#fcb

the seat beside yours stays empty until the last boarding call.

you don’t look up at first.

there’s another line in the quarterly report that doesn’t quite add up. the acquisition numbers look optimistic to the point of fiction, and you’re halfway through highlighting a paragraph when someone slides into 4b.

a soft thud.

a carry-on tucked away.

the faint smell of expensive perfume and something clean.

“hi.”

you glance over automatically.

she smiles.

it’s unfair, really.

the sort of smile that belongs on magazine covers rather than overnight flights across the atlantic.

“hi.”

she settles in, buckling her seatbelt with practiced ease. a baseball cap disappears into the seat pocket, revealing blonde hair that’s slightly flattened from wearing it through the airport.

you return to your report.

you make it exactly three sentences.

“business or pleasure?”

you look up. “…pardon?”

she nods towards the stack of printed reports balanced across your lap. “are you reading for business or pleasure?”

you blink once. “unless we’re suddenly counting stocks as pleasure…” she laughs. “…then no. it’s all business.”

“some people do count investments as pleasure.”

you snort despite yourself. “do they?”

“absolutely.”

“those people need hobbies.”

she grins. “to each their own.”

there’s a pause, and you study her for a second. “what about you?”

“what about me?”

“why are you going to chicago?”

she leans back comfortably. “i’ve got a modelling thing.”

you nod slowly. “so you’re a model.”

she smiles wider. “i’m a footballer.”

“…oh.”

“but thank you for complimenting my looks.”

your cheeks warm just enough to annoy you. “that wasn’t-”

“it absolutely was.”

“i made an assumption.”

“based on my face.”

“based on the modelling.”

she hums, pretending to consider it. “i’ll allow it.”

the aircraft begins to taxi.

the conversation should end there.

it doesn’t.

“and you?” she asks. “what do you do when you’re not insulting footballers?”

“I work in finance.”

“that explains the reports.”

“i’m glad we’ve solved that mystery.”

“high-powered?”

“reasonably.”

“boring?”

“only to people who don’t enjoy spreadsheets.”

“ah.”

she nods thoughtfully. “so definitely boring.”

you smile despite yourself. “you asked.”

“i did.”

she offers her hand. “alexia.”

you take it. her grip is warm, firm, her hands slightly calloused from years of training and competing.

“y/n.”

“nice to meet you, y/n.”

the seatbelt sign stays on for another twenty minutes.

by the time it switches off, you’ve somehow learnt that she’s flying over for a campaign with a sportswear brand after preseason training.

she learns that you’re presenting to a board on monday morning.

“that’s why you’re reading reports on a plane?”

“i like being prepared.”

“you’re reading printed financial statements.”

“yes.”

“on holiday.”

“i’m not on holiday.”

“exactly.”

she shakes her head dramatically. “tragic.”

the flight attendant appears with drinks. “can i get you anything?”

alexia glances at you. “wine?”

you hesitate for perhaps half a second. “…why not.”

“two reds, please.”

the first glass disappears surprisingly quickly.

the second follows not long after dinner.

your reports are abandoned somewhere between discussing football stadium atmospheres and the merits of deep-dish pizza.

she tells stories well.

animated hands.

bright eyes.

every sentence somehow ending with you laughing.

you tell fewer stories.

she notices.

“you’re one of those people.”

“what people?”

“the quiet ones.”

“i talk.”

“when spoken to.”

“that’s generally how conversations work.”

“mm.”

she tips her glass slightly. “but when you do talk…”

she studies you over the rim. “…it’s usually worth listening.”

the compliment lands heavier than expected, causing you look away.

outside the window, there’s nothing except darkness broken occasionally by wing lights.

the cabin dims.

most people around you begin settling in.

blankets.

headphones.

sleep masks.

business class becomes strangely intimate in the low lighting.

voices lower.

movements slower.

alexia slips off her shoes, folding one leg beneath herself. “you’re thinking again.”

“am i?”

“finance face.”

“finance face?”

“very serious.”

“i don’t have a finance face.”

“you absolutely do.”

she reaches over before you can react. two fingers gently press the space between your eyebrows. 

“right…”

another light push.

“…there.”

you stare at her. “…what?”

“your frown disappeared.”

she withdraws her hand like nothing happened. “much better.”

you should probably be irritated.

instead-

“you’re very confident.”

“only when i drink.”

“often?”

“maybe once a month.”

you laugh quietly. “i can imagine.”

she watches you for a moment. “there it is.”

“what?”

“you smile more than you think.”

you hold her gaze. “you’re very observant.”

“occupational hazard.”

“football?”

“captain.” she shrugs. “always watching people.”

the silence that follows isn’t awkward.

it’s… comfortable.

dangerously so.

she looks good in the dim cabin lighting.

you notice details now.

the strength in her forearms.

the watch on her wrist.

the tiny scar near her thumb.

she catches you looking. “what?”

“nothing.”

“liar.”

“i wasn’t-”

“checking me out?”

“…”

she smiles slowly.

“it’s okay.”

you clear your throat. “you’re very sure of yourself.”

“would it help if i admitted i’ve been trying not to look at you for the last hour?”

your heart does something deeply inconvenient. “…really?”

“really.”

another pause.

“those reading glasses aren’t helping.”

you glance down. “my reading glasses?”

“you put them on to read.”

“…yes.”

“terrible decision.”

you laugh under your breath. “because?”

“because every time you adjust them…” her eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning. “…i forget what i was saying.”

the air feels warmer.

or maybe it’s just the wine.

you remove your glasses. “better?”

she exhales once. “significantly worse.”

your laugh comes quieter this time.

closer.

neither of you has noticed when the armrest stopped being enough space between you.

your shoulders brush now whenever either of you moves.

she doesn’t move away.

neither do you.

“can i ask you something?”

“depends.”

“are you always this…” she searches for the word.

“…careful?”

“careful?”

“like you’re calculating twelve different outcomes before you say anything.”

you think about denying it.

instead-

“usually.”

“and right now?”

your eyes meet hers, and your voice becomes softer. “right now… i’m trying very hard not to make a bad decision.”

she smiles. “interesting.”

“why?”

“because i was thinking exactly the same thing.”

another beat.

the hum of the engines fills the silence.

she tilts her head slightly. “i’m going to ask you something.”

“okay.”

“you can absolutely say no.”

“okay.”

“but if i don’t kiss you before this plane lands…”

her smile turns almost shy for the first time all evening.

“…i think i’m going to regret it.”

your eyes flick briefly to her mouth then back. “…that’s funny.”

“why?”

“because i was wondering how much longer you’d wait before asking.”

she laughs.

quiet enough not to disturb anyone sleeping nearby.

“so…”

“so.”

“…may i?”

instead of answering-

you lean the remaining inch between you.

her lips meet yours gently. just once- soft, testing even.

when you pull back, neither of you says anything for a few seconds.

alexia’s forehead rests lightly against yours.

“…well,” she murmurs.

“well.”

“that didn’t exactly help.”

“no.”

“made it considerably worse.”

you smile.

“i noticed.”

her thumb brushes absentmindedly against your wrist. “walk with me?”

“where?”

she glances meaningfully towards the rear of the aircraft.

“just…” another smile. “…to stretch our legs.”

you look at her.

at the sleepy cabin around you.

at the knowing expression she’s trying (and failing) to hide.

then you quietly unbuckle your seatbelt.

“lead the way.”

the aisle lights are dimmed to a faint amber glow. most passengers are asleep, blankets pulled high, headphones in.

the hum of the engines swallows almost every sound.

alexia walks just ahead of you, one hand lightly brushing the seat backs. you follow close enough that when the plane shifts in a bit of turbulence your fingers graze her lower back.

she doesn’t pull away. if anything she leans into the touch.

the galley at the rear is empty. the flight attendants have retreated to their jump seats. 

alexia glances once over her shoulder at you, that small conspiratorial smirk playing on her lips, then pushes open the door to the accessible lavatory.

the second the door clicks shut behind you the tiny space feels electric.

she turns and kisses you like she’s been waiting hours to do it. not gentle this time. her hands slide up your neck, fingers threading into your hair as she backs you against the counter. 

you taste the red wine on her tongue, feel the solid warmth of her body pressing flush against yours.

you kiss her back harder, nipping at her bottom lip, and she makes this soft surprised sound that shoots straight between your legs.

“fuck,” she breathes against your mouth, half laughing. “you’ve been holding out on me.”

“you’ve been talking too much.”

she grins, bright and wicked, then ducks her head to mouth at your neck, sucking lightly just below your ear.

your head falls back against the mirror with a quiet thud.

her hands move with purpose. one slips under your blouse, palm sliding up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra. the other grips your hip, pulling you even closer.

you tug at the hem of her shirt, fingers finding warm skin and the firm lines of muscle along her abdomen.

when you scratch lightly down her sides she shivers and presses her thigh between yours.

the pressure is immediate. perfect. not enough.

“alexia-” you whisper.

she answers by rolling her hips, slow and deliberate, grinding against you until your breath catches. her mouth finds yours again, deeper, messier.

you can feel how turned on she is. the heat of her through her joggers. the way her breathing is already getting ragged.

her fingers work open the button of your trousers, sliding the zipper down just enough to slip her hand inside. 

when she feels how wet you are she groans quietly against your lips. “dios mio… you’re soaked.”

you don’t answer with words. instead you push your own hand down the front of her joggers, past the waistband of her underwear, and find her just as drenched. the sound she makes when your fingers slide through her folds is low and filthy.

for a moment you just touch each other like that. slow, exploratory strokes. learning what makes the other gasp. 

her forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard in the tiny space.

she curls two fingers and presses them inside you without warning. your knees nearly buckle.

you bite down on her shoulder to stay quiet, and she hisses in pleasure at the sting.

“that’s it,” she murmurs, voice wrecked. “just like that.”

you match her rhythm, sliding two fingers into her at the same time. she’s tight and so fucking wet it makes your head spin. 

you crook your fingers and she clenches around you with a broken moan she tries to muffle against your neck.

the plane hums beneath you. someone coughs a few rows away. the risk of it all only makes everything sharper.

alexia’s thumb finds your clit and starts circling and your hips jerk forward involuntarily. you’re both trembling now, trying to stay quiet, hands moving faster, breaths mingling hot and desperate.

she kisses you again, messy and urgent, like she can’t get enough.

you’re right on the edge already.

alexia can feel it. she curls her fingers deeper, stroking that spot inside you with devastating precision while her thumb keeps perfect pressure on your clit. 

her mouth is on your neck again, sucking, biting, whispering filthy little things against your skin.

“come on amor… let go for me.” the words combined with the steady rhythm of her fingers push you over. 

you come hard, clenching around her, thighs shaking as the orgasm crashes through you. 

you bury your face in her shoulder to muffle the sound, nails digging into her back through her shirt.

she doesn’t stop. she keeps fucking you through it, slower now, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive.

when you finally catch your breath you kiss her hard, tasting desperation. your fingers are still buried inside her, and you start moving again with renewed purpose. 

you match the pace she used on you, curling, stroking, thumb circling her swollen clit.

alexia’s hips stutter. her breathing turns broken and shallow.

“fuck… just like that,” she gasps.

you can feel her getting close. her walls flutter around your fingers, slick and hot. you add a third finger and she moans louder than she should, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half shut.

her hand is still between your legs, lazily stroking you even as she starts falling apart. 

the overstimulation makes you whimper but you don’t want her to stop.

“i’m gonna-” she chokes out.

“come for me,” you whisper against her mouth.

she does. hard. her whole body tenses, thighs clamping around your hand as she rides out the waves. 

you keep moving through it, gentler now, until she’s shaking and panting into your neck.

for a long moment the only sounds are both of you breathing heavily and the low drone of the plane engines.

alexia pulls back just enough to look at you. her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, hair completely messed up. 

she looks wrecked in the best possible way. she brings her fingers to her mouth and slowly licks them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

you nearly short-circuit all over again, and she grins at your expression, soft and satisfied. 

you both start fixing your clothes with shaky hands, stealing little kisses between adjustments. 

when you’re decent again she leans in and presses a gentler kiss to your forehead.

then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, she murmurs, “so i’ll pick you up friday at eight.”

you blink, still a little dazed. “sorry?”

she smiles, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “unless you only wanted this to be a one time thing.”

“no- no i’d love to see you again,” you say quickly, heart doing something ridiculous in your chest. “but i don’t even have your number?”

alexia’s smile widens, warm and a little cocky. “well amor, we better fix that then, shouldn’t we?”

⸻

you were both at a party in barcelona and ferran had his arm around your waist most of the evening.

he looked handsome in his black shirt, hair slightly messy and that charming smile flashing whenever he looked at you.

at one point you stepped away to grab drinks and ended up talking to an old friend.

nothing serious but ferran noticed from across the terrace. his smile faded really quick as he watched you.

when you returned with the drinks he took his glass but didn’t smile.

his hand immediately slid around your waist again, pulling you closer against his side, almost too tight.

“having fun?” he asked.

“yeah, it’s nice seeing everyone,” you replied simply.

he nodded but stayed quiet and the rest of the night he kept you glued to him, his touches were more insistent.

the car ride home was also tense, ferran’s hand rested on your thigh, fingers drumming restlessly.

“you were laughing a lot with him,” he said finally, eyes on the road.

“ferran, it was nothing. we were just talking,” you tried, knowing he was getting more and more annoyed.

“i know what i saw,” he sighed.

as soon as the apartment door closed behind you he was on you, pushing you against the wall with a deep kiss.

his hands roamed possessively, sliding under your dress to grip your ass.

he didn’t waste time and lifted you up so your legs wrapped around his waist, carrying you straight to the bedroom.

clothes came off fast and ferran dropped you on the bed and climbed over you, mouth attacking your neck, sucking dark marks while his fingers pushed your panties aside.

“so wet already,” he muttered, sounding both satisfied and annoyed. “all that laughing and you come home dripping for me.”

two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling deep and pumping fast.

you moaned loudly, back arching as he fucked you with them, thumb pressing firm circles on your clit.

ferran watched your face the whole time, his free hand pinning your wrist above your head.

he added a third finger, stretching you open, scissoring them while his mouth moved down to suck hard on your nipple.

the wet sounds of his fingers thrusting into you filled the room and he kept going until your legs shook then suddenly pulled out, leaving you empty and whimpering.

he flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so you were on all fours.

his cock rubbed against your entrance before he thrust in deep in one smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt.

you cried out at the fullness and ferran groaned, gripping your hips tight as he started pounding into you.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he panted, voice strained.

each thrust was powerful, hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin slapping loud and obscene.

he reached around to rub your clit again, never slowing his pace.

his other hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back slightly so he could lean over you and bite your shoulder.

you came around his cock, walls clenching tight, moaning his name into the sheets.

ferran fucked you through it, then flipped you onto your back again, spreading your legs wide and driving back inside.

he held eye contact now, forehead pressed to yours and thrusting slower but deeper, grinding against your clit with every stroke. “come again.”

the second orgasm hit even harder, your whole body shaking as pleasure crashed over you.

ferran followed right after, burying himself and groaning loudly as he came, filling you with hot pulses while his hips stuttered.

afterwards he collapsed beside you, pulling you tightly against his chest, arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go. his breathing was still heavy, but his voice softened just a little.

“sorry if i was too much,” he murmured, kissing your forehead.

౨ৎ

3-2. That was the final score. And for the first time you were there for such an occasion. For such a special moment. I mean sure, you had been there for league games and you held them dear to your heart but this, this was different. This was historic. An El Clasico final full of tension, rivalry and pride. The stadium filled with the kind of electricity that made your skin prickle.

You had been seated somewhere near the halfway line, with your scarf wrapped tightly around your neck. Then he had scored in the 28th minute and you jumped to your feet so quickly, with a wail of unfiltered joy.

The entire Barcelona end of the stadium erupted, but in that moment all Pedri thought about was you. His eyes finding yours, and a beaming smile upon his sweat stricken face. He'd scored because his good luck charm was in the audience, under the warm floodlights looking like an angel sent directly from heaven.

After that, it had felt like the longest game of football of your life. Real Madrid were back in it, and then in the lead and it looked like it was going to be them leaving the stadium with a trophy in hand. But Ferran, at the last minute before the final whistle blew, was able to equalise.

Then, in extra time. Minute 116. Barcelona took the lead. The ball slammed into the net and the stadium erupted in disbelief and euphoria. You didn't even see the celebration; you were doubled over in your seat, hands pressed to your face, half laughing, half crying in disbelief.

Then, the final whistle blew and you thought you could relax. But the chaos came.

All anger and temper. And red cards flying. The Real Madrid bench threw stuff on the pitch. And it was a huddled mess of flying limbs but you didn't care. You were watching Pedri and he was watching you. Away from all the mess. Just you and him. Smiling ear to ear. He mouthed 'I love you' and your cheeks flushed, you mouthed it back then bit your lip trying to hide your elation.

Once it had all calmed down, the hard fought trophy was brought out decorated in ribbons of garnet and blue. And the Barcelona players were presented with their medals. And the confetti flew, and after what felt like an age friends and family were allowed on the pitch to celebrate. Alongside all the media that were circling like vultures looking for every photo opportunity.

You walked down the stadiums concrete stairs and Pedri watched, waiting beside the sponsorship boards with the gold medal glinting around his neck. His natural blush that you loved so deeply prominent on his cheeks. He hadn't taken his eyes off you since you began to walk down the stairs. Your hair half clipped back, a trench coat covering your navy and white polka dot minidress and the FC Barcalona scarf thick around your neck. So beautiful, and elegant.

When you finally reached the bottom step, he held out his hand for you to take and you did. Feeling that burn when you touched him. He helped you over the boards and onto the pitch, then wrapped his arm around your shoulder. You grabbed his hand which dangled over, leaning your head into his chest.

"Congratulations, my love" You pressed a kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you bebe" He grinned.

And it's like you're in your own little world. Walking the pitch wrapped in each others arms as the confetti pours and loyal Barcelona fans chant in the stadium still.

The camera's were clicking around you - relentless, hungry. But even as they swarmed, Pedri just pulled you closer. Subtle protectiveness. With one hand he waved to the crowd, and with the other he soothed you.

One of the club staff passed you both briefly and held out the trophy to Pedri.

"You guys want a photo?" He asked, and you grew shy. This was your first time down on the field as a wag. As the star players girlfriend.

"Si." Pedri speaks for you both. He grabs the trophy with his hands, leaving your shoulder bare from his touch.

He hoisted the Copa del Rey with ease, the weight of the silver glinting beneath the stadium lights. The ribbons of garnet and blue swayed gently in the breeze, like the heartbeat of a city. You stood close, barely breathing as he shifted the trophy in one arm and reached for your waist with the other.

“Come here,” he said, voice soft, low enough that only you could hear.

You stepped into him, your body folding into his side like you were always meant to be there. You placed your hand on one of the handles. The metal of the trophy was cool against your skin, but Pedri’s touch was warm. You were anchored in a moment you never thought you’d be part of.

You heard the clicks again. A frenzy of cameras capturing what they had all been waiting for. Some, however, were just the team photographers capturing the moment so that they could send the photos to Pedri in the morning.

Pedri looked down at you, lips twitching into a grin that held more pride than the medal around his neck. “Smile,” he whispered, and you did. With flushed cheeks of rose, you smiled for the camera. You were happier than you had ever been. In this moment, with him by your side. You felt as though you were infinite. Like nothing could ever come between you and Pedri.

When the camera lowered, Pedri leaned down to press a kiss to your temple. Not for show. Not for the press. Just for you.

"I want one of just you" He said, and you looked at him with furrowed brows. Confused.

"You want one of me and the trophy?" You asked like you hadn't heard him correctly.

"Si!" He said, pulling his phone from his pocket and opening up the camera app.

You blinked at him, still stunned by the request, your hands brushing nervously down the front of your dress. “Pedri, I’m not—this is your moment,” you said softly, half-laughing, half-protesting.

But he just shook his head with that boyish grin you adored. “It’s our moment. Now pose,” he said, stepping back a few feet, phone poised like a seasoned photographer.

You hesitated, glancing down at the massive silver trophy in your hands. It was heavier than it looked. You looked up at him one more time, still uncertain, and he gave you that look. The one that always made your knees a little weaker. The one that told you to trust him.

So you stood there, shy and glowing, with the stadium behind you and confetti still drifting down like snow in spring. You wrapped your fingers tighter around the handles of the trophy, holding it at your waist, then glanced into the lens of his phone.

“Perfect,” he said under his breath.

The photo was taken, and you immediately stepped forward to see it. He didn’t let you.

“Wait,” he said, tapping the screen. “Sending it to myself first, in case you make me delete it.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing now. “You’re being ridiculous.”

You handed the trophy over to another player, and their family. Letting them experience the same moment you just had while Pedri fiddled with his phone. Once he was done, he pulled you in again with no care about who was watching. He kissed you full on the lips, soft but unyielding. The kind of kiss that makes time slow down and hearts race.

When you got home that night, you realised what he had been doing on his phone back on the pitch. He had been posting the photo of you and the trophy with a simple caption of a love heart.

Because that was all that needed to be said.

Love.