just us ; ferran torres x f! Moroccan reader
synopsis: after returing back to Barcelona after the world cup, the nightly routine of the reader and ferran is revealed just before La Liga starts up again
request: 'I was wondering if you could write an imagine about Ferran Torres, where the reader is Moroccan and Spanish with long, curly black hair. They’re both engaged, and you can choose what happens next!'
warnings: female reader, is moroccan but can be read just as spanish speaking, could also be read as grown up in moroccan but was born somewhere else. they are speaking spanish and that is shown through italics
note: thank you for requesting, as a big football fan, I've been wanting to add some footballers to my masterlist for a while. I did do it so it's more inclusive, as in there's no direct description of hair type/colour! but thank you again for requesting!!
It was quiet, the sounds of Barcelona having turned into a dull lull. You and Ferran had just returned from the World Cup, along with a week-long stint in your home country, Morocco, allowing a semblance of peace at the end of international duty just before league games began. It was dark, the moon rising slowly, as you got ready for bed at your vanity, hair tied up with a claw clip, a few strands brushing your face, as you rubbed your moisturiser in. Ferran sat idly, watching his newly coined fiancée get unready from his position on the bed, dressed in simple boxers, whose waistbands were visible underneath his jogger bottoms.
"Baby…come to bed already. You're pretty already without all this,” Ferran coos, his tone soft, as if scared to penetrate the quiet. You huff a quiet laugh, meeting his eyes in the mirror, your elegant yet simplistic ring catching the light. "Finally, I thought you were going to ignore me all night, baby", he all but teases, a gleam in his eyes; you knew all too well.
“I will join in a minute even after three years, you are as impatient as the day we met, Ferran," you hum lazily, applying under-eye patches. Rising from the seat, you approach slowly, untying your robe, revealing your gray satin camisole. As you slide into bed next to him, Ferran holds onto your waist, pulling you into his side. “Jesus, let a woman get comfortable, Mr." you huff playfully, curling into his side as he gently unclips your hair, his hand finding its place at the base of your neck. Ferran guides you into a simple yet lazy kiss, your lips meeting slowly, as he easily takes the lead. You sigh into him, hand coming to rest on his shoulder; the kiss stays tame, both of you tired of the overwhelming nature of Spain winning the World Cup, as well as of travelling and revelling in the newly announced engagement.
As the kiss lulls, you and Ferran ease into each other, his hand coming to rest on your waist as your head finds the crook of his neck. As the Barcelona night slows even more, you and Ferran lie peacefully in the dark of your room, a quietness that steadies you both. Ferran leans into you, placing a seemingly unnoticeable peck on your forehead as he whispers a murmured thank you. For what he doesn’t elaborate, allowing for you to take it to heart without the rambling Ferran would usually give, just allowing for you both to exist in the moment before the pressure of La Liga to take over in a few weeks. Yet for now, you can lie in silence as fiancés and as just people, not a footballer or a model. Just you and Ferran.