Title: In the spotlight
Pairing: Ferran Torres and blackfem!reader (athlete)
Summary: Playing on a national team match, you're dealing with a physical opponent, terrible refereeing, and a dirty play at the net. You don't take disrespect, and your focus pays off. What you aren't expecting is for your boyfriend, to abandon his tight training schedule and surprise you on the court post-match completely ready to show you off to the media and claim the victory hug he was promised.
Warnings: High levels of PDA (public displays of affection), fluff & romance, mild sports violence/foul play, athletic physical exhaustion, and strong language/suggestive themes.
Word count: 1.7k
The air inside the pavilion was thick, vibrating with the deafening rhythm of air horns and the relentless bass thumping from the stadium speakers. The bright white spotlights of the arena beat down onto the blue and green taraflex court, reflecting the sweat glinting on your dark skin as you stood at the net, breathing heavily.
You guys were deep in the fourth set against a notoriously physical opponent. The refereeing had been questionable all night, missed net touches from across the tape, uncalled double contacts and the tension was at a literal boiling point. Up in the shadowed VIP tier, Ferran sat with his baseball cap pulled low, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way it rarely did when he was the one on the pitch.
“Madre mía, she’s good at this” he thought, his eyes locked entirely on your frame.
He knew that look on your face. It was the exact same quiet, lethal focus he tried to tap into during El Clásico. He noticed the slight tightness in your jaw, the way your fingers twitched as you adjusted your knee pads or how you kept poking your inner cheeks with your tongue. He knew you were furious.
On the court, the opposing setter tried to pull a cheeky dump over the net. You anticipated it perfectly, rising high above the tape, your vertical leap entirely eclipsing her. Your hands formed a solid brick wall, stuffed the ball directly back into her face, and sent it flying out of bounds.
But as you landed, the opposing middle blocker intentionally let her foot slide completely across the center line, her sneaker catching the edge of yours. It was a dangerous, foul play meant to risk an ankle injury. The referee’s whistle blew late, calling the point for Spain, but ignoring the foul entirely.
Your teammates swarmed you, but your focus shifted instantly. You don't take disrespect, not from referees, and certainly not from such players. You stepped right up to the tape, towering over the net, your furrowed eyes locking onto the opponent with a cold unblinking stare. You didn't say a word, didn't scream, but the absolute dominance in your posture made the girl instantly take a step back, looking toward her coach.
Up in the stands, Ferran’s blood ran hot with a mixture of intense protective instinct and pure awe, a proud smirk tugging at his lips when he saw how you defended yourself without having to speak.
He loved how aggressive you were. In a sports media world that shows how passionate female athletes could be, you played with a beautiful, unapologetic cool edge. He knew exactly what it felt like to be under the microscope, and watching you stand your ground made his chest swell.
The scoreboard flickered: 24-23. Match point, Spain.
The arena went completely silent as your setter tossed the ball up. It was a perfect, high-arcing set, pushed right to the outside.
“This is it” you thought, your mind completely clearing off the frustration and the heat. Your approach was flawless, three explosive steps, a powerful plant of your feet, and you launched your body into the air.
From Ferran's perspective, it looked like you stayed suspended in the air for an eternity. The opposing block put up three sets of hands, desperate to stop you. But you were the national team's most feared hitter for a reason. You adjusted mid-air, snapping your wrist with an unmatched velocity, and absolutely obliterated the ball. It cut right through the seam of the block, slamming into the floorboards with a deafening *thud* before anyone could even react.
The final whistle blew. The stadium exploded.
Your teammates immediately swarmed you, burying you in a sea of white jerseys, screaming and crying as the victory was sealed. You laughed, you cried, hugging them tightly, but your eyes instinctively drifted up toward the VIP seats.
Ferran had completely abandoned his low profile. His cap was pushed back, his hands slamming against the railing as he cheered, pointing down at you with a massive dimpled grin and shiny eyes. When he caught your eye, he beat his fist against his chest right over his heart mouthing,
“A tu lado, siempre” (by your side, always).
When you both first started dating at the beginning of this year, trying to balance two chaotic high-profile athletic schedules, you promised each other that no matter how loud the media got, how far the travel distance was, or how much pressure you were under, you would always be each other's anchor.
When he looks at you, it’s a silent reminder that even with thousands of screaming fans between you, his heart is exactly where you are.
You don't know what happened, if it was from the intense match, or him unexpectedly showing up but you broke down, nobody really knew why you were like this. Most will state the obvious, you just won a match.
After what felt like hours of taking pictures and doing post match interviews, the court started clearing up slightly. You saw him, your shark, from the corner of your eyes waiting patiently for you. As always, so patient.
You stood near the baseline, waving at fans and signing, chest heaving with love and satisfaction. Your thighs were burning and your skin was slick with sweat under the harsh arena lights. You were completely, utterly drained and you definitely weren't expecting a welcoming committee.
So, when a pair of strong, familiar arms suddenly wrapped securely around your waist from behind, your heart skipped a beat.
Ferran was supposed to be in Barcelona. He had a tight training schedule, and you’d explicitly told him over facetime the night before not to stress about making the drive down. Yet here he was, in all his glory smelling entirely too good, and completely hijacking your post-match space right on the taraflex court.
"Surprise," Ferran murmured in English, his voice a low, raspy rumble against the shell of your ear. He tightened his grip, pulling your hips flush against his side and instantly shifting into his absolute favorite mode: being completely in love and devoted to you, shamelessly.
Your first instinct, as always when cameras were flashing, was to play it cool. You were the national team's powerhouse; you had a reputation for being an absolute force, and right now, your boyfriend was trying to hold you like a giant teddy bear while the sports media turned their lenses directly toward the baseline.
"Ferran, stop," you laughed, immediately trying to pry his large hands away from your waist. You gave a playful nudge of your elbow against his stomach, making him utter an exaggerated “ouch”.
"I am completely drenched in sweat." You said laughing while turning to face him.
"As if I haven't seen you in-," he countered easily, not budging an inch. If anything, your playful resistance only made him double down. Ferran loved showing you off, and he loved it even more when you pretended to be tough before melting.
“Oh my god, shut up”, you answered back tapping his mouth.
He slid his hands from your waist up to your shoulders, burying his face directly into the warm curve of your neck, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your skin despite the sweat.
"I drove three hours to see my girl, I am getting my hug and kiss I was promised as soon as i see you." he whined like a little baby, he is your baby.
"You are so annoying," you muttered, a helpless smile already tugging at the corners of your lips. You tried to keep your posture rigid, putting up one last front of resistance before playfully turning your head away from him, making him kiss your cheek instead. "Go sit back down, Torres. I have more media interviews."
"They can wait two minutes," he whispered against your skin, his hands sliding down to securely rest on your hips, solid. He leaned his head back just enough to look down at you, those light brown eyes filled with so much unadulterated, soft adoration and respect that it was almost unfair. He gave you that specific, crinkled eyes smile that he knew you couldn't resist. "Please? Just a proper hello."
You looked at him, and around, and finally let out a defeated, breathless laugh. The minute your arms securely locked around his neck, the playful wall you’d put up completely dissolved, and your boyfriend didn’t hesitate for a single second.
He caught your mouth in a kiss that was sudden and deep with an overwhelming sense of pride. It wasn’t a polite greeting; it was entirely passionate, his lips pressing firmly against yours with a desperate kind of hunger that proved just how much he’d missed you over the last two weeks. One of his large hands immediately slid up from your hip, his fingers tangling securely into the back of your neck to tilt your head back, and pull you closer, angling you perfectly so he could deepen the kiss.
"You'll be the death of me" you warned, though your fingers were already tangling into his now long hair, holding him just as tightly as he was holding you if that was even possible anymore.
Ferran’s grin widened, his arms instantly locking around your waist to lift your feet slightly off the floor, completely victorious.
"A happy death no?," he murmured, his voice thick with pride as he kissed the tip of you nose, entirely content to let the world watch how completely whipped he was.
You let out a soft, breathless gasp against his mouth, completely losing yourself in the familiar, intoxicating heat of him. He tasted faintly of some expensive beer, his chest crushing against yours as he pulled your frame up onto your tiptoes. He completely tuned out the rapid-fire clicking of the paparazzi lenses surrounding you. Right there, wrapped in his arms.
There was only the firm, bruising pressure of his lips, the possessive swipe of his thumb against your bottom lip, and the quiet, breathless hum of his devotion vibrating right against your chest.
When he finally pulled back just a fraction, his lips lingered, brushing softly against yours as you both breathed in the same shared space. Ferran rested his forehead against yours, his eyes dark, blown-out, and completely lovesick as he stared down at you.
“Dios, me vuelves loco.” (god, you drive me insane), you hot-whispered against his lips, his grip on your waist tightened lifting you off your feet, and you immediately wrapped your legs around his waist, just enough to remind you that he wasn't planning on letting you go anytime soon.
