itzsyds

[itzsyds]

Eric Garcia x Reader

Under the Radar🤫

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Tehehe I had to write another one for Eric🤭 also ft. Ferran🙂‍↔️

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FLUFF- Your relationship with Eric has always been a secret— a quiet, sacred thing kept away from the public eye. The fans have theories, of course. Matching bracelets, similar vacation spots, a single blurry reflection in his Instagram but no one has proof. Until Ferran accidental slips, revealing way more than anyone was supposed to see…

—

You and Eric are good at being invisible.

It wasn’t intentional at first— just cautious smiles, stolen glances, the way his hand would brush your lower back when no one was watching. But the world isn’t kind to private lives.

Especially not when the man you’re dating plays for one of the most-watched clubs in Europe.

So you stayed low. No tagged photos. No matching posts. The same place at the same time, but never in the same frame. Your friends called it stressful. You called it safety. He called it yours.

Eric never needed the world to know. He just needed you.

“You know I’d go public if you wanted to,” he’d said once, brushing your hair behind your ear as you lay on his chest in a hotel room in Seville. “But I like it like this. Quiet. Just us.”

You did too.

But quiet things can still be loud if you look closely. And the fans— God, the fans look.

Your nails in a blurry photo. His phone lock screen flashing in a press conference. A background laugh in your IG story that sounds a hell of a lot like his.

Clues. Always clues.

But no proof.

Until him.

Ferran Torres. The walking spoiler. A best friend with a loose filter and a love for going live without warning.

—

It happened on a lazy Sunday afternoon. You were at Eric’s apartment, curled up on the couch, your legs tangled over his lap as he scrolls through Netflix and you’re quietly teasing him for never being able to choose a show.

You’re both in sweats, his hoodie swallowing your frame, your hair a beautiful mess from the nap you took on his chest twenty minutes ago.

The calm is everything.

Then the door bursts open.

“¡Hermano!” Ferran’s voice cuts through the quiet like a knife, grinning like he owns the place. “Bro, are you really skipping the game for— oh. Ohhh.”

You freeze. Eric flinches like he’s been caught shoplifting.

You try to sit up, but it’s too late.

Ferran’s phone is already up.

Live.

Live.

LIVE.

And you're in frame.

You— half in his lap, Eric’s hand on your bare thigh, your fingers tangled in his hair.

It’s intimate. Way too intimate to play off as a joke.

“Ferran,” Eric hisses, lunging forward. “Turn it off.”

But Ferran is frozen for a full second, eyes wide.

Then the panic hits. “Shit. SHIT.” He fumbles the phone, laughs nervously, fakes a cough. “Sorry, guys, technical— I— uh, bye!” Click.

The silence afterward is deafening.

Eric’s hand is still on your leg. Your heart is still in your throat.

“Did that just—”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It did.”

—

It took all of ten minutes for Twitter to explode.

“WHO IS THAT GIRL ON ERIC’S LAP?”

“Wait. Is that the same girl from the bracelet post??”

“Not Ferran accidentally leaking the soft launch of the year.”

“Her LAUGH. It’s the same as the audio from Eric’s story in March. I KNEW IT.”

You cover your face with both hands. “I’m going to die.”

Eric pulls you in closer instead. “No, I am. I’m going to kill Ferran first, then I’ll die.”

You want to laugh. But you can’t. Because everything— all your careful steps, your hidden dates, the fear and the thrill of being invisible together— is now undone.

And weirdly… it feels kind of freeing.

—

Later that night, Ferran sends a text:

Ferran:

okay so maybe i accidentally made you both go viral but… the comments are cute? they ship you. HARD.

Ferran (again):

also please don’t block me. love u both lol

You throw your phone on the couch.

Eric chuckles. “You’re not mad?”

You look at him. At the way his curls fall over his eyes, at the way he’s been holding your hand since it happened. And for once, there’s nothing to hide.

“No,” you say. “I think I’m kind of relieved.”

He leans in, kisses your forehead softly. “Then maybe we stop hiding.”

You pause. Smile. “Just a little?”

He grins.

“Just enough.”

—

The next day:

Eric posts a photo. No caption. Just his hand holding yours— same bracelet, same hoodie sleeve, same couch.

Ferran comments:

About time🙄🔥

And with that the internet full broke.

—

Hello new followers I do see all of you so HUGE big welcome to all who are new & recent!🤗

Thank you for taking the time to read & interact with my stories. It really means the world to me💓 Do also write to me about anything & also requests as idm x

[itzsyds]

what aboutt mls and reader, roomates/friends to lovers?

he gets nightmares sometimes from all of the presure and she helps w it and sometimes sleeps w him (but like in a literal way) to help him get over it and it just grows until they start dating?

Myles Lewis-Skelly x Reader

Side by Side🥺💓

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Absolutely loved this request anon! Hope this was good enough😌❤️

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FLUFF- When Myles and reader become roommates, it’s easy. Chill. No pressure. But beneath Myles’ laid-back exterior is a young footballer under the weight of big expectations—and when the pressure turns into sleepless nights and lingering self-doubt, reader becomes his quiet anchor.

—

When you first moved in with Myles, you didn’t expect anything complicated. He was kind, smart, a little sarcastic in a good way, and obsessed with training— but in a fun, endearing way that made the living situation feel more like a friendship than a rental agreement.

You clicked fast. He made coffee too strong; you balanced it out with your ridiculous stash of tea. He left his boots in the hallway every day like a feral golden retriever; you rolled your eyes and stepped over them, smiling.

But you noticed things too. Subtle things.

How quiet he got after matches he didn’t start. How he picked at his food after intense training weeks. How sometimes— especially when the pressure at Arsenal seemed too much— he’d withdraw into himself, lost somewhere far beyond the room you were both in.

Then one night, you woke up to a sound you didn’t recognise.

A sharp breath. A stifled curse. Sheets rustling, like someone had jolted awake.

You padded to his room without thinking. “Myles?”

He blinked up at you, eyes bleary in the half-light.

“Bad dream,” he mumbled, like it was an excuse. “Sorry.”

“You want me to stay for a bit?”

He hesitated, then nodded once. You climbed into bed beside him, the duvet warm from his body heat. He didn’t say anything else, and neither did you.

But in the morning, his hand was still wrapped around yours.

—

It became a quiet routine.

Not every night. Just... sometimes. After bad matches, intense pressure, or when his thoughts wouldn't let him rest.

You never pushed him to talk. You just laid beside him— sometimes scrolling on your phone until his breathing evened out, sometimes tracing patterns on the pillowcase while his body slowly relaxed beside you.

One night, he broke the silence. “It gets so loud in my head sometimes.”

You turned toward him. “Want to tell me what it’s saying?”

He exhaled, long and slow. “That I’m not doing enough. That I’m falling behind. That maybe I’m not who people think I am.”

Your chest ached for him.

“You are enough,” you said, firm and steady. “I know it. And if you ever forget, I’ll remind you as many times as you need.”

He looked at you for a long time after that. Like maybe he didn’t believe you yet. But he wanted to.

—

Outside of the nighttime moments, your friendship deepened.

He’d wait for you to finish your shift just so you could walk home together. He’d make playlists for your morning routines and call them dumb names like Rise & Shine FC.

You started watching every match he was in— even the ones you could barely stream— just so you could send him a reaction text before he even got to the locker room.

There was a kind of rhythm to it all.

And somewhere in that rhythm, things shifted.

Not dramatically. Just... little touches lingering longer than before…

Glances that felt loaded. That quiet buzz of awareness whenever he stood a little too close while brushing his teeth, or when he handed you a hoodie after practice and your fingers brushed.

—

Then came the night that changed everything.

He’d had a rough match. You knew it from the way he barely looked at you when he walked through the door. He showered without a word, then sat in silence on the edge of the bed for what felt like an hour.

You didn’t say anything. You just laid beside him, like always.

But this time, he reached for your hand and held it a little tighter.

“I feel like I’m letting people down,” he said quietly.

“You’re not,” you whispered back.

“And you. I’m scared of ruining this.”

You turned toward him fully, heart pounding. “You couldn’t ruin this. Not even if you tried.”

He exhaled shakily. “Because... I think I’m falling in love with you.”

You stared at him, breath catching.

And then— quiet, certain— you replied, “I already did.”

He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, the kind that almost turned into a breathless sound of relief.

Then he leaned forward and kissed you— slow, uncertain, but real.

It wasn’t about the nightmares anymore.

It was about choosing each other. In the quiet. In the chaos. In all of it.

—

The England U21 have reached the semi’s of the U21 Euros! Obvs Ethan had some minutes yesterday but I am super proud of them✨

Nothing much from me. It’s a bit of a heatwave over here & all sorts has been happening🥵 x

[itzsyds]

hii! sorry for disappearing, finals week was hectic where i am xx and can’t wait to catch up on everything i’ve missed ❤️

-🌹

Hello 🌹 anon!! So happy to hear from you again🙂‍↔️

I hope that finals week went amazing for you & that the results are what you hope for❤️🤞 I am sure you’ve done amazing🤩

Happy reading & do let me know what you think when you catch up with everything. No rush! X

[itzsyds]

I don’t know if you remember the one you did with Myles and his girlfriend where they went to the club with their friends and Yn got really uncomfortable because some man was hitting on her and she went to Myles and just grabbed his bicep I was wondering if you could do this but with Ethan and Ethan tells Myles to hold Keira and stay with her and he does and Ethan gets into a fight with the guy Keira started to panick and Ethan saw how scared she was so he stoped fighting and instantly held her even though he was still angry comforting his girls was more important

thank you xx

Ethan Nwaneri x Reader

In the Heat of the Night✨

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Thank you for the request anon! Here you go. Hope you enjoy this one with Ethan x

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FLUFF & ANGST- Ethan is out with his girlfriend, his best mate Myles and their close friends for a night out. However, he finds himself in a position no boyfriend ever wants to be in— watching the girl he loves look scared and vulnerable. When she clings to him for comfort, it doesn’t take long for Ethan to realise what’s going on...

—

The London air was thick with music, laughter, and the scent of late-night freedom. You’d been looking forward to this for days. A night out with your two best friends, your boyfriend Ethan, and some of his mates, including his teammate Myles Lewis-Skelly. It was the kind of night that felt carefree before anything went wrong…

The club pulsed with bass-heavy music as you all made your way inside, the air warm and thick with perfume, sweat, and anticipation. You stuck close to Ethan, your hand sliding into his as you moved through the crowd. His thumb brushed against your fingers, his usual reassurance in unfamiliar places.

Everything was going smoothly— at first. You danced a little with your friends, talked with Myles, shared a few quiet laughs with Ethan. But then… you noticed them.

Two men, across the room. Their eyes were glued to you. At first, you tried to convince yourself it was nothing. Just a glance. A mistake. But the longer it went on, the more clear it became— they weren’t just looking. They were watching.

Leering.

At first, you kinda brushed it off. Maybe they weren’t even looking at you.

But then it became blatantly obvious.

Every time you looked up, they were watching you like prey.

Smirking. Whispering and snickering.

One even nudged the other and tilted his head in your direction.

You started to panic and moved a little closer to Ethan, wrapping both arms around one of his, pressing your body against his side.

He looked down at you immediately, surprised but not annoyed.

“You alright?" he asked, concern flickering in his voice.

You didn’t answer right away, just shook your head slightly and held onto him tighter.

“What’s going on?” Ethan said more firmly, lowering his voice as he leaned down. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated, then whispered close to his ear, “Those guys over there… they keep staring. It’s making me uncomfortable.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched as he looked up, his arm tensing beneath your hold. When he spotted the two men— still watching, still laughing— his entire expression changed. The lightness vanished. He turned to Myles quickly.

"Yo, Myles. Stay here. Don’t let her out your sight.”

Myles immediately stepped up. “Got her.”

“Ethan,” you said quickly, already sensing where this was going. Your heart dropped.

But it was already way too late.

Ethan was already storming toward the two men, shoving his way through the crowd without hesitation.

The guys didn’t even have time to back down before Ethan was in their face.

“You think it's funny to make my girl uncomfortable?" he barked, his voice low but lethal.

One of them stepped forward, clearly intoxicated and full of false courage. "Chill, man. We were just looking—"

"Yeah, you looked too long."

The first punch landed fast, and chaos erupted. Ethan and the guy went down in a flurry of fists and shouts, security struggling to push through the thick crowd. It was pure carnage, frightening even.

—

Back near the bar, you felt frozen. Myles kept a hand on on your arm, trying to calm you down, but it wasn’t working.

You could barely hear the music anymore. All you could see was Ethan— your Ethan— fighting. And it terrified you to the core.

“Hey, hey, breathe,” Myles tried to reassure you, but it wasn’t working. Your panic was rising. Breathes were coming too fast, your hands started shaking even.

Then, as if he felt it— because maybe he did— Ethan suddenly stopped mid-swing. He turned, saw your pale face, saw the way you were gripping your chest like you couldn’t breathe.

He saw the way Myles was trying to calm you down but it clearly wasn’t working.

You were in a right state.

He pushed off the guy, not even waiting for the bouncers to do their job, and shoved his way back to you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just wrapped his arms around you and held you close, burying his face in your hair, grounding both of you in that moment.

“I’m here,” he murmured, still catching his breath, blood dripping lightly from a split on his lip. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Your fingers clutched his shirt tightly, the pounding of your heart only now starting to slow. You didn’t care about the fight anymore— just that he was okay and that he was with you now.

—

Later, back at his place, the adrenaline had worn off, replaced by quiet exhaustion. You sat across from him, dabbing at the small cut above his eyebrow, your lips pressed into a worried line.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whispered. “I just… I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I had to,” he said softly. “No one gets to make you feel like that. Not while I’m around.”

Your hand paused, cloth still in the air. “I got scared, Ethan. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

He reached up and cupped your hand, pulling you closer. “I know. And I’m sorry. I should’ve walked away sooner. But seeing you like that… seeing you cling to me like you were scared— I lost it.”

He pulled you into his lap, careful of the sore spots from the fight. “No one gets to make you feel unsafe. Not while I’m around.”

Your fingers threaded through his hair as you leaned your forehead against his. “Next time, just come back to me sooner. Please.”

“There won’t be a next time,” he said softly. “But if anything ever happens again, I’ll be there. And I’ll always choose you over the fight. Every single time.”

You nodded, your heart finally beginning to settle. In his arms, everything felt quieter. Steadier.

You were both wrapped in each other’s arms, the world outside slowly fading. The fight, the club, the fear— all of it drifted into silence.

What remained was the warmth between them. Fierce, flawed, but full of love.

And that was all that mattered.

—

Completely off topic but has anyone seen the England U21 promotion videos on Instagram & TikTok where the players are speaking. Like Ethan speaking fr sounds like Emile Smith-Rowe like it fr threw me tf off cause we never really usually hear from Ethan as he’s fr shy as hell & barely speaks at all but when he fr spoke a shit tone I fr thought it was Emz & had to do a double take cause wtf they sound so alike!! Please tell me I’m not just going crazy here!!🤣 X

[itzsyds]

Ferran Torres x Reader

Again💔

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TW⚠️ THIS ONE IS HELLA TOXIC!

Thought I would try something new with some angst🤔 let me know what you guys think?

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ANGST- You swore you'd never go back to him. Not after the lies, the betrayal, the nights you cried yourself to sleep with the weight of his name in your chest. But Ferran always knows exactly what to say, what part of you to touch — and what truth to twist— to make you stay.

—

You tell your friends you're done this time.

They’ve heard it a bunch of times before— every single time you show up at brunch with mascara smudged under your eyes and lips bitten raw from holding back the truth.

They don’t even ask anymore. Just glance at the phone on the table like it’s some loaded weapon and wait for it to buzz.

It always does.

Ferran:

Can we talk? Please. I can’t sleep without you.

You shouldn’t have replied.

You should’ve blocked him, ripped him out of your life like a splinter that’s gone too deep. But your fingers moved before your brain caught up. And somehow, three hours later, you’re in an Uber, wearing the same hoodie you always do when you’re on your way to break your own heart.

You don’t knock. You never have to. The door opens before you touch it, like he knew you’d come. And there he is.

Sleepy. No shirt. Bare feet on hardwood floors. Looking like sin and sanctuary all at once.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, like he’s tired or sorry or both. “You came.”

You hate that his voice still makes your chest ache.

You brush past him, not looking at the way his lips twitch into that half-smile— the one he uses right before he pulls you in too close, right before your resolve melts.

"You said you couldn’t sleep. So talk."

He closes the door. The click of it sounds like a trap snapping shut.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, walking toward you slowly, like you're some scared animal he needs to coax into trusting him again. “About us. About how... I fuck things up.”

That word. Us. It’s a drug when it comes from his mouth.

You cross your arms. “You were with her. Again.”

His jaw clenches, like you’ve wounded him by telling the truth. Like your pain is an inconvenience.

“She doesn’t mean anything,” he says, moving closer. “You always make it something it’s not.”

You laugh, bitter and broken. “I saw the photos, Ferran. I saw her wearing your hoodie. My hoodie.”

He doesn’t flinch. Just steps closer. His hand brushes yours and you hate how your body reacts. How easy it is for him to make you forget.

“You think I love her?” he asks, voice thick. “It’s always been you. You’re the only one who gets me. Don’t do this.”

And then his hands are on your hips. His lips are brushing your jaw. You're frozen, half-turned away and half-turning into him. That’s how it always goes. Resistance that lasts until he finds the right spot to touch. The right lie to whisper.

"You don’t need anyone else,” he breathes, pulling you flush against him. “You just need me. You know that."

You want to scream. But your body betrays you.

Again.

—

After, he lies on his back, one arm thrown behind his head like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t rip you apart and put you back together in a version of yourself you barely recognise.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hugging your knees.

He glances over. “You’re not gonna start crying again, are you?”

You shake your head.

Because what’s the point?

He never says sorry. Just finds a way to make you feel like you’re crazy for needing one.

—

Later, when you’re in the shower, scrubbing away his fingerprints and your shame, you think:

This can’t be love.

But it feels like it.

And that’s the worst part.

Because no matter how many times he lies, cheats, gaslights—

You still go back.

Because he knows how to say “I love you” just right.

Right when you’re ready to leave.

Right when he’s about to lose you.

And somehow, you let him win.

Again.

—

I’m so sorry guys I fr know Ferran wouldn’t do such a thing but I had this plot line in my head & didn’t know who to write for & then I just picked Ferran for it. It’s quite toxic I know🥲💔

I just had the ideas in my head & had to get it out & created this x

[itzsyds]

Eric Garcia x Reader

Through the Noise💓

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Another one for Eric😆

—

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FLUFF & ANGST- As Eric shines on the pitch for Barcelona, the spotlight grows harsher, and with it come the whispers— rumors of infidelity, betrayal, and scandal. You’ve been by his side through the tough seasons, the injuries, the criticism, the lonely nights. Now that he’s thriving, it seems like everyone wants to tear that down…

—

You had always known that being with a professional footballer came with its fair share of challenges. The long nights apart, the grueling schedule, the scrutiny. But you thought you’d already weathered the worst of it.

You had stood by Eric when no one else believed in him. When critics said he wasn’t strong enough, fast enough, decisive enough. When he barely got minutes on the pitch. You were there through the injury setbacks, the transfer speculation, the late-night silences after tough matches.

Now he was finally shining for Barça—commanding the backline, winning duels, gaining praise with every performance. You should’ve been relieved. Happy. Proud.

But instead, you were scrolling through comments that made your stomach churn.

“He’s been seen with some girl 👀”

“Every footballer changes when they start getting attention. She’s just the placeholder.”

“Poor girl doesn’t know he’s living a double life.”

The tweets, the Instagram DMs, the anonymous messages— they’d come out of nowhere.

One day, you were just his girlfriend who cheered him on quietly. The next, you were a public character in someone else’s drama.

You didn’t want to believe it. You didn’t. But doubt has a way of seeping in, even when you know better. Especially when you're home alone and your phone won't stop buzzing.

—

That night, Eric came home later than usual. Training had run over, followed by some mandatory media work. You were curled up on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, trying not to show how unsettled you felt.

He leaned over the back of the sofa, kissed the top of your head. “Hey, mi amor.”

You didn’t answer right away.

He walked around, knelt in front of you, his eyes searching yours. “What’s wrong?”

You met his gaze, and it was all there. The exhaustion. The disbelief. The ache you couldn’t name.

“You’ve seen it,” you murmured.

He nodded slowly. “Of course I have.”

You looked away. “They’re saying things, Eric. That you’re… with someone else. That now that you’re doing well, I’m just a phase. A PR front.”

His hands reached for yours, holding them with such tenderness it made your chest hurt.

“Do you believe that?” he asked gently.

Your voice cracked. “No. But it’s everywhere. It’s hard not to let it in.”

Eric moved closer, still kneeling, still looking at you like nothing else existed. “You were with me when people said I wouldn’t make it. When I sat on the bench for weeks. When I questioned myself every night. You loved me when I didn’t even know if I’d stay in this sport. Do you really think, after all of that, I’d throw us away for some temporary attention?”

You stayed quiet, your fingers tightening around his.

He continued, his voice low and steady. “People want to break what they can’t understand. They see us and think it must be fake because it’s rare. But I know who I come home to. I know who held me when I cried after City. Who made me pasta at midnight before preseason. Who told me I was enough when I felt like I was nothing.”

Your throat tightened with emotion.

“I don’t care what they say,” he said. “Because I don’t love the idea of you. I love you. The real you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“Say it again,” you whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

—

The days that followed didn’t magically silence the noise. But Eric was louder. Not in a flashy, performative way— but in the way he pulled you close after matches in front of cameras. In the way he posted quiet, unseen moments of you two with the caption:

“lo verdadero se cuida”— "what’s real is protected.”

He didn’t fight back with drama. He fought with truth, with loyalty, with consistency.

And you realised that love wasn’t about avoiding the noise.

It was about standing firm through it— choosing each other again and again, even when the world tried to spin a different story.

Eric didn’t need to say much more. His actions had always spoken louder.

And in the end, the people who mattered saw the truth.

You weren’t his placeholder.

You were his peace.

His home.

His always…

—

I have an Ethan request which will be up later tonight😌

Idk about anyone else but here in the UK this hot humid weather is fr making me violently ill like I cannot stand it😩 but I’m also glad it ain’t miserable like it usually is x

[itzsyds]

I’m so sorry girl Kiera was auto correct dyslexia and that unfortunately I’m really sorry I ment yn xx

It’s okay anon! No harm done at all. Completely understand:) Thank you for the clarification🤩

I will start working on the Ethan request right away💓 x

[itzsyds]

Anon that requested for Ethan. Is Kiera the name you want me to use in the fic cause I got dead confused where the name came from🤣😭 pls clarify as I am happy to write it but don’t wanna just do it & then it not be what u wanted the story to be😆

Thanks x

[itzsyds]

If anyone has requests pls don’t hesitate to send me them🤗

[itzsyds]

Eric García x Reader

With You, We Win It All💙❤️

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I fr appreciate everyone whose interacted with my stories recently! It really means the whole world so thank you💓

Here is another one that I wrote up for Eric🫶

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—

FLUFF- After a long, hard-fought season, Eric and his team finally win the title they’ve been working toward all year. The celebration is electric, but for Eric, the most meaningful moment is yet to come— when the final whistle blows and the love of his life joins him on the pitch.

—

The final whistle blew, and the stadium erupted. Fireworks lit the night sky, echoing the explosion of cheers from the stands. The team had done it—champions— a treble for Barcelona even.

Teammates rushed the field, embracing, leaping, crying, and shouting all at once. Amid the chaos, Eric stood still for a moment, letting the weight of the moment sink in.

He scanned the stands, his eyes searching, until they found you. You were already climbing over the barrier, security waving you through with a smile— they’d seen you at every game, every away trip, every press box appearance. You were his person.

Eric started jogging toward you just as you broke into a sprint across the pitch, eyes brimming with happy tears.

When you reached him, you threw yourself into his arms, nearly knocking him off balance as you laughed breathlessly.

“We did it,” he whispered into your ear, holding you tightly. “I wanted you here the moment it happened.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” you replied, your voice muffled against his shoulder.

The world around you blurred—teammates running by, music blaring, fans roaring— but in that moment, it was just the two of you. Eric pulled away slightly to look at you, his smile wide and disbelieving.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing your hand. “We’re going to lift it together.”

—

You followed him toward the center of the field, your fingers laced with his.

The trophy was already being passed around, each player taking turns, holding it high above their heads as cameras snapped and fans screamed.

When it was Eric’s turn, he looked at the staff beside him and gestured toward you. “She’s with me.”

With an encouraging nod, they handed it over, and Eric turned to you. “Ready?”

“I’m not even on the team,” you laughed, blushing.

“You’re on my team. That counts.”

You both gripped the sides of the trophy— shiny, heavy, and glowing in the stadium lights.

Together, you lifted it into the air, confetti raining down as cameras flashed. The crowd roared again, and you smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

Later, after the official photos and interviews, Eric turned to you and took the medal from around his neck. “Wear this for a bit,” he said, slipping it over your head.

You looked down at it, gold and beautiful against your skin. “Are you sure?”

“I won it for us,” he said softly. “You’ve been through every high and low with me. You earned this just as much as I did.”

—

You posed for more photos— some just the two of you, cheek to cheek, hands still around the trophy. Others with the team, where Eric insisted you stay right beside him. You even caught the team photographer smiling knowingly as he snapped a close-up of the two of you laughing under the fireworks.

As the night stretched on, Eric never let go of your hand. Whether he was talking to press, hugging teammates, or just sitting on the grass soaking it all in, you were right there with him.

“You know,” you said, resting your head on his shoulder while he twirled the medal now hanging from your neck, “this might be the best night of my life.”

He kissed the top of your head. “It’s mine too. But just wait— we’ve got so many more to come.”

And under the lights, surrounded by champagne sprays and glittering memories, you believed him completely.

—

Enjoyed writing this one. I took inspiration for the plot from one of my Hector fics which I wrote up & was requested ages ago! Much love guys for all the support as again it doesn’t go unnoticed🥺 x

[itzsyds]

Ferran Torres x Reader

Even From Here, We Win🥇🏆

—

I had to write this one with Ferran!🦈 the perks of fr having besties who are Barca fans & just telling you about their team like it’s no one’s business, but I fr do the same back about Arsenal so it’s okay. It levels out🤣

—

—

FLUFF- Ferran should’ve been on the pitch with his teammates, celebrating the treble. Instead, he’s in a sterile hospital room recovering from an unexpected appendix surgery— his body resting, his heart aching to be there. But when the final whistle blows and the trophy is lifted, he isn’t alone. The love of his life is by his side, turning a moment of disappointment into something far more meaningful.

—

The faint hum of machines and the occasional soft beep from the monitor were the only sounds in the room.

Outside, the city was alive— flooded in celebration, horns blaring, chants echoing through the streets. The team had just won the league.

The final whistle had blown, and somewhere across town, confetti was falling, cameras were flashing, and Ferran’s name was being sung alongside his teammates'.

But Ferran Torres— “the Shark”— was in a hospital bed.

His appendix had other plans just days before the final match. Emergency surgery, they said. Quick recovery, but no chance of playing.

Ferran had taken the news in stride publicly— smiling through interviews, wishing his teammates luck.

But you, only you, knew how much it gutted him inside.

So you stayed. You didn’t go to the stadium. You didn’t join the team families in the VIP box. You brought the celebration here.

—

The moment the whistle blew, your phone buzzed with messages. Photos. Videos. Celebrations. You glanced over at Ferran, who was trying not to show the pain in his chest— whether from the surgery or missing out, you couldn’t tell.

“They did it,” you whispered, holding your phone up to show him a live stream. “Champions.”

He gave a quiet smile. “I wish I was there… not just for me. For them.”

You scooted your chair closer and took his hand. “They know you’re part of this. Everyone does. They don’t call you ‘Shark’ for nothing.”

He chuckled softly, then winced slightly. “Careful. Sharks don’t heal well if they laugh too hard.”

You leaned over and kissed his forehead gently. “Then I guess I better not tell you the photo of the coach falling in the champagne bucket.”

He groaned and grinned. “Please. Show me.”

For the next few minutes, you scrolled through updates, showing him everything— the trophy lift, his teammates’ joy, the fans chanting his name even though he wasn’t there.

At one point, you turned your phone to show a live interview, where the captain was speaking.

“This one’s for Ferran too,” the captain said. “He might not be on the pitch, but he’s in our hearts. The Shark is always with us.”

Ferran’s eyes glazed over a little, and you gently squeezed his fingers.

Then came the best part.

There was a knock on the hospital door. You stood to open it—and in walked one of Ferran’s closest teammates, still in full kit, carrying the trophy.

“No way…” Ferran whispered in disbelief, slowly sitting up straighter.

“Coach gave the okay,” his friend grinned. “Said it wouldn’t be a real celebration without this moment. So... we brought the party here.”

The nurse followed behind, slightly overwhelmed, but smiling as more teammates trickled in. They surrounded his bed, careful not to jostle him too much.

One placed the medal over Ferran’s head, another helped him lift the trophy from his bed with your hands guiding his gently from behind.

You stood by him, one arm around his shoulder as cameras flashed— team staff capturing the moment just like they had on the pitch. Ferran smiled wider than he had in days.

Then one of the guys handed you the medal.

“For the real MVP,” someone teased. “She stayed through hospital food and all.”

Ferran looked up at you, his smile soft. “Wear it.”

You laughed. “You’re serious?”

“More than ever. You kept me going. You stayed when I needed someone most.”

With the medal now around your neck, and Ferran leaning slightly into you with the trophy across both your laps, the moment wasn’t loud. It wasn’t confetti-filled.

But it was perfect.

—

Later, after everyone had cleared out and Ferran was dozing with his head resting against your side, you scrolled back through the photos.

One stood out: the two of you holding the trophy, your forehead pressed to his temple, both of you smiling despite everything.

A quiet win. A shared one.

You kissed the top of his hair and whispered, “Even from here… we win.”

—

Guys I know the last bit didn’t really happen but for the plot & the storyline we let it slide🙂‍↔️🤣

I also have another one for Eric written up so that will probs be uploaded later today. I am fr on a writers grind cause of how bored I am🤣 x

[itzsyds]

Ur oneshots for Garcia and Torres actually melted my heart omg they’re so cute 💞😭

Stop it rn you are too kind! Thank you😭💓 & ILY for sending me this. I appreciate all those who are active readers🫶 x

[itzsyds]

One Shots

(Eric García)

Smut‼️*

The Boy at Table Nine👀

With You, We Win It All💙❤️

Through the Noise💓

Under the Radar🤫

[itzsyds]

One Shots

(Ferran Torres)

Smut‼️*

Sunsets & Stadium Lights🙂‍↔️

Even From Here, We Win🥇🏆

Again💔

[itzsyds]

Eric García x Reader

The Boy at Table Nine👀

—

He’s so fine I can’t!😭 Back to his Man City days guys even! It fr felt like a crime simping over a rival teams player🫠

—

—

FLUFF- When a spontaneous shift at your cousin’s café turns into more than just lattes and croissants, you find yourself drawn into playful banter with a handsome customer— one with a charming smile, quick wit, and a name you won’t soon forget: Eric García…

—

You hadn’t planned to work that day.

Your cousin had texted you at 8AM, begging you to cover a morning shift at her cozy café in the heart of Barcelona. You were still half-asleep when you replied, "Fine, but I’m stealing a croissant."

By 9:15AM, you were three coffees deep, humming along to the café’s playlist, and wondering how long you could go before sneaking another almond pastry when the door chimed.

In walked a tall guy in joggers, a soft grey hoodie, and the kind of messy hair that looked suspiciously perfect.

He took off his sunglasses as he glanced around and slid into table nine near the window, sunlight catching in his dark eyes.

You didn’t recognise him— at first. All you saw was a very attractive stranger who looked like he belonged on the cover of a sports magazine or a really aesthetic Pinterest board.

You grabbed your notepad and walked over.

“Morning,” you said, giving your best polite smile. “What can I get you?”

He looked up, and wow, up close he was even more dangerous.

Lazy smile, dimple, and that thing where his voice was low and warm, like velvet and coffee combined.

“Whatever you recommend,” he said.

“Risky,” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t even know if I have good taste.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “I’m trusting my instincts.”

You felt your pulse skip. Okay. This guy was definitely flirting.

You tilted your head. “I could bring you something awful. Sardine espresso. Pickle scone.”

He grinned. “I feel like you secretly have excellent taste. And if you don’t, well…” He shrugged. “I’ll fake it for the tip.”

You laughed— really laughed— and you hadn’t even realized how badly you needed to flirt with someone. Especially someone this effortlessly charming.

“Alright, table nine,” you said. “One barista’s-choice coming up.”

—

You made him your favorite drink— iced hazelnut latte with oat milk— and slid a pain au chocolat onto the side, mostly because you wanted an excuse to come back and check if he liked it.

He took a sip, gave you a slow nod of approval, and said, “Okay. I stand corrected. You do have good taste.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” you said, leaning against the edge of the table like you weren’t fully enjoying this attention.

He took a bite of the pastry and made a soft noise that, honestly, shouldn’t have been legal in a public café.

“That good?” you asked, biting back a grin.

“I’d marry whoever made this.”

“I baked it,” you lied shamelessly.

He paused, then raised one eyebrow. “Did you?”

You crossed your arms. “Maybe.”

He smirked. “If you’re lying, you’re very convincing. If you’re telling the truth, I’m impressed.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, intrigued. “You always flirt with strangers, or am I just lucky?”

He chuckled. “Depends. You always serve coffee with a side of sass?”

You shrugged. “Only for the ones who tip well.”

“Well then,” he said, reaching for his phone, “I might need to come back tomorrow.”

“And the day after that?”

“Only if you’re still here.”

He was so casually confident, but not arrogant— like he was enjoying this game just as much as you were.

—

Later, during a lull, your cousin popped out from the back.

“You know that’s Eric García, right?” she whispered behind the counter.

You blinked. “Who?”

She stared at you. “Eric. García. Professional footballer. Plays for Girona. On loan from Barça. International caps. Whole city’s in love with him.”

You peeked over at table nine, where he was scrolling on his phone with a small smile on his lips— like he already knew what she was saying.

You turned back to her, whispering, “Well, he ordered my favorite drink and complimented my sass, so I think I like him.”

She looked scandalised. “Do not flirt with celebrities.”

You grinned. “Too late.”

—

He stayed for nearly an hour.

You refilled his water without being asked, and he teased you every single time— about your playlist, about your latte art, about how you pretended you weren’t checking him out when you definitely were.

And just as he stood to leave, he pulled out his wallet and tucked a few bills into the receipt tray.

You slid it toward you, curious.

A €20 tip. And underneath it, a napkin.

In neat handwriting:

Table Nine

Same time tomorrow?

– Eric

Then his number.

You glanced up to see him standing by the door, hands in his pockets, waiting for your reaction.

You held up the napkin with a slow, playful smile.

“Guess I’ll have to bake something special.”

He winked. “As long as it’s not the sardine espresso.”

The door chimed as he walked out.

You stood there, napkin in hand, heart racing, cheeks warm.

And just like that, an ordinary morning shift turned into the first chapter of something that felt anything but.

—

I finally got round to writing something for Eric after what felt like weeks of trying to come up with a decent plot😭🤣

ALSO OFF TOPIC BUT I KID U NOT, HE KIND OF HAS THAT CHRIS EVANS LOOK TO HIM👀

Anyways hope everyone is okay today! No requests in the inbox (please give me some🙏) hence why I am dabbling cause I am so bored😴 x

[itzsyds]

Ferran Torres x Reader

Sunsets & Stadium Lights🙂‍↔️

—

I had to write for Ferran guys🥺💓

—

—

FLUFF- Ferran finds his peace not on the pitch, but in quiet moments with his girlfriend— a bright, artistic soul who keeps his feet on the ground and his heart full. Between morning coffees, late-night drives, and surprise visits to training, their relationship blossoms in the most ordinary and extraordinary ways.

—

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the horizon, casting long golden shadows over Barcelona’s rooftops.

Ferran leaned against the balcony railing of their shared apartment, a mug of coffee in one hand, the other absentmindedly twirling a bracelet you had given him— woven thread in the colors of your favorite painting.

“Do you think it’s weird?” you asked, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “That we’ve only been dating eight months and I already feel like this is… home?”

He turned slightly, enough to kiss the top of your head. “If it’s weird, then I don’t want normal.”

You smiled against his shirt. You loved how calm he was off the pitch. To the world, Ferran was fire and speed, muscle and grace. But to you, he was sleepy eyes and Sunday pancakes. He was movie nights in mismatched socks and scribbled notes left on the fridge in the mornings.

—

Your story began not at a party or on social media, but at a bookstore near Parc de la Ciutadella. You had been crouching in the philosophy aisle, trying to reach a stubborn paperback when someone offered a hand— and there he was. Wearing a plain hoodie, baseball cap, and the kindest smile.

You hadn’t known who he was at first. It took a friend’s giddy gasp when he walked away— “That was Ferran Torres!”— to clue you in. But even then, you weren’t starstruck. You were just… intrigued.

Your first date was at a hidden tapas spot in El Born, where he confessed he liked poetry more than people expected.

You told him you liked football less than people expected, and he laughed so loud the waiter grinned too.

—

Life with Ferran was sweet in ways you never expected. He always made time— time for you, time for quiet, time for silly games at midnight.

Like the day he found your sketchbook and spent the next hour trying to draw you back.

“This is horrifying,” he said, squinting at his stick-figure masterpiece.

You laughed until you cried. “Why do I have six fingers?”

“That's talent,” he declared. “You’re evolving.”

He never missed a chance to support your passions either. He showed up to your tiny art exhibit in a hoodie and jeans, blending in with the crowd, but his eyes never left your work.

Later that night, when you were worried no one important had come, he just whispered, “I was there. That’s enough.”

—

There were, of course, challenges.

He was gone often— matches, training camps, travel. And some days you woke up missing him like a phantom limb. But he always made the distance feel smaller.

Late-night FaceTimes where he showed you his hotel room snacks. Silly voice notes where he sang (badly) your favorite songs. Handwritten postcards that arrived long after he was already home but still made your heart swell.

And when he returned, it was like the world paused.

“I brought you something,” he said one night, pulling a small plushie from his bag. It wore a tiny version of his kit.

“It’s hideous,” you giggled.

“But it’s got my number, so you’ll never forget me.”

You hugged it anyway— and then him— because you never really needed the reminder.

—

Then came one crisp autumn evening, when Ferran took you back to that same bookstore where you met.

“I called ahead,” he said, holding your hand tightly.

“For what?”

“For this.” He led you to the philosophy aisle again, where a new book sat propped on the shelf.

A bookmark poked out— one he made with your initials and a tiny drawing of the two of you under a sun.

Inside, on the first page, he had written: “For the girl who taught me there’s more to life than goals. Even though I still plan to score a few— with her by my side.”

Your heart was full to almost bursting.

He kissed you softly, pulling you into the quietest, most beautiful moment you’d ever had.

—

And later, as the city lights twinkled and traffic hummed softly in the background, you both sat on your balcony again, wrapped in one blanket, sipping tea.

“I don’t need the whole world,” he murmured.

“I just need this?”

He smiled. “Exactly. Just this. Just you.”

And in that moment, under the painted sky, with the stars blinking like stadium lights far away, you knew—

This wasn’t just a love story.

It was yours.

—

I’m hoping to write for Eric Garcia too & hopefully get something out maybe later on today as I feel these two are also not written enough for! Super underrated the both of them🙂‍↕️ x

[itzsyds]

you’re mls had a dream one had me in shambles 😖 could you write another version w more comfort 🙂

Myles Lewis-Skelly x Reader

Home in Your Heart🥺

—

Anonnnnn! I hope this one was less shambolic🤣 when I read the request I was like I went a little too deep into the last one & I will admit reading it back it was genuinely very heartbreaking of me to do so I’m sorry! I hope this makes up for it😭💓

—

—

FLUFF- Myles wakes from a gut-wrenching nightmare where you leave him for someone else. The feeling lingers— raw, real, and terrifying. When he starts pulling away, you start to notice. What follows is a night of unraveling fears, heartfelt confessions, and gentle comfort as you remind him that no dream and no fear can undo the reality of your love for him…

—

It started with a dream.

One of those cruelly vivid ones— where the world feels too real, too sharp, where your laughter feels distant and unfamiliar, wrapped around someone else's name.

Myles shot awake at approximately 3AM breath caught in his throat, hands clenching the sheets like they could hold his heart together.

You were still next to him, your arm thrown carelessly across his chest, completely unaware of the storm tearing through him.

But he couldn’t look at you the same— not right now. Not with that dream echoing in his ears: the way you said goodbye, the way you didn’t look back, the way someone else held your waist like it had always been theirs.

He eased out of bed slowly, carefully, not to wake you. The floor felt cold. So did his chest.

He sat on the edge of the bed for what felt like forever, head in his hands.

—

When you woke up, he wasn’t beside you. It was barely dawn, and the sheets where he’d been were cool. You found him in the living room, hood up, knees pulled to his chest on the couch.

“Myles?”

Your voice was still sleepy, soft.

He didn’t look at you— just whispered, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You walked over and sank down beside him, sliding your hand into his. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t grip back either. That was what scared you the most.

“What’s going on?”

Silence.

Then.

“I had a dream,” he spoke. His voice cracked just slightly. “You left me. For someone else.”

You didn’t say anything yet. You let the silence give him space to feel safe, not rushed.

“And it felt real. Like…I saw it. You with someone else. Laughing. Holding their hand. And you looked so happy. Like I never even existed.” He rubbed at his face, frustrated. “It was just a dream, but I woke up and couldn’t breathe.”

You moved closer, wrapping your arms around him, anchoring him with your warmth.

“Oh, baby…” you whispered, kissing his shoulder. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” he said, almost defensively. “I know it wasn’t real. But it felt real. And it just…messed with my head.”

You gently turned his face toward you. His eyes were glossy, and that broke your heart a little.

“You think I could be that happy with someone who wasn’t you?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He shook his head. “No. I just… I guess some part of me thinks I’m not enough sometimes.”

That was it. The fear. The root of it all.

You cupped his face with both hands. “Myles Lewis-Skelly, I chose you. I still do. Every single day. You’re enough. You’re everything. No dream, no nightmare, no what-if could change the way I love you.”

He finally looked at you then, really looked, and the tightness in his chest began to ease.

“I feel stupid,” he whispered.

“You’re human,” you said, pressing your forehead to his. “And you’re allowed to feel scared. But next time, wake me up, okay? Let me hold you before you start convincing yourself of something that isn’t true.”

His voice was barely a breath. “Can I hold you now?”

You didn’t even answer— just climbed into his lap, curling into him like a missing piece.

—

You sat there for a while, legs tangled, his arms around your waist, your hand tracing soft lines across the back of his neck. You whispered little things into his hair— how proud you were of him, how you loved him on his best days and his worst, how no one else could ever take his place.

Eventually, his grip loosened, body sinking into yours like a weight finally let go.

“You’re stuck with me,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said, and for the first time that morning, he smiled. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

—

Later, you both still wrapped in blankets, still on the couch:

Myles rested his head against your chest, lazily tracing your fingers. The sunrise painted the room in gold, and everything finally felt warm again.

“No more dreams,” he murmured.

You kissed the top of his head. “Only real life. Only us.”

He nodded sleepily, pressing one last kiss to your wrist.

And just like that, he drifted off— held, safe, and loved in the arms of the one who never left.

—

Have a fantastic rest of the week guys! I may be writing a few lone gifs for different footballers which I may or may not release but we will see🤭 x