#ferran torres

the night you’ve been spending with your fairly new boyfriend is slowly coming to an end, and you feel like a princess and an angel wrapped into one. how can you not, when ferran’s strong arms are wrapped around you as he carries you into his sacred space.

don’t get it twisted, though: you’ve been dating ferran for a while, but today is the day you’re finally spending the night at his place after a lot of “please, baby!”s.

his room is tidy and neat, the corners of his duvet tucked into sharp corners, his pillows all fluffed up. a random, dark green hat lies on top of his dresser, as well as a random watch, but that doesn’t matter. you’re more focused on your boyfriend, anyway.

especially when he plops you on his soft bed, your body softly bouncing back on the mattress. and ferran leans down with two arms planted on either side of you and looks at you like you’re the light of his life: his eyes scrunched up in delight, that adorable smile he’s always wearing around you. his brown hair peeking out from the back of his neck, his blushy cheeks.

you’d be an idiot to think he’s not in love with you.

“really,” ferran affirms, voice warm and thick like treacle, descending his face down to yours to press a short, but sweet kiss to your lips. “you always look beautiful, my love. always.” he says against your lips. you can feel your heart stutter at his words, the profoundness of his confession. why’d he have to be so cute? you’ve never been so caught up in a guy.

your boyfriend stands back up straight, grabbing you by your hands to pull you up too. “you wanna wear something of mine to bed?”

you hum back affirmatively, already all sleepy and sated as you stare at how ferran opens the door of his closet, rummaging through his array of shirts before grabbing the softest, most comfortable piece he can find. 

you swiftly change into the piece of clothing he chose, the fabric reaching mid-thigh and the fabric soft and comfortable around your frame. perfect to sleep in. and ferran thinks so too. that you’re perfect.

you know that, because he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

“you’re such an angel,” he tells you, his hands finding yours, voice cracked open in vulnerability and wonder. he spins you around slowly in the middle of his room, because here, in the dim yellow light of his bedroom and the stale quaintness of barcelona around you two, all he can focus on is sharing this moment with you.

he pulls one of your hands to his mouth before placing another light kiss to your knuckles, his brown, gooey eyes never leaving yours. “prettiest girl on the planet.” your insides get all mushy at his gravel voice, because all you can think of ferran is how he’s cute. respectful. beautiful. never pushy. accommodating. lovely. excited. he has the humility of a child, the gentleness that reminds you of the bfg, somehow. 

ferran takes a step back, away from you, before turning his back to you to get himself ready for bed too. he sits down on his bed, just doing his thing, plugging his phone into the charger.

but when he hooks his hand around the sturdy fabric of the tee he’s wearing and pulls the shirt over his head, all the innocent, sweet thoughts about him vanish like snow before the sun, because—

well, his entire back is covered in fucking ink.

and you’ve never felt your knees buckle this fast. you genuinely have to hold yourself up, one hand planted on the soft duvet of his bed to prevent yourself from folding. ferran draws up his arm to scratch the back of his neck, and the tendons and the muscles shift underneath his tanned skin.

because now, you think of your boyfriend as sexy. hot. undeniably attractive, as opposed to cute and adorable.

“wow,” is all you can muster, tentatively walking on your knees across his bed until you’re within touching-distance. “i didn’t know you had, y’know—” you vaguely gesture around your boyfriend’s back, “all of this.”

it’s as if ferran can feel the nervous air around you, because he huffs out a self-satisfied, attractive chuckle. “it’s nothing,” he lets his arms rest on his spread legs, his crumpled up shirt still clutched between his fingers, giving you all the time in the world to look at his tattooed back. “it’s just ink on skin.”

the air is pulled taut between you when you reach out your hand, the warmth wavering over ferran’s skin. “can i touch them?” you let the question linger in the air. “can i— can i touch you?”

“you want to?” he shoots back, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

the tension crackles in the air all of a sudden. it’s sizzling, ferran’s warm, balmy skin under your fingertips. you hear the brunet suck in a small breath when your fingers brush over the chess pawn on the upper left side of his back. “did they hurt?” you decide to ask, your voice so light and broken with curiosity.

ferran can feel himself going absolutely insane. your touch is soothing yet torturing, it’s feathery and delicate, just like you. “not really,” he answers, drawing up his shoulders, his breath weighing heavy in his lungs when he speaks. “can handle the pain.”

the scrape of your nails over his skin has his head falling between his shoulders in delight. the scene looks so intimate from afar: you gently tracing the swirly, intricate designs on your boyfriend’s back, and him revelling in your touch.

“i like this one.” you whisper, both of your hands travelling to the laurel wreath on his lower back, just where the hem of his jeans begins. under the light scratch of your nails, goosebumps erupt across ferran’s skin.

“you do?” he questions, a little playful, a little heartfelt. his voice is strained. his back is like one giant treasure map, every tattoo a new area for you to explore, the empty pathways of skin in between leading you to a new piece.

“and this one—” your fingers meander all the way to his upper back, where the angel wings are. “really fits that name you always call me.”

“yeah, because you are,” he tells you huskily, trying to turn his head so he can look at you. the look in his eyes makes slick dribble on the gusset of your panties. “you’re my angel, baby. you know that.”

ferran’s reassurance is everything you want in life. knowing you’re his. knowing you’re the only one who is able touch him like this, knowing you’re the one who sees the vulnerable, the good, the bad.

you noiselessly move your head down, brushing your lips over the anatomical heart on the upper right side of his back. remnants of your glittery lip gloss stick to his skin like a reminder of you, forever on him.

ferran hums something indecipherable back, something between a jumbled grunt and a helpless whine. “baby…” he breathes exasperatedly, but you just continue to place small, cloying kisses all over him: the set of brains on the other side, the tattooed word below it.

your hands slide over his shoulders, easing the tension away. he smells so clean, like citrus and musk. “what?” you murmur, bringing your face up to his neck, placing kisses there. his faint stubble tickles the sensitive skin of your plump lips. you move your lips to the underside of his chin, the line of his jaw. “can’t show my boyfriend how much i like him?”

“let me kiss you please,” the brunet pulls your face away from him, now finally able to turn around fully. he drops one lingering kiss to your lips, the squelching sound of your lips joining echoing through the tension-ridden bedroom. “gonna show you how much i like you, baby.”

it doesn’t take long until ferran turns around fully and hovers over you, looking at you with stars in his eyes. “i adore you.” he simply confesses, a little out of breath, chest rising and falling with every intake of oxygen. as if you didn’t know.

“show me then.” you reply, hooking two fingers through his belt loop, pulling him in. and all of a sudden, ferran’s weight wavers over you, dipping you back into the mattress of his bed. and you just acquiesce, flexing open your thighs to fit his frame between them.

his lips find yours like a compass needle always pointing north. this time, his hands are hot and heavy on your skin. “i love you,” ferran declares, eyes flitting between yours and your lips before stuffing his face into the sensitive column of your neck, “you’re my girl.”

“i know— i know,” you agree, your voice all trembly, knowing what’s about to happen when you feel his thick fingers hooking under the elastic of your panties before pulling them down. from your point of view, the mop of brown hair moves all the way down your body, kneading the soft of your hips.

“i love these,” ferran hums into the flesh of your thighs, blatantly ignoring the seeping arousal leaking out of you. the subtle scratch of his stubble stimulates you in a way you’ve never felt before. “love taking my time with you.”

the push and pull of his lips on your skin is electrifying. the small tingles of his teeth nipping at your flesh are quickly soothed by the slide of ferran’s wet tongue. and your hands? your hands crawl into his brown hair, pulling the strands taut as a signal for him to do something. anything.

you’re thinking about forever with him, truly. somewhere between a minute and a lifetime.

at last, ferran looks at your weeping pussy. his hooded eyes flick to your face and you watch him with a pleading look. just anything, now. “and i love eating y’r pretty pussy up.” is all he says, voice full of gravel and sin, before his tongue meets your clit.

your hair splays out all around your head like an invisible halo, your head digging further into his spongy, fluffy mattress. his tongue laves up all the slick that’s gushing out of you, his lips brushing gently over your walls, making you a jumbled mess of moans and mewls.

“love the sounds you make,” ferran mumbles into your pussy before prodding his tongue at your entrance. “and that pretty face of yours—” he squeezes into you, his gentle hands adjusting its grip around your legs, keeping you open and accessible to him. “especially when you come f’me.” his stare deepens into something mischievous, a teasing glint in his gaze.

ferran’s tongue works into you like a metronome, keeping his tormenting pace stable and consistent. “talk t’me, angel,” he tells you, tongue-deep into you. your slick dribbles on the duvet, leaving embarrassingly wet patches behind. “tell me what you’re feelin’.”

his accent gets all slurry and deep, literally pussy-drunk. now it’s your turn to babble out an incoherent mess of sounds.

“speak up, baby.” ferran taunts between flicks and thick stripes of his tongue.

“i’m— close, don’t stop,” you try to do your best to meet him halfway. the way your eyes are clenched shut, the little quirk of your eyebrow, ferran knows you’re close. very. your hands are shaky between his strands, tension convoluting all through you. “fer, seriously—”

“give it t’me, baby—” is all he says before squeezing his tongue right into you again, alternating between little presses of his fingers to your pulsating clit. it’s almost as if he’s more eager for you to come than you yourself. “know you can.”

you shatter with a broken moan, feeling as if the dam finally broke. the apples of your cheeks burn up, a shiver running up your spine, and ferran keeps on feeding you subtle pokes of his tongue, fleeting touches of his warm hands around your legs. he really guides you through your orgasm.

when you finally catch your breath with a gratified smile on your face, ferran reaches up to you. his lips and chin are shiny with your slick, but that doesn’t stop him from pushing a quick kiss to your lips. “you’re perfect, honey.”

honey. it’s weird how the simplest words can sound so… intimate when it comes from him. you almost want to squeal at how adorable your boyfriend is.

“all because i traced your tattoos?”

“well, i’m easy when it comes to you, baby.”

"Third door on the left," he murmurs now, close to your ear, and the warmth of it does something stupid to your stomach. He's got your hand in his, fingers laced together, pulling you down the corridor with this urgency that keeps threatening to tip over into something reckless.

"You're going to wake everyone up, Pedri and Gavi are next door," you hiss.

"I'm not doing anything." He stops at his door and turns to face you, and even now - rumpled, champagne-flushed, eyes gone soft with exhaustion and something else entirely, he looks like the man who scored the only goal in a World Cup final. Like someone who got exactly what he wanted and is already thinking about the next thing.

He fumbles with the keycard.

It doesn't work.

You bite down on a smile. "Ferran."

"I know, I know-"

He tries it again, the little light flashing red, and he exhales through his nose and presses his forehead briefly against the door like it's personally betrayed him. You're going to laugh, you can feel it building.

"Flip it the other way," you whisper.

He does. The light blinks green.

He turns back to you with an expression that can only be described as triumphant, like he's scored again. The lock clicked loudly in the silent hallway and you both froze, wide-eyed and drunk, before dissolving into hushed laughter.

"Shh, shh," he grinned, the smile boyish and wicked all at once as he pushed the door open. His hand slid lower on your body, squeezing your hip, then your ass as he guided you inside. "I'll be quiet, baby. I promise."

The door had barely clicked shut before Ferran's mouth was on yours again, hot and desperate. His hands framed your face at first, thumbs stroking your flushed cheeks, but that restraint lasted all of three seconds. One of his big palms slid down to grip the back of your neck, tilting your head exactly how he wanted as his tongue pushed past your lips.

He pressed you harder against the door, his body flush with yours. You could feel every inch of him - his chest, his abs still tight from the adrenaline of the match, and the hard outline of his cock grinding slowly, deliberately against your thigh. He rolled his hips in filthy little circles, letting you feel how badly he needed you.

"Been so hard for hours," he breathed against your mouth between kisses, voice wrecked and quiet. "Every time I looked at you tonight… fuck, I just wanted to drag you somewhere and bury myself in you."

Your hands fisted in his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer. The friction of his clothed cock rubbing against you had heat pooling low in your belly, your panties already soaked. He kissed you like he was drowning, messy and urgent, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Your hands slid down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, until you dropped to your knees right there against the door. Ferran's eyes widened, dark with lust, as you quickly worked his belt and zipper open.

"Baby - fuck," he hissed as you freed his cock. It sprang out, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He was rock hard, veins prominent under your gaze.

You didn't tease, just took him into your mouth in one smooth motion, as deep as you could. Ferran's head thunked back against the door with a muffled thud, his hand flying to your hair, fingers tightening almost painfully.

"Shit - yes, just like that," he whispered, voice strained as he fought to stay quiet. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing deeper into the wet heat of your throat.

You sucked him eagerly, hollowing your cheeks, tongue swirling around the head every time you pulled back. The taste of him, salty and warm, made you moan around his length.

He was breathing hard through his nose, chest heaving, trying so hard not to make noise. But you could tell he was already close as his thighs trembled, his grip in your hair grew tighter, and his cock throbbed heavily on your tongue.

After only a minute, he cursed under his breath and pulled you off with a wet pop, breathing ragged.

"Not yet," he growled, voice low as he hauled you back up, kissing you fiercely so he could taste himself on your tongue. "Want to finish inside you, I need to feel you come around me first."

Before you could respond, he scooped you up, hands gripping the back of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you across the dark hotel room toward the king-sized bed. His mouth never left your skin - kissing, licking, sucking marks along your neck and collarbone.

He dropped you onto the mattress, the bounce making you both grin drunkenly for a second. His hands were everywhere at once, ripping at your clothes with zero patience. The expensive dress you'd worn to the celebrations was yanked up and over your head, your bra was quickly unclasped and tossed aside as he peeled your soaked panties down your legs and threw them somewhere into the darkness.

You were completely bare in front of him, and Ferran stared like he'd just won another trophy.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured reverently, running his hands up your thighs, spreading them wide.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragged you to the very edge, and buried his face between your legs without warning.

The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit made your back arch off the bed. He groaned loudly into your pussy at how wet you were, the vibration shooting pleasure through you, then he stopped holding back. Ferran ate you out like a man starved - messy, ravenous as two thick fingers plunging deep inside you and curling instantly against that spot that made you cry out.

"Oh my god - Ferran," you cried out, trying desperately to stay quiet. You bit your lip hard, one hand flying to your mouth while the other tangled in his hair.

He didn't let up. He kept devouring you, licking and sucking with obscene wet sounds that filled the room. His fingers pumped steadily, faster and faster, while his tongue worked your clit in tight circles. Every moan he made vibrated against your most sensitive parts, the knot in your stomach getting tighter and tighter.

You were failing miserably at being quiet.

Soft, broken whimpers and gasps kept slipping out despite your efforts. "Ferran - fuck, please- I can’t - ah!"

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny with your arousal, eyes blazing with lust. "Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice husky, before diving back in even harder.

The pressure built unbearably fast as your thighs started shaking around his head, hips grinding desperately against his mouth. He was relentless - groaning, licking, sucking, fucking you with his fingers like he needed you to come more than he needed air.

You came hard, back bowing off the bed, a choked cry tearing from your throat before you could muffle it with your hand. "Oh, Ferran!"

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his fingers as he kept licking you through it, drawing out every last pulse of ecstasy.

Ferran didn't stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, kissing your inner thighs softly as you came down.

He rose up over you, cock rock hard and leaking, eyes dark with pure need as he climbed onto the bed, crawling over you with a hunger that still somehow looked reverent. His body hovered above yours, skin hot and flushed from the long night.

For a moment, everything slowed. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheekbones as he looked straight into your eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered, voice thick with emotion and lust.

Then he kissed you - soft at first, almost sweet. His lips moved gently against yours, savoring the taste of your shared desire. You melted into it, arms wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through his messy hair as the kiss deepened. Tongues slid lazily together, like he was pouring every ounce of love and triumph into you.

You could feel his cock, heavy and burning hot, resting against your soaked entrance, twitching with need. But he didn't rush, just kept kissing you, breathing you in, forehead pressed to yours between kisses, eyes half-lidded and locked on yours.

With a low, broken groan, Ferran gripped your hips hard and thrust into you in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The sudden stretch and fullness ripped a loud cry from your throat. He didn't give you time to adjust as he pulled back and slammed in again, setting a relentless pace right away.

"Fuck - yes," he growled, eyes burning into yours. He refused to look away, staring straight at you as he fucked you senseless.

The headboard started slamming against the wall with every hard thrust. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoed through the quiet hotel room, but Ferran didn't seem to care anymore. He'd completely forgotten about his teammates sleeping next door. All that mattered was you.

He was rough and fast, hips snapping forward with powerful strokes that drove the air from your lungs. Every thrust was deep, almost punishing in its intensity. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your chest as he pounded into you, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with your uncontrollable moans and his deep, guttural groans.

You cried out sharply with every thrust, unable to hold back. "Oh, Ferran - oh god, slow down, they'll hear-"

But he just fucked you harder, eyes still locked on yours, pupils blown wide with raw lust. "Let them," he rasped, voice wrecked. "I don't care. Need you, need this."

He was fighting so hard not to cum. You could see it in his face - the clenched jaw, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the desperate groans that slipped out every time your walls fluttered around him. His fingers dug bruisingly into your hips as he held you in place, driving into you again and again.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned loudly, never breaking eye contact. "So tight… so wet for me. Look at me, baby. Don't look away."

You couldn't have looked away even if you wanted to. His gaze pinned you intensely as he fucked you into the mattress. Tears of overwhelming pleasure pricked at the corners of your eyes, every thrust hit that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of ecstasy shooting through your body.

Ferran suddenly grabbed your legs, pushing your ankles up onto his shoulders. The new angle folded you in half, letting him sink even deeper. He groaned loudly at the sensation, burying himself as far as physically possible.

"Oh Ferran, oh my fucking god-" you sobbed, the pleasure overstimulating since you were still sensitive from your previous orgasm.

"Gonna cum inside you," he panted, voice hoarse, thrusts growing somehow even deeper. "Fuck, look at me when you cum again."

His words, combined with the relentless drag of his cock against that sensitive spot and the overwhelming eye contact, sent you spiraling. You came hard around him, crying out his name loud enough that half the floor probably heard.

Ferran's rhythm finally broke. With a deep, guttural moan that echoed through the room, he slammed into you one last time and stayed buried deep, hips pressed flush against you. His cock pulsed hard as he came, flooding you with thick, hot spurts. He kept his eyes on yours the entire time, watching every second of your shared climax, forehead pressed to yours as he groaned your name like a prayer.

For a moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant thump of your racing hearts. Ferran stayed inside you, gently lowering your legs as he collapsed on top of you, still pressing soft kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your neck.

"Best night of my life," he whispered against your skin, voice soft again.

The next morning, the parade bus is a disaster.

It starts before Ferran even makes it up the steps. Lamine is already there, sunglasses on despite the fact that it's overcast, grinning at him with the specific energy of someone who has been waiting all morning to say something.

"There he is," Lamine announces to no one in particular. "The hero of Spain."

"Don't," Ferran says.

"I'm just saying. Two goals last night."

Ferran stops walking. "I scored one goal."

"That's not what it sounded like from room 804."

The back of the bus erupts. Gavi nearly chokes on whatever he's drinking, Pedri has his face buried in his hands already, and Cucurella is outright cackling, leaning across the seat to slap Lamine on the arm like he's just said the funniest thing anyone has ever said in the history of professional football.

Ferran keeps walking and finds a seat, jaw tight, staring straight ahead.

It lasts about thirty seconds.

"Oh, Ferraaaaaan-"

He turns around. It's Gavi, voice pitched high, hand clutched dramatically to his chest, and now the whole section of the bus is losing it, a full chorus of his name in varying degrees of falsetto, and Ferran closes his eyes slowly like a man searching for patience he does not have.

"You're all children," he says. "We won the World Cup yesterday."

"We know," Pedri says, completely composed except for the way his mouth is twitching. "We were there. We heard."

"Shut up, Pedri."

"I'm just saying - thin walls."

"Incredibly thin," Cucurella agrees solemnly. "Paper, basically paper."

"I had to put headphones in," Lamine adds, shaking his head like he's recounting a trauma. "At four in the morning. On the night we won the World Cup because of you."

Ferran turns back to face the front of the bus. Outside the window, the streets are already lined with people, red and yellow everywhere, flags and scarves and thousands of faces blurring together. The noise of it filters through the glass, and it's enormous, the kind of sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs.

He'd scored the only goal in a World Cup final - he should be allowed to have this.

"She was really that loud?" someone asks from the back, one of the defenders, he doesn't even turn to look.

"Louder," Gavi and Pedri say at the exact same time.

The bus absolutely loses it again.

Ferran tips his head back against the seat and stares at the roof and thinks about how he is going to have to live with this for the rest of his career. Every dressing room, every camp, every time one of them wants a cheap laugh. He's going to be sixty years old and Lamine Yamal is still going to be doing that voice.

But then the bus turns the corner and the crowd comes into full view - hundreds of thousands of them, screaming, crying, holding up his name on banners and someone presses a medal into his hand, while Gavi drops into the seat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and says quietly, genuinely, "You were unbelievable yesterday. You know that, right?"

Ferran looks at him.

Gavi grins. "The goal, I mean. Obviously."

"I hate you," Ferran says.

"No you don't."

He doesn't.

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you silently pray, hope, for some more action from spain, the long lasting 0-0 making your heart pound a little more every second.

then before you can even process what’s happening, pedro porro makes a perfect pass to nico, that ends up ricocheting to ferran, who then kicks it perfectly and heavily into the net, leaving the argentinian golie on the floor.

you jump, you scream, you hug his sister, then his mom, and you feel his fathers hand rubbing your back, all of you with tears in your eyes, seeing ferran happily, even shocked with himself, destroying the corner flag, quickly swarmed by his teammates.

your eyes meet briefly and the look on his face immediately softens when he sees your shoulders shake with tiny sobs behind your proudest smile, throat already sore from screaming so much.

the game continues, intense, fiery and, most of all, dominated by spain, by your boyfriend. and when the final whistle blows, it’s like wind was knocked out of your lungs, for a second you even go dizzy with the atmosphere around you.

you chant with the rest of the spaniards, one arm draped around his sister, the other up in the air.

grabbing your phone, you make sure to take a picture of your boyfriend sitting on the edge of the little stage, kissing the most important trophy in the world that he earned.

family are then allowed down to the field. you follow behind his, letting them hug him first, letting them have their moment and taking a few pictures ferran would definitely get emotional at later.

ferran gives his last hug before you’re the only one left to have a moment with him, and the second he opens his arms you jump into them, tears rushing down your cheeks.

“fer, god- i couldn’t be prouder, i knew you would do it, te amo, te amo muchísimo” you hug his neck, legs at his sides, supported by one of his hands while the other rests on your hair, kissing the side of your head, your shoulder, anything he could get his lips on, in the sweetest way possible.

“i know, i couldn’t have done it without you.” he smiles charmingly, always trying to push himself down humbly.

“ferran, you did this. you earned this. you kept your head high even though everyone was pushing it down. give yourself some credit for once, please.”

“no, i know, but you’re the one who stood by my side, celebrated my goals and made me brownies when i lost so i’d feel better. you’re the only one who manages to get me out of my head when im eating myself alive. i wouldn’t even be in this field right now if it weren’t for your patience.” he admits, cupping your cheek, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“well i’m really happy you are…” you sniffle, finally landing your lips on his in an emotion heavy kiss, both of you demonstrating what words couldn’t say.

you pull away, brushing his messy, sweaty hair off his face with a chuckle, not a teasing one, a heartfelt one, unbelieving of the situation, admiring him.

“i love you so much, fer, im so proud of you.”

“i know, amor, i love you too, more than any trophy.”

“no, you definitely love this trophy more than me, and honestly, i don’t blame you.” you shrug with a smile, finally having your feet on the ground.

he laughs in response, pressing a fat kiss to your temple, cupping your face with one hand, his thumb and pointer pressing deep on either one of your cheeks, pulling you to take pictures with the heavy golden award, laughing when you couldn’t hold it up properly.

ferran couldn’t be happier right there, and neither could you.

bonus!!

you let ferran celebrate with his teammates freely, promising you’d take care of him so he could drink as much as he wanted to.

soon enough you get a call from markus from ferran’s phone, telling you he needs you to come get him.

giggling to yourself, you get to where the players where, seeing the other wags in not so different situations.

“amor! pedri kissed me on the cheek! i told him i have a girlfriend but he didn’t listen…” ferran slurred, shaking his head.

“it’s okay, bebé, you’ve kissed his cheek too.” you laugh.

“what? am i a cheater?” he gasps, getting up as you pull him.

“no, fer, everything is okay.” you sling one of his arms around your shoulder, practically carrying him up to your shared hotel bedroom.

he immediately collapses on the bed, sighing happily.

“here, water.” you rub his back so he’d get up, only earning a groan in response. “vamos, fer, you have to take a shower still.”

ferran only flips, his back now against the bed, his lazy smile growing at the sight of you.

“qué pasó?” you ask, attentive to see if he felt like throwing up, ferran was always the weak type.

“did i tell you i love you?” he slurs.

“yeah, a couple times today” you smile back at him, giggling, taking off the ridiculous sunglasses he wore messily on his rebel hair.

“bueno, te amo, te amo más que todo” ferran says with conviction, followed by a hiccup.

“i know, fer, i love you too” you kiss his nose, making him let out a half hum, half giggle. “now let’s drink our water, yeah?” he finally agrees, lifting himself up by his elbows to drink up.

that sobers him up enough to get him in the shower, washing off the festivities.

the two of you collapse on the bed, cozy beneath the covers, probably only a few minutes away from sunrise.

bonus two!!

you wake up with ferran’s dramatic groaning beside you.

“buenos dias, campeón” you smile, kissing his shoulder.

“hmm, hey, i appreciate you letting me celebrate, but don’t let me ever do that again” he slides on hand onto his head, rubbing it as his eyes shut tightly.

you only giggle in response, pointing at his filled water bottle and meds on his bedside table, already having prepared for this outcome.

“i don’t know if it’s my migraine but you’re looking a lot like an angel to me right now” he smirks, kissing your cheek in thankfulness.

you snort, patting his chest before getting up, stretching before walking to the bathroom.

“woah, hold on a second…” ferran’s voice drops a tone at the sight of you in practically nothing but his shirt, the FERRAN and the number seven practically glowing on your back.

“what?” your boyfriend’s lazy smirk guides you back into bed, crawling towards him. “what?” you ask again with a laugh.

“i’ve been cured.” he states, attacking your neck, laying you down, laying over you, holding his weight up on one of his elbows and one of his hands, making all his muscles pop.

your kisses keep going naturally, hands gliding over each other, tongues curling against the other.

“jesus- why wasn’t i celebrating all last night with you” he groans, earning a giggle from you, who quickly shut up when his hands wandered under his shirt you wore.