Just a Big Dreamer💕

—

Hello!👋

Welcome to my page:)

I’m a massive Arsenal fan in love with a couple of ballers😭⚽️

Feel free to talk football or just read on my page. Any feedback is always appreciated. I love when you lot interact!💓

Currently I am writing for Barış Alper Yılmaz, Rodrigo Riquelme, Pablo Barrios, Emile Smith Rowe, Ferran Torre & Eric García. HOWEVER I will consider writing for other players if requested for in the inbox & if I see it fit with the storyline✍️ *there is an “other players” section in the masterlist*

I can’t promise how consistent I will be but I will try doing regular writes when I am inspired🤩

—

Masterlist

—

Sorry for any errors in my writing as I’m a ✨Dyslexic Queen✨👸

Pillow Talk🌹

—

@saintbusan this one’s for you!! Thank you for requesting it.

—

—

JUST SMUT- You & Bariş are alone after a match, you straddle a firm pillow between your thighs and work his thick cock with both hands while grinding yourself stupid on the cushion, chasing your own filthy orgasm right alongside his.

—

The hotel room still smelled like sweat, turf, and pure victory when the door clicked shut.

Bariş had barely finished peeling the damp training kit from his body. His dark blonde curls stuck to his forehead, that sharp jaw tight with leftover adrenaline, the long, powerful frame that had just dominated ninety minutes now half-naked in front of you. His black shorts were already tented hard, the thick outline of his cock obvious and heavy.

You didn’t speak. You just shoved him down onto the edge of the bed, dropped to your knees between his spread thighs, and yanked the shorts lower until his cock sprang free.

Thick, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking a shiny bead of precome that caught the light. The scent of him hit you, salt, heat, pure male, and your cunt clenched so hard you almost whimpered.

You reached behind you, grabbed the firm hotel pillow, and shoved it roughly between your thighs.

The second the soft bulk pressed up against your soaked pussy you moaned, hips already rolling.

You settled your full weight onto it, feeling the cushion compress under your cunt, the friction perfect against yourself. Your underwear was already ruined, the fabric dark and sticky, clinging to every fold.

Then you wrapped both hands around Bariş’s length.

He hissed through his teeth, head tipping back, one big hand landing in your hair. You didn’t stroke yet. You just held him, feeling the heat, the heavy pulse, the way he filled both your palms.

Your thumbs rubbed slow circles over the wet head, smearing the precome down the shaft until he was slick and shiny.

Only then did you start moving, slow, tight strokes from base to tip, twisting on the upstroke the way you already knew he liked.

Your hips never stopped.

You rode that pillow like it was a cock, grinding, you dripping against it in dirty little circles.

Every time you squeezed Bariş’s shaft, you pressed down harder, chasing the thick pressure against your clit.

The dual sensation was immediate and filthy, the hard, hot length of him filling your hands while your pussy dragged over the firm cushion. Your clit throbbed with every roll of your hips.

You could already feel the first sharp sparks of pleasure building low in your belly.

“Fuck… look at you,” Bariş muttered, voice rough, accent thicker than usual. He watched you with half-lidded eyes, the muscles in his stomach flexing every time your fists pumped him. “Riding that pillow while you jack me off. Filthy little thing.”

You only moaned in answer and tightened your grip. Both hands working him now, one twisting over the sensitive head, the other stroking the thick base, occasionally dipping lower to roll his heavy balls in your palm.

Precome kept leaking, making everything wetter. The slick sounds of your fists on his cock mixed with the soft, rhythmic squelch of your cunt grinding against the pillow.

You leaned forward a little, resting your forehead against his thigh so you could watch your hands work him while you kept riding.

Your breath came in short, shaky pants against his skin. You were already chasing it, the high. That rising heat between your legs, the way your clit pulsed every time the pillow dragged over it.

You rolled your hips harder, almost bouncing, letting the cushion drag over every sensitive inch.

Your free hand (when you could spare it) shoved between your body and the pillow just long enough to rub your clit directly, then returned to his cock, smearing your own wetness onto his shaft so you were stroking him with your juices.

Bariş’s hand tightened in your hair. His hips started rolling up to meet your strokes, fucking into your fists. “Harder,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Both hands. Milk it. I want to feel how desperate you are.”

You obeyed.

Fists flying faster, gripping tighter, twisting on every upstroke until he was leaking steadily over your fingers.

Your own hips matched the pace, grinding, rocking, chasing that high with zero shame. The pillow was perfect, firm enough to give real pressure, soft enough that you could grind without mercy.

Your cunt was throbbing, dripping, the fabric of your underwear dragged to the side so bare, swollen folds slid directly over the damp cotton.

Every circle of your hips made wet, filthy sounds. You could feel yourself getting closer, that tight coil in your belly winding higher with every dual stroke and grind.

You were chasing it deliberately now, pushing harder on the pillow every time your fists squeezed him, matching the rhythm so the pleasure spiked together. Your clit was swollen and aching.

Your thighs trembled. Precome and your own slick mixed on your hands until everything was shiny and messy. Baris’s breathing turned ragged. You could feel him swelling thicker in your grip, balls drawing up tight.

“Gonna come on that pillow while you stroke me?” he asked, voice strained. “Do it. Make a mess. I want to feel you shake while you finish me. Chase it. Don’t you fucking stop.”

You whimpered and rode harder. The high was right there, sharp, bright, almost painful in its intensity. You twisted both fists over the head of his cock at the same time, squeezing, and he cursed loudly in Turkish, hips jerking.

That was all it took for the first wave to hit you.

You came hard, grinding down onto the pillow with a broken moan as your pussy clenched and pulsed. Wetness flooded out of you, soaking the cushion even more. Your thighs shook violently.

Your hands stuttered on his cock for a second as the orgasm ripped through you, but you forced yourself to keep stroking, keep milking him through your own climax. The high didn’t stop; it rolled, wave after wave, every grind on the pillow sending another sharp jolt through your clit while your fists kept working his cock.

Bariş followed almost immediately. A deep, guttural groan tore out of him as his cock throbbed hard in your fists.

Thick ropes of come shot up over your hands, painting your wrists and the insides of your arms, some of it landing on your chest and the pillow between your thighs.

You kept stroking him through it, slower now, squeezing every last pulse out of him while your own orgasm still fluttered and pulsed. You didn’t stop riding the pillow.

You chased the aftershocks deliberately, rolling your hips in lazy, filthy circles, smearing the mess of your own come all over the cushion, dragging out every last spark of pleasure until your clit was almost too sensitive.

When the worst of it faded you stayed like that for a long moment, hands still wrapped around his slowly softening cock, thighs still straddling the soaked pillow, breathing hard against his leg. Baris’s fingers stayed tangled in your hair, stroking absently. Your cunt was still twitching. The pillow was ruined, dark with your wetness and streaks of his come.

You finally looked up at him, lips parted, cheeks flushed, hands shiny with his release. He was still watching you with that dark, hungry look.

“Again,” he said simply, voice low and rough. “This time I want to watch you make yourself come on that pillow while you use your mouth. Chase it higher. I want to feel you moan around my cock when you break.”

You didn’t hesitate. You shifted the pillow, settled your weight back onto it, and leaned forward.

Your hips started moving all over again, grinding, chasing that same filthy high, while you took the head of his still-sensitive cock between your lips and sucked, tasting yourself and him mixed together.

Your fists wrapped around the base, stroking what your mouth couldn’t take, and you rode the cushion harder, already chasing the next wave.

Bariş’s hand tightened in your hair again. His cock twitched against your tongue.

You were going to ride that pillow until your thighs burned and your cunt was raw. You were going to milk him dry with your hands and your mouth. And you were going to chase that high until neither of you could think straight.

—

This is basically just pure filth. Zero shame😭 but it’s been a while since I got a Bariş request, so thank you for the DM request.

following viks World Cup heartbreak maybe we could get a comfort fic for him abt this? thanks and take care!

Viktor Gyökeres x Reader

Home After the Whistle💔

—

Anonnnn! I am so sorry this is very late. I literally had no inspiration until earlier this week to get this written up so here we go:)

—

—

FLUFF- After Sweden’s World Cup campaign ends in heartbreak, Viktor returns home to you carrying the weight of missed chances, quiet disappointment & heartbreak…

—

The apartment was quiet when Viktor finally walked through the door.

Not the usual quiet of a late night after training, but the heavy, exhausted kind that settles after something important has ended without the ending you wanted.

You had watched every minute. The final group-stage match. The tension in the Swedish dugout. The way Viktor’s shoulders had stayed squared even when the result slipped away.

When the final whistle blew and the camera found him, head bowed, hands on his hips, you had felt the weight of it from hundreds of kilometres away.

You heard the key in the lock. Soft footsteps. The soft thud of his bag hitting the floor.

You were already on the couch with a blanket, two mugs of tea cooling on the table, and the soft glow of a single lamp. No television. No phone notifications. Just the low hum of the city outside and the quiet you had prepared for him.

He appeared in the doorway of the living room, still in the team tracksuit, hair slightly damp from the shower he must have taken at the hotel or the training ground.

His eyes found yours immediately. For a second he looked like he might try to smile the way he usually did, easy, bright, the one that made people forget how intense he could be on the pitch. It didn’t quite form.

You stood up without a word and crossed the room.

Viktor’s arms came around you the moment you were close enough. He didn’t speak. He just held on, forehead resting against the side of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo and the soft cotton of your hoodie. You felt the tension in his back, the way his hands pressed flat between your shoulder blades as if he needed the contact to stay upright.

“I’m home,” he murmured eventually, voice rough.

“I know,” you answered, just as quietly. “I’ve got you.”

You guided him to the couch. He sat heavily, and you climbed into the space beside him, tucking your legs under the blanket and pulling it over both of you. Viktor immediately shifted so that one of his arms could rest along the back of the cushions, the other settling around your waist. You leaned into his side, cheek against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

For a long while neither of you said anything. The tea sat untouched. Outside, a car passed. Somewhere in the building a door closed. The world kept moving, but here it had slowed to the rhythm of his breathing and the slow stroke of your thumb across the back of his hand.

Eventually he spoke, the words low and tired.

“We were so close. I keep replaying the moments. The chances we had. The ones that didn’t fall.”

You didn’t offer empty reassurances. You didn’t tell him it was only a tournament or that there would be another chance. You simply turned a little so you could see his face better in the soft light.

“I watched you,” you said. “Every single minute. You never stopped running. You never stopped believing for the people next to you. That matters, Vik. Even when the scoreboard doesn’t show it the way you wanted.”

His eyes closed for a second. When they opened again there was a sheen of moisture he didn’t try to hide.

“I wanted to bring something home for everyone. For the lads. For the country. For…” He trailed off, glancing at you. “For us. I wanted you to see me lift something that felt worthy of how hard we’ve both worked.”

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead. Your fingers lingered, tracing the line of his brow the way you always did when he was overthinking.

“You already brought something home,” you told him gently. “You. That’s what I was waiting for. Not a medal. Not a highlight reel. Just you walking through that door.”

Viktor let out a long breath that seemed to take some of the weight with it. He turned more fully toward you, one large hand coming up to cradle the side of your face. His thumb stroked your cheekbone with careful tenderness.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, almost to himself.

“You don’t have to deserve me,” you answered. “You just have to let me be here when it hurts. That’s the deal.”

A small, real smile finally appeared, soft around the edges, the one that belonged only to quiet nights like this.

He leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the bridge of your nose, then one to your mouth that tasted of salt and relief and the faint mint of the gum he must have chewed on the journey home.

When he pulled back he rested his forehead against yours.

“Stay like this a little longer?” he asked.

“As long as you need.”

You shifted until you were both properly under the blanket, Viktor stretched out along the length of the couch with you half on top of him, your head tucked under his chin. His fingers found their way into your hair, combing through the strands in slow, repetitive motions that seemed to soothe him as much as they did you. You could feel the gradual loosening of the muscles in his shoulders, the way his breathing deepened.

After a while he started talking again, not about the match, but about small things. The way the light had looked over the training pitch that morning. A joke one of the younger players had made on the bus. How much he had missed the sound of your laugh in the empty hotel rooms.

You answered with soft stories of your own: the ridiculous thing the neighbour’s cat had done, the recipe you wanted to try with him once the season quieted down, the playlist you had made for the drive you would take together when he was ready to leave the city for a few days.

No pressure. No timeline. Just the gentle weaving of ordinary life back around the edges of the disappointment.

At some point the tea went completely cold. Neither of you cared. Viktor’s hand eventually stilled in your hair, resting there like an anchor.

You felt the moment he drifted into a light doze, his body heavier, the protective arm around you still holding on even in sleep.

You stayed awake a little longer, listening to him breathe, tracing idle patterns on his chest over the fabric of his top. Outside the window the sky had gone fully dark. Inside, the lamp still glowed, warm and steady.

When he stirred again later, blinking slowly, the first thing he did was look for you. The second was to pull you closer, pressing a sleepy kiss to the top of your head.

“Still here,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something softer.

“Always,” you whispered back.

He shifted just enough to look at you properly, eyes clearer now, the sharp edges of the day dulled by rest and the simple fact of being held.

“Thank you,” he said. Not for the tea or the blanket or the quiet. For all of it. For being the place he could fall apart without fear of being less.

You smiled and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Anytime, Vik. Every time.”

—

Later you would move to the bedroom. You would help him out of the tracksuit, replace it with soft old clothes that smelled like home. You would lie side by side under cooler sheets, legs tangled, his arm heavy and warm across your waist.

There would be more quiet conversation in the dark, about the future, about the next training cycle, about the small holiday you both wanted once the calendar allowed it.

There would be soft laughter when he recounted a ridiculous moment from the camp that only made sense in hindsight. There would be long, unhurried kisses that said more than words about safety and belonging.

But for now, on the couch under the blanket, with the lamp still glowing and the city quiet beyond the glass, it was enough.

Viktor Gyökeres had carried a nation’s hopes on his back for weeks. Tonight he only had to carry the knowledge that someone was waiting to catch him when those hopes felt too heavy.

And you were right there, steady, patient, and completely his, ready to hold the weight with him for as long as it took for the heartbreak to soften into something that could be lived with, and eventually, left behind.

The night stretched on, gentle and unbroken.

Outside, the world kept turning. Inside, two people simply stayed close, breathing the same air, mending what the pitch had broken with nothing more dramatic than presence, warmth, and the quiet promise that neither of them had to face the hard days alone…

—

Myles Lewis Skelly x Reader

First Time Meeting His Mum🌸

—

Thanks anon for this request! I absolutely love the relationship that Myles has with his mum Marcia, it’s so wholesome🥺 he’s also a good egg.

—

—

FLUFF- After months of quiet training sessions together and growing closeness in the off-season, you and Myles finally take the next step, which is meeting his mum for the first time.

—

Myles had been nervous all week, though he’d done a solid job of hiding it.

You’d noticed the way his knee bounced under the table at the café near the training pitches, the way he’d started sentences about the weekend and then trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

You’d been dating for a few months now, long and quiet months filled with early morning sessions, shared post-training meals, and long drives where the radio filled the comfortable silences.

He was still the same focused, slightly shy lad who’d first asked if you fancied joining him for extra work in the off-season. You, the up-and-coming baller at a small club a few leagues below, still grinding for that breakthrough. Him, already making noise at a bigger place, yet somehow still choosing to train with you on the days he didn’t have to.

Tonight was different. Tonight you were meeting his mum Marcia.

He’d told you about her in small, careful pieces. How she still packed him snacks for the longer drives even though he was grown. How she never missed a game when she could help it. How she’d been the one who drove him to every academy session when the buses didn’t run late enough.

You’d listened and felt something warm settle in your chest each time.

Now the two of you stood on the front step of a neat terraced house on a quiet street, the late summer evening still holding onto the last of the light. Myles’s hand found yours for a second, gave it a quick squeeze, then let go so he could ring the doorbell.

The door opened almost immediately.

“There he is,” a warm voice said, and before Myles could even step inside, arms were around him. Marcia was smaller than you’d expected, but the hug she gave him looked strong enough to hold the whole world. When she pulled back, her eyes were already shining.

“And this must be the one,” she said, turning to you with a smile that reached all the way to her eyes. “Come in, come in. Don’t stand on the doorstep like strangers.”

The house smelled like something good cooking, onions, spices, the kind of smell that made your stomach remember it hadn’t eaten properly since lunch.

Shoes came off by the door without being asked. Myles’s hand brushed the small of your back as he guided you further in, and you caught the soft look he shot his mum over your head.

“Mum, this is…” He said your name carefully, like it still felt new and important in his mouth. “We’ve been… yeah. Training together. And… seeing each other.”

You watched his ears go a little pink. His mum just laughed, soft and fond.

“I know who you are, love. He’s only mentioned you about forty times this month.” She reached out and gave your arm a gentle squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here. Sit down, both of you. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

The living room was lived-in and comfortable. Photos covered one wall, Myles as a little kid in oversized boots, Myles in academy kits that looked too big for him, Myles with his arm around his mum at what looked like a school awards night. There was a framed picture of the two of them on a beach somewhere, both squinting into the sun, both smiling the same way.

—

You ended up on the sofa while Myles helped carry dishes through from the kitchen, even though his mum kept telling him to sit down.

Every time he passed behind her he dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head, and she swatted at him with a tea towel, laughing.

Dinner was easy in a way that surprised you. The food was proper home cooking, rice, chicken, vegetables that still tasted like they’d come from somewhere real. Conversation flowed without effort.

His mum asked about your club, about the small pitches and the long coach rides, about how the off-season training was going. She listened like every answer mattered. When you talked about the extra sessions you and Myles had been putting in, she nodded like she already knew.

“He’s always been like that,” she said, glancing at her son with quiet pride. “If there’s something he cares about, he gives it everything. I used to have to drag him in from the park when it got dark.”

Myles ducked his head, but he was smiling. Under the table his knee bumped yours and stayed there.

You told her about the first time the two of you had properly spoken, how he’d stayed behind after a shared session to help you with a crossing drill you’d been struggling with, how he’d been patient and quiet and somehow made the whole thing feel less impossible. His mum’s expression softened even further.

“That’s my boy,” she murmured.

—

After dinner you helped clear the plates despite her protests. In the kitchen, while Myles was outside taking a quick call from a teammate, she turned to you with a tea towel in her hands and a gentler version of the same smile.

“He’s happy,” she said simply. “I can see it. He doesn’t always say much, but I can tell. You look after each other, yeah?”

You nodded, throat suddenly a little tight. “We do.”

She reached out and squeezed your hand once, firm and warm. “Good. That’s all I ask.”

Later the three of you sat in the living room with cups of tea. The television murmured quietly in the background, some old match replay neither of them were really watching.

Myles’s mum told stories about the early days, from the muddy boots left by the door, the nights she’d sat up waiting for him to get back from distant tournaments, the way he’d come home exhausted but still talking about the game like it was the best thing in the world. Myles groaned good-naturedly through most of them, but he never asked her to stop.

At one point he stretched an arm along the back of the sofa behind you, fingers brushing your shoulder. His mum noticed and pretended not to, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

When it finally came time to leave, she walked you both to the door. She hugged Myles first, long and tight, murmuring something against his shoulder that made him nod and close his eyes for a second. Then she turned to you.

The hug she gave you was unexpected and thorough. She smelled like the same spices from dinner and something soft, like fabric softener.

“You’re welcome here any time,” she said when she pulled back. “Properly, not just for dinner. And if he ever gives you trouble, you come and tell me. I’ll sort him out.”

Myles rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “Mum—”

“I’m serious.” She patted your arm one more time. “Look after each other.”

—

Outside, the night had properly settled in. Myles’s hand found yours as soon as the door closed behind you. He didn’t say anything for a little while, just walked beside you down the quiet street, the warmth of his palm steady against yours.

Eventually he glanced sideways. “She likes you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, almost shy. “A lot. I could tell.”

You squeezed his hand. “I like her too. A lot.”

He stopped walking for a second, turned to face you properly under the glow of a streetlight. The usual intensity he carried onto the pitch was softer now, replaced by something open and careful.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I know it’s… a lot. Meeting the family and everything.”

You stepped closer, resting your forehead against his for a moment. “It wasn’t a lot. It was nice. Really nice.”

His arms came around you, easy and familiar, and for a while the two of you just stood there in the middle of the pavement, breathing the same night air. Somewhere a dog barked once and went quiet again. The rest of the world felt a long way away.

When you finally started walking again, his arm stayed around your shoulders. Every so often he pressed a quick kiss to your temple, like he couldn’t quite help it.

“Next time,” he said after a while, “we can go to yours. If you want. Meet your mum properly too.”

You smiled into the dark. “I’d like that.”

Myles nodded, and the small, private smile that always seemed reserved just for you settled on his face. The season would start again soon enough. The training would get harder, the matches more serious, the pressure heavier.

But for now there was just this… the quiet street, the warmth of his hand, and the knowledge that somewhere behind you a front door had closed on a house that already felt a little bit like it might one day feel like home.

You walked on together, unhurried, the summer evening stretching out gently around you both.

—

Just send me in prompts etc. as I absolutely suck at those🥲

Ferran Torres x Reader

Again, the Hard Way✉️ (Part 1 is here, Part 2 here, Part 3 here)

—

So this is officially a series now! Idk how many parts it will be but guys I’m also wayyyy too invested myself to just halt it at the last part😆

—

—

ANGST- Three weeks of silence. Then the letters start arriving, no demands, no excuses, just quiet proof that Ferran is finally putting in the work.

—

Three weeks.

That’s how long you managed to keep the silence.

Three weeks of blocked numbers, ignored stories, and the deliberate choice not to look at anything with his name attached.

You deleted the old photos. You stopped sleeping in the shirt you’d stolen from him. You even went out twice, once with friends, once with that same kind, boring guy from work who still didn’t make your chest ache the way it used to.

You told yourself you were healing.

Most days you almost believed it.

Then the first letter arrived.

Not a text. Not a voice note. An actual letter, slipped under your door sometime before dawn, the envelope slightly crumpled like it had been held too tightly for too long. Your name on the front in his handwriting. No return address. Just your name.

You almost threw it away.

Instead you sat on the floor of your hallway and opened it with shaking hands.

I know you don’t want to hear from me. I know I don’t deserve it. But I can’t keep pretending the silence doesn’t feel like I’m drowning. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m just asking you to know that I’m still here, still sorry, still trying to become someone who doesn’t keep breaking the only person who’s ever felt like home.

I’ve been going to therapy. Twice a week. I told them everything. The photos. The lies. The way I kept choosing the easy out instead of fighting for you properly. They asked me what I’m most afraid of. I said losing you for real. They asked me what I’m going to do about it. I said whatever it takes.

I’m not coming to your door. I’m not calling. I’m not showing up at training with some grand gesture. I’m just writing this because the quiet is too loud and I needed you to know I’m still choosing you even when you can’t see it.

I love you. I’m sorry that sentence used to come with conditions.

— F

You read it three times. Then you folded it carefully and put it in the drawer where you kept the things that hurt too much to throw away.

You didn’t reply.

—

The second letter came four days later.

The third the day after that.

He wrote every few days like clockwork. Never demanding. Never begging for a response. Just… present. Small pieces of his days. How training felt empty. How he stopped going out entirely. How he deleted every number that wasn’t family or teammates. How he still reached for his phone at night and had to stop himself from dialling the blocked one.

One letter included a photo of a small, slightly crooked plant on his balcony with the caption: Trying to keep something alive that isn’t you. It’s harder than it looks.

You hated how that one made you smile for half a second before the ache came back.

You still didn’t reply.

—

Week five, the letters stopped for three days.

You told yourself you were relieved.

On the fourth morning there was a soft knock at your door at 7:12AM

You almost didn’t answer. Then you heard his voice, quiet, rough, careful.

“I know I said I wouldn’t come. I know. But I brought coffee the way you like it and I won’t come in unless you say yes. I’ll leave it and go if you want. I just… needed to see your face. Even for a second.”

You stood on the other side of the door with your hand on the lock for a long time.

Finally you opened it.

He looked different.

Thinner in the face. Darker under the eyes. Hair a little longer, like he hadn’t bothered with the usual careful styling. He was holding two takeaway cups and a paper bag that smelled like the almond croissants you used to share on lazy Sundays. When he saw you his whole body seemed to exhale, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

“Hi,” he said softly.

You didn’t say it back. You just stepped aside.

He came in carefully, like the floor might break under him. Set the coffee and the bag on the counter. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t try to close the distance.

“I meant what I wrote,” he said after a moment. “About the therapy. About everything. I’m not here to ask you to take me back. I just… I needed you to know I’m still doing the work even when you’re not watching.”

You wrapped your hands around the warm cup he brought you and stared at the floor.

“Why now?” you asked. Your voice sounded strange from disuse. “Why show up after weeks of letters?”

He swallowed. “Because yesterday my therapist asked me what I would regret most if I never saw you again. And I realised the answer was never getting to tell you, face to face, that I’m sorry for real this time. Not the version that comes with excuses. Just… sorry.”

The silence stretched.

Then, quieter: “You can tell me to leave. I’ll go. No arguing. No ‘please just hear me out.’ I’ll respect it.”

You looked up at him.

He was standing there with his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes steady but wet at the edges. No performance. No soft smile designed to disarm you. Just a man who looked like he’d spent every night since you closed the door trying to become someone better and still wasn’t sure if it was enough.

“Stay for the coffee,” you said eventually. “That’s all.”

He nodded once, like he’d been given something precious.

—

You sat on opposite ends of the couch.

He didn’t try to fill the quiet with promises. He just answered the questions you asked, carefully, honestly. Yes, the therapy was hard. Yes, he’d told his teammates he was stepping back from the nightlife. Yes, he’d blocked the numbers himself this time, not just promised to.

No, he didn’t expect forgiveness. He just wanted you to know the version of him that kept hurting you was someone he was actively trying to leave behind.

At one point he glanced at the plant photo still sitting on your coffee table (you hadn’t thrown that letter away either) and gave a small, self-deprecating huff.

“It’s still alive, by the way. Barely. I almost killed it twice.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

When he left an hour later he didn’t try to kiss you. Didn’t reach for your hand. He just paused at the door and said, quietly,

“Thank you for letting me stay for the coffee. I’ll keep writing. Only if you want me to.”

You didn’t answer.

But that night, when the next letter arrived, you read it without crying first.

—

The good moments came slowly.

Small ones.

He brought you soup when you mentioned in passing (during one of the rare times you answered a call) that you’d caught a cold.

Left it at the door with a note:

Still not asking for anything. Just didn’t want you to have to cook.

He sent a voice note of the rain against his window one night because he remembered you used to fall asleep to that sound when you stayed at his place.

No talking. Just the rain.

You listened to it three times before you deleted it.

One Saturday he texted (you’d unblocked him by then, carefully, with no promises attached) asking if he could drop off a book he’d finished that made him think of you. You said yes. He left it on your doormat and was already gone by the time you opened the door. Inside the cover he’d written: Page 147. That’s the part that felt like us when we were good.

You read page 147. Then you read the whole book.

You still didn’t invite him in.

—

The heartbreak never fully left.

It lived in the quiet moments when you remembered the perfume on his collar, the photos, the way you’d let yourself hope only to be proven stupid again.

It lived in the way your body still tensed when his name came up in conversation. It lived in the nights you woke up reaching for someone who wasn’t there and had to remind yourself why.

One evening, six weeks after the door closed, he asked if he could take you for a walk. Nowhere private. Just the long path near the beach where the lights reflected on the water.

You said yes.

You walked side by side without touching. He told you about a session in therapy where he’d had to write a letter to every version of himself that had hurt you, the one who took the photos, the one who lied, the one who always chose the temporary comfort over the hard work. He said reading them out loud had made him feel sick. He said that was the point.

At one point he stopped walking and looked at you properly.

“I used to think loving you meant keeping you,” he said. “Now I think it means becoming someone worth keeping. Even if you never decide I am.”

You felt the familiar ache in your chest, the one that used to mean you were about to forgive him too easily.

This time you just nodded.

“I’m not there yet,” you told him. “I don’t know if I ever will be.”

“I know.” He didn’t flinch. “I’m still going to keep showing up in the ways that don’t ask anything of you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

You walked the rest of the way in silence.

When you reached your building he didn’t follow you up. He just waited until you were safely inside, then turned and walked away into the dark.

You watched him from the window until he disappeared.

—

It was another two weeks before anything shifted.

You were having a bad night, the kind where the memories came too sharp and the loneliness felt like a physical weight. You almost texted him.

Almost.

Instead you opened one of the earlier letters and reread the part about the plant.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you typed.

You:

Is the plant still alive?

The reply came in under a minute.

Ferran:

Barely. It’s leaning like it’s drunk. I think it misses you more than I do, which is saying something.

You stared at the message for a long time.

Then.

Ferran:

You can bring it over. If you want. Just the plant.

He arrived twenty minutes later with the slightly pathetic little plant in a new pot and a careful expression, like he was afraid you’d change your mind before he reached the door.

You let him in.

You set the plant on the windowsill together. He stayed standing near the kitchen island, hands in his pockets again, giving you space even in your own home.

“I meant what I said on the beach,” he said eventually. “I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to make you decide anything. I just… I miss existing in the same space as you. Even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s only for a little while.”

You looked at him, really looked.

The man who’d once known exactly how to touch the softest parts of you and break them was standing in your kitchen looking like he’d rather set himself on fire than risk hurting you again.

Something in your chest loosened. Not fully. Not safely. But enough.

“Stay,” you said quietly. “Just for a bit. We can… try the quiet.”

His eyes flickered with something that looked like hope and fear at the same time.

He nodded.

You sat on the couch. He sat on the opposite end again. The plant leaned drunkenly toward the window. Outside, the city kept moving.

For the first time in a long time, the silence between you didn’t feel like a wound.

It felt like a beginning that was still too fragile to name.

He didn’t reach for you.

You didn’t reach for him.

But when your foot accidentally brushed his under the coffee table, neither of you moved away.

And for now, for this one small, careful night, that was enough.

—

I just couldn’t help writing part 4 ASAP! I have a thing for late morning writing lmao. It’s just gone past 1AM🫩

Riccardo Calafiori x Reader

Exactly As You Are🩷

—

I hope this is what you envisioned anon, I really enjoyed writing this up. Take care🥹❤️

—

—

ANGST, FLUFF & SLIGHT SMUT- Reader has never quite believed she deserves someone like Riccardo Calafiori. After a quiet night in the private box, her old insecurities rise again, from soft places, stretch marks, the fear that she’s too much and not enough all at once.

—

She had always known, deep down, that she didn’t belong in rooms like this.

The private box at the Emirates was all polished glass and soft lighting, the kind of place where champagne came in crystal and the air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and success.

Down on the pitch, Arsenal were grinding out a hard-fought win, the crowd a rolling sea of red. But up here, in the relative quiet, Richy was looking at her like she was the only thing worth watching.

He had that soft, almost shy smile he sometimes got when the cameras weren’t on him. The one that made the sharp angles of his face gentler. One long arm was draped along the back of her seat, his fingers absently tracing lazy circles against the fabric near her shoulder. Every so often his thumb would brush the bare skin there, and she would feel it all the way down to her toes.

She shifted, tugging the soft black cardigan tighter around herself even though the box was warm. The dress she had chosen, dark green, soft jersey that skated over her curves rather than clinging felt suddenly too revealing. She could feel the way her thighs pressed together on the seat, the soft give of her stomach under the fabric, the way her arms weren’t the sleek, toned ones the girls in the stands seemed to have.

She had spent twenty minutes in the mirror this afternoon turning side to side, cataloguing every soft place, every stretch mark that silvered her hips, every place where her body simply… took up space.

Richy had texted earlier:

Wear whatever makes you feel good. I’ll only be looking at you anyway.

She had believed him for about ten minutes. Then the old voice had crept back in.

He’s 6’2”. Professional athlete. Italian. Looks like he was carved out of marble and then given the most unfairly soft eyes on earth. You’re—

“Tesoro.” (Darling) as he interrupted your thoughts.

His voice was low, pitched just for her. She turned. He was watching her instead of the match, dark brows drawn together slightly.

“You’re somewhere else,” he said. Not accusing. Just noticing. He always noticed.

She tried for a smile. “Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous,” he murmured, and the corner of his mouth tilted. Then, quieter: “About what?”

She shook her head. “Nothing important.”

He didn’t push. Not yet. Instead he reached across and took her hand, lacing their fingers together on his thigh. His hand was warm, calloused from training, and so much larger than hers that it made something in her chest ache.

He squeezed once, then rested their joined hands there, thumb stroking over her knuckles in slow, steady passes.

The final whistle blew. Arsenal had won. The box erupted in quiet celebration, handshakes, smiles, someone popping another bottle.

Richy stood, still holding her hand, and when people came over to congratulate him he kept her tucked against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His free hand settled low on her waist, palm warm through the cardigan, fingers spreading slightly as if to claim the soft curve there.

She felt every inch of the difference between them. The hard plane of his stomach when she brushed against him. The way his shoulders filled out the tailored shirt. The easy confidence with which he occupied space. And she, soft, rounded, already calculating how many steps it would take to reach the exit if the anxiety got too loud.

—

In the car later, the city lights sliding past the windows, he drove with one hand and kept the other on her knee.

Not high. Just there. Warm. Present.

“You’re quiet,” he said eventually.

“I’m always quiet after matches,” she tried.

He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Not like this.”

She looked down at her hands. At the way her thighs spread against the leather seat. At the soft roll of her stomach under the dress. The voice was louder now.

He’s going to get tired of this. Of the soft. Of the insecurity. Of you.

“I just…” She swallowed. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re here. With me. Like this.”

Richy was silent for a long moment. Then he indicated, pulled into a quieter side street, and parked under the glow of a streetlamp. He turned fully toward her, one arm braced on the steering wheel, the other still resting on her knee.

“Look at me.”

She did. Reluctantly.

His eyes were dark in the low light, serious in a way that made her stomach flip.

“You think I don’t notice when you do this,” he said softly. “When you start folding yourself smaller. When you stop reaching for my hand first. When you look at yourself in mirrors like you’re apologising for existing.”

Heat flooded her face. “I don’t—”

“You do.” His voice stayed gentle, but there was steel underneath. “And every time, it hurts. Not because I’m angry. Because I hate that anyone, especially you, ever made you feel like you have to earn the right to be loved.”

Her throat tightened.

He shifted closer, cupping her face with both hands now, thumbs brushing the soft skin under her eyes.

“I chose you,” he said. “Not the idea of you. Not some filtered version. You. The way you laugh too hard at bad jokes. The way you steal my hoodies and then pretend you didn’t. The way your body feels when I pull you against me at night, soft and warm and mine. The way you look at me like I’m something good even on the days I feel like I’m failing.”

She blinked hard. “But you’re… you. And I’m—”

“You’re the woman I want to come home to.” His forehead rested against hers. “You’re the one I think about when I’m in the gym, when I’m on the pitch, when the noise gets too loud. You’re the one I want soft and sleepy in my bed. The one I want to feed and kiss and hold until she stops believing the lies someone else put in her head.”

A tear slipped free. He kissed it away.

“I know it’s not that simple,” he murmured. “I know the voice doesn’t shut up just because I say it should. But I’m not going anywhere, tesoro. Not when you feel small. Not when you feel too much. Not when you need me to remind you, over and over, that you are exactly enough.”

She let out a shaky breath. He kissed her then, slow, deep, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. One hand slid into her hair; the other settled at her waist, then lower, over the soft curve of her hip, squeezing gently like he was anchoring himself to her.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers again.

“Come home with me,” he whispered. “Let me hold you. Let me show you.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

—

His flat was quiet when they stepped inside. He didn’t turn on all the lights, just the low ones in the living room, the soft glow from the kitchen. He took her cardigan carefully, hung it up, then turned and simply looked at her for a long moment, eyes travelling over every soft line of her in the green dress like he was memorising her all over again.

“Beautiful,” he said, simply. Like it was fact.

She started to deflect. He shook his head and stepped close, hands settling on her waist, thumbs stroking the soft give of her sides.

“I mean it.”

He guided her toward the bedroom. There was no rush. He undressed her slowly, reverently, unzipping the dress, sliding it down her arms, letting it pool at her feet. His hands mapped every curve: the full weight of her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach, the generous flare of her hips, the thick softness of her thighs.

He kissed the silvered stretch marks on her hips like they were something precious. He pressed his mouth to the soft underside of her breast, the place where her body folded gently against itself, and breathed her in like she was the only air he needed.

When she was bare, he stripped quickly and pulled her down onto the bed with him, arranging them so she was half on top of him, her head on his chest, one of his legs hooked over hers.

His hands never stopped moving, stroking the length of her back, cupping the full curve of her arse, sliding up to cradle the back of her neck.

“Feel that?” he murmured against her hair. “How perfectly you fit against me?”

She nodded, cheek pressed to his warm skin.

“This is where you belong,” he said. “Right here. Soft and warm and mine. Not because you earned it. Because I want you. Because I choose you. Every soft, perfect, imperfect piece of you.”

The anxiety didn’t vanish completely. It rarely did. But it quieted under the steady beat of his heart, under the slow drag of his hands, under the low Italian endearments he pressed into her hair between kisses.

—

Later, when the city outside had gone still and the only light was the faint glow of the moon through the curtains, he pulled the covers over them both and tucked her more firmly against his side. One big hand settled possessively over the softest part of her stomach, fingers splayed like a claim.

“I love you,” he said into the dark. Simple. Certain. “All of you. Exactly as you are.”

She closed her eyes, let the words sink in, and for the first time in a long while, she let herself believe, just a little, that maybe she was allowed to stay.

—

I feel like I am on a roll atm, I hope it lasts lmao✍️

Ferran Torres x Reader

Again, Until it Ends🥲 (Part 1 here, Part 2 here, Part 4 here)

—

Anon! & also everyone that’s blown up part 2! I’ve got you all🙂‍↔️ I fr feel bad ab writing Ferran in such a way😭💔

—

—

ANGST/ SMUT- You told yourself you were done with the late night apologies, the way Ferran always found his way back into your bed and your hope. But when he shows up wrecked and whispering I love you in the dark, the cycle threatens to start all over again, until one more photo, one more lie, finally forces the break that neither of you can take back…

—

You wake up alone.

Not completely. His side of the bed is still warm, the pillow still carries the shape of his head, but the space beside you is empty…

The apartment is quiet except for the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic from the kitchen. For one stupid, hopeful second you think maybe he’s making breakfast. Maybe this time the morning will be different.

Then you smell the coffee.

Too much milk. One sugar. Exactly the way you like it.

You sit up slowly. Your body aches in familiar places, hips, thighs, the soft skin of your throat where his mouth had been too rough last night. The perfume from the girl in the photo is gone now, scrubbed away in the shower you’d taken together at four in the morning, but the memory of it still sits under your tongue like something bitter you can’t spit out.

You pull on one of his shirts, the navy one that hangs almost to your knees, and walk out.

He’s standing at the counter in only black sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other stirs your coffee. When he sees you he sets the phone face-down immediately, like a child caught with something he shouldn’t have.

“Morning,” he says, soft. Careful. He slides the mug toward you across the marble. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You don’t take it.

He notices. His jaw tightens for half a second before the gentle expression returns.

“I left early,” he offers, even though you didn’t ask. “Training. But I came back. I wanted to… talk. Properly.”

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed over your chest. The shirt slips off one shoulder. His eyes drop there automatically, then force themselves back up.

“There’s nothing left to talk about,” you say. Your voice is steady. You’re proud of that. “I told you last night. I can’t keep doing this.”

He comes around the counter slowly, like you’re a wild animal that might bolt. “I know. I know I fucked up. Again. But it wasn’t—”

“Don’t.” You hold up a hand. “Don’t say it wasn’t what it looked like. Don’t say she meant nothing. Don’t say I’m the only one. I’ve heard every version of that speech, Ferran. I could recite it for you.”

Silence stretches. Outside, Barcelona is already loud, scooters, distant traffic, someone shouting in Catalan two streets over. Inside the apartment it feels like the air has been sucked out.

He stops a few feet away. Close enough that you can see the faint bruise on his collarbone from your mouth last night. Close enough that you can still smell his shampoo.

“Then what do you want me to do?” he asks, and for once the charm is gone. He just sounds tired. “Tell me and I’ll do it. I’ll delete every number. I’ll stop going out. I’ll post about you every fucking day if that’s what it takes. Just… don’t leave.”

You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “You always say that when you’re scared I’m actually going to walk away this time.”

His throat works. “Because I am scared.”

Something in your chest twists. You hate that it still works on you, the honest voice, the soft eyes, the way he looks at you like you’re the only solid thing in a world made of glass.

You turn away first. Walk to the window. The city spreads out below, bright and indifferent.

“I need space,” you say to the glass. “Real space. Not the kind where you text me in three hours and show up at my door at midnight.”

Behind you, his breath catches.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“A week?”

“I don’t know, Ferran.”

Silence again. Then the quiet sound of him moving. You hear the mug being set down more carefully this time. The soft pad of bare feet.

When his arms slide around you from behind, you don’t push him away. You should. You promised yourself you would. Instead you stand there, stiff, while he presses his face into the curve of your neck and breathes you in like he’s trying to memorise the scent.

“I’ll give you space,” he murmurs against your skin. “I swear. But can I… just this morning. One more time. Please.”

The word again. Please.

It ruins you every single time.

You turn in his arms. His eyes are red at the edges. He looks younger like this, stripped of the stadium lights and the carefully curated Instagram smiles. Just a boy who keeps breaking the only good thing he has and doesn’t know how to stop.

You kiss him first.

It’s a mistake and you both know it.

He makes a broken sound into your mouth and walks you backward until your spine hits the cool glass of the window. His hands are already under the shirt, sliding up your bare thighs, gripping, lifting. You wrap your legs around his waist without thinking. He carries you to the bedroom like the floor is on fire.

Clothes disappear fast. The navy shirt ends up somewhere near the door. His sweatpants hit the floor with a soft thud. Then he’s over you, between your thighs, kissing down your stomach with a kind of desperate reverence that makes your eyes sting.

“I hate that I keep hurting you,” he whispers against your hipbone. “I hate that I can’t stop.”

You don’t answer. You just thread your fingers through his hair and guide him lower.

He eats you like he’s starving and sorry at the same time, slow, deep strokes of his tongue, two fingers curling inside you until your back arches off the mattress. He doesn’t rush. He never does when he’s trying to apologise with his mouth. He keeps you on the edge for so long your thighs are shaking and your voice has gone hoarse from saying his name.

When you come it’s with a broken sob, hands fisted in the sheets, body locking up around his fingers. He works you through it gently, then climbs up your body and kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Look at me,” he says when he pushes inside.

You do.

His eyes are dark, almost black. He sinks in slow, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated and both of you are breathing hard.

“Still mine,” he whispers, more like a question than a claim this time.

You don’t correct him.

He fucks you deep and careful at first, forehead pressed to yours, one hand cradling the back of your head like you’re something fragile. The pace builds gradually, longer strokes, harder, the wet sound of him moving inside you filling the quiet room. Every time you clench around him he groans like it hurts.

“Fuck— you feel so good,” he pants against your mouth. “Always so good for me. Always take me so well.”

You dig your nails into his back. He hisses and thrusts harder, angling until he finds the spot that makes your vision white out. One of his hands slides between you, thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect rhythm.

“Come again,” he orders, soft but firm. “Want to feel it. Want to feel you fall apart on me one more time before I have to let you go.”

The words wreck you more than the friction.

You come with a cry, body shaking, walls fluttering around him. He follows seconds later, burying his face in your neck and spilling deep with a long, broken moan of your name.

Afterward he doesn’t pull out right away. He stays inside you, softening, pressing lazy kisses to your collarbone, your jaw, the corner of your eye where a tear has escaped without permission.

“I’m going to do better,” he whispers into the quiet. “I mean it this time.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair and don’t answer.

Because you’ve heard that promise before…

—

He keeps his word for eleven days.

Eleven days of radio silence. No good-morning texts. No voice notes. No late-night knocks. You block his number on the third day just to make it easier on yourself, then unblock it on the seventh because the silence is somehow worse.

You try to fill the space. You go out with friends. You answer messages from people who aren’t him. You even go on one half-hearted date with a guy from work who is kind and boring and doesn’t make your chest ache. When he kisses you goodnight at your door you feel nothing except the absence of someone else’s mouth.

On the twelfth night you’re half-asleep on the couch when your phone lights up with an unknown number.

You almost ignore it.

Then the second message comes through:

It’s me. New number. Please don’t hang up.

You stare at the screen for a long time before answering the call that follows.

His voice is rough, like he’s been shouting or crying or both.

“I know I said I’d give you space. I know. But I just… I needed to hear your voice. Even if you hate me right now.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t hate you.”

A shaky exhale on the other end. “Can I come over?”

“Ferran—”

“Just to talk. I swear. No… nothing else. I just need to see you. Five minutes. Please.”

You should say no.

You say, “Okay.”

—

He’s at your door in under twenty minutes.

He looks wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes. A fresh cut on his cheekbone that wasn’t there before, training, probably. He’s wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, like he’s trying to disappear into it.

The second you open the door he steps inside and just… stands there. Hands in his pockets. Staring at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

“You cut your hair,” he says eventually, voice soft.

You had. Two inches shorter. A stupid, impulsive decision three days ago when you needed to feel like you were changing something, anything.

“Yeah.”

He nods. Swallows. “It looks good.”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “I miss you so fucking much it hurts to breathe sometimes.”

You look away. “Don’t.”

“I mean it.” He takes a step closer. “I’ve been trying. Really trying. No clubs. No photos. No anything. I’ve been going home alone every night and staring at the ceiling and thinking about how quiet everything is without you.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s not enough, Ferran. Trying isn’t the same as changing.”

“I know.” His voice cracks. “I know it’s not. But I’m… I’m scared if I give you too much space you’ll realise you don’t need me anymore. And I don’t know how to live with that.”

You feel the familiar pull, the part of you that still softens for him even when it shouldn’t. The part that remembers the good mornings and the quiet nights and the way he used to look at you like you were the only person in a stadium of eighty thousand.

He reaches out slowly, giving you time to step back. When you don’t, his fingers brush your wrist, then slide up to cup your jaw.

“Let me stay tonight,” he whispers. “Just sleep. Nothing else. I just need to hold you.”

You should say no.

You nod instead.

—

You end up in your bed, fully clothed, his body curled around yours from behind. His arm is heavy across your waist. His face is buried in the back of your neck. Every few minutes his breathing hitches like he’s fighting something.

Sometime after two in the morning you feel him press a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“I love you,” he murmurs into the dark, so quiet you’re not sure he meant for you to hear it. “I’ve never said it right. But I do. Even when I’m fucking everything up. Especially then.”

Your eyes burn.

You don’t say it back.

But you reach down and lace your fingers through his, and he holds on like he’s drowning.

—

Morning comes too soon.

You wake to the sound of rain against the window and the soft weight of him still pressed against your back. For a few minutes you stay still, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Then his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Once.

Twice.

A third time in quick succession.

He doesn’t move at first. Then he carefully disentangles himself, reaches for it, and the second he looks at the screen his entire body goes rigid.

You feel the shift immediately.

“What is it?” you ask, already knowing the answer will hurt.

He locks the phone too fast. “Nothing. Just… training stuff.”

You sit up. Hold out your hand.

He hesitates.

Then, slowly, he places the phone in your palm.

The screen is still unlocked.

A group chat. Team-mates. A photo someone has forwarded, Ferran from last night, standing outside a restaurant you don’t recognise, arm around a different girl this time. Blonde. Laughing. His hand is low on her back again. The timestamp is 11:47PM, while he was still supposed to be giving you space.

Before he called you. Before he came here and told you he loved you in the dark.

Your stomach drops so hard you feel nauseous.

You hand the phone back without a word.

He scrambles. “It’s not— that was before I called you. She was just a friend of a friend. I left right after. I swear to God I left and came straight here—”

“Stop.”

Your voice is quiet. Flat. Final.

He freezes.

You get out of bed. Walk to the bathroom. Close the door. Lock it.

On the other side you hear him say your name once, broken. Then again. Then the soft thud of his forehead against the wood.

“Please,” he says through the door. “Please just let me explain. It didn’t mean anything. I was lonely and stupid and I left the second I realised what I was doing. I came here. I chose you. I always choose you in the end—”

You turn on the shower so you don’t have to hear the rest.

When you finally come out he’s still there, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, head in his hands. He looks up the second the door opens. His eyes are red.

You walk past him to the front door and open it.

He stands slowly.

“Don’t do this,” he says, voice raw. “Please. I’ll do anything. I’ll—”

“Go home, Ferran.”

He stares at you for a long moment, like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind the way you always have before.

This time you don’t.

Something in his expression cracks.

He steps into the hallway. Turns back one last time.

“I’m still going to love you,” he says quietly. “Even if you hate me for it. Even if it takes years. I’m still going to be the idiot waiting for you to let me try again.”

You close the door without answering.

The lock clicks into place.

For a long time you just stand there, forehead pressed to the wood, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading down the stairs.

Then the quiet settles in, the real kind this time.

The kind that doesn’t come with soft apologies or late-night knocks or the promise of tomorrow.

You slide down to the floor, back against the door, and let yourself cry the way you never let him see.

Because this is what the two of you do.

You break.

You reach.

You break again.

Only this time, when the reaching stops, the breaking finally has room to finish what it started.

And for the first time in a long time, you let it.

—

Hmm… so idk if this should be a little Ferran story cause idk whether I want it to end like this in heartbreak or Ferran actually making a change for reader👀

Martin Zubimendi x Reader

Medical 🏥❤️

—

Here you go anon! Sorry it took so long. Getting through so many requests as it is making me kinda ill just seeing all of them lie in the drafts & not get written up😭🙏

—

—

FLUFF- On the quiet morning of his Arsenal medical, Martín arrives in London with a suitcase full of nerves and a heart still half in San Sebastián. You, the one person who has walked every step of this decision with him, are there to steady his hand.

—

The London sky was the colour of old pewter when the car pulled up outside the medical centre. Martín sat in the back seat with his hands loosely clasped between his knees, thumbs rubbing over each other in a slow, familiar rhythm.

You had seen that gesture a hundred times before before big matches, before difficult conversations with his family, before the first time he told you he might actually leave Real Sociedad.

Today it felt different.

“You don’t have to come in with me,” he said quietly, not looking at you. His voice still carried the soft Basque cadence that always made English words sound like they were being carefully unwrapped. “I know it’s early. And long. And boring.”

You reached across the seat and covered his restless hands with one of yours. “I’m coming in.”

He finally turned his head. Those dark eyes, usually so steady on the pitch were a little wider than usual. There was a flush high on his cheekbones that had nothing to do with the cool August air. “Okay,” he said, almost under his breath. Then, softer still: “Thank you.”

The clinic smelled of clean linen and lemon disinfectant. Everything was bright and efficient in that particular English way Martín still found slightly overwhelming. The receptionist greeted him by name with a warm smile, as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. Papers were signed. A lanyard was handed over. Someone in navy scrubs appeared and led the way down a quiet corridor.

You walked a half-step behind him, close enough that your shoulder brushed his every few paces. He didn’t pull away.

The first room was for height, weight, and blood pressure. Martín stood against the wall while a nurse measured him, murmuring numbers that made him glance at you with a tiny, self-conscious smile. You answered with a look that said I already know every centimetre of you, and the corners of his mouth lifted a little higher.

When the blood pressure cuff tightened around his arm, he stared at the ceiling. You moved to stand beside the examination table, close enough that your knee rested against the side of his leg. His free hand found yours without looking and held on.

“Breathe,” you said gently.

He exhaled. The machine beeped. The nurse wrote something down and gave him a small nod of approval.

Next came blood work. Martín sat in the chair with his sleeve rolled up, watching the needle with the same focused intensity he usually reserved for reading a midfield press.

You kept talking, soft, ordinary things. The coffee you had both pretended to drink that morning. The way the light looked on the Thames when the car crossed the bridge. The ridiculous football-shaped keyring his younger cousin had insisted he bring for luck.

By the time the vial was full and the plaster was smoothed over the small puncture, the tension in his shoulders had eased by degrees.

“You’re doing really well,” you told him when the nurse stepped out for a moment.

Martín looked at the plaster, then at you. “I feel like I’m twelve again and waiting outside the headmaster’s office.”

You laughed under your breath. “You’re twenty-six and about to sign for one of the biggest clubs in the world.”

He shook his head, but there was fondness in it. “Same feeling.”

The cardiac tests took longer. He lay on a narrow bed while electrodes were stuck to his chest, the soft gel cool against his skin. You sat in the chair beside him, reading the quiet concentration on his face as the machine recorded the steady rhythm of his heart.

Every so often his eyes would find yours, and something unspoken would pass between you, gratitude, nerves, the quiet certainty that you were both exactly where you were meant to be.

When the club doctor left to print the results, Martín reached for your hand again. His fingers were warm.

“I keep thinking about the first time I told you I was thinking about this,” he said. “You didn’t try to talk me out of it. You just asked if it felt right.”

“Did it?”

He was quiet for a moment, staring at the ceiling tiles. “It does now. Especially with you here.”

The words settled between you like something precious and newly discovered.

The rest of the morning unfolded in careful stages, lung function, flexibility, a thorough joint assessment that had him twisting and turning under the bright lights while a physio made notes.

Through all of it you stayed close. Sometimes sitting. Sometimes standing just outside the circle of clinical attention so that whenever he glanced up, you were there. You passed him water. You handed him his hoodie when the air-conditioning made him shiver. You listened when he muttered a soft curse in Basque after a particularly awkward stretch, and you answered with a private smile that made him duck his head and laugh under his breath.

By the time they finished the final scan, the light outside the windows had shifted from grey to a pale, hopeful gold. Martín pulled his jumper back on and sat on the edge of the examination table, swinging his legs slightly like a boy who had just been told he could go outside and play.

The doctor returned with a calm smile and a folder. “Everything looks excellent. You’re cleared.”

Martín’s breath left him in one long, quiet rush. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and looked straight at you. The smile that spread across his face was small and almost shy, but it reached all the way to his eyes.

You stepped forward without thinking. He slid off the table and into the space between your arms as if he had been waiting for permission. The hug was tight and a little clumsy foreheads pressed together, his hands fisted gently in the back of your coat, your own arms wrapped around the solid, familiar width of his shoulders.

For a long moment neither of you said anything. The clinic corridor hummed softly beyond the door. Somewhere a phone rang and was answered.

None of it mattered.

“I did it,” he whispered against your temple.

“You did,” you answered. “And you were so brave.”

He pulled back just enough to see your face. There was a sheen in his eyes that he didn’t bother to hide. “Stay with me today? After this. I don’t want to go back to the hotel alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Before you both left the medical centre entirely, one of the club staff members, a warm, soft-spoken woman from the player-care team appeared with a carefully folded parcel and a small smile.

“We thought you might like to see this,” she said, handing it over. “Nothing official yet, of course. Just… a little something for the moment.”

Martín took it carefully. Inside the tissue paper lay a red Arsenal home shirt. On the back, in bold white letters, was ZUBIMENDI. Beneath it, the number 36.

He stared at it for a long time, completely still. His thumb traced the curve of the six, then the three, as if he needed to make sure the numbers were real. When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were shining again.

“Thirty-six,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I used to wear smaller numbers. This feels… different. Like it belongs to something bigger.”

He held the shirt up against his chest, the fabric soft under his fingers, and turned so you could see it properly. Then, without any ceremony, he reached for his phone.

“Come here,” he said, voice soft but certain. “Please.”

You stepped in close. Martín wrapped one arm around your shoulders, holding the shirt carefully between you so the number and name faced the camera. He leaned his head just slightly against yours, the way he always did when the world felt a little too large and he needed the reminder that you were still right there.

The photo captured the two of you in the quiet corridor light, him smiling that small, genuine smile that only appeared when he felt safe, you looking at him more than at the lens, the bright red of the shirt a quiet promise of everything still to come.

He checked the picture once, then twice, and saved it with a soft sound of satisfaction.

“This one stays between us for now,” he murmured, tucking the phone away. “But I wanted the first photo with this number to be with you.”

Outside, the air smelled cleaner than it had that morning. Martín walked with the folded shirt carefully under one arm and his free hand occasionally brushing yours, shoulders looser, the weight of the medical finally lifted.

Every so often his fingers would find the edge of your sleeve, as if he needed the quiet confirmation that you were still real.

At a small café near the river he ordered two coffees and a shared plate of toast he barely touched. He talked about the training ground he would see tomorrow, about the teammates whose messages had already filled his phone, about the strange mixture of excitement and homesickness sitting side by side in his chest.

Every now and then his eyes drifted to the shirt resting on the empty chair beside him, and a quiet smile would surface again.

You listened the way you always had, patiently, completely, while the late-summer light moved slowly across the table and turned the surface of his coffee gold.

When the conversation lulled, he reached across and linked his fingers with yours.

“I keep thinking,” he said, voice low, “that the transfer isn’t really finished until this part is done. The medical. The tests. All the official things. But sitting here with you… and seeing that number for the first time… it already feels like home.”

You squeezed his hand. Outside the window a barge moved slowly up the Thames, and somewhere far away the city carried on with its ordinary day.

Inside the quiet corner of the café, Martín Zubimendi, midfielder, new Arsenal signing, wearer of the number 36, and the man who had just let you hold his nervous heart for an entire morning, looked at you as if you were the only fixed point in a world that had just become wonderfully, permanently larger.

And for the first time since the decision had been made, the future didn’t feel like something he had to face alone.

It felt like something the two of you would step into together.

—

This one was sweet🥹😭 I really enjoyed writing it & for clarification I know Martín is 27 now but due to his transfer being last summer I put it down as 26❤️

Riccardo Calafiori x Reader

Always Been Her📸

—

I see all you Richy stans! I’ve noticed that his requests have actually been doing the best recently so this one’s for all of you🫡

—

—

FLUFF- An actress & an Italian defender exchange quiet messages for a year after he names her as his longtime celebrity crush. From soft launches, late-night voice notes, and one oversized shirt later, the final whistle of the season becomes the moment everything finally turns real…

—

That was the word Riccardo Calafiori used, and it stuck with you longer than any headline ever had…

You were in the middle of a press junket for a film that had already been called “career-defining” by three different magazines when someone on your team quietly slid a phone across the table during a water break.

The clip was already at several million views. A footballer you had only ever seen in passing on late-night highlight reels sat in a casual studio, elbows on his knees, and when the host asked about celebrity crushes he didn’t even pretend to think.

“Always been her,” he said, and then he said your name like it belonged in his mouth. “The actress. Yeah. Always.”

You watched it twice. The second time you noticed the way his ears went a little pink after he said it, the quick laugh he gave like he couldn’t believe he’d just admitted it on camera. Something warm and unsteady settled under your ribs.

Two days later you were the one in front of the cameras. The interviewer played the clip on the big screen behind you “for a reaction.” You felt the heat climb your neck the second his face appeared. By the time he said your name you were already smiling with your hand half over your mouth.

“Oh,” you managed, voice softer than the room expected. “He’s… he’s quite gorgeous, isn’t he?”

The whole panel laughed. You laughed too, but your ears stayed warm for the rest of the segment. That night, after the makeup was off and the city lights were the only ones left in your hotel suite, you opened Instagram and typed a short message you almost deleted three times.

You:

Hi. I saw the interview. Thank you for being so kind. (And for the record, the blushing was real.)

His reply came twenty-three minutes later.

Riccardo:

I was hoping the blushing was real.


Riccardo:

Also I meant every word. Always have.

—

That was how it started.

Quiet. Careful. Almost shy on both sides.

The first week was polite. The second week the formality cracked. He sent a voice note after a late training session, voice low and a little hoarse, asking if you were still awake on the other side of the world.

You were.

You sent one back from the floor of your trailer between takes, whispering so the sound team wouldn’t hear. He laughed in the next note like the sound of your whisper had surprised him.

Months unfolded in small, ordinary pieces that somehow felt enormous.

He learned that you hated flying but loved the quiet of hotel gyms at 5AM. You learned that he still called his nonna every Sunday and that he got weirdly competitive about cooking carbonara correctly.

When you mentioned, half-joking, that you’d never properly seen Rome, he sent a carefully curated list of places that weren’t tourist traps, complete with the exact time of day the light was best.

When his team had a rough loss he didn’t disappear; he just sent a photo of the empty pitch at dusk and the words “tomorrow we start again.”

You answered with a picture of the scribbled notes from the script you were rewriting at 1AM and the caption “same.”

There was a night in late autumn when both of you were in the same city for twenty-six accidental hours.

No announcement. No photos. Just a quiet dinner in a place with no windows facing the street.

He arrived first and stood when you walked in, looking suddenly younger somehow. You talked until the staff started stacking chairs. Outside, under a streetlight that flickered, he hugged you goodbye like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he let go too quickly. His hand stayed at the small of your back for three extra seconds.

You felt it for days.

Winter brought the first soft launches neither of you planned.

A story of his with the very edge of your coat in the frame. A coffee order screenshot you posted that matched the one he’d mentioned loving. A quiet birthday post from you that went up at the exact minute his match finished.

Fans started connecting dots with the gentleness of people who didn’t want to scare something fragile. Comments under his posts shifted from the usual football banter into soft speculation. “Is that…?” “No way.” “Look at the way he smiles in that story though.”

—

By spring the soft launch was no longer soft. It was just… happening.

You wore one of his old training tops on a rainy afternoon in your kitchen and he posted the photo you sent him with no caption at all. The internet briefly lost its mind. He only replied to one comment, a simple heart emoji under a fan account that had written, “He’s so gone it’s actually beautiful.”

The final game of the season arrived on a bright, windy afternoon.

You wore his shirt. Not a replica. His actual match-worn one from earlier in the campaign, the fabric soft from washing, the number sitting against your back like it had been waiting for you. It was too big in the shoulders and the sleeves needed rolling, but every time the wind caught it you felt like you were carrying a piece of him.

You sat in the stands with a small group who already knew the whole story. The stadium noise was a living thing. Every time Riccardo won a tackle you found yourself leaning forward. When he tracked back to make a recovery challenge that saved a certain goal you were on your feet before half the stand, hands pressed together under your chin. And when he scored in the seventy-first minute (a low, true strike from the edge of the box) you forgot every camera in the world. You jumped, the oversized shirt bouncing around you, and the sound that left your throat was pure and unfiltered. He looked up into the crowd during the celebration and found you instantly. The smile he gave you then was private even in a stadium of sixty thousand.

The final whistle felt like a starting gun.

He didn’t celebrate with the team first. He turned, scanned the stands, and came straight for the barrier where you stood. Still in full kit, socks around his ankles, hair damp with sweat, he reached you like the rest of the pitch had disappeared.

The hug was long and complete. Both arms around you, face buried in the side of your neck for a full breath, like he needed to make sure you were real. Then the kisses started. Soft ones to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, your temple, the top of your head. He kept one arm locked around your waist the entire time, refusing space.

Someone passed him a phone. He took photo after photo without letting you go. Cheek pressed to yours. Forehead against yours. One where he was smiling so hard his eyes nearly closed while you laughed into his shoulder. Another where he kissed the side of your head while the stadium lights flared behind you.

The comments arrived in waves before you’d even left the ground.

“He’s so in love with her it’s actually unfair.”
“The way he can’t stop touching her. The match is over, sir.”
“She’s in HIS actual shirt and he’s looking at her like she invented sunlight.”
“Long hugs. Soft kisses. Zero chill. That’s a man who waited a whole year for this.”
“Did you see her jump when he scored? She’s gone too. They’re both gone.”

Later, after the interviews he kept cutting short, after the mixed zone and the handshakes and the last of the cameras, he pulled you properly against his side in the quiet corridor beneath the stands. His voice was low and warm and only for you.

“Been waiting all season to have you here like this,” he murmured against your ear. “Longer than that, actually.”

You tilted your face up, still pink, still wearing his name across your back, and answered the only way that had ever made sense since the first blushing interview.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed you for that. Properly. Slowly. The kind of kiss that felt like a promise already kept.

Outside, the night air was cool and the city lights were waiting. Inside the quiet of the tunnel, with his forehead resting against yours and both of you still smiling like idiots, the year of careful messages and soft launches and almosts finally settled into something solid and warm and real.

Always, he had said once, on a random podcast, long before he knew you’d ever hear it.

Looking at him now, you believed him completely.

—

Again, & Again💔 (Part 1 is here, Part 3 here!)

—

Thank you @milalafranny for the request for part 2!! I drew this out longer than I expected. Got a bit of heartbreak at the end can’t lie…😭

—

—

ANGST/ SMUT- You swore this time would be the last… After the lies, the photos, the way he always found the perfect words to pull you back, you told yourself you were done. But Ferran still knows exactly how to touch the softest parts of you, and also how to break them.

—

You stayed the night.

Of course you do.

After the shower you stand in front of the mirror for a long time, water still dripping down your spine, staring at the girl who keeps choosing the same soft-spoken disaster. Your lips are swollen. There are faint red marks on your hips where his fingers dug in. You look wrecked and you feel even worse, but when you step back into the bedroom he’s already half-asleep, one arm stretched across the space you always occupy, like he knew you’d come back to fill it.

You climb in.

He pulls you against his chest without opening his eyes, face pressing into your damp hair, and for a few hours the world is quiet. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek. His hand rests heavy on the small of your back. You let yourself pretend this is safety instead of the same old trap with prettier lighting.

In the morning he makes you coffee the way you like it, with too much milk, one sugar, and sets it on the nightstand like an apology he still can’t say out loud. He sits on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, watching you drink it.

“I missed this,” he says, voice rough with sleep. “Missed you.”

You don’t answer. You just sip the coffee and let the silence stretch until he fills it the way he always does.

“She really didn’t mean anything,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. “You know that, right? You’re the only one who ever has.”

Your throat tightens. You hate how easily the words still land somewhere soft inside you.

He takes the mug from your hands and sets it aside. Then he’s climbing over you, knees bracketing your hips, mouth finding the side of your neck. You should push him away. You should get up and leave while the morning light still makes everything look honest. Instead your hands slide up his back, nails dragging lightly, and he makes a low sound against your skin that feels like victory.

“Tell me you still want me,” he breathes, already hard against your thigh. “Please.”

You hate yourself for the way the word please undoes you.

“I do,” you whisper, and it sounds like surrender.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Slow at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours while his hands push your shirt up and off. His mouth trails down your throat, over your collarbone, lower, until he’s sucking a mark onto the soft skin just above your breast. You arch into it. He groans like the sound of your breath is the only thing he’s ever needed.

When he finally sinks into you it’s with a broken little exhale, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded and dark.

“Fuck— missed this so much,” he mutters, rolling his hips slow and deep. “Missed how you feel around me. Missed the way you look when you take me.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders and let him set the pace. He fucks you like he’s trying to rewrite every fight, every lie, every night you spent crying. Deep, deliberate strokes that make your thighs tremble.

One hand pinned above your head, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit until you’re gasping his name like it still means something good.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice wrecked. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

You do. The orgasm hits hard and messy, your whole body locking up around him while he keeps moving through it, chasing his own release with short, desperate thrusts. When he comes it’s with your name on his lips and his face buried in your neck, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

For a few minutes afterward the only sound is the two of you trying to catch your breath. He stays inside you, soft kisses pressed to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. It almost feels tender.

Almost.

—

The pattern holds for two weeks.

He texts good morning. He sends voice notes on the way to training that sound soft and a little lonely. He shows up at your place with takeout and that half-smile that always used to work.

You sleep in his bed more nights than your own. You let him fuck you against the kitchen counter, slow and filthy on the living-room floor, quiet and desperate in the shower with water running over both of you.

Every time he finishes he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and every time you almost believe the holding means something permanent.

You start to let yourself hope again. That’s always the most dangerous part…

On a Thursday night he tells you he has a team dinner he can’t get out of. You nod, kiss him goodbye, and spend the evening on your own couch trying not to check your phone every five minutes. At 1:17AM, a photo hits Twitter.

Ferran, half-lit in some exclusive club, arm around a girl you don’t recognise. She’s laughing into his shoulder. His hand is low on her waist. The caption is already full of heart-eye emojis and “new WAG?” speculation.

Your stomach drops so hard you feel sick.

You screenshot it. You stare at it until the image burns itself behind your eyes. Then you open your messages and type three words.

Don’t bother coming.

He calls within minutes. You don’t answer. He calls again. Then the texts start flooding in:

Ferran:

Baby please.
It’s not what it looks like
She was just there I swear
Can I come over
I need to see you
Please don’t do this again.

You silence the phone and leave it face-down on the coffee table. You sit in the dark and try to remember how to breathe around the familiar ache in your chest.

At 3:04AM there’s a knock at your door.

You don’t move.

Another knock, softer.

“I know you’re awake,” he says through the wood, voice low and rough. “Please. Just let me explain.”

You last another thirty seconds before you get up and unlock it.

He’s standing there in the same clothes from the photo, eyes red-rimmed, hair a mess. The second the door opens he steps inside like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind.

“It wasn’t anything,” he starts immediately. “She asked for a picture and then the camera guy was there and it looked worse than it was. I left right after. I swear to you I left—”

“Stop.” Your voice comes out flat. “Just stop.”

He freezes.

You cross your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “I can’t keep doing this, Ferran. I can’t keep being the girl who waits up for proof that you’re still choosing me and then has to pretend the proof doesn’t exist.”

His face crumples.

“I am choosing you,” he says, stepping closer. “I always am. I just— fuck, I don’t know how to do this without messing it up. You’re the only thing that feels real and I still manage to ruin it.”

You laugh, short and broken. “Then maybe stop ruining it.”

He’s in front of you now. Close enough that you can smell the faint trace of someone else’s perfume on his collar. It makes your eyes sting.

“I don’t want anyone else,” he whispers. “I want you. Only you. Let me prove it.”

His hands find your waist. You should shove him away. Instead you stand there while he leans in and presses his forehead to yours, breath warm against your mouth.

“Please,” he says again, and the word is so soft it hurts. “Let me make it better.”

You hate how your body still leans into him. Hate how the moment his mouth finds yours the fight drains out of you like water through open fingers. The kiss is desperate, almost angry, all teeth and apology and the same old hunger. He walks you backward until your legs hit the couch, then he’s on his knees in front of you, tugging your shorts down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thighs.

“Gonna remind you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Gonna make you feel how much it’s you.”

He doesn’t give you time to argue. His mouth is on you, tongue hot and insistent, two fingers sliding inside while he works you open with the kind of focused attention that always used to feel like love. You fist your hands in his hair and try not to moan his name. He doesn’t stop until your legs are shaking and you’re coming against his tongue with a broken sound that feels too much like forgiveness.

Then he’s standing, spinning you around, bending you over the arm of the couch. You hear the rustle of clothes, the tear of a condom wrapper he still bothers with sometimes, and then he’s pushing into you in one long thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Fuck— still so tight for me,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Still mine.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to outrun the photo, the club, the girl, the entire pattern. Deep, relentless strokes that make the couch creak. One hand slides around to rub your clit in tight, perfect circles while he leans over your back and breathes broken Spanish against your ear, “te necesito, solo tú, perdóname” (I need you, just you, forgive me) until you’re coming again with a sob, clenching around him so hard he follows a few thrusts later, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, hips stuttering as he finishes.

Afterward he pulls out carefully and gathers you against his chest right there on the floor, back against the couch. His heart is racing under your cheek. His fingers stroke through your hair like he’s trying to soothe something that can’t be soothed.

“Stay,” he whispers into the dark. “Please just stay tonight.”

You should say no.

You should tell him to leave and mean it this time.

Instead you close your eyes and let him hold you, even though the perfume on his collar is still faint in the air and the photo is still sitting on your locked phone like a wound that won’t close.

Tomorrow you’ll wake up and the ache will be waiting.

Tomorrow he’ll say the right things again and you’ll want to believe them.

Tonight you just let him keep you warm while the quiet heartbreak settles deeper into your bones, the kind that doesn’t scream, the kind that simply stays.

Because this is what the two of you do on the regular…

You break.

You reach.

You break again.

And somehow, even now, you still haven’t learned how to stop…

—

I didn’t realise this Ferran request for part 2 was in my requests. So I got to this one really quickly. I need to get on-top of all my requests, I am still here so sorry guys! Just need to get motivation back😭💔 x