#barcelona spain

[hitdanaynay]

Three Minutes

Synopsis: Doing multiple interviews with Lamine has fans questioning if there’s more between you and him with each recording.

Pairing: Lamine Yamal x Interviewer!reader

word count: 1k+ no use of y/n

a/n: yk we gotta do anotha fic for Lamine since it's his bdayyy and for the angst yesterday

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Interviewing Lamine was never easy. Well, it could be, but he makes it such a drag. Don’t get it twisted though because you definitely liked the attention you got from him; I mean who wouldn’t? But the public attention from it all might be the worst of it all. 

You interview the boys after matches for FC Barcelona as you were one of the many post-match media interviewers, and each one is supposed to last 3 minutes or less. A little over is just fine but somehow... Lamine gets yours to finish around 8 minutes almost every time. 

You made your own name for yourself when it came to interviewing people like Gavi or Pedri because of your questions and the players seeming comfortable with the questions that were more personal and focused on what they did and not solely on teamwork and chemistry. 

The Barcelona team just went against a steady match against Newcastle, blowing them out of the water with a score of 7-2. To say you were proud was an understatement. You went through a couple of interviews quickly and easily with Alejandro, Cubarsi, Fermin, and... Here comes Lamine. 

He had just finished with one of your coworkers, making it short and brief and what seems like only lasts just a minute thirty.

Maybe because he was rushing to head over to you, but you wouldn’t know that.

You just hit record when he walked up, that smug smile that always painted his face whenever he scored a goal already forming.  

The real reason why his interviews got so long is because he asked you questions back as well, and he knew better than anyone else that you couldn't just shut Barcelona's star boy down. Anyone would die for your position.  

“Mira quién es: mi entrevistador favorito.” (Look who it is: My favorite interviewer) He stood in front of the backdrop that was adorned with many other brands that supported the team with his arms crossed and didn’t take one glance towards the big camera that stood to the side of them as he took the microphone that you handed to him. 

“Encantado de verte también Lamine” (Nice to see you too Lamine) You rolled your eyes but that didn’t stop the smile that slightly appeared on your face no matter how much you tried to downplay it and hide it.

Other than that, the interview went smoothly for now— questions wise. His body language was undeniable, constantly leaning into you even though he had his arms crossed. He would not stop staring at you as if you were the only person left in the room. 

“Ya basta de hablar de mí; te has cambiado el peinado. ¿A qué se debe el cambio?” (I’ve talked enough about myself; you’ve changed your hairstyle. What’s the reason for the change?) 

He says as if it's the most normal thing ever to ask you. You scoffed, amused, before trying to search your brain for an answer. You knew he was into you in some way, but you didn’t think he noticed that much. 

“¿Ahora tengo que explicar mis elecciones de vestuario?” (I have to explain my outfit choices now?) 

You tried to deflect but he was dead serious. He nodded his head, leaning his mic that he’d been holding towards your mouth as if he was now the one interrogating you about the way you played on the field. But two can play that flirty game of his.

“¿Y si quisiera impresionarte?” (What if I wanted to impress you?) That sparked something in him. The change was subtle but noticeable if you'd been standing in front of the footballer for quite some time now.  

His stance shifted, moving his weight onto his left leg as he leaned back just barely to look your outfit up and down and licked his lips before just barely giving you a nod 

“Bueno, está funcionando; hazlo más a menudo.” (Well, it’s working; do it more often.) The feeling you’d gotten in your stomach is what would be called butterflies, but it felt more aggressive than that. Almost as if it was wasps.  

You checked your watch and it was yet another interview that was well over 3 minutes. 

You’d done it again and had no choice but to wrap up the conversation that was beginning to get heated and making the walls feel like it was closing in on you the longer you stayed with the boy.

“Sabes que tienes otras entrevistas, ¿verdad? Nos vemos la próxima, Lamine.” (You know you have other interviews, right? See you next time, Lamine.) You were sure to give him no option of staying because he was known to find a loophole in something always.  

“¿Eso es una promesa?” (Is that a promise?) He finally glanced at the camera that picked up every word you two said and could probably sense the tension in the room as well.

“Desafortunadamente.” (Unfortunately.) You responded quickly right after him. He smiled, flashing his braces before handing you the mic back and as you grabbed it back from him, hands brushing. He grabbed your hand, placing a sweet but soft kiss on top of it.  

That small gesture finally got you.

You just watched as he walked off like he didn't just do that. You couldn’t stand there forever, beginning to pack up and perhaps faster than you usually would, but you did it subconsciously as you put everything back to their respective spots and packing up the camera that has a film of gold on it.

You trusted your company to edit the video, accordingly, wanting to hopefully keep their professional image and not feed into the eager fans.  

You decided you would rather not stay around and let Lamine terror you some more with his charisma before you did something you would regret as you hesitantly sent the recording to your company for them to edit and post to the public.  

How fun is it to know that your company in fact posted all 8 minutes of the video and now your social media is blowing up without any mercy. 

Don’t forget to like and comment! 🪷

[kestarren]

Art Nouveau stained glass door, at Casa Manuel Felip, Barcelona. Designed by architect Telm Fernández i Janot, circa 1901. Photographer unknown.

[yuliabalakova]

[sempredomingo]

[toyastales]

Magnificent and ornate door, Barcelona Spain 🇪🇸.

[aidonis]

[ddnaisy]

Why am I larping football?

[meazalykov]

terror arrives

barcelona femeni x female!pugh!oc

margaret (margo) pugh breaks through world class stars to score goals. so what happens when she transfers to barcelona after knocking them out of the champions league in the previous season?

the woman’s name had always been a heavy topic for opponents.

mallory pugh was the darling of american soccer, the golden girl. the one who followed the well-paved path, the one who did things the right way. 

a good youth career, senior national team. nwsl. the poster child for what a career was supposed to look like.

the younger sister… margo? margo had never done things the right way.

she is the younger sister, the shadowed talent. the one who took the road less-traveled. she is the one who was always chasing after something, even if she did not yet know what. the one who ignored the noise, the expectations, the comparisons to her older traditional sister, and ran her own race. 

literally, because margo pugh was not just fast on the pitch, she was terrifying.

tonight, the best team in the world learned just how terrifying she could be.

barcelona had confidence, as they always did. they had won the first leg 1-0, and even without alexia in full form, they were still the most dominant force in club football. 

lyon, the sleeping giant, had stumbled this season. margo? she had missed the first leg due to a minor injury. without her, lyon lacked their usual bite.

now she was back, and she was hungry.

from the first whistle, margo was a nightmare. she did not just move…she exploded. the ball stuck to her feet as if tethered by an unseen force, her low center of gravity allowing her to slip through tackles with a grace that should not have been possible at such speed. 

at just twenty-one, she was already different and already unpredictable, already rewriting the narrative that had been crafted for her due to having a sibling already in the ranks.

barcelona’s midfield, patri, keira, and aitana, were accustomed to dictating games. 

against margo, they could only chase.

at minute 18, margo picks up the ball just past midfield. she turns sharply, a half-second quicker than walsh, and she is gone. aitana reaches out, tries to pull her back…too late.

one touch. two. three. the ball moves like it is an extension of her. she slices through the space between irene and ona like a hot knife through butter. she takes a touch with her right, steadies herself, and buries it past coll before anyone can react.

1-0.

barcelona is stunned. the catalan stadium, roaring just minutes ago, falls into an uneasy silence while the away crowd goes wild. 

the aggregate is tied.

in minute 36, lyon’s press forces a mistake. renard wins the ball, flicks it to diani, who sees margo already running. she knows better than to hesitate. she sends the pass forward, and like clockwork, margo is there. 

she takes the ball in stride, past ona, past paredes…again. one-on-one with coll. this time, she fakes right. cata bites. margo drags it left, rolling the ball into the net with the ease of someone who has been doing this her entire life.

brace. 

before halftime. 2-0.

barcelona looks at each other, shaken. they have never feared a player like this before. they have never feared a twenty-one-year-old with only two years of european experience after leaving the states, but margo?

they fear her.

in minute 74, barcelona fights back and it seems like the best team in the world will have a comeback. they know one goal will send this into extra time. they push, they press, but lyon cannot break. we,, at least until fridolina gets a penalty, which she scores.

2-1.

in minute 82, the final dagger. lyon counters. margo, once again, is at the heart of it. she receives the ball at the halfway line, faced with two defenders. 

she stops. one touch. a step-over. she is gone again, but this time she does not go for a goal.

she lifts her head. she sees van de donk, waiting at the top of the box. a perfectly weighted pass splits the defense, and van de donk does not miss.

3-1.

barcelona is done.

when the final whistle blows, margo does not celebrate right away. she stands still for a moment, watching as the best team in the world lowers their heads, as their fans sit in stunned silence. 

then, she turns, running toward her teammates, arms outstretched.

the headlines will follow. of course the spanish, french, and american media will explode. for now, in this moment, margo pugh just smiles.

she is no longer the shadow, because she is the storm.

the thing is that margo had always known lyon was temporary. when she signed her two-season contract at eighteen, fresh out of high school, people questioned her decision. 

skipping college, heading straight to europe as an american teenager, it was bold and reckless some had said. however, margo had never been the type to follow expectations. she carved her own path away from her older sister who will never play in europe. 

now, at twenty-one, that path was leading her somewhere inevitable.  

when she lifted the champions league trophy with lyon, gold confetti falling around her, sweat still clinging to her skin from the 2-1 victory over chelsea, she knew this would be her last moment in a lyon jersey. 

she had done what she came to do. she had proven herself. 

she had stood on the biggest stage in club football and shown the world what she was capable of at such a young age.  

first, she had business in the states.  

the national break meant time with mallory, time with the uswnt, time to settle back into american soil before returning to europe. she didn’t talk much about what was next since her contract expired, but everyone around her already knew.  

margo had loved barcelona for as long as she could remember. long before she became the player she was today, before she was tearing through midfielders and breaking defensive lines like they were paper, she was a kid watching el clásico matches with wide eyes, heart racing every time barcelona scored. 

she had been obsessed with their style of play, the identity, their magic.  

there were pictures to prove it. old ones, dug up by the media as soon as transfer rumors swirled. 

margo, no older than five, standing next to mallory in an oversized 06/07 barcelona kit, sleeves drowning her small arms, her sister wrapping an arm around her shoulders. the picture was taken in 2010.

the jersey was so big on margo and it looked like a dress, but margo had worn it with pride.  

so when the news finally broke, almost no one was surprised.  

well, except for the barcelona players themselves.  

they had seen firsthand what margo could do, and to say they were impressed would be an understatement.  

there was a reason lyon had beaten barcelona in the champions league semifinals. a reason the best team in the world had been sent home before the final. that reason? margo pugh. 

she had run circles around them. she had been relentless. she had made even the most experienced players look slow, out of sync.  

now, that same terror was about to be on their side.  

alexia had spoken about it first. she had watched margo closely, studied the way she moved, the way she read the game. she admired it. she recognized that rare spark, the kind only the greats had. she’s special, she had told a few of her teammates, and there was no disagreement.  

some, like patri and pina, had felt something else…something dangerously close to jealousy. barcelona had been the team for so long. the standard. the team with the best midfield in the world. 

now? now a twenty-one-year-old was arriving, and she wasn’t just talented, she was a force that nobody stopped last season. not a single soul.

when margo finally landed in barcelona, the entire club felt it.  

the signing was no ordinary transfer. 

this was a statement. a warning. a shift in power.  

this time, the storm wasn’t coming for barcelona.  

it was here with them.

next part to this: 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ

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