying not to smile because this is Ferran. This is what he does. He flirts with everyone, charmed his way through half of Barcelona, and somehow convinced himself that teasing you was his full-time job.
"Do you ever stop being dramatic?" you ask.
"Not when it gets me in the door," he says, leaning on your counter. His eyes stay on you way too long, and you ignore the way it warms your face.
You take a sip. It is perfect. Obviously.
"You gonna tell me why you looked like you were about to fight someone in that voice note?" he asks.
"I wasn't about to fight anyone," you say, defeating your own argument by scowling.
"Sure," he says, smiling like he is enjoying this a little too much. "Your eyebrows were basically touching."
You shove his arm, but he hardly moves. He tilts his head like you have just given him the best part of his day.
He always does that. Looks at you like you made the sun rise. You always assume he just likes messing with you. That is the safe explanation. The logical explanation.
You grab your laptop, ready to finish some work before he distracts you too much. But you can already feel him behind you, leaning over your shoulder, smelling ridiculously good for a man who claims he just got out of training.
"You're tense," he murmurs, placing his hands lightly on your shoulders. "You need to relax. You work too much."
"Maybe I work too much because someone keeps showing up at my place," you retort, even though you do not really mean it.
"Yeah?" he says, lips pulling into a grin that should be illegal. "You want me to stop coming over?"
You freeze. He watches you, the question light, casual, but his shoulders stiffen like the answer actually matters.
"You can come over," you say quietly. "I like it."
The relief that washes over his face is embarrassingly obvious. He tries to hide it, but he is horrible at hiding anything around you.
"Good," he says. "Because I was gonna keep coming anyway."
You snort, and he pretends to look offended. He is impossible. Absolutely impossible.
He follows you to the couch like a golden retriever with a crush, tossing himself onto the cushions beside you, one arm thrown over the back of the couch so his hand is perfectly positioned above your shoulder. He always sits like this.
You never lean into him.
He always waits.
Today, for some reason, you feel a little tired, a little soft, so you let your shoulder rest lightly against his side. His breath catches. Subtle, but you feel it.
"You good?" you ask, glancing at him.
He nods like he forgot how to speak.
You try not to think about it.
You try not to think about the fact that Ferran has been your best friend forever, that he flirts with you constantly, that he shows up with coffee and takes care of you in a way no friend really does, and you try not to think about how easy it would be to fall for him.
You try not to think about it because you are convinced he does this with everyone. He is flirty by nature. It is just him.
He turns on the TV and puts on some reality show he pretends he hates but absolutely keeps up with.
After a few minutes, he glances at you again.
"You know," he says, "most people would kill for this."
"For what?" you ask, raising a brow.
He gestures between you two. "Quality time with me."
You laugh so loudly that the neighbors probably hear you.
"I'm serious," he says, even though he is smiling. "You should feel honored."
"Sure," you say. "I am deeply blessed."
He nudges your knee with his. "You sound very convincing."
"You want a certificate or something?"
"Maybe," he says. "Or a kiss."
You snort. "Calmate."
He pretends to pout, even though his eyes are sparkling.
He does this all the time. Jokes about kissing you. Jokes about how you should fall in love with him. Jokes about how good you would look together. You never take him seriously. You cannot. Because if you did, and it turned out he was messing with you, you would literally never recover.
But he keeps looking at you. Not in a joking way this time. Not in a casual way either. He is watching you like he is considering something dangerous.
"Why are you staring at me like that?" you ask.
"Just thinking," he says.
"About?"
"How oblivious you are," he mutters under his breath.
You blink. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing," he says quickly. "You hungry?"
You narrow your eyes. He distracts himself by standing and heading to your kitchen, opening your fridge like he lives here. He starts pulling out ingredients for something you did not ask for.
"Ferran," you say, following him. "What was that comment?"
"What comment?" he asks, way too innocent.
"The oblivious one."
He turns to look at you. Really look at you. His eyes soften, and he rests his hip against the counter, hands in his pockets like he needs to keep them there or he might do something reckless.
"You really don't get it, do you?" he asks quietly.
"Get what?"
He laughs once, breathless and frustrated. "You think I flirt with everyone."
"You do flirt with everyone."
"Not like I flirt with you."
Your stomach drops.
He steps closer, slowly, giving you every chance to move away. You do not move.
"I flirt with you because I want you," he says, voice low. "Not for fun. Not for practice. Not because it's my personality. I want you."
Your lips part, but no sound comes out.
He is barely a breath away now, eyes flicking down to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
"You keep thinking I'm just playing around," he says softly. "You have no idea how gone I am."
Your heart is fighting for its life.
"Ferran," you whisper. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I thought I was being obvious," he says, almost laughing. "I come over every day. I bring you coffee. I touch you every chance I get. I basically stare at your mouth like it's my job. I thought maybe one day you'd actually get it."
You feel your face heat. "I thought that was just you being you."
"Me, being me, would not be in your kitchen confessing like a character in a drama," he says. Then he leans forward slightly. "Me being me would kiss you right now."
You swallow. "So why aren't you?"
"Because I want you to kiss me," he says. "I want to know you want me too. Not because I flirted. Not because I teased you. Because you actually want me."
Your hands shake a little, and he notices. His eyes soften even more.
"You can tell me to drop it," he says quietly. "I'll still be your friend. It'll hurt, but I'll handle it."
You look at him. At the man who has shown up for you more times than you can count. At the man who has been right next to you for years, waiting for you to see him.
"I do want you," you say, so quietly you're not sure he hears.
But he does.
He freezes, eyes wide, breath caught.
"You do?" he asks, voice faint.
"Yeah."
He takes one tiny step closer, giving you every moment to change your mind.
You do not.
You reach up, take his face gently between your hands, and kiss him.
The sound he makes is ridiculous. Half relief, half disbelief, and all Ferran. His hands fly to your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you like he has wanted this forever.
When you break apart, slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.
hey! if you can do you mind doing prompt 100 with hector fort plss tyy!!
No. 100 | "There's not a lot a good kiss can't solve." HF32
masterlist requests
prompt list (if you request a prompt, please request a player for it as well!)
warnings: none.
Héctor has this annoying talent for making everything feel like it matters. Even the dumbest little thing. Like right now, when he’s leaning against the kitchen counter in your apartment, eating strawberries straight out of the carton like he bought them. He didn’t. And you told him not to touch them. Twice.
He pops another one in his mouth and gives you that look. The one that pretends to be innocent but isn’t fooling anybody.
“You said I could have some,” he says.
“I said you could have one. Singular. One.” You point at the carton like it personally betrayed you.
He smiles at you around the strawberry, and your chest does this stupid flip that you’d never admit to out loud. He knows exactly what he’s doing, showing up after training, sweaty hair, relaxed smile, acting like he wasn’t the reason half your brain had been short circuiting all week.
“Come on, you weren’t gonna finish all these,” he says.
You cross the kitchen to snatch the carton from him, but he catches your wrist, warm fingers wrapping around your skin in a way that’s way too soft to be fair play. The air shifts. Not heavy, just warm. A little sparkly. Like he’s daring you.
“You good?” he asks, voice lower now.
“Totally fine,” you say, which is hilariously untrue.
He knows it. His thumb glides across your wrist in a slow arc, and your pulse jumps. He laughs under his breath when he feels it.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re literally holding me hostage for fruit.”
“That’s dramatic,” he says. “And completely false.”
You wiggle your wrist. “Let go then.”
Instead of loosening his grip, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. It’s barely a kiss. More like a whisper of one. But your breath goes straight to your throat, and he grins because he notices everything.
“You hate me,” you say.
“I really don’t.”
His eyes drop to your mouth, and your stomach dips like you missed a step on the stairs. This is normal. Or it should be. Héctor flirts with you like it’s his first language. You’ve always treated it like a joke, like something harmless. Except now he’s looking at you like he’s done pretending.
“You keep staring,” you say, trying to sound unaffected.
“You keep pretending you don’t like it,” he fires back.
You grip the counter behind you so you don’t accidentally fall into him. “You’re so full of yourself.”
He steps closer. Not a big step. Just enough to slide his knee between yours. Enough for your breath to catch on his shirt.
“Maybe,” he says softly. “But I’m also right.”
You swallow. “About what?”
“You want me to kiss you.”
Your first instinct is to deny it. To roll your eyes and say something sarcastic. But you don’t. Maybe you’re tired of pretending around him. Maybe the way he’s looking at you is melting your defenses like sunlight on ice.
So you say, “If kissing me would make you shut up, maybe I do.”
He laughs. “You think that would shut me up?”
“You talk a lot, Héctor.”
“And you like it.”
He moves in bit by bit, giving you time to stop him if you want to. You don’t. Your breath is shallow, your heart punches at your ribs, and his hand lifts, fingers brushing your cheek.
His thumb strokes once across your jaw. “There's not a lot a good kiss can't solve,” he says, like he’s offering you something simple and impossible all at once.
You look up at him. “Then solve it.”
His lips hit yours before you can overthink it. Warm, sure, a little hungry. He kisses you like he’s been waiting forever, like he’s tired of hinting and flirting and watching you pretend it’s nothing. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you closer. Your fingers curl in his shirt, pulling him in without thinking.
It’s dizzying. And stupidly good. And everything you didn’t let yourself imagine before now.
He breaks away just enough to breathe, noses brushing. “You okay?”
“No,” you whisper. “Do that again.”
He laughs against your mouth and kisses you harder. This one’s deeper, slower, intentional. Your legs feel like they might forget how to stand, and he notices because he always does. His hands move to your hips, steadying you against the counter.
When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing fast.
“Still think I’m full of myself?” he asks.
“Absolutely,” you say. “But you’re slightly more tolerable now.”
“Slightly?”
You shrug. “I might need more convincing.”
He grins like he’s won something. “Lucky for you, I happen to be very persistent.”
“You don’t say.”
He leans in again, brushing his lips over yours. “Tell me to stop if you want me to.”
You kiss him first this time, fingers sliding up to his jaw. He smiles into it, hands tightening at your waist as he pulls you flush against him. Everything about him feels warm, confident, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
When you break apart, he’s still close enough that his breath hits your cheek.
“You’re trouble,” you say.
“I’m your trouble,” he replies, sounding way too proud of himself.
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. He sees it, and his grin softens.
“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling you into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You can write about how, for example, Reader is a Barca Femeni player, and Eric has been interested in her for a long time but is embarrassed to admit it to Reader, and Ferran forces Eric to talk to Reader at a club dinner. Reader is a famous and professional striker, but she is a really nice girl, although she also likes Eric.
Plzzzzz😭🫂💝
making eyes across the room.
masterlist requests word count: 990
a/n: eric request yay
genre: fluff.
warnings: none.
summary: ferran sets you up with eric.
You spot him before he spots you. Eric is standing near the buffet table with a plate he clearly filled just to avoid talking to people. He pokes at a croquette like it personally offended him. His shoulders sit a little too stiff, his eyes flick over the room like he is scanning for exits instead of teammates.
You would laugh if your stomach was not doing that weird little flip it always does when you see him. It is so stupid. You face world class defenders every week and here you are getting shy about a man who gets stressed by tapas.
The annual Barça dinner is loud in the way only football teams can be. Tables packed together, music a little too lively, laughter bouncing off the high walls of the hall. Everyone is dressed up and pretending they are not checking who has the best outfit. It is fun. It is chaotic. It is also the perfect setting for your brain to remind you that you have a crush on Eric García.
You try to ignore it. You try to just enjoy the night. You grab a drink, greet a few teammates, talk about the season so far, pose for a picture with Alexia who insists on twirling you by the arm. But your eyes keep sliding back to the other side of the room.
Back to him.
He looks good tonight, which annoys you. He looks like he took a deep breath in front of a mirror and decided to be brave about something. You have no idea what. Maybe life in general.
You are still staring when Ferran walks into your line of sight. He follows your gaze, then makes a face like he just caught two teenagers liking each other and wants credit for noticing.
You sigh. “Do not say anything.”
Ferran grins, the most annoying grin a man has ever worn. “Too late. I already thought it.”
You nudge him lightly. “Please behave. For one night.”
“Why would I behave when I can cause problems and help mi hermano at the same time?”
Your brain pauses. “Tu hermano?”
“Eric.” Ferran tilts his head toward him. “You know he likes you, right?”
You choke on air. Literally choke. Ferran slaps your back way too hard to be helpful.
“He what?”
“It is so obvious,” Ferran says. “He sees you and his whole soul leaves his body. Like poof, gone. Empty eyes. No thoughts. Only you.”
Your face burns. “You are lying.”
“I am not. I asked him once if he thought you were pretty and he turned red like a tomato and said he did not want to talk about it.”
You blink fast. That sounds like Eric. Exactly like him, actually.
Ferran steps behind you and gives you a firm push. “Go talk to him.”
“No.” You dig your heels in. “Ferran.”
“My job here is done.” He nudges you again. This time, you stumble a little forward into Eric’s line of sight.
Eric freezes like he has been hit by a spotlight. He looks at you, then at his plate, then back at you, and you can see the exact moment panic starts doing laps inside his brain.
You decide to be kind. You give him a small smile as you approach.
“Hey,” you say, “having fun?”
He swallows like fun is the last thing he was having. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. You?”
“I am good.” You try to say it casually, but your heart is beating too fast. “You look nice tonight.”
His ears go pink immediately. “Thanks. You look amazing. I mean, you always look good, but tonight you look, um… yeah.”
You bite back a smile. “That was surprisingly smooth.”
“It was not,” he mutters.
“It kind of was.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it, then tries again. “Ferran made you come over, right?”
You laugh softly. “He shoveled me over like a cow at a farm.”
Eric winces. “I swear I did not ask him to.”
“I believe you.” You lean slightly on the table. “But I am not unhappy I ended up here.”
His eyes flick up, startled and hopeful.
“I like talking to you,” you add.
“Oh.” He blinks, then clears his throat. “I like talking to you too.”
You both stand there, awkwardly adorable, which would be funny if it was not your life.
A little silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable, just warm. The kind where you feel aware of every inch of space between you.
Eric shifts his weight. “I wanted to talk to you earlier, actually. I just did not know if you would want that.”
“Why would I not?”
He gives a helpless little shrug. “You are you.”
You frown. “What does that mean?”
“You are one of the best strikers in the world,” he murmurs, eyes on his plate, “and you are kind and funny and pretty and way out of my league. So sometimes I do not know what to say.”
You stare at him. You absolutely did not expect that level of honesty from a man who looked like he might pass out just from eye contact.
“Eric.”
He keeps staring at the croquette like it is the only safe object in the room. You reach out and touch his wrist lightly. He looks up immediately.
“I like you too,” you say gently.
His mouth falls open. “You do?”
“Yeah. Kind of a lot.”
He looks like someone just told him he won the lottery but also that the lottery is emotional intimacy.
“Wow. OK. I was not prepared for that.”
You smile. “Is it a bad thing?”
“No. No, it is a great thing. It is the best thing. I am just… processing.”
You shift closer, bumping your shoulder softly against his. “We can process together if you want.”
That earns you the tiniest, sweetest smile. “Yeah. I would like that.”
Behind you, someone whistles. It is absolutely Ferran. You do not need to turn around to know. He shouts something like “Finally,” and you roll your eyes while Eric groans into his hands.
“I am going to fight him,” Eric mumbles.
You laugh. “No, you aren’t.”
“I might.”
“You can’t beat him. He is taller.”
Eric sighs dramatically, but he is smiling now, the tension melting off him like sand falling from fingers.
The dinner goes on. People move around you. Conversations spin like little storms. But Eric stays by your side. When you walk to your table, he walks with you. When you sit, he pulls out your chair. When someone asks him to take a picture, he glances at you first like he wants to be sure you are not leaving.
Late in the night, you both end up outside on the terrace. It is quieter out here. The city lights flicker in the distance and the air tastes more like night than celebration.
Eric leans on the railing. “Can I be honest about something?”
“Please do.”
“I have liked you for months.” His voice is soft. “I just never wanted to bother you.”
“You never bothered me,” you say. “You never could.”
He studies you for a long moment. “Can I be honest about one more thing?”
You nod.
He steps a little closer. “I am probably going to mess this up, because I am not suave like some guys on the team, but I really want to kiss you.”
The confession hits you in the chest. Warm, dizzying, perfect.
You walk up to him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. “I really want to kiss you too.”
He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Is that your official permission?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “It is.”
Eric lifts his hand to your cheek like he is making sure this is real. You lean into his touch. His other hand settles lightly at your waist, hesitant but wanting. You rest your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat.
And then he kisses you.
He kisses you like he has been thinking about it every day. Slow at first, careful, then a little deeper when you tug him closer. He tastes like a hint of wine and a lot of nerves, and all of it feels ridiculously perfect.
When you pull back, he is smiling like a man who has just discovered joy exists.
“Well,” he breathes, “I guess that did solve some things.”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “It really did.”
You stay like that for a while. Talking. Laughing. Looking at each other with that new knowledge between you. The world fades to a hum and the night feels softer than before.
When everyone starts saying their goodbyes, Eric walks you to your car, hands tucked in his pockets, staying close like he is already used to it.
“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks. “Not in a football way. In a me and you way.”
You grin. “Yeah. I would love that.”
He exhales, relieved and happy. “Good. Vale. Cool. I will text you.”
When you slide into your seat, he leans in through the open door and kisses your cheek, shy and sweet.
You drive away feeling light, warm, and maybe a little giddy.
hellooo!! hope you’re doing great, could you write about reader and pau cubarsi expecting a baby, and they surprise irene by naming the baby after her!
irene 2.0.
masterlist requests word count: 1.47k
a/n: dad pau so cutesy ☹️☹️
genre: fluff.
warnings: none.
summary: you name your first daughter after the woman who never doubted you and pau.
You’re exhausted in the way only new parents understand. It’s that weird mix of floating and sinking, like your body can’t decide if it’s lighter or heavier than before. The hospital room is dim, the overhead lights turned off so the baby can sleep, and Pau is sitting on the tiny couch beside your bed with this ridiculous soft smile like he can’t believe this tiny person is real.
He keeps staring at her. Then at you. Then back at her. Like he’s trying to piece together how the universe allowed both of you to exist at once.
You don’t say anything. You’re too tired. But your hand finds his knee and he covers it instantly, thumb trailing over your skin the way he always does when he wants to reassure himself that you’re right there.
Outside the door, you can hear muffled voices, the sound of someone being shushed, and Pau perks up.
“That’s my mamá,” he mutters quietly, eyes widening. “And papá. And probably half my cousins. But Irene said she’d come first.”
The soft pride in his voice hits you in the chest. Irene has been his rock forever. The big sister who learned to clean mud off brand new football boots when he was small, the sister who helped him with homework, the sister who dragged him through school corridors when he wanted to hide from teachers. And also the only person who didn’t treat you like a cautionary tale the second they found out you were pregnant.
She didn’t blink. Just hugged you. And hugged Pau. Then helped you write a stupid checklist for everything you needed. Then let you cry on her couch when hormones made you spiral about being too young.
She was the one who said you’d be good parents.
So yeah. Naming the baby after her wasn’t even a question.
There’s a small knock at the door and Pau stands up so fast he almost trips on the blanket draped over the chair. The door cracks open and his mamá sticks her head in, eyes shining, but she whispers that Irene’s right behind her and she doesn’t want to overwhelm you. Pau nods a hundred times like a puppy trying to convince someone he’s responsible now.
Then Irene steps in.
Her hair is pulled back, her jacket half zipped like she got dressed too fast. She’s holding a little stuffed bunny, the exact soft purple shade that matches the baby blanket Pau bought months ago when he tried to pretend he wasn’t nervous.
You can see her trying so hard not to cry already.
“Hi,” she whispers, moving slowly, like she’s entering a sacred space.
Pau lets her come close. You lift the baby slightly so Irene can see her.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, pressing her hand to her chest. “She’s so small.”
And yeah, she is. The tiniest thing you’ve ever seen. She’s sleeping with her mouth slightly open, the same way Pau does when he’s really tired. You swear the resemblance is already there.
Irene leans in. Her eyes flick to yours, then to Pau’s, and she smiles in that quiet way people do when they’re overwhelmed.
“She’s perfect,” she whispers.
Pau beams. He genuinely glows. It’s ridiculous.
You watch him because you love watching the way he relaxes around his sister. It’s like the pressure that’s been wrapped around his ribs for the past months just loosens. Everyone else has been tiptoeing around him, waiting for him to mess up, waiting for both of you to fall apart, waiting to justify their judgment. Except Irene.
She believed in him. In you. In this.
“Do you want to hold her?” you ask, and Irene’s eyes go wide.
“Can I?” She looks terrified and excited at the same time.
Pau helps guide the baby into her arms because he’s secretly as nervous as she is. He watches every placement of her hands, every angle of her elbow, like she’s holding glass instead of a human.
Irene sits gently on the chair beside the bed. The baby moves a little, scrunches her nose, then settles again. Irene’s breath stutters.
“She’s already so pretty,” she says softly. “She looks like both of you.”
Pau sits on the edge of your bed again, his knee brushing yours. He’s smiling so softly it melts something in you.
There’s a long moment where no one talks. Just Irene staring down at the tiny bundle in her arms like she’s experiencing magic for the first time.
Then she looks up, eyes shimmering. “Did you choose a name already? I know you wanted to wait until she was born to be sure.”
Pau swallows. You feel his fingers find yours under the blanket. He squeezes, grounding himself.
“We did,” he says.
Irene raises her brows, waiting.
You bite your cheek to stop yourself from smiling too early. Pau looks at you for half a second, and you nod for him to go on.
He clears his throat, all soft and awkward. “We… named her Irene.”
It takes exactly one second.
Irene freezes.
Her eyes blink once. Twice.
Then she bursts into tears.
Not quiet tears. Full, panicked, emotional big sister tears.
“Oh my god,” she sobs, immediately panicking because she’s crying while holding a newborn. “Oh no, I’m gonna get emotional tears on her. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Pau shoots up like she just set herself on fire. “No, no, it’s ok, you can cry on her, she doesn’t mind. She doesn’t even know. She can’t even see properly.”
You snort because he’s trying so hard to be helpful.
Irene wipes her cheek with her shoulder because her hands are full. She looks at the baby again, then at both of you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she cries. “You didn’t have to name her after me.”
Pau shakes his head immediately. “Of course we did. You’ve been… everything. You never made us feel stupid or irresponsible. You believed in us. You helped us. You were there every time.”
Her face crumples again.
You see the exact moment she tries to speak but can’t.
“So yeah,” Pau continues, voice soft but sure. “Her name is Irene. Because she’s got the best role model she could ever have.”
Irene lets out another wet sob. “Stop it. I’m going to drown her.”
You’re tearing up too now, quietly. Pau sees and sits back beside you, nudging your shoulder.
“You ok?” he whispers.
“I’m fine,” you laugh weakly. “Just emotional.”
He kisses your forehead, gentle and shy like always, even after all these months.
Irene leans down so she can speak to the baby. “Hi Irene,” she whispers. “You’re going to be so loved.”
Pau stares at them like the sun just rose inside the room.
His parents slip in quietly after that, then a couple cousins who peek and whisper and try not to crowd you. But none of them judge this time. Not after seeing how natural Pau looks with the baby, how certain he is, how Irene is still crying in the corner while rocking her namesake gently.
At some point, Pau sits beside you again and rests his head on your shoulder.
“You did amazing,” he murmurs. “I’m proud of you.”
You smile at him. “We did amazing.”
He grins like he can’t hold it back. “Yeah. We did.”
Later, when Irene finally lets someone else hold the baby, she hugs you so tightly your ribs protest.
“Thank you,” she whispers into your hair.
“For what?” you ask.
“For trusting me enough to give her my name.”
You pull back to look at her. “You earned it.”
She laughs through her tears. “Still. It means everything.”
When she finally leaves the room, eyes still red, Pau collapses onto the couch again with a tiny groan.
“That went well,” he says.
“That went perfect,” you correct him.
He turns toward you, eyes soft, cheeks warm, that baby proud glow still all over him.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I think she’s going to grow up with so many people who love her. And that’s all that matters.”
You smile at him, feeling it deep in your chest.
“You’re already a good dad,” you tell him.
He looks away immediately like you just exposed him. “Don’t say stuff like that, it makes me feel things.”
You laugh softly. “Good.”
You watch him glance at the baby again, like he still can’t believe she’s real.
Pau reaches for your hand. “Hey,” he says. “We’re going to do this. Even if people doubted us.”
You squeeze his hand back. “We already are.”
He nods, smile small and warm. “Yeah. We are.”
And in the corner, your daughter sleeps peacefully, wrapped in a purple blanket, carrying the name of the girl who always believed in her parents long before anyone else did.
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