#fcb

[danilixouz]

She wanted to leave at her best, she’s said so before. She doesn’t want to be a burden to her club and wants the younger players to get a chance. If her fans can’t understand that then they were never fans in the first place. IMO

[oradblo]

❝ Once a culer, always a culer.❞

Robert Lewandowski

[barcapix]

hiii could you please do the current boyfriend prank that’s on TikTok with Lamine❤️

✮ Current Boyfriend - Lamine Yamal

lamine yamal x fem!reader

sy: trying the viral, ‘current boyfriend’ prank on your bf, lamine.

a/n: hope this did justice ! thanks for requesting 🫶🏼 (moodboard is shite. let’s move swiftly on..)

warnings: just spanish, i think.

per usual, your phone was causally propped up against the limestone shelf below the mirror of your masters bathroom.

purposely, you’d had it on screen-record and video for a while now, so it wouldn’t give away the fact it was recording the soon-to-be prank you were about to deliver to your boyfriend.

lamine, sure he was smart as hell when it comes to football, but common sense-wise?not so much.

lamine has just finished adjusting his golden chain around his neck. “how are you not ready yet?”

“says you who has just finished,” you playfully tease, popping the lid of your lipstick off. “i’ll only be a few seconds.”

he mumbles something incoherent, fidgeting with the blonde strands of his hair. you finish the lipstick addition, sweeping your purse.

“i’m so glad i finally get to go out with you tonight,” you smile sweetly, intertwining your hand with his. “it’s been awhile since ive went to dinner with my current boyfriend.”

lamine nods, then does a double take, his head snapping towards you, that might of just have gave himself whiplash. meanwhile, you’re still gazing at your reflection in the wall-sized mirror.

“wait what? current boyfriend?”

you continue adjusting your hair in the mirror, pretending to be oblivious about the way lamine’s once-bright expression twists into confusion.

he blinks. once. twice. thrice.

“how many do you have!?”

you turn vaguely, offering him a sideways glance. “¿qué?” (what?)

“nada,” lamine tuts, his eyes narrowing as they search your face for any persiflage. “don’t what me. current boyfriend? is there a list or something i should know about?”

you bite the inside of your cheek, merely holding back your laugh bubbling inside your throat. but you manage to stay composed. “there’s no list.”

he tilts his head slightly, suspicious. “..you said that with a little too much confidence for me to believe it.”

you roll your eyes, tapping your foot impatiently. “let’s just go to dinner. we’ll be late otherwise.”

you attempt in starting to move past him, but he casually steps in front of you with a freakishly swift pace.

“al diablo con la cena,” he remarks. “adelante, dilo otra vez.” (screw dinner. go ahead, say that again.)

you glance at him in the mirror. he’s got that lazy frown, brows slightly pulled, arms crossed now, like he’s waiting for an answer that better be a good one.

“say what, baby?”

“that thing,” he says, chin jerking up at your reflection. “about me. say it again.”

you stifle a smile. “what? that i’m glad to go out with my current boyfriend?”

“yeah, that. why’d you say it like that?” he says, tinging possessively, but more so desperately as if that actually stung him.

“look at me when i’m talking to you.”

lamine tepidly curves the angle of your jaw to face him, in which you shrug. “it’s not that deep.”

he takes a step back, eyes scanning your face and jaw slack, as if scanning for hidden answers carved into your skin. “well, it sounds deep! you planning on replacing me or something?”

you chuckle under your breath, flickering between his hazel eyes. “god, you can be so dramatic sometimes, amor. turn that frown upside down.”

you send a roguish smack to his chest, where he stays deadly still. he doesn’t let up, though.

“so i’m just your current boyfriend now?” his tone sharpens, albeit not bitter, just like he’s getting increasingly bothered. “just holding the spot till someone else comes along? someone ugly?”

you sigh. “lamine.”

he looks down to you, arms falling to his sides, and his expression somewhere between annoyed and pouty.

“just say i’m your boyfriend. drop the current.”

you raise an eyebrow. so, this is what jealousy looks like. although after almost four years of dating, jealousy wasn’t a common thing lamine liked to convey.

you can’t deny the smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “are you jealous?”

his cheeks immediately blush with a shade of light crimson like a blush rebellion; the tone of his voice pitches in protest. “jealous? pfffttt. me? never.”

“you aree jealous,” you coo, prolonging the tail of your words as you poke him in the chest. “this is you. jealous. sulky face and everything.”

lamine starts with a fake cough, and both of his hands pressing comically against his inflamed cheeks. “im just saying no other man would know your coffee order like the back of their hand.”

“caramel frappuccino, with a shot of vanilla and chocolate fudge drizzle—extra cream.” he wraps his arm around your waist, deflecting his embarrassment now.

his hands hover above yours, his fingers circling your ring finger like a silent claim. “see?” he gestures, vainly to himself. “no one else would know that.”

you squint at him. “and you say you’re not dramatic, yet you’re spiraling over a sentence.”

lamine huffs, now trailing your spine with his hands. “im spiraling because the sentence made me sound temporary. im not temporary.”

“no? what makes you think that?”

“because if you ever tried replacing me, i’d have to hunt whoever he is and s—”

“okay!” hurriedly, you jump up onto your tiptoes, to kiss his cheek, effectively permitting him to shut up. “it’s a prank! i promise! don’t finish that sentence!”

“a prank?” he scrunches his nose.

you grab your phone from the shelf, and he now, hours later, recognises the red circle at the top of your screen—recording.

lamine immediately groans. “you with tiktok.”

“you’re as much of an addict as i am,” you add, giggling. “are you saying you’ve never seen this trend?”

the spaniard shakes his head, lazily letting his chin drop atop yours. a heavy exhale rakes from his bones, relief washing over him. “no, i’ve seen it. i just didn’t think you’d use me for content and almost give me heart palpitations.”

you usher a breathy laugh. “okay, i’m sorry. i’ll offer to pay for the desserts tonight—as an apology?”

“¿solo los postres?” he faux snorts, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. (just the desserts?)

here comes the pretentious eye roll again. not like hours ago he made it evident that you weren’t to pay a single cent. “bien. yo pagaré.. las bebidas también.” (fine. i’ll pay for.. the drinks too.)

“así está mejor,” he mumbles. though, realistically? he’d backtrack on his words. (that’s more like it/that’s better.)

“soo..” you peer up at him, hands smoothing down his abs. “are you finally happy now?”

“almost.”

lamine steals a kiss from your lips, satisfyingly slow and lingering like he’s trying to brand it in place; sealing his position as your permanent boyfriend.

when he pulls away, his teeth gently nab at your bottom lip, but his voice is weaker, almost smug again.

“now i’m happy.”

🔖🏷️: @n0vazsq @hearzdiarx @paucubarsisimp @diarieeeelils @joaosnovia @httpsdana @universefcb @madamsoulette @mariejuli (lmk if you wanna be added or removed ◡̈)

[madridnoora]

Can you write something about the reader's first time on the field supporting Pedri? I love the way you write💌

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ Pedri - A Public Affair

⋆｡˚Pairing - Pedri x fem!reader

౨ৎ Summary - Pedri and FC Barcalona had just won the copa del rey trophy in Estadio de La Cartuja in Seville, and for the first time you were there to join in on the pitch celebrations.

⋆｡˚Word Count - 1.4k

౨ৎ Warnings - fluff!

⋆｡˚Requests - open :)

a/n - working on The Managers Daughter III this week <3

౨ৎ

3-2. That was the final score. And for the first time you were there for such an occasion. For such a special moment. I mean sure, you had been there for league games and you held them dear to your heart but this, this was different. This was historic. An El Clasico final full of tension, rivalry and pride. The stadium filled with the kind of electricity that made your skin prickle.

You had been seated somewhere near the halfway line, with your scarf wrapped tightly around your neck. Then he had scored in the 28th minute and you jumped to your feet so quickly, with a wail of unfiltered joy.

The entire Barcelona end of the stadium erupted, but in that moment all Pedri thought about was you. His eyes finding yours, and a beaming smile upon his sweat stricken face. He'd scored because his good luck charm was in the audience, under the warm floodlights looking like an angel sent directly from heaven.

After that, it had felt like the longest game of football of your life. Real Madrid were back in it, and then in the lead and it looked like it was going to be them leaving the stadium with a trophy in hand. But Ferran, at the last minute before the final whistle blew, was able to equalise.

Then, in extra time. Minute 116. Barcelona took the lead. The ball slammed into the net and the stadium erupted in disbelief and euphoria. You didn't even see the celebration; you were doubled over in your seat, hands pressed to your face, half laughing, half crying in disbelief.

Then, the final whistle blew and you thought you could relax. But the chaos came.

All anger and temper. And red cards flying. The Real Madrid bench threw stuff on the pitch. And it was a huddled mess of flying limbs but you didn't care. You were watching Pedri and he was watching you. Away from all the mess. Just you and him. Smiling ear to ear. He mouthed 'I love you' and your cheeks flushed, you mouthed it back then bit your lip trying to hide your elation.

Once it had all calmed down, the hard fought trophy was brought out decorated in ribbons of garnet and blue. And the Barcelona players were presented with their medals. And the confetti flew, and after what felt like an age friends and family were allowed on the pitch to celebrate. Alongside all the media that were circling like vultures looking for every photo opportunity.

You walked down the stadiums concrete stairs and Pedri watched, waiting beside the sponsorship boards with the gold medal glinting around his neck. His natural blush that you loved so deeply prominent on his cheeks. He hadn't taken his eyes off you since you began to walk down the stairs. Your hair half clipped back, a trench coat covering your navy and white polka dot minidress and the FC Barcalona scarf thick around your neck. So beautiful, and elegant.

When you finally reached the bottom step, he held out his hand for you to take and you did. Feeling that burn when you touched him. He helped you over the boards and onto the pitch, then wrapped his arm around your shoulder. You grabbed his hand which dangled over, leaning your head into his chest.

"Congratulations, my love" You pressed a kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you bebe" He grinned.

And it's like you're in your own little world. Walking the pitch wrapped in each others arms as the confetti pours and loyal Barcelona fans chant in the stadium still.

The camera's were clicking around you - relentless, hungry. But even as they swarmed, Pedri just pulled you closer. Subtle protectiveness. With one hand he waved to the crowd, and with the other he soothed you.

One of the club staff passed you both briefly and held out the trophy to Pedri.

"You guys want a photo?" He asked, and you grew shy. This was your first time down on the field as a wag. As the star players girlfriend.

"Si." Pedri speaks for you both. He grabs the trophy with his hands, leaving your shoulder bare from his touch.

He hoisted the Copa del Rey with ease, the weight of the silver glinting beneath the stadium lights. The ribbons of garnet and blue swayed gently in the breeze, like the heartbeat of a city. You stood close, barely breathing as he shifted the trophy in one arm and reached for your waist with the other.

“Come here,” he said, voice soft, low enough that only you could hear.

You stepped into him, your body folding into his side like you were always meant to be there. You placed your hand on one of the handles. The metal of the trophy was cool against your skin, but Pedri’s touch was warm. You were anchored in a moment you never thought you’d be part of.

You heard the clicks again. A frenzy of cameras capturing what they had all been waiting for. Some, however, were just the team photographers capturing the moment so that they could send the photos to Pedri in the morning.

Pedri looked down at you, lips twitching into a grin that held more pride than the medal around his neck. “Smile,” he whispered, and you did. With flushed cheeks of rose, you smiled for the camera. You were happier than you had ever been. In this moment, with him by your side. You felt as though you were infinite. Like nothing could ever come between you and Pedri.

When the camera lowered, Pedri leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. Not for show. Not for the press. Just for you.

"I want one of just you" He said, and you looked at him with furrowed brows. Confused.

"You want one of me and the trophy?" You asked like you hadn't heard him correctly.

"Si!" He said, pulling his phone from his pocket and opening up the camera app.

You blinked at him, still stunned by the request, your hands brushing nervously down the front of your dress. “Pedri, I’m not—this is your moment,” you said softly, half-laughing, half-protesting.

But he just shook his head with that boyish grin you adored. “It’s our moment. Now pose,” he said, stepping back a few feet, phone poised like a seasoned photographer.

You hesitated, glancing down at the massive silver trophy in your hands. It was heavier than it looked. You looked up at him one more time, still uncertain, and he gave you that look. The one that always made your knees a little weaker. The one that told you to trust him.

So you stood there, shy and glowing, with the stadium behind you and confetti still drifting down like snow in spring. You wrapped your fingers tighter around the handles of the trophy, holding it at your waist, then glanced into the lens of his phone.

“Perfect,” he said under his breath.

The photo was taken, and you immediately stepped forward to see it. He didn’t let you.

“Wait,” he said, tapping the screen. “Sending it to myself first, in case you make me delete it.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing now. “You’re being ridiculous.”

You handed the trophy over to another player, and their family. Letting them experience the same moment you just had while Pedri fiddled with his phone. Once he was done, he pulled you in again with no care about who was watching. He kissed you full on the lips, soft but unyielding. The kind of kiss that makes time slow down and hearts race.

When you got home that night, you realised what he had been doing on his phone back on the pitch. He had been posting the photo of you and the trophy with a simple caption of a love heart.

Because that was all that needed to be said.

Love.

౨ৎ

[messfcbi]

visca barça 💙❤️

[hachenege]

Good and calm morning to all of us 💙❤️🕯️🕯️🕯️🕯️

[narrie]

un dia de partit

[listening505]

Dating Pau Cubarsí [headcanon]

a/n: yeah, I was gone for months, but I wrote this while watching the Barca game last week so felt an urge to post this so here we go. I also have no idea what happened to my master-list, but you can request anything if you want:) I think I need to post a new master list and everything… anyways here you go

Pau slips little handwritten notes into your books and jacket pockets—each one a tiny “just because” reminding you how much he adores you, whether it’s a doodle of your favorite flower or a sweet nickname he’s been practicing.

During quiet moments, his fingertips softly brush stray hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear with a smile that says you’re perfect just the way you are.

After evening training sessions, he always makes you hot chocolate, stirring in extra marshmallows and proudly bringing it to you while you cozy up in his jacket. When you say to him, you feel like you should be the one making him the hot chocolate, he refuses and say you always need to be treated like the princess you are. Making you blush

Midnight cravings never stand a chance; he knows your comfort foods by heart and surprises you with little deliveries, lighting up when he sees your sleepy, happy face.

Getting ready for bed feels extra special when he hums your favorite lullabies, his voice low and soothing, turning even the most restless nights into peaceful dreams.

Watching TV together usually ends with soft butterfly kisses along your collarbone, his playful affection pulling giggles from you that make his heart feel so full.

Holding your hand becomes second nature—his thumb tracing tiny circles against your skin, quietly reminding you that he’s always there.

Late at night, when the world feels extra soft, he whispers “I love you” in your native language, after practicing it over and over until he gets it just right.

After a long day, spontaneous foot massages become his specialty, his strong hands easing away any tension while you melt into the moment.

On chilly evening walks, he gently drapes his scarf around your shoulders, pulling you close as he tells little stories from his childhood in Girona, his voice mixing with the crisp air.

Baking sessions turn into mini adventures, with flour flying everywhere and laughter filling the kitchen—his favorite part is always sneaking little tastes of cookie dough with a shy grin.

Sometimes he leaves his favorite hoodie on your chair before leaving for training, knowing you’ll smile when you find it and feel just a little closer to him.

Before every match, he shyly asks you to be his “lucky charm”, cupping your cheeks and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Reading the same book you’re reading quickly becomes one of his sweetest habits; he loves highlighting quotes just so he can say, “this part made me think of you.”

He picks out matching keychains one day, grinning when he finds two puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly.

Lazy afternoons mean soft touches—tracing invisible little hearts on your back as you lie together, his hand moving slowly and absentmindedly.

Braiding your hair, even when he’s absolutely terrible at it, becomes something of a tradition; every messy braid makes him beam like he’s created a masterpiece.

Meeting your family for the first time makes him adorably nervous, but his warm smile and kindness win them over faster than he could have ever hoped.

Flowers find their way to you all the time—sometimes from a shop, sometimes plucked from a garden or park—always with a bashful "this one looked like you."

His phone hides a little secret: an album filled with photos of you, candid and beautiful, each one capturing the way you make his world feel brighter.

No matter how small your bag is, he insists on carrying it, teasing that since you already carry his heart, it’s only fair he carries something of yours too.

Falling asleep on the couch leads to waking up cocooned in a warm blanket, your forehead kissed so gently it feels like a dream.

Tiny hearts and your initials decorate the corners of his notes and notebooks—little secret declarations he doesn’t even realize he’s making anymore.

After important matches, he loves wrapping his jersey around your shoulders, even if you are proudly wearing it to the matches, pride shining in his eyes because you’re always his biggest victory.

When he talks about the future, it’s all soft smiles and quiet promises—a cozy house, a small garden, endless sunsets, and a life filled with shared dreams.

If your name isn’t Spanish or has a tricky pronunciation, he makes sure to learn it perfectly—repeating it to himself until he gets every sound just right. Whenever someone else mispronounces it, he gently corrects them with a smile, proud to say your name exactly the way it deserves to be said.