a/n: first joan fic wooo. also im finally back guys yay.
genre: comfort/fluff.
warnings: none.
summary: joan and you spend your first night in your new house talking about anything and everything to do with the move to fc barcelona.
The air in your new home smells faintly of paint and clean sheets. There are boxes stacked neatly in the corner of the room, half of them labeled in your handwriting, and the rest in Joan’s - his tidy, all-caps scrawl that always makes you smile. The walls are bare, the bedside table holds only a lamp and a glass of water, and yet somehow, it already feels like home.
You’re both lying on the bed, limbs tangled under the thin duvet, too exhausted to move but too content to sleep. Outside, the quiet hum of Sant Joan Despí floats through the cracked window. It’s strange to think this is real - that this house, just a few minutes from Ciutat Esportiva, belongs to you both.
Joan’s arm is slung lazily over your waist, his hand tracing slow circles against your hip. His hair is messy, soft from the shower, and his voice is still rough when he speaks.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You tilt your head toward him. “What does?”
“This,” he says, glancing around the room. “All of it. Being here. Knowing I’ll wake up tomorrow and drive to Barça training like it’s normal.”
You hum, running a hand through his hair. “You worked your whole life for this, Joan. It’s not weird, it’s what you deserve.”
He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It still doesn’t feel real.” He pauses, then adds softly, “I keep waiting for someone to tell me it’s a mistake. Like they mixed up the contracts or something.”
You laugh quietly, and he turns his head to look at you. His expression is gentle but uncertain, and you can tell there’s more sitting on his chest.
“You’re not here by accident,” you say firmly. “They saw you, Joan. They saw what you can do.”
“I know,” he murmurs, his voice almost shy. “But it’s Barça. Everyone there is… ridiculous. The standard, the pressure, the fans. It’s not just football anymore. It’s-” He stops himself, exhaling. “It’s a lot.”
You shift closer, resting your chin on his chest. “And you’re ready for it.”
His fingers slide up to your shoulder. “Maybe. I just don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t,” you promise. “You care too much to ever let that happen.”
He laughs softly, the sound muffled by the pillow. “You always make it sound so simple.”
“Because it is,” you say, nudging his side. “You train, you play, you stay kind, you work hard. That’s you. You’ve never needed anything fancy.”
He turns toward you fully now, the corners of his mouth lifting in that quiet way you’ve always loved. “You think I’m ready for this?”
“I know you are,” you reply. “And if you ever doubt it, I’ll remind you until you believe it again.”
Joan blinks a few times, eyes glinting in the dim light. He’s not someone who cries easily, but you can tell he’s feeling everything at once - ratitude, disbelief, nerves. You’ve seen him on bad days before matches, when he overthinks every goal he’s let in during training, but tonight feels different. It’s bigger.
He reaches up, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. “I don’t think I’d be here without you.”
“You’d still be here,” you say quietly. “Just maybe a little hungrier and less well-fed.”
That earns a laugh, and his body shakes with it. “You’re probably right.”
You smile against his chest, feeling him calm down little by little. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, strong and familiar.
After a while, the conversation drifts into small things - what curtains you should get for the living room, how the kitchen still smells like cardboard, whether the neighbors will be nice. Joan says he saw a couple of kids in Barça kits riding their bikes earlier and that he’s already nervous about being recognized when he takes the bins out.
You grin. “They’ll probably ask for your autograph.”
He groans. “I’ll have to practice my signature, then. I don’t want to look like I forged it.”
“You have such an athlete problem,” you tease. “Normal people just worry about recycling.”
“I’m still adjusting,” he admits. “Feels like just yesterday I was playing Segunda, and now I’m one of Barça’s keepers. It’s a jump.”
“You’ve earned it, Joan.”
He looks down at you again, his smile soft but steady this time. “You know what I’m actually excited about, though?”
You raise a brow. “What?”
“Being here. With you. Starting fresh. Not having to pack up and leave after a season ends. Just… building something that lasts.”
Your heart catches at that. You don’t say anything right away, just reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. “We’re really doing it, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice low. “We are.”
The silence that follows is comfortable. You can hear the soft hum of the fridge downstairs, the faint rustle of trees outside. His thumb rubs the back of your hand, slow and easy.
Then he adds, “I want to host dinners here. Get some of the guys over. Maybe Gavi will finally stop roasting me about my cooking.”
You snort. “Not if he tastes it.”
“Harsh,” Joan says, pretending to be offended. “You liked my tortilla.”
“I tolerated your tortilla,” you correct. “It was… edible.”
He gasps dramatically, pulling you closer until you’re both laughing, the sheets twisting between your legs.
When the laughter fades, you find yourself studying him in the quiet again - the slope of his nose, the tired creases under his eyes, the warmth that always seems to radiate off him. You think about the mornings to come: Joan heading out early to training, you making coffee and opening the windows, sunlight spilling over your new life.
“You’re going to be amazing,” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away, just presses a slow kiss to your forehead and whispers back, “Only because I’ve got you.”
And when he finally falls asleep, the corners of his mouth still turned up slightly, you lie awake for a while longer, staring at the blank ceiling and letting it sink in. The house may still be empty in places, but your life here already feels full.
You reach over, turn off the lamp, and settle against him, your fingers still linked.
Tomorrow, Joan García will wake up as a goalkeeper for FC Barcelona.
But tonight, he’s just your boy in a new bed, in a new home, dreaming of everything that’s still to come.
pairing: Joan x Balde!older sister (because why not)
summary: you get caught baby-ing Joan, except, no one knew you were dating... since his ESP days
note: BACK ON MY SIBLINGS SHIIIIIT
Holding the ice pack to his cheek, Joan made his way to the medics room for a further examination. As the nurse flashed the light across Joan's face to make sure he was not concussed, a knock came from the door.
Joan instantly lit up at the sight of you, his attention falling from the questions being asked to you, clad in a Barca kit that despite having your brothers name on the back, still made his heart skip a beat
"I'll leave you two to it then" the nurse smiles "not too much thinking Garcia!"
"yes ma'am" he says with a salute that make you both giggle
once the door is closed, you slot yourself between your boyfriend's spread legs, examining his cheek where the player's boot had made contact with his cheek
"oh my poor baby" you say, thumb grazing the wound softly
"they want to take me out" Joan mumbles putting his face into your chest
"I'll kill them first!" you say making him laugh
"I won't survive with you in prison" Joan says hands finding their way to your waist
"you'll live off of take outs and spaghetti" you joke
"hey I can cook!" Joan says pinching your hips
"you burnt eggs the other day, and served burnt bacon that was raw inside" you remind him "you're a health hazard my angel"
"you're being mean to me while I'm injured" Joan says with a pout
you pull him before your chest and kiss his cheek
"missed a spot" he said puckering his lips
"how could I!" you gasp
leaning in you connect your lips in a sweet kiss, feeling the noise of Camp Nou fading into the background, and subsequently the sound of the knocks coming at the door which results in the person on the other side opening the door anyways
"oh my God" you hear Pedri say
"oh this is going to be good" Lamine says
"where's my phone?" Ferran adds
behind them is your brother, jaw slack, eyes wide
"Ale, I can explain" you say quickly detaching yourself from your boyfriend
" YOU'RE FUCKING MY TEAMMATE!" He yells
"okay not so loud maybe" you say
"I'll be as loud as I want!" he hisses
"and you have every right to be but I was fucking him before he was your teammate actually" you say
"so you were fucking the enemy?" Dani asks
"can we stop saying shes fucking him, I don't want that visual" Pedri hisses
"is sleeping with a better word for you princess?" Ferran teases
"can we get back to the issue at hand here?" Gavi says from the back
"yeah why the hell are you all here?" you ask "and not knock?"
"because we were coming to check on Joan but I guess we were in for some real news" your brother sasses
"also we did knock but I guess the lip smacking and moans were louder" Ferran shrugs earning a slap on the back of the head
"I'm kind of concussed and you're being loud, and I want to go home and cuddle my girlfriend" Joan cuts through "can we schedule this for another time?"
"you're lucky" your brother says narrowing his eyes at you "we will be having a family meeting about this"
Can I request a fic about Joan Garcia x tennis player? Grazie!
Love in Recovery
Pairing: Joan Garcia x Reader
Word Count: 793
Request open!
Football Masterlist | Football Masterlist II | 24 days of Christmas
You first meet Joan García because you’re both injured.
Which is, frankly, annoying.
You’re sitting on the edge of a physio table, ankle wrapped, hair in a messy bun, scrolling aggressively through your phone like that might undo a badly timed slide on clay. The recovery room smells like disinfectant and frustration.
Then someone sits beside you.
“Tell me that look isn’t directed at the ankle,” a voice says in Spanish, amused.
You glance up. Tall. Dark hair still damp from a shower. Broad shoulders hunched slightly like he’s trying not to take up too much space.
Unfortunately for him, he does.
“Depends,” you reply. “Is your knee the one that betrayed you?”
He looks down at the ice pack taped to his leg and sighs. “I knew it.”
You smile despite yourself.
“I’m Joan,” he says, offering his hand. “Professional disappointment.”
You shake it. “Y/N. Also a disappointment. Tennis.”
His eyes light up. “Ah. That explains the murder stare.”
,
Two weeks later, you’re both still there.
Same room. Same physio. Same stolen glances when you think the other isn’t looking.
You learn that Joan hates being injured more than losing a match. That he watches old games just to critique himself. That he pretends not to be competitive but absolutely is.
He learns that you talk to yourself on court. That you hate grass. That you pretend pressure doesn’t get to you even though it absolutely does.
“You’re going to overthink it,” he tells you one day, watching you stretch.
You scoff. “I don’t overthink.”
“You just stared at the wall for a full minute,” he points out. “I timed it.”
“You timed me?”
“Goalkeepers notice things.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course you do.”
,
The first coffee isn’t a date.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
It’s raining outside, physio ran late, and Joan gestures toward the café across the street like it’s no big deal.
“Come on,” he says. “If we sit here any longer, I’ll start icing my soul.”
You laugh. “That bad?”
“Tragic.”
So you go.
You talk about everything except expectations. Except rankings. Except the weight that sits on both of your chests like a second ribcage.
“This is the first time I’ve been with someone who gets it,” he admits quietly, stirring his coffee.
You look at him. “Gets what?”
“The silence,” he says. “After a bad game. When everyone expects you to explain, and you don’t have the words.”
You nod. “Tennis is lonely. You win alone. You lose alone.”
He smiles softly. “Goalkeepers too.”
,
The media figures it out before you do.
A blurry photo of you leaving the café. Joan’s hand hovering near your back, not quite touching.
Espanyol’s rising star linked to international tennis sensation.
You stare at your phone in disbelief.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
Joan, pacing your living room, runs a hand through his hair. “I told you. They notice everything.”
“Well, they can notice this,” you say, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him down onto the couch.
He freezes.
“You okay?” you ask.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect that.”
“Me neither,” you admit. “But I don’t hate it.”
He exhales, relieved. “Good. Because I don’t either.”
,
Your first match back is brutal.
The crowd is loud. Your opponent relentless. Your ankle feels fine physically but your head,your head is a mess.
You lose the first set.
When you sit down, towel over your face, you hear someone shout your name.
You peek.
Joan, standing near the tunnel, fists clenched like he’s about to sub himself in.
“You’ve got this!” he yells. “You always fight back!”
You laugh, shaking your head.
You do.
You fight back.
You win.
After, he’s waiting.
Sweaty, smiling, eyes bright.
“I told you,” he says.
You step into him without thinking. His arms wrap around you instantly, secure, grounding.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
He presses his forehead to yours. “Always.”
His match comes next.
Penalty shootout.
You can’t watch.
You watch anyway.
When he saves the final shot, you scream louder than anyone.
After, he finds you in the tunnel, adrenaline still buzzing.
“I saw you,” he says, breathless. “You were pacing.”
“I was dying,” you admit.
He laughs and pulls you into him. “Guess we’re even.”
That night, lying beside him, city lights spilling through the window, he traces lazy circles on your arm.
“You know,” he says softly, “we’re going to have to get used to this.”
“To what?”
“Being each other’s calm,” he replies. “In the chaos.”
You smile. “I think I can live with that.”
He kisses your temple. “Good. Because I don’t plan on going anywhere.”
And for the first time in a long time, neither do you.
Y/n stretched her arms above her head, letting out a small yawn as she sat cross-legged on the living room floor. The coffee table had been pushed aside, and blankets and pillows were scattered around her, half-built into what she hoped would soon be the greatest pillow fort known to mankind. She glanced up at Joan, who was standing nearby, hands on his hips, a look of pure skepticism on his face. He was still in his training kit, and his hair was damp from a post-training shower, and there was a faint crease between his brows as he surveyed her work. "You expect me to fit in there?" He asked, nudging one of the cushions with his foot.
"Yep." Y/n said firmly. "I measured."
"With what?"
"My imagination."
Joan let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "And why are we building a pillow fort again?"
"Because it’s cute." She said, as if that were the most obvious answer in the world. "And because you always look so serious when you come back from training, and I want to see you be unserious for once." Joan exhaled, crossing his arms, but there was already a fond smile tugging at his lips. "You know I can’t say no to you."
"Iknow." Y/n grinned, holding out a hand. "Come on, you’re tall, help me with the roof." With a dramatic sigh, Joan crouched down beside her, picking up one of the blankets she had set aside. "Alright, but if this thing collapses on me in the middle of the night, I’m blaming you."
"It won’t. I’m a pro."
"Are you?" He grinned. "No, but that’s beside the point." Together, they draped blankets over the backs of the couches and tucked pillows along the edges for support. At one point, Joan got so into the construction process that he started using actual strategic planning, muttering things about reinforcement and structural integrity like they were about to submit their fort to an architecture competition.
By the time it was finished, Y/n crawled inside, eyes shining. "This is perfect." She declared, patting the spot next to her. "Get in." Joan hesitated for a moment before giving in, ducking his head to fit through the entrance. He was too broad for the space, but he made it work, lying back on the pillows with one arm stretched behind his head. His other hand instinctively found Y/n’s waist, pulling her closer until her head rested against his chest.
"Comfotable?" He murmured. "Mhm." Y/n sighed happily, snuggling into him. "You’re the best boyfriend in the world, you know that?"
"I do now." She tilted her head up, catching his gaze. "I love you, you know." Joan’s face softened, and without hesitation, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you too." He murmured.
can u do joan garcia smut? The reader being obsessed with the size of his hands
A/N: I don’t think it actually turned out good I’m sorry if you don’t like it
Summary: Clara is obsessed with Joan’s huge hands, giving her one of her best nights imagineable
Smut
Word count: 1k
masterlist
My hand in yours
Clara couldn’t take her eyes off Joan’s hands as he sat next to her in bed. They were so incredibly large, with long, strong fingers and broad palms marked by years as a goalie. The skin was rough on his knuckles but soft on his palms, and Clara felt a tingle in her stomach as she imagined those hands touching her body.
“You’re staring again,” Joan said with a soft smile, his voice deep and warm. He turned his head, and his dark eyes studied her with a mixture of amusement and affection.
Clara felt her cheeks grow warm, but she didn’t look away. “Can’t blame me,” she confessed, her voice barely more than a whisper. “they’re simply perfect.”
Joan laughed softly, a deep, vibrating sound that rippled through her body. He held out his right hand, and Clara didn’t hesitate to place her own in his. The contrast was overwhelming, her small, delicate hand almost disappeared in his large one. His fingers enclosed hers effortlessly, and a warm sense of security washed over her.
“You know these hands are the only thing that makes me useful as a goalie,” he said, running his thumb gently over the back of her hand. “Without them, I’d just be a big guy running around clumsily.”
Clara shook her head slowly. “No. You’re more than that. You’re… a privilege, not just for me, but for the team.”
Joan’s eyes darkened as she spoke, and he gently pulled her closer. His other arm wrapped around her waist, and Clara felt the warmth of his body through her clothes. She leaned against him, breathing in his scent, a mixture of fresh laundry and something unmistakably Joan-like.
“A privilege, huh?” he murmured against her hair as his fingers continued to stroke her hand. “And what exactly makes it a privilege?” his voice amusing but carrying a tone of teas.
Clara trembled slightly at his question, and she felt moisture gathering between her thighs. She leaned back to look him in the eyes, and her voice was firmer than she’d expected. “Everything.”
Joan nodded slowly, and a knowing smile played around his lips. He released his hand from hers and brought it to her face instead. His fingers gently traced her cheek, her jawline, her lips. She closed her eyes and focused solely on that touch, the warmth, the gentle pressure, the way his skin molded to hers.
“You like it when I do this,” he stated, not as a question but as a fact.
“Yes,” Clara whispered. “muchisímo”
His hand moved lower, over her neck and collarbones. His fingers were so large they could almost encircle her neck completely, but he did it with such tenderness that Clara felt nothing but safe and desired. He stroked the sensitive skin there, and Clara felt her nipples harden beneath her shirt.
“And here?” he asked as his hand slid further down, over the curve of her breast.
Clara nodded, unable to speak. His hand covered her breast completely, his thumb stroking the tip through the fabric of her shirt. A soft moan escaped her, and she instinctively pressed herself against his palm.
“Joan,” she whispered.
“Si, cariño?” he replied as his other hand began to move up her back.
“más.”
His smile widened, and he complied with her request. His hand slid under her shirt, and Clara flinched at the direct skin to skin contact. His fingers were rough in the places where he’d blocked the ball, but incredibly gentle everywhere else. He cupped her breast, his thumb slowly circling her hardened nipple.
Clara gasped, and her hands found their way to Joan’s shoulders. She clung to him as he continued to caress her. His movements were slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world to explore every inch of her body.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against her neck as he leaned down to kiss her there. His lips were soft, but his stubble tickled her skin in a way that drove her wild.
Clara tilted her head to the side to give him more room, and his kisses grew bolder. He bit her skin gently, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to draw a soft gasp from her. His hands kept working, one stroking her back while the other massaged her breast.
“Joan, please,” she moaned.
“Please what, cariño?” he asked, his voice now deeper, rougher.
“te necesito.”
He didn’t hesitate a second longer. His hand left her breast and slid down, over her stomach, until it reached the waistband of her shorts. She held her breath as his fingers slipped under the fabric. His hand was so large that it could easily glide over her pubic mound, and when his fingers touched her slit, her whole body shuddered.
“So wet for me,” he noted with satisfaction. “And I’ve barely touched you.”
Clara could only moan in response as his fingers began to stroke her labia. He was incredibly skilled, every movement precise and perfectly attuned to her reactions. His other hand found its way to her face, and he gently forced her to look at him.
“I want to see you ,” he said, his voice now a deep rumble that vibrated directly into Clara’s crotch.
His fingers found her clit, and Clara let out a soft cry. He began to draw slow circles, applying just the right amount of pressure to drive her wild. Her hands tangled in his hair as she moved against his hand, while his fingers thrusted in and out from her. Each time deeper than she thought was possible.
“Joan… oh joder … Joan…”
“That’s it, cariño,” he encouraged her as his movements quickened. “Come for me. Let me feel you relax for me.”
His words were what she needed to push her over the edge. Her orgasm hit her like a wave, intense and overwhelming. She screamed his name as her body convulsed and collapsed beneath his touch.
Joan held her through her climax, his hand remaining in place as she slowly came to her senses. When she had finally calmed down, he leaned forward and kissed her gently.
“ready for another round?” the smirk on his face appearing again.
