#alejandro balde

[paucubarsisimp]

injuries

pairing: barca boys x reader

summary: in which your boyfriend gets injured and you take care of him

warnings: none!

a/n: i added fermin and eric since a few of you wanted them too!

requested on my wattpad!

pablo gavi

you don’t hear the door open so much as you hear the knock — something bumping lightly against the frame followed by a muffled curse in spanish.

that’s how you know it’s pablo.

you look up from the couch just in time to see him stumbling in, cheeks flushed, curls a mess, jaw tight with that particular brand of irritation he only gets when he’s hurt but refuses to admit it.

“pablo…” you say slowly. “what did you do?”

he lifts a hand, already defensive. “nothing. literally nothing. i’m fine.”

the limp — the very obvious limp — says otherwise.

you cross your arms. “you’re limping.”

“no, i’m walking,” he snaps back, which only proves your point.

you walk toward him and his eyes flick to yours, that spark of stubborn fire softening for just one heartbeat. he hates showing weakness — to anyone. but you’re the exception he tries and fails to pretend you aren’t.

“sit,” you tell him gently.

he huffs, muttering something under his breath about “stupid tackles” and “stupid legs,” but he does as you say, collapsing onto the couch with more force than necessary — a dramatic flop that makes you bite back a smile.

“where does it hurt?” you ask.

“nowhere,” he says instantly.

you raise one eyebrow.

he lasts four seconds before sighing. “my shin,” he admits quietly. “just a knock.”

you kneel between his knees, hands brushing lightly along his leg. the moment your fingers graze the sore spot, he flinches — just a tiny jerk of his knee — and his jaw tightens like he’s physically forcing himself not to react.

“pablo,” you whisper, “why didn’t you say so?”

“’cause it’s nothing,” he grumbles. “i didn’t want you to worry.”

you look up at him. “too late.”

his ears turn red — the classic pablo embarrassment flush. he avoids your eyes, staring at some spot on the wall like it’s suddenly fascinating.

“come here,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

you climb onto the couch beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you with a kind of fierce desperation. he buries his face against your shoulder, breath hot, curls tickling your skin.

“missed you,” he mutters, like it’s a confession pulled straight out of him.

you stroke his curls, and he melts — literally melts — tension dripping out of his body all at once.

“bad day?” you ask quietly.

he nods against your neck. “they caught me hard. didn’t expect it.” a pause. softer: “i just wanted to come home.”

your chest warms.

“you should’ve texted me.”

“no,” he says stubbornly. “i wanted to walk in and see you.”

you smile, pressing a kiss to his temple. “i’m right here.”

pablo lets out the softest sound — somewhere between a sigh and a tiny whine — and holds you tighter, his fingers curling into your shirt like he’s anchoring himself.

“hurts less now,” he mumbles.

“because you’re resting?” you tease.

he shakes his head, lifting his gaze just enough to meet yours. his eyes are warm, brown and blazing with that quiet intensity that’s so him.

“because it’s you,” he whispers.

you kiss him — soft, slow — and he exhales like he’s finally home.

“stay with me,” he breathes.

“always,” you whisper back.

pedri

the apartment is quiet in that gentle, late-afternoon way — warm light spilling through the curtains, the faint hum of the city outside, your own little world settled into calm. you’re in the kitchen when you hear the soft click of the front door.

normally, pedri comes home with a burst of energy, calling your name with that bright, sunshine voice of his, already halfway into a story before he even takes his shoes off. but today, the door opens slowly. carefully. almost shyly.

you step out of the kitchen, wiping your hands on a towel, and when you see him, your heart drops just a little. he stands in the hallway, bag slipping from his shoulder, curls messy from running his hands through them, and something about the way he holds himself — a subtle stiffness, a tiny wince — tells you immediately.

“pedri…” you say softly, already moving toward him.

he gives you a small smile, warm but tired, his eyes softening the moment they land on you. “hey,” he murmurs. “got a little knock in training. nothing bad.”

you raise an eyebrow, and he laughs under his breath — the quiet, embarrassed kind. “okay, maybe it hurts a bit,” he admits, voice softer than usual. “but i’m fine. i promise.”

you reach him, hands resting lightly on his sides, and he leans into your touch so easily it makes your chest ache. he drops his forehead to your shoulder, breathing you in like you’re some kind of medicine.

“long day?” you whisper into his curls.

“felt long,” he mumbles.

you guide him to the couch, your hands gentle, steady. he sinks into the cushions with a sigh that sounds like relief and exhaustion tangled together. you kneel in front of him, fingertips brushing over the spot on his leg where he’s favoring the muscle.

“here?” you ask.

pedri nods, looking down at you with those soft brown eyes that always feel like home. “just a small collision. i’ll be okay.”

you trace slow, comforting circles on his skin, and his shoulders relax, his whole body loosening as if he’d been pretending to be stronger than he needed to be until now.

“you don’t have to be tough right now,” you murmur. “it’s just us.”

pedri’s breath catches a little, and he lets out a soft laugh — gentle, grateful. “i like that,” he says. “just us.”

he reaches for your hand and tugs you up beside him, then wraps his arms around you like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all day. he settles against you, face tucked into your neck, warm breath brushing your skin.

“missed you,” he whispers.

you run your fingers through his hair, feeling him melt further into you with every slow stroke. “you’re home now,” you tell him softly. “let me take care of you.”

he hums — a sweet, quiet sound — and his hand slides to your waist, holding you close. “being with you always makes it better,” he murmurs, almost sleepy.

you press a kiss to his temple. “rest, guapo.”

his voice is barely audible as he relaxes fully into your arms. “only if you stay right here with me.”

ferran torres

you hear the door open with a dramatic, world-weary sigh — the exact kind ferran uses when he wants attention before he’s even said hello. you don’t even need to turn around to picture him: hand on the doorframe like he’s auditioning for a tragic play, hair perfect despite whatever “terrible” thing happened at training, eyes already searching for you.

“amor…” he calls out, voice dripping with exaggerated suffering.

you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the hallway wall as he finally limps — yes, limps — into view. he spots you and immediately drops his bag to the floor like it weighs a thousand kilos.

“i’ve been injured,” he declares, placing a hand on his chest like a telenovela protagonist.

you blink. “ferran, you’re walking.”

“barely,” he insists, exaggerating the limp so dramatically that even he almost laughs. “i took a knock. a strong one. fatal, almost.”

“fatal,” you repeat, deadpan.

he nods earnestly, as if it’s the most reasonable word in the world. “i’m very fragile.”

you try not to smile, because that will only encourage him — but it’s ferran, and he’s staring at you with those big brown eyes, lower lip pushed out slightly, curls falling just right to make him look tragically handsome.

“come here,” you sigh, motioning him closer.

instantly, the limp disappears. he practically jogs over before remembering he’s injured, then slows dramatically, shoulders drooping. he leans into you like he’s collapsing, head dropping into the crook of your neck with a melodramatic groan.

“see? i’m suffering.”

you wrap your arms around him anyway, because beneath the theatrics, there is a real tiredness in his muscles, a real need in the way he melts against you.

“where does it hurt?” you murmur, fingers sliding gently down his thigh.

“everywhere,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “but especially here.” he taps the spot lightly. “and here.” he taps again, higher up. “and also my feelings.”

your laugh is soft as you press a kiss to his temple. “i’ll take care of you.”

that’s all it takes — ferran brightens instantly, pulling you toward the couch with sudden energy. he sits down and tugs you into his lap, arms wrapping tightly around your waist.

“good,” he says, settling his chin on your shoulder like he’s claimed his rightful throne. “i need affection.”

“you always need affection.”

“sí, porque i’m a sensitive, delicate man,” he declares, kissing your shoulder. “very delicate.”

you run your fingers through his hair and he practically purrs.

“you’re ridiculous,” you say softly.

“ridiculously in pain,” he corrects, then adds, quieter, “and ridiculously in love with you.”

your chest warms, and despite the theatrics, there’s a sincerity in his voice that melts you every time.

“does it hurt less now?” you ask.

he nods, squeezing you closer. “much less. you’re my medicine.”

“ferran…”

“i’m serious,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your jaw. “just stay with me. like this.”

you smile, resting your forehead against his. “i’m not going anywhere.”

eric garcia

you hear the front door open with a soft click — not loud, not rushed, just careful, like he’s trying not to disturb the quiet of your home. you look up from the couch, expecting his usual warm smile, but today his steps are slower, his shoulders a little tense.

“eric?” you call out softly.

his head appears around the corner, curls slightly messy, cheeks flushed in that way they get after training. he gives you a small smile, shy around the edges.

“hey,” he murmurs. “i’m home.”

you stand and walk toward him, and that’s when you see it — the faint limp he tries to hide, the way he presses his lips together like he doesn’t want you to worry.

“what happened?” you ask gently, reaching for his hands.

he sighs, eyes flickering down, then up at you again with that soft vulnerability he only ever shows when it’s just the two of you. “just a knock in training,” he says. “nothing serious.” a tiny pause. “but it’s a bit sore.”

the way he says it — quiet, almost apologetic — makes your chest ache with affection.

“come sit,” you whisper.

you lead him to the couch, and he follows without protest, settling down with a soft exhale. his knee tenses when he moves, and you see the flicker of discomfort before he smooths it away.

you kneel beside him, fingers ghosting over his shin, waiting for the smallest sign before pressing any harder.

“here?” you ask.

eric nods, his breath catching when your thumb brushes the tender spot. “yeah… that’s it.” his voice is soft, almost a whisper.

you keep your touch light, soothing circles that relax the muscles around the bruise. after a moment, his hand finds yours, fingers slipping between yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

“i didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” he admits quietly. “but on the way home i kept thinking… i just wanted to be with you.”

you look up at him, and his eyes are warm, gentle, full of unspoken things.

“you can always come to me,” you say. “you know that, right?”

he nods, breath softening, shoulders releasing tension he’s been holding since the pitch. with a gentle tug, he pulls you up onto the couch beside him. he wraps an arm around your waist, guiding you to rest against his chest.

“this feels better already,” he whispers into your hair.

you smile, pressing a light kiss to his jaw. “i haven’t even done anything yet.”

“you’re here,” he says simply. “that’s enough.”

you rest your hand on his thigh, gently massaging the muscle, and his eyes flutter shut. a small, content sigh leaves him — quiet, almost shy, but full of trust.

“you’re always looking after everyone else,” you tell him softly. “let me look after you too.”

he leans his forehead against yours, eyes soft, voice even softer. “i love that you do,” he murmurs. “i love you.”

you brush your thumb across his cheek, and he kisses your palm, warm and tender.

“rest with me,” he whispers.

and you do — curled into each other, wrapped in quiet warmth — until he drifts into the gentlest sleep, safe in your arms.

fermin lopez

you hear the elevator ding in the hallway, then the familiar shuffle of sneakers against the floor — the uneven kind of shuffle fermín only makes when he’s trying very, very hard not to show he’s hurting.

you’re already heading toward the door when the key turns.

he steps inside with that soft, sunshine smile he always gives you first, but it falters just a little at the edges. his curls are damp from a quick shower after training, cheeks a touch too pink, and he’s holding his bag like it suddenly weighs twice as much.

“hola,” he says, voice warm but thinner than usual.

you step closer, eyes dropping to the faint limp in his walk. “hola,” you echo quietly. “what happened?”

“nothing,” he answers too fast. “well… something. but nothing bad.”

you give him the look — the one he can never quite handle — and his shoulders sink, his bravado slipping away like it wasn’t even real.

“it’s just a little knock,” he admits, softer. “caught me weird. it’s fine, de verdad.”

he tries to move past you, but you catch his hand gently. he stops instantly, and his eyes flick to yours — warm, guilty, loving.

“come sit,” you whisper.

he lets you guide him to the couch, his movements careful, controlled like he doesn’t want to draw attention to the soreness. once he sits, he attempts a smile again, boyish and sweet.

“see? still alive,” he jokes.

you kneel in front of him, hands brushing lightly over his shin. the moment you reach the tender spot, his breath catches, the tiniest hitch.

“here?” you ask.

fermín’s cheeks flush. “yeah,” he murmurs. “there.”

you massage around the area gently, your touch slow and comforting, and he relaxes almost immediately, shoulders dropping, breath softening.

“you should’ve told me you were hurt,” you say quietly.

“i didn’t want you to worry,” he replies, voice small. “you always look at me like…” he pauses, searching for the word. “like i matter too much.”

you look up at him, heart tugging. “you do matter too much.”

his eyes soften — warm, wide, shining with something tender and a little overwhelmed. he reaches out and cups your cheek with a shy smile.

“ven aquí,” he says gently.

you climb beside him, and he pulls you in immediately, arms wrapping around your waist, head tucking into the nook of your neck. he exhales like he’s been waiting all day to fall into you.

“i missed you,” he murmurs, breath warm against your collarbone.

you stroke his curls, slow and soothing. “i missed you too.”

fermín melts — truly melts — his body relaxing fully as he leans into you. one of his hands slips under the hem of your sweater, fingers resting on your waist like he needs that tiny touch to breathe easier.

“hurts less now,” he whispers.

“your leg?” you ask softly.

he shakes his head against your skin. “no… everything.”

your chest warms, full and soft.

you press a kiss to his temple, lingering. “rest, mi amor.”

he nods, already drifting, voice low and sweet and honest. “just… don’t go far,” he murmurs.

“i’m not going anywhere.”

and he smiles — sleepy, grateful, completely yours — as he curls impossibly closer, the world shrinking to warmth, breath, and the gentle beat of his heart pressed against you.

pau cubarsi

you hear the front door close with that careful quiet he only uses when he’s a little hurt or a little tired.

“pau?” you call gently.

his voice comes back just as soft. “holaaa…” when he walks in, his training bag droops off his shoulder, his curls are messy, and there’s a small swelling on his shin. he’s trying so hard to pretend it’s nothing, but you see the way he shifts his weight.

“you’re limping,” you say, already moving toward him.

“it’s fine,” he tries, giving you that tiny smile he thinks will distract you. “just a knock.”

you don’t even bother responding. you just point to the couch. “sit.”

he lets out a quiet laugh — the warm kind, shy at the edges — and does exactly what you say. once he’s down, the tiredness melts through him, like he finally lets himself relax because he’s home.

you kneel beside him and lift the leg of his sweats. the bruise is small, already fading purple. “does it hurt?”

“only if i move,” he mumbles.

“so… all the time,” you say, trying not to smile.

he bites the inside of his cheek, dimples threatening. “maybe.”

you press the cold pack to his shin. he flinches, then exhales, body settling. his eyes drift to you instead of the bruise, quiet and sure in that way he always is when you’re close.

“better?” you ask.

“mhm.” “pau, you’re not even looking.”

“don’t need to,” he whispers. “you’re here. that’s enough.”

you feel his fingers brush your wrist, gentle and warm. he always touches you like he’s checking that you're real.

“thank you,” he adds, almost under his breath.

“you worried me,” you admit, softer than before.

“lo siento.” he gives your hand a small squeeze. “but it’s really nothing.”

he shifts a little on the couch, eyes half-lidded. “can you… sit with me?”

“you should rest,” you protest, weakly.

“i rest better with you,” he says, so simply, like it’s just a fact of nature.

you sigh, but he knows you’re already giving in. when you settle beside him, he immediately tucks himself against your side, careful of the ice pack. his head finds your shoulder like it belongs there.

“you’re warm,” he murmurs. “missed you.”

you run your fingers through his hair and feel his whole body relax. he smells like training grass and something unmistakably him — soft and boyish and home.

“it’s just a knock,” he repeats, voice quieter now.

“i know,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “i just like taking care of you.”

there’s the tiniest smile against your shoulder. “good,” he says, barely awake. “’cause i like being taken care of by you.”

and he falls asleep like that — curled around you, breathing slow, completely safe — because even with the smallest injury, pau cubarsí always finds his way back to you to rest.

alejandro balde

the front door clicks open and you hear a familiar huff — the one balde does when he’s tired but trying not to show it.

“ale?” you call.

“yeah… i’m here,” he answers, voice a little worn around the edges.

when he steps into the room, his training shirt is half-tucked, curls slightly damp, and he’s rolling his shoulder like something’s bothering him. he gives you this tiny smile, trying to play everything off like always.

“how was training?” you ask.

“good,” he says too quickly. then, quieter, “just… shoulder’s a bit tight.”

you walk toward him and he immediately leans into you like gravity works differently when you’re around. you slide your hands up to his shoulder, pressing gently.

he winces — the tiniest twitch — and you give him a look.

“alejandro balde,” you say. “that is not ‘a bit tight.’”

he laughs under his breath, head dropping slightly. “okay, maybe it’s a little worse than that.”

you guide him to sit on the edge of the couch. he follows easily, eyes soft, trusting. you massage the muscle with slow, careful pressure, and he shivers — not from pain, but from how gentle you are.

“better?” you ask.

he nods, eyelids fluttering. “you always make it better.”

you keep working the knot out, and he relaxes more and more, until he’s leaning his forehead against your stomach like he might fall asleep sitting up.

“you really should rest,” you murmur, brushing a hand through his curls.

he hums, content. “i am resting.”

“lying down would help,” you tease.

he tilts his face up toward you — eyes warm, smile soft. “come with me?”

you shake your head fondly. “clingy.”

“only with you,” he whispers, but it’s not teasing. it’s honest, full.

you follow him to the couch and he pulls you close immediately, head on your chest, his arm snug around your waist. he lets out a slow, deep breath — the kind he only takes when he finally lets himself relax.

“you worry too much,” he murmurs.

“because i love you,” you say, fingers tracing slow shapes on his back.

his smile curves against your shirt. “i know. that’s why i always come home to you.”

and he melts into you, warm and quiet, shoulder loosening under your touch until he’s soft and sleepy in your arms.

lamine yamal

you hear keys against the door before it opens — slow, careful, the way lamine always comes in when he’s tired.

“hey,” he says quietly when he sees you, curls a little flattened, backpack hanging off one shoulder.

“hi, mi amor. long day?”

he nods, nudling his shoe off with the other foot. “yeah… a bit.” then he hesitates before adding, “i got hurt."

it’s small, the way he says it — not attention-seeking, not dramatic. just honest. he lifts the leg of his pants slightly to show a faint bruise on his shin.

you walk closer. “that looks painful.”

he shrugs, eyes dropping for a moment. “it’s okay. just stings when i run.”

you touch the spot gently and he inhales, the slightest sound catching in his throat — not from pain, but from your closeness.

“sit,” you say softly.

he does, obedient without even thinking about it. he rests his hands on his knees, thumbs touching like he’s trying to keep them still. he watches you get the ice pack, his eyes following your every move the way he does when he’s listening carefully.

when you press the ice to his leg, he winces once and then relaxes, shoulders dropping.

“better?” you ask.

“yeah…” he murmurs. then, after a second, “thank you.”

you smile. “you always come home like this, you know.”

“i know,” he says, cheeks warming. “i don’t mean to worry you.”

“i worry because i care. not because you do anything wrong.”

he looks at you then — really looks — and his expression softens in that quiet, lamine way: eyes warm, mouth gentle, like he’s trying to say something but isn’t sure how.

“can you sit next to me?” he asks.

you nod and settle beside him. instantly, he leans into you, not clingy, not dramatic — just naturally, instinctively, like being close to you is the easiest thing he knows.

his head finds your shoulder. he lets out a breath he probably didn’t realize he was holding.

“you okay?” you whisper.

“mhm. just tired.” a pause. “and i missed you.”

your hand slides into his hair, and he tilts his head slightly, like he’s giving you better access. he always does that without thinking.

“you don’t have to be strong all the time,” you tell him quietly.

he nods against your shoulder. “i know. that’s why i come here.” his fingers find yours, playing with them absentmindedly. “you make everything… i don’t know. easier.”

you kiss the side of his head. he melts, eyes drifting shut, body softening fully against yours.

after a moment, he mumbles, barely audible, “stay with me?”

you smile into his curls. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he squeezes your hand — small, warm, lamine — and whispers, “good.”

and he stays leaning on you, breathing slow and steady, the pain forgotten, safe and quiet in a way he only ever lets himself be when he’s with you.

marc bernal

you hear the door close, but slower than usual — like he’s thinking about every movement before he makes it. that’s your first sign.

“marc?” you call softly.

“i’m here,” he says, appearing in the hallway. he gives you that small, calm smile, but something in his posture is tight — the careful kind of tight he has only had since the acl tear.

your eyes go straight to the way he’s standing, weight shifted too much onto one leg.

“did something happen today?” you ask, already stepping toward him.

he swallows, barely noticeable. “just… a knock. on the same leg.” he tries to say it casually, but the quiet tension in his voice gives him away.

“sit,” you tell him gently. it’s not a command — it’s concern.

he nods without protesting and sinks onto the couch, slow and controlled, like he’s afraid of misjudging the angle. after the injury, he’s gotten good at hiding worry, but not from you.

you kneel in front of him and lift the leg of his training pants. there’s a bruise forming on his shin — not near the knee, not threatening — but you see the way his jaw tightens anyway.

“marc,” you whisper, thumb brushing his calf, “is your knee okay?”

he hesitates, eyes shifting for a second before meeting yours. “yeah. i think so.” and then, quieter, “i just… freaked out for a moment.”

you reach for the ice pack and place it gently against the bruise. he winces — not a sound, more like the smallest closing of his eyes. he’s so quiet with pain. always has been.

“you can tell me when it scares you,” you murmur.

he lets out a breath, slow and shaky, instantly softer. “it’s stupid. it wasn’t even near the ligament.”

“that doesn’t make the fear stupid,” you reply. “you’ve been through something big. your body remembers.”

he looks down at your hands, his expression loosening, the worry fading just a little. “i hate that it still gets to me,” he says quietly.

“that just makes you human.”

he shifts closer, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders — not pulling you, just grounding himself. “thank you,” he whispers, voice almost too soft to hear. “for not treating me like i’m made of glass… but also not pretending it didn’t happen.”

you move up beside him, and he immediately leans his forehead to your temple, the way he always does when he needs comfort but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“can i…?” he starts.

“come here,” you finish for him.

he rests his head on your shoulder. his body relaxes in stages, like every few seconds he lets himself trust his leg, trust his healing, trust you.

your hand slides to his knee, warm and steady. “tell me if anything hurts.”

“i will,” he promises softly, fingers curling around your wrist. a beat. “i feel safe with you.”

you press a gentle kiss to his hair. “good. you’re allowed to.”

he exhales — the kind of breath that only comes when he finally stops holding himself together — and melts into your side, cautious but comforted, letting you hold all the fear he doesn’t say out loud.

hector fort

you hear the door open quietly — not unusual, because héctor never comes in loudly — but it’s the pause that catches your attention. like he’s deciding how to walk inside.

“héctor?” you call gently.

“hey,” he answers, stepping into view. he tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. his training shirt is rumpled, and he’s holding his bag with his left hand a little awkwardly.

your eyes narrow. “what happened?”

he shakes his head instantly. “nothing bad. just… i got caught on the ankle during a drill.”

he says it so calmly, so softly, like he’s giving you weather information. but then you see it — the slight limp as he moves closer.

“sit down,” you tell him.

he hesitates for a second — not stubborn, just unsure if he’s making a big deal out of nothing. then he nods and sits at the edge of the couch, hands resting on his thighs.

you kneel to look at his ankle, and he instinctively straightens up, trying not to get in your way. that’s so héctor — always polite even when he’s hurt.

the swelling is small, nothing too alarming, but still enough to make your heart squeeze.

“why didn’t you text me?” you ask quietly.

he looks down, cheeks warming just a little. “i didn’t want you to worry,” he murmurs. “it really isn’t serious.”

you shake your head and grab an ice pack from the freezer. when you press it gently to his ankle, he exhales — not pain, just relief — and his shoulders drop like he’s finally letting himself relax.

“you always act like you have to be fine all the time,” you say softly.

“i don’t want to make things harder for anyone,” he replies, voice small but steady. “everyone already has enough to think about.”

you look up at him, and he meets your gaze. his eyes are warm, a little tired, but so open.

“you’re not a burden, héctor,” you whisper.

he swallows, the line of his jaw softening. “you really think that?”

“i know that.” you brush your thumb over his shin. “you’re allowed to need care too.”

for a second, he doesn’t move — then he slowly reaches out, resting his hand over yours. his touch is warm, careful, almost tentative.

“thank you,” he says quietly. “you’re… really good to me.”

you sit beside him on the couch, and he immediately shifts closer — not clingy, just naturally seeking your warmth. his head leans lightly against your shoulder, the weight gentle and trusting.

“tell me if it hurts,” you murmur, adjusting the ice pack.

“i will,” he says. “it doesn’t right now.”

“good.”

he turns slightly and presses a soft, barely-there kiss to your shoulder — so shy, so subtle you almost miss it.

“i’m okay,” he whispers, as if reassuring both of you. “especially with you.”

you run your fingers through his hair, and he melts against you, the tension draining from his body until he settles completely, quiet and safe in your arms.

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[p8driesta]

😘

[pdriesta]

MY FAVORITE DANCE PARTNERS

[ferrans]

[pedripics]

family fc 💙❤️

[formulavroom]

💙❤️

[iitslera]

like i’d ever fall for a culé… right? ✶ HF32

english isn’t my first language, enemies to lovers and a little bit suggestive content

                               ──  ✦  ──

You hated Barça players. Straight up. Okay, maybe hate was a strong word. But something about them just rubbed you the wrong way. Was it the arrogance? The way they walked around like football gods? Or was it that your heart had been white since the beginning of time, and anything that smelled remotely blaugrana made your blood pressure spike?

Probably the last one.

And yet, there you were. At a party in Madrid. Surrounded by unfamiliar jerseys, laughter, loud music, and for some reason players from the rival team.

More specifically, Héctor Fort.

You weren’t sure how he even ended up there (rumor had it he was friends with a couple Atlético players), but the point was: he was there. Right in front of you. Wearing that “I know exactly the effect I have” smile, his hair artfully messy, and a tight black shirt that, honestly, was not helping your anti-Barça stance.

“Mind if I come closer?” he asked, holding a drink in one hand, eyes locked onto yours with shameless amusement.

You gave him a flat stare. “Only if you’re not about to bring up the 2009 treble.”

“And what if I talk about the one that’s coming next?” he replied smoothly, leaning against the wall beside you.

You rolled your eyes.

“Not even in your dreams, Fort.”

He laughed — clearly enjoying this. “You know my last name? I’m flattered.”

“I screamed it once when you scored an own goal. One of the best days of my life.”

He clutched his chest in mock pain. “And here I was, about to offer to buy you a drink. Life is cruel.”

“Buy it for someone easier,” you said, turning your back on him and walking back to your group of friends.

But of course, he didn’t leave.

Because he was Héctor Fort. And you’d just bruised his ego. Now, you were his challenge.

It didn’t stop that night. It never did.

You started running into him at events, mutual hangouts, rooftops where someone always happened to invite “that group of Barça boys.” And every single time — he was there. With those flirty lines. With the way he leaned in just enough to hear you better. With that annoying accent you were starting to maybe find attractive.

And each time, you replied with sarcasm.

“So… switched sides yet or still playing for the villains?”

“How are you gonna resist me when ‘visca el Barça’ doesn’t even make you flinch anymore?”

“You know, you’re kinda hot when you pretend to hate me.”

And you who had sworn never to smile at him started doing just that. Without even realizing it. Because that stupid flirt knew exactly what he was doing.

One night, after a particularly intense match (which Madrid obviously won), you ran into him outside a rooftop bar. He was alone. So were you.

Both of you stopped.

“Here to rub in the score?” he asked, flashing that crooked smile he wore when he was tired but still ready to play.

“Do I need to? I saw you disappear in the second half. Looked like it hurt to watch Bellingham celebrate.”

Héctor chuckled quietly, stepping closer.

“What really hurts is you still pretending you don’t want to kiss me.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” he murmured, leaning in way closer than what was polite. “I’m not the only one feeling this. Don’t look at me like that if you’re not going to do something about it.”

You said nothing for a second. The air between you shifted heavy, electric. You were one bad decision away from something irreversible.

“I would never hook up with a Barça player,” you whispered.

“Then look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me,” he said calmly. Confident. Like someone who already knew you were shaking.

You bit your lip.

And said nothing.

Because you couldn’t.

Because… maybe you did want him.

Because that annoyingly charming idiot had slipped under your Madrid jersey and into your head.

Nothing happened that night. But after that, everything changed.

Your texts with him became more frequent. Your “I’m not into you” turned into “you’re so annoying.” And your “you’re so annoying” slowly transformed into I think about you more than I should.

And when Héctor texted you after El Clásico saying: “We lost… you coming to comfort me or still pretending you feel nothing?”

Your reply was: “I’m on my way. But don’t think I like you.”

He replied with just one word: “Liar.”

You said you were going just for fun. That it was just to mess with him. That it didn’t mean anything.

And yet, there you were. Standing in front of the hotel where Barça was staying in Madrid. Heart pounding. Phone shaking in your hand. His last message still on the screen.

You hated him. You hated that he was right. Because you’d said you didn’t like him, that it was a game, that you’d never fall for a guy like him. But you thought about him. You thought about him way too much.

Héctor came down a few minutes later. No hat, no rush. Like he didn’t care who saw him. Like he already knew you were coming. Like you did, too. “I didn’t think you’d actually show,” he said, in that low, soft voice he only used when he wasn’t joking.

“I didn’t come for you,” you replied quickly, arms crossed.

“Oh no? Then why?”

“For… pride. To prove you don’t affect me.”

He smiled. “Then stay. And prove it.”

He gave you that look the one that wasn’t just a look. It was a statement.

You both went to the top floor. Not his room, obviously. The rooftop. It was empty. Quiet. Just a couple lights and the distant hum of a city that never really sleeps.

You sat at the edge, pretending to be calm. He stayed standing, watching you like every little move you made fascinated him.

“I don’t get why you bother me so much,” you muttered. “Because you like me.” “No.” “Yes.”

You glared at him. But it wasn’t hate. It was that other thing. That burn in your mouth every time you were near him and didn’t kiss him.

“I don’t like you.” “Then look me in the eyes and say it,” he replied, stepping closer.

You did.

And you couldn’t say it.

Because it wasn’t true anymore.

“This is stupid,” you whispered. “Then kiss me. Show me it means nothing.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” you snapped but you were already standing, barely a breath away from him.

“I’m not asking you to fall in love. Just stop lying.”

You froze.

You could feel his hands close, feel his presence, the heat, the tension building in your chest. Like your whole body already knew what you wanted before your mind caught up.

“I’d never hook up with a culé,” you whispered, almost like a mantra. But it was losing power.

He leaned in closer, his lips just a breath from yours.

“And I shouldn’t want a madridista who hates me. But here we are.”

You stood there. In that dangerous silence. That line between walking away… or giving in.

And you wanted to leave.

But you wanted to stay even more.

And that terrified you. Excited you. Set you on fire.

“You know what the worst part is?” you whispered, not moving. “What?” “I didn’t even like you.” “And now…”

His fingers brushed your cheek. Barely. Like he was asking for permission.

And you didn’t stop him.

“Now you annoy me in a different way,” you murmured, voice shaking.

He smiled.

“Then kiss me.”

Your lips were so close, the next move could change everything.

And he knew it.

Because you weren’t his enemy anymore. You were his obsession.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe him. Maybe you. Or maybe the universe had just gotten tired of the tension and shoved you two together.

What you did know… was what happened next.

His mouth crashed into yours with a mix of frustration and hunger. Like he’d waited too long. Like he needed to prove, once and for all, that this wasn’t a joke. That it wasn’t a game. That it was you.

It was a rough kiss. No softness. Tight lips. Hands gripping your waist. All that pent-up energy finally set free.

And you kissed him back.

With every ounce of the frustration you’d buried. With all the want you refused to admit. With the overwhelming urge to rip off your white jersey and forget the colors just for tonight.

His fingers traced your back, tangled in your hair. He pulled you closer closer like any space left between you was an insult.

You were breathing against his mouth, between kisses, barely catching air.

But you didn’t want to breathe. You didn’t want to think.

You pushed him gently against the rooftop wall, hands on his chest. You felt the heat of his skin through the fabric. He let out a low breath against your neck, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Fuck…” he murmured against your jaw, lips trailing your skin. “I swear I didn’t know how bad I wanted you until now.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. Because it hurt, too. You’d fought this for so long. And kissing him was surrendering and at the same time, the most freeing thing you’d ever done.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you lied, voice trembling.

“Then kiss me like that again,” he said, biting softly at your lower lip. “And tell me you feel nothing.”

So you did.

You kissed him like you were trying to forget him and memorize him at the same time.

Your legs were shaking. His hands slid down your sides with dangerous slowness. Your back hit the cold wall, and instead of pulling away it just ignited you even more. You needed him closer. Deeper. More.

“What are we doing?” you whispered, forehead pressed to his.

“Something we shouldn’t… but I can’t stop.”

His lips trailed down your neck. Short kisses. Like little promises you didn’t yet understand. Your fingers slid under his shirt. He shut his eyes and exhaled deep and shaky.

“We’re not going further here,” you said suddenly, trying to take back some control.

“I know,” he whispered, eyes dark and full of want. “But don’t ask me to walk away from you tonight.”

And you didn’t.

You stayed.

Wrapped in each other’s arms. Kissing in silence. Touching like the world outside the rooftop didn’t exist.

And when you finally went back downstairs, lips swollen, shirt slightly rumpled there was no pretending anymore.

It wasn’t a war.

It wasn’t a rivalry.

It wasn’t pride.

It was Héctor.

And he had won you in the one way you never thought you’d fall: by kissing you until you stopped fighting.

[kisekii]

Lamine, Balde and Fermin having chika time before training and then there’s sleepy Cubarsi, holding his little band-aid😭