#barca fc

You both gave little waves to the camera, matching smiles spreading across your faces as a second round of applause went up. You clapped again, more out of nerves than anything, your hand brushing lightly against Leah’s as you lowered it.

“Welcome, welcome,” Harriet said, glancing down at her notes. “Now, Leah, you’ve been on the pod before.”

“I have, yes,” Leah nodded, leaning forward slightly in her seat.

“Happy to be back?”

“Oh, absolutely. Absolutely.” She said it like it was obvious, like there was nowhere else she’d rather be. Her tone made you smile.

“We love to hear it. And Y/N, this is your first time here. How’re you feeling about it?”

“Grand, yeah. Very happy.” You gave a small, polite nod, already feeling the tell-tale flush in your cheeks. You knew it was visible. “Loving the decor,” you added, gesturing vaguely to the chaos behind Harriet. The oversized throw blanket that looked like it had been borrowed from someone’s nan, the twinkly lights hung slightly crooked behind the sofa.

“Thank you, did it myself.” Harriet smirked, earning a laugh from everyone.

She leaned in, hand over her mic. “I didn’t,” she stage-whispered. That got another round of laughter.

“Now,” she said, straightening up, “first question. How’s camp been so far?”

You glanced at Leah, giving her the smallest nod. She was always better at jumping in first, always a bit smoother under pressure. You hated how awkward you got in settings like this, even though you knew it would wear off in a few minutes.

“It’s been good,” Leah started, her voice confident but relaxed. “Lots of fun, and pretty intense as well.”

“I’ve heard there’s card games?” Harriet smiled, her tone teasing.

“Yeah,” Leah nodded. “It gets very competitive.”

“Oh yeah,” you added with a laugh, though you rubbed at the back of your neck out of habit. You weren’t really part of the card game crowd. By the time that kicked off each night, your social battery had usually hit empty. Between training, recovery, and the constant pressure of tournament life, you often slipped off quietly to call Ale or just sit in silence for a bit.

“Like you would know.” Leah smirked, throwing a sideways glance at you.

“Oh?” Harriet raised her eyebrows. “Not into the card games?”

You gave a sheepish smile. “Oh, um. No. I’m usually in my room or something.”

“Talking to her girlfriend,” Leah added, almost sing-song, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder.

Your face flared red instantly. You ducked your head slightly, trying (and failing) to hide the obvious blush.

“Girlfriend?” Harriet perked up, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips.

“You don’t know?” Leah gasped, scandalised.

“Nooo,” Harriet leaned in, drawing it out like she was preparing for a dramatic reveal. “Go on then, Squish. Who’s your girlfriend?”

You shot Leah a side-glare that did nothing but widen her grin.

You’d had this dynamic with Leah for years, since Arsenal academy days. She teased. You blushed. She pushed. You tried (and failed) to push back. But no matter how relentless she was, you knew she’d always have your back.

“…Ale,” you muttered eventually.

“Who?” Leah prompted, eyes twinkling.

You sighed. “Alexia.”

“C’mon, full name her. Squish’s girlfriend is…”

“…Alexia Putellas,” you said, almost under your breath.

You caught the flash of genuine shock on Harriet’s face before she quickly pulled herself together.

Leah exploded beside you, throwing her head back and clapping her hands like she’d just won a bet.

“For anyone that doesn’t know,” Harriet said, turning to the camera, “Alexia Putellas is the captain of Barcelona, plays for Spain, has two Ballon d’Ors to her name, and is arguably one of the greatest footballers of all time.”

“And Squish’s girlfriend.” Leah added sweetly.

You groaned lightly, covering your face with your hands for a second before letting them drop.

“Okay, okay,” Harriet laughed, clearly enjoying the moment. “I gotta ask … where has ‘Squish’ come from?” She looked between the two of you, curious.

You winced a little. You’d always had a love-hate thing with the nickname. It had come from your Arsenal academy coach — one of those affectionate-but-slightly-embarrassing nicknames you just couldn’t shake.

“A coach at Arsenal gave it to me,” you explained, rubbing your thumb along the hem of your shorts. “Apparently my name was too long to yell from the sideline. And I still had a bit of a baby face back then.”

“Still do,” Leah added, grinning.

You pointed at her. “And this one never let it go.”

“It’s ‘cos you’re still squishy, Squish,” Leah said proudly, her arm looping around your shoulders again. “Our coach said it first, but when she smiles her cheeks go all soft. Like a baby or something.”

She reached over to poke you gently in the cheek, and you swatted her hand away with a playful glare.

“Well then, now that we’ve settled that mystery…” Harriet said, with a dramatic flourish, pulling the conversation back on track. “You’re both vice-captains at your clubs — Arsenal and Barcelona. And, of course, you’ve both worn the armband for England in different moments. How does having that role at club level prepare you for camp?”

You exhaled slowly, gathering your thoughts.

“It helped a lot during the World Cup,” you began, fingers fidgeting lightly in your lap. “The captains at Barça are just… unreal. Patri’s elite. Marta is a complete icon. And Ale…” You trailed off for a second, your smile going soft. “She’s won, like, over thirty titles. And she’s deserved every single one. Being around them, watching how they carry themselves, how they lead — it taught me so much.”

“Same with Kim,” Leah nodded. “I learned so much from her. Her presence, her calm… Kim deserves everything. Just being able to take in how she leads gave me a base for when I had to step up.”

“So it’s like having a model to follow?” Harriet asked.

“Exactly,” Leah agreed. “Someone to bounce ideas off, talk through the tough stuff with - not tactics or plays or anything like that , but the pressure, the expectations. It makes a difference.”

“It’s just someone who gets it,” you added softly. “Like… with Ale, during the World Cup — I didn’t even have to say anything. She could just tell when I was off. She knew I was overthinking or stressing about something. And she didn’t need me to explain it. She just… got it.”

There was a quiet moment after that, not awkward, just … thoughtful, before Harriet gave a small, knowing nod.

“I love that,” she said simply, glancing between you both “Alright.” She clap[ed her hands once. “Now that we’ve established Squish is taken by a literal football legend …”

Leah burst out laughing again, and even you couldn’t help but join in this time

“… Let’s talk about the matches so far.” 

England just posted

@ lionesses

Squish has got a girlfriend 💘 … tune in to find out who. @ yourusername and @ leahwilliamsonn are the most recent guests on #ThatLionessesPodcast. Listen on Apple and Spotify now.

@ yourusername: thanks 🙄

@ leahwilliamsonn: Squishyyyyyyy

@ alexiaputellas: mi amor <3 Leah’s squish <3

Replying to alexiaputellas @ yourusername: not you too

@ vickyylopezz.__: SQUISH !!

Replying to vickyylopezz.__ @ yourusername: don’t even

@ janafernandez3: SQUISH

replying to janafernandez3 @ yourusername: Stop

@ claudiaapina: Squishy squish

replying to claudiaapina @ yourusername I hate you

@ __cata13: new nickname unlocked

The crimson hue in your blurry eyes makes them burn as they glare into the smug hazels of your lover’s. Everything is on fire and the weight of the world and its contents is crashing down on you. You are suffocating and the clamped up position of your sex does nothing to aid the round and tight ball of pure suffocated tension in your chest. 

The sting of pure humiliation seeps into the joints of your thighs, the base of your stomach, the ghastly tint of your tear stained cheeks and the tips of your fingers that curl around the strong shoulders of your lover. You're repulsed; hateful. Your hands long to even smack the smirk and taunting lulls right out of that dirty mouth of his. 

But what do you actually do?

You ride, that's what. 

Matter of fact, that's the only thing you're capable of doing in the present moment which holds you in a fucked and half-brainless state. 

“Such a pretty girl, vida… The prettiest crier I've ever seen” Pedri, your forbidden lover but your only and most precious, cooes in that voice of his that is so full of hubris it makes you sick to your fucked guts even in this state. “Go ahead,” he lovingly soothes the inflamed prints of his strong hands that burn on your blushing ass as you repeatedly stomp it down on his strong and muscular thighs, the milky secretions of your sex tainting the colour of his dark blue shorts over and over. “Amor knows you want it” you hate it when he uses such endearments in moments like these when he knows how much you cannot stand him and his teasing on victory nights.

He tuts and tsks and an involuntary sob wrenches itself free from your hoarse throat. Yes, hoarse. Because that is the rule. On victory nights you welcome him home on your knees in your club’s jersey, the thick digits of the score written on your forehead and the Madrid flag and symbols painted on your embarrassed cheeks. He strokes the score of his triumph on your forehead with his thumb as he unloads his remaining stress down your throat while the insides of his hand warm up your pretty face and the backs of them soothe it. 

You sob again in frustration because you try to stop but your body has developed a numb mind of its own where the only thing you can do is hold for support the shoulders of the very man you cannot bear to stand at the moment as you sink down on the veiny girth of his cock over and over. His proud chuckle shakes you to the very base of your spine because it makes you vibrate where your bodies are connected. Your thighs tremble and so do your arms. 

But the deep, heavenly burn in your pussy hurts way too good. 

“Tsk… your kind would do anything to dirty this jersey, huh?” His words nearly echo in your empty head as he clicks his tongue and holds his jersey up to examine it. Your tears have mixed with the white paint on your cheeks and dripped down onto the red and blue of his shirt in thick, cracked and chalky drops. “That's fine, I guess. You'll clean it up for your amor like a good little girl, won't you, cariño?” You do not burden yourself with any demonstrations of pride such as shaking your head or growling denials through your mouth that is drooling his cum. 

He snickers and raises one amused brow, relaxed back onto the couch as he makes you do all the work.

Pedri is not one to enjoy your tears. Your rival clubs are in fact the only source of disagreement between the two of you. But on victory nights; the nights when he walks into the apartment buzzing with the adrenaline of triumph and pride, the man revels in the sight of your tears and savours every white-yellow-red drop that spoils the fabric of his kit. 

And he absolutely hates you going quiet. Oh, no. The struggling and cursing and verbal denials are what keep him hard even after a post-game orgasm. He has won the game, what is a pouty little girl?

So his hands snake through the pearly silk of your jersey and his masculine fingers creep up your balmy skin, the difference in temperature between his digits and your tender flesh causing goosebumps to chase his touch that soon cages your sensitive and erect breasts in it. 

“What was that? Huh? Did you say something, vida?” You glare at him as you gurgle on his cum in an effort to let out a moan when the tips of his trimmed nails close down onto your nipples and pinch them until he has you squealing like a little mouse in big trouble. “I am sorry, it's a little hard to understand you over the sound of sore loser” and his free hand pinches one of the petals of your pussy at the same moment so your back arches and you are forced to succumb to him just how your club had to tonight. 

A black drop of sweat blurs the score that is presented on your forehead in big bold numbers and it trickles down the side of your head and mixes into the teary mess of the Madrid flag painting, the desperate shaking of your head only helping it traverse down faster as you shakily nod your head without stopping, the barrage of your orgasm only increasing the sounds of your gagged shouts. The last moment placement of one of his big hands over the mound of your pussy so his thumb can tickle your clit silly only aids his cause.

“YES! YES! GOD, YES! I WOULD LOVE TO! OF COURSE I WOULD–” and your chest crushes into a series of yet another squeal-sobs as you finally collapse atop him and shudder out broken ‘no’s because you just cannot do it anymore. 

And so Pedri throws an arm around your back and pulls you closer before his tired yet much stronger hips fuck his cock up your trembling cavern, the sharp tip of his long tongue swaying past his lips to lick away at your tears.

. . . 

It is going to be a long night indeed. 

MASTERLIST

Things had changed between you two. It was nothing dramatic. No big fight or disagreement, just a dull emptiness that replaced the connection you once had. You got too caught up in your own life and insecurities to even notice. So close, yet so out of reach.

Pedri laid wide awake in his bed, staring out the window at the beautiful Barcelona skyline, wondering when he got to the state he was in right now. Long sleepless hours, filled with thoughts and regrets that drove him crazy. He didn’t exactly know what he had done wrong. But there must have been an explanation as to why you left.

His phone on the bedside table mocked him with its silence. He grabbed it and for the umpteenth time that night his finger hovered over your contact, before setting it back down and sighing into the darkness of his empty bedroom. 

He missed you. The way your perfume lingered in his flat, even after you left reminded him of you, and it was killing him slowly inside. 

Pedri couldn’t get himself to call you; not in the state he was in. He desperately needed to see you.

You were sitting on the couch with a cup of tea, reading your book. Yet, you found yourself rereading the same page multiple times, unable to focus on the words. Your thoughts drifted to a certain Spanish brunette.

You jumped at the sound of doorbell ring. Who could it be at this hour? You asked yourself in denial because deep inside you knew who it might have been. 

“Pedro.” you said, his name stuck in your throat, as you opened the door.

He stood in the hallway of the building blankly staring at you, looking worse than ever. The shadows under his eyes more prominent than they already were, his hoodie wrinkled, and his hair messy. His posture reminded you of a lost puppy. It looked like he had cried, eyes red and puffy. Did he really let himself go like that? 

He stared as if you would disappear if even moved his eyes ever so little. You on the other hand tried to keep composure after seeing him.

“Can I come in?” he finally spoke.

“Why are you here?” you asked, desperate to know the reason for his visit at this hour. 

“We need to talk…” he said, his voice barely audible. “I deserve an explanation.”

Against your better judgement you opened the front door wider to let him into your flat. You stepped aside as he shuffled inside and sat on the sofa of your living room. 

You trailed behind him and for a moment there you didn’t believe the sight in front of you: Pedri, the man you love(d) sat in front of you in utter silence. His big doe eyes glazed with tears, reflecting a sadness that mirrored your own.

The room was silent, broken by the sound of Barcelona’s traffic outside. Both of you did not know what to say or do. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a knife, as you wondered how it has gotten this bad.

“What happened to us…” he finally asked.

You were silent, the words got caught in your throat. Truth is, you had imagined this moment endless times. Each scenario playing differently in your mind. Yet nothing could have ever prepared you for this encounter. 

“I though we were doing fine. All of a sudden it’s like we don't know each other. You gave up on us at the first hardship of our relationship. It’s like you never even fought for us, at least not like I did.” he said, his voice cracking. 

Utter silence. His words hung heavily in the air. Still you remained silent.

“Talk to me…” he urged. “Talk to me, even if it’s to insult me. Tell me that you hate me, just don’t ignore me”

Tears filled your eyes as you realised how much you actually hurt him. “I didn’t fight for you because I thought you’d be better off without me, Pedro” 

He flinched at the use of his actual name, since you always used nicknames with him. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

“You think I would be better off without you?” he scoffed, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You are everything I have ever wanted. Do you know how much it killed me to hear nothing from you? I analysed every single move I have ever made in our relationship to see if I ever wronged you. It killed me to see the person I love slip away from me day by day. I did everything I could to at try and make you stay but I wake up one day, your things are gone, and I am blocked everywhere.” His sadness quickly turned into frustration. 

You blinked emptily at him. His words hit you like a tidal wave and for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to crack.

“I- I thought I was protecting you. All the pressure, the media, the traveling. You were away half the time, and I didn't know how to deal with it. It was never my intention to hurt you. I thought letting you go would be what’s best of us, before any of us get attached. No matter how much it hurt me. I was so selfish that I ended up hurting you too in the process. Plus, it was too late when I came back to my senses. The damage was already done, and I don’t know how to fix it,” You confessed, your voice quiet and high pitched. Pedri wouldn’t have heard you if you weren’t sitting so close to each other.

“So that’s it? After everything, you’re just giving up” He was growing more frustrated by the minute

“I never felt enough for you. You are this amazing footballer that all girls dream of, and I am- I am just… me. Plain me.”

The walls you had built came down, showing how fragile you were in reality. Ashamed of your vulnerability, you looked away, finding a sudden interest in the bookshelf of your living room as the realisation hit you like a thousand bricks.

You had ruined everything. You lost everything to your own insecurities. 

“Mira cariño, I didn’t come to fight,”  he reassured you softly, his gaze softened at the sight of the tears glistening in your eyes. “You were enough. You always were. I came here because I really miss you. This emptiness is killing me.” 

He scooted closer to you, taking your hand in his, looking at you with a look of sympathy. The same look he had always given you when you were upset. As you allowed the tears to finally fall, he gave your hand a squeeze. 

“I miss you too.” your voice cracked in between the sobs. “I miss us.”

He cupped your cheek, forcing you to look at him, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to get lost in his eyes that make you fall in love over again. 

“We can fix this, mi amor, you just need to want it too.” he reassured you, getting his own hopes up.

You nodded, not knowing what else to do. As he pulled you into a hug you began to sob even more (if that was even possible). How missed him. The scent of his woody cologne filling you with nostalgia of what you had, the way his arms wrapped around you, the way he made everything into a joke. You put your head on his chest as he put his chin on your head whispering sweet nothing to you. The sound of his heartbeat calmed your sobs a bit and for the first time in weeks you felt a little bit of relief.

“I want you back,” you admitted through tears. “No matter how much I tried to move on and live without you, but I found myself hanging onto every single things that reminds me of you. I can’t sleep without you here, the bed feels too big and the flat feels quiet. I can’t live without you, Pedrito.” 

The two of you spent what was left of the evening, silently in each others arms. Pedri occasionally pressed kisses to your head and hands like he always used to do. And for the first time in what felt like forever, a sense of peace and a flicker of hope warmed your cold heart. 

“Estoy aquí para ti, siempre” he whispered reassuringly in your hair before you two drifted into a deep sleep.