#ferran torres

[mooondame]

Heyy, I was wondering if you could write about ferran torres cuz I loved your writing and I'm feeling bored, so please write about him, anything will do.

ᯓ★ ferrán torres - will you want me now?

✩ pairing ferrán torres x reader ✩ summary you and Ferrán have been casually going out for months, everytime you want to get close, he pushes you away. with the world cup starting, will he finally be clear with what he wants? ✩ word count 2, 601 ✩ tags situationship, angst, happy ending ✩ a/n very heavily inspired by season 2 weight loss by harry styles. i hope you enjoy this anon ♡ first time writing ferrán, he actually deserves the world, i want him to do good in this wc ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

masterlist

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

“Models of the pitch: 10 most handsome faces in the 2026 World Cup.” A playful smile spreads across your face as you read the Instagram post. This is the… fifth or sixth one to appear in your feed in just the few minutes you’ve spent scrolling on your phone to distract yourself.

Your finger involuntarily swipes through the carousel; you aren't the least bit surprised when a photo of Ferrán appears—this time, in the third spot. Ever since World Cup fever took hold, it’s been impossible to escape those posts—a constant reminder of just how sought-after he had become.

“This one or this one?” Ferrán’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts.

You look up to see Ferrán holding two shirts out in front of you.

“The white one”, you say, before turning your attention back to your phone.

“You’re supposed to be helping me pack”, Ferrán points out as he puts the shirt into his suitcase.

“And I am. My opinion on your fashion sense counts as help. Besides, I deserve a little break after helping you with your pants”.

Ferrán’s laughter draws your attention back to him. He moves aside the stacks of athletic shorts neatly piled at the edge of the bed to join you. His arms wrap around your waist as his nose tickles your neck.

“You’re right, we should rest for a while”, he exhales, settling back against the pillow while keeping his grip firm.

With him close by, you notice his expression is easier to read: the tension in his jaw, his lips slightly pursed, and a look where worry spills from the corners of his eyes.

“You’re going to be fine, I’m sure of it”.

Ferrán gave a half-smile. “Although, come to think of it, I think the break should be for lunch. Pizza?” he asked, sitting down and reaching for his phone.

“Yes, thanks”, you replied, masking the disappointment of having been pushed away by him —yet again.

You watch him order the food, following him with your gaze as he leaves the room, excusing himself by saying he needs to enter his new card details into the app.

In the solitude of his room, a sense of frustration washes over you once again. You tried to connect with him on a deeper level, only to run up against an emotional wall.

You had met Ferrán four months earlier when you modeled with him in an Under Armour shoot. After texting casually for a few days, he had asked you out.

That’s how the weeks went by—moving from casual dates to spending the night at his apartment, meeting his friends and family, and eventually watching him play in the final matches of Barcelona’s season.

Yet, just when you thought Ferrán was finally going to let you into his life in a more serious way, he would pull back. Just when you thought he was finally going to let his guard down with you, he would put his walls back up to keep his distance.

And yet, there were those little gestures: a surprise visit to your apartment with your favorite dessert, his hand holding yours while you were out with friends, the way his eyes followed you whenever you stepped away until you returned to his side.

Burying your face in the pillow, you try to make sense of it all. Especially since your feelings for him are clear—you cared for him, and deeply. Yet you don't know how much longer you could put up with this nameless dynamic. Especially when he is about to leave for the World Cup, with an ocean between you and thousands of girls ready to try their luck.

The bed dips beside you; you lift your head to find Ferrán sitting next to you. You slowly sit up and easily read his expression again: he is nervous.

“There’s… there’s something I want to ask you. Well, I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time, but first I had to check your schedule with your agent so it would be a surprise”, he stammered, under your confused gaze. “I’d like you to come with me; it would mean a lot to me”.

Ferrán holds out a plane ticket and a ticket for the match between Spain and Saudi Arabia, which was to be played in Atlanta.

Your eyes widen in surprise. A warm feeling spreads through your entire body as you take them between your fingers. Ferrán wraps his hands around yours, his nervousness giving way to a look of determination.

“What a surprise!” you smiled excitedly, your heart racing.

“I would have liked you to be there from the start, but your agent told me you were working. Still, the important thing is that you’ll be there”.

You throw yourself at him, wrapping him in a hug; his hands quickly catching and pulling your body close. “Of course, I’ll be there. Thank you so much”.

“Your hotel reservation is all set, too, so you don’t have to worry about anything”.

Once again, confusion slowly crept through your system. One moment he was shying away from you, and the next he was asking you to be there for one of the most important moments of his career.

Ferrán kisses you sweetly, momentarily pushing that feeling aside.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 

People could be cruel—you knew that for a fact. That was one of the reasons you had decided to keep your situation with Ferrán 100% private. Not a single photo together, not a mention, not a comment that could link the two of you.

After the draw against Cape Verde, social media had turned its vitriol on the players; while some managed to dodge the criticism, Ferrán hadn't been so lucky. The usual—and, honestly, by now tiresome—jokes about his struggle to score were flooding social media.

You knew it had affected him when he went completely silent for two days after the match, returning to your messages without replying to the earlier ones in which you’d asked how he was doing and encouraged him to keep going.

Now you see him come on in the second half, and you stand up to applaud him. Spain had already won the match, but you wouldn't be fully satisfied until Ferrán scored his goal, he deserved it.

It’s the erratic way he hunts for every pass and chases the ball with the conviction of someone who has something to prove.

The chance comes in stoppage time. You rise to celebrate his long-awaited and well-deserved goal, only to notice a hint of hesitation in the celebration. The referee heads to the VAR monitor to check for a possible offside.

You cross your fingers, wishing with all your might for it to be a goal—for him to have that moment. The decision echoes throughout the stadium, and disappointment tightens your chest as the goal is disallowed.

You kept clapping, though, because that didn't change the fact that Ferrán was giving it his all, just as always.

The final whistle blew a few minutes later, and despite the victory, Ferrán’s shoulders were slumped. He shuffled toward the tunnel and disappeared from sight.

Laura signals for you to follow her to greet the players. Ferrán’s family stays in the stands, chatting among themselves.

Dani walks over to say hello to Laura. You smile as you catch Ferrán’s eye, but he abruptly looks away and walks right past you. Your smile freezes on your face, then slowly fades.

Embarrassed, you take a step back and lower your gaze, trying to regain your composure. Maybe he didn’t see you, or didn’t recognize you.

“He… maybe he was too lost in thought to say hello”, Laura asserted. “Right, babe?” she asked Dani.

“Yeah”, he replied awkwardly. Laura gave him a nudge in the ribs. “So, I’ll talk to him and find out what’s going on, but I’m sure it wasn’t intentional”.

You nod, sensing the awkwardness in the air. Laura puts her arm around your shoulders as Dani runs off toward the locker room.

“Let’s wait for them outside, shall we? Some fresh air would do us good”.

Questions pile up in your mind as the minutes tick by. The players begin to emerge to join their loved ones. You spot Dani heading toward you, wearing a look that spells bad news.

“Ferrán isn’t feeling well and is heading straight to the hotel”, he announces as he catches up to you.

“What—? He’s not—he’s not coming?” you ask, confused.

Your stomach sinks the moment Dani shakes his head apologetically.

“What’s wrong with Ferrán? That’s not like him; there has to be an explanation”, Laura interjects, fixing her boyfriend with a piercing stare to get more information.

Dani shrugs, avoiding her gaze. “Don’t shoot the messenger”.

“It’s okay, Dani. Thanks for letting me know”, you say, offering a small, forced smile.

“I’ll accompany you to the hotel—”

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Enjoy your night”, you say, cutting Laura off.

You say goodbye to the couple, hugging each of them. You run into Ferrán’s family making dinner plans with Pedri’s family, but you decline the invitation, using the excuse of an “unexpected meeting with your agent”.

The trip back to the hotel feels endless; the tears start flowing the moment you step into the room.

With blurred vision, you start looking for the next flight back to Barcelona. Frustrated at not finding an option for the following day, you toss your phone to the other side of the bed.

To others, the situation might seem insignificant—he simply didn't say hello. But the way your blood ran cold at feeling intentionally ignored made you realize you had reached your limit.

You open your suitcase and, without thinking, start packing a few clothes to distract yourself. Yet, your mind refuses to quiet down.

It’s not just ignoring you; it’s having sent Dani to let you know he wasn’t going to speak to you. It’s, once again, building those stupid walls to keep you out. And perhaps it’s your fault for developing feelings for what was likely always meant to be a casual relationship—just a fling.

A knock at the door interrupts the torrent of thoughts in your mind. You wipe away your tears before looking through the peephole. Your blood boils when you see Ferrán standing on the other side. You consider not opening the door—giving him a taste of his own medicine. No, that would be immature and would only put off a conversation that is inevitable.

You slowly open the door, biting your inner cheek, your eyes full of hesitation.

“Hey”, Ferrán murmurs, not meeting your gaze.

You cross your arms over your chest, waiting for something more.

“Can I come in?” He gestures toward your room.

You step aside and let him enter. Whatever was about to happen, you didn’t want to make a scene in the hotel hallway.

You close the door and lean back against it, still waiting for an explanation.

“I think there was a bit of a misunderstanding…” he begins.

He had looked up, though his gaze was fixed just to the side of where you stood. You could sense it—that holding back in his demeanor, as if he didn’t want to open up to you completely.

“I made a mistake by inviting you here”.

His words hit you like a ton of bricks. Of all the things you expected to hear, that was the last one.

You bite down harder on the inside of your cheek, hoping to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

“Is that what you think?” you manage to say. Ferrán nods, lowering his gaze. “Then look at me when you say it”.

A stifled laugh escapes your throat as you see that Ferrán won’t lift his eyes from the floor.

“It would be best if you went back to Spain; I’ve already taken up too much of your time”.

“Bullshit,” you interrupt. “What are you trying to do? Why do you always abruptly pull me away when things get tough?”

“You wouldn’t understand”.

“Right—if you don’t talk to me, I’m not going to understand. I really… I really thought this could turn into something real”, you say, shaking your head. “I’m so stupid”.

“No… God. You’re not stupid, I…” Ferrán hesitated before continuing. “I just don’t want…”

“Don’t want what, Ferrán?”

“I don’t want you to be with a fucking loser like me”.

Ferrán finally looked you in the face; uncertainty and fear danced in his eyes. He had finally let his guard down, and you found yourself looking at a frightened young man.

Everything makes sense in an instant. The distance, his reserved attitude, the way he acted as if he had something to prove.

“You’re not a loser”, you soothe him, approaching cautiously.

“Yes, I am. Everyone always has something to say about my performance at Barcelona—always. In every match, I try to be better. I thought this World Cup would be my chance to prove I’m worth it, that I deserve you. I invited you here to prove that, but what did you see? A damn goal disallowed for offside”, he admitted dejectedly.

Sighing his name, you moved a little closer until you managed to take his hand. This time he didn't pull away. Instead, he intertwined his fingers with yours and pulled you into a needy embrace.

"I want you to succeed because that makes you happy, not because it makes you worth it. You're already worth everything," you comforted him, stroking his hair. “I care because you care, not because it makes me want you more or less”. 

“Really?” he murmured. “It’s just that I’ve seen those posts where they call me nothing but a pretty face, rather than a good footballer”.

“I know, but the World Cup is just getting started; you still have plenty of time ahead of you. Besides”, you say, positioning yourself in front of him to see him better, “you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. As long as you know how important and vital you are, no one else’s opinion matters”.

The words seem to sink in for Ferrán; his furrowed brow relaxes, and he slowly exhales.

“It’s hard. You’re incredibly beautiful and talented, and you make it look easy”.

A small smile escapes your lips as you feel your cheeks warm up. “I know it’s hard—that’s why you have us for. The people who care for you for being you, regardless of performance. And for what it's worth, you're a very good player, as well as a quite attractive one”.

Ferrán laughs and lightly caresses your cheek.

“I was a jerk; I’m so sorry. I was really embarrassed about today’s game and… and I acted immaturely. I don’t want you to leave”, he sighes, tightening his grip on your waist. “I want you to be with me for the rest of the way. And not just as a friend, but as my girlfriend”.

Your heart leapt several times in your chest; Ferrán had finally spoken the word you had so longed to hear.

“Really?” you stammer, knees trembling.

“Of course. I wanted to ask you once I’d finally proven I was worthy of you, but I don’t want to risk losing you in the meantime”.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Ferrán—just that you want me the way I do”.

“That’ll be easy”.

Ferrán kisses you, and despite having done so hundreds of times over the past few months, this kiss feels different. More intentional, with the lightness of someone finally freed from the chains that had been holding him back.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻

[piastridreams]

barca p!links

marcus giving you slow and steady strokes

riding hector as he sucks on your boobs

pau using a viberator while he fucks you

morning sex with lewandowski

drunk sex with gavi

hector caressing your body that he loves so much

pedri fucking you with your robe on

fermin eating you out like his life depends on it

you taking ferran down your throat like a good girl

missionary with raphinha

[glossiercheek]

when i’m alone i’d rather be with you ♡ f. torres

synopsis: you unwind with your boyfriend after his game within the confines of your hotel room.

warnings: very fluffy! one tap on the ass? reader gets called bratty (jokingly), playfighting, very much slice of life almost

the inky texas summer night cools down outside of the hotel. inside, you’re lying on the fluffy hotel bed, the coolness of the air conditioning dawning on your skin, a flimsy paperback between your fingers as you listen to how ferran fiddles with the lock of the bathroom.

when he steps out, a waft of shower steam pours out with him. he’s only clad in some old, jersey shorts, a little loose around his thighs, and simply his towel around his neck, stray droplets of water pooling on his collarbones, his golden skin illuminated under the dim hotel lights.

you’ve been dating for so long, accompanied him to so many away games and international tournaments, you don’t even look up when he pokes into your side.

“move over, babe.” says ferran, nudging you a little toward the other side of the bed. he looks at you with tired, droopy eyes, but that happy twinkle is still present. that’s just how it is: he’s always happy when he’s with you.

a small, affable smile pulls on the corners of your mouth. “no.” you say, as smug as ever.

“no?” your boyfriend repeats teasingly, disbelieving. he snatches your book out of your grip, drops it on the nightstand. “you’re a little mean to me, baby.”

his warm hands travel to your sides, the place where you’re most ticklish. “fer— no!” you shriek out, laughing, trying to escape ferran’s strong, yet gentle grip as he digs his fingers into your plush skin.

“you’re a minx.” ferran laughs with you, hovering over you, caging his thighs on either side of yours. his nimble fingers travel under your pajama top — an old manchester city jersey of his, his name and the number 21 on the back completely chipped off from the countless laundry washes.

to top it off, he shakes his head right in your face, the stray water droplets landing right in your face and your shoulders. “oh my god, ferran—” you giggle when the wet spots splatter across your skin.

“you gonna be a brat again, huh?” he laughs breathily, face shoved into the crook of your neck while placing fluttery, light kisses all over the column of your throat — he knows you get squirmy and fidgety when he does that. “no— i won’t!”

his wet hair against your chin smells fresh. mixed with the light touch on the soft of your waist and the feathery, velvety kisses to your neck, there’s only one solution for you.

“i surrender!” you giggle, absentmindedly raking your fingers through ferran’s soaking wet brown — now almost black — strands. “i give up.”

the tickling stops instantly. instead, it’s replaced with a smoothing touch over your bare skin. “good choice, baby.” your boyfriend says with a self-satisfied smirk, lifting his weight off your body. he shifts his head up to your jaw before placing a chaste kiss to it.

ferran rolls himself partly off of you. “you had fun today?” he asks, chin resting on your ribs as he looks at you with those big brown eyes you’ve come to love over the past years, a dopey smile on his face.

“yeah, fer,” you sigh. no matter where the two of you are, ferran always wants you to have fun. he’s not always outspoken about it, but he worries when you’re left alone in a foreign country when he prepares for a game. “bought a couple of books today.”

you gesture to the nighstand, where your book lies, all abandoned. “oh? you did?” your boyfriend huffs, stretching his arms to grab the book from the little table. he inspects the cover with utmost attention, reads the little summary on the back.

“that’s good, baby,” he says sweetly, the book looking comically small between his fingers as he places an absentminded kiss to your jersey-clad midriff. “glad you’re having fun without me.”

you catch the little disappointed tone in ferran’s voice. you know he has a tendency for dramatics when he’s all tired from a game.

“don’t start, fer,” you say, lightly scratching your boyfriend’s back. “saw you after, remember? on the pitch?”

ferran lets out a hearty chuckle. “what did you think?” he asks intentionally, knowing damn well he assisted.

“oh, good game. really good. especially that number seven who assisted… you reckon you can give me his number?” you joke. your boyfriend looks up at you, chin still placed on your ribs. crimson blossoms all over his cheeks. “don’t be like that, baby, please.” he laughs, voice a little strained, burying his face into the fabric of your — technically his — shirt at the mention of his assist.

the sound of ferran’s laugh is burned into your mind like a cattle brand. “you were amazing, though. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” your voice drops lower, more serious. you cup his chin, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip.

his gaze turns into something more vulnerable. you know he needs to hear those words now more than ever.

that makes ferran crawl up your body. his gaze all mellow and gooey, like melted honey. his warm arms wrap around your waist as he flips you two over. now you’re on top of him, in his arms, legs tangled together.

“thank you, love,” ferran mumbles, lips smashed against your cheek as he talks. you can feel the frantic thumping of his heart under his bare chest. and his hands on you, you love it. “i love you, you know that?”

“i do,” you retort sarcastically, pushing yourself up on your elbows so that your face hovers above his. “you tell me like, oh— only ten times a day.” you look at him pointedly.

your comment has a mischievous smile spreading across ferran’s lips, earning a playful swat to your bum. it’s light, but it still contains hints of that teasing, lighthearted humour you two always share like an unspoken secret.

“thought you weren’t gonna be a brat today, hm?”

a/n: fml this has me thinking of him w a nerdy, bookish girl (totally not self-indulgent 🤥🤥) and sorry that pic on the BANNERRRR has me going nuts. like actually NUTS. like i want to bite his forearm

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ lucky charm

➤ summary: Ferran is obsessed with you wearing his jersey while you celebrate their win ➤ w/c: 1.5k ➤ warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, doggy style, possibly my inaccurate Spanish🥲 ➤a/n: experimental fic for my shark, so I honestly don't expect much interaction/likes. just had to get some stuff off my chest + i changed the plot a bit for it to fit with their recent win. happy Ferran day to everyone who celebrates 🦈❤️ masterlist

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears even after you stepped into the hotel room you stayed at during the World Cup and closed the door, separating you and your boyfriend from the rest of the world. Another Spain game, another step towards the win, and another stressful evening for you as you sat in the middle of the thousand fans and were mainly rooting for one particular person. 

Ferran was close behind you, his hands steady on your waist the whole time from the car, but that smile is what made your heart swell—the big, bright, and almost cocky one. He assisted the last goal, ensuring a win for the team after a long streak of missing, and now you could finally see some of the weight dropped off of his shoulders. He was supposed to be with the team now, probably resting and recovering after the match. Hell, he even might get in trouble for sneaking out and following you to your own hotel room instead of following the schedule, but he truly didn’t care about any of it.

“You were incredible out there.” You smiled, looking back at him while you kicked off your shoes, finally alone and away from anyone who could disturb you. Ferran’s hair was still damp from the shower, thick and dark strands of hair curling wildly and looking perfectly fluffy for you to run your fingers through it. He flashed a smile back at you, brown eyes briefly darting towards your, or his, jersey that you were wearing. 

His name. His number. On his girl. After you were rooting for him and then hugging and kissing him after the game as if he scored a damn hat trick. Could it be any more perfect? 

“And you’re incredible right now.” He mumbled, following you instantly, pulling you flush against his chest while his lips found the side of your neck. Ferran nipped at your skin, then kissed the same spot softly, while his hands sneaked under your jersey impatiently. He didn’t care that his body felt a bit sore after the game or that you barely even got inside of your hotel suite—he wanted you now. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me when you’re wearing my kit.”

You laughed softly, the sound bubbling up as he nuzzled into your neck, kissing and nipping playfully again. “You’re so happy tonight.”

“I am happy.” He grinned against your skin, cocky and bright all at once, pushing his hips forward and nudging you to walk. “I wanted to win for you. My lucky charm.” He suddenly turned you around, not letting you move even an inch away from his body, catching your lips in a kiss. Your hands wrapped round his neck instantly, melting under so much affection and attention.

You giggled as he walked you both towards the bedroom, both of you struggling a little, way too consumed by the messy and smiling kisses, hands wandering over each other’s bodies. Ferran kept one hand under your jersey, brushing the side of your bra with his thumb, while the other one cupped your face softly while his lips moved hungrily against yours. When you finally felt the side of the bed with your legs, he pulled back, looking as hot as ever—lips puffy, cheeks boyishly flushed, and eyes sparkling with emotions and pure hunger. 

“I’m so proud of you.” You whispered, reaching for his lips again, finally threading your fingers through his hair and softly tugging at the roots. 

“Yeah?” His voice dropped, playful but now sounding a bit deeper with undeniable heat and intensity. “Then show me, princesa. Keep the jersey on.”

Ferran spun you around gently again, slightly pushing you forward until you bent over, palms flat against the bed. He pulled down your jeans along with your underwear, leaving you bare and heated in front of him, his warm hands greedily palming your ass as if he had been impatient this whole time.

You looked back at him over your shoulder, taking in the disheveled look, his slightly open mouth—everything that never failed to turn you on even more. You pushed your ass back at him, arching your back and falling forward and face down on the bed as if presenting yourself for him. Ferran groaned loudly, adjusting your position with firm yet gentle hands, while the prominent bulge visible through the blue tracksuit bottoms was already pressing against your bare thighs. 

“Joder… look at you.” He breathed with a laugh, brushing his hair back in that signature gesture, then not wasting any more time to pull down his sweats and boxers. 

His hard and leaking cock pressed against your entrance impatiently, you both groaning at the familiar feeling. You couldn’t help but moan when he rubbed the thick head along your slick folds, fingers digging deeper into the plush of your ass. 

“Ferran…” You whispered, pushing back again, ready and aching to take him in. 

“Sì, princesa, I've got you.” The accent alone made you clench helplessly, but when he finally, fucking finally, guided his cock with one hand, your eyes instantly rolled back in pleasure, your mouth open in a silent moan. 

The stretch and fullness felt delicious. He steadied you with one hand on your lower back, another one gripping your hip when he started moving slowly but steadily. His hips met your ass with each deep and slow thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your bedroom. Ferran’s eyes were glued to your back, to the way you were wearing his name so proudly—the sign that you were his and with him no matter the shit he was going through. 

“Te sientes tan bien.” He murmured, the Spanish slipping out naturally in his pleasure. 

Every thrust made his name in bold red letters bounce on your back, the oversized jersey rolling up your spine to reveal more of your already damp and warm skin. Ferran slid one hand to your chest, blindly tugging at the cups of your bra and palming your tits in his large hands, thumbs softly circling hardened peaks.  

You couldn’t stop moaning, couldn’t stop saying his name, and a smile spread on your face every time he said some sweet or dirty nonsense in Spanish. He leaned slightly forward, now close enough for him to bend forward and kiss your neck, changing angle and fucking you deeper, pushing your body further into the mattress, while all you could do was take it. 

“P-please, Ferran—“ You gasped, gripping the sheets tighter, moving yourself back on him as much as you could under the weight. 

“You like taking me like this?” He sounded so proud, so cocky—just exactly like you liked him, but the soft and affectionate touches and feather-light kisses against your neck made your stomach flutter. “Te quiero tanto, fuck—“

Ferran straightened up again, gripping your hips with both hands now, fucking you harder, faster, getting a weird fix again from the moment his eyes landed on the jersey you wore to all of his games. The angle had you seeing stars, every thrust of his cock hitting the exact spot you needed to come undone under him. Your legs started shaking from the position, knees slightly sliding down the silky sheets, while pleasure kept coiling in your belly. 

“Come for me. Let me feel you.” His voice behind you sounded more like an order, even though you could tell he was holding himself back to let you finish first. Ferran kept fucking into your heat again and again, leaving you and your body no other chance to comply when your pussy started spasming around him. 

“Ferran!” You whined his name again, face down into the bed to muffle how desperately you sounded, tugging at the sheets harder and wishing it was his back you could scratch and mark. He cursed again, you felt the way his cock twitched inside of you as he came with a deep groan, spilling inside of you. The soft and rocking thrusts still shook your body while he prolonged your orgasm, not ready to let you go or leave the warmth of you wrapped around him. 

Only when he was finally spent, satisfied enough to let you go for a second, did he pull out, letting your fluids leak down your thighs in a complete mess. You fell on your side, and not even a second later he followed you. Ferran was facing you on the bed, wrapping his hands around your waist to pull you even closer.

Your eyes met again, and you both grinned at each other. 

“Best celebration I’ve ever had.” He whispered, voice almost sappy, while his eyes twinkled with warmth and leftover joy. 

You arched a brow playfully. “Yeah? I’m sure we’ve already had plenty of those?” You reached for his face, running your fingers over the slight stubble. Ferran’s lips found your wrist to leave there a soft kiss, not answering back to your comment because you both knew you were right, and you took a deep, contented breath. “I love you.”

 “I love you.” He replied back simply. “Thank you for being here. For wearing this… for everything.”

You smiled, still a little dazed, and pulled him forward into a slow, sweet kiss. “You earned it, my shark.”

Ferran grinned against your lips, already tugging your leg over his thigh, as impatient as always. “Round two after a shower, mi amor?”

[paucubarsisimp]

Heyy queen, not sure if your taking requests atm but would you be open to doing the ‘current boyfriend’ tik tok trend with the Barca boys??

Love your work xx

current boyfriend

pairings: pablo gavi x reader,, pedri x reader ferran torres x reader, pau cubarsi x reader, hector fort x reader, alejandro balde x reader, lamine yamal x reader, marc bernal x reader

summary: in which you do the current boyfriend trend on your boyfriend

warnings: none!

pablo gavi

you’re tucked against pablo’s side on a rainy afternoon in barcelona, his hoodie drowning you, your legs tangled with his under the blankets. the soft hum of the tv plays in the background, some old barça match he keeps watching like he doesn’t know how it ends.

he’s got his phone resting on his stomach, barely paying attention. you, on the other hand, are holding yours up sneakily — recording already.

you glance at him, then at the camera, trying not to smile.

“vale,” you whisper to yourself, clearing your throat dramatically. “hi everyone! so today we will be seeing how well my current boyfriend knows me.”

pablo’s head turns so fast you nearly drop the phone.

“¿cómo que novio actual?” he says, brows furrowing, voice full of dramatic offense. “perdona?”

you can’t help it — you burst into laughter.

he sits up, pushing the blanket off his chest like he’s ready to fight an invisible threat.

“actual? like… like i’m temporary?” he blinks, eyes wide. “so what am i? a trial version?”

you’re giggling uncontrollably now, clutching your stomach as he starts pacing the end of the bed like a man betrayed.

“ah, i see. this is why you didn’t want me to meet your tía at easter. you were planning my expiration date.”

“pablo!” you squeal, still laughing, “it’s a tiktok trend!”

he stops mid-step and looks at you, dead serious. “you think trends will save you when i’m heartbroken? huh?”

you fall back onto the bed in tears (from laughing), and he finally cracks a grin. crawling back over, he snatches your phone and flips the camera around.

“listen,” he says, addressing the imaginary audience with one hand around your waist, “i am not her current boyfriend. i am her only. su único. por siempre.”

you try to roll your eyes but he kisses your cheek dramatically, then mumbles into your skin:

“y si algún día dice que me va a dejar… no va a poder. porque ya la puse en el grupo familiar.”

“you added me to the family whatsapp, pablo. that doesn’t make us married.”

“sí que sí. you’ve seen the memes. it’s forever now.”

you look at him, still flushed from laughter, and suddenly he’s soft. less chaotic. just him. warm brown eyes, a slightly crooked smile, and the way his thumb brushes against your hip like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.

“oye,” he says, quieter now, “if i was actually your current boyfriend… would you tell me if you were planning to replace me?”

you blink. he’s joking, but also kind of not. there’s a flash of real feeling behind his teasing.

you lean in and kiss him, slow and certain.

“you’re not my current anything, pablo,” you murmur against his lips. “you’re my always.”

he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

then — with zero warning — he grabs the phone again.

“and that’s how you win, chicos. take notes.”

pedri

you’re curled up on pedri’s bed, face half-buried in his pillow, phone in one hand, feet nudging at his side. he’s sitting up next to you, back against the headboard, scrolling aimlessly through some article about barça tactics like it’s the most thrilling novel on earth.

he doesn’t notice you start recording. not at first.

you turn the camera toward the two of you, face blank, voice casual.

“hola chicos,” you whisper. “today im here with my current boyfriend.”

his head turns so fast it’s like he heard a whistle blow.

“¿qué?” pedri says, blinking. “current boyfriend?!”

you turn to him, eyebrows raised like you’ve just been asked what 2+2 is. “yeah?”

his mouth opens. closes. opens again. he looks genuinely stunned. like he’s been called offside while standing still.

“‘current boyfriend’?” he repeats slowly, like he’s trying to translate it into something that makes sense. “me estás vacilando, ¿no?”

you furrow your brow, all wide-eyed innocence. “what? that’s just… what people say.”

“no, it’s not,” he says, staring at you like you’ve personally rewritten the dictionary. “that’s what you say when you’re... i don’t know. rotating the squad.”

you blink. “rotating the squad?”

“like you’ve got backups. a bench.”

you gasp. “you think i have backup boyfriends?”

pedri folds his arms across his chest, staring you down. “well. apparently i’m the current one, so.”

“pedri,” you giggle, crawling over to him. “you’re being silly.”

“am i?” he says, fake offended. “who’s next, then? ferran? ansu? don’t lie.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “hmm. héctor.”

“wow,” he says. “so you’re into the young guys now. okay.”

you lean your head on his shoulder, still recording. he stays frozen, arms crossed, pretending to be emotionally wounded.

you poke his cheek. “you know i’m joking, right?”

“don’t talk to me,” he mutters, nose scrunching as he hides his smile. “i need to reevaluate my relationship status.”

you kiss his jaw softly. “you’re not my current boyfriend.”

he perks up slightly. “no?”

you shake your head sweetly. “you’re my favorite one.”

his face drops again. “that’s worse.”

you laugh, full-on now, as he reaches over and tries to snatch your phone.

“delete it,” he says, but he’s grinning. “delete it or i’m telling your mom you bullied me.”

ferran torres

you didn’t mean to prank him.

well. okay. you kind of did.

you’d seen the “current boyfriend” videos all over tiktok lately—girls casually calling their long-term boyfriends “my current boyfriend” and capturing their reactions. most of them blinked. some looked offended. some acted like it was the end of the world.

you had a strong feeling ferran would fall into the last category.

he was in your kitchen now, quietly snacking on cereal out of the box, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, hair still messy from his post-training nap.

you turned your phone to selfie mode and whispered, “okay guys... this is my current boyfriend.”

you angled the camera toward him.

ferran looked up, mid-chew. smiled automatically—then blinked.

“…wait.”

he squinted.

“current?”

you bit your lip, trying not to smile.

he slowly lowered the cereal box like it was suddenly very heavy. “what do you mean current, cariño?”

“you know,” you say, way too casually, “like… my boyfriend for now.”

he tilted his head, fully confused.

“for now??? am i... am i on a trial period or something?” he blinked. “is there a deadline?? did i miss a meeting???”

you cracked, laughing into your sleeve.

ferran pouted. properly pouted. full lips pulled down, forehead creased, arms crossed loosely in front of him like a kicked puppy.

“wow. i was gonna share the cereal with you,” he muttered.

“you never share cereal with me.”

“yeah well. current me was about to.” he glanced at your phone. “are you recording this?? oh my god.”

you put your phone down and walked over, wrapping your arms around him lightly. he didn’t hug you back immediately. just stood there, all soft and betrayed.

“you know you’re not just my current boyfriend, right?” you said into his hoodie.

he was quiet for a second. then—

“…okay but like. just to be clear. i’m the final boyfriend? like. endgame? credits roll?”

you smiled into his chest. “final boss.”

he let out a tiny sigh of relief, rested his chin on your head, and mumbled, “okay. but no more ‘current’. i almost had a heart attack. i thought i got dumped mid-cheerio.”

pau cubarsi

you were half sprawled on the couch, bored, lazy, and dangerously close to falling asleep, when your phone buzzed with yet another “current boyfriend prank” video.

you’d seen like six today, and every time, the boyfriend's reaction made you giggle. confused, dramatic, sometimes genuinely offended.

and now you were eyeing pau, who was across the room trying very seriously to fold laundry—his tongue poking out slightly as he focused on folding a t-shirt into a perfect square.

too perfect an opportunity.

you opened your front camera, hit record, and called out in your sweetest voice, “hey guys, just wanted to introduce you to my current boyfriend…”

pau looked up instantly, soft brown eyes lighting up—until he processed the words.

“...your what?”

you tried not to laugh. “my current boyfriend.”

he blinked. once. twice. his whole expression shifted—eyebrows furrowing, nose scrunching, lips forming the tiniest pout.

“current?” he stood there holding your hoodie like it had personally betrayed him. “what do you mean current, amor?”

you bit your lip, pretending to stay casual. “you know… the boyfriend i have right now.”

he dropped the hoodie. full-on stared at you. “so i’m just a phase now? like… like a monthly subscription?”

you snorted.

“pau—”

“no no. don’t even,” he cut in, arms now crossed over his chest. “what happens after me? is there a waitlist? auditions?”

you couldn’t stop giggling now. he was so serious about it, even as his pout deepened and he looked away like the most offended golden retriever alive.

“i folded your clothes,” he added quietly. “i was gonna make you toast.”

“and i love you for it,” you grinned, putting your phone down and padding over to him. you wrapped your arms around his waist and leaned into his chest. “you know i’m joking. you’re not just my current boyfriend, you’re my forever boyfriend.”

pau looked down at you, still pretending to be mad but already melting. “you can’t just call me current and then snuggle your way out of it.”

“i can if you like snuggles.”

he let out a dramatic sigh. “…i do.”

you reached up to boop his nose. “thought so.”

he finally smiled—barely—but then buried his face in your hair and mumbled, “i’m unfollowing you on tiktok.”

“no you’re not.”

“okay but only because you smell nice.”

hector fort

you’d been meaning to try the “current boyfriend” prank on héctor for days... héctor is chill. confident. annoyingly hard to rattle. but you knew if you caught him off guard, you’d get something out of him.

and today felt like the right day.

he was lying on your bed, arms behind his head, scrolling through something on his phone with his usual “i’m bored but also deeply unbothered” expression. he was wearing grey sweats, socks half on, one of his training shirts, and just existing in your space like it was his second home.

you hit record quietly.

“hey guys,” you said, voice sweet. “just wanted to show you my current boyfriend.”

his eyes immediately flicked over to you.

“...sorry?” he raised an eyebrow. “current?”

you blinked innocently. “yeah. my boyfriend at the moment.”

he let out a small laugh. one of those “you’re not serious” kinds of laughs.

“nah. no way you just said that.” he sat up slightly, resting on one elbow. “you really called me your current boyfriend? that’s crazy.”

you bit back a smile. “what? you are.”

he gave you a look. “babe. be serious. i’ve met your mom. i have a drawer here. i help you parallel park. we’re past current.”

you snorted. “parallel parking makes you permanent?”

“yes.” he leaned forward, still smirking. “also you kissed me this morning and said ‘i’m obsessed with you’ so...”

“i don’t recall—”

“i do. you were wearing my hoodie. looked very in love. kinda embarrassing for you.”

you groaned. “you’re so cocky.”

he shrugged, smug as ever. “i’m your forever boyfriend. you said it, not me.”

alejandro balde

you’d been scrolling through tiktok all day, watching all these “current boyfriend” prank videos where girls called their boyfriends “current” and got hilariously confused or offended reactions.

and then you caught alejandro just chilling on the couch, sneakers off, socks barely hanging on, flicking through his phone with that lazy grin of his.

you smirked.

“okay, let’s see what happens.”

you grabbed your phone, hit record, and with your sweetest, most casual voice said, “hey guys, this is my current boyfriend.”

alejandro looked up instantly, eyebrow twitching. “wait, current?”

you smiled, trying to keep it innocent. “yeah, like, the boyfriend i have right now.”

he blinked, then gave you a mock scandalized look. “current? so like… i’m temporary? a loaner? what’s the deal?”

you laughed. “no! it’s just a prank, chill.”

he threw his head back dramatically. “ay nooo, you’re breaking my heart over here.” then he wiggled closer and poked your side, grinning. “but if i’m just current, does that mean you might get a better one next week?”

you rolled your eyes but smiled. “no one’s better than you, ale.”

he smirked, looking all confident but his eyes softening. “good answer. because i’m staying.”

then he reached over and stole a quick kiss, still grinning. “current? nah. i’m forever.”

lamine yamal

you and lamine had been hanging out all afternoon — just snacks, music, and lazily throwing popcorn at each other while you argued over who had the better spotify taste. (spoiler: it was you, obviously.)

he was lying across your bed now, halfway on his stomach, hoodie sleeves all bunched up, phone in one hand while his other reached for snacks he wasn’t even looking at.

you sat down at the edge of the bed, grabbed your phone, and pressed record quietly.

“hey guys,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice level. “just wanted to show you my current boyfriend.”

you angled the camera to show lamine, still flopped on the bed. he turned his head slowly.

“…your what?” he blinked. sat up slightly. “nah. say that again.”

you smiled innocently. “my current boyfriend.”

he made a face — somewhere between “wtf” and “am i being pranked.”

“current is wild,” he muttered, sitting all the way up now. “you sayin’ there’s, what, a next one coming soon? someone on the bench or what?”

you laughed, trying to stay in character. “i’m just saying… things change, you know?”

“nah nah nah,” he said, holding up a hand, clearly fighting a smile but also a little bit serious now. “you can’t say stuff like that. i do math homework with you. i let you put your makeup on me last week. i carried your tote bag.”

“and i appreciate it, current boyfriend.”

he gasped. dramatic.

“don’t call me that. take it back.”

“you’re so offended.”

“i am offended,” he said, half-laughing. “i thought i was him. i thought i was ‘final boss boyfriend’. this is crazy.”

you giggled and finally leaned in to stop recording, flopping onto the bed beside him. “baby, i’m joking.”

he rolled his eyes but you could tell he was smiling for real now.

“you better be. ‘cause i already planned our next 5 dates and i’m not deleting them.”

you turned to look at him. “you planned five?”

“yes. and one of them includes gelato. you’d regret losing me.”

you laughed again, pressing your face into his hoodie. “you’re ridiculous.”

he smirked, brushing a crumb off your forehead.

“and permanent. don’t forget that part.”

marc bernal

you were sitting on your bedroom floor, half-folding laundry, half-pretending to be productive, while marc lay stretched out on your bed — arms behind his head, legs crossed, watching you with that small, steady smile he always had around you.

he wasn’t saying much, just watching. you knew that look. it was the “i like being here” look. the “i’m too comfortable to move” look. the “you’re my peace” look.

you smirked to yourself and grabbed your phone.

“okay,” you whispered into the mic, “so i just wanted to show you guys my current boyfriend.”

marc blinked. slowly sat up.

“…your what?”

you kept a straight face. “my current boyfriend.”

he just stared for a second, head tilted slightly, his expression somewhere between confused and mildly offended.

“current?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “like... as in, temporary?”

“mhm,” you said, pretending to focus on folding a hoodie. “he’s great for now.”

he let out a short breath, then slowly got off the bed and walked over, sitting down next to you on the floor.

“so when does my contract expire?” he asked, teasingly calm. “or do i get to renegotiate?”

you smiled, finally meeting his eyes. “depends. you offering long-term?”

marc gave a soft little huff of a laugh, then leaned his shoulder against yours.

“preciosa. i already signed for forever.”

you laughed under your breath. “you sure?”

he nodded. “one hundred percent.” then, just a little pouty, added, “but it did hurt. hearing you say current. like i’m on loan or something.”

you nudged his arm. “i was just messing with you. you’re my one and only, bernal.”

he gave a small, quiet grin, and you could tell he’d already forgiven you.

“…still rude, though.”

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @meganesanchez, @linnygirl09, @spidybaby,, @vicolette, @bernalswifeyy lmk if you want to be added/removed!

[jules-kounde]

[barcapix]

WE BEG YOU FOR SOME DAD!FERRAN !!!

✮ Is That What You Call It? - Ferran Torres

ferran torres x fem!reader

sy: has ferran gotten to grips with braiding hair yet? or will he still need you—some tutorials—to help make his daughters wishes a reality.

a/n: humour me cause this is the first time writing in months, so, sorry if it’s a lil stiff 🙏🏼 + is football a dying writing fandom or.. ALSO @n0vazsq this is for you.

warnings: nopeity.

you don’t intend to stare, really. promise.

but there’s something admiringly captivating about the way ferran cares for your daughter. the way he brushes the dirt from her knees as she falls; the way he spends hours in the morning designing mickey mouse pancakes—even if, they end up looking like mini elephants.

at the time, as much as it made your heart drop a smidge.. like god help us all, your daughter asked her daddy to help her plait her hair for the first time, he’d hesitated to the point of trembles and eventually, well, succeeded.

now, this is the second time.

they say second times a charm, don’t they?

“does this look okay?” ferran twists the corner of his mouth to whisper. you cock a brow until nodding from the doorway.

natiala, your daughter, sits bright-eyed infront of the mirror and high on a stepping stool with her hands neatly interlocked. she’s watching, carefully, almost ferran’s every move and muscle twitch. her feet also sway slightly in the air, her toes brushing the wood with every bounce of excitement.

its scary. the amount of attention she pays to the smallest of things.

“papà, you forgot this strand,” she lifts up a strand of her hair whilst ferran furrows his brows, subtly peering over to the tiktok tutorial in bewilderment.

following his gaze, noticing the phone, you catch your bottom lip between your teeth to seal a laugh. it’s on its lowest light, no sound and tucked halfway behind the pale blinds.

as if hiding the cheat sheet will make him look any less clueless.

they’re both there for another few minutes. natalia is perched, patiently, the glow in her eyes as she becomes more and more excited for the trendy—although if this were trendy, dear lord—updo, ferran is trying to perfect.

the heart of yours aches as you watch. one shoulder rests on the doorframe, as your arms loosely fold across your chest. she really is her daddy’s copy.

“andd.. ta-da!”

huh.

well…

ferran’s mini hops excitedly, squealing, as joy spreads across her features. she’s bringing the plait over her shoulder, slowly rotating in the mirror to herself and—

“daddy..” she squints, turning entirely to the side as his heart drops to his stomach. “this doesn’t look like rumi’s hair..”

a slap in the face. his face looks immediately rejected. like someone had told him santa wasn’t real. again.

“er,” ferran clears his throat, running a hand through the mullet of his. “little help?”

you laugh but it breaks like a breathy sigh; you plod along to where they stand. “i was waiting for you to say that.”

the long, tanned fingers of his find their way to your hair, combing it through until it he cradles the back of your head to lure you into a warm kiss. natalia gags to herself, muttering, “get a room.”

a snort bubbles from your lips as the kiss breaks, and you direct your attention to the birds nest of her hair. i mean, the only words you could describe her plait were as an inevitabile disaster.

honest work but also pitiful.

as you begin unraveling the artwork—definitely—scammery, you whisper, confidently, into your little girls ear. natalia beams, wiggling her brows.

“watch and learn daddy.”

you smirk. “yeah, watch and learn, baby.”

ferran huffs, trying to seem agitated but he doesn’t have one iritated bone in his body when it comes to you two. as you slowly unbraid natalia’s hair, you bring his fingers to yours, teaching him to weave the three sections of her hair. his tongue pokes out from his mouth, now, really dedicated to not mess it up this time.

“left over middle,” you murmur. “now right.”

for the first minute, you’re doing most of the work as his hands hesitate, and he glances into the reflection of the mirror as though he’s expecting you to catch him out. every now and then, he mutters a small “wait, wait,” which earns a soft chuckle from you.

it’s not long until you begin letting go a little more, as he learns to get ahold of the pattern. he doesn’t notice it at first, too occupied making sure he hasn’t somehow tied your daughter’s hair into a sailor’s knot, but by the end of it he’s the one weaving the strands together whilst your fingertips merely hover nearby.

“now this,” you hand him a small elastic; he complies by fastening it at the end of the braid.

you tap her on her shoulder. “look, hun.”

natalia doesn’t need telling twice.

she’s practically bouncing from the stool as she preens towards the mirror, turning her head from one side to the other before a grin stretches across her face.

“papà!” she gasps, twisting to throw her arms around his neck. “i look just like rumi!”

the footballer sighs a laugh of relief, as he goes to cuddle her. “well,” he says dramatically, looking over her shoulder towards you, “don’t sound too surprised.”

“i’m surprised,” you tease.

he rolls his eyes, though the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth never once falters. without thinking, his hand smooths over the braid, flattening a strand that had begun slipping loose before tucking it neatly behind her ear. it’s so instinctive that you don’t think he even realises he’d done it.

maybe that’s your favourite thing about him. that his love and care for the people he loves is never for show.

it’s simply just for who he is when nobody’s asking him to be.

ferran catches you staring, tilting his head. “que?”

“nothing.”

he pouts. “that’s not a nothing face.”

you shake your head, smiling to yourself before reaching up to flatten the stubborn piece of hair sticking out his curls. “i just…” you pause, watching natalia attend her focus back on the mirror. “i think you’re a better dad than you give yourself credit for.”

ferran smirks, pulling you closer by your hand. “is that what you call it?”

your eyes flick towards your baby girl. she’s still turning from side to side, beaming at a braid she’ll undoubtedly ask ferran to recreate tomorrow morning.

you smile. “yeah.”

your thumb brushes over his knuckles.

“i think i do.”

ferran only hums, his gaze following yours as you admire your special little girl. she mutters a song quietly whilst she proceeds to admire herself in the mirror. that’s what she’ll remember when she grows up. not whether her hair was perfect and exactly how she liked it.

but instead, how her daddy never stopped trying until it made her smile.

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

[spursjude]

ferran torres that was fucking hot