leclercloml

⭐ LEFT — thank you for the support and memories CIAO!

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⧼visca barça⧽ | ⧼forza ferrari⧽

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Pairing; Pedri Gonzalez x gf!reader

Summary; where his girlfriend was actually flabbergasted by his fashion sense and decided to take the matter in her own hands

genre: written work

warning: none just bad jokes

author's note: i wrote this a while back when he had bad fashion sense sooo

Pedri stepped out of the bathroom and immediately regretted every single life choice that had led him to this moment. He was wearing a lime-green hoodie with a giant cartoon avocado on the front, paired with baggy cargo pants in a shade of orange that hurt to look at directly.

The hoodie had been a joke gift from Ferran last Christmas. The pants… well, he’d grabbed them off the floor this morning because everything else was in the wash.His girlfriend was sprawled on the couch scrolling through her phone. She glanced up, froze, and then very slowly lowered the screen so she could take in the full disaster .Silence . Then she pressed her lips together so hard it looked painful. “Don’t,” he warned, pointing a finger at her.

Too late. A tiny snort escaped. Then another. Within seconds she was curled into a ball, laughing so hard she had to clutch a pillow to her face.“Baby,” she wheezed, “did you lose a bet with a traffic light?” Pedri groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “I have training later, I didn’t think anyone important would see me.” “I’m important!” She sat up, wiping her eyes.

“And I’m traumatized. That avocado is staring into my soul.”“It’s motivational,” he deadpanned. “It’s telling you to guac and roll.” She lost it again, flopping back against the cushions. “Oh my god, stop. We’re fixing this. Right now.” “Fixing what? I’m comfortable.” “You look like a smoothie that got confused and became a person.”

She stood up, grabbed his hand, and started dragging him toward the door. “Come on, pretty boy. We’re going shopping before someone posts you on the internet and it becomes your legacy.” He let her pull him along, secretly pleased by the way she kept giggling every time she glanced back at the avocado.Two hours later they were deep in the men’s section of Zara.

her arms already loaded with hoodies, tees, and jeans she insisted were “normal human colors.” Pedri trailed behind her carrying the pile like a very expensive pack mule.She shoved him into a fitting room and started passing things over the door.First outfit: simple black hoodie, slim dark jeans, white sneakers.He stepped out. She tilted her head, eyes soft. “Okay. This is illegally handsome. I’m having heart palpitations.” He spun slowly, smirking. “Better than the avocado?” “Night and day, amor.” Next: oversized cream knit sweater and beige cargos.When he walked out she actually gasped, then pretended to fan herself. “Who gave you permission to look this cozy and hot at the same time? This is unfair to society.” He laughed, cheeks pink. “You’re ridiculous.” “Your turn,” he said,

plucking a ridiculous bucket hat off a nearby rack and plopping it on her head. “Model this for me.”She struck a pose, lips pursed like a fashion editor. “Iconic. Revolutionary. The people aren’t ready.”They kept going like that, trading clothes back and forth, turning the fitting room hallway into their own private runway. She made him try on a leather jacket that made him look like he belonged in a boyband. He found her the softest pink hoodie and begged her to keep it because “it makes you look like a strawberry cloud.”At one point she handed him a bright red Hawaiian shirt as a joke.He put it on without hesitation, stepped out, and started doing the worst attempt at hula dancing known to man.She doubled over laughing so hard she had to lean against the mirror. “Sir, this is a crime against fashion and rhythm!” “Take it back,” he demanded, still swaying his hips dramatically. “I’m giving tropical vacation realness.” “You’re giving midlife crisis at a barbecue.”

Eventually they collapsed onto the little bench outside the fitting rooms, surrounded by bags, breathless from laughing. He had his arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest.She poked the final pile of clothes they’d decided to buy. “No more avocado hoodies without my written approval.” “Deal,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But I get to keep the red Hawaiian shirt. For emergencies.” “Emergencies like what?”“Like if I ever need to make you laugh until you cry again.” She smiled up at him, eyes bright. “You do that just by existing, Pedri.” He kissed her properly then, slow and sweet, right there in the middle of the store like they were the only two people in the world.

When they finally checked out, the cashier scanned the mountain of clothes and raised an eyebrow.“Big day?” she asked.Pedri looked down at the girl tucked under his arm, still wearing the strawberry-cloud hoodie he’d picked out for her.“Yeah,” he said softly. “The best.”

Pairing: Pedri González x gf!reader

Genre: oneshot

Warning: none, just pedri being hard on himself

Summary: After Spain’s heartbreaking penalty loss to Portugal in the Nations League final, Pedri drowns in self-blame, but his girlfriend’s tender comfort reminds him he’s still a champion in her eyes.

The stadium lights cast long shadows over the pitch as the final whistle blew, the scoreboard frozen at 2-2. The air was thick with tension, the roar of the crowd a dull hum in Pedri's ears as Portugal’s final penalty soared past the goalkeeper. The Nations League final was over. Spain had lost. The weight of it settled on his shoulders like a lead blanket as he stood, hands on his hips, staring at the ground. His chest heaved, not just from the match, but from the storm of thoughts tearing through him.

He’d given everything, every pass, every tackle, every sprint. He’d been a metronome in midfield, dictating play, creating chances, even setting up one of the goals. But the penalty shootout? it wasn’t enough. His teammates had faltered, and now the trophy was slipping through their fingers. If I’d done more, if I’d pushed harder, if I’d— The self-blame clawed at him, relentless.

He barely registered the walk back to the locker room, the claps from the crowd a hollow echo. His boots felt heavier than ever as he slumped onto the bench, head in his hands, the silver medal dangling from his neck like a mockery. The room buzzed with quiet murmurs, teammates processing the loss in their own way, but Pedri was lost in his own spiral. I should’ve carried us. I’m not enough.

A soft hand on his shoulder broke through the fog. He looked up, eyes meeting yours, warm and steady. You’d slipped into the quiet corner of the locker area, away from the chaos, just for him. No words at first, just your presence, a lifeline.

“Hey, mi amor,” you said softly, kneeling in front of him, your hands gently prying his from his face. Your touch was light, thumbs brushing over his knuckles. “Look at me.”

He did, reluctantly, his brown eyes glassy with frustration. “I messed up, cariño,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “I should’ve done more. We lost because I didn’t—”

“Stop.” Your voice was firm but kind, cutting through his spiral. You shifted closer, resting a hand on his knee. “You were incredible out there. Everyone saw it, me, the team, the fans. You held that midfield together. That assist? Pure magic. This isn’t on you, amor. It’s a team game, and you gave them everything.”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “It wasn’t enough. I let them down.”

“No,” you said, your hand moving to his cheek, guiding his gaze back to you. “You didn’t. You were their heart out there, the best player on that pitch. I watched every second, and I’ve never been prouder. Penalties are a lottery, not a reflection of you. You carried them as far as you could.”

His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as your words sank in. He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours, eyes closing as he let out a shaky breath. “I just… I wanted it so bad, cariño.”

“I know, querido,” you whispered, your fingers threading gently through his damp hair. “And you fought for it. That’s what matters. You’re still my champion, trophy or not. I’m so proud of you.”

For the first time since the whistle, a faint smile tugged at his lips. He pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you, his head tucking into the crook of your neck. “What would I do without you?” he murmured, voice softer now, the edge of self-blame dulling in your warmth.

“You’d be fine,” you teased lightly, pressing a kiss to his temple. “But I’m here, always. Let’s get you to hotel, yeah? Hot shower, some food, and we’ll forget this for a little while.”

He nodded, pulling back to look at you, gratitude flickering in his eyes. “Okay, cariño. Thank you.” His hand found yours, squeezing gently, and for the first time that night, he felt a little lighter. The loss stung, but with you by his side, he knew he’d be okay.

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Pairing: Marc Bernal × gf!reader

Summary: Marc’s on crutches, but he’s healing fast, and you’re there, hyping him up every step of the way.

Genre: oneshot

Warning: nothing just fluff<3 (might be a bit cringy idk)

Author's note: he's recovering super fast and I'm so proud of him, i can't wait for to be back on pitch, in the mean time enjoy this<33

Pairing: Robin Le Normand x Physiotherapist!reader

Genre: oneshot

Warning: smut

Summary: She’s the physiotherapist who keeps Atlético Madrid running, hands steady and smile bright, especially for Roro, the teammate who’s been her rock from the start. But Robin Le Normand’s been watching, brooding, his quiet intensity simmering under the surface for months.

The physiotherapy room at Atlético Madrid’s training complex was my sanctuary, white walls, neatly stacked rolls of tape, the faint smell of antiseptic. I’d been part of the team for nearly a year, long enough to know the players’ quirks, their injuries, their banter. Rodrigo Riquelme or Roro, was my anchor from day one. He’d stroll in with that cheeky grin, tossing playful jabs about my “magic hands” while I patched him up after a rough tackle. We clicked instantly, a friendship that made the chaos of match days bearable. But there was someone else who’d been creeping into my thoughts lately, someone I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried, Robin Le Normand.

It started months ago, subtle at first. The way his hazel eyes lingered a beat too long when I’d stretch his calf after a game. The quiet “thanks” he’d mutter, his voice rougher than it needed to be, like he was holding something back. He wasn’t loud like Roro, didn’t fill the room with charm, he was all intensity, a wall of quiet strength that made my stomach flip whenever he was near. I’d catch myself noticing the way his broad shoulders filled out his kit, the flex of his forearms when he’d grip the table during a session. And he’d notice me noticing, his lips twitching into that rare, almost-smirk that felt like a secret between us. We never spoke about it, but the air had been humming with it for weeks, unspoken, electric, dangerous.

Today, the training ground was winding down, the late afternoon light slanting through the windows. I was tidying up when the door swung open, and there he was, Robin, still in his sweat-soaked kit, his dark hair a damp mess from the session. He moved like he always did, deliberate and powerful, his 6’2” frame dominating the space. He rubbed the back of his thigh, a faint wince crossing his sharp features.

“Hamstring’s acting up,” he said, his voice low, gravelly from shouting drills. “Can you take a look?”

I nodded, gesturing to the table. “Hop up. Let’s see what’s going on.” My tone was casual, professional, but my pulse betrayed me, ticking faster as he settled onto the padded surface. His kit clung to him, outlining the hard lines of his body, broad chest, tapered waist, thighs thick with muscle. I’d seen him like this dozens of times, but today it hit different, the tension we’d been dancing around coiling tighter.

I started with the basics, my hands gliding over his hamstring, pressing into the taut muscle to find the source of the stiffness. His skin was warm, radiating heat from the workout, and I could feel every subtle shift as he adjusted under my touch. He was quiet at first, just watching me, but his breathing changed, deeper, a little uneven, when my fingers worked higher, near the edge of his shorts. A low sound slipped from him, not quite a groan, and my eyes flicked up to meet his. He didn’t look away, and that steady, burning gaze made my throat go dry.

“Been feeling this for a while?” I asked, trying to keep it light, but my voice came out softer than I meant.

“On and off,” he said, his tone clipped, like he was distracted. “You’d know if you paid attention.” I paused, hands still on his leg, caught off guard. “I pay attention to everyone.”

“Not like you do with Roro,” he shot back, quieter now, but there was an edge to it, something raw that made my stomach twist. He shifted, propping himself up on his elbows, his eyes narrowing slightly. “He’s always in here, laughing with you. What’s that about?”

The air shifted, heavy with the weight of what he wasn’t saying. I straightened, brushing my hands on my pants, buying time. “Roro’s been there since I started. He’s easy to talk to, keeps things light. We’re friends.”

“Friends,” he echoed, the word sounding bitter on his tongue. He swung his legs off the table and stood, closing the distance between us in one fluid step. Up close, he was overwhelming, tall, solid, the scent of sweat and grass clinging to him. “I see how you are with him. The way you smile, the way you lean in when he talks. You don’t do that with me.”

My breath hitched, the accusation hanging there. “Robin, it’s nothi-”

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing,” he cut in, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. He was close now, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, see the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. “I’ve been watching you for months. Every time I’m in here, I’m waiting for you to look at me like that, just once. And you don’t.”

I swallowed, my heart hammering. “You think I don’t see you?”

“I think you see him more,” he said, his jaw tight, his hands flexing at his sides like he was fighting to keep them still. “I’m out there busting my ass, taking hits, and all I can think about is whether you’re in here laughing with him. Do you know how that feels? To want,” he stopped, exhaling sharply, his eyes searching mine. “To want you to notice me the way I notice you?”

The confession hit me like a punch, stripping away the walls we’d both kept up. I stepped closer, drawn in despite myself, my voice barely steady. “I notice you, Robin. More than you think. You’re not Roro, you’re different. Quiet, intense. It’s hard to look away.”

His breath caught, and for a second, we just stood there, the space between us crackling. “Then why don’t you?” he asked, softer now, almost pleading. “Why don’t you let me in?”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to,” I admitted, my hands itching to reach for him. “You’re always so… controlled. I thought-”

“I’m not controlled around you,” he said, stepping in until his chest brushed mine, his voice rough with need. “Not anymore.” His hand hovered near my cheek, hesitating, then settled there, his thumb brushing my skin with a tenderness that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t feel this.”

“I can’t,” I whispered, and that was it, the dam broke. His lips crashed into mine, not tentative or slow, but hungry, desperate, like he’d been holding back for too long. I grabbed his shoulders, fingers digging into the damp fabric of his kit as he pulled me against him, his hands sliding to my waist, gripping hard. The kiss was messy, all heat and teeth, his stubble scraping my skin as he tilted my head back, deepening it. He pressed me against the table, his body a solid wall of muscle, every inch of him trembling with want.

I tugged at his hair, earning a low groan that vibrated through me, and he retaliated by nipping my bottom lip, his hands roaming up my back, possessive and sure. The room spun, the sterile shelves, the hum of the air conditioning, all of it drowned out by the thud of his heartbeat against mine, the taste of salt and longing on his tongue. He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against mine, his voice a wrecked murmur. “You’re mine now, yeah? Not his." I chuckled "I was never his"

His mouth found mine again, fiercer this time, a hungry edge to every kiss as he pressed himself closer, the table digging into my hips. His hands slid under my shirt, rough palms grazing the bare skin of my waist, sending a jolt of heat straight through me. I arched into him, my nails scraping down his back over the damp kit, feeling the flex of muscle beneath. He groaned into my mouth, the sound raw and needy, and shifted his grip, lifting me just enough to perch me on the edge of the table.

“God, you drive me crazy,” he rasped, his lips trailing down my neck, hot and wet, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear. His hands roamed higher, thumbs brushing the underside of my ribs, teasing the line of my bra as he pressed his hips against mine, the hard length of him unmistakable through his shorts. I gasped, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him tighter, and he rewarded me with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that made my head tip back.

“Robin,” I breathed, barely coherent, my hands fisting in his hair as he sucked a mark into my collarbone, his stubble burning against my skin. He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and wild, his chest heaving.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice thick with want, one hand sliding down to grip my thigh, fingers digging in as he rocked against me once more, the friction dizzying. “Say my name.” His other hand yanked my shirt up higher, exposing my stomach, and he dipped his head, his tongue tracing a hot, wet line just above my waistband. I moaned, louder than I meant to, and he smirked against my skin, his teeth nipping at the edge before he straightened, pinning me with that feral stare.

“Robin,” I gasped, my voice breaking as he ground himself harder against me, the thin fabric of his shorts doing nothing to hide how much he wanted this—wanted me. His hand slipped under my thigh, hitching it higher, opening me up to him as he pressed himself flush, the pressure maddening. “Fuck, please-”

“That’s it,” he growled, cutting me off with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, messy and desperate. He shoved my shirt up completely, tugging it over my head in one rough motion, and his hands were on me instantly—cupping, squeezing, thumbs brushing over the lace of my bra until I whimpered into his mouth. His hips snapped forward again, harder, and I could feel every inch of him, thick and insistent, the heat pooling low in my core as he murmured against my lips, “You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this".”

He dragged his mouth down my chest, kissing and biting a path over the swell of my breasts, his stubble leaving a delicious sting. One hand slid between us, fingers teasing the waistband of my pants, dipping just inside, testing, while the other pinned my hip to the table, keeping me exactly where he wanted me. “Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice a low rumble, his breath hot against my skin as he rocked into me again, slow and torturous. “Tell me, or I stop right now.”

"I want this".

Pairing: Pedri González x f!reader

Genre: oneshot

Warnings: very light smut

Summary: Pedri’s been relentless, training in his Barcelona kit under a darkening sky—until the rain hits. Soaked and unstoppable, he steps inside, dripping with more than just water. A mischievous grin, a heated touch, and suddenly the storm outside isn’t the only thing brewing

The backyard was alive with the sound of Pedri’s cleats cutting through the grass, his Barcelona kit clinging to his frame as he moved with effortless precision. He’d been training for hours, dribbling the ball with that signature focus, his lean muscles flexing under the late afternoon sun. I watched from the livingroom, captivated, until the sky darkened and fat raindrops began to fall. Most would’ve stopped, but not Pedri, he kept going, a determined glint in his eye as the downpour soaked him through.

The air was thick with the scent of rain as Pedri finally pushed open the backyard door of the house that led straight to living room, his damp hair clinging to his forehead. His kit hugged his body now, drenched and outlining every curve of muscle. He turned to me, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, his dark eyes glinting with something irresistible.

“Caught me off guard,” he said, his voice smooth and warm, shaking the water from his curls as he stepped closer. The cool droplets on his skin glistened in the soft light, and I couldn’t help but reach out, brushing a bead of rain from his cheek.

“Looks good on you,” I teased, my fingers lingering. His grin widened, and in one fluid motion, he caught my wrist, pulling me flush against him. The heat of his body contrasted with the chill of his wet clothes, igniting a spark that raced through me.

“Careful,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear, sending a jolt down my spine. “I’m not done playing yet.” His kiss came fast and fierce, tasting of rain and desire, his hands sliding up my back as the storm outside faded into a distant hum, His free hand slid to my waist, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp softly, a hungry edge to it that stole the air from my lungs. His hands roamed up my back, confident and deliberate, tracing the curve of my spine as he pressed me closer, the dampness of his kit soaking into my shirt. Thunder rumbled outside, but it was nothing compared to the storm building between us, the world fading into a distant hum of rain and heat.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and searching, a smirk tugging at his lips as he caught his breath. “Te necesito” (I need you) he murmured, his voice husky, before leaning in again, slower this time, savoring every second as his fingers tangled in my hair.

The rain pounded harder against the windows now, a relentless rhythm that matched the pulse racing under my skin. Pedri’s hands slid lower, resting at the small of my back as he tilted his head, studying me with that same playful intensity he’d had on the field. “Think you can keep up cariño?” he asked, his tone daring, a challenge wrapped in velvet. "Can you?" I replied raising my brows. His lips hovered over mine again, close enough to feel but not quite touching, leaving me hanging on the edge of whatever came next