#barcelona x reader

[glossiercheek]

⋆˚꩜｡ TATTED UP ╱ ferran torres 𝑥 𝒻!reader 𝄞 SYNOPSIS: you find out your boyfriend has tattoos all over his back. it turns you on beyond words. ⁕ WARNINGS: 18+ (mdni), oral (f!receiving), munch!ferran, petnames, he’s sooooo kind and sweet and lovey dovey

“you look beautiful in this dress, angel.” ferran says with a slight grin when he kicks open the door to his bedroom. his brown hair is tousled from your date night, and you’re all giggly from a glass of wine too many. “oh really?” you retort with the apples of your cheeks burning from smiling so hard.

the night you’ve been spending with your fairly new boyfriend is slowly coming to an end, and you feel like a princess and an angel wrapped into one. how can you not, when ferran’s strong arms are wrapped around you as he carries you into his sacred space.

don’t get it twisted, though: you’ve been dating ferran for a while, but today is the day you’re finally spending the night at his place after a lot of “please, baby!”s.

his room is tidy and neat, the corners of his duvet tucked into sharp corners, his pillows all fluffed up. a random, dark green hat lies on top of his dresser, as well as a random watch, but that doesn’t matter. you’re more focused on your boyfriend, anyway.

especially when he plops you on his soft bed, your body softly bouncing back on the mattress. and ferran leans down with two arms planted on either side of you and looks at you like you’re the light of his life: his eyes scrunched up in delight, that adorable smile he’s always wearing around you. his brown hair peeking out from the back of his neck, his blushy cheeks.

you’d be an idiot to think he’s not in love with you.

“really,” ferran affirms, voice warm and thick like treacle, descending his face down to yours to press a short, but sweet kiss to your lips. “you always look beautiful, my love. always.” he says against your lips. you can feel your heart stutter at his words, the profoundness of his confession. why’d he have to be so cute? you’ve never been so caught up in a guy.

your boyfriend stands back up straight, grabbing you by your hands to pull you up too. “you wanna wear something of mine to bed?”

you hum back affirmatively, already all sleepy and sated as you stare at how ferran opens the door of his closet, rummaging through his array of shirts before grabbing the softest, most comfortable piece he can find. 

you swiftly change into the piece of clothing he chose, the fabric reaching mid-thigh and the fabric soft and comfortable around your frame. perfect to sleep in. and ferran thinks so too. that you’re perfect.

you know that, because he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

“you’re such an angel,” he tells you, his hands finding yours, voice cracked open in vulnerability and wonder. he spins you around slowly in the middle of his room, because here, in the dim yellow light of his bedroom and the stale quaintness of barcelona around you two, all he can focus on is sharing this moment with you.

he pulls one of your hands to his mouth before placing another light kiss to your knuckles, his brown, gooey eyes never leaving yours. “prettiest girl on the planet.” your insides get all mushy at his gravel voice, because all you can think of ferran is how he’s cute. respectful. beautiful. never pushy. accommodating. lovely. excited. he has the humility of a child, the gentleness that reminds you of the bfg, somehow. 

ferran takes a step back, away from you, before turning his back to you to get himself ready for bed too. he sits down on his bed, just doing his thing, plugging his phone into the charger.

but when he hooks his hand around the sturdy fabric of the tee he’s wearing and pulls the shirt over his head, all the innocent, sweet thoughts about him vanish like snow before the sun, because—

well, his entire back is covered in fucking ink.

and you’ve never felt your knees buckle this fast. you genuinely have to hold yourself up, one hand planted on the soft duvet of his bed to prevent yourself from folding. ferran draws up his arm to scratch the back of his neck, and the tendons and the muscles shift underneath his tanned skin.

because now, you think of your boyfriend as sexy. hot. undeniably attractive, as opposed to cute and adorable.

“wow,” is all you can muster, tentatively walking on your knees across his bed until you’re within touching-distance. “i didn’t know you had, y’know—” you vaguely gesture around your boyfriend’s back, “all of this.”

it’s as if ferran can feel the nervous air around you, because he huffs out a self-satisfied, attractive chuckle. “it’s nothing,” he lets his arms rest on his spread legs, his crumpled up shirt still clutched between his fingers, giving you all the time in the world to look at his tattooed back. “it’s just ink on skin.”

the air is pulled taut between you when you reach out your hand, the warmth wavering over ferran’s skin. “can i touch them?” you let the question linger in the air. “can i— can i touch you?”

“you want to?” he shoots back, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

the tension crackles in the air all of a sudden. it’s sizzling, ferran’s warm, balmy skin under your fingertips. you hear the brunet suck in a small breath when your fingers brush over the chess pawn on the upper left side of his back. “did they hurt?” you decide to ask, your voice so light and broken with curiosity.

ferran can feel himself going absolutely insane. your touch is soothing yet torturing, it’s feathery and delicate, just like you. “not really,” he answers, drawing up his shoulders, his breath weighing heavy in his lungs when he speaks. “can handle the pain.”

the scrape of your nails over his skin has his head falling between his shoulders in delight. the scene looks so intimate from afar: you gently tracing the swirly, intricate designs on your boyfriend’s back, and him revelling in your touch.

“i like this one.” you whisper, both of your hands travelling to the laurel wreath on his lower back, just where the hem of his jeans begins. under the light scratch of your nails, goosebumps erupt across ferran’s skin.

“you do?” he questions, a little playful, a little heartfelt. his voice is strained. his back is like one giant treasure map, every tattoo a new area for you to explore, the empty pathways of skin in between leading you to a new piece.

“and this one—” your fingers meander all the way to his upper back, where the angel wings are. “really fits that name you always call me.”

“yeah, because you are,” he tells you huskily, trying to turn his head so he can look at you. the look in his eyes makes slick dribble on the gusset of your panties. “you’re my angel, baby. you know that.”

ferran’s reassurance is everything you want in life. knowing you’re his. knowing you’re the only one who is able touch him like this, knowing you’re the one who sees the vulnerable, the good, the bad.

you noiselessly move your head down, brushing your lips over the anatomical heart on the upper right side of his back. remnants of your glittery lip gloss stick to his skin like a reminder of you, forever on him.

ferran hums something indecipherable back, something between a jumbled grunt and a helpless whine. “baby…” he breathes exasperatedly, but you just continue to place small, cloying kisses all over him: the set of brains on the other side, the tattooed word below it.

your hands slide over his shoulders, easing the tension away. he smells so clean, like citrus and musk. “what?” you murmur, bringing your face up to his neck, placing kisses there. his faint stubble tickles the sensitive skin of your plump lips. you move your lips to the underside of his chin, the line of his jaw. “can’t show my boyfriend how much i like him?”

“let me kiss you please,” the brunet pulls your face away from him, now finally able to turn around fully. he drops one lingering kiss to your lips, the squelching sound of your lips joining echoing through the tension-ridden bedroom. “gonna show you how much i like you, baby.”

it doesn’t take long until ferran turns around fully and hovers over you, looking at you with stars in his eyes. “i adore you.” he simply confesses, a little out of breath, chest rising and falling with every intake of oxygen. as if you didn’t know.

“show me then.” you reply, hooking two fingers through his belt loop, pulling him in. and all of a sudden, ferran’s weight wavers over you, dipping you back into the mattress of his bed. and you just acquiesce, flexing open your thighs to fit his frame between them.

his lips find yours like a compass needle always pointing north. this time, his hands are hot and heavy on your skin. “i love you,” ferran declares, eyes flitting between yours and your lips before stuffing his face into the sensitive column of your neck, “you’re my girl.”

“i know— i know,” you agree, your voice all trembly, knowing what’s about to happen when you feel his thick fingers hooking under the elastic of your panties before pulling them down. from your point of view, the mop of brown hair moves all the way down your body, kneading the soft of your hips.

“i love these,” ferran hums into the flesh of your thighs, blatantly ignoring the seeping arousal leaking out of you. the subtle scratch of his stubble stimulates you in a way you’ve never felt before. “love taking my time with you.”

the push and pull of his lips on your skin is electrifying. the small tingles of his teeth nipping at your flesh are quickly soothed by the slide of ferran’s wet tongue. and your hands? your hands crawl into his brown hair, pulling the strands taut as a signal for him to do something. anything.

you’re thinking about forever with him, truly. somewhere between a minute and a lifetime.

at last, ferran looks at your weeping pussy. his hooded eyes flick to your face and you watch him with a pleading look. just anything, now. “and i love eating y’r pretty pussy up.” is all he says, voice full of gravel and sin, before his tongue meets your clit.

your hair splays out all around your head like an invisible halo, your head digging further into his spongy, fluffy mattress. his tongue laves up all the slick that’s gushing out of you, his lips brushing gently over your walls, making you a jumbled mess of moans and mewls.

“love the sounds you make,” ferran mumbles into your pussy before prodding his tongue at your entrance. “and that pretty face of yours—” he squeezes into you, his gentle hands adjusting its grip around your legs, keeping you open and accessible to him. “especially when you come f’me.” his stare deepens into something mischievous, a teasing glint in his gaze.

ferran’s tongue works into you like a metronome, keeping his tormenting pace stable and consistent. “talk t’me, angel,” he tells you, tongue-deep into you. your slick dribbles on the duvet, leaving embarrassingly wet patches behind. “tell me what you’re feelin’.”

his accent gets all slurry and deep, literally pussy-drunk. now it’s your turn to babble out an incoherent mess of sounds.

“speak up, baby.” ferran taunts between flicks and thick stripes of his tongue.

“i’m— close, don’t stop,” you try to do your best to meet him halfway. the way your eyes are clenched shut, the little quirk of your eyebrow, ferran knows you’re close. very. your hands are shaky between his strands, tension convoluting all through you. “fer, seriously—”

“give it t’me, baby—” is all he says before squeezing his tongue right into you again, alternating between little presses of his fingers to your pulsating clit. it’s almost as if he’s more eager for you to come than you yourself. “know you can.”

you shatter with a broken moan, feeling as if the dam finally broke. the apples of your cheeks burn up, a shiver running up your spine, and ferran keeps on feeding you subtle pokes of his tongue, fleeting touches of his warm hands around your legs. he really guides you through your orgasm.

when you finally catch your breath with a gratified smile on your face, ferran reaches up to you. his lips and chin are shiny with your slick, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing a quick kiss to your lips. “you’re perfect, honey.”

honey. it’s weird how the simplest words can sound so… intimate when it comes from him. you almost want to squeal at how adorable your boyfriend is.

“all because i traced your tattoos?”

“well, i’m easy when it comes to you, baby.”

a/n: i felt like a fucking whore when i constantly had to look at those pics of his back to inspect his tattoos 😭😭 also reqs are so open for him. so so so so so open, but read my rules firstttt!

[witchhkitty222]

Secret language - Ferran Torres

summary: One slow circle against your palm has always meant one thing between you and Ferran. The only problem? He decides to use it in the middle of dinner with his teammates. warnings: 18+, smut, established relationship, public teasing, sexual tension, car sex. wc: 2.5k a/n: omg i caved guys, I just had to write smth for this sexy man.

main masterlist | football masterlist

Some couples wore matching jewellery.

Some had anniversaries carved into lock screens or initials engraved on the inside of rings.

You and Ferran had something far simpler.

A language that belonged to nobody else.

It had started by accident almost a year into your relationship. One absent-minded evening, sitting side by side on his balcony in Barcelona, your fingers intertwined while the city buzzed quietly beneath you. He’d been tracing lazy patterns against your palm while you talked about absolutely nothing, and somewhere between teasing smiles and lingering eye contact, the meaning of those small circles had changed without either of you ever saying it aloud.

One slow circle.

I want you.

Two circles.

As soon as we’re alone.

It had become your favourite secret.

Nobody noticed because nobody was looking. To everyone else, it was nothing more than two people hopelessly in love, always finding an excuse to hold hands.

Only the two of you knew that sometimes the smallest touch could completely unravel the other.

Which was exactly why Ferran loved using it.

The restaurant was louder than expected.

Not chaotic, just alive.

Glasses clinked together every few seconds, waiters slipped effortlessly between crowded tables balancing trays over their shoulders, and somewhere behind you someone burst into laughter loud enough to make half the room glance over before carrying on with their own conversations.

Your table sat tucked near the back, just far enough away from the busiest part of the room that everyone could hear each other without shouting.

Pedri was halfway through telling some ridiculous story from training.

“…and then Gavi swears it wasn’t his fault.”

“It wasn’t,” Gavi interrupted immediately.

“It absolutely was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It literally was.”

Everyone laughed.

Even Ferran.

You watched him shake his head, smiling into his drink as the argument continued around the table. There was something unfairly attractive about seeing him like this relaxed, happy, completely himself.

Away from cameras.

Away from interviews.

Just Ferran.

His knee rested against yours beneath the table, warm and familiar.

Without thinking, your hand found his.

It wasn’t unusual.

In fact, it would’ve been more unusual if you weren’t touching each other somehow.

Whether it was your hand resting on his thigh during long drives, his arm around your shoulders while watching films, or simply your fingers intertwined beneath restaurant tables, physical affection had become as natural as breathing.

He laced your fingers together automatically.

No hesitation.

No thought.

Just instinct.

Your thumb brushed lazily over the back of his hand while you listened to whatever story had everyone laughing now.

“…and then the coach just stared at him,” Pedri continued between laughs.

“I still think it was funny,” Gavi defended himself.

“You nearly got yourself kicked out of training.”

“Worth it.”

Another round of laughter.

You smiled, resting your chin lightly against your free hand.

Warm lights reflected against polished glasses.

The smell of fresh pasta drifted from somewhere nearby.

Outside, the Barcelona streets glowed beneath the evening sky, people wandering past the restaurant windows without a second glance inside.

It felt peaceful.

Comfortable.

Home.

Then…

His middle finger slipped away from yours.

Just enough for one fingertip to reach the centre of your palm.

One slow circle.

Your entire body forgot how to function.

It was barely there.

A featherlight touch.

So subtle that if anyone had been watching, they would’ve assumed he was simply adjusting his grip.

But you knew.

Oh, you knew.

Your eyes snapped towards him.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He hadn’t even looked at you.

He was nodding along to whatever Jules had started talking about now, taking another sip from his drink with the calmest expression imaginable.

You narrowed your eyes.

Seriously?

Slowly, you squeezed his hand.

A warning.

His lips twitched.

Barely.

If you hadn’t spent years memorising every tiny expression he made, you would’ve missed it completely.

Liar.

You turned your attention back to the conversation, determined not to let him get to you.

It was one circle.

That was all.

You could survive one circle.

“…what do you think?” Pedri asked suddenly.

Your head lifted.

“Hm?”

“The holiday.”

“Oh.”

You blinked.

“The… holiday?”

Everyone laughed.

“You weren’t listening,” Gavi accused.

“I was!”

“What did I just say then?”

“…something incredibly intelligent?”

“Not even close.”

Heat climbed your cheeks.

From beside you came the softest, most innocent voice.

“She’s tired.”

You looked at Ferran.

He looked back with complete sincerity.

The picture of innocence.

You wanted to kick him under the table.

Instead, you smiled sweetly.

“I slept perfectly.”

“Did you?”

“Mhm.”

“Huh.”

His attention returned to the conversation.

For nearly five whole minutes, he behaved himself.

You almost relaxed.

Almost.

Then…

Another slow circle.

This one somehow slower than the first.

You inhaled sharply.

It wasn’t fair.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

The gesture wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t impatient.

It was deliberate.

Patient.

Like he was quietly reminding you of a secret that existed between the two of you and nobody else.

Your fingers tightened instinctively around his.

Stop.

He answered by gently brushing his thumb across your knuckles, his expression never changing as he listened to Gavi passionately argue over something entirely insignificant.

You leaned ever so slightly towards him.

“What are you doing?” you whispered.

His eyes stayed on the conversation.

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

He finally looked at you.

Just for a second.

Long enough for that tiny, impossibly smug smile to appear.

“I think you’re imagining things.”

You stared at him.

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’ve been sitting here.”

“You’ve been teasing me.”

“I’ve been listening.”

“You are such a liar.”

By the time dessert menus were placed in the middle of the table, you were certain Ferran was enjoying this far more than any normal person should.

He hadn’t traced another circle.

He didn’t need to.

The memory of the last one lingered in your palm like phantom heat, and every now and then he’d casually brush his thumb over your knuckles, just enough to remind you he hadn’t forgotten.

He caught you looking at him.

“What?” he asked, voice perfectly innocent.

“You know exactly what.”

“I really don’t.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.

“You are impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Across the table, Gavi looked between the two of you with narrowed eyes.

“What?”

You blinked.

“What do you mean, ‘what’?”

“You’ve both been smiling at each other for like…” he glanced at Pedri. “Ten minutes.”

Pedri laughed.

“They’re always like this.”

“No, they’re worse tonight.”

“We’re literally just sitting here,” Ferran replied, sounding offended by the accusation.

“You’ve barely contributed to the conversation,” Gavi pointed out.

“I’ve contributed loads.”

“You’ve said about five words.”

“They were important words.”

Everyone laughed, and thankfully the attention drifted elsewhere.

You leaned back in your chair, trying and failing to ignore the warmth of Ferran’s shoulder brushing yours.

You’d lost.

You knew you’d lost.

Not because of the circles.

Not because of the teasing.

But because every time you looked at him, he’d meet your eyes with that impossibly soft smile that always made the rest of the room disappear.

You reached for your water, taking a slow sip before setting the glass back down.

“I think…” you began, “…I’m going to call it a night.”

A chorus of surprised looks met you.

“So early?” Pedri asked.

“You okay?” someone else chimed in.

You nodded quickly.

“Yeah. Just a long day.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

It had been a long day.

Just not for the reasons they thought.

Ferran turned towards you, his expression immediately softening.

“Tired?”

“Mhm.”

His hand found the small of your back beneath the table for the briefest moment.

“Then let’s go.”

Simple.

No hesitation.

No dramatic discussion.

Just the two of you making your excuses while everyone else protested that it was still early.

“You two are becoming grandparents,” Gavi teased.

“We’ll leave you young people to it,” Ferran shot back with a grin.

Chairs scraped against the floor as you stood.

You exchanged hugs around the table, promised you’d all meet up again soon, and waved one last goodbye before stepping out of the restaurant.

The evening air wrapped around you instantly.

Barcelona was quieter now than it had been when you’d arrived, the streets glowing beneath rows of warm streetlights. Conversations drifted from nearby cafés, scooters buzzed lazily past, and somewhere in the distance someone was playing music that echoed softly between the buildings.

For a few moments, neither of you spoke.

Your fingers found his again as naturally as they always did.

He intertwined them without looking.

“You lied,” you said eventually.

“I did no such thing.”

“You absolutely did.”

He glanced sideways, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I simply held your hand.”

“You weaponised holding my hand.”

A laugh escaped him.

“I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Oh, you knew.”

“I might have suspected.”

You bumped your shoulder lightly against his.

“I cannot believe you kept a straight face through all of that.”

“I was very proud of myself.”

“You should’ve been an actor.”

“I’ll stick to football.”

The car came into view at the end of the row, tucked beneath a streetlamp that cast a soft golden glow across the bonnet.

You slowed as you reached it.

“So…” Ferran said, turning to face you.

“So?”

“You were very quiet back there.”

You folded your arms, pretending to think.

“I was.”

“And?”

“And I might still be slightly annoyed with you.”

“Might?”

“Might.”

His smile softened into something gentler now, the teasing giving way to affection.

“I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you.”

“You definitely will.”

He stepped closer until there was barely any space left between you, his forehead brushing yours for the briefest second.

“I had a feeling you’d forgive me eventually.”

You couldn’t help smiling.

“You are unbelievably confident.”

“No.”

His fingers squeezed yours.

“I just know you.”

For a heartbeat, the city seemed to fade into the background.

It was just the two of you, standing beneath the streetlight, sharing a smile that said far more than words ever could.

Then Ferran reached into his pocket for the car keys, unlocked the doors with a quiet beep, and held the passenger door open with an exaggerated little bow.

“After you.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing as you slipped into the seat.

“Such a gentleman.”

“I have my moments.”

He closed the door with a grin before walking around to the driver’s side, leaving the rest of the night waiting quietly beyond the windshield.

The moment the car doors clicked shut, the silence of the empty, dark parking lot became a catalyst. The air inside the vehicle was suddenly stifling, thick with the scent of his cologne and the shared desperation of hours of suppressed tension. Ferran didn't even put the car in gear before he had you pulled across the center console, his mouth crashing onto yours with a hunger that knocked the breath out of you.

It wasn't a gentle kiss it was a claim. His tongue swept through your mouth, tasting the wine and the longing, while his hands scrambled to get you out of your clothes. You scrambled over him, straddling his lap, the leather seat creaking under the weight of your combined heat.

When he finally slid inside you, the feeling was overwhelming. You let out a choked moan, your head falling back against the headrest as you sank onto him.

"Slow..." you whispered, your voice trembling. "I want to feel every inch of you."

Ferran groaned, his hands gripping your hips with a strength that left bruises. He didn't move, letting you set the pace. You began to ride him with an agonizing slowness, grinding your hips in small, circular motions that mirrored the signals he'd given you at dinner.

"Nena... Dios, you're so tight," he gasped, his eyes hooded, watching your face as you worked.

You leaned down, your breasts brushing his chest, whispering filthy things into his ear, telling him exactly how much you'd wanted this, how much you'd wanted to scream for him to take you right there under the table.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp. "Tell me how it feels. Tell me you're mine."

"I'm yours... Ferran, please, I can't... it's too much," you whined, your voice breaking into a high-pitched moan as you picked up the pace, just a fraction. The sound of your skin slapping against his, the wet, rhythmic friction of your bodies connecting, filled the cramped space of the car. The windows were already beginning to fog, sealing the two of you in a private, humid sanctuary.

You were teasing him, riding the edge of climax, refusing to let him finish. You could feel him shaking beneath you, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches. He was begging now, his forehead pressed against your collarbone, his voice a broken plea. "Please... mi amor, I can't take it. I'm going to lose it. Give it to me."

You let out a soft, triumphant laugh, your hips swirling one last time, driving him to the absolute brink. And then, you gave him the signal.

"Go," you whispered. "Now."

Ferran let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob. He reached up, his powerful arms locking around your waist and hoisting you upward, lifting you off him for a split second before slamming you back down with a violent, upward force.

He stopped being slow. He became a storm. He began to thrust upward with a raw, primal intensity, each strike hitting deep, filling you completely. You screamed his name, the sound echoing in the silent parking lot, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he hammered into you.

"Ferran! Ferran!"

He was relentless, his hips snapping upward in a frantic rhythm, his voice calling you nena over and over, his words blurring into a mix of Spanish and pure, unadulterated lust. The heat in the car was unbearable, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

As he hit his peak, he let out a guttural roar, his body locking up as he flooded you, his grip on your hips so tight it felt like he was trying to merge your bodies into one. You collapsed against him, your chests heaving in unison, the only sound left being the ticking of the cooling engine and the frantic, echoing beats of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again.

[47foden]

lamine Yamal seeing not regular edits of reader but FREAKY edits of reader pop up on his fyp

EDITS OF YOU - l. yamal

inwhich! you catch your boyfriend, lamine yamal, watching something and trying to hide it, only for it to be thirst trap edits of you.

frannytalks! based off of this edit here!! this is so very short, didn’t know if you wanted it to be smut or not! also sending love to modric & croatia rn!! ☹️ thank you so much for all the support, i see your messages and comments! don’t forget to join my taglist(s) here!

lamine had always been one to support you and your fans. whenever he’d see anything of you pop up on his fyp or feed that was positive he’d send you it immediately.

today, you were making dinner for lamine after a friendly he had earlier. you were making steak with seasoned veggies on the side, he had tiktok blaring off in the background. although, you didn’t mind because occasionally a funny video or a sound you liked would come on.

you were cutting some carrots into small pieces when you kept hearing the sound “i’m good, i kick it back and i’m good.” play over and over again.

you recognized the sound, knowing it was usually used for thirst traps and provocative videos. you bit your bottom lip, furrowing your eyebrows, not knowing if you should turn around and ask what he’s watching or if you were making a big deal out of nothing.

“lamine, what are you watching baby?” you asked, still turned around and cutting the carrots.

he immediately paused the video, “uh, nothing amor.”

“hm.” you said, not believing him, “show me then.”

“amor.” he sighed, slightly laughing to himself.

“lamine.” you said, turning around, pouting.

“no es nada importante, te lo prometo.” (it’s not anything important, i promise you) he says, sitting up and turning his phone off.

you set the knife down and walk over to him, he grabs both your arms with his hands, “y/n, come on.”

“just show me.” you say, fighting back, but it wasn’t working at all.

“it wasn’t anything!” he says, nervously smiling and you noticed his face getting red.

“lamine, don’t lie.” you say, pushing your body weight onto him, causing him to fall back and let go on your arms, you took the opportunity to snatch his phone.

you got up, running to the island to unlock his phone.

“y/n, porfa.” (y/n, please.) lamine pleaded, chasing you around.

you unlocked it, expecting to see a thirst edit of some other girl, only to see it’s of you and some of your concert clips. you felt your face heat up.

you look up to lamine who’s now sitting on a stool, the opposite side of the island with his head in his hands. “lamine,” you say trying to to smile, but you fail.

“stop laughing, y/n.” lamine sighed once more, sinking deeper into his hands.

“did you like the show?” you grin, walking closer to him, “maybe i can put one on for you right now?”

he instantly snapped his head up, nodding his head up and down. you let out a few giggles, rubbing his arms. “i didn’t know you liked my outfits this much.”

“you look beautiful baby, always.” he says, giving you a kiss on the lips.

“follow me.” you wink, letting go of his arm and walking to your shared bedroom.

-

l. yamal taglist: @massivepainterfan , @oharella , @piecredheart , @brune77e , @maybelu7 , @soobieewoobiee , @httpworshiper , @cnrdfisher , @deadpool15 , @night-fury-kamila , @frvrisa , @kylianaegyouwww , @ceziaa , @secretkittydreamland , @watamotee33 <3 (luv u all sm!)

perm. taglist: @pinkfashionkilla , @iovhrts , @random34674 , @mumisntproudofme , @itsopinionsbased <33

[sof1rs]

𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗂 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 ❪ 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍 𝗂 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 💌 ❫ 𝗃𝗈𝖺̃𝗈 𝖿𝖾́𝗅𝗂𝗑 ❤︎ 𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖺 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉.

explaining something while frustrated

"não, meu amor, that’s not what i mean.”

joão drags his hand down his face, already halfway through explaining whichever football rule you asked about. 

he’s clearly getting frustrated with the topic itself, words coming out faster and faster. except, every time he looks at you his expression seems to soften.

“listen, meu amor, if the defender is here—“ he points at the screen in front of you two, sighing dramatically. then immediately reaches over to squeeze your knee.

“you’re making me work today.” but despite the complaint, he starts the explanation all over again from the beginning.

his arm around your seat

the movie’s been playing for twenty minutes and joão hasn’t watched a second of it.

his arm is stretched lazily along the sofa behind you, fingers brushing your shoulder whenever you move. it’s not possessive, really, it’s just there.

often, you glance over and catch him already looking at you. his lips twitching into a smile before he looks back over to the television as if he’s been paying attention the whole time.

when he’s tired and keeps saying “mhm”

“and then she said she wasn’t even talking about me, which is absolutely ridiculous because—“

“mhm.”

you look over and see joão sprawled across the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. he’s clearly seconds away from falling asleep from a long day at practice, but he’s somehow still listening.

“did you hear anything i just said?”

“yeah”

“okay… what did i say?”

he shifts his arm just enough to peek at you. “something about someone annoying you.” pause. “come here.”

you laugh softly as he makes room for you besides him right away.

taking his time while kissing you

the conversation somehow seems to fade away between one smile and the next.

joão's hand settles against your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek as he leans in closer. there isn’t any rush to it. no impatience, no urgency.

he pauses for a second, eyes flicking down to your lips before meeting your again—giving you every oppourtunity to pull away. but when he finally kisses you, it’s slow and unhurried. smiling against his mouth.

putting on and taking off your heels

“lift your foot, amor.” 

you blink and put your phone down.

joão is already kneeling in front of you, one hand resting on your ankle as he fastens the strap of your heel. 

you laugh and ask what he’s doing, but he just shrugs. “helping.”

the entire time, he keeps looking up at you. not at the shoe, not at the buckle, at you.

later that night when the two of you are back home, he crouches down once again to undo the straps. “better?” he asks quietly while sliding the heels off your feet.

you nod with a soft smile and his grin comes immediately.

“good, meu amor.”

first joão fic and i'm a bit nervous that this is going to flop because of how dead football blr is 🙃 but overall i enjoyed writing this because i love joão so freaking much my dada since 2022 💓 i hope you all enjoy this !

[cnrdfisher]

F* F* M*

lamine yamal x fem!reader smut

warnings: unprotected sex (please use protection IRL!), fingering, creampie, dirty talk, chocking, and a lot of weed/joints. and... idk guys, just read on.

N/A: vasically plotless porn. they can be fwb if you want, or just casual hookups (though nothing about this is very "casual," btw).

synopsis: you and lamine appreciate the best things that life can give: a good weed and good sex

english isn't my first language, so please be kind <3 (fc from pinterest)

Lamine watched you blow out the smoke as your head fell back and you moaned in pleasure. The haze from the joint created a warm, hazy fog between you two. His heavy-lidded, tired eyes never left you, naked, straddling him, moving at your own rhythm, letting out needy, breathy whines like a good slut.

"Lamine..." you whimpered, stretching the joint out to him and looping your arms around his shoulders, picking up the pace as he took a drag. You moved fast, your mouth falling open in a silent moan, eyes almost shut from the pleasure and the weed. He leaned in, his lips almost brushing yours, one hand gripping your hip hard and forcing you to sink even deeper onto him. Then, Lamine blew the smoke right into your mouth. You caught it, inhaled, and immediately kissed him.

Your tongues tangled together with a lazy, familiar hunger. You both knew you had all the time in the world, and riding out the high while he was buried inside you was definitely one of your favorite parts of the week.

Lamine laid back, letting out another cloud of smoke. His hand gripped you tighter, silently begging you not to get off— not that you were planning to — Taking advantage of his position, you grabbed the blunt from his hand, placing your other hand on his face and pressing him down into the mattress. You rode him hard but slow, feeling his cock pulse inside your walls as they clenched tighter around him. Even stoned, you loved seeing him completely at your mercy.

"Fuck, baby..." Yamal groaned, and you pulled your palm away from his face just to laugh at his pleasure-drunk expression. "You were made for me," he declared, and you, grinding even slower now, leaned over to take the joint from his hand, taking a long, deep drag without breaking eye contact.

Lamine with his hair all messed up from your hands and his eyes half-lidded from the weed was your favorite sight. You wanted his cock inside you forever. —maybe that was just the hazy weed thoughts talking. — 

Feeling yourself squirm just thinking about it while staring at his plush lips, you placed the blunt between his lips and braced your hands on his shoulders, starting to bounce up and down rapidly.

"Fuck..." you moaned, all breathy and needy. He brought one hand up to pinch your nipple, while the other slid down to circle your clit. The blunt stayed between his lips, smoke drifting out and almost making him cough, but he didn't care, too focused on your face contorted in pleasure.

You could barely feel your body, floating on cloud nine. Sex with Lamine was always good, but when you were high, it felt even more intimate, just the two of you, vulnerable and alone. Your orgasm hit exactly as one of his hands closed around your throat while the other rubbed fast circles on your clit. You moaned loud, your legs completely giving out and trembling. Lamine groaned at the feeling of you squeezing him, writhing. He came right after you, spilling deep inside. You kept moving on top of him for a bit, whining at the feeling of his fingers still on your throbbing clit and his hand still gripping your throat. Lamine knew that was your biggest kink, getting choked while you came.

"Amor..." you whimpered, practically collapsing on top of him, his half-hard cock still inside you and your clit being tortured. "I can't. It's too much..." you whined, burying your face in his neck.

"I know you can, cariño" he murmured, and you moaned at his voice right by your ear. "Give me one more."

He didn't even need to ask, you were already there, oversensitive from the overstimulation. Your eyes couldn't stay open anymore. Still, you took the joint from his mouth and lifted your head for one last pull of the night. Inhaling the smoke, you held some in your mouth to pass to him, then did just that, moaning against his lips as you came undone again.

After a few minutes of both of you panting and staring intensely at each other, he reached over to stub out the roach in the ashtray, making sure it was out. Then Lamine pulled you off him just to flip your positions.

"Look at you..." he murmured, burying his face in your neck and leaving a bite mark there, then trailing his mouth down to your breasts. "All high and full of me. You wouldn't let anyone else have you like this, would you?"

You couldn't. You and Lamine weren't exclusive, there was no relationship. But moments like this? Totally and completely just for the two of you.

"No..." you whimpered, pulling his curly hair as his tongue teased one of your nipples.

"No?" He lifted his eyes, smirking mischievously against your chest, his kisses trailing down your torso and stopping right before reaching your pussy. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"Fuck..." you moaned, wrapping your legs around him and squeezing tight. "No, I wouldn't, I swear," you whimpered, as his mouth finally started heading toward where you wanted it most.

"You gonna let me eat you out?" he asked, teasing but with a hint of concern underneath, checking if he was going too far.

"Yes..." you arched, feeling his fingers playing at your entrance.

"Shit," he breathed, not taking his eyes off your entrance. "My cum's leaking out, baby. You're dripping." Then, without warning, he dragged his fingers along your inner thigh before pushing them inside you. The wet sound of his cum, your juices, and his fingers was completely obscene. "I have to keep you full, don't I? You need to remember who you truly belong to."

"I..." you whimpered, squeezing your legs around his shoulders, forcing your eyes open just to see him completely fascinated by the sight of his fingers pushing his release back inside you. "I don't forget, I swear."

"Yeah?" He smirked, stopping his movements and pulling his fingers out with a wet pop. You didn't know whether to feel relieved the torture was over or whine at the loss of his fingers and his dirty words against your pussy. "Do you think about me when you're with other guys?" he teased, sticking out his tongue and licking a broad stripe up your slit. You moaned loud, feeling like you couldn't take another second.

"Yes. Yes, fuck, yes." Writhing completely, you came undone again as he wrapped his lips around your clit. Smiling, the boy licked you clean before pulling back. You could see how hard he still was just from touching you when he lay down on top of you, pulling you into his chest.

"You were so good," he whispered, caressing your thighs. "So good for me." He hooked his fingers under your chin, lifting your head to look into his eyes.

You were completely wrecked, hair tousled, lips swollen and slightly parted, eyes heavy-lidded, your whole body marked and limp. Wrecked by him. He smiled at that.

"Are you going to give me a bath?" you asked in a whisper, even though you already knew the answer. Lamine always bathed you after sex.

"Of course, corazón," he purred, burying his nose in your neck. You felt him get even harder when he sniffed, inhaling your perfume mixed with sweat and the smell of sex. "I'll order us some food before the munchies kill us, and then we'll head to the shower, okay?"

"Okay," you smiled, struggling to keep your eyes open. "You're still hard," you commented in a whisper, looking up at him from under your lashes.

"I'm always hard around you," he replied so naturally that your mouth dropped open in shock before you burst out laughing and lightly slapped his chest.

[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

masterlist✿

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! 🪷

[andy-15-07]

Soft Launch

Pairing: Pedri Gonzalez x Reader

Word Count: 1221

Request open!

Pedri’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling through his phone with a grin that can only mean trouble.

You lean over the back of the sofa, towel still wrapped around your wet hair.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he says way too fast. His thumb flicks across the screen. “Just posted a picture.”

You narrow your eyes. “Pedri. What picture?”

He turns the screen toward you, all innocent. It’s a photo of his breakfast spread , pancakes, orange juice, and two mugs of coffee.

Your mug. The pink one with the little chipped heart.

“Pedri!” you gasp. “That’s mine! People will notice!”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “So? Maybe I just drink two coffees now. I’m a growing boy.”

You groan and toss your towel at him. “You’re impossible. You promised we’d keep things private.”

He catches the towel mid-air, smirking. “Private, yes. Secret, no. There’s a difference.”

“There’s not a difference when your fans have CSI-level detective skills,” you retort, grabbing your phone. “Wait,oh my god. They’re already talking about it.”

You scroll through Twitter , or, as Pedri calls it, the battlefield.

@pedrilover97: “two mugs?? who’s he having breakfast with 😭😭😭”

@barcagirlx: “that’s definitely a GIRL mug. I recognize the nail polish color from his story last week 👀”

@footballtea: “he’s SOFT LAUNCHING someone I just know it.”

You look up, half horrified, half laughing. “You’re trending again. #PedriSoftLaunch.”

Pedri’s grin widens. “#PedriSoftLaunch? That’s actually a great tag.”

“Don’t encourage them!” you say, swatting his arm.

He leans back, smug and far too calm for someone who’s just sent half the internet into a frenzy. “You have to admit, it’s funny.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Maybe,” he says, biting back a smile. “A little.”

That evening, you find him on the balcony, wearing one of his Barça hoodies and scrolling through fan edits of his own posts.

“They made a whole thread analyzing your kitchen tiles,” you say, holding up your phone.

He laughs. “My kitchen tiles?”

You nod gravely. “Someone zoomed in and matched them to a photo you took last summer. They know everything, Pedri.”

“That’s impressive, actually.” He scrolls again, face glowing from the screen. “Wait,this one says you’re secretly a chef. I like that one.”

“I’m a psychology major, not Gordon Ramsay!”

“Eh,” he says, waving you off. “Close enough. You’ve psychoanalyzed me while I eat your cooking. That’s balance.”

You cross your arms. “You’re impossible.”

Pedri looks up, grin softening. “But you love me.”

You sigh, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Unfortunately.”

He laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple. “Come here, mystery girl.”

The next day, the soft-launching gets worse.

You wake up to another Pedri post , a blurry mirror selfie of him in the hallway. Your reflection is barely visible behind him, holding your phone.

“PEDRI!” you yell from the kitchen.

He yells back, “What? I blurred it!”

You storm into the room, waving your phone. “I can still see my silhouette!”

He peers at the screen. “That could be anyone.”

“It’s me! I’m literally wearing your hoodie!”

He grins, completely unrepentant. “Good. Now they’ll think I have great taste.”

You throw a pillow at his head. “Stop being cute when I’m trying to be mad at you!”

He catches it, laughing. “Sorry, amor. Can’t help it.”

You flop down beside him with a dramatic sigh. “You’re going to break the internet at this rate.”

“That’s fine,” he says, sliding an arm around your shoulders. “As long as they don’t find you.”

You snort. “They already have a spreadsheet of possible candidates. I saw someone saying I’m a makeup artist from Madrid.”

Pedri grins. “Well, you do my eyebrows sometimes.”

“That doesn’t count!”

He shrugs, pulling you closer. “I like keeping them guessing.”

By midweek, the fandom’s gone feral.

People are analyzing his playlists, your nail polish, the background furniture , even the way his smile looks “happier lately.”

You both spend the evening doomscrolling and laughing on the couch.

“Listen to this one,” you say between giggles. “‘The mystery girl has small hands based on reflection physics, probably around 5’3”’.”

Pedri laughs so hard he nearly drops his phone. “Reflection physics? No way.”

“Oh, there’s more. Another one says you’ve been soft-launching for seven months based on the presence of a second toothbrush in your bathroom.”

He wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “They’re not wrong, though.”

You blink at him. “Wait, are you admitting it?”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I like having my girl’s toothbrush next to mine.”

You groan. “Stop being sweet when I’m trying to yell at you!”

He grins, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Can’t help it.”

But things take a turn when you make a mistake.

It’s late , you’re curled up on the couch in Pedri’s jersey, watching highlights from the last match. You post a quick Instagram story: your legs on the couch, the TV showing Pedri’s goal, and his hoodie draped on the armrest. You don’t even think about it.

Thirty seconds later, your phone explodes.

DMs. Mentions. Notifications.

@barcafangirl: “THE JERSEY. THAT’S PEDRI’S JERSEY. SAME NUMBER. SAME ROOM.”

@pedrilover97: “the couch matches his last pic 😭😭😭”

@footballtea: “SHE SLIPPED. SHE POSTED. CONFIRMED.”

“Oh. My. God.” you whisper, watching it all unfold. “I just soft launched myself.”

Pedri walks in from the kitchen, bowl of cereal in hand. “What happened?”

You look up at him, horrified. “I think I just… hard-launched our relationship.”

He sets the bowl down, eyes widening. “You what?”

“Look!” you shove the phone at him. “They found me! It’s everywhere already!”

Pedri scrolls through the chaos, then bursts out laughing. “You lasted longer than I thought, cariño.”

“This isn’t funny!”

He grins, utterly calm. “It’s kind of funny.”

“Pedri!”

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “What do you want to do?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Delete everything. Move to Antarctica. Change my name.”

He chuckles, tugging your hands away gently. “Or… we could just post a photo.”

You blink. “A real one?”

He nods, smiling softly. “Might as well. You look too pretty to hide.”

Your heart stutters. “You’re serious?”

“Completely.” He scrolls to the camera app, flips it to selfie mode, and pulls you close. “Come here, mystery girl.”

You laugh, cheeks warm, leaning into him. “You’re going to cause chaos.”

“Good chaos,” he says, snapping the photo , both of you smiling, cozy and unfiltered.

Within minutes, he posts it.

Caption: No more soft launch 💙.

Your phone explodes instantly. Comments flood in.

@barcagirlx: “I KNEW IT! SHE’S SO PRETTY 😭”

@footballtea: “soft launch era is over 🫶”

@pedrilover97: “they look so happy together 🥹”

You read a few aloud and glance at Pedri, who’s scrolling too.

He looks up, eyes warm and shining. “See? Not so bad.”

You smile. “You’re right.”

He grins. “I usually am.”

You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully. “Don’t push it.”

He laughs, pulling you closer until your head rests on his shoulder. “For the record,” he murmurs, “I liked the soft launch. But I like this better.”

You look up at him, smiling softly. “Yeah. Me too.”

He tilts his head, lips brushing your forehead. “Told you. Private, not secret.”

You chuckle, closing your eyes. “Whatever you say, influencer.”

He laughs quietly. “Only if you’re my favorite post.”

[wlflia]

𝓖anhou, né?

⭑ lamine yamal x fem! reader.

࿔. 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 : blowjob, relacionamento estabelecido, um pouco de hiperestimulação (quase nada), yamal namoradinho sedento, yamal big!dick, reader putinha (de lei), spit kink e acho que só.

࿔. 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 : não me perguntem nada sobre isso, pois eu apenas pensei com a xota. apenas leiam. (escrevi isso em literalmente 30 min por conta disso aqui

©𝘸𝘭𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘢. 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘰𝘴 𝘰𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘰𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘴.

𝄞 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 — party funk - young madz.

— Isso, amor… — a voz rouquinha de Yamal sussurra, em êxtase. Sua boquinha sobe e desce pela extensão veiúda do loirinho esparramado na poltrona à sua frente.

Não era nem para estarem ali, muito menos com você com a boquinha cheia da pica dele até o talo, mas Lamine não resistiu em comemorar a vitória contra a Argentina somada ao novo título apenas da forma convencional. Foi o tempo de ele bater o olho em você, toda lindinha, com uma saia minúscula e a camiseta da seleção espanhola com o nome dele estampado nas costas, para que o pau endurecesse como nunca.

Não deu outra, a arrastou para o próprio projeto de camarim que tinham arquitetado para toda a seleção antes da grande festa que rolaria, e a fez cair de boca. Ah, que namorada ruim seria você se negasse uma mamadinha para o seu campeão, hm? Ele estava merecendo, poxa. No momento em que se viram sozinhos, fez questão de o sentar, não antes de abaixar o short soltinho junto da cueca de marca e se ajoelhar entre as pernas dele, deixando a rola grossa bem à frente de seu rostinho.

Abocanhou com gula, cheia de fome. Começou devagarinho, abrigando cada centímetro ao passo que a língua rodeava a extensão. Sua mãozinha de unhas bem feitas se encarrega de masturbar o restante da extensão que não cabia na sua boca, mesmo que já estivesse muito dentro da cavidade quentinha. Porra, ele era tão grande, grosso… Dava um trabalho tão gostoso para sua gargantinha de puta.

Geme manhosinha junto a ele contra o comprimento, os olhinhos aguados mirando o rosto de cenho franzido, que vez ou outra era jogado contra o encosto do estofado rubro, deixando o pomo de adão marcado à vista para você, dando mais gás para sua mentezinha burra de tesão.

— Bora, Yamal, ‘tão chamando a gente lá em cima, irmão… — a voz rouquinha de Nico Williams ecoa abafada atrás da porta, o baque surto de batidas sendo deixadas contra a madeira soando dentro do cômodo.

Você solta a extensão por um instante, porém mantém a mãozinha a punhetando. Aperta a cabecinha arroxeada entre o indicador e o anelar para em seguida despejar um filete de saliva sobre o topo, observando o abdômen trincado do namorado contrair ao você abrigar a cabecinha inchada da pica vigorosa.

— Responde, amor… — a voz manhosa, cheia de dengo, pede, provocando Yamal, esse que solta um riso baixo com a sua audácia. Não passava de uma putinha sem vergonha e safada para um caralho. Ele sempre ficava desacreditado no quanto sua mente podia ser perversa, superando até mesmo a dele. Eram insaciáveis juntos, por isso davam tão certo. “Anda…” Deixa um beijinho no topo. “Ou quer que ele saiba que você não aguentou e pediu 'pra sua namoradinha te mamar, hm?”

— Filha da puta! — ele exclama, baixo e rouco, o cacete grosso dando pequenas guinadas em sua palma. “Já vou!” Puxa o ar entre os dentes ao você engolir o comprimento de novo. “Sobe lá que eu ‘tô indo…” Finaliza, o tom recheado de volúpia, deixando evidente o que ocorria dentro da sala.

— Seu puto, ‘tá fudendo, né? — Nico solta entre risos. “Falô, boa foda aí.” Termina, mas não é como se estivessem prestando atenção em qualquer palavra dita pelo garoto do outro lado da porta, visto que sua gargantinha já tinha se encarregado de o engolir todinho novamente. A mão grande se prende nos seus fios, apenas os segurando para não atrapalhar seus movimentos lânguidos. Seus olhinhos pidões se voltam para ele; o olhar aguadinho beiraria a inocência, se não houvesse a contradição do seu sorrisinho de vagabunda plantado nos lábios vermelhos, recheados de pica.

— Caralho, princesa. — O escuta proferir entre dentes. Geme mais uma vez junto a ele, arrastadinho, observa o abdômen trincado contrair e sente o pau teso guinar em sua cavidade, fazendo-a fechar os olhinhos e rir manhosinha quando uma sequência de gemidos roucos escapam dos lábios volumosos de Lamine, prontamente sentindo toda a porra quentinha ser despejada em abundância em sua garganta no momento seguinte, a gala grumosa pintando cada cantinho onde estava alojado.

Você respira fundo ao soltar a extensão, o fiozinho de saliva mantendo a extensão conectada à sua boquinha. Sua bucetinha molha mais um pouquinho ao observar o namorado, a barra da camiseta de time entre os dentes, deixando o abdômen completamente trabalhado exposto para você. Estava tão concentrada na sua missão de o engolir que nem ao menos percebeu o momento de puro delírio do namorado para segurar os próprios gemidos. Ah, como queria apenas subir naquelas coxas imensas e sentar como a vadia desesperada que era, mas infelizmente sabia que não tinham tempo para isso.

— Anda, grandão… — estala mais um beijinho no topo meio purpureado antes de se levantar, apoiando as mãozinhas nos joelhos espaçados de Yamal. Inclina o tronco sobre o corpo esparramadinho e ainda ofegante do namorado, segurando o queixo dele entre o indicador e o anelar para então grudar os lábios num selinho demorado, manhosinho e completamente sujo, sussurrando rente à boquinha: “Sua festa acabou de começar, amor…”

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⭑ MASTERLIST