#barcelonafanfic

Pairing:Lamine Yamal x Reader

Word Count:3206

Request open!

Football Masterlist

You always sit in the same seats.

Row 14, seats 7 and 8. Your father jokes that they’re older than you are, that they’re practically part of the family. He pats the plastic armrest every match like it’s a dog that’s followed him home.

“Home sweet home,” he says as you both step into your row, the stadium already buzzing. “Best view in the world, eh?”

You smile, tucking your scarf tighter around your neck. “You say that every time.”

“And I’ll say it when I’m eighty,” he replies, dropping into his seat with a groan. “They’ll have to carry me out.”

You sit down next to him, your heart already beating a little too fast. The players are finishing their warm-up. You know exactly which one you’ll start watching.

Your father elbows you lightly. “He’s starting again,” he says. “Your boy.”

“He’s not my boy,” you mumble, staring determinedly at the pitch.

“Sure, sure,” your father says, but his grin is maddening. “The way you scream when he scores, you could’ve fooled me.”

You open your mouth to protest, but your eyes find him,Lamine,jogging toward the sideline to take a last drink of water. He’s laughing at something one of his teammates says, and then he glances up.

You swear he’s looking right at your section.

Your lungs forget how to function for a second. He shields his eyes from the stadium lights with one hand, scanning. Row 14. Your row. Your seat.

No way he’s actually,

His gaze catches yours.

It’s barely a second. A flick, a lock, a tiny familiar jolt that hits you square in the ribs. His mouth curves, just a bit, like he’s found what he was looking for.

You go rigid.

Your father frowns. “You all right?”

“Fine,” you squeak.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, heat crawling up your neck.

On the pitch, the whistle blows. The match begins.

It started a few weeks ago,at least, that’s when you noticed it.

He’d pulled off some ridiculous run, dribbling past two defenders, and you’d reacted before your brain could intervene. You’d stood up, hands clasped to your chest, and shouted his name like he’d personally saved your life.

When the ball hit the back of the net, the stadium exploded.

You jumped. You screamed. You beamed so hard your cheeks hurt, spinning to your father.

“Did you see that?” you gushed. “Did you,he just,he went past both of them,”

“Easy, easy,” your father laughed, grabbing your coat so you wouldn’t tumble forward. “You’ll end up on the pitch at this rate.”

When you turned back, breathless, Lamine was jogging toward the corner, teammates piling onto him.

And then, mid-celebration, he looked up.

Straight at your section.

You still remember the way his eyes seemed to find you, even in the chaos. You’d frozen, mouth parted, heart stuttering. Your scarf slipped down your shoulder. You must’ve looked like an idiot.

He’d smiled, quick and real, before letting his teammates drag him away.

You’d spent the rest of the match trying to decide if you’d imagined it.

But then it kept happening.

Warmups. Corners. Throw-ins near your side. His eyes flickered up, searching. Always toward your seats. And whenever you met his gaze, your face betrayed you,joy, panic, awe, all written loud and clear.

Your father noticed something was off.

“You’re awfully invested in that boy’s career,” he said one night as you walked home. “Think he owes you commission?”

“He’s just… fun to watch,” you muttered.

“Mhmm,” your father hummed, unconvinced. “If your smile gets any brighter, they’ll have to dim the stadium lights.”

Tonight, though, the stadium feels different. Louder. Closer.

Every time Lamine gets the ball, your stomach does somersaults.

“Go on,” your father murmurs, leaning forward. “Take him on, lad.”

Lamine cuts inside, slips past a defender, and the crowd rises with him. You rise too, your body moving before your brain. Your hands are pressed together under your chin, your eyes wide.

He shoots.

The ball whistles just past the post.

The entire stadium groans.

You exhale like someone knocked the wind out of you. “So close,” you whisper.

Down on the pitch, he curses under his breath, then glances up toward your section as he jogs back.

You’re still watching him, caught.

He sees your disappointed little wince and huffs out a breath, almost laughing, like your reaction amuses him. He gives you a tiny shrug that says, My bad.

You feel your lips curve without permission.

“Are you smiling at a missed shot?” your father asks.

You yank your scarf up over your face. “No.”

“Liar.”

Half-time comes with the score still 0–0. You scroll your phone out of habit, thumb flicking, not really looking,until a notification freezes you.

Your father glances over. “What are you frowning at?”

You open the article link with a pit in your stomach.

It’s a photo from last week’s match. Lamine in the foreground, looking up, mid-celebration. In the background, blurred but unmistakable: you, hands to your mouth, eyes shining, leaning over the railing like you’re about to leap.

The headline punches you:

WHO’S THE GIRL LAMINE CAN’T STOP LOOKING FOR?

Your veins turn to ice.

“Dad,” you whisper. “Dad.”

He leans closer, squints at the screen. “What the,”

There are other pictures in the article, from different angles. Lamine looking up. You in the background again and again, always in the same seats. Comments already piling up underneath.

He keeps looking in the same direction after he scores??

Bro found his lucky charm.

Find her @ the club, do it for science.

Your head spins.

“This is bad,” you say. “This is so bad.”

Your father reads silently for a moment, jaw tightening. Then he looks at you.

“Did you know about this?” he asks.

“No!” you protest. “I mean, I knew he… sometimes looked up. But I thought,I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t think people would,”

“Hey, hey,” your father says quickly, seeing the tremble in your hands. “It’s just some gossip article. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Your heart drums against your ribs. “But what if people find me? What if he gets annoyed? What if,”

The whistle for the second half blows, cutting through your spiraling thoughts.

“Look,” your father says gently. “If you want to leave after, we’ll leave. We don’t have to come to the next one if it makes you uncomfortable. All right?”

You nod, throat tight. You try to push your phone back into your pocket and pretend you didn’t see it.

Down on the pitch, the players take their positions again.

When Lamine looks up this time, he finds you… smaller. Wrapped into yourself. Your scarf pulled too high, your shoulders hunched.

His gaze lingers.

You duck your head.

You don’t see his frown.

He scores in the 72nd minute anyway.

It’s a brilliant goal,low, precise, the kind that makes the whole stadium roar. Your father jumps up, swearing happily, grabbing your shoulders.

“Look at that! Look!” he shouts.

You clap, you stand, you cheer,but you don’t let yourself look at him. You stare at the big screen instead, where the replay loops over and over.

You can feel it, though. That pull.

You know, without seeing, that he’s searching for you.

You keep your face turned away.

After the match, your father threads his arm through yours and steers you toward the exits.

“We’ll go straight to the car,” he says. “Beat the traffic. We’ll talk about that article properly at home.”

You nod, still dazed, the stadium noise ringing in your ears like an echo.

You’re almost at the gate when a security guard steps into your path.

“Excuse me,” he says, and your stomach drops. “Are you seat fourteen, row seven, seat eight?”

Your father narrows his eyes. “Why?”

The guard checks a note on his phone, then looks back at you with a kind of careful politeness that makes you even more nervous.

“Player request,” he says. “If you’re comfortable, one of the players would like to meet you.”

Your brain flatlines.

Your father blinks. “You’re joking.”

The guard shakes his head. “I can escort you both. If you’d prefer not to, that’s fine too. No pressure.”

You stare at him, mouth dry. “Which player?”

The guard looks faintly amused. “I think you know.”

Your father turns to you, his expression a mix of stunned, proud, and I knew it.

“Well,” he says. “What do you think, kiddo?”

Your heart is trying to punch its way out of your chest. The article, the photos, the rumor storm,this is exactly what you were afraid of. But there’s another feeling under the fear, bright and insistent.

He asked for you.

You swallow. “O-Okay,” you manage. “Just… for a minute.”

The corridors under the stadium are colder than you expect.

Your footsteps echo on the concrete as the guard leads you and your father through a maze of tunnels, past doors with signs you don’t have time to read. The noise of the crowd above fades into a dull hum.

Your father squeezes your shoulder. “You all right?”

“No,” you croak. “I think I might be dead.”

He snorts. “If you faint, I’m telling everyone it was from the smell in the tunnels.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh.

The guard stops in front of a door, knocks lightly, then pushes it open.

“Got them,” he calls.

You step inside and see him.

Lamine is standing near a table, still in his kit, hair damp, socks half rolled down. There’s a towel around his shoulders, and a half-empty bottle of water in his hand. When he turns and spots you, his entire face brightens.

“There you are,” he says, like you’re late for something he’s been looking forward to.

You freeze in the doorway.

Your father nudges you forward. “Go, go.”

You take a few uncertain steps. The room smells like grass and tape and detergent. Your fingers twist in the edge of your jersey.

“Hi,” you say, voice too small.

He laughs, a little breathless. “Hi.”

There’s a beat of silence where you just… look at each other. Up close, the stadium lights and camera flashes are replaced by something softer. His eyes are warm, curious. Nervous, you realize with a tiny spark of disbelief. He’s nervous too.

“I’m Lamine,” he says, then winces. “Obviously. You know that. Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “I’m bad at this.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “It’s okay. I’m worse.”

He glances behind you, where your father hovers, pretending to read some poster on the wall.

“This is my dad,” you say quickly. “He, um… he’s had these seats since,forever.”

“Ah,” your father says, stepping forward to shake Lamine’s hand. “Pleasure, son. You gave us a bit of a scare missing that first chance, you know.”

“Sorry, sir,” Lamine says with a grin. “I fixed it later, no?”

“That you did,” your father says, eyes twinkling. “I’ll wait outside. Let you kids talk.”

“Dad,” you hiss, but he’s already heading for the door.

“Don’t worry,” he calls back. “I won’t go far.”

The door clicks shut.

You’re alone with him.

You stare at your shoes for a moment. “I… didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.

“Do what?” he asks.

“Ask for people,” you say. “From the crowd.”

He shrugs, leaning back against the table. “You can. I mean, they don’t always find them. But I asked, and… they did.”

“Why?” you blurt.

His gaze softens. “Because you didn’t look at me today,” he says quietly. “Not like before.”

Your cheeks burn. “I,there was an article. With pictures. People in the comments were saying things, and I thought,I didn’t want to cause trouble. Or make you uncomfortable. Or make it weird.”

He stares at you for a second, then laughs, incredulous. “You were worried about making me uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” you insist, then falter. “I mean. Yes?”

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Do you know how many cameras are in that stadium? I’m used to weird. But…” His expression grows a little more serious. “I’m sorry they picked you up in it. That can’t have been fun.”

“It wasn’t,” you admit. “People were trying to figure out who I was. I didn’t reply, obviously. But it was… a lot.”

He shifts like the ground matters suddenly. “Did anyone bother you? Like… properly?”

“No,” you say quickly. “Just speculation. I just don’t… I’m not used to being seen.”

His eyes flick thoughtfully over your face. “You’re very expressive, though,” he says softly. “Kind of hard not to see you.”

Your breath catches. “That’s not a compliment,” you mumble.

“It is to me.”

You have to look away. “You keep… looking for me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “During matches.”

He chuckles quietly. “You noticed.”

“How could I not notice?” you say. “You’re… you.”

“And you’re always in the same place,” he counters. “Every match. Same seat. Same scarf. Same way of… doing this.” He mimics the way you clasp your hands under your chin, eyes wide.

You want the floor to swallow you. “Stop,” you groan. “That’s embarrassing.”

“It’s nice,” he says. “It makes… everything feel less big. You know? All the noise. When I look up and see you, it’s like,oh, okay. There you are. I can breathe.”

You blink at him. “You can breathe… because I’m panicking in row fourteen?”

That makes him laugh, a proper one this time. “You’re not panicking.”

“I’m constantly panicking.”

“No,” he says, still smiling. “You’re just… honest. With your face. I score, you light up. I miss, you look like someone stole your phone. It’s,” He shrugs, searching for the word. “Real. And I don’t get a lot of that, I guess.”

You swallow hard. Something warm unfurls in your chest, mixing with the nerves.

“I thought you’d be mad,” you admit. “About the article. Like, ‘Who’s this random girl the media thinks I’m obsessed with.’”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you random?”

“Yes!”

He looks unconvinced. “I don’t think so.”

Your heart does something painful.

He glances down, fidgeting with the cap of his water bottle. “Look,” he says, voice turning shy. “I just wanted to tell you myself. So you wouldn’t… stop. Because of some stupid gossip.”

“Stop what?” you ask.

“Coming,” he says simply. “Being there.”

He meets your eyes, and it’s suddenly so quiet you can hear your own pulse pounding in your ears.

“I play better when you’re here,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t stop coming.”

The words land with the weight of something that’s been waiting a long time to be said.

You stare at him, lips parted. “You don’t have to say that,” you whisper.

“I’m not saying it because I have to,” he replies. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You saw me tonight, yeah?”

“I didn’t look at you,” you say helplessly.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah, I noticed. That’s why I had to work twice as hard. Terrible conditions.”

You can’t help it,you laugh, the tension cracking. “You scored an amazing goal.”

“And it would’ve been even better,” he says, “if I’d seen your face after.”

You want to bury your flaming cheeks in your scarf. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He tilts his head. “Will you come next match?”

Your instinct is to say yes. Your fear says maybe not.

“What if the media keeps going?” you ask. “What if they say… worse things?”

He considers that for a moment. “Then they say them,” he says finally. “They’ll get bored eventually. And if they don’t, we deal with it. The club can help if it gets serious. You’re not… alone in it.”

“Why would you bother?” you ask, almost to yourself.

He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Because I like when you’re there,” he says. “Is that not a good enough reason?”

You exhale slowly.

“It is,” you say.

He smiles, relief softening his shoulders. “So?”

You bite your lip, but your face has already decided for you,your eyes bright, your mouth curling up, that traitorous glow your father always teases you about.

He sees it and laughs under his breath.

“I’ll come,” you say. “Next match. Same seats.”

“Good,” he says, his grin spreading. “I’ll look for you before kickoff this time. Not just after I mess up.”

“You don’t mess up that much,” you say.

“Mmh, tell that to my coach,” he jokes. “But it’s easier to try things when I know you’re up there, freaking out.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t panicking.”

“I changed my mind,” he says, eyes dancing. “You panic very nicely.”

You groan. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

There’s a knock on the door, and a voice calls, “Lamine, media in five.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah!” he shouts back, then looks at you, softer again. “I have to go be boring and say the same three sentences a hundred times.”

You smile. “You’re good at that. I’ve seen interviews.”

“Don’t expose me,” he pleads dramatically. “I’m trying my best.”

You laugh, and he watches you like he wants to keep that sound.

“Can I ask you something?” he says suddenly.

“Sure.”

“Next match,” he says. “When they say my name in the lineups… cheer for me, yeah?”

You splutter. “I always cheer for you.”

“I know,” he says. “But now I’ll know you know I know.”

You blink. “That’s… confusing.”

He shrugs, grinning. “Destiny usually is.”

Your heart stutters at the word, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face,but judging by the way his eyes soften, it does.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll cheer.”

“As loud as before?” he asks.

“Maybe louder.”

“Good.” He starts toward the door, then hesitates, glancing back at you. “And, uh… if it gets too much,” he adds, “with the media or the comments… tell me. Or tell the club. Just… don’t disappear without saying anything, yeah?”

You nod. “I won’t.”

He smiles, satisfied. “See you in row fourteen.”

“See you on the pitch,” you reply.

He opens the door, then pauses one last time, looking over his shoulder at you.

“And, hey,” he says. “For what it’s worth? I don’t think you’re ‘the girl in the crowd.’”

Your eyebrows lift. “No?”

He shakes his head. “You’re my girl in the crowd,” he says, a little bashful but not taking it back. “There’s a difference.”

Before you can answer, he’s gone, swallowed by the hallway.

Your father slips back into the room a moment later, eyebrows raised. “Well?” he asks. “Did you survive?”

You press your hands over your burning face.

“I think,” you say, voice muffled, “I might actually die next match.”

Your father chuckles, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out together.

“If he plays better when you’re there,” he says, “you don’t have much choice, do you?”

You think of Lamine’s words, the quiet sincerity in them.

I play better when you’re here. Don’t stop coming.

You hug your scarf to your chest, heart full and terrified all at once.

Alexia Putellas x Reader

5.3 WC | Fluff, slightly suggestive | GIF not mine

Summary: Alexia and Y/N have a secret, a fitness challenge might just be the thing to catch them out

If there was one thing the FC Barcelona Femení squad loved almost as much as football, it was competition.

All for you

Pairing: Lamine Yamal X gf!reader

Summary: You're dating, and he loves giving you expensive gifts. But lately you've been feeling bad about helping people think you're with him for the money.

Warning: Mention of y/n, fluff

Author's note: I got tired of just black, now I'm using colors similar to the photos, because the black coloring is irritating me because it looks too dark in the photos.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

Ever since Lamine Yamal started dating her, his life had taken on a new glow. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before—with her, everything felt lighter. More real. But with that came the inevitable complications of having a public relationship, even if they tried to keep it discreet.

That afternoon, he showed up at her house with a mischievous smile and a designer bag in his hand. It was a gift, yet another one, that he had bought with enthusiasm when thinking about her. A delicate necklace, with a small heart-shaped pendant. Something that, in his mind, would have been just a loving gesture. But when she saw it, she hesitated.

"Lamine…" she began, biting her lower lip, without even opening the box yet. "You didn't have to."

He chuckled, coming closer and placing the bag on the coffee table.

"I know I didn't have to. But I wanted to."

She looked away, uncomfortable.

"I just… I'm afraid of what people will think. They'll say I'm with you because of interest… because of your money." Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "I don't want people to think that about me. You know that's not why."

Lamine frowned, moving even closer until he held her face gently between his hands.

"I know," he said firmly, looking into her eyes. "And that's why I'm comfortable giving you the things I do. Because I know you're not with me because of that. I know who you are."

She took a deep breath, moved by the direct way he spoke. But Lamine didn't stop there.

"And if anyone says any shit about you, I'll be there. To defend them. To make it clear that it's my choice to spoil you. Because you deserve it."

She tried to contain her smile, but she couldn't. Lamine was like that—intense in his words, sincere in his feelings. He never did anything halfway.

"I just don't want to be the target of comments," she confessed, calmer now. "Sometimes I'm afraid of what people on the internet say."

"I do too," he said with a shrug. "But I'm more afraid of seeing you deprive yourself of things because of it. So let them talk. We know the truth."

She was silent for a few seconds, then reached for the bag.

"Can I open it?"

"Please, right? Otherwise I'll return it and buy something else tomorrow," he joked, making her laugh.

She opened the box carefully, and her eyes lit up when she saw the necklace. It was beautiful. Simple, but full of meaning. Just like the two of them.

She hugged him tightly, hiding her face in his neck.

"Thank you, Lamine."

"I love you," he murmured.

➤ Summary: You have a fight because of his jealousy, so he gets stressed out with you in the car.

➤ Warning: SMUT +18, Unprotected sex, start angust, Cute ending, violent sex. Toxic.

➤ Author's note: Translated into English, meaning there may be spelling errors.

Hector didn’t like the feeling. A warm knot in his stomach, like something was out of place. The party was still going on in the background, with colorful lights flashing in the garden of one of his teammates’ houses, but to him it all seemed like a blur. His eyes were fixed on her—and the guy she was laughing with.

He was one of her friends from college. Handsome, confident, cool. His hand would brush her arm a little too much whenever he laughed at a joke. Hector knew the look of an interested guy—because he’d looked the same way. But what really irritated him was that she didn’t seem to make an effort to pull away.

She was wearing that tight black dress he loved. She knew the effect she had on him. And now, in this moment, she seemed to be throwing it in his face. Like she was teasing him.

When she pulled away from her friend and turned, she found Hector leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His gaze was dark, hard.

“What is it?” she asked, frowning.

“You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

"Like this?"

“With him. Laughing at his jokes, pretending not to notice the way he looks at you.”

She snorted.

“Hector, he’s my friend. That’s all.”

“Fucking friend,” he snapped, pushing himself off the wall and walking toward her, his body tense. “He wants to fuck you, and you know it. He’s loving the attention.”

She crossed her arms.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Then stop acting like you’re single.”

The silence between them grew heavy. She stared at him defiantly. He stepped closer, the tension between them almost palpable.

“We’re going to talk,” he said firmly. “Now.”

He grabbed the car keys and pulled her by the hand, not giving her any room for argument. She went, out of pride and anger, but also because she wanted to understand how far he would go with this.

The silence was thick inside the car, broken only by the sound of the engine. Hector drove fast, his jaw still tense, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. She stared out the window, but she could feel his gaze burning into the side of her face from time to time.

When he stopped on a more deserted street, far from the house, he turned off the car with a sharp click. He turned to her.

“You like to tease me, don’t you?”

She turned her face slowly, her eyes burning.

“I don’t have to walk on eggshells because you’re insecure, Hector.”

He laughed humorlessly.

“Insecure? Do you think that’s it?”

“I think so. Because I didn’t do anything wrong. I just talked to a friend. If you see that as a threat, that’s not my problem.”

He licked his lips, staring at her with that intensity that always came before he lost control.

“Do you want to see how far I’ll go?”

She didn't answer. She just challenged him with her gaze. And that was enough.

Hector leaned over the console and kissed her hard, his hand going straight to her thigh, pulling up her dress. The kiss was hot, angry, full of everything he couldn't say. She responded with the same intensity, digging her nails into his arm, pulling at the hair on the back of his neck.

“Is this what you want?” he whispered between kisses, his lips trailing down her jaw, biting the skin down to her neck. “To drive me crazy? To remind me that you’re mine?”

She gasped when she felt his hand between her legs, firm, determined. His touch was urgent, possessive. He knew exactly how to tease. And now, he made sure to make it clear who was in charge here.

She squirmed in the passenger seat, trying to maintain control, but his fingers were already sliding firmly up the inside of her thigh, pushing their way in with authority. The car was dark, stuffy, the windows beginning to fog up with the difference in temperature between the inside and the world outside.

Hector pulled the back of her seat hard, reclining it all the way back, making her body slide a little. He straddled her with one knee on the seat, his eyes fixed, wild.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, his voice low and filled with more than just lust. It was control. A warning.

She hesitated, just for the teasing, and saw his eyes grow even darker. He dug his hand into the base of her neck, squeezing lightly.

“I said... open.”

She obeyed. Slowly, defiantly, but she obeyed. And he smiled sideways, satisfied.

“That’s the way I like it.”

While the hand on her neck kept her there, submissive, the other slid between her legs with a precision that set the rest of her body on fire. She moaned softly, trying not to scream, but he leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear.

“Shout to me. The car is ours. The night too.”

She moaned louder, the sound muffled by the heat of the moment, and he bit her jaw lightly as his fingers delved deeper. She trembled, arching against him, and he held on tight, as if he owned her every reaction, her every breath.

“Only I can make you tremble like that. Speak.”

“Only you,” she gasped, her eyes nearly closing with pleasure.

He removed his fingers and licked them slowly, his eyes fixed on hers.

“You will prove it to me.”

In one swift movement, Hector unzipped his pants, pulling the fabric just enough. Gripping her thighs tightly, he positioned himself between them and thrust into her, deep, angry, needy. The bench creaked beneath them, the leather slipping with sweat from their skin, and her moans mixed with the wet, rhythmic sound of his movements.

His hand returned to her neck, squeezing a little tighter now, but not hurting—just enough to show her that she was his. That he could take her to the edge and bring her back.

“No one else is going to touch you. Ever,” he growled, his hips thrusting hard. “You’re mine. Understand?”

She tried to respond, but all she could do was moan, her eyes watering with the intensity. He leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against hers, keeping his grip firm on her neck while his other hand gripped her waist roughly.

“I fucking love you,” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s why I’m like this. Crazy. Possessive. Addicted to you.”

The climax came like a rough wave. She writhed beneath him, gasping, her muscles contracting around him. He lost himself with her, slamming into her hard one last time, hissing a husky groan against her sweaty skin.

They stayed like that for a few seconds. Panting. Silent. The only sound was their hearts beating fast in their chests, still processing what had just happened.

He gently removed his hand from her neck now, and kissed her there, like a silent apology. The anger was gone. All that remained was that intensity that always connected them, even in the worst moments.

“No one will ever love you the way I do,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers.

She ran her fingers over his face, feeling the stubble, the sweat, the weight of the moment. She knew it was true. And even if she wanted to, she couldn't escape it.

“I’m yours,” she replied, her voice hoarse.

He smiled. A small, satisfied smile, and kissed her slowly this time.

Alexia Putellas x reader

Warning! Talks of body image and stretch marks.

I look down at the stick in my hands. OMG!!! The two stripes stare up at me mockingly. Im pregnant. Like Im actually freaking pregnant. Like there’s a baby in my fucking belly. I can’t believe it! It actually worked.

It takes a few hours for it to finally sink in. And when it finallydoes the fear comes like a blow. The logical part of my brain knows Alexia would be ecstatic. She would absolutely love this. But the other part keep me doubting. The multiple «what if» keep me on high alert. What if she doesn’t want this. What if she turn out hating the idea of a child. And worse… what if she don’t want a child with me.

I think of the perfect way to tell her. But it takes a few days for me to muster up the courage. I pack the small gift in a bag and put it on the counter. I’m way past pacing a hole in the carpet when i hear the keys in the lock. Alexia was finally home from training. I’d been out for a few weeks now already due to an injury in my hamstring.

“Y/N?” Alexia calls out my name. Im almost jumping from the nerves. “Yeah, im here!” I call out and start making my way towards the hallway.

I smile and welcome her in a hug. “How was training?” I feel my stomach do flips as she grins and start out on a rant about the pranks Patri and Pina had done today. I stare at her for a long while. “Mi amor?” I shake my head and focus on her again. “Yes?” I can se the small frown that now sits on her face. “What’s going on with you lately? You’ve been all weird since the injury.” I shake my head and feel my breath catching. “Ohhh… nothing. I just… i have a gift for you.” I turn around and start making my way towards the kitchen.

“It’s not my birthday?” Alexia looks confused as i hand her the tiny bag. “What is it?” She shakes the bag but it makes no sound. I feel a smile creeping up my face but still feel the butterflies in my stomach intensify. “It’s a surprise.” I stare at her while she opens the bag. Trying to read her expression. Her face twists from happy to confused as she pulls out the tiny Barcelona jersey. The number 11 and name (Mami) at the back is what makes her understand and i see her face break out in a grin. Before I know it she’s picked me up and spun me around. “It’s true si?” I look at the happiness on her face and nod. The grin on my face almost hurts. “Yeah we are going to be parents!”

…

We waited about two weeks to tell our families. Mostly to just be able to enjoy it on our own first. My family was quite easy to tell since it had to be done over the phone. We sat down one evening and made the FaceTime call to my parents.

Her family was a completely different story. We started by making two small gift baskets. Much like the one i had given Alexia, but with a few twists. We got costume made Barcelona jerseys with Alexia’s number and the words tía (aunt) and abuela (grandma) on them. We also put down a paper with the words be the godmother? In Albas basket. And of course the both of them got a few snacks in their baskets as well.

We decided to give them their baskets on our weekly dinners at Eli’s house. They had both been asking what we were up to lately since we had been so secretive. We arrive on time like always. One of the perks of having Alexia by my side. She’d always been a time freak.

We get inside and Alexia hides the gift bags in the hallway. We decided to wait til the end of dinner to tell them so that we actually get some food in us tonight. But when the time comes I pretend to need the restroom. I bring the bags with me and set them down in front of Alba and Eli. “What’s this?” Alba looks up in surprise. “No tenías que hacerlo” (you didn’t have to) Eli smiles warmly.

I just smile back at them and sit down. We both eye them curiously while they slowly open the bags. Alba understands first and her whole demeanour changes. She stares straight at Alexia. Mouth open in shock. I grin. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes!? Of course it’s a yes!” She jumps from her seat and basically runs around the table to hug me. Eli seams to just now grasp the situation and she immediately brightens up. “Voy a ser abuela?” Alexia nods. Eli’s eyes tears up and we both get up to hug her. While all this i going on Alba is jumping up and down in happiness. ”What will you call her? Him? Them?” I look at Alexia. “We haven’t really thought about that yet.”

…

We decided to tell the team just a few days later. I was supposed to go back to training in a few days so we thought it would be smart to let them know. I created a plan on how to do it.

Alexia walks into the changing room just like any other day. The only difference is that i also walk in behind her. Because of the injury i hadn’t been in the changing room for a few weeks. And then it was also the large box of cupcakes that Alexia carried. Mapi immediately notices and grin. “You baked for us Capi?” Alexa rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No Maria I didn’t. It was my lovely wife here.”

She jumps up immediately. “Let me taste!” Alexia sets down the box and the teams all come over to get one. Mapi who’s basically sprinted over gasps the second she looks in the box. Her eyes snap towards me and i let out a chuckle while nodding my head. She jumps in happiness and more or less tackles Alexia in a hug. It’s a miracle they don’t fly to the floor. Not long after Im picked up. I squeal in surprise and shock. “MARIA! Put her down!” Alexia immediately comes to my rescue. But it’s of no use as her “children” already surround her.

…

I hunch over the toilet again. Urgh… i feel like shit. I have been throwing up every morning for god knows how long. Since a few days before i figured out about this lovely baby i have in my stomach. Just as Im about to stand up i feel the nausea come back full force and i gag. I must be really out of it because i jump when i feel warm hand against my back.

“Sorry mi amor. Didn’t mean to scare you. How are you feeling?” Alexia’s raspy morning voice fills the quiet space. “Like I’ve been hit by a train… that carried a bus.” I groan. I can hear the quiet chuckle that comes from her lips. “It’s not funny!” I pinch her thigh. “Ow… I know amor. Im sorry. What can i do for you?” Her fingers gently frame my face as she scoops my hair up into a ponytail. “Could you get me some water?”

I feel her move away from me and towards the sink. Every move of my head makes it pound harder and i feel another wave of nausea roll through me. I gag again. “This baby better be really cute! I feel like sh*t!” I groan. At that it seams like Alexia can’t take it anymore and she bursts out laughing. Ohhhh… she’s in the doghouse now.

…

«I feel ugly» is the first thing that comes to my mind. I stare at myself in the mirror. My body. I feel fat and bloated and tired and not to even talk about the new stretch marks i have. I feel tears start streaming down my face. Ohh… and these hormones. Im a wreck. I can’t believe Alexia actually still want to be with me.

Im so stuck in my own head that I don’t even hear her come through the door. “Amor! What’s wrong?” She is beside me in seconds. As beautiful as ever. Even in her sweaty workout clothes she looks like a model on a runway. “Im so ugly!” I cry out “Im fat and discussing and look like a… a disgusting…” i hiccup and start full out crying. She immediately takes a hold of me and i burry my head into her shoulder.

She moves us over to the bed carefully. “Amor… shhh…” i hiccup and look up at her face. “Im sorry!” Im just soooo tired. Her hands gently cup my face. I feel her lips on my forehead and immediately feel the calm start spreading through me. She didn’t even have to talk to get me calm. “Mi Vida. Your not fat… your pregnant. And that’s beautiful. I don’t care about how you look. Your amazing! Your carrying my child and i will forever be grateful for that. You haven’t ever looked more raw and sexy in your life.” Her hand gently moves to caress my belly and i feel my whole life stop. “Really?” My voice quivers as i look up her at face with teary eyes. “Si” she kisses my forehead and hold me close to her until i fall asleep.

…

We had gotten Alba to fix everything. And she had definitely gotten all out. Ballon’s filled our backyard. Banners and confetti all over the tables. Girl or boy written in bright letters across the door. Everyone was there. Her family, my family and our club teammates. She had even started a betting system on who believed it was a boy and who believed it was a girl. Typical Alba style.

The time came. It was time to find out the gender. I was fully expecting a cake or something along those lines. But it was a total shock when she comes out with a football. I roll my eyes at her and look at alexia who is already rolling up her sleeves. She takes the microphone and says proudly “As the godmother and the favourite aunt i here by want to announce that these two idiots will need not just one but two balls for this to be right.” Everyone looks at each other confused. I also look at her like she’s crazy. What did she mean by that? “They’re getting twins!” She yells down the microphone.

Dear God — Lamine Yamal

elio’s note: this is heavily inspired by the song Dear God by Tate Mcrae! since i’m totally obsessed with this album of hers (yes until now lol), this is my first fic-oneshot on here, please enjoy!! 🫶🏻

(p.s. i don’t speak spanish, sorry if the translations are inaccurate! lyrics are in bold italics, and ik lamine has that bright blonde hair rn i just couldnt get myself to put it in the fanfic😭)

Mood’s Mini Playlist:

All I want - Kodaline

From the Dining Table - Harry Styles

WILDFLOWER - Billie Eilish

Dear God - Tate Mcrae

Yellow - Coldplay

goodnight n go - Ariana Grande

It’s all a haze, ever since that night happened.

The cries, the tears shed, the yelling.. and most of all, your insistence on leaving, the heavy heart through the insistence, the wet spots on the sleeves of your—his barça sweatshirt, your smudged and melted mascara tears running down your face like a young river eroding through land.

He hated seeing you like this, but still, it was not enough for him to be better for you, for the relationship. “I’m sorry,” He speaks, his jaw clenching as if letting it go might ruin it all, “Last time, I swear.” He swallowed, visibly, his adam’s apple bobbing, nervous.

Not because he doesn’t know if you’ll actually forgive him this time or not, you’ve already given him so many chances you both lost count of. But because he’s never seen you like this, it’s all new to him.

“No,” You took a deep shaky breath in, catching on a soft but sharp sniffle, “I’m done with you.” You add, choking on your own words, holding back a sob.

Silence.

“Qué?” He held his own breath, his eyes widened, expressive.

“Yes, I’m fucking done with you,” You spoke almost immediately, more sure this time after seeing the clear and obvious surprise on his face, fueling your anger more, “Surprising, right?” You laugh bitterly, gathering your stuff in your purse, to leave.

“Calm down and we’ll talk again later—“

“We’re done, Lamine.”

He blinks once, twice, as if he’s trying to click out of a dream.

“Y/n—“

“No.”

“You’re frustrated, I know—I–just listen.” He says, rushed as he tries to reach for your arm but you quickly snatch it away from his grip as you storm out of his house, he follows. He can’t help but rush behind you, he feels it now, deep, raw, ugly.

The withdraw.

It’s dark outside, several puddles have formed on the low edges of the pavement from the rain earlier, none of you noticed, too engulfed in your own feelings to notice anything. The street lampposts flickered a little as you rush by, he still follows.

“Let’s just talk, please.” He pleads. Again and again.

“Leave me alone, god damn it,” You stop and shove him back firmly, your emotions feeding your strength somehow, “We’re done, don’t text or call me.” You spit, voice trembling with finality, before storming off to your place. He stays there this time, too stunned to speak or move.

A few months pass, you’d think everything is alright after you both finally broke up, since it was your decision anyways.

But no, It’s hell, ugly, dreadful even.

He did exactly what you asked him to do, no texts, no calls, not even a staged bump-in on the street. Zero contact.

You’ve been forcing yourself to cope, your friends cheering and giving you head pats like a puppy ever since you told them you dumped him, you always had that poker face on. That face that screams “Fuck him!” shamelessly whenever his name comes up in any conversation or intentional gossip about him.

Shamelessly as if you don’t still cry over that night, or stare at your polaroid pictures together before you sleep every night, or even worse, wait for your phone screen to light up with his text, his name.

It’s 3:14 AM.

The sky’s clear as the pacific, occasional whistles from the midnight breeze and some grasshoppers’ chirps every now and then through your slightly ajar window. Your siamese cat’s hopped on and off your bed a few times, as if it’s checking on you, sensing your off energy, but you don’t even notice it.

You lay flat on your back on the bare mattress, no bedsheets, you wore some old, bleach-stained spaghetti strap top and shorts—his barcelona shorts, bright 19 printed on the right side. His number.

A few tops and shirts are inside out, carelessly thrown on the edge of the bed, hanging, other garments are also thrown scattered around the floor. Several mugs, some half-filled, some empty, placed on the nightstand with some painkiller tablets aside, pack almost empty, obviously abused judging by the clinging dark circles beneath your eyes.

It hurts, so much, like someone keeps twisting the knife over and over again. He’s literally everywhere in your mind, rent free, his voice is engraved in your internal soundtrack, it feels like sometimes you hear his voice louder than your own heartbeats and his haunted hands all over your body again, touching, caressing, grounding.

Your phone switches off, dead, you curse under your own breath and roll over to the ground now–since your bed is low anyways, reaching for the charger near the edge of your faded persian pattern carpet, plugging your phone. You sit still next to it, both legs folded underneath you.

“Hands on your chest and your knees on the carpet. Hoping he’ll stop it.”

You realize that even when he was driving you nuts, ignoring texts, forgetting the planned dates, not posting you, never even doing the bare minimum, you still wanted him more than anything in the whole world, he was the antidote to your poisoned life. You feel like praying, even when it’s been years since you’ve done anything like it, just anything to ease the pain, the memories, Him.

“Dear God, take his kiss right out of my brain

Take the pleasure out of my pain

Take the way he'd used to say I love you

Dear God, get his imprint out of my bed

Take amazing out of our sex

Take away the way I still might want to”

Your cat walks softly next to you, almost startling you, checking on you again before you lose your own sanity, purring rhythmically as it hops on your lap then stretches her lean body against your chest, facing you now, like she’s grounding you.

“I’m okay, Milky.” You whisper to it, with tears welling up in your eyes, as if the poor cat can understand human words. The cat blinks a few times before settling in your lap, curling around itself, its soft fur pooling warmth on your lap now, you pat its head gently.

“Dear God, I hope you're listening

I pray it ain't him I'm missing.”

You breathe in and out a few times now, and when you least expect it, it comes right to you. Your phone screen shines bright in the corner you left it in, charging.

You blink a few times, skeptical. You swallow the lump in your throat and you swear you can feel it travel right to your gut, growing bigger. Is that him? Or is that just a random notification as usual?

You lean forward, careful not to wake up your feline therapy buddy on your lap from its precious nap, reaching for your phone. Your heart skips a beat as you read the fresh notifications.

Lamine 3:47 AM.

“i can’t sleep”

“are u okay?”

You 3:52 AM.

“yeah”

“why”

Lamine 3:52 AM.

“can i come”

“porfa”

You 3:55 AM.

“lamine we’ve been over this please”

Just as your finger hits send, a sudden but soft click on your glass window, your head bolts to the right—towards your window.

Then another click

Then another

Then another

You watch in pure shock, some pebbles being tossed at your window at almost 4 AM, standing up gently not to wake up Milky, walking slowly to the window next to your bed, opening it a bit more than before, just not fully open yet.

“Mi corazón.” He immediately spoke, gently, as he looks up to your window observing your disoriented gaze and messy form. My heart.

“Lamine, what the hell?” You spoke faintly, voice breaking at the end. You can’t lie to yourself but you’ve been dying to see him, even if it’s against everything you’ve built for these past few months. You slightly let yourself stare at him, it eases the ache in your chest, your heart beats a little harder at his sight.

Crazy, just a few minutes ago you’ve been calling for every high power above to make the pain stop, just for the right medicine to be right there, warm brown skin like caramel dusted in bronze, dark set of sharp eyes, dark chocolate curly hair… now has golden highlighted strands, reflecting the faint lamppost light.

He stays silent for a little bit, analyzing you, his jaw clenches like he’s been so sure you’re in this state but been telling himself no.

“Definitely not okay.” He spoke, softly, still looking up at you.

“It doesn’t matter, please leave.” You fix the strap falling down your shoulder, still holding on to whatever’s left from your morals.

“There’s no ego in this, none of your friends will know,” he replies, his face slightly pleading now, “Not even Milky.” His pupils dilate but he doesn’t smile at his own words, not like he usually does. “Come down, porfa.” Please.

You stand there awkwardly, weighing your options, then look down at your clothes.

“Oh c’mon—I’ve literally seen you naked.” He frowns as he notices your gaze shifting to your messy outfit. And he’s just talking about the bleach stained top, not his shorts you’re wearing, hidden by the high frame of your window, that still had a lingering faint scent of his sandalwood cologne.

He waits on the pavement for you to come down, his foot taps on the pavement in anticipation, till you appear in front of him, wrapping your short robe around your frame.

“What do you want?” You spoke immediately, putting up your guards, shielding what’s left from your dignity.

“You don’t look okay.” He steps forward towards you.

“None of your business.” You step back.

“Y/n,” he spoke softer now,

“How did you spawn immediately outside my house?” You interrupt him, “Were you stalking me?” You breathe out audibly.

“Y/n, listen,” he replied, now interrupting you back.

“What?” You cross your arms.

“I’m not here to tell you the old excuses I used to tell you,” he speaks firmly, “I miss you so much it hurts, but I’m also not saying this to win you back or anything from that act,” he shifts his weight to his other leg, stimming and fidgeting with his hands, “I know you made up your mind about me long ago, but I just can’t handle the no contact anymore, I’ve been talking to you in my diary like it’s a ritual,” he takes a step forward towards you again, testing the waters, but you don’t step back this time, a small but warm smile creeps up on his face, “Can we start over?”

“Let’s start off as friends again, I promise you I won’t act like I’m expecting or pressuring anything more than what you give me,” he scratches the imaginary itch at the back of his head, “And I also promise to act like I don’t know that your favorite flowers are carnations and your favorite brunch is a cream cheese bagel and a dirty matcha.”

You smirk a little, unable to keep it down, but he bursts into his contagious boyish laugh and slowly reaches out for your hand, softly grasping onto it like it’s made out of glass.

“I’m sure friends don’t hold hands like that.” you cockily say.

“I’m also sure friends don’t wear each others clothes to sleep.” He shoots back, mocking you with the same impression, his eyes pointed at the subtle blue of your—his blaugrana shorts, peeking from underneath your robe.

“Coño.” You jerk your hand back from his grasp, and walk back to your front door. Cunt.

What if Neymar joined Real Madrid?

Hello guys! This is my first time posting on Tumblr but after suggestions on my AO3 fanfic I wanted to share my fic here too! Anyways, this is a Neymessi fic on if Neymar joined the Madrid team instead of Barcelona! I hope you all enjoy any suggestions and comments are welcome (again my first time posting so I'm sorry if there's any mistakes!)

I linked the Ao3 fic at the end of the post, there's already 18 chapters published but I'll start posting them here too :)

Without further ado, enjoy!!!