I read your last fin about ferran and i loved it.
He was in a podcast a few years ago and he talked about how he overcame that tough time he went through when he started at Barça
You could write a little argument they had when they were still friends. The reader wants Ferran to see that his bad habits are damaging his career but he gets mad when she tells him. Maybe they get mad at each other and they stop talking for a bit, but then Ferran realizes that she is the one that has helped him through the whole process and tries to make it up to her. A few months later he asks her to be his girlfriend.
Idk if you like it but I’ll just leave it here, thanks!
A/N: Took me a while to write but thanks for this perfect request. It took everything in me not to cry while writing this part of the fic. I am so fucking glad ferri was able to overcome that though time he collapsed in. He deserves every bit of recognition.
Summary: Ferran doesn’t realise how much his habits drive not only him but his loved ones insane. Too stubborn to admit he’s in a bad place he hurts not only himself but you aswell, shutting you out completely before realising he has lost the one person he has ever loved the most.
Angst, Smut, Fluff the ultimate combination
Word count: 3.5k
masterlist
You only know you love her when you let her go
The air in the Barcelona apartment tasted of stale espresso and expensive cologne, a sterile combination that did nothing to mask the scent of desperation. Ferran sat on the edge of his sofa, his shoulders hunched, eyes locked onto the glowing screen of his phone.
The blue light carved hollows into his cheeks, making him look older, more fragile. Every few seconds, his thumb flicked upward, scrolling through a relentless tide of criticism, a digital storm of fans demanding more, calling him a failure, dissecting every misplaced pass.
You stood in the doorway, watching the rhythmic tremor in his right hand. It was a small thing, but it screamed of the instability rotting him from the inside. You had known him since you were children in Foios, back when the only pressure he felt was the weight of a leather ball and the heat of the Valencian sun. Now, he looked like a man drowning in shallow water.
"Put the phone down, Ferran," you said, your voice cutting soft through the silence.
He didn't look up. His thumb kept flicking.
"I'm reading the reports," he muttered, his voice thin and raspy.
"The reports are written by people who have never stepped foot on a pitch in their lives. They don't know you. They don't know how hard you're pushing."
Ferran finally looked at you, but his eyes were vacant, clouded by a fog of anxiety that had become his constant companion.
"They're right, though, aren't they? I'm not playing like the player they bought. I'm a ghost out there." His voice carrying a humourless laugh.
"You're a ghost because you're not here," you tapped against your head, stepping further into the room. "You're trapped in your own head, fighting a war that isn't even real. Look at you. You're not sleeping. You're barely eating. When was the last time you actually laughed?"
Ferran let out a sharp, jagged laugh that sounded more like a cough. "I'm fine. I'm just in a slump. Every player goes through it."
"This isn't a slump, Ferran. This is a collapse. You're having panic attacks in the locker room, in the shower, your bed, the car, he’ll even the kitchen. I've seen the way you breathe before a match—like you're trying to inhale glass. These habits, this isolation, the way you're spiraling and not fighting against it… it's damaging everything. Not just your career, but you."
He stiffened, his grip tightening on the phone until his knuckles turned white.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you need professional help. A therapist, Ferran. Someone who can actually help you navigate this anxiety before it swallows you whole."
The silence that followed was heavy, vibrating with a sudden, electric tension. Ferran stood up slowly, the phone clattering onto the sofa. His expression shifted from vacant to volatile in a heartbeat.
"A therapist?" he spat, the words dripping with disdain. "You want me to go sit on a couch and cry about my feelings? To admit that I can't handle the pressure?"
"It's not about being weak, it's about being smart. You can't fix a broken leg by ignoring it, and you can't fix a broken mind by scrolling through Twitter at three in the morning."
"I am not broken!" he yelled, the volume of his voice echoing off the minimalist walls.
"Then why are you shaking? Why can't you look me in the eye for more than five seconds without looking like you're about to bolt for the door?"
Ferran stepped toward you, his face flushed, the boyish sweetness he usually carried replaced by a raw, defensive anger.
"Maybe I'm just tired of you playing the martyr! You've been following me around since we were kids, acting like you're the only one who knows what's best for me. You think you're my savior? You're just another person reminding me that I'm failing."
The words hit like a physical blow. You recoiled, the air leaving your lungs.
"I'm the only one who actually gives a damn about you, not the brand, not the stats, but you," you whispered.
"Well, maybe I don't want your pity!" Ferran shouted, his voice cracking. "Do you know how embarrassing that would be? To admit I'm so pathetic that I need a stranger to tell me how to breathe? If I go to a therapist, it just proves everything they're saying. It proves I'm not cut out for this. It proves I'm a fraud."
"That is the most delusional thing I have ever heard. Seeking help is the only way you'll actually stop being a fraud to yourself. You need to give your head a break from all of whatever this is. If you’djust listen to me for once-"
"Just shut up! Just for once, shut the hell up about my mental health!"
"I won't shut up while you kill yourself slowly! You're destroying the man I lov-… I grew up with, Ferran. You're becoming a shell, and you're too proud to admit you're drowning. Too fucking proud. Too stubborn. "
Ferran's eyes flashed with a cruel light, a byproduct of the panic and shame swirling in his chest. He said the first thing that came to mind, the thing he knew would hurt the most.
"Maybe that's why you're so obsessed with fixing me. Because your own life is so stagnant that you need me to be your project. It's pathetic, really. You're not a friend, you're a parasite feeding off my drama because you have nothing of your own to be proud of. That’s why your dad shut you out! Not because of his drama but because you’re way too persistent in others lives!!!"
The room went cold. You stared at him, the silence stretching between you like a canyon. The anger vanished, replaced by a hollow, aching void. You didn't yell back. You didn't argue. You simply stepped back toward the door.
"Vale… if you want it like that… I hope the silence is worth it," you said, your voice devoid of emotion.
"Fine! Go! See if I care! I DON’TNEED YOU AND YOUR PHATHETIC ADVICES!!" he screamed after you.
The door clicked shut, and for the first time in years, the connection that had anchored you both to your childhood in Foios snapped. Just like the string of tears that finally began to slip free.
The following months were a blur of grey. For you, it was the agony of watching from a distance. You saw the headlines, the missed chances, the substitutions, the whispers of "lack of confidence." You could see the way he drove him deeper into the shit he wasn’t able to handle himself. You wanted to reach out every single day, but the memory of his words, the way he had dismissed your entire existence as parasitic, kept you anchored in your resolve.
For Ferran, the silence was a vacuum. At first, it felt like a victory. He had pushed away the one person who held up a mirror to his flaws, and he felt a perverse sense of relief. But as the weeks turned into months, the vacuum began to suck the air out of his lungs.
The panic attacks grew more frequent, more violent. He would wake up at 4:00 AM, his chest tightening, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He would reach for his phone to scroll, to feed the beast of self-hatred, and then he would realize there was no one to text. No one to tell him to put the phone down. No one to tell him he was more than a jersey number. He had no one to call anymore.
He remembered the way you used to bring him oranges after practice in Valencia. He remembered how you were the only one who didn't treat him like a star, but like Ferran.
One rainy Tuesday in November, Ferran hit total rock bottom. He had been benched for the third game in a row. As he sat in the dressing room, the laughter of his teammates sounding like static in his ears, the walls began to close in. The air vanished. He felt his throat constrict, a familiar, terrifying pressure crushing his windpipe. He stumbled into the showers, collapsing onto the cold tiles, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
He lay there, the cold water drumming against his skin, and he saw your face. Not the face of the girl he had screamed at, but the girl who had held his hand when he scraped his knees at nine years old. He realized then that the "pity" he had fought so hard against was actually the only real love he had in his life.
He spent three days in a state of catatonic regret before he finally picked up the phone. His fingers trembled, not from anxiety this time, but from fear. Fear that you had finally realized you were better off without him. That you got rid of a clingy problem that only dragged you down.
He drove to your place, the rain blurring the streets of the city. He went straight to your door not giving himself any room for doubt.
When you opened the door, you didn't smile. You didn't frown. You just looked at him, and the sight of him, gaunt, eyes shadowed, his posture defeated, it broke something inside you.
"I can't breathe," he whispered, the words barely audible.
"You're not having an attack, Ferran. You're just talking."
"I am," he sobbed, the sound raw and guttural. He stepped forward, collapsing into your arms, burying his face in your shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I said things... I said things that weren't true because I was scared. I was so scared that you were right. I… I didn’t want to admit it cause it would become real. I- "
You held him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie, feeling the tremors racking his lean frame.
"You were a jerk," you murmured, though you were already stroking the back of his neck, fiddling with lose strands of his outgrown hair, the way you knew it’d help him calm down. Just like it helped him when he was younger.
"I was a monster," he corrected, pulling back to look at you, his eyes red and swimming with tears. "I pushed away the only person who ever saw me. Not the player, not the talent or burden, but just me. I thought if I admitted I was struggling, I'd be weak. But the weakest thing I ever did was try to make you feel small so I could feel bigger."
"Are you still fighting it?" you asked softly.
"No," he breathed. "I started seeing someone. Two weeks ago. It's... it's hard. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. Talking about the fear, the way the crowd sounds like a monster, the way I feel like I'm disappearing... but I'm doing it. Because I can't lose you again. I can't live in that silence."
The tension that had existed between you for months began to melt, replaced by a heavy, simmering heat. The air between you shifted, the friendship that had been the foundation of your lives suddenly feeling like a thin veil covering something much deeper.
You led him inside. Closed the door giving him a familiar safe space.
"I missed you," you whispered.
"I missed you too. I never stopped needing you. I was so dumb letting you go…," he replied, his voice dropping an octave.
He leaned in, hesitating for a fraction of a second, giving you the chance to pull away. When you didn't, he pressed his lips to yours. It wasn't a sweet kiss, it was desperate, tasting of salt and long-overdue longing. It was the kiss of two people who had nearly lost each other and were clinging to the wreckage.
His tongue swept against yours, a bold, hungry demand that mirrored the intensity of the last few months. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist with a strength that bordered on bruising.
He backed you into the hallway, his kisses migrating from your lips to your jawline, then down to the sensitive skin of your neck. You gasped, your hands finding their way under his shirt, feeling the hard, sculpted lines of his back. He was shredded, his muscles taut under your palms, but he was shaking again, not with panic, but with a primal, overwhelming desire.
"I want you," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. "I've wanted you since we were teenagers, and I was too stupid to realize that the reason I felt safe with you was because you're everything I actually want."
He lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, and carried you into the bedroom. He laid you back on the sheets, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it was stripping you bare.
He stripped off his clothes with a frantic energy, his movements jerky and eager. When he stood before you, the sight of him was breathtaking, the athletic build of a world-class athlete, his skin pale and mapped with the tension of his life. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the heavy length of his cock, which was already leaking a bead of clear pre-cum at the tip. He hissed, his hips jerking forward instinctively.
"Please," he whispered, his voice a wrecked shadow of itself.
You pulled your clothes off, your skin humming in the cool air of the room. He stared at you, his gaze lingering on the curve of your breasts, the way your nipples peaked in the chill. He leaned down, his mouth capturing one nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth while his tongue swirled around the areola, teasing the sensitive peak. You arched your back, a loud moan escaping your lips as you felt the heat of him pressing against your thigh.
His hand slid down, his fingers finding the wetness between your legs. He didn't hesitate, sliding two fingers deep inside you with a wet, squelching sound that echoed in the quiet room. You gasped, your hips bucking against his hand.
"You're so wet for me," he groaned, his voice vulgar and thick with lust. "So fucking wet."
He shifted, positioning himself between your legs. He guided his cock to your entrance, the broad head rubbing against your clit, smearing your own juices across the sensitive skin. He paused for a second, looking into your eyes, his expression a mix of love and raw hunger.
"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much it hurts."
Then, he thrust home.
The sensation was overwhelming, a sudden, stretching fullness that made you cry out. He filled you completely, his girth stretching your walls to their limit. He stayed still for a moment, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing in sync, the world outside the room ceasing to exist.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips
Then he began to move.
It started slow, a rhythmic, grinding motion that prioritized the friction of his pubic bone against your clit. Each thrust was deep and deliberate, the sound of your bodies meeting, a wet, slapping noise, filling the air. Shlick, squelch, shlick.
"Fuck, you feel so good," Ferran groaned, his voice breaking. "So tight. I can feel you gripping me."
As the pace increased, the intimacy turned into something more visceral. He began to drive into you with more force, his thrusts becoming more overzealous. The bed frame groaned under the impact. He was breathing hard, the scent of sweat and sex enveloping you both.
In his eagerness, his cock slipped out completely with a wet pop, a spray of lubrication hitting your thighs. He didn't stop, immediately slamming back inside you with a force that made you gasp, your head tossing back against the pillows.
„Aaahhh, ohh Ferran!“
"I've got you," he panted, his muscles rippling under your touch. "I've got you, I've got you."
He reached down, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in fast, circular motions while he continued to hammer into you. The combination was too much. The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter until it finally snapped. You screamed, your internal muscles clamping down on him in a series of violent, rhythmic contractions. Gripping his shoulders and digging your nails into them, not caring about leaving scratches.
The feeling of your orgasm triggered his own. Ferran let out a guttural roar, his body stiffening as he delivered one final, deepest thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You could feel the hot, pulsing jets of his cum hitting your cervix, filling you with a warmth that felt like a homecoming. He collapsed on top of you, his heart racing against your chest, his breath coming in jagged heaves.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the distant hum of the city and the synchronization of your breathing. He shifted, rolling to the side but keeping you tucked firmly against his chest, your skin slick with sweat and fluids.
"I'm not going back to that place," he whispered, kissing the top of your head. "The silence. The darkness. I'm staying here."
"You have to keep working on yourself, Ferran. The therapist, the habits... sex doesn't fix the anxiety."
He chuckled, a genuine, boyish sound that made your heart ache.
"I know. I know it doesn't. But having you by my side... it makes the work feel possible. It makes me forget. Reminding me there things worth fighting for."
A few months passed. The transformation in Ferran was slow, but it was steady. He didn't suddenly become a superstar overnight, and the panic attacks didn't vanish completely, but he had tools now. He had a routine. He had a therapist who challenged him. And most importantly, he had you.
He began to speak more openly about his struggles, even in small circles, realizing that the vulnerability he had feared was actually his greatest strength. The "fraud" he thought he was began to dissolve, replaced by a man who understood that strength wasn't the absence of fear, but the courage to face it.
One evening during off season, you were walking along the beach in Foios, the sand cool beneath your feet and the Mediterranean breeze carrying the scent of salt and pine. It was the place where everything had started, the landscape of your shared childhood.
Ferran stopped walking, turning to face you. He looked healthy, the hollows in his cheeks were gone, and his eyes had regained the spark that had once defined him. He took both of your hands in his, his grip firm and steady.
"I've spent a lot of my life trying to be what everyone else wanted me to be," he began, his voice clear and confident. "The perfect player, the strong leader, the man who has it all figured out. I almost lost the only thing that actually mattered because I was too proud to be human."
He stepped closer, the orange glow of the sunset casting long shadows across the sand.
"I don't want to just be your friend who you're helping through a crisis. I don't want to be a project. I want to be the man who deserves you. I… I want to be the one who wakes up next to you every morning and the one who holds you every night."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box. He didn't kneel, it wasn't that kind of moment, but he held the ring out with a trembling hand, a mirror of the tremor he used to have, but this time, it was born of excitement, not fear.
"Will you be my girlfriend? For real this time? No more shadows, no more secrets. Just us."
You looked at the ring, then up at the man who had walked through fire to find his way back to you. You didn't need a long speech. You didn't need to process the emotion. You simply leaned forward and kissed him, a soft, lingering promise of a future that no longer felt like a battle, but like a sanctuary.
"Yes," you whispered against his lips. "Yes, you idiot."
He laughed, pulling you into a hug that felt like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place. As you stood there on the shores of your hometown, the weight of the world felt lighter, the noise of the critics faded into the sound of the waves, and for the first time in years, Ferran was finally able to breathe freely against the crown of your head.
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