Saluttt I know that you have exams now and I wish you very good luck!! But can you write something for camavinga whenever you’re free pleasee because your writing is amazinggg j’adoreeee🫶
RED CARD;
⤷ ゛masterlist ˎˊ˗
eduardo camavinga x f!reader.
dating.
note: thanks for ur req! hope u like this one too <33
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: he got a red card during the ucl quarter-final against bayern and you console him.
by the time he gets home, he barely says a word.
he drops onto the edge of the bed still wearing his hoodie, elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the floor.
you saw his face during the match, the expression he gets when guilt starts eating him alive.
you sit beside him.
“it’s my fault.”
your heart hurts immediately.
“edu–”
“don’t,” he mutters quietly. “don’t say it’s not.”
his voice sounds awful, small and angry at himself. he rubs both hands over his face before leaning forward more.
“i killed the game.”
“you didn’t kill the game.”
“i got sent off.”
“that doesn’t mean–”
“we lost because of me.”
the way he says it makes your chest ache. he was completely convinced and serious.
slowly, his eyes lift toward yours and god he looks devastated.
“football is not one moment,” you say softly.
“easy to say when you’re not the one getting a red card in a champions league quarter-final.”
you stay quiet for a second and carefully take one of his hands away from his face.
“you think the whole team lost because of one mistake?”
“it changed everything.”
“maybe,” you admit softly. “but football’s bigger than one moment.”
his jaw tightens immediately again because part of him knows you’re trying to help but another part is replaying the red card over and over in his head.
you move closer carefully until your knees touch his.
“do you know what i saw tonight?” you ask quietly.
he looks away again.
“a player who cares so much he’s sitting here blaming himself for an entire team loss.”
“that’s not a good thing.”
“it means you love football.”
“i let everyone down.”
your hand moves gently to his face then, thumb brushing softly along his cheek. “you could never let everyone down.”
it almost breaks him, you see it instantly in the way his expression crumbles afterward like he’s been holding himself together since the final whistle and your softness is making it harder.
“i hate this feeling,” he whispers.
you move immediately, wrapping your arms around him fully.
for one second he stays stiff then he folds into you completely, arms tightening around your waist, face buried against your shoulder and holding onto you hard.
“they’re gonna destroy me online,” he mutters eventually.
“don’t read it.”
“impossible.”
“eduardo.”
“i just wanted to help us win.”
“i know.”
“i’m sorry.”
you pull back just enough to look at him.
“why are you apologizing to me?”
“because you had to watch that.”
you stare at him softly for a second before kissing his forehead gently.
“baby,” you whisper, “i’d watch you lose a thousand games if it meant being beside you after.”
it's been a while again, but jude smut coming soon. meanwhile, enjoy this small, short fluff i made for camavinga. he deserves more appreciation.
beabadoobee · Loveworm · Song · 2019
“Cama—” she said between laughters. “Could you please stop?”
Camavinga was hitting her with a pillow, gently, of course, because he would never hurt his best friend. They had known each other for so long and despite her many attempts to annoy him, he wouldn’t fight back. He never did. He didn’t know why.
That day, Eduardo was trying skating with her. For a footballer, he had a terrible balance. While she mocked his attempt of a performance, he fell and scratched his knee. He complained like it was the end of his career.
Between a mix of a huff and a laughter, she took him to her place — they weren’t far away, after all, since it was her skate.
“When you said you had band-aids,” he said while still hitting her with the pillow. “I didn’t think it would be Hello Kitty ones! It ruins all my stylish reputation! What do you think I look like with these?” he asked, stopping for a moment to point to his wounded knee.
Eduardo was being overly dramatic, and he knew it. It was how their dynamic worked, and he wouldn’t change it for anything in the world
“A princess?” she attempted, trying to hold her laughter.
“You’re so—” Camavinga had given up on hitting her with the pillow and threw himself on her bed.
She could get under her skin so easily, but that was due to how much she knew him. He was sure that, at this point, they could become one. If he was blind, he could find her by the scent of her hair. And, if he couldn’t smell, Eduardo would still know her from her simple touch of her hand or by touching the strands of her hair.
Was that an appropriate thought? He had to get rid of it.
“What? Beautiful? Smart? The sweetest girl in town?” She teased him.
Maybe she was all of that. Maybe even a bit more. But it was a thought he didn’t dare to cross.
“Annoying is more suitable.” He rolled his eyes.
“My Hello Kitty princess.” She teased him and pinched his sides, making him slightly flinch and huff.
“Fine. Have your field day with your stupid band-aids. I’m going to change them when I get home.” He replied, gruff.
He wouldn’t, not at all. Not when she kneeled in front of him and made sure to take care of him. No matter how silly the band-aid was, he wouldn’t change it.
Did that mean something?
No, he couldn’t think about it. Not about his friend. Much less in her bed.
Eduardo Camavinga was a lot of things. A famous footballer, a Real Madrid player, a charmer, a funny guy. But, in his mind, above all, he was her best friend; the thought terrified him just as much as it thrilled him. He couldn’t stop thinking of her gentle touch against his skin, worried about a mere scratch on his knee that he had made a big deal of.
“Edu?” She asked, the nickname only she was allowed to use. No one else called him that. “You’re spacing out, my dear.”
They were having milkshakes while sitting on a bench at her favorite park. Slowly, Eduardo was starting to realize the number of things he did or places he went because she was happy with it, and how he learnt to love it out of her happiness.
But he couldn’t think about that. Not about her, right?
Although, he had to admit, it was pretty damn hard to not think like that when she called him my dear. He stretched his free arm, with his yellow letter jacket, and put it behind her. A common gesture.
“I was just thinking about football.” Easy escape. Camavinga could get rid of almost anything if he said it was about football. No one dared to say otherwise.
Except her, of course, because she had to be an exception for every damn thing in his life. She knew him too much. Maybe he was going mad.
“You’re a terrible liar.” She said and took a sip of her milkshake as if what she had said was nothing.
“Excuse me?” He said, almost offended. She could see right through him.
“You do this thing when you’re lying that you crease your eyebrows and look away. Like when you said you wouldn’t buy anything expensive for my birthday.” She explained.
“You think you’re so clever.” Eduardo rolled his eyes. She wasn’t wrong. “You’re not the only one who pays attention, you know?”
“Oh, yeah?” She looked at him, defiant.
“Yeah. For example—” He leaned close to her. If he was truly observant, he would’ve realized the look in her eyes. How her pupils dilated or the way her breath hitched; how she looked from his mouth to his eyes. “The strands of your hair are tucked behind your ear, and you never do that. Besides, you ordered a cappuccino milkshake when you only drink matcha. Doesn’t sound much like you, does it?”
She bit her bottom lip. She never would have thought he paid that much attention to her.
“First of all, matcha is heavenly. Second, can’t a girl try new stuff?” She argued.
“Sure, Hello Kitty.” He replied with a smirk, going back to appreciate the trees nearby.
“I think I more a My Melody girl.” She said, squinting her eyes, as if she was truly in deep thought about the subject. He just rolled his eyes.
“You’re annoying.” He retorted, holding back a smile. He wouldn’t change a thing about her.
They were both drunk in her room, sitting on her couch while the movie they were watching ended. They had too much of a mixture of apple cider with alcoholic drinks. Didn’t taste perfect, but they just wanted to get wasted. It was their way to relax during a Saturday night.
“You know,” Camavinga looked at her, his tone slurred. “I really like your hair. It’s so pretty and soft and—”
“I really like your mouth.” She interrupted him, not even processing what she was saying. He felt his heartbeat slightly faster, because, at the same time it could mean nothing, it could mean something. “They’re so full and look so soft, perfect to—”
She stopped mid-sentence. She couldn’t say what she wanted to say.
Camavinga leaned closer to her. It was past midnight, and he didn’t give a damn about anything else at that moment but her. She leaned right back, to his surprise.
“Perfect to what?” he asked in a whisper, as if it was another one of their secrets. Something forbidden to say.
“To kiss.” she finally replied, her voice barely audible.
And that was his doom. He couldn’t take it any longer, and he was tired of keeping his thoughts and feelings away.
He leaned closer, inches away from her mouth, closing his eyes as he tried to get courage to do what he had been wanting to for a long time. But, to his surprise, she kissed him. Her soft hands between his jaw and the back of his ear as his hands traveled to her perfect hair. Time stopped for a moment; their minds dizzy from the gentleness of the kiss. It was as if they were testing waters, to evaluate if that was forbidden or not.
It certainly didn’t taste forbidden.
“You taste like apple cider.” She whispered softly against his lips once they pulled away, looking for some air.
“So do you.” He chuckled softly.
“Even if we’re just friends,” she whispered. “We could be more than that, right?”
calling it fine ────── it's the euros, and eduardo is frustrated.
♡ ────── pairing : eduardo camavinga x reader
♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. pre-established, long distance relationship with cama. hurt/comfort. talking over the phone. i don't know abt football management ok dont come at me pls. mbappé mentioned.
♡ ────── wordcount : 389
♡ ────── notes : MORE LIKE I'M FRUSTRATED!! PUT HIM ON THE PITCH!!! wrote this short piece bc i miss him... <//3 the title of this one-shot is from camden by gracie abrams, but it's not based on the song ♡ masterlist.
“Hi, baby.”
Tournaments are sensitive times—the day before, the hour before, the hour after, the day after. Relationships are all about self-control and being in charge of one’s pride; making do with what you have. And during these times, you have learnt to lower your ego more than anything else.
You have your episodes, and he has his. It’s a give and take compromise; no one is keeping count.
Eduardo breathes to the speaker on your ears, and you imagine him in a quiet changing room, or down in his accommodation, eyes closed.
“Hey,” he finally whispers back, “I’ve missed you.”
“You more,” you echo, and he chuckles against his mic.
“I’m sorry this is taking so long,” he sighs, and you hear some muffling sound on the other end of the line—you picture him shaking his own head, “I just wanna go back home to you.”
“Come on, baby,” you try to sound uplifting yet tender, though you smile at how endearing he sounded. “You were so excited—another year at the Euros, remember? Crushing the other team’s, one goal at a time?”
“Sorry,” he apologises again, “the game against Netherlands… it was just irritating… I don’t know.”
“Hey hey,” the quivering in his voice breaks your heart, and you can feel your own lips tremble, hearing as he becomes more vulnerable. “It’s fine. Take deep breaths, alright? It’s normal to be frustrated.”
“Right,” he says, sounding like he is trying to calm himself down more than he is agreeing with you. “I just wish I could do something about it, you know?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “How’s the rest of the team?”
“More or less, the way I am,” he laughs quietly, “Kylian took it the hardest. He wanted to play.”
Eduardo pauses for a second—you wonder what kind of expression he is making right now—and exhales.
“I wanted to play too.”
“I know, I know,” your voice remains gentle. “What’s the plan for Tuesday?”
“They’re putting me in,” He sighs, “I hope.”
“They are,” you try to encourage him. “I can’t wait to see you, baby… through my TV screen.”
Eduardo laughs, “You’re always watching, huh?”
Hearing that hint of happiness in his voice, you release a smile—chest aching at how much you miss him, cheeks hurting at the wide stretch of your face muscles.
guessing every gaze ────── you are tending his wounds.
♡ ────── pairing : eduardo camavinga x reader
♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. college!au. reader and eduardo are best friends, they both want something more. eduardo got into a fight; wound descriptions
♡ ────── wordcount : 1,695
♡ ────── notes : i love writing college au's bc surprise surprise: im a college student. i do really be writing whatever the fuck i want. hope u enjoy this hehe im all giggly writing this. title from niki's urs! ♡ masterlist.
“How did you get in?”
You drop your bag—binder of worksheets and laptop and all—along with your jaw as you stare at Eduardo, obviously in pain, clutching on his stomach, groaning on your bed. Getting home from the first class of the semester, you had absolutely not expected Eduardo to magically appear in your dorm room.
“A little empathy wouldn’t hurt,” he glares at you, not doing much to hide the gash under his eyes, or the bruising on his neck, or whatever the fuck is going on with his bottom lips.
Your eyes wander to his hand—knuckles—and see the dry blood chipping on it.
“I’m fucking beat, couldn’t possibly go home like this, huh? Ma’s gonna give me another round of bruising if she sees me like this.”
You scoff, quickly slamming the door behind you you bend down to grab your bag, repeating you initial question: “How the fuck did you get in?”
“The window,” he finally answers with a grunt, rolling his eyes as if it was the obvious answer.
“This is the second floor,” you lock the door behind you, furrowing your eyebrow.
“I climbed,” he shrugs.
“Like that?!” You gesture vaguely at all the wounds you see—and don’t—throwing your arms around. “How did no one see you climbing the fucking walls?”
“Does it matter?” He whines.
“Yes!” You couldn’t sound more exasperated. “My roommate can be back any second now, you know.”
“You know they got a warmer back to return to,” Eduardo flicks his wrist, dusting your worries away. His eyes wander to your nightstand and at you, holding out his hand to beckon you to come over. “C’mere, give me a kiss.”
“A kiss?” It’s your turn to whine as you approach him, your bed dipping under your knee. Your hand finds it to trace its finger over his eyebrows, and a gash on his cheeks. He flinches. “Dear lord, you look terrible.”
“I’ll live,” he snickers, staying still like moving too much would scare you away. “Won the fight, no doubt.”
“It’s those fucking football betting group again, isn’t it?”
“Mhm,” he closes his eyes, like he is enjoying the way you are caressing his wounds. “Maybe it is. Where’s my kiss?”
He opens his eyes, and meets yours, waiting for his little kiss. After a fight, you would think that being kissed is the least of his priorities, but the way his gaze softens the moment you run your knuckles along his jaw tells you that he wants that kiss.
“I need a distraction,” he explains, even if you had not asked him for any, “from the pain.”
Your lips form a pout, “I’m not kissing you.”
The line between friends and not-friends grows to blur as the days continue to pass—he would find you whenever he gets into another one of his stupid fights, and it’s easy for you to say that both Eduardo and you wants something more out of your relationship, but it really is not that simple, is it, in the grander scheme of things?
Eduardo groans, raising one of his hands to gently grip your forearm. “Aw come on, don’t be like that. I could really use a kiss right now, I’m all beat up. Plus, I know you want to.”
He wiggles his eyebrows, though you can see how his muscles shift under his t-shirt, trying to hide his pain. You giggle, finally cupping his jaws in your hand.
You like where you are right now, this little desperation in his voice, the thrill you get from fucking around in ways you should not.
And despite the bruises and cuts on his lips, he cracks open a smile—more adorable than anything you have ever seen. “I might not make it through the night,” he raises an eyebrow, drawing out another laugh from your lips, “If you don’t kiss me, you might be responsible for my death. Don’t want that now, don’t you?”
“Urgh,” you roll your eyes, looking away as he unhands your forearm and instead moves to the small of your back, wrapping his arm around your waist. You trace your fingers against his skin anyway. “Friends shouldn’t really be kissin’ each other and all that, you know?”
You lean in, pressing your noses against each other—and you have got to admit. He may be stringing you along, but you are playing into his game too. You like it, though, and who’s to say that he doesn’t?
“We aren’t really friends, though?” Eduardo murmurs, his gaze deep into your eyes before darting down to your lips. He leans up, slowly bridging the gap between your lips, and lets it linger.
It was a soft kiss—a peck, even—and before you can savour any of it, he pulls away. You suck in a deep, sharp breath when you feel his lips gone from yours, your chest burning up, hand still on his face.
“I just need a place to rest for a bit,” he urges quietly, somewhat shy as he looks away, before braving to look you straight in the eyes again with a gentle smile, juxtaposing the wounds on his face. “And maybe shower. Then I’ll get out of your way, I promise.”
“Oh, come on,” you whine, his grip on your waist only growing tighter. “You said it yourself, my roommate’s got a warmer bed to go home to. You can stay.”
Eduardo’s smile grows into a grin, beaming up at you softly. “I’ll be out by the morning.”
He lets go of your waist, and you try to steady the beat of your heart as you stand. “I have morning classes anyway,” you try to sound casual, like you aren’t trying to fight the muscles on your cheeks from breaking a smile. “I’ll find some band-aids.”
“You don’t have to,” Eduardo tries to get up but groans from a hit somewhere in his stomach.
“I want to,” you insist, turning to scour through the wardrobe.
“Mhm.”
Even just looking for bandages, you can feel his eyes drilling holes into the back of your head.
“You’re a good friend,” he says after a moment of silence, and you can’t help but laugh, though you feel your face heating up.
“I try my best,” just as you locate the small, first aid kit, you turn back to him, only to find his head against the headboard of your bed, offering you the best smile he can muster, showing off his teeth.
“You really do,” he rubs the back of his neck, scooting over a little to give you some space as you go to sit next to him, opening up the kit on your nightstand, “I appreciate that.”
You feel like you are swimming in uncharted waters—him so close as you begin to dab disinfectant to the wound on his lips, then on his cheek, then on his eyebrows. He’s been close before, yeah, and he’s kissed you before too. But tonight just feels so intimate.
Maybe it’s his heavy breathing, and occasional grunts when you hit a sensitive gash. Maybe it’s the way his eyes follow each one of your movements, studying you like he wants to write an encyclopaedia about what you are and what you are not.
“What?” You decide to break the silence gently, glancing up to meet his eyes before focusing back on his wounds. You feel your heart racing again.
“I’m waitin’ for you to kiss me again.”
Eduardo stays still, but he clears his throat. His voice is quiet, relaxed, but also serious; like he doesn’t know if he is ready for rejection but is willing to try anyway. You stop for a moment, looking at him again to try to gather what he may be thinking.
“We kissed a while ago,” you remind, after swallowing the spit gathering under your tongue, praying to the good god that he does not notice how flustered you are. You shift your focus from the conversation to getting a bandaid. You carefully peel the back off, and press it on a particularly nasty wound on his jaw, hoping to not hurt him much. “Here we go.”
“That was a peck,” he laughs and you raise an eyebrow. “It doesn’t count.”
“It totally does,” you try arguing back, trying to convince yourself that you don’t need a real kiss.
“Come on,” he tenses, suddenly straightening up his back, his nose next to yours as he keeps his eyes on your lips. “Again? Like you want it the way I want it.”
He is staring at you like he is standing at the edge of something that he knows he won’t be able to climb back from. And before you can respond, Eduardo closes the small space between your lips, pressing his warm lips against yours again. His hand travels to the back of your head, pushing you deeper as sparks ignite at every contact your skin makes.
And you feel like you could drown in how warm he is, how gentle he is, how soft his lips are. You know that it’s risky, what you are doing, but you lean even deeper into him. Your hands cup his face, digging into the kiss, and when he flinches from a cut you accidentally graze, neither of you pull away. Just as the heat rises, just as both your breaths begin to heave, you pull away.
“You taste amazing,” he murmurs, not pushing any further, and instead rests his forehead on yours.
“Stop it,” you murmur, gently pushing his head away. “You’re just being cheesy.”
You try to act like the kiss doesn’t bother you, like it didn’t get you all worked up.
He laughs. “Alright, alright, don’t be like that,” he catches the hand that pushed his head away, pressing a small kiss on the inside of your wrist. “But it’s true.”
You pull your hand away the moment you feel his lips on your skin, embarrassed and shyness convulsing into one in your face.
Eduardo leans back into the headboard, muttering a curse word when he moves a muscle the wrong way, before directing his attention to you. He shoots you a grin.
