kouloukoukaka - Tumblr blog

kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

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j'suis sa baby ★ jf14

genre: 18+!!!!!!, fwb, brother's best friend, unprotected sex, lots of cursing, lots of positions, dirty talking, phone sex, sexting, oral, you are both idiots, misunderstandings, im forgetting stuff

affection et tout / entre nous, c'est trop dar

you haven't seen joao since high school, and you didn't realize he'd come to wreck your summer, in a multitude of ways.

wc: 22.1K

a/n: wow, okay four months, 58 pages, and 22 thousand words later uhhhhhhh im very sorry for the wait. I struggled for so long on how to write this, and though it's not perfect, it's finished. BTW I could not be bothered to accent his name, so it's not for the most part. some parts may need to be edited. thank you thank you for reading, and please please please reblog and like.

During late June, when the thousands of shades of green line the streets and neighborhoods with an all too familiar aura of early summer, when days wind down at midnight, lukewarm air clinging to cheap fabric, talks in jacuzzis, the skin on one's hands wilting away, the time not constrained by duties, you always miraculously had to attend the most boring, excruciating events with your family.

It was like clockwork; you set aside at least a week in your calendar so you could meet your third cousin or something. It was so trivial, these evenings. They consisted of awful stories about your childhood you don’t remember and business talk you try to understand by nodding your head, but really, it’s hopeless.

But this one was different! Your mother says, combing your hair, the breeze escaping the open window, cooling your hot skin. It was hard to believe her at times. Her ‘different’ was an aunt not a cousin, a graduate friend not a work associate.

“Remember Joao Felix? Your brother’s friend? His mother invited us for dinner tonight! Isn't she so thoughtful?”

Your face gets hot, not just by the sun, but at the mention of his name.

You remember him from high school. He was exceptionally good at math, you figured out, when one day you sat, brows laced with confusion, at your dining room table with your papers laid out in front of you and pencil tapping the wood in frustration. He must have seen you and took a minute from your brother, somewhere else that devil was, because he coolly slid in the chair next to you, scrawny limbs not used to his six foot stature yet, and asked what was wrong. You were a bit puzzled. He never talked to you. He was awkward in a way. You shared glances and maybe a few words. He was always playing football, never seemed to be bothered by anyone else other than your brother. Joao took your pencil in hand, reading over the question and showing you step by step how to solve it. You were amazed. You would have talked to him more, asked him questions, but the thought of actively seeking him was out of the picture, at least in your jumbled hypocritical teenage brain. And maybe you would have liked to ask for more help, ask him to be your tutor, but you had an affinity for missing your chances.

Most of your fleeting memories of him stood not face to face. He was a professional footballer now, you knew. Your brother goes to his games. Joao invites him. You knew what he looked like; how he grew into his limbs, how they filled out, how his skin got impossibly more tan, how good he looked in a uniform that actually fit him. You wouldn't deny you were smitten by him as a teenager, but this! There was all the more reason to fawn over him.

–

“You both went to high school together right?” His father asks. You cling to your glass, hard, hands sweating being so close to him again. At least the view off the deck of the house, the dark blue lake and the bursting trees, was pretty.

You’re there. And he’s there. And it's a mess. When you greeted his family, he was only a few steps behind, smiling stupidly, the sun radiating off his skin. He wore blue shorts and an almost opaque button down rolled up his forearms. His hair was a bit warmer, a softer color in the light. He hugged you as if he’s known you forever; he has, though; you try to steady yourself.

“Oh yes, I remember helping you with vectors…” It’s daunting, the way he looks down on you, lips tugging into a smile. He has this air of confidence he never had in high school. Then, he wouldn't dare glance for more than a couple seconds, but now, his eyes stay too close to your figure, watching every movement, every fidget as you try to formulate words. It’s as if he does not have everything else to look at. As if you were someone so complicated, so concealed, it was hard for him to solve.

This was extremely embarrassing. Your mother was looking at you with that weird knowing eye mothers give. It makes your insides curl.

“That was, uhm, once, yes, but we haven't talked since high school, I mean, we weren't that close. There was overlap with my brother and all.” You wished that sucker was here right now, and not in the kitchen, helping Joao’s mother. “Your son’s really good at math,” you add, a shaky laugh forced from your lips. You feel him smiling next to you.

The conversation transitions to more small talk, more questions about you, your education. You’re here for the summer; you studied abroad after high school, finding it more content being somewhere else other than your home, even for just a short couple of years.

The sun sets behind the glittering lake and he can't stop his eyes from trailing down your sun-shone skin. He feels a bit nauseous though, as good as he is at hiding it. He hasn't stopped thinking about you since you sighed heavily, banged your head against the table and plump lips exclaimed how stupid you were after he helped you solve that one problem years ago. You wore a pajama set, flamingos scattered over the soft swirl of white-pink silk. You may have denied it, but your hair looked beautiful tied up, off the delicate bare skin of your face. He rarely saw you this way. When he was at your house you were always holed up in your room, or at school, off with your friends. He would see you waiting for your brother to finish practice. He would crane his neck, risking his coach yelling at him to see you talking on the phone, with your boyfriend he always presumed. It was always in the back of his mind somehow. Days would go by, but he would see you in your pink set, eyebrows crossed, following his pencil lines, little gears turning in your head, most nights before he fell asleep. He could have anyone he wants, and he did for a while, writhe in this novel life he created for himself, but it was tiring. Somehow, someway, the girls he took home resembled you. Sometimes your hair, your eyes, even your fingers he remembers in detail. He didn’t even know he was consciously doing it, finally groaning out loud one day when he came to his senses and asked his parents to come over for a dinner he was hosting. He couldn’t stand it anymore. And maybe he should have just stopped being friends with your brother, maybe it would have ended all this obsessive thinking. He doesn’t really understand himself, but you always being one person away from his grasp has driven him insane.

Dinner was nice. It really was, well, it would have been better if your stomach would stop churning, self-conscious because he sits straight across the table, brown eyes landing on you whenever the conversation turns and you have to answer a question. It’s only because you're wearing a pink so similar to that night, that he can't take his eyes off you. He can’t help it looks so perfect, so made for you, on your complexion. He notices how thin the fabric is. He shouldn't, but he does. He wonders things, so selfishly – he imagines a lot of things. Like is the fabric as soft as your skin? Can your face get as flushed as its color?

You end up sitting next to him on the outdoor couch, after dinner. His parents, your parents and brother, talk amongst themselves. It’s like they’ve forgotten about you two. Well, maybe because you’re not talking, hands fidgeting with your hair and sipping your champagne every so often, pretending to listen to them but you’re more worried about the man beside you. You held a pillow in your lap to help stop the nerves and you probably look stupid, you realize, though you can’t find it in yourself to let go of it. You’re startled when he starts talking.

“I have this book in the living room–I think you’ll like it.” He says in a hushed whisper, as if it was a secret he wanted not to share with the lot. The others are too drunk to really understand you two. They're talking loudly, slouched on the couch and chairs of the deck.

“Oh, you like reading as well?” You whisper back, even holding your hand up to block anyone from lip-reading, like football players do. It’s kind of the same: both talking about insignificant things no one would really care about if they heard. That’s the funny part of it.

“No,” he laughs, like he never would read it, never in a billion years. You don’t put it past the man, honestly. At least he was listening when you said you were studying English literature. “My cousin. He left it and when I called him, he just told me to have it.”

“Oh…” you respond, it’s hard to hold eye contact for more than ten seconds. He gets up and you follow close behind. You don’t try to think about how hard it is to conjure words with him.

It’s plain, one solid gray color, no text on the spine, back, or cover. You flip through the pages hesitantly – it's old and the thinning, almost yellow pages are so wispy, frail, its small text losing the bold black color it used to have. You stop, looking over the first page.

“…it’s just Wuthering Heights, Joao.” You smile, in this weird obscurity, boggled by the situation. You don’t tell him you already have multiple copies of it, both in English and Portuguese, different additions you marvel over.

“What’s that?”

He’s maybe a number nerd, a football nerd, not a book one. You can't stop the smile that practically splits your face in two, laughs trying not to escape.

“But it’s nice, thank you. Helps with my vocabulary.” You’re happy though, oddly enough. The room is dim. The only light is from the lamps on the table. He’s undone three buttons on his shirt, more than what should be acceptable for a man like him. It’s hard not to look, especially considering how close you are to him, a pillow in the way. His hair flops over his forehead.

“You have a boyfriend, don't you?” You’re pulled from admiring the book, the small quiet of the room vanished.

You answer, yes, but to ask why he worded the question that way, faded from your mind. It slipped from your nerve-ridden senses. You place the novel on the table, watching him as you do so. His tongue wets his bottom lip. It’s just family friend talk.

“You’re doing good then? Your brother talks about you sometimes.” His elbow leans in the cushion, fully facing you.

“Really? About what?”

“Well, mostly complaining about you–”

“Wha–”

“–but he said you had your ‘first boyfriend’ and he doesn't really seem to like him,” he airquotes, scanning to see how your face changes at the words.

“Oh…” you start, air running out of your lungs, “okay, well, my brother doesn't like most people.” You’re shocked someone like him knows this information. Did your brother really have to mention ‘first’ too?

“I disagree.” He simply says, whatever that means. You cross your arms.

“I like him! That’s all that matters.”

“Name one thing.”

“What?”

“Name one thing you like about him.”

Your hesitance is an answer. Surely. “He’s kind, you know. Loves dogs and interns at a bank on the foreign exchange floor.”

He notices how hard it is for you to come up with traits, good things to even say about him. Perfect. Does he condone a lot of the things he's thinking? No, because he's an idiot athlete but that's it, it's you and it's different. He thinks being around you for hours made him a little crazy in the head, your eyes glossing over him every so often, something else behind them.

“Sounds boring. And the sex? He’s good?”

Your jaw drops.

“How is that any of your business?” You’re so cute. He looks down at the shiny, small cross placed carefully on the middle of your collarbone. You’ve had it since that day. He’s imagined lacing his fingers through the thin chain, it being the only thing you’re wearing.

“I figured.” He smiles. Bastard. This is a disaster. Your nerves are in a frenzy, heat rushing to your thighs, cheeks flushing. You're across from someone so desirable, and he’s only a foot from you. You drank some champagne, though you don’t have the greatest tolerance, especially around weird, hot, rich family friends. You never saw him drinking anything – only water.

“For your information, okay, I do have sex!” You regret the words immediately after saying them, but you knew what he was thinking, the cross and all, and it was more embarrassing (your logic is mixed up because, yes, that one sentence is probably the most humiliating thing uttered, ever) to make this man believe you’re some type of celibate.

“You do?” He bites his lip to stop the grin at your reaction. God, he didn't think you would be so endearing while so agitated.

You decide not to back down. You’ve gotten yourself too far into this.

“But not a lot. We only do it when he wants to. I mean, I don't understand why everyone talks about sex. It’s not all that…” You trail off. Oh wow, he thinks. He thinks someone so beautiful shouldn't have to deal with this. If he could just loop his fingers around the spaghetti straps of your dress…

“There’s a lot of reasons, a lot. Fuck–” He sees how your hands fidget with the end of your dress, resting over your upper thighs that have seemed to stick together. They weren't like that in the beginning. “There’s a reason why people are addicted to it…”

“I don’t get why though, Joao.”

You can’t ask him to be reasonable when you say his name. It’s like you’re doing it on purpose.

“Does he have a small dick or something?” He’s smiling so wide, as if it’s the funniest thing ever said.

Your face can get as flushed as the color of your skimpy dress, he finds out.

You glance around, behind, side to side. He laughs at your reaction.

“Stop asking me these questions!” you say, in a panicked whisper. It’s completely inappropriate, you know. He’s an arrogant jerk, you know. He’s also really hot, and you never thought someone like him would ever make a pass on you. Or he wasn’t – which also makes him an asshole.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop.”

You exhale a thanks, heart beating so heavy, you hear your pulse ringing in your ears. He mentions something about getting back to the others. He gets up and you follow right behind again, numb with nerves.

“I feel bad,” you chirp, holding the book close to your chest, “that you’ve given me this and I did nothing to deserve it. I wouldn't even know what to get you.”

“Here,” he stops walking, turns to face you, “you’re probably driving your family home, right?” You nod.

“You pay me back by giving me your number so I know they all made it back okay.” He breaks eye contact to look through the sliding glass doors, where your brother is fast asleep on one of the chairs.

“Okay, baby?”

“I’m not your baby.” You say, still standing in front of him, taking the open phone he holds between you two, typing in your number.

“Not yet,” he replies, beaming when you give it back. You scoff, walking away to grab your brother by his limp arms.

—

He calls you just as promised.

“Hi,” he says, quietly, like he can already sense how tired you are.

You say it back.

“Your brother isn’t dead, is he? He drank too many beers.”

“He’s alright,” you tiptoe through your house, turning off lights to go and retire. You’re so mentally exhausted. Usually you would tire at these dinners all by yourself, but this one, tenfold. Your mind is still swirling, repeating over and over his words.

“I-I’m sorry if I came onto you wrong.” He says, softer. He thinks he's a little insane now, rethinking your reaction. You had a boyfriend. Fuck, he hopes he didn't ruin anything because he wants to keep seeing you for what it’s worth.

“No, uhm,” you stammer, “it’s fine. You’re just very different from how I remember — that’s all.”

“In a bad way?”

You force out a light laugh, sarcastic enough so he could hear through the phone. “No, obviously not.”

“Obviously not.” He repeats to himself.

“We didn't talk that much, you know? You only ever thought about football, never looked at me,” you add at the last second, “it was kind of weird.” You were so wrong.

“Is it weird now?”

“Well yeah, you’re famous and really…”

“And what?” he asks.

“Nothing.” yeah, and you’re really freaking attractive, so there.

“Hmh, well,” you sit down on your bed, “I’m only famous to you if you see me that way.”

“Wow, wise words.” You deadpan but your heart is skipping beats hearing his voice so close to you.

“I’m serious. Your brother doesn’t see me as above him or anything. You were so nervous this evening. I could tell.”

“Oh…I never love meeting parents.” He agrees with your words, though you know he doesn’t fully believe you.

“I always thought you would be famous first.” He confesses.

“Why’s that?”

“You’re so beautiful. I thought you could be a model, or like, you know those hand models?”

“What the actual hell, Joao?” He laughs over the phone. “That’s weird, stop looking at my hands! God, for all I know you could be looking at my feet.” You blabber out. You forget he called you beautiful until he’s hung up, told you sweet dreams, and you lay face down on your pillow, trying not to scream.

—

It’s midday. It’s hot. It’s hard to sit still. All the windows are drawn but you still feel torrid. You should be out instead of laying around your parents house, but none of your friends were available. This is hell, you mutter to yourself.

There’s a quiet chime beside you, as you lay in misery. Somehow the last man’s name you wanted to fill the screen was his — a follow request. You tap your thigh anxiously, too nervous to press on the notification, too nervous to accept it so early. Oh who’s kidding? You may have waited two minutes before clicking that blue accept button.

He thinks it as a crime that he never followed you in high school, but he’s even more humbled you were never following him. He’s been itching to see your feed, and now he had a good reason to follow you without looking too weird. Your social media is cute; it’s private, less than four hundred followers, only three posts. He thumbs through the most recent one, a scattering of ten posts from your last semester abroad. Your brother mentioned a school in America, studying English literature, but as much as he strains to remember the name he simply cannot. There’s group photos with friends (guy friends that seem to be too close, he thinks passively), pictures of pretty scenery, and a BeReal of you, tearing up, wide-eyed as the other picture has stacks of open books and neat notes. You’re studying for finals. You’re fucking beautiful.

He feels like the worst person ever when he saves it to his camera roll. He usually wouldn't. You looked so innocent. There’s not much else to say other than he feels guilt that night coursing through him so awfully he can’t fall asleep. You shouldn't have told him how you don’t like sex, how awful your boyfriend is at it. All he can ever think about is how he could show you. He could show you right there on your little childhood bed, hands on your waist, your neck, feeling the whimpers coming from your throat vibrating, fluttering around his grip.

–

He's come around the corner, all bubbly and smiling, thin gold necklaces thudding against a vintage jersey you could not name the team of, a hand in his black athletic shorts, and a ball at the hip. He's gorgeous in the early morning sun, hair shimmering from the light, tall, broad, confident in a daunting, imposing way.

But why is he here, in your backyard?

“Hey!” He exclaims, like you’ve been friends forever and this is normal, the dropping by, the casual language. You scramble to cover yourself. Today was supposed to be nice and relaxing. You had two legs in the water of your pool, the rest of your body dangling on the ledge. You wore a skimpy two-piece – something he should not be seeing you in. Today was a tanning day. You briskly walk to your beach towel hanging on a nearby chair. Your face is red.

“Sorry, did I interrupt something?”

Yeah, you idiot, “No– No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.” You sit and press the towel to your chest.

“Why are you, uh, here?”

“Oh, right. I’m here for your brother. We’re going to go play at this nearby field. The one by the highschool, if you remember.” He motions his hand backwards, as if that were any sort of direction. “But,” it’s obviously not an excuse, “he forgot we were going so I’m waiting for him to change.”

You smile, though you’re squinting through the beaming rays of light, “that should be fun.” What else is there to talk about with him?

“You've been good?” He steps a bit closer. You’re maybe five feet apart now.

“We saw each other like two days ago.”

“I don’t know. Things change, relationships change…”

“I’m still with my boyfriend.” You state, lips trying not to curl into a smile. Gosh, you love that he’s looking at you, that he’s watching you. Attention from a man like him makes your skin feel alight. “I never asked that.” He retorts, the ball falling from his grip to keep it at his feet.

“Whatever,” You groan, eyes tearing away from his. “We’re friends.”

“We are,” he reaffirms. “And as your friend I am giving you relationship advice.”

“Oh, yeah,” you sigh sarcastically, heaving your shoulders up and down, towel falling from its place covering your body, “And what? Just break up with him?”

“Pretty simple directions. How long have you been dating?”

“How is that any of your–” He says your name, like he’s annoyed by your reluctance to say. You shut up. “Three months.”

He hums, then smiles. You notice he’s not trying to not look at your body. Great.

You hear your brother call out to him, and the moment is gone. He waves to you, says a quick goodbye before he’s flicked the ball up in his hands. You put your head in your own hands.

—

Sleep still pulling at your mind, you contemplated blocking him when he texts you so early in the morning (9 AM).

Broken up with your boyfriend yet?

Haha. funny. Don’t text me so early in the morning

You’re still in bed?

Creep, along with a flurry of emojis.

Sorry for thinking about you when you make it so hard not to

He was insane, crazed. You don’t understand why he’s entertaining you – taking his precious summer time away from his parties and women to talk to you as if he wanted you. You are reluctant to ever believe it, that it’s a prank, somehow, even though you’re not teenagers anymore. You think back to the night on his couch, how it made your stomach drop, new feelings and sparks you’ve never felt with your boyfriend before. It’s worse thinking about your brother and if he ever found out: what possibly could be his reaction? But he couldn't see your private messages, neither could your boyfriend. A part of you feels bad, but the other part knows there’s shame curling around inside of you, shame that sputters and tickles to make your head cloudy and place your sheets between your legs anxiously – in a good way. He’s thinking about you. That in itself seems like an accomplishment.

You act like I’ve sent you nudes or something

I wouldn't decline

No way !! you suck in a breath. He doesn’t respond.

He breathes heavily, sets his phone down and leans against the counter. He wasn't going to push you if you truly didn’t want it, but it's hard for him to deny he's not double checking his texts before he sends them and counting the minutes it takes for you to respond. It’s hard for him to deny that he wishes you’d fall for him, even just for sex.

To hell with it. Lust outweighed reason, time slowed, and shaky hands lifted your covers off your body, feeling the scorching skin underneath. His little words on the screen only illuminate previous fantasies you’d had over the week. You often were suffocated by the summer heat and thoughts of Joao, unruly thoughts, and what they meant. Were you a bad person? Morally wrong and unethical? Those notions disappeared when your hand creeped under your waistband, thinking about his touch. It was ingrained in your memory.

Your arm extends above you, your phone with the camera on. You drag the cotton shirt up your hips, enough to give the camera a nice view of your skin. Your hand loops in the side of your underwear, lifting it up, stretching it. You knew, before you even fully grasped what you were doing, that your face would not be in this. You still had a small bit of clarity — it may have been different if he weren’t famous. You hoped your messy hair made up for the lip-down angle, but you were not going to risk it.

photo attached

i rhink youre a creep actually askinf your friend’s sister for this

The typos are laughable, he grins before he sees the photo, freezing in place. You could have easily slid by his remark, hell, he didn’t forthright ask you for anything, but you sent it, your skin color contrasting on the sheets, your shirt pulled up as if he had done it, traced his own hands up your stomach this morning when he’d woken up next to you. He thinks long and hard about you sleeping in your underwear, the translucent white lace just covering enough.

wow

is it weird to say thank you?

Yes

im impressed, you’re too shy.. for something like this

I’ll delete it , the way you’re holding your phone so close to your face you’re about to drop it on your nose.

Already saved it

CREEP

Joao liked your message

—-

Knees sinking into the bed, your hands tease the end of your tank top; it barely sits above your belly button, that's how small and useless it was.

He’s standing at the edge, looking down at you pushing the straps off your shoulders, a flurry of tanned skin almost bursting out, screaming at him to touch, touch anywhere while you stay silent, mouth agape while you edge your boy shorts off your hip. He bites his lip, wanting, but unable to touch you. You seemed so far away despite your proximity; a scene he’s stumbled upon unknowingly, like an amateur video he’s found past midnight.

You stop right where the shorts just reveal yourself, skin lighter than the rest of your body. He pants at tan lines — especially yours. He watches intently how you lean back a bit, one hand behind you, while the other dives between the fabric and yourself, circulating your clit. Unable to see where the pads of your fingers meet, he relies on the fantastical image in his head, but he can see you wet your lips, hair falling in your face when you watch yourself — it's almost like he’s not there; you're home alone, woken up with wetness pressing against you, incoherent, he imagines, so lust induced you can't think of anything else other than this to spend your repetitive summer days.

He sees the exact moment when your hand stretches, when your eyes close as a finger slips inside, and he feels dazed, watching you touch yourself on your childhood bed. You start to make small noises, ones that make him yearn to touch, but you’re so far away, in your own world, that he can't for the sake of himself risk breaking your high. All he’s been able to think about is what you look like during an orgasm. Would your legs stutter and knees cave in? Would you be able to hold eye-contact, or would it be too much?

“Joao..” you whimper, head falling back just for a second as you start to lose grip. For a moment, you look up at him, eyes glazed over, fighting to stay open in your haze. You let out a drawn out whine,

“You're going to make me…” a hitched, blubbering mess.

He’s dreaming. He’s fucking dreaming. He clasps his hands over his eyes, as if to force them shut, to go back to sleep, to finish what was started. Everything is too good to be true.

You're there — physical, breathing, a call away, so different from a couple weeks ago, but he can’t do anything. It had never manifested into something that felt so real, flesh and bones, but it was starting to become a major problem. You ruined his peaceful summer, the time where he should not be stressed like he is during the season.

He grasps around the bed for his phone somewhere. His covers are on the floor. He sighs. Shame in his chest, he goes to his camera roll, the saved picture of you there, slowly coming to the realization that he is a simple, lovestruck man and not the macho football player he thought he was. It doesn’t hurt as much, though, because that person he couldn’t get enough of was you. He knows when he sleeps with other girls, because he has, a lot, it doesn’t help, and fighting this urge before entertaining it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Text message from you.

It’s a point of view shot, your shirt lifted up your stomach, shorts shoved to the corner of the frame, your hand hidden in your underwear. He almost cums in his sweatpants.

sent this to your boyfriend too?

Of course not, you respond, and he finds it funny in his haze, thinking you’re actually offended by the assumption. He wonders if you’re typing with one hand or if you’ve finished already, sending it after.

I feel so special thank you baby

….

do you expect me to just send these without anything back?

His mouth is dry. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, in need of water.

im not as pretty as you, was his excuse, brain trying to shush fantasies. Sending dick pics was beneath him. Maybe in high school, but never again. He’s thick in that he doesn’t understand there’s other ways to sext.

haha

ur funny you know

i think i deserve somethinf

I’m not going to beg.. because that’s embarrassing

But

photo attached

Your underwear now around your knees, you have two fingers inside yourself. He can see the glistening substance on the inside of your thighs, on your fingers. He wishes it were a video. Where he could hear the little noises you make to see if they’re close to how he dreamt them only five minutes ago. He knows this must be exciting for you to be doing this with a boyfriend — maybe not as excited as he is at the fact that you’re even sending these to him. God, he needs to get himself in check but he can’t help it.

you’re thinking of me?

Yeah

Obviously you idiot

If he was there you wouldn’t even be able to form those little remarks.

baby you can’t expect me to know with other men in your life, mocking you.

He finally sends you a photo. You almost chuck your phone across the room. He’s against the counter, a neck down shot of his shirtless body. And you’ve seen it before, whether that be scouring the internet or watching his games, but it’s so different in this setting. His sweatpants hung dangerously low, his boxers peeking out.

please, you type out.

He calls you.

You whimper as soon as you pick up, toying with yourself.

“I..I have to be quiet…” you say, the first thing that comes out of your mouth. He notices there’s a slight pant to your breath. Your family is home, albeit downstairs, but it’s still risky.

“Are you sure you can do that?” His voice is jarring, different from the tranquility of your room. Your skin is on fire.

“No…” you mumble out.

“How’d you get like this? So helpless,” he asks. It feels like he’s hovering over you, speaking softly into your ear while he pins you to the bed.

If you weren’t cheating before, you definitely were now.

“Thinking, thinking about you.”

“You’re so cute.” Your breath hitches, letting yourself touch properly. All the wetness is making your legs squirm, close shut. You couldn’t even manage him being in front of you, you think. You groan out.

“You deserve someone who wants to make you feel good.”

“Hmmh, and you can…and you can do that?”

He can tell your phone falls on the bed, losing your grip. He’s so turned on by the fact you’re getting off on his voice, that you prompted this interaction and not him.

“I think you know that already. You’re just too scared to try. ”

“Oh…” you say in response, more like a lack thereof, closer to the edge.

“You’re such a good girl, following what everyone says. You can listen to me now, yeah? Want you to think your fingers are mine and I’m right there, making you cum.”

“Please, please, please,” you’re trying to keep quiet, but every now and then you squeak out.

“Muffle yourself with a pillow. I would use my hands but…” he shutters at the thought of covering his hand over your mouth to stop your moans from escaping, while he stills inside you, whispering awful things.

He shuts up so he can hear the last of your orgasm. He can’t believe this is happening. He really thought only an hour ago you would stay loyal, even if you slipped up with that one picture. He thought you might never text him again, too worried about the implication.

You bite your lip so hard, saying his name one last time, twisting your body around to dive straight first into the pillow. You know he can still hear you, they’re muffled, but they still come out, the small cries. He feels no shame in listening. He tries to imagine what you look like based on the picture you sent; hair sprawled out, uncombed, flushed face with saliva on your lips turning your head from the pillow to look at him — your hands stuck between your thighs, almost cramping at the pace you try to bring yourself over. He knows if he dug his fingers into your ass he could leave imprints…

“You feel good?”

“Yeah,” you heave, a little hard to breathe. You try to control it.

“I’m sorry for… for being…like, horny? Or like, messing up your day …or I don’t know.” Hah, you’re the cutest person ever. He knows you’ve never said the word ‘horny’ outloud before, how it sounds unfamiliar and confused off your tongue.

“I find it crazy that you’re apologizing for that. Any man…any man would want a girl crying on the phone, touching herself. I bet your boyfriend would too.” He couldn’t help himself. He loved just mentioning him so he’d get a reaction out of you. It was also his not sure fire way to get you to break up with him. A man can only hope.

“Do you have a cheating kink or something?” You ask him, still panting.

“I should be asking you that.” You groan, cheeks even more flushed. There’s no real rebuttals.

“Did you…” you ask the most embarrassing question.

“I was too focused on you.” You’re deflated at the answer. You don’t know what you were expecting. “But I think I have a good memory.” You can hear the smile that breaks through.

“Oh, oh, okay.” you stutter out. He always had to have the last word.

—

The next time you fucking see him is for another family dinner.

“I’m sorry to hear about your boyfriend,'' Joao's mother exclaims, when the chat starts to settle down. You don't really know how she figured out — possibly your own mother telling her — but she’s asked you about him right here right now, so you had to give an honest answer, and Joao’s grip on your thigh tightens at the news. He guesses he’s the last to know. Great.

“Yeah, it just didn't work out. We were too different.” You respond. He doesn’t look at you, you can tell out of the corner of your eye, just to not make it suspicious.

He never thought you having a boyfriend was ever going to stop him or his desire for you. It only meant you now didn’t have the guilt that hung heavy in the back of your mind. It meant he could have you fully, if you let him.

“I told her, you know,” your brother says, nodding his head because he always had to be correct, “she deserves someone better. He was a prick.”

Your face heats up. You wish the talk would turn back to business and bad family stories.

“Yeah well,” you laugh, “enough about me!”

“Joao is the opposite!” His mother says, “he won’t date anyone even if I plead!” Your mother laughs along with her. They’re a little tipsy, to say the least, but you’re grinning too, looking next to you to see his face redden just a little. You’re glad to see things affect him, even if only to the point of slight discomfort. His grip, though, is still strong on your bare thigh. “Dear, I would set you up with João, but you’re too good for him I fear.”

He would deny, defend himself, but he thinks she’s right, and lets this humiliation sink in instead.

“No, no, no,” you laugh awkwardly. Your whole family, even your brother, is laughing. Granted, you’re more red than him, “maybe he’s a bit egotistical but that doesn’t mean—”

“Yeah, alright,” he sarcastically says, your dress lifts up as his hand travels further, your hand comes over your mouth in surprise, “that dig wasn’t warranted.” For a second he teases your underwear, gets under the waistband, but then he pulls away. There’s a part of you that is grateful.

Your brother tilts his head, a bit confused by the whole conversation now. “She’s right, sweetie,” His mom says. If she wasn’t on the other side she might have pinched his cheek. “Maybe start going on dates and don’t talk about football.”

“Let's change the subject, Mom…” he laughs but he’s uncomfortable, “I’m still young.”

“I’m only getting older!”

You laugh. It’s parent talk — it’s routine, but it’s still funny. He looks down at you to see what you’re thinking in your pretty head, and smiles despite his hurt little ego. He really didn’t want to talk about this around you, or your brother for that matter. He’s crafted an image, and how are you going to find him sexy after his mother embarrasses him?

“Okay, okay, it’s on the list, Mom. Give me a couple years, will you?”

“I don’t have a couple of years, my baby.” She’s playing with him now. Obviously he does, but you find it cute how his mother knows how to make him flustered, but you also can’t stop thinking about how he calls you that name. You’re a little ashamed.

“You know what he told me? He wants twins — can you imagine that?” She tells the table. She’s a wine glass over her limit, surely.

“Okay, we can st—”

“Really?” You say, shocked.

“It doesn’t really matter, triplets, twins, boy, girl, but, way in the future, after everything dies down—” he defends himself. You’ve never known a man to have already planned things, if not grounded in reality, but based on just plain want. Footballers his age have kids by accident. Footballers his age already have three kids. It’s an oddity you see in him now. He still goes out to dinners with his parents and friends. He’s weirdly responsive whenever you text him. He called you after your last dinner to make sure you were okay, even after you turned him down. You know you’re an attractive cat and mouse game to him — you have to be — but it kinda makes you hate him a little more that he’s so fucking kind underneath it all. It makes you wonder if you had met him differently, would this be a real thing? Or would he turn you down like it seems he’s done to everyone else?

“We all knew you were some domestic guy,” Your brother must be referring to his friends too. “That’s crazy — a husband guy with no girlfriend.”

“There’s no need for one right now. I'm too invested in my career right now.” His mother frowns at his answer, which seems like a constant one, so she switches the conversation anyways, seeing how Joao turned more stand-off-ish.

Oh. You guess you really didn’t know, or ever thought about what you could be, but that would have been daydreaming anyway. You found yourself liking him more than for just his pretty face. Rule number one in pretty people: don’t actually find out they have a good personality or you are doomed.

You aren’t able to talk to him about what happened over the phone. You aren’t able to tell him in person you broke up with your boyfriend, but did it matter at this point? You don’t know. You’re swimming in a million thoughts, trying to decipher him.

—

In mid July, alcohol intake doubles, heat sticks heavier to the skin, and apparently Joao stays close to the mind too.

It’s only been a week since then, and you've gone over every possibility in your head. He thought having a girlfriend would distract him. He didn’t want to be restricted by a relationship. He already has a secret girlfriend? Only the first one seems plausible.

You thought he might have texted you about the whole boyfriend thing — teased you about finally being able to do it, but he hasn’t. Radio silence. Maybe he’s not interested anymore? Maybe he thinks you’re trying to get with him? Coming off too strong – you’ve never tried to pursue a man and you’ve already messed up somehow.

There’s a knock at your door. It must be your brother asking for something again.

“Yeah?” You yell out, annoyance laced in your tone.

It’s Joao. Of course, of course. He comes at the worst times. Why is he in your room?

He looks so good which is the same thing you think every time you see him but it can never be nothing less. It’s effortless. He wakes up like this. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt with training shorts. It looks like he’s going to play.

“What are you doing in here?” You say, hushed. You feel immediately under a spotlight. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed, applying styling cream to your wet hair. You got out of the shower so you’re wearing the worst outfit ever: a huge shirt and underwear. He can’t see the underwear, but that’s the worst part: he can find out.

“No reason.” He smiles sheepishly, shutting the door behind him. You’re panicked, heart dropping in your stomach.

“No reason?” He just grins in response, looking around your room. “Can you please leave before my brother finds you in here?”

“You don’t want to see me?” He fake pouts, coming closer to you. You’re stuck frozen on the edge of your bed.

“Not when we could get caught.” But also because talking to him alone was reckless. Whatever you said he teased you, he turned it sexual somehow. You’re not used to being talked to this way, not used to being questioned by someone like him — you don’t think you ever will be again.

“But I think you like that part — the almost getting caught part, right?” He sits down right damn next to you. Eye contact when you’re beside him is more difficult because it’s more deliberate. It means he’s turning his body to actually look at you fully. It means, you’re closer. You choke on the next words you’re struggling to find.

“You’re the one who came in here!” You whisper. You’re getting worried that you’re the only one speaking quietly. He’s talking normally.

“This is where it happened?” He looks over your bed. You try to gloss over the fact that he’s taking in your room. Gosh. You’re confused.

“Where what happened?”

He makes one of those telephone gestures with his hand, his thumb and pinky out, and puts it up to his ear. He starts laughing and you hit him on the shoulder to try and shut him up, putting your finger up to your lips.

“Please don’t mention that again.”

“You wish you didn’t do it?” He’s genuinely asking.

“No, well, it’s just embarrassing, and now you only think about me like that.”

“God, you don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand what?” You sound and feel stupid whenever you talk to him. Somehow you’re always asking questions and apologizing because this has never been normal. You wonder how many times he’s done this to get so poised.

“Just…forget it.” He looks down at your thighs that are pressed together. “You really broke up with him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” You are not ready for the tingle you feel spread around your body when he just says that one word.

“Why are you here?” You ask again. His hand goes from your hair to your jaw, fingers barely touching the thin skin. Your vision starts to fail on you. He’s so close. He’s touching you like he never has before.

“Your brother and I are going down to the field again.”

“He’s waiting on you? Oh, you need to go.”

The scene before him, he’s convinced he’s dreaming again. It looks like you’re wearing one of his shirts, he could only imagine. Your skin is bright from your shower, your hair wet. You’re following his eyes, defiantly going with what he’s saying, keeping conversation. The way you tell him he needs to go but you don’t make an effort to move yourself, he softens.

“There’s a party my friend is having tonight. Could you come?” Everything in him is telling him to just ask you to come to his place tonight. He would take you on this bed right now if he could. He doesn’t want to scare you, to make you feel uncomfortable at the notion of coming to his house suddenly. He also can’t just walk out the door with you. He needs an alibi.

He wants to kiss you. Concern looked so pretty on you. He remembers this is what you looked like when you couldn’t solve that math problem, brain scurrying for a solution, reasons to why it would all make sense when he finally tells you the answer.

“It’s small-er,” he adds, trying to get his words right. “Most of them are my friends— I don’t think anything would get out.” He knows you’re paranoid about cameras and such. You’re smart. You think two steps ahead.

“Okay…” you look down, weighing your options. Either stay home, do nothing, or go to a cool party.

“Fancy?” You ask, already visualizing your closet.

“The dress you wore to the first dinner would look good.” He remembers that one.

“Really?” His hand finds your thigh, forcing them open with just a slight nudge. You flush deep red.

“Really.” He says under his breath, “no shorts.”

“You came in here unannounced.” You say, watching his hand creep up higher. “You need to go, seriously.” You shake your head, prying his hand from you. It’s disappointing, really. Every fiber in your being wanted to kiss him, but you couldn’t trust yourself to stop.

“You’re coming?” He asks again.

You nod. He smiles.

—

Usually he could say a few words, bite his lip, touch a girl's forearm, and she would fall under his spell for the next twelve hours, and when he really didn’t want it, for longer. And that was what he’d usually do at parties like these. He never really wanted to go to house parties — too childish for someone of his stature, but his friends forced him, and he couldn’t really turn them down when alcohol was involved. Plus, it wasn't being consumed illegally anymore.

But tonight is different. He doesn’t really know what he’s going to do either. He just knows he wants to see you, talk to you, bring you home and finally have his way without all the obstacles that previously made it impossible; those hurdles being but not limited to your stubbornness. You didn’t want to say your boyfriend was awful. You didn’t want to say you liked when he touched you. You didn’t want to be risky. You didn’t want to get tangled up in his business, in any mess his life dragged in. All of this meant nothing if you were attracted to him, and you were. He wonders who taught you to be so pent up, to live so far from the edge, and he wants to thank them for bringing you to his doorstep, finally, in desperate need for the one thing he wants too: sex. It gave him this sense of thrill, that it took longer than a couple minutes to persuade you — what also helps is his undeniable attraction to not only you physically, but everything that was you, everything that he saw from the sidelines, noticing your quips and your complaints, your habits and your hobbies. Everyone that he’s ever been with has liked him more than he’s liked them, and it feels good to have one person to obsess over, even if he knows the consequences.

He’s turned over in his head so many times how this night will go. Little fantasies that he knows will definitely not happen. He can’t even describe what was going through his head when the words “it didn’t really work out” fell from your lips. He’s plagued by sexual thoughts that need to be gone when the season starts. Everything about you makes him go insane. He can’t imagine what it would be like in real life, and not in his dreams, or over the phone.

Everything is left behind him when you walk through the door. It’s like from one of those stupid rom-coms, where the light fades, the music softens, and you glow like a fucking angel. He can’t think of anything else to equalize you to. He’s never been able to compare someone to that before, and the more he thinks about it, caged by you in his own brain, he doesn’t think he’ll say it about anyone else ever again. You’re nervous, he can tell. You’re always goddamn nervous. You avoid his eyes as best as possible (not when you momentarily get angry at him). You fidget with your fingers on your lap. You laugh awkwardly. You even tremble over the phone, not just when you’re coming undone, but when you’re apologizing for one of the hottest things he’s ever heard. There’s also something different when he annoys you — a flicker of confidence because you don’t want to be stepped on, you don’t want to be challenged. But now, you’re nervous, head peeking through the crowds of people, searching for someone in particular.

The same satin light pink dress he asked you to wear, you’re wearing. He knows that it will be on his bedroom floor (or kitchen, he doesn’t know if you’ll get there), tonight. If he’s too cocky though, it might never happen. He’d lose you to the men that bombard you, and you hate it, he just knew, but one day, you’d fall for someone that wasn’t him. He’d lose you to your education in the fall — when you go back, away from Portugal. He needs this one night with you, if only to feel you clench around him, wide-eyed body right at his fingertips, ready to manipulate and mold you straight from his imagination. His imagination was not limited to only the things he thought about though. He thinks about all the quirks he doesn’t know about you yet; all the things that turn you on that he won’t know until you’re truly alone with him, and this was the problem in your relationship: you could never be alone unless he forced it to be that way.

If anyone saw him just standing in the hallway looking in, they’d call him a freak because only thirty-five year olds that aren’t supposed to be there do that. He’s about to trudge in there to coolly wrap his arm around your waist, or something of the sort to get you riled up.

Instead, you have found someone you know, face forming into a huge smile.

He wouldn’t tell you that he tried his hardest to look through the guest list his friend had, but it was only a rough one; people were bringing their friends, their plus-ones anyways. He managed to at least get to know most of the people here, just in case his manager had to delete videos or pictures off of people’s instagrams. He didn’t want you panicking the next morning, tears welling in your eyes because he knew you’d be overwhelmed. You’d been starstruck at the mere idea of him the first time you’d reunited, not being able to see him the same as he was in high school (which was awfully dumb of him because how could anyone…?), so how could you ever deal with the media? And then, how could he deal with your brother? He would be dead by the morning.

This guy, he doesn’t recognize, but you seem to know him well. He doesn't like those protective guys — the ones that think their girlfriends deep down cheat on them because they are very insecure themselves, but, but, this night was finally going to be where he ended this back and forth texting, this hesitance, because he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t keep up the lie to himself that he could sleep peacefully anymore. He thinks any man would agree with him — that his attraction to you is justified, because, come on, you played sweet until you came on the phone, teeth must have been tearing your bottom lip trying to muffle your cries of pleasure because your family was just down the stairs. He’s never wanted someone so much. He never thought he’d be treading lines, crossing his own boundaries for you. He thought you were an innocent crush, his first love without the reciprocation part. He really should have told your brother to fuck off the minute he graduated high school.

So you’re there, talking to this guy he has no clue the name of, or why he’s at this party, or how he knows any of his friends. And he feels seventeen again, watching from far-away everyone else talk to you but him.

“Hey!” You hear his voice beside you, looking up, squinting your eyes in the dim light to see Joao smiling at you, a drink from his hand outstretched to you.

“Hi,” you greet back, embarrassed that your friend is watching this. “I want to introduce you…” you turn to Joao, a cute smile on your lips. He loves that you wear minimal makeup. He preferred you barefaced anyway.

“This is Lucas! We’re friends at university.” God, you’re speaking English. Lucas. American. Great. Cool. Fuck. “You know João Felix, right?” You turn to the man, hair falling in front of your face until you fix it quickly. You look like a mediator between the two, shrinking in the masculinity that clouds the air.

“Yeah, of course. Nice to meet you, man.” He holds out a hand and Joao begrudgingly takes it. He’s the opposite of him almost. Painfully American, blond hair, scrawny, but taller. He’s old money. It’s easy to tell, not just from his New England accent, but the way he presents himself, as if he could own the entire block in the snap of a finger.

“I didn’t know he was going to be here!” You say, a little too excited for João’s liking. Yeah, and João didn't know he was going to be here either so it’s a surprise for both of you. He didn’t think there was going to be a language spoken here other than Portuguese.

“I was just in Marseille, on vacation, but a couple of friends brought me out here today. Guess they know one of your buddies.” Your friend explains, probably in the most asshole, arrogant way possible, but you can't see through it.

“Wow and I’m stuck here with this guy,” you joke, turning and gesturing to João like you hated to spend time with him. He smiles because he knows it’s the exact opposite, and engaging in conversation with this American was starting to get on his nerves, because he selfishly wanted you all to himself, your dumb jokes and all.

When you spoke English, you spoke it perfectly. This is why he much preferred it when you stuttered in your first language, struggling to find words you should know immediately. He has a lot of preferences about you. He can’t help himself.

He wondered if this Lucas really came here by chance, compelled, forced to by his friends, because he watches the man when you speak to him, eyes languidly going up and down your form.

“How do you know each other?” Lucas asks. A little cocky coming from an American, when he’s at a party he should not be at. Joao almost thinks he shouldn’t be speaking about your relationship, selfish about that too, like it shouldn’t be common knowledge to anyone else but you two.

“My brother is childhood friends with him. So, we’ve known each other…awhile.”

“We went to high school together,” João adds, which was completely unnecessary.

The American grins, “That’s cute.”

Now, João doesn’t have to be an expert in sarcasm, he doesn’t have to understand all the English phrases in the world to know he was mocking him.

You say the man’s name in surprise, annoyed but still smiling, and João can’t take it anymore. He physically can’t take it anymore. It’s like someone punched him in the gut, finally revealed to him the reality of you – that you’re more than him, that you have friends and former lovers and undeniably attractive college acquaintances that make him see red. He’s known you were more complex than the little sister of his friend, a past he can’t wrap his head around, but he never wanted to acknowledge it. He should have never asked you to come here. He should have taken you right there and then so he didn't have to be talking with an American that he can tell feels deserving of you with his stance, his conceited voice. He keeps making the wrong decisions, and he doesn't know how many more he can take before he’s totally, for lack of more appropriate words, fucked it over for himself. Delving himself into your life more and more, it made him feel more than he’s ever felt before. Emotions he does not want to process. The thing he does want to think about is sex because it’s simple, it’s comfortable, it’s the only real experience he’s had.

“Come here,” Joao says in Portuguese, which startles you. His hand comes around your arm, softly tugging you to get his message across, his eyes shooting straight through your own. His touch makes you keen, full of possibilities just waiting to be acted upon. The problem was in the sentence: waiting. Waiting for what?

“What?” You manage to muffle out, in English, almost like you’ve forgotten the language he’s speaking. He doesn't even look at the American, – only you, absolving the world around him because you’re his entire world at that moment.

He says your name, sternly. “Alone.”

You’re still confused at his sudden behavioral change, but there’s no time to dwell on it because his tug comes with more force, and you’re telling your friend you’ll be right back while Joao pulls you away. You feel dizzy, free hand fixing the straps on your dress because it's slipping down. He’s taking you somewhere and you’re asking him over the sound of the music what he’s doing, trying to stop him from taking you any further, but you kind of decide you like the thrill of him taking control, so you shut up.

The lukewarm air of summer hits your skin and you realize you’re outside now, the quiet now unfamiliar.

“I’m sorry,” he immediately apologizes, letting go of you, his arm awkwardly falling beside him. It’s dark and you could hardly see his face. You’re glad he can’t see yours well because you’re burning impossibly.

You don’t tell him you hoped for this, being alone, and it came faster than you expected.

“I couldn’t stand talking to an American.” He confesses, starting to laugh and you laugh too.

“He’s my friend, though…you could have tried a little bit harder.”

“I don’t have much patience for a lot of things.” He steps closer. You don’t get the memo.

“All I was telling him was — the book you gave me, we read it in our first year so…so… I told him about it and I didn’t want to be rude and not say hello to him.” You were too nice, too often. Your struggle to find words was cute too.

“He’s in love with you.”

“Yeah— yeah right. That’s funny—”

“I can't have you in his bed before mine.”

Words don’t fall from your mouth. Instead, your jaw drops.

“Well…well it’s not like I was going to do that— I just, he’s a friend, who's…of course I wasn’t going to–”

“Do you want to stay?” He interrupts you.

You shake your head slowly, as if it were a trick question.

“Does your family know you’re here?” He’s right there, a few inches from touching you, looking down to see your eyes not meeting his. You’re finally alone together, truly alone, and he wants to know for how long.

“No. Told them I was at a friend’s house tonight.” You feel his arm brush your side.

“Overnight?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “You can’t do this to me,” he says, biting his lip, looking off into the distance like he could see something there.

A flurry of words, ‘yes’s’, curses, later and you’re in the passenger seat of his car, shrinking into yourself. You’re practically shaking. You told Joao you would text Lucas, tell him you’re sorry and that something came up and you had to go back home, and you try to, staring at your phone but you can’t even read, everything’s blurry because anticipation rises in your chest and makes you half-blind. You keep shifting in your dress, which seems to hike and move in all the wrong places, stretching it so you’re not indecently exposing him while he’s driving. God.

“You’re too kind to that asshole.” He finally says, breaking whatever tension being enclosed in a small space created. You tried your hardest not to look at his hands on the steering wheel. No, no, no…

“Maybe you’re just a very cynical person.” You quip back, nerves settling deep in your stomach. You know what’s going to happen in the next few minutes and it makes the wait all the worse. He doesn't respond. The silence is awful.

“Can’t even wrap my head around you. You’re breathtaking but you don’t know it.” You can tell out of your peripheral that he glances at you often, distracted by you and maybe you should be concerned because it's dark. You don’t know what to say, heat surging through you as you cross your legs.

“Stop flattering me.” You manage to say. His forearm flexes at the grip on the wheel.

“You don’t deserve an uncomfortable time in the back of the car, so I’m restraining myself, and it’s hard.” Oh. If he could, he would have laid you out on the backseat. It’s hard not to think about these things when they are coming from his mouth. You stutter at that.

“Thanks,” he smiles at your awkward response, watching the road like someone responsible should be doing–is doing.

It’s hot, hotter than a mid-day spell or an afternoon forced to be at a football game. You shift in your seat, legs not finding solace in crossing them over each other, dress suddenly foreign, grating, on your body. To the touch, your shoulders, your collarbone, are hot. You move the straps of your dress down, hands moving everywhere — to straighten your hair, to nervously rub your neck, to interlock them on your lap and act like everything was fine but being alone with him, his voice, and the hum of the car, was pushing you into a frenzy. Maybe if he dragged you into an empty room at the party, you wouldn’t have had so much time to get nervous, but he had to be the gentleman (or, of course, he had to think about his career) and take you to his house. You’re already stressing about how you’re going to get back home.

“Are you okay?” He can’t help but take another glance, and your dress looks more disheveled, and it slides down where he can see more of your cleavage. “I can drive you home if you want—” He would do anything to keep you safe, to keep you around if it meant he was rejected in this small blip of time. He didn't realize it, but he could take a couple more rejections if he thought he gained something, even just your approval.

“No–it’s…it’s just I have never been in a famous person’s car,” He laughs when you ease the tension, and he can see you’re smiling to yourself too.

“You need to get over that–that way of thinking.”

“You know I’m not. How could I?”

“I am your brother’s friend. You are my friend’s incredibly pretty sister. That’s it.” Just as you feel the bump of the car turning into the driveway, his free hand manages to place itself on your thigh. You’ve failed to remember your beating heart before it’s rupturing out of your chest. His palm is cold, contrasting your hot skin. You twitch slightly at the contact, and he notices. He notices everything. Maybe it’s because he’s become so adept at reading situations, understanding emotions in others at matches, and you hate how he’s just…smart. Smarter than anyone could have played him for.

“Fuck—” You’re tumbling into his front door – the same one you entered with your family in tow when you lusted after him, nothing more – now its muddled with confusion and his hands on your body, trying to act like you never wanted this, but he’s kissing your neck while you flush hard against his hallway, your dress hiking up your hip and his grip strong on all the skin he can feel.

“You curse too much,” He whispers, hands holding onto your waist like you’d ever think to leave. You crane your neck to look at him, as much as you could in the dim lighting, “Is that bad?” you ask. His thumb follows the expanse of your collarbone; your dress is still on because he wouldn't take it off just yet. Maybe he had dignity about leaving clothes scattered around the house, maybe he saw power in keeping it on, prolonging the moment because he knows you're affected by all this— all these new feelings, arousal, tension, a beating heart, shortness of breath, tension. Did he say tension? You’re reeling at this new experience, fully unable to understand what’s happening because this conversation is incomprehensible.

His finger going up and down your arm, you biting your lip, heat swelling everywhere. He talks too much. “Never have I heard the words ‘fuck’ sound so pretty.” He picks you up by the back of your thighs and you shriek, hands combing at the back of his neck, in his hair. “Too harsh for your lips,” he says, an afterthought. He walks forward through the hallway as your hand traces his jaw. You’re taller than him now, legs wrapped around his middle. How did this happen? Unsure if you said it aloud or not – he does not respond either way.

You fall on his mattress when you let go of him. There is significantly more light than the rooms before; there’s a lamp on his bed-side table, somewhere in the ensuite bathroom, and if it were not for the late hour, the large windows parallel to the bed would let sun seep through them. His sheets were so soft, just washed and you would have liked to fall asleep – only if the man towering over you didn't seem so insistent on the pressing matter at hand. He hikes your dress up once again, up so he can see your underwear, thin and white and pressing against your hipbone. You’re breathing heavy, electrified whenever he touches you, and he runs his hands further up your legs. He kneels before you, kissing your inner thighs softly, inching closer and closer.

You try not to curse, as hard as it is. His fingers feel your waist, your hip, before he’s telling you softly to lift up, letting him discard your underwear on the floor. You’re self-conscious. You have only let one man see you before, one of non-importance – the opposite of the one in front of you. You close your legs, knees hitting the other. He holds strong eye contact when he pries them apart. He holds it until he’s level with what you were trying to hide.

You gasp, audibly, when he connects lip to lip, his tongue already gliding along you. He’s relentless, he won’t stop when your legs cry and shake and force themselves on either side of his head. He doesn't stop when your hands grip his sheets, and then eventually his hair. All because he can’t get enough of your moving, gasping body underneath him. Your soft and sweet sounds, trying to keep them quiet but they still fall anyway. They make him obsessed, utterly obsessed.

He comes up, red faced and wet lipped, hair a mess by your own hands. You’re fluttering with pleasure, something that felt impossibly more than in your time alone, by yourself with just your own fingers. It felt otherworldly. “That felt good,” you say, obviously, dizzy, legs finally collapsing in on yourself and you didn't even cum.

“Told you…” he remarks, his body coming up, his fingers on your pussy, his mouth on your chest. The fabric of your dress falls below the arc of your breasts. “I’m right about a lot of things,” he goes on, and you turn your face to the side when he circles your clit gently. It’s a good torture. It is one you could endure forever. You say his name weakly, bucking up into his hand. It was a mix of everything – of embarrassment, of pleasure, of confusion. There was nothing wrong about this but another part of you knew this would end where it started. It would die after tonight because he was him, and he would not call you after the morning. He didn’t want a girlfriend and surely you would be a plaything; something that bored him after one use and if you were lucky, two times.

“Please…” you beg, naked and wetness pressing on your thighs and making you delirious.

“Please what?” His free hand follows up your neck, your jaw, over your trembling lips. Instead of answering, you take his pointer finger in your mouth. He watches, amazed at your form on his bed. His imagination could not come close to what he saw before him. Your hair is perfectly (messily) laid on his pillow, remnants of his kisses down your sweaty neck, glassy eyed. He adds another, and you take it valiantly, trying as hard as you could to keep eye contact with him. He’s still wearing all his clothes, but the first couple of buttons on his shirt are loose. You let go of him with a pop, spit joining your lips and his fingers. You want to ask: am I good? It sounds pitiful when you replay it, too schoolgirl-y.

“You’re going to kill me.” His hands fly to his buttons, undoing them one by one. “You know that, baby?”

You shake your head. He smiles, shrugging his shirt off his shoulders. You’re in a dazed state, watching his movements, anticipating what he looked like underneath his pants (it was stupid, but you needed to know).

“You okay?” He asks, hands on the belt buckle. You nod, slowly, and you can feel your burning cheeks. This position was so compromising – shrinking underneath his body. The lights were on, and though you preferred this, seeing him (how erotic that was in itself), you were always going to feel self-conscious around him, and one would think the time naked, stuck, and vulnerable to be the worst.

“I’m still confused how we ended up here.” It came from your heart truthfully, fluttering when he holds eye contact, but he stops his movement all together. “We can stop–” he starts, his hands reeling back from touching you, a complete one-eighty.

“—can you just take this off?” interrupting him. You gesture to the dress hiked up and pushed down to your midriff. It was a useless thing, and was starting to become uncomfortable.

He grins, “are you sure—about this? You’re really okay?” He was starting to worry he had coerced you in some way — not counting his charms or looks or whatever.

“I’m naked…underneath you. You almost made me cry doing…that. Please, please, for the love of—”

“Good point,” he smiles. His large hands clamor around you again and now he’s totally different. The fabric you once had, that covered nothing, glides off your body when he places his arms on your backside to lift you up off the mattress. “Yeah…” you manage to agree with him too.

“Do you want me on my stomach?” You ask, a little breathless. You do it anyways, without his response, and turn your body around, looking back up at him for approval. His pants are discarded on the floor now. The bulge on his (pretty expensive) boxers is very prominent. You gulp, unconsciously.

Your old boyfriend liked it that way. You guessed most others liked it that way too.

He curses something. You can’t tell because of the blood pounding in your ears. His hands come up to the back of your legs, barely grazing your skin, nothing more. “I want you on your back first.” first.

“Oh…” what’s the answer to that? Yeah, that’s cool, I would definitely love to hold eye contact with you while we… So you nod enthusiastically, turning back around. You try and forget that he can see every inch of your body, but it does little to none at helping.

Uh, he’s ripping the packaging with his teeth.

“You’re such a player,” you say in English, with your best California girl accent, elbows propped up on the soft linen. You don’t know why you said it. Maybe to ease the tension, to make yourself less nervous. You can’t curse at yourself enough. Your arms are shaking, heart thumping.

“I am a player, if you want to be literal.” He’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Obviously I didn’t mean that, asshole. Just fucking, just, I don’t know!” You close your legs, knees banging into each other. Every second, your anxiety builds up, almost diminishing the arousal you feel. His, being on the edge of the bed, toying with your emotions, you’re sure he gets a kick out of it.

“Okay, okay,” He smiles, almost laughing. He shrugs off his boxers. You don’t really know how to describe his, uh, package because you’ve only ever seen two now. It’s daunting, is what you want to say. He kneels between your legs, having to pull them wider because your hesitation made you nervous. He decides not to say anything, because he thinks you might get very angry at him if he asks another ‘are you okay?’ and, ‘are you sure?’. Your breath stops the second you can feel him, eyes wide but a little too terrified to say anything. You didn’t trust yourself to say the right thing. You swear you would embarrass yourself with something dumb, like begging him for more. You didn’t want to sound desperate. You were.

“Can I keep going?” He asks. It looks like the wind got knocked out of him too. He has to go in more? Thank the lord you didn’t say that outloud too. You nod, briefly looking down to see him only halfway there.

“Fuck.” He’s the one cursing now when he stills inside you. His hair falls in front of his forehead, biting his bottom lip. A hand comes to wrap around your waist. It burns.

He pulls out slowly, noticing your eyes dilated, your closed mouth trying to keep in your noises. “You feel so good, ya’know that?”

“How am I supposed to kn–” Stupid things to say like that. You are actually ruining this moment.

He comes down to kiss you, to shut you up. It felt like a while, since the hallway, which in hindsight sounds dumb. He kisses like he knows he’s good at it. His dick rubs against your clit. You’re so surprised you moan into his mouth.

“It’s like you want to fight me about everything, even when I’m inside you.” He pushes back in with wet lips and even more messed up hair, making you arch because it felt even better than the first time “Yeah, maybe.”

He scoffs with a tighter grip on your sides. He eases into a pace, your hands don’t know what to do except to hold onto his arms. Your legs end up wrapping around him to which he softens a little; your whimpers escape you. You stay that way for a bit, melting into whatever this was – if it was more emotional or not, you still felt that way, stupidly enough. You moaned exceptionally loud when he slightly lifted your leg at an angle, hitting just a bit deeper. He grinned. You got redder, unfortunately.

“I can’t last,” you manage to squeak out, shaking your head. His actions earlier have made this a lot harder. Your vision is blurry. He hums though, not saying anything for a second.

“That’s my goal, isn't it?” He buries his face in your neck, his hand coming between your two bodies to massage your clit. He places wet kisses on your shoulder, down your collarbone. He even nibbled the skin, all while doing these other things. You imagined this to be good, really good, but you could never think of this.

Could he stop being an asshole for one second? You agree with him though, halfheartedly because you cannot give an enthusiastic reply. You stutter, spit out words that never actually come out. You arch without warning, head turning to the side at the complete surge of pleasure that washes over every limb in your body. It’s overwhelming. He’s inside of you, watching you, kissing you. Your thighs shake as he always believed them to, in his chaotic, lust-filled dreams. You’re still more reserved about it, covering your own mouth to try and drown out the noise, maybe even trying to hide your expression. But when he sees you coming down from the orgasm, your lips parted, your mind off in another place, still taking him whole, he finishes. He finishes with a mix between a moan and a grunt, rocking to a still.

You’re the first to laugh when he pulls away from you to put the condom in the trash, out of view in the ensuite bathroom. He asks what’s so funny. You just say you don’t know, barely loud enough for him to hear. You sink into the pillows. They’re nice. You don’t really know what to think– well, you know what you feel, a dull ache in your chest that hasn’t stopped since he pulled out of you. Hell, since you saw him again practically a month ago. But the bed is really soft and big, so you accept defeat, eyes starting to become heavy.

You can barely understand him, “Do you want to take a shower? Because I have–” He pops up around the corner, sweatpants on, but stops when he notices your naked figure to be unresponsive, cheek pressed against his pillow. You’re on his side of the bed. He shakes his head swiftly. He reaches back around to find a towel to wet, at least to clean you.

He murmurs sorry when you squirm at the touch of the cold towel. You momentarily gaze up at him. The illusion is broken. He’s ready for bed, tired limbs telling you to let him in and wipe the residue of the moment. He looks better than he ever has before. Gut-wrenchingly good.

“I should go,” you say, suddenly. You shift your weight up to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s looking down on you, his hands now rest on your shoulders to stop you. He says your name earnestly.

“It’s late and you’re tired.” You unlock your phone from the nightstand– one in the morning. You huff with all the energy left in your body.

“M’sorry,” you fall back into bed, his touch gone. You’re cold.

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know.”

He’s filled with the thought that maybe you would be there when he woke up.

—

He wakes up alone.

It’s normal for him, he knows, and he usually would not extend his arm to see if a certain someone was still there, but he does, because the first thing he remembers before he even opened his eyes was you. You, there beside him, sleeping peacefully because that was right – to him at least. If he wanted anyone to still be in his bed by the morning it would be you. The countless women that stayed and festered because he could not find it in his heart to kick them out, where he would have to ease them out the door by saying he had meetings, had practice when he did not. Now, he didn’t have to lie, he never wanted to with you, but you were gone.

You're not boyfriend and girlfriend, not gushy with each other, and all you did was have sex once. His stomach drops despite himself. He gets up to check the house anyway. It's quiet, barren, it always is.

When he comes back into his room he realizes a drawer on his dresser is open. He wonders when you left. If you had woken up in a hurry before the sun rose, or if it was only a few minutes ago, the sun hitting your face as you remembered the night, and carefully tip-toed out of his room, your dress in hand with his shirt on your back.

He’s even imagining how you left him. Fuck.

You got home okay?

It’s a couple of long minutes.

Yes

Thank you

and I stole one of your shirts.. sorry

I’ll give it back when I see you

—

Okay

It’s been a week and I need my shirt back, he texts you.

You’ve been avoiding this really. You thought maybe this would go away, evaporate into thin air, or something, you don’t really know. This is new and confusing. One, you thought, ‘oh, I would appear too clingy texting or calling him’; two, you thought ‘he’s probably fucking another girl already’. That thought made your insides curl. You hated the idea of calling him and hearing rejection on the other line.

You did see him midweek though. It was awkward, meeting his eye from your position on the living room couch while he stood at your front door, talking to your brother before they went out. You wanted to cry at the way he smiled at you, knowingly, for that brief moment.

Sorry, i’ve been busy

I can drop it off tomorrow

No its okay

Ill come over

I have time

That motherfu–

His hands in his pockets, he’s at your door, t-shirt and sweats bearing an awfully idiotic smile, that, when you look a certain way, is really hot. Your brother has gone off somewhere. Your parents went out to lunch. You think he can tell you’re alone. You didn’t care to change out of the lounge wear you had on because you thought it would be just as he proposed: getting his shirt back. You brushed your hair, though, to look a little better for him. Not like you cared. No.

“Hi,” he says. You’re pretty, a little exasperated, he can tell. It’s hot, inside and outside, so you, naturally, don’t wear a bra under your gray cotton shirt, and with it, short white athletic shorts that make it very hard not to stare at your legs. He may not look like it, but he was blown away.

“Hi,” you say back, quietly. Oh, you had to be doing this on purpose. Every couple hours he stared at your messages, waiting for you to text him. When he woke up in the morning, after the gym, after practice. He was totally in love. He was plagued by your naked frame, your face when he went down on you, the way your neck flung back when he kissed down your throat. It was torturous the scenes that replayed in his head, the times when you moaned to answer his questions, your hips that jutted into his when he hit a certain spot, your breasts that bounced at every thrust. When he didn’t want to think about you, his subconscious conjured up your voice, your little quips back at him, your soft cries of his name. No woman has ever sounded so beautiful doing that, he swears.

“I have your shirt. It’s…” You trail off, turning around to get it from – fuck, you forgot it in your room. You meant to bring it with you, but the door bell was so sudden, you forgot about it. “I, uhh…” making another one-eighty to see him. He’s already made himself comfortable, shoes flicked off, closing the front door, his eyes solely on you.

“You’re here, alone?” “Why does that matter?” You say back, walking down the hallway so you didn’t have to look at his smug face.

“No reason,” he hums, following right behind you. “It’s in my room,” you turn around for a second before you go up the stairs, like, as a warning for him not to come up any farther, but who was he but not a rule breaker? You don’t say anything, socks thudding quietly on the hardwood. You hear him behind you.

“Stay there,” you stop at the handle of your door, worried about your ability to keep off him if he were to come into your room. You’re pretty impressed with how you managed so far. You wanted to kiss the smile off his face at the front door, you wanted him to push you against the wall in the hallway.

He puts his arms up in defense, “I will.” You squint your eyes at him. You slightly bend over your bed to grab the neatly folded shirt. You don’t know it, or maybe you do, he believes, but your shorts ride up, showing the curve of your ass. Your gray shirt does too, showing the small of your back, if only an inch, but enough to give him a picture. One that won’t leave his head for a while. A thousand million curses ring in his head.

As soon as it happens, you turn back, plopping down on the edge of your bed, throwing the shirt at his chest. He stands in the doorway, using one hand to grab at the back of the shirt he’s wearing. Taking it off.

“Fuck you,” you deride, trying not to look at his body but failing miserably. He knew what he was doing.

“What?” He laughs, the shirt you returned falling over his body. “I like this shirt. You act like you’ve never seen me like this anyways.”

Your jaw drops. “That was once.”

“And never again?” he smiles, walking towards you.

You stutter, whispering, hands hitting the bed behind you as he towers over you, “n-never again.”

“Really?” His large hands rest on the expanse of your thighs. “I told you to stay there,” your eyes follow the empty doorway. He looks back there for a second.

“My bad,” he apologizes, though he’s not sorry. Your brows furrow, trying to act pissed off but you’re really not. Wow, aren’t you two good at pretending. His lips are less than an inch from yours. You can hear his breathing, the ups and downs of his chest. He teases you, edges his mouth closer, almost to where you’re finally touching, but he stops. Your lips are parted, your cheeks are embarrassingly red, and you pant audibly because this is the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced. You squeeze your legs together, pleasure shooting from your core to every nerve ending in your body.

He teases you because he wants you to lean in first, to give in. If every decision were as easy as that, your life would be a piece of cake.

In quick motions, his hands are placed snugly under your thin shirt, on your lower stomach. You lean back on the bed at the force of his imposing body taking up your space. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, slightly sinking down to feel you squirm under his bare hands. You do. You place your hand on his chest to get him to let you breathe, fuck. You’re being smothered by him. You’re overstimulated, your underwear already starting to feel uncomfortable and all he’s done is kiss you (very well, mind you).

“Joao…” breathless, “I don’t know when they’ll be back.” You try to keep your eyes open, watching his own, but ultimately failing and staring at his pink lips instead.

“I don’t need a lot of time,” he says into your ear, his hands effortlessly attach to your waistband, kneading his fingers underneath it. You sigh at his answer, trying to lift your hips up so it’s easier for him to discard your futile clothing.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he breathes. Your shorts are still wrapped around your knees, his gaze on your waist.

“What?” Your voice cracks – it’s embarrassing. “God,” he says, but he’s not praying, he’s staring at your panties. It’s some old underwear you found when you came back home, the stuff you wore in high school. It’s white, just like the one you wore last week, but there’s cherries printed on the cotton, a little red bow on the front, and the thing is exponentially smaller, covering almost nothing, showing your tan lines. Maybe you grew a little since your time away. You would have changed if you knew this was happening, you swear.

“What?” You ask a little louder, but you know why this time. You still don’t understand his fixation, though. If anything, you looked stupid. He grips under your thighs, pulling you closer to him.

“They’re so cute,” he mumbles, snapping one side against your skin.

“I don’t have condoms,” you squeak out.

“I'll pull out. Is that okay?” He asks, truly. You nod, biting your lip. His thumbs press harder on your inner thighs. “I was tested recently so…” he taps your leg a couple times. You look down but he’s already placed his hands under both your thighs, easing you to turn on your stomach. You follow his command.

‘Recently’ was about three months ago. He hasn’t slept with anyone since then, but you didn’t need to know that.

A whine falls from your mouth when you feel your face pressed against your sheets, his delicate touch on your legs, moving them how he wants. You couldn’t see him. You couldn’t tell what he was going to do next. It only heightened your senses. A finger wraps around the fabric of your wet underwear, moving it to the side. The pads of his fingers gently stroke you, watching the first crumbling of your façade as your body eases into the bed, your hips moving back to his touch as you groan. He’s slow with his timing, waiting until you turn your head to desperately say a ‘please’, pleading for him to do something more, to finally inch his middle finger in. You curse, grabbing a stray pillow to hold because you can’t be still. When he was fully in, you mewled, saying his name, gasping. He adds another and you feel like you can’t take it, eyes fully shut and trying to focus on anything else to help ease the overwhelming feeling that makes it feel like your chest is going to rupture, along with your heart.

“Can I fuck you?” he asks in your ear, leaning in to breathe along your neck, moving your hair to the side, two fingers still inside your throbbing core. You’re drooling onto the covers, unable to think about anything else other than his fingers stretching you out. “What…what do you think?” You’re breathless, but you still hated his questions. The answer was a resounding yes, and you didn’t think you had to say it, but you knew he wanted to make you; he wanted you to spell out the words ‘fuck me’, because it made him happy.

“You don’t have to be so rude about it,” he responds, pulling his fingers out of you. You feel empty, shocked.

“Joao…” you whine, wiping your drool with your forearm, clenching around nothing. You turn back to see him shaking his head, the hand laced with slick comes over your ass, squeezing the soft skin. You breathe heavy, about to say something but it just gets jumbled into a cry when he abruptly smacks the same spot he made red. You were so wet, juices falling down your inner thighs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you appeal.

“Are you?”

“Yes, yes, I want you to uh…”

“Say it.”

“I don’t want to,” you complain, because you felt you had some dignity left even though you’re bent over your own bed.

“Aren’t you so pure, so fucking innocent?” He mocks you, a finger dipping back into your seeping hole. You are keen at the feeling, groaning out once again.

“I–” you start, but it’s not fast enough before he smacks your behind again. You jolt forward, completely unaware of the contact until its sharp sting runs through your body. You think you blabber into the sheets, devoid of movement, everything is a blur. He soothes the skin, telling you you were very good, cooing at you.

“Please,” you beg, so turned on you are going insane. “Are you okay?” you hear him muffled over the cloud in your head, his clean hand coming up to try and get you to look at him. “Yes,” you mumble, your hands come behind you to spread your pussy open for him, craving his dick like no other thing in the universe, and you only had it once.

“Fuck, yeah, okay,” you feel his hand push your shirt up the small of your back, settling there to keep pressure on your moving figure. There’s a few long moments before you feel him there, prodding your opening. You sigh loudly when you feel the tip enter, already being consumed by his size, the way he lets a small noise fall from his own lips. You can’t see him, but you know his hair sticks to his forehead, his eyebrows relax as he is watching all the ways you enveloped him. His rhythm was not too fast, and you praised whoever up there because it would be awhile before you felt comfortable to take him so rough. He still kneads your ass, maybe he felt bad about the last slap. “Ah, ah, that feels so good, Joao…”

“Yeah? You like this?” His voice is raspy, almost killing you right there. It feels so much better feeling him raw. You hum in response, unable to form words. The bed creaks, you feel tears welling up and falling down your cheeks. You burned so good, feeling pleasure in every inch and cranny of your body.

“I’m going to, Joao.” alluding to your teetering over the edge. It’s impossible not to say his name over and over.

“Cum, baby.” You do, all over his dick, on your sheets, and he’s pulling out right after, not even needing to pump himself before he cums over the small of your back, groaning. A hand comes to weave through your hair, he whispers something but you fail to discern it before he’s let go of your body altogether, leaving you vulnerable on the bed with his own release on your back. You almost think he left, when your heart stops pounding so rapidly and you try to get up, not hearing any noise and seeing your door open. Your heart sinks. You pull your shirt off, and your finger touches your lower back to feel what he left. Your knees wobble and almost fall in on each other.

“It was hard to find a towel,” He comes in, rag in hand, his boxers on and his hair a little wet from sweat.

“M’ sorry, I have to do laundry.”

“It’s okay,” he says softly, he must have washed his hands because they’re cold and damp when he places them on your waist. He plays with your skin like it’s dough, lazily grazing his fingers over it, keeping you close, before he turns you around. He doesn’t say a word. If you were wobbly now, your knees felt like they were going to give in. You feel the towel on your back as he wipes the residue away.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I got, uh, heated.” You nod at his question. You felt more than okay. You felt like he cared – maybe. You shouldn’t think like that, getting so involved, believing he actually cared. Your heart felt light whenever you felt that stupid thing, hope.

“We’re home!” You hear your Mom call from downstairs. You turn around suddenly, your hand over your mouth. You’re naked with your brother’s best friend in your room. He looks at you, saying something telepathically like “we’re fucked”.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” you go on, hastily pulling on the shorts that he threw on the ground earlier. Don’t think about what just happened.

“Uhm, uhh…” he grabs your shirt that you were trying so hard to find (it was behind you). You say a quick thanks.

“Okay, Joao, I, I’m going to distract them, and…you know the back door?” You ask, your back to your door.

“Of course.”

“Go out that way,” You’re panicking, trying to fix your frizzy hair, trying to smooth out your shirt. He nods, breaking into a smile. You just scowl back, trying not to start an argument with him.

You practically run down the stairs, greeting your parents enthusiastically.

“Why is your hair so messy?” Your Mom asks, her hand coming to brush it through her fingers.

“I woke up from a nap, Mom.” You say, stomach turning.

“Did our neighbors get a new car? The one across the street?” Your Dad asks, you look out the window, and holy shit that’s Joao’s car.

“Oh, uh, I have something to show you guys in the family room.” You muster.

“What is it?” your mother asks, as you drag them away from the front of the house, away from their prying eyes towards the street. They follow you into the room, and you can’t hear him at all. You thought he would bang into something or create loud footsteps, thank God. You make them sit on the couch.

“Just stuff to sign for the new term.” Thank the lord you actually did have papers to make them sign, or you’d be completely…

“You’re starting so early this year,” your mother complains, and you can’t even think about what she’s saying, too worried if he’s actually out of the house or not.

“I know, I know,” you deadpan, finding a pen and giving it to them so they can sift through paperwork. You edge your head to the door opening, seeing if he’s gone through the window.

He is. Oh, you sigh so loudly even your parents start asking questions.

Never again.

—

“It’s t-too big,” you find yourself saying now, a couple weeks and a lot of late nights later. It’s just overwhelming sometimes, especially when you’re sitting on top of him, head turned down to focus on guiding him inside. Afterall, it is your first time in this position. Your breath hitches.

“But you take it, don’t you?” He responds, eyes languidly following your naked form. His elbows are propped up to watch you better. You feel a sort of excitement ring throughout your body. The heat surges, making your heart beat faster. The way he watches you, as if you were someone so desirable he couldn’t touch, made your cheeks flush, almost self-conscious even though you’ve done this with him for what seems like forever.

You stutter out a ‘yes’. You always did. You have for more times than you could count. You loved being this person for him. To be the woman who pleases him (though most of the time he’s pleasing you). You don’t really understand what he gets out of this relationship. There were a million others like you. Women that were probably better at most of the things you try with him and giggle and curse about. There’s a part of you that believes you don’t deserve this.

Sinking down on him was the hardest part. You squeeze your eyes shut, your stomach tenses, letting a small gasp out, and he thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. Not because you’re in pain, but because he can see the exact moment when you sink down fully, when you’re connected. He’s stuck cooing you, hands soothing your waist and thighs before it feels pleasurable again. It hits him like a train, his breathing slows, his eyesight dims as he takes in the visual of your naked body, already red and on fire from his previous actions when he had you pinned down on the bed, whispering about how your brother could walk in at any moment.

He wasn’t at home— you just always got so flustered when he’d say that.

He thinks your moans are infectious the way groans spill from his own mouth. Few and far between could he say that for anyone else. Every time he watches them fall from your lips with that slight shortness of breath, filled with a sweetness only you could make sound so compelling, he’s crumbling. He sees as you bite down, your teeth slipping from your wet pouty lips as you tremble. He was only just inside you, not moving up, but you were rocking back and forth, trying to get comfortable and it drove him insane. It also drove him insane how he can feel himself outlined on your lower stomach when his hands roam.

He knew he was screwed from the first time; it was the first thing that popped into his head while he had his way between your legs.

It was so addicting teaching you everything. Even as the weeks would go by, even when you were comfortable, you had this innocence only a friend’s younger sister would.

He can see his marks starting to form on your chest. That was always one thing that did it for him: marking you up. You could go for days without speaking and he’d still have remnants of himself on you. It drove him nuts when he’d undress you, when you’d call him late at night after not seeing him for what felt like forever but in hindsight only a couple days, and he’d see light purple marks traveling down from your breasts to your core. He hoped a little bit that it would deter other men. You weren’t exclusive or at least you never said you were. He hoped you saw them every morning and thought of him.

He traces these marks up and down your stomach.

“You want to move, baby?” He asks, it’s more like ‘any day now?’ Sometimes you get annoyed with him, especially when he uses pet names, and this was one of those days, but you weren’t going to not do what he says.

You nod. Really, anything he said made everything you did feel stupid. You didn’t think your cheeks could get redder, but João over the past few weeks has told you things not even the devil would utter. It was like faking purity in the daytime, speaking to your brother like normal, then enjoying the sin that João endowed on you in the nighttime.

“You look so pretty on my cock..”

“Stop—“ you say under your breath, exasperated. You move up slowly. He always had to say something that embarrassed you. He had to use that sex voice; the one he never uses with you outside of the bedroom. That made you so angry, and you told him that was why your face was red, but it was more because of the comment he would mutter, connecting small kisses to your neck before pulling away. It was a game to him.

He can’t look away. His hand comes up to touch the delicate silver cross wrapped around your neck. You look at him with lidded eyes, sinking back down. As much as he liked to be poised, to act like this didn’t affect him at all, his stomach tensed, he licked his suddenly dry lips, a blush to his cheeks. He presses the back of his hand against your chest, the cross on his palm. Your back arches, your breasts protrude. You gain a rhythmic pace, finding it easier to move your hips up and down. He sees how your folds leak wetness, already glistening the insides of your thighs, and now his dick.

““Fuck, you do look so pretty. I’m not patronizing you—”, the words fail to come out after that. His hand flies through his hair while he shutters because you let out a long moan, eyes shut. His curses start to become all the same. Your hands find his torso for support, hitting a new spot with the angle. No matter how many times you two sleep together, you’ll never get over his body. He likes to say it’s good for going multiple rounds; you would have believed him but he just had to be prideful and show you.

His hands grip your waist now, tighter than it’s ever been before.

It was weird because when things got in the heat of the moment, when he’d lose himself, he’d kiss you. It wasn’t like you hated it, but he could tell you hesitated, and he wished there was a time when you wouldn’t. When you would cum and you would pant, tears forming in your eyes, how could he not? He justified that any sane person would, but you both know those kisses mean something different, and both of you are stupid enough to not address it.

There’s a point where you can’t stay upright, and you bury yourself into his shoulder, hitting the soft pillow. His hands delicately touch the back of your neck, sometimes sliding down your spine all while you’re trying to lift your hips up as quickly as you feel the pressure start to build up; it’s never fast enough.

Your moans just fall out, especially once his hands find your ass, touching every inch of skin imaginable. You gasp, saliva in the pillow and a bite on his shoulder when he slaps your behind to then instantly soothe the skin; he was insane.

You felt too full. The pleasure makes your brain fuzzy. You can barely move anymore. You’re tired from everything, but a little bit more tired of the thought of leaving after he’s done. When it’s at his house (which it always is, except that one really risky time you don’t speak of), you like to leave right away because you know you’re tired enough to eventually fall asleep next to him. The worst case scenario.

The first time you were stupid enough to sleep with him, his hand over your naked waist. You let the feelings of his body against yours overwhelm you, clouding your judgment. Now, after multiple evenings of practice, you’d be a fool to do it again, to fall under his witchery.

“Baby…” he eases you up, his hands supporting your weight. His large palms on your shoulders. Spit covers your mouth and cheeks. He can’t believe he’s made you this way.

One hand goes down to your clit— he’s still deep inside you— and the other pushes the hair from your face, softly so it’s all against your back. When his finger first touches your clit, it’s like you spasm, hands moving backwards to his thighs, leaning back so he can see everything better. He’s found stimulating your bundle to be pretty easy. You always folded, cheeks gaining impossibly more color, hips moving on their own accord, and indispensable moans slipping from your cute mouth.

“Oh God…João…” you manage to say. You shake your head, eyes closed shut. He’s so good at bringing you to the edge. He doesn’t take shortcuts.

Seeing you cum on his cock, he tries so hard not to kiss you. He tried focusing on not cumming, and that was hard too. The way you try to stop your moans by biting your lip, eyes fighting to stay open, and hips that buck up into his fingers, every nerve was on edge to kiss you. Your head lulls back. He pulls out and you feel him against your stomach, practically pulsating. You let out a long whine, trying not to collapse from exhaustion while he releases on your stomach.

There’s a few moments of silence, where his touch hurts and doesn’t feel comfortable. He watches you gain coherency through lidded eyes. It’s awful, the feeling, and you get up.

“But I haven’t cleaned you yet—“

“I can clean myself up,” you say, vanishing nude into the bathroom. In the moment, you never wanted to leave his bed, but when it’s just you two, intelligible again, no desire and no more sex, it’s unbearable. Of course, the desire to fucking be with him, not like this, was still there.

You come back out, water splashed on your face with a clean stomach. You kinda try to act like you can walk straight, but you can’t, and he knows. You hate when he just watches you. He’s still in the same position, sweat sticking to his neck, hair a mess, but the cover's draped over his lower half, and you can’t pin what the look in his eye meant. If he was trying to embarrass you, again, then it worked.

It’s come to a head. It’s so fucking fun in the moment, but you don’t know what to do after. He insists most days that you stay with him, especially at night (sometimes it’s a mid-day occasion). And what? Just continue to fall into this pit of indescribable feelings, marked by butterflies and flares of anger? If you were strong enough, you would stop these meetings, but you can’t find it in yourself.

“Are you sleeping with other women?” You ask, finally. It’s all you wanted to ask him. It itched at you since his lips touched yours. You start pulling your clothes over your head, keen on leaving. It’s his prerogative if he wants to. It really is.

“Are you jealous?” He grins from ear to ear, but doesn’t move from his position. Your brows furrow at his response, annoyed. “You want me all to yourself?”

It’s really hard to just say ‘yes’. It’s probably the only word that would not flow from your mouth. Instead, you want to curse him out, maybe, for wasting your time. For once, you wanted him to stop being an asshole. It was fun when he pursued you, his knees on the floor, but not when you’re so emotionally involved, head dizzy just from the thought of him. Not when he’s seen your naked body so much over the past few weeks. The guilt that spurred in your gut when you saw your brother; it was exciting. You’re doing all of this for nothing.

“Forget it,” you say, pulling your hair out of the shirt you just threw on. Anything other than the answer ‘no’ was a resounding ‘yes’. You knew this was going to happen, you just never knew when.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” He sits up, covers thrown to the side while he finds his boxers to put back on. “No, I’m not. I don’t care.” You cared. Anyone for a thousand miles could tell you cared. He couldn’t tell.

“Thanks for, uh, tonight.” You say, leaning over his night table to grab your things. He sighs heavily, a hand on his hip and the other brushing through the mop of brown hair. He’s frowning, but says nothing more.

–

He arrives on your doorstep on a Friday.

“Is your brother home?” Of course he’s not here for you.

“No,” you shake your head, with nothing else to say. It’s awkward, definitely. It’s terrible. It looks like he wants to say something more but he bites his tongue.

“This is for him,” he holds out a small gift bag, “and you too,” he says, quieter. You grab it hesitantly. “I didn’t expect you to answer the door,” he states. You don’t say anything. You shrug your shoulders.

“There’s, uh, a pre-season home game that I want you to come to this Sunday.” He scratches the back of his neck, leaning back on his heels.

“I don’t know. I think I have plans on Sunday.” You, in fact, do not. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great! Okay…” He responds. It looks like he’s analyzing every one of your facial movements. Eyes darting from your eyes, down to your lips, how they contort, to your hands, all the way back to your eyes. “Text me,” he mentions, before turning away down the steps to his stupid sports car parked on the curb. You wanted him to say something else, anything, and you thought you were imagining his mouth opening and closing. It looked like hesitance laced on his face. You were projecting your own feelings, somehow. You must have been.

After you close the front door (and after you lean against it a while contemplating your entire life), you sift through the bag, pulling out an envelope with two physical tickets. How nice. Below it, you see the two colors he sports during games and you don’t know how to feel. It wasn’t for your brother, no, it was your size with his name on the back.

You hear steps around the corner in the hallway. You quickly stuff the jersey back into its bag, nerves churning in your stomach. You were thinking about him and now your face was red.

“Who was that?” Your brother asks.

“Joao,” you say, mindlessly. “He wants us to come to his game.” You throw the ticket in his general direction. It hits his chest and falls on the floor.

“He just left?” You shrug your shoulders, turning away down the hall.

When you get to your room, you drape the jersey on the back of your desk chair, looking at it occasionally, a painful reminder.

—

You don’t text him and you don’t show up.

You sat on the idea for a while. And it was a pretty dumb thing to think about, you didn’t have to talk to him, interact with him at all at the game. But it was summer, and all you could ever think about was him: whenever you grabbed your keys, going through your camera roll (you saved that shirtless picture), seeing anything football related, when you’re in your bed, all the time. You picked your nails and chewed on the inside of your mouth. You over thought it, so you ended up alone that afternoon.

You had to describe it to someone else – you were dying to. Crossed, you gave in and told your friends everything except his name. It was risky, and yes they’re still dying to know who it is. You swear ever since you had talked about him, at the start of every conversation they bring the ‘mystery’ man up. They say you’re just experiencing the consequences of being a little sheltered, a little amateur at the whole one night stand thing, but your lack of ability to say who he really was was the crucial piece of information they lacked in fitting the story together.

You should be thinking about university and how quickly the summer is catching up on you. In a month, you’ll be back in America, and none of this will matter. He will forget about you, but you will not forget about him. It’s pathetic. But how could you not think about him? He made it impossible. He was absolutely everything a woman could want, he was everything you wanted, through all his idiotic responses and grins.

I didn't see you today, he texts. You see the message light up your dark room.

You’re over it. You’re done. You grab the jersey he gifted you, putting on your most decent sweater, hurt tugging too hard on your chest for you to remember to put actual pants on instead of the shorts you wear to sleep. You just needed to end it. He couldn’t text you like this – like he actually cared. Your mind flashes through shades of black, heart pumping like it did the first time you had sex, the first time you laid eyes on him.

You guess a lot of people would call you dramatic. You would too, but you broke up with your boyfriend for this man. You sexted with him. You stripped for him. You told him things you never told anyone. You stupidly thought and daydreamed about things that were never going to happen.

You play through what you’re going to say to him over and over. The slam of your car door rings in your ears, the crisp air of the late summer afternoon stings your cheeks and wet eyes. He probably wouldn’t care when you told him. He would just tell you he’s sorry for getting involved with you, maybe even close the door on your outburst. What if you’re just interrupting another one of his one night stands? What if he answers the door, frustrated that you’re even here, ruining his night?

You rap on the door three times, just like you have over the last month. He doesn’t answer the door angry, or with a girl at his hip, or with lipstick stains on his neck. None of those, infact, he stands there like the moronic idiot he is in black boxers, a stupidly expensive white t-shirt, and one strand of his messy hair sticking up at an odd angle. You guess he doesn’t really care who knocks on his door, because he’s never going to try to put pants on. As soon as he knows it’s you, you with wet eyelashes and a red nose, he’s immediately confused.

“Hi– what, uh—” he goes on. Your mind goes blank.

“Let me…let me say what I want to say.” You put a hand up, as if to stop him from talking – he does. His lips are impossibly sealed shut, his eyes dart everywhere to try and understand without words.

“It’s okay, like, if you were with other people while we were, uh…” Great. The speech you prepared is totally forgotten now. “And I understand why. We aren’t a thing at all. I just, I can’t keep doing that if that’s what you want…” you trail off, looking down at the jersey you had in your hands, “here.” You hand it back over to him. “You don’t have to buy or give me nice things either. I’m not that kind of girl.”

He takes it from you. He doesn’t say anything, looking at it like you gave him some sacred scripture. “So…” You wipe away a stray tear that falls down your cheek. Your naked legs are cold from standing on his front porch, the natural light from the sun slowly diminishing to the faint light of the stars behind you. It feels like an eon before he responds.

He steps forward onto the porch and you’re cautious, taking a smaller step back. Tentatively, his free hand pushes the hair from your face behind your ear. You’re stuck, frozen, paralyzed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was being a dick, not just then, but the entire summer. I forced you to do things, I pressured you. I was a fucking creep.”

“You weren’t–”

“I’m not some arrogant, self-absorbed prick like you think I am.”

“Look, I get it. You’re young and famous and you don’t owe me anything.”

He looks at you for a second, perplexed. “Yeah, I fucking do. I owe you the entire world.” He recites your name, quietly in disbelief, just like he does when he says it into your neck. “I…uh, you caught me off guard when you asked me that question the other night because it's hard to put into words how I want to say it.”

He must be going on to tell you about the girl he’s loved since he was fifteen. He must be in love with someone else so profoundly he needs to reject you. To tell you in nice words that he used you. You must look like her. “Say what, Joao?”

“You’re the only one.”

“I’m the only one to what?”

“I never slept with anyone else while we were…together.” He waits for your response, but you’re just more confused whenever he opens his mouth.

“Then why–”

“Because I was being a dick. I didn’t want to tell you I liked you, that I've liked you since highschool, because it sounded childish and dumb— sorry for cutting you off,” he adds right away, speaking the fastest you’ve ever heard. It takes you a moment before you comprehend, and he’s biting his lip nervously, cheeks a little flushed.

“You what?” You blubber out, sniffling your nose. You felt like the most out of loop person, hearing gossip you’ve never heard, gossip that couldn’t be real. You’re hearing fiction.

“I like you, a lot,” he confesses, and you finally understand – maybe.

“So, you told me ‘what? you’re jealous?’ after I asked you if you were sleeping with anyone because you…like…me,” you piece together, pointing your index finger at his chest then at yourself. “More than just for sex?” Your voice shakes a little. You never liked to say the word ‘sex’ outloud.

“I thought I made it apparent in June,” referring to the first time you saw him since highschool – that whole fiasco. He came onto you, he told you you were beautiful, he tried to get you to break up with your boyfriend the moment he saw you.

“I thought…I thought you didn’t want a girlfriend. That you were too busy or—”

This is all awfully immature, like you’re both children trying to explain something complex but you don’t have enough vocabulary to say it well.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I…do, and I want it to be you. I couldn’t really tell the whole family that, could I?”

“Oh,” your heart is pounding so hard and heavy. You expected this to end in a ‘no’, a disappointment, not anything like this. You didn’t prepare, and now your stomach flips and turns, and your head is fuzzy with his words that sound straight from a dream, something you know you dreamt of at the beginning of summer.

“I like you too, but you probably know that–”

“Can I kiss you?” He asks abruptly.

“Yeah.”

It feels like the immediate rush of all the recreational drugs you’ve ever had at college parties, or the times your mom indulges you on too much wine because she loves life, or when your heart fills up at seeing the sun set at the beach with your friends, type of feeling. Every possible complex emotion mixed together, interweaving and giving you goosebumps, a warm tingly feeling down your spine. It’s different from when he kissed you during sex. It’s not rushed, nor is it confusing the implications it creates: the gut-wrenching understanding that it meant nothing more in the moment than pure lust. Or, at least, that’s what you had thought.

Your eyes see him blurry when you part, but he’s smiling you could tell. His smile is so big, it crinkles the skin around his eyes.

“I wasn’t going to tell you, but I watched the game on television anyways,” you confess.

“Really?” he asks, “you want this back?” his jersey is outreached to you, the one you so desperately wanted to give back a couple minutes ago.

“Maybe,” you say, though you do take it back in your hands.

“I feel like you’re lying,” you add, while he walks backwards into his house, his hand on the doorknob. “You’ve liked me since highschool?”

“I always thought you were very beautiful and smart. I wish my English were as fluent as yours.” He wishes he could say in prose the way he likes you, the true effect it had on him. Him and his limited vocabulary just settles for ‘beautiful’.

He closes the door when you finally step inside, it being immediately warmer. “I thought you hated me whenever you left early, when you didn’t want to sleep over.” He stops and leans against the hallway wall, running his hand through his hair. He wants you to explain yourself.

“I don’t know, your demeanor never helped you. I mean, I thought I was just your sex toy, and I felt if I slept over I would like you more and more and you’d eventually tell me to split after finding another belle.”

“I’m sorry,” he apologies, “for making you feel that way.”

“What were you going to do when I went back to school?”

“Probably wallow in sadness,” he jokes, not answering the question. You laugh and he kisses you again. He liked to kiss you to cut you off, or maybe because he was so overwhelmed by your smiling figure he just wanted to kiss it. You take initiative, deepening the kiss, licking his bottom lip, dropping the jersey on the floor to hold him by his neck with both hands. It’s not like this is you two’s first rodeo, he already has a hand on your shorts, playing with the strings, loosening them.

You pull away. There’s one thing you haven’t done in the weeks with him – which seems insane – sucked him off. Really, all he’s ever wanted to do was be between your thighs, inside you, and he’s never asked you of it. You feel a little guilty.

“Can I…” you start, your hand falling down the front of his shirt to rest over the forming bulge tucked away in his black boxers, “... try something?” He grins when you start to fall to the floor, your hands on his waistband.

“You sure?” A hand rests on top of your head, eventually weaving through your hair, forcing you to look up at him. “Yes.” His head leans back on the wall at the drawl on your voice. It sounds like you want it so bad, like you’re aching for it. You slowly pull his underwear down, seeing his cock already red, thick, and begging for you to help. He groans as you take your small fingers to wrap around it, not even enough to fully cover the expanse.

“I’m sorry for missing the game…” Your lips ghost the side of his cock, looking up at him with big eyes. You realize he must be sore from playing. “I told you, it-its okay,” he responds as you watch his adam’s apple bounce. “I’m sorry for leaving so often,” you go on, not watching him but watching his cock in your hands instead. His grip on your hair gets tighter. “I’m sorry for getting mad at you.” You’re just listing things at this point, anything to dwell on this, anything to get him to say something, to scold you, to beg for your mouth.

He pushes your head so your lips touch his tip. “You talk too much,” he breathes out, “don’t tease me, baby.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, cooing. You finally take him, trying to take him all at once but you can’t. You feel his tip against your throat, you pull back. You look up at him, your hands filling up the space you left. He’s watching you intently, eyes on your wet lips. You spit on his tip, something he’s done on you, spreading it across his cock with the palm of your hand. He curses. You lap at his head, barely taking him, licking the pre-cum that oozes out. Finally, after a long torture, he thinks, you take him back fully, hallowing your cheeks and bobbing up and down, doe eyes making sure he likes it. He curses in English too, because there’s never enough ways to swear. At one point, his forearm falls over his eyes in an attempt to stop looking, to ease the intensity at which your ministrations fuck him over. Whenever you pull back to breathe, your hands find their way under his white shirt, up his v-line, along the hard tan skin. You let his dick hit your lips whenever you do, it twitches on them, red and angry and so close to release. He says your name a lot, and it only spurs you on, making between your legs glisten and seep through your own underwear. Your fingers fall into your panties, and you can’t take it.

“Fuck, fuck, I-i’m coming,” he gasps, holding onto your head, pulling you off. You get the memo, opening your mouth, letting him hit your tongue, his white cum spurting onto it and your lips.

He’s breathing so heavily, “You’re insane, you’re insane…” He lets go of your hair, and you get up. His eyes are lidded, his cheeks and neck red from the aftermath, the bliss. His thumb runs over your mouth, spreading the substance across your lips. You part your mouth to show him that you swallowed. You now know athletes had much better tasting cum. He almost shatters when you do so, struggling to speak.

“Hi,” you say, kind of awkwardly. He laughs, tired.

“This stuff feels better when it’s your girlfriend doing it.” Your heart explodes and you try not to hurl over.

“Okay, so now I’m your girlfriend.” You sarcastically roll your eyes, leaving him to clean your face in the nearest bathroom. The fact that you even knew where it was qualified you as a girlfriend.

“Your brother is going to kill me.”

“He can deal with it.”

#holy fuck #i dont even know #jvais actually décédé

922 notes · View notes

kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Note

Holy fucking shit

Can I request something with Gavi being barely even home resulting to reader feeling lonely and empty? A fluffy ending please! Gracias a todos!

You're Losing Me (Gavi)

Summary: You and Gavi's relationship is slowly falling apart - and neither of you know how to save it.

Warnings: Angst. Toxic behavior.

A/N: This request literally revived me so thank you. I’m so excited to write angst hopefully you like it! Also thank you guys for 1k notes on Surprise, here’s my gift to you. Please send requests!

Word count: 6.8k+

Masterlist

It was the fourth Tuesday in a row that you ate alone in your apartment. The fourth time Gavi had skipped out on your plans last minute, sending a quick half-hearted text about one event or the other.

The first time it was because Coach had asked Gavi to stay after practice, keen on teaching him the perfect one-touch shot. Then it was a missed dinner because Jordi Alba had invited him out with some other players, and he just couldn’t say no, because he was finally starting to feel like a part of the family - like the older players had finally started to respect him.

Of course you hadn’t minded the first few times, he had been apologetic enough, promising you that he would be there next time, but each next time took on the next week, and soon the prospect of next time didn’t hold as much meaning anymore. You were accustomed to reading those words by now, and you rarely took time to read over the dwindling text messages anymore, eyes only scanning for those two words, the ones that had become a staple in your relationship.

Next time.

Next time you would cook dinner for him and he would be there to eat it. Next time he would tell you he loved you in person, rather than getting an impassive ‘sorry cariño’. The thought of next time, which once seemed like a lifeline to you, had become a dull reminder of the boy who was just on the other side of the city, only a measly train ride separating you both. Yet the distance seemed much greater.

But now the football season was drawing to a close, and instead of being excited at the notion of having more time to spend together, you felt uneasy and on edge, almost as if you were waiting for the other shoe to drop, something to come up, making the distance between the two of you that much more tangible.

You felt your phone buzz next to you and your eyes unintentionally went to the clock.

9:45 pm.

The texts were getting later and later each time.

You already knew what awaited you, but you couldn’t help but scan the message regardless.

“Can’t come tonight, only have a few days till the season ends and the guys wanna make the most of it. Be there next time. Noche.”

There it was again, that unexplainable feeling in your chest, like your heart was always one step ahead of your brain, preparing for the loss of something that hadn’t yet left. Your mind was an incomprehensible mess, a jumble of contrasting thoughts and memories, forcing you to overthink situations and undervalue your emotions.

You lifted your head watching your roommate land with a thump on the couch beside you, “He canceled again, didn’t he?”

You opened your mouth, an excuse on the tip of your tongue.

She held up her hand, “Don’t try to defend him. He knows it isn’t fair.”

You avoided her gaze, “You don’t get it. He’s really in demand and-”

“It doesn’t matter that he’s famous or a professional athlete, that doesn’t discredit his actions, or put the blame on anyone but him.”

She continued, “Look Gavi’s a good guy, I like him,” you stared at her, “I do! But he’s stupid if he doesn’t realize that he’s losing you. I know you, and while you might make excuses for him now, I know that sooner or later you’re going to notice that he hasn’t been treating you like you deserve, and you’ll be smart enough to leave.”

You felt the impact of her words full force, like a sledgehammer beating into your body. All the signs were there, right in front of your face, and you had been turning a blind eye, not wanting to admit what your heart already knew.

You knew it. The distance you had felt hadn’t been in vain – every day you could feel the connection between the two of you chip away, so small, you wouldn’t think to notice it till you stood back and looked at the bigger picture.

As a result of both your busy schedules, you both had come up with the idea of having Tuesday night, the most boring day of the week as agreed on, reserved for just the two of you. On Tuesday you didn’t have classes that ran well past dinner time or have to pick up late-night shifts at the restaurant, and he didn’t have evening practice. It was perfect. Tuesday was yours.

Except it had been four weeks since you’d had a proper conversation with Gavi, and you couldn’t help but see the difference in your relationship when you first got together, both eager and determined to spend as much time together as possible, to now, where even if you attended his games, you two still managed to get away without speaking.

You shook your head, “I-I need to take a walk.”

She reached over placing a hand on your shoulder, “Y/n. I’m sorry-”

You shook it off, standing up, “No it’s ok, it’s not your fault. I just need to clear my head.”

You felt the cool night breeze hit you as you walked the streets of Barcelona. It was unusually quiet in this part of town, the lights from the main strip didn’t reach this far out, and for a moment the quiet reminded you of your hometown.

If you closed your eyes, it was almost like you were fifteen again, back in your childhood bedroom, before the ideas of pretty boys with big brown eyes and the weight of managing both university and a job plagued all your thoughts.

You reached a lookout point, the top of the hill dropping to show you the expansive city below. You stared out, the buildings looked so small up here, barely more than a glowing dot in the dark, the cars a blur of soft yellow. You wondered which tiny dot Gavi was in. You wondered if he had checked his phone, seeing that you hadn’t texted him back like you usually did. You wondered if he even cared.

You shook your head trying to get rid of the unwanted thoughts.

Your relationship with Gavi was good. He made you laugh like nobody else, whispering secrets in each other’s ears like schoolchildren, making forts out of old sheets in his childhood bedroom when you met his family for the first time. You remembered his sweet smile, the way his eyes would crinkle unintentionally when he couldn’t hold back his excitement or happiness. You remembered confiding in him about school, how you were so stressed because you couldn’t manage eighteen credits while simultaneously holding a job that required you to be on your feet for hours at a time. You could still feel the soft caress of his hand, as he squeezed yours, providing you comfort, cracking a badly executed joke here and there just to get you to smile while listing a hundred reasons why if anyone could do it, it would be you.

So, if he made you feel all those things, why did his absence make you feel so tiny, so insignificant?

Your finger hovered over the call button, and you hit it hesitantly.

You just wanted to hear his voice.

That would be enough.

It rang seven times before the line went dead.

It took you a moment to realize you hadn’t put your phone up to your ear, waiting with bated breath for the timer on the screen to start, indicating he had picked up, but it never did.

You stuffed your phone back into your pocket, the same unsteady feeling in your heart strumming.

Once.

Twice.

Then it was gone.

You came home to a quiet apartment and your roommate already asleep.

You shuffled into your room silently, you would give it one more week you decided. Next time would be the last.

The next week came, and while it was the first week Gavi had off from training, he had already planned to go to Ibiza to attend a music festival with his hometown friends. He had invited you, but it was more of an afterthought, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to go because of rushed ‘you can come if you want’ and a barely there apology so you left it.

You got an ‘I’ll miss you’ text from him and for a moment it made you smile, filling you with warmth. However, an ‘I miss you’ only did so much, and other than his sweet messages, there was really no intent behind his words.

Now it had been two days since Gavi had gotten back from his Ibiza trip, and you couldn’t hide the surprise on your face when you glanced over and saw a Facetime call from Gavi.

When was the last time the two of you had Facetimed? Maybe two months ago? It was much easier to send a text, the times both of you were free were few and far between.

You answered the call, pushing your textbook to the side. The dark grey interior of Gavi’s car greeted you.

“Hello?” You asked.

“Hey, Y/n long time no talk.” Gavi joked, but you felt your stomach flip at the truth behind his words.

“I can’t see you.” You said.

“Oh shit, did I accidentally Facetime? My bad I told Siri to call and she must have Facetimed instead. Let me call you.”

You went to speak but heard the three beeps indicating the call had been cut.

You heard the phone ring again and bit back a sigh. You just wanted to see his face.

You answered on the second ring.

“Hey sorry about that. I wanted to call and tell you that I’m back from Ibiza.”

“Yeah, I know.” You admitted, “I remembered.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Well, anyways I wanted to ask you to come with me to the Spanish football gala tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

You heard some shuffling and suddenly Gavi’s voice was much clearer and closer to the phone. You assumed he took it off speaker.

“Can you not come?”

You hesitated, “Uhm I’m not sure. It’s so last minute and I’m already scheduled at the restaurant tomorrow.”

“Can’t you just take off?” He persisted.

You felt your brow furrow, “I’m already on the schedule, I can’t just decide to take off the day before, I need to find someone to replace me.”

“Ok, tell whoever that I’ll sign a jersey for them if they do.”

You suddenly felt angry. Why did he think that you could only get a day off work if he helped you out? Were you not capable of handling your own situations? You hated feeling like this, like you weren’t even your own person, just a shadow of who you were with.

“No that’s fine. I’ll just take off like you said, simple.” You couldn’t help but let the bitterness seep into your voice.

He went to say something, probably sensing the shift in your mood, but you cut him off, “I have to go. Bye Gavi.”

You hung up before he could respond.

Finding someone to replace your shift was easier said than done, but after some back and forth, and a promise to Marcus to cover his next two shifts, you were free.

Free to prance around in a hall filled with people you barely knew, with a boy who you thought about more in your memories than you saw in real life.

The night of the gala arrived, and you were decked out, wearing the earrings Gavi had gifted you for your one-year anniversary paired with a necklace you had received after graduating high school.

Gavi had originally said he would pick you up but had sent a quick text earlier in the morning explaining that the team was getting ready together at a hotel, and to just meet him at the venue.

Your roommate had agreed to drive you and you gave her a grateful smile as you got in the car.

“Ana thank you for taking me.”

She brushed the comment off playfully, “No problem. Gotta step up when Gavi steps down.”

You let out a short laugh, “My hero.”

You got to the venue a couple of minutes before you had planned to meet Gavi and nervously walked around, staying out of the path of cameras.

You found someone to take you to a tent where some Barca staff were waiting for the players to start the program.

You walked in, a surprised look taking over your face once you noticed Pedri and a few other players in the corner.

You weren’t aware that some of the players from the hotel had arrived yet.

Pedri noticed your entrance and came over to say hello.

You gave him a quick hug, making casual small talk.

Just ask him, a voice in the back of your head urged.

Finally, you bit the bullet, attempting to sound as casual as possible, “How did you guys get here so early? I thought everyone was leaving the hotel at 6.”

“Ehh, it wasn’t that important, so I skipped it. Half the guys didn’t go anyway, and the other half just went to play FIFA. Besides I beat them every time, so it gets a little boring after a while.”

You tried to laugh at his joke, but could only manage a watery smile, mind running a mile a minute.

So Gavi hadn’t actually needed to go but chose to.

Leaving you alone.

Again.

It wasn’t a big deal by itself. But it was the fact that this was just another item you could add to your ever-growing list of things Gavi cared about more than you. You wondered briefly if you had been wrong, and if he had missed some other event to be there with you, only to remind yourself that you hadn’t seen him in a month, so no, he hadn’t.

You were still grappling with your emotions when Gavi arrived, unsure whether to confront him or just let this be another thing you swept under the rug.

Your reunion, if you could even call it that, was lackluster at best. He had walked in with some of his teammates, immediately going to greet the rest of his team, completely ignoring you standing on the right side of the room with Pedri.

It was only once he asked where Pedri was that someone pointed the two of you out.

You felt your body deflate; he hadn’t even asked for you.

Were you overthinking things again? Maybe he had just forgotten in the excitement of seeing his whole team for the first time after the season ended?

Gavi made his way over to the two of you, reaching out to Pedri first. You watched as they exchanged a hug before Gavi’s eyes floated over to yours.

“Hey.” His voice was casual, like he was greeting a mailman, or thanking the cashier.

“Hi.”

You closed the space, attempting to hug him, but he grabbed your shoulders stopping you, looking down.

You followed his gaze.

“I don’t want to wrinkle the dress.”

You felt your heart thud against your chest, and while you knew he only had good intentions, the rejection still stung.

You stepped out of his embrace, watching his hands drop to his sides, “Okay.”

The carpet went by in a blur, you posed with Gavi for a few photos before moving to the side and letting him enjoy the spotlight, he had worked hard for it. You took a couple of photos with some of the other teammate's girlfriends and wives before you headed inside.

Once inside, there was still some time left before the actual dinner portion of the gala started. The gala was held for all Spanish football clubs as a celebration of their hard work during the season. It was also a great event to network, giving players the ability to talk with different coaches and directors they otherwise might not have gotten the chance to, allowing for discussions of thinly veiled preseason transfers to commence without the fear of unwanted ears listening in.

You found Gavi in the crowd quickly, linking your arm with his. He looked over at you, a smile taking over his features once he noticed you.

“Glad you found me.”

You noticed with great relief that his eyes still crinkled in the corners when he looked at you,

“I always do.”

The next however many minutes spent till dinner service started comprised of Gavi talking with various different players and directors as you stood like a shiny accessory off his arm, too insignificant to be acknowledged in conversation.

The call for dinner provided you solace from the repetitive conversations and mundane questions. You took a seat next to Gavi and were confused to find both Joao Felix and Antoine Griezmann seated at your table.

You leaned into Gavi, “I thought the clubs sat together?”

“Me too. I think they’re doing alphabetical tonight though.” He whispered.

“Which one’s your least favorite?” You looked up shocked at Gavi’s question, watching a boyish grin take over his features as he tried to hide his laugh, interlacing your fingers on your lap.

You shoved into him lightly, “They’re sitting right there!”

He leaned in closer, nose softly grazing your ear as he spoke, “Yeah but between me and you, I think Joao could have had a better season in Chelsea.”

You shook your head in disbelief, fighting back the smile that was threatening to spill out. Your eyes caught his and for a second it seemed like you had been transported back in time, back to when these types of moments were the standard not the exception, back when it felt like you were on each other sides, back when laughter was the antidote instead of tense silences filled with awkward hello’s.

His eyebrow lifted ask if to ask if you agreed with him, and a small murmur of agreement from you was all he needed before he opened his mouth, ready to hammer his point home, but his attention switched last second.

It was like you could visibly see the shift in his demeanor. First, it was his eyes glancing past yours, seeing the midfielder approaching. Then it was the subtle grip on your hand loosening, his fingers slipping through the gaps. Next, it was the complete shift in body, his posture straightening as he leaned his body away from yours, position shifting to face Pedri who had sat in the spot next to him.

To his credit, Pedri acknowledged the both of you but it was clear Gavi paid no mind to you, not evening sparing you a glance as he became immersed in a conversation with Pedri.

You tried to pretend it didn’t affect you and while you could lie to everyone else, you couldn’t lie to yourself. You had built up this evening up so much in your head, telling yourself that tonight would be the shifting point in your relationship and that everything would go back to the way it once was, but it was shaping up to be another Tuesday you had become all too familiar with.

Why did it feel like you were always competing for his attention?

Your mind was reeling, all the small actions Gavi did that you kept pushing aside, were floating back to the surface, each little remark or dismissal a little tug on your heartstrings till you were sure that if you stayed at the table a for a moment longer you wouldn’t be able to stop the onslaught of tears quickly approaching.

You stood from the table abruptly, catching a few people’s attention, but you gave them a polite smile, or at least you hoped it had been polite, you couldn’t focus on anything but the stinging in your eyes and the sinking feeling in your stomach.

You swiftly walked towards the restroom, glancing over your shoulder to see if anyone had noticed but your eyes fell on Gavi’s form. He hadn’t even bothered turning around.

Of course, he hadn’t.

Somehow that hurt more than anything else.

You were immensely grateful for the single-use restroom as you locked yourself in, shaky hands coming to steady yourself on the sink.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

You were internally screaming at yourself, begging yourself to keep yourself together but the feeling was too overwhelming and before you could stop you felt the first tears slip down. Your shoulders shook as you forced yourself to be silent, embarrassed about someone walking by and overhearing you pitying yourself.

One hand covered your mouth as you muffled your sobs, while the other dug into the stupid marble sink until the skin was pink and indented. The pain acted as a distraction from the unbearable pressure in your chest, and you instinctively pushed your hand harder into the sink.

Your fingers felt numb as you slowly removed them, closing your eyes to steady yourself. It was obvious that you weren’t in the best mental state, but you couldn’t exactly sit in the bathroom for the next hour to sort it out. You had to clean yourself up and go back to pretending.

Yes, pretending, you realized, was exactly what you had been doing. This whole night you had been pretending, pretending everything was okay, pretending that your relationship was fine when in truth you couldn’t even remember what Gavi’s laugh sounded like.

When had it become all pretend?

Was there anything left here? Were your best years behind you both?

These unanswered questions haunted you as you calmed yourself down, wrapping around you like a blanket, one that provided you no comfort but rather a feeling of suffocation.

Finally, your eyes had dried, and the redness had faded significantly. You had gotten your breathing under control, and you felt a little lighter having stopped denying what had been plaguing your mind for weeks now.

You took one final glance in the mirror, smoothing out your dress as you exited the restroom.

You walked slowly back to the table. You had decided that if you could just get through tonight, go home, and cry and think some more, then by tomorrow morning you would be able to talk to Gavi and decide what to do.

But that plan had flown out the window when you arrived back at the table to a confused Gavi.

It seemed he had finally noticed your absence.

“Where did you go? They served dinner 15 minutes ago.”

“I had to use the restroom.”

“For 15 minutes?”

“There was a queue.” You lied.

He seemed to accept your answer and you chose to focus on your food rather than him.

You were halfway through your meal when you noticed Gavi giving you a double take from the corner of your eye.

“Your eyes are red.” He spoke in a hushed voice.

“I don’t know why.”

“Are you sure?” His attention was beginning to slip again, eyes darting back between you and Pedri.

“Yes, I’m fine.” You heard your voice waver on the last syllable, a tick you had when you were lying, and Gavi immediately picked up on it, facing you fully.

“What’s wrong?”

You shook your head not wanting to get into everything here.

“I’m ok.”

“You’re not.”

“Gavi.” You warned.

“What happened? Did someone say something?”

“No. Just drop it please.” Your voice had gone soft, tired of defending yourself.

“Y/n just tell me, I’ll help.” He urged.

You stayed quiet.

“What’s wrong?” He asked again, adamant to get an answer.

You felt yourself grow annoyed, why couldn’t he just let it go? Why was he suddenly interested in how you felt? You were just trying to protect what little left the two of you had and he seemed intent on destroying it.

“It’s you.”

He looked taken aback, eyes pooling with hurt and confusion, his body slightly deflating, “W-what?”

The moment was interrupted when the announcer took over the stage, beginning the presentation for the night, highlighting a few key players and matches.

You looked away first, turning to face the stage, clapping along, acting as though you couldn’t feel Gavi’s gaze burning into your back as he desperately tried to get your attention.

Once the presentation was over you were quick to excuse yourself, using the pretense of going to get a drink as a getaway.

You held your breath as you walked, praying Gavi wouldn’t follow you, and while he got up immediately once he noticed, he was quickly interrupted by another player coming to congratulate him, allowing you to slip away while he watched helplessly.

You let out a huff, leaning against the bar trying to slow your heartbeat.

“Long day?”

You looked over to see Joao standing next to you, watching as the bartender poured his drink.

“Something like that.”

He nodded, “Me too. Been a long couple of days actually.”

You smiled, “Actually, it’s been a long couple of weeks.”

He turned his head to look at you, “I take it back. It’s actually been a long couple of months.”

You raised your hand in mock surrender, “Ok I can’t beat that.”

He grinned, “Yeah not many people can.”

Your expression matched his own, and you gave your order to the bartender before turning to face him again, “So how’s the season been?”

“Shit. Honestly, I’m not even sure why I’m here I played for Chelsea this season not Athletico.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his abruptness.

“Yeah, I saw your first game. A red card first match is pretty brutal.”

His grin only widened, “Oh keeping tabs are we?”

You gave him a playful glare, “Of course gotta know how Barca’s competition is doing.”

“Oh, so you’re a Barca girl?”

“Since the day I was born.” You revealed proudly.

And it was true, even before you had met Gavi, you had loved Barcelona. Growing up in a family of football lovers, your family had declared FC Barcelona as their home club, and you had witnessed so many legends play for Barcelona and so many underdogs find their true passion at the club.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked, and you gave him a nod of encouragement, pretending to zip your lips shut making him smile, “Ok well it’s always been my dream to play for Barcelona. Messi was always an idol to me.” He confessed.

Your mouth dropped open in shock before you abruptly shut it, your eyes almost widening comically as you spoke excitedly, “What oh my gosh. I’m in shock. Messi? But you play with Ronaldo!” You gasped.

He laughed at your facial expression, as he whispered, “I know! That’s why it’s a secret.”

You nodded along with his words, sending him a duh expression, “Of course, I won’t say anything I promise.”

“Promise what?”

Gavi had appeared by your side, a firm hand set on your waist, as he gently tugged you back into his body.

You peeked up at Gavi to see he was already looking down at you, jaw set. You gulped.

“Nothing much, just talking about the season.” You replied.

You saw Gavi’s eyes flicker between the two of you before he brought you closer, “Can we please talk?”

You bit your lip unsure but nodded.

He slipped his hand into yours as he led you to a quieter area. You waved goodbye to Joao as Gavi pulled you through the crowd, and he held his drink up in response.

He was a nice guy. You hoped next season would be better for him than the last.

He guided you to a standing table and propped your hands on the table as he played with the ring on your index finger.

“This a really pretty ring, is it new?” He asked eyes focused on your fingers.

“No, I got it last month.”

“I haven’t seen you wear it.”

“I’ve worn it every day since I got it.”

“Oh.”

You gently removed your hand from his, knowing that talking circles about something so small was going to get you nowhere.

“What do you want Gavi?” You asked quietly.

His voice came out gravelly, “I want to know how I let it get to the point where you feel more comfortable calling me Gavi rather than Pablo.”

His words when straight to your heart, and you could feel his pain almost as much as you could feel your own.

“I-I don’t know.”

You heard his breath falter, “I miss you calling me Pablo. Hell – I even miss you calling me Pablito. I’d take anything over whatever this is.” He gestured pointing between the two of you.

“Ok then let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about where it went wrong.”

His eyes lifted at your words, “Why are you speaking in the past tense?”

You remained silent.

“Amor please, why are you speaking in past tense?” You could hear the panic building in his voice.

“I think we don’t spend enough time together.”

“Ok we can fix that. No problem.” He agreed, desperate to save what was slowly unraveling.

“But do you want to? Fix it I mean?”

“Of course, I do. Please just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” His voice was almost near begging, and you knew without a doubt that you were in a similar state.

You couldn’t believe that this was happening here, in front of all these people, but it wasn’t fair to either of you to hold it any longer. You had to have this conversation sooner or later and it seemed like tonight was the time for it.

“Sometimes I feel like you don’t have time for me.” You finally admitted what you had been feeling for the last month.

He shook his head rapidly, “I do! But I mean we both have such busy schedules, you have even less time than I do with school.” he argued, “You also have work so that cuts down on the time we have too, but I’m not complaining.”

You were trembling with anger as you spoke, but you kept your voice low, “Yes, because I have to work a job to be able to afford college. I hate the hours probably more than you do, but I do it because I have to. I don’t have an option. I want to go to school? I have to fund it. But you? You didn’t have to go out with the guys after practice or stay around Ansu’s to play FIFA, but you did. That was a choice you made.”

He opened his mouth to retaliate but you weren’t done, “And I’m not even mad about that. I’m mad that for the last month, you’ve put me below every other person in your life, treated me like I’m dispensable, someone who you only consider when you need something. I feel cheap. Like something you only want when it’s convenient to you.”

“That’s not true. You’re my girlfriend!” His voice shook as he spoke, and you realized he was probably just as scared as you were.

“Then why do I feel like I’m not?” Your voice came out soft, barely above a whisper, but it felt like delivering the final blow to an already sinking battleship.

You felt his eyes on you, eyes glazing over as hundreds of unushered words filled the space between you, but the moment was cut short, and you had to remind yourself that you were in public as Xavi approached the two of you.

You gave Xavi a quick hug before he congratulated Gavi on a great season.

Gavi only nodded, murmuring short responses, eyes glancing at you every few seconds like he was scared you would disappear from his life if he wasn’t watching.

He left after a moment, and then the two of you were alone again.

“I’m sorry Y/n, I had no idea that’s why you were working. I would’ve given you the money if you just said something-“

“I don’t want your money Gavi! It’s yours, not mine.” You said exasperated.

“C’mon Y/n you know I have enough to provide for the both of us. You don’t have to work-“

“I don’t want that! In fact, right now I don’t even want to be in this relationship!”

The boy physically shrunk back at your words, your admission sending him into silence as he processed your words.

Finally, he spoke, head shaking in denial, not wanting to admit what was right in front of him, “I-I don’t understand.”

You wanted to yell at him to notice all the signs you’d been sending him, beg him to understand the things you couldn’t say but had always been lurking in the shadows, easy enough to make out if you just paid attention. You wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair that Gavi got to pursue his passion while you were being told to give up yours. Your head was filled with millions of things you wanted to say to him, thousands of little moments you wanted to share with him, you wanted to confide in him about how scared you were, how you had never felt like this in your life, how the thought of him slowly falling out of love with you was ripping your insides apart, making you sick to your stomach. There were so many things but not one left your mouth.

“I know you don’t.” Your voice sounded tired, even to your own ears, and you wondered if this was it. If this is where the two of you parted ways.

“I-I’m just going to go home.”

“I’ll grab our coats.”

You placed your hand gently on his, giving him a sad smile, “It’s ok. I think I’ll go alone.”

Neither of you could deny what it meant.

He ducked his head so you couldn’t see his red eyes. There was a moment of silence, and you could tell he was fighting with himself, trying to figure out what to do to stop the inevitable, until he slowly nodded,

“Ok.”

He had just sealed your relationship closed, something you were grateful for because you knew you couldn’t have done it yourself.

He didn’t lift his head as you walked away, and you didn’t blame him.

You grabbed your coat quickly, bidding goodbye to a few people as you made your way out of the hall.

As you walked down the hallway towards the main doors you realized you didn’t have a ride back. Your roommate had dropped you off and you assumed Gavi would drop you back. Well, that wasn’t happening now. Train it was. One glance out the window told you it was raining, downpouring to be exact.

How fitting. At least the weather matched your mood.

You stepped outside, immediately becoming drenched, but somehow you found comfort in it, at least this way no one could see you cry.

You were about halfway down the steps when you heard the door slam open, yelling coming from behind you.

You spun around, surprised to see Gavi stepping into the rain, “Please stay. Please.”

You stood frozen, unsure of what to say.

You were sure he wouldn’t follow you. But he had.

He kept taking steps closer to you, closing the distance, till you were only two steps apart, “Stay.”

His eyes searched your own, looking for something, maybe a sign that there was hope, something you weren’t sure you could provide.

“Just let me go. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

He shook his head, breath unsteady, “No I can’t. I can’t. I feel like if I let you go now, I’ll never see you again.”

You bit your cheek looking away, he was right. After tonight you had no intention of talking to him again.

His shoulders drooped at your silence, and he sat down on the steps of the building, harsh rain pounding down on him, matting his hair and drenching his extremely expensive suit, but he didn’t seem to care, “I hate fighting with you.”

You glanced down at his figure, watching him sit in the rain with his head in his hands, utterly defenseless.

“But I hate even more that it’s my fault, and that I couldn’t see what I was doing until I felt what you did, just for a second, and it hurt like hell.”

“I should have been there for you. I should have made time for you. I knew what I was doing wasn’t right but then I kept thinking it’s fine I’ll make it up to her next time, but next time never happened because I never showed up. I guess I was just so focused on making sure my teammates all liked me, and they had just stopped treating me like a kid, finally inviting me places - and I’m not using that as an excuse because I know it’s a shit one, it’s on me. Nobody forced me to do anything, I just wanted to feel included, and I put everyone else’s feelings above yours when yours was the one that was the most important to me.”

He finally lifted his head, and he was close enough that you could see the tears streaming down his face as he looked intently at you, almost like he was trying to memorize you, “If you want to walk away you can, you should - I’ll understand. I just wanted to apologize, really apologize, and own up to everything I did. I love you, and I promise you I won’t take anyone for granted the way I did with you.”

Your expression mirrored his own, and the tears were falling freely at his confession now that it was just the two of you. All the things you had wanted him to realize he had. All the things you wished he had said, he finally did.

But was it too late?

“Thank you, Pablo.”

He let out a short laugh through his tears, “No, thank you.”

You gave him a soft smile before you put distance between the two of you, letting the rain mask the sound of you leaving.

The lights from the venue grew dimmer as you continued walking, and you spared one last glance over your shoulder before it disappeared from view, seeing Gavi’s tiny figure rooted in place, watching you leave.

Your steps faltered.

How could you leave this relationship, this boy, when every single warning sign was going off in your brain, telling you to turn around and fight, to not give up? He had understood, he had understood exactly what you had felt, and had owned up to his mistakes, what else could he have done? He couldn’t go back and make it better, but he could change the way he treated you, but how would you acknowledge the change if you didn’t stick around?

It didn’t feel right walking away.

You thought you would feel content, feel like the pressure was lifting from your shoulders, but the dropping feeling in your stomach was multiplying, and your heart was constricting painfully at the thought of never seeing him, never laughing with him, never kissing him again, at the idea of falling in love with someone that wasn’t him.

You never ran faster in your life.

Let him be there. Please let him be there.

You didn’t know how you could explain yourself if you had to walk back into the event sopping wet, eyes puffy, and nose runny.

You couldn’t stop the wide smile that stretched across your face as he realized he was right where you left him.

You sat next to him and he didn’t notice until you spoke.

“Pablo.”

His head shot upon hearing your voice, and his face lifted for a second before falling again, “Di-Did you forget something?”

You nodded.

“Ok I can get it for you, what is it?” He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice clear.

You shifted closer to him, bodies pressed against each other, “I forgot that I love you. I love you and I want to work this out. I’m happy that you took responsibility and I believe you. I believe that you won’t do it again. But I should apologize too – I also wasn’t fair to you, and I did things that I shouldn’t have just to get back at you for making me feel so small.”

“I’m sorr-”

You cut him off, “Let’s stop apologizing.”

He nodded, eyes looking at you with nothing but love and admiration,

“Ok but we’ll have to work on our communication.” He said, and you hummed in agreement.

You touched your forehead with his, staring at each other with baited breaths until he finally closed the distance and kissed you. After a month of not seeing each other, you were finally kissing, pouring all your emotions, all your love, all your pain into the kiss, making a promise to be there for each other, and it felt like coming home.

2K notes · View notes

kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Text

I don’t even want to read this anymore

Like wdym this is the finale

Just Pretend (Gavi x reader)

Part 10

Warnings: SMUT!! and also BAD WRITING!! TYPOS AS WELL PROBABLY!! BUT MAINLY THE SMUT!!!

Word Count: 21.5K (Fun Fact: If you have read all of JP, that's 159 pages single space of reading.)

A/N: Here it is. The finale of my heartfelt daydream, laid bare for you all to see. I hope you've enjoyed the ride: the road ends here.

GIF: @gavidaily (i've been waiting since part 1 to use this mf gif)

Previously on Just Pretend

"Scrubs? You look too young to be a doctor." "You don't look old enough to be let into the club, but everyone is full of surprises."

"You're late. It's 6:45." "Good morning to you too, Gavira."

Gavi found himself glancing at your ass as you leaned over, before swiftly looking away. He did not like you. He had a baseline of respect for you as a young successful professional. Nothing else.

"Are we not friends, y/n?"

"I'm not sure, Gavi. We could be if you stopped hating me."

"I don't hate you. I think."

Gavi stopped thinking. He acted on impulse only. He tugged the wrist that was in his hand, pulling you in. Your head met with his hard chest, and you felt one arm circle your shoulder. You remained like this for a long moment: up against Gavi, his arm pressing you into his chest, his shirt soaking up the wetness on your cheeks.

"'m sorry. I won't let him talk to you that way anymore."

"It's okay, Pablo. I can take care of myself." A tear finally rolled down your cheek.

"I know you can, Doctora. I know you could take on the world if you wanted to. But you shouldn't have to. You deserve to be loved and spoiled. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"You saved me Pablo." You whispered out against him, needing to tell him someway, somehow, how much you appreciated him.

"Anyone would have interfered, doctora." He whispered back, being bold and caressing the skin of your arm that he encased with his.

"Not just today. In general. Since I met you, Pablo, you've made my life better. I just wanted to let you know. Good night."

"Because from the moment I laid eyes on you, I felt like I knew you. I don't know if I saw you on the street or in a dream, but a part of my brain recognized you, and since then I've been in pain. Pain that you can't even help me with. Nobody can. It's so hard to watch everyone take advantage of you all the fucking time. It tears me apart constantly. But it let me get closer to you. You let me get closer. And I tried so hard to keep it at bay, to be the friend that you need."

"My heart, doctora. When I give it to you, please keep it. Forever."

Now...

"Miss y/l/n, due to the... historic lack of women in the club, we do not have internal policies regarding relationships between players and employees. We just use the ones that La Liga as a whole have put in place. Those are quite forgiving, in my opinion. You can enter a romantic workplace relationship as long as it is appropriately disclosed, and you cannot be terminated as a result of that relationship ending. I saw the photo of you being pulled onto the field during the final of the Supercopa. Do you mean to tell me it was not with romantic intent?"

You had never experienced more severe whiplash in your life. First, you had been reprimanded for being too close to Pablo, for showing what Xavi classified as 'favoritism', as it hurt the team dynamic. Then you had been ridiculed by staff and players for allegedly sleeping with Pablo, and had been told you could be fire for doing so even if it was a bold faced lie. And now, months later, you were being told that it was not only okay for you to be in a relationship with Pablo, but you literally couldn't lose your job if you did? Someone in the family must have been praying for you. Or for Pablo. Was Pedri religious?

"Dr. Gonzalez, I think there has been some sort of misunderstanding. Gavi and I are just friends. Not even - we're just coworkers that get along well! There was no romance happening anywhere on the field."

And it was true. Well, sort of. You couldn't speak for Gavi's intention, but you would bet that he hadn't meant to do anything that could be perceived as romantic. Not only was he incredibly shy when it came to anything to do with his private life, but moreover, you had started to toy with the idea that maybe you were wrong about Pablo. Maybe you had misread the signs. Maybe Pedri's stylist, who you now also so lovingly referred to as naranja, had only fed into your delusions instead of delivering the hard truth to you.

"He's in love with you, stupid."

That's exactly what she had said to you when you answered the question 'so are you close to Pedri?', stating that the things Pablo did for you were far from the actions of a friend. And she was right. Friends didn't need to be physically touching in order to have a peaceful night of sleep. Friends don't feel the need to always be near the other, unable to focus if one wasn't near. Friends certainly didn't imagine each other in compromising situations: shirtless, panting, trying so hard to control his throbbing- no. Friends certainly didn't imagine such scenes. Most of all, friends didn't find themselves in these intimate moments, the air thick with anticipation, where lips were centimeters from meeting, and seconds away from saying something that would change the dynamic forever. Well, at least that's what you thought. Maybe Naranja would be your friend long enough to see if these were truly just normal hallmarks of friendship (although Pedri might be a tad upset if the two of you started sleeping together). You're glad she offered her cellphone number to you.

But this was not the only opinion that was presented to you. You had been sitting on your couch one night, a rare evening when Gavi had promised to accompany Ansu to one hangout or another, his absence felt greatly. It had been weeks since you had a moment that wasn't filled by Pablo's voice, his laughter, his breathing as you completed an assignment while he scrolled through TikTok. There was an eerie silence to the house now, and you needed something to take your thoughts off of your maladaptive daydreams of Pablo laying on your couch, looking up at you through long lashes with a tender gaze. It was almost as if you could run your hands through his messed up brown locks, watching his eyes close as you massaged his scalp, feeling him lean more into your touch.That's all you wanted. Not even for Pablo to come to you with a grand confession of love, but just to be with him with no boundaries, no fear, no awkwardness. Just love and safety and the freedom to exist as you were. Together.

But there was no idle chatter or TikTok sounds to fill the silence, and so you had to do so yourself. You made yourself a delectable cup of tea, favorite mug warming your palm as you tried to balance your plate of snacks in the other. The camp nutritionists had been testing recipes all week, and had sent you home with some of the best food you had ever had, including a tupperware of cookies that could give those little Nestle birds a run for their money. Comfortable on the couch in that same black hoodie with the embroidered '6', you qued, rather ironically, He's Just Not That Into You (a great romcom, but not for people doubting if they're deserving of being loved). Your phone had lit up with a familiar name that you hadn't seen in months now.

"Angelika! How are you? How was fashion week? I saw the collection on Instagram. It looked stunning!"

Since her announcement about moving to Paris, you hadn't heard a peep from your 'best friend'. A mutual friend you ran into at the market had told you her move had been delayed until after the collection had shown at fashion week since the creative director had surprisingly quit, so everything was on ice until he was replaced. You had seen her collection on Diet Prada, not questioning why you hadn't seen the posts that she had made celebrating her work.

"Oh it was fabulous, and Alessandro just got replaced so Paris must be coming soon. I would have invited you, but I only got 6 invitations, and you're always so busy. Didn't want to have an empty seat."

She knew she had made a mistake when she saw your face on the screen drop. You had been the main supporter of Ang's career since you met her, and yet she didn't even bother sending you an invitation or seeing if you might be able to attend.

"Anyway, how have you been? What's new with you?"

You spoke briefly about school and work, before taking a deep breath and opening up the gnarly can of worms that was you and Gavi's current situation. You had no other people with enough context or who you felt comfortable enough with to reveal all your thoughts on the matter. All your hopes and dreams that he would sweep you off your feet. All your insecurities and fears that you had created something unhealthy, something that would dissolve into worse than nothing. No matter how you spun it, it was nice to have a friend, even if you had to ignore that you were walking a mile to see an inch in return.

Angelika listened rather silently to the entire series of events, asking one or two clarifying questions, but for the most part allowing you to monologue. When you finished speaking, you sighed rather dreamily and fell back into your couch, pulling your (Gavi's) hoodie closer around you. Sometime you forgot how much he had bulked up, until you were drowning in the shirts he had donated to you. Maybe there was something there. Now that Dr. G had confessed he thought you two were already in a relationship, the only missing piece was Pablo. You had tried to hint to him that, if he felt even the slightest affection towards you, he should go for it. Make the shot. The goal was empty - hell, the goalie would even guide the ball in for him. Had you been too subtle with your affections? Or had he purposefully ignored the brush of your lips on his throat in order to preserve your pride?

“Don’t you think you’re being a little bit delusional?”

Angelika’s statement was like a splash of ice water on your warm and fuzzy form. You looked at the FaceTime call like the woman on the screen in front of you had grown horns from her head.

“I’m … what?”

“Delusional. I mean it seems like you’re reading too much into his actions. So he what? Used you as his driver and let you keep a hoodie he got from the staff for free? Nothing super special.”

“But… but it wasn’t just that. He-“ She hadn’t even let you finish your sentence, not so subtly rolling her eyes, like she was so utterly bored with your story.

“Yeah, yeah, he punched your ex boyfriend who cheated on you. But I mean, cmon, you like, refused to fuck him. This is the second guy to cheat on you. Maybe it’s you, ha. And Gavi is literally just a raging teenager who has been looking to hit someone. I don’t think you should fly into your princess fantasies because he he finally lost his shit. And now you’re sleeping next to him every night and he’s waiting for you to give him some pussy. Better melt up quick, ice princess, before he gets tired of waiting.”

There it was again. The nausea. The head pounding. The vision blurring and room spinning. The sinking feeling that you were being betrayed by someone you had let in again. If you squinted your eyes a little, she might have even slightly resembled Martin.

“You… think he’s only being nice to me so that I’ll sleep with him?” You asked, voice soft and slow to hide the shake desperately wanting to emerge.

“Oh, absolutely. It’s not like there’s much else there. Now you look upset, but don’t be. I’m just telling you the truth so you don’t get hurt.”

“No, you’re just being a bitch.”

Your response seemed to have caught the both of you off guard. Your face had gone red with frustration, hands trembling with rage that you were desperately trying to quell. What a funny thing, rage. Feminine rage to be exact. The rage of men is common place in society - sort of like bullets. Everyone has heard a gunshot or seen what a bullet can do, in their personal life or on a screen. Male rage and fury is a normal part of life that everyone expects and respects. People bite their tongues hard enough to draw blood before they dare lash out at a man, fearful of sharp words and blunt fists. But feminine rage wasn’t a real threat. Oh no, it was more of a concept. A black and red Pinterest aesthetic in red and black, with pinups and devil horns and swirling script. It was only a danger to the self; a threat of implosion with no shrapnel to hit anyone else. A star dying, a mind shattering, as entertainment to those around. There was never an expectation for her to lash out and defend herself against those who poked at her until she bled. But should a cornered lioness cower in fear rather than attacking?

“What… what the hell is wrong with you?”

“No, what the hell is wrong with you, Angelika? All I’ve done since the day I met you is try and be there for you. All I’ve done is support you through everything - relationships, family drama, you’re entire fucking career! You had professors tell you that you would be a generic designer for H&M, and I was there for you. I was the only person with you at three in the fucking morning telling you that you could do better, that you could be amazing. I was a pincushion, a mannequin, a personal chauffeur to the fabric store. And I didn’t ever do these things because I wanted something in return. I genuinely cared about you and just wanted to see my closest friend succeed! But you couldn’t even pretend to care about this obviously one-sided relationship. All I ever was to you was a person to use when you needed and thrown away when you didn’t. I was preparing for my dream interview, my biggest career goal since I was a fucking child, and not only did you ‘forget’ to give me one word of encouragement, you asked me to be your fucking ride home! And you know what? I made my peace with it. I came to terms with the fact that you thought I was incompetent at my job because everyone seems to think I’m a physio ditz. But for you to call me the nickname people called me in college to objectify me, and then say all I’m worthy of is sex?!”

Angelika was now teary eyed and red in the face. She was shaking her head, unable to respond, acting like the spitting image of a deer caught in the headlights. She was now stumbling over her words, unable to string a complete sentence together.

“That’s … thats not true I didn’t say that.”

“No, that’s exactly what you just said. Don’t be a liar on top of being a shit person. You just said it was my fault I got cheated on by my last two partners. And now I’ve still decided to give you the benefit of the doubt after you straight up admitted to me that you didn’t think of me as one of the top six people in your happy moments. I’ve poured my heart out to you and you don’t even have the decency to lie! You either said that to purposefully hurt me, or you never cared enough to listen when I spoke. Either way, you’re just the last in a long line of people who I have let walk all over me.”

Your expression was steeled and icy. You hadn’t even raised your voice once during the entire exchange, remaining calm and level headed despite the deep cuts you had made in Angelika’s self-confidence. Your lips were downturned and brows knitted together, looking at her with all the loathing she had caused you to feel for yourself. It was hard to be alone, but it was better than being surrounded with people who convinced you that you would never be enough if you didn’t fit their mold. The girl on the other side of the FaceTime call was clearly experiencing every stage of grief all at once, unsure how to respond. She had gotten through the denial, and was knee-deep in the anger. But anger did not spark eloquence, sparking the simple response of,

“Fuck you. You can go to hell.”

And you could swear you saw genuine fear in her eyes as a bright, beaming smile spread across your face. Maybe you had never seen love, but you had seen friendship. You had seen that there were people ready to carry your entire world on their shoulders. And no matter how slowly, you were working to believe that you could be loved, even by yourself. The rage had evaporated and recrystallized as content. So you smiled sickeningly sweetly at Angelika, and gave her a heartfelt response.

“I’ll see you there, darling.”

Pressing the bright red button to end the call was one of the most satisfying things you had ever done in your life. The headache and nausea and ‘I want to die’ feeling that you usually had after a confrontation was nowhere to be found. Quite the opposite, actually. It was like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders. Your entire chest felt like it had more room for air. Was this what every day was like for people without anxiety? How glorious. Pressing play on Gennifer Goodwyne’s best work, you made a mental note to speak to a therapist the following morning. This felt amazing. You were genuinely smiling at… what exactly? The loss of a friend? No, no - liberation from someone’s foot on your neck. What new and exciting things could you do with this new found freedom, this fresh lease on life? Naturally, you did your favorite activity: picking up the phone and texting Gavi.

Gone were the days of Pablo wracking his brain for any excuse to email, text, or call you. It was almost funny how much he had to talk himself up, looking at his reflection and reiterating how much of a 'cool, suave guy' he was before typing out a very intelligent and eloquent 'hi'. Watching a series that he had no interest in initially just to have something to talk to you about that wasn't one of his leg muscles (no interest initially - now he was patiently waiting 4-6 weeks for his neon sign in the shape of the House Stark sigil). Now it was you who couldn't leave Gavi alone, using your messages to him as a pseudo journal, spewing your entire stream of consciousness into little blue bubbles.

[You]: PABLO

[You]: YOULL NEVER GUESS WHAT I JUST DID

Locking your phone and resting it on your chest, you refocused on the chick flick illuminating the darkness of your living room, the device vibrating against you less than 30 seconds later. As much as you would like to pretend it was surprising to receive a response so quickly, this was the normal routine the two of you had created. One needed merely call out, and the other would come running.

[Pablito]: whoever u killed they better be small

[Pablito]: bcs pedri doesnt have a lot of space fr bodies in his car

There it was again: the giggling, the lip bite, the stupid half smile that made you look less like Cindy Crawford and more like the Grinch after Christmas was destroyed. But it was the natural way your body reacted to Pablo - like a schoolgirl with a crush on a boyband member in a brightly-colored magazine. Lord, how were you supposed to be normal around him? Oh how wonderful it would be to have even one inkling that Pablo reacted this way when he heard from you. But in your head, he was still Pablo Gavi with capital letters, who was standing ever so coolly with a beer in hand as he laughed with his other hot rich young athlete friends. You could never picture him as he truly was, shy and puppy-like, beer not even touched as he held his phone in one hand and twirling his hoodie string in the other. He bit down on his lip as well, eyebrows together as he waited for a response. Despite the relationship that had grown for the last six months, he still held his breath slightly when he saw the three little 'typing' dots float on his screen.

[Doctora]: i don't think i can convey the full force over text

[Doctora]: i can come over and explain it to you in person tho

"Guys, I think I need to leave." Pablo said abruptly, looking up at the group of boys, causing a record-scratch moment that abruptly ended the conversation. The heated conversation over whether the Drake curse was real had screeched to a halt, and now all four of the young Barca players were staring in disbelief.

"You haven't even been here for an hour. Where the hell could you need to be right now?" It was Alejandro who spoke up, the only one of the four who was not acutely aware of the fact that Gavi was borderline prepared to give up his entire career for you. He only had a mild inkling.

"Um... one of my friends is coming to my house and I'm going to meet them.''

"Who? We know all your friends. Who is coming over?" Ale asked, draping an arm over fellow La Masia baby Ansu, who smirked at the Sevillano as well.

"Yes, Pablito. Who is it? Ilias?" Ansu asked, obviously enjoying the bright red that seeped into Gavi's face.

"Or maybe Alvaro?" Ale seemed to be enjoying this too much, smiling brightly as Pedri tried to sip his beer without suffocating due to laughter.

"If it's one of the boys, then maybe we should come with you! Beers from the convenience store are cheaper anyways."

Pablo was sweating bullets. How could he say that he wanted to run home to hear what might possibly be the most mundane story about keeping houseplants alive?

"No, no it's... someone from back home. You guys wouldn't know her-HIM! You wouldn't know him." That may have been the worst save Pablo had ever made in his life, including the time his friends made his 5'0 self play keeper in a pick up match. Pedri finally lost the battle and spit out his beer, laughing loudly with the rest of the boys.

"Bro, why can't you just admit your massive crush on the doctor already. It's honestly getting a little tiring at this point. You've been in love with her for like three months now-" Ansu started, moving towards Gavi and clapping him on the shoulder before being interrupted by Pedri, who corrected,

"More like six months actually."

"Ah! There is no way!" Now Pablo was being ping-ponged between his two school friends, trying to keep himself from imploding from embarrassment.

"Why haven't you told her yet? Seriously now." Ale asked, pulling up a chair for himself and Pablo, the group sitting back down, conversation topic having changed into something juicier.

"You forget that he like stopped hating her and then she directly got a boyfriend, right?" Pedri said, signalling for another round of stellas to be brought over to the table.

"I don't think we should order another round. I was going to-" Pablo started, trying to nervously get up. Would he be able to find a taxi? Or should he just order an Uber? Neither possibility was explored as Pedri stuck his arm out and pushed him back into his seat, where he was now firmly locked in.

"Spill your guts. The quicker you talk, the quicker you can tell her to come over. I'll drive you home."

"Should you really be driving if you're going to be drinking?" Pablo asked cautiously as the four beers were placed on the table.

"oh, no, I'm done for the night. Two are for Ale and Ansu, and the other two are for you. For, ya know, confidence."

[Pablito]: u wnna met me at my hosue in an hours

The six minute pause between the 'Read' notification and the response from Pablo had worried you slightly. It was just enough time for the anxiety to seep into your bones. Did he find your desire to see him overwhelming and (God-forbid) clingy? Was he showing the message to Pedri & Co., laughing at your desperation? The misspelling made you even more worried. The spiral of thoughts was taking a sharp turn in the downwards direction. Was he even looking at his phone while typing? You didn't want to be a burden to him during one of the rare nights he could enjoy himself.

[Doctora]: are you sure? i don't have to come over if you're busy

"See now she doesn't want to come." Pablo said, now two beers deep with one more to go so that Pedri would let him leave.

"You're so stupid, Pablo. She wants you to want her to come over." Ansu said frustratedly. Pablo was trying to say as quickly as possible in between gulps what was stopping him from confessing his feelings to you. It had gone along the lines of,

"Well, first I thought I hated her, then I realized I was attracted to her as soon as she got an awful boyfriend, then we became like friends, I guess? Then I just kind of never wanted to ever be away from her. I had a hard time picturing a future that she wasn't a part of. Like, it started to make me have this weird aching feeling in my chest. And now I want to tell her all of this but she like, sees me as a friend and has had a shit time with her male friends and I don't want to permanently traumatize someone I love."

There was definitely more beer spit into the air and on the floor than there was in anyone's mouth.

"What did you just say?!" His too schoolmates echoed loudly, while Pedri just stared at him in a shocked state.

Pablo's brain was swimming in beer bubbles, unable to connect any dots and make intelligent, let alone sit and explain the process and intricacies of figuring out that he was, in fact, in love with you. So he ignored the question, asking rather for advice as to how he could get you to come over to his house.

"I don't think she needs that much convincing, seeing as you guys literally sleep beside each other for the majority of the week."

"Pedri, please. Enough details. You're just going to sit here and casually tell us the doctor has been in Pablito's bed repeatedly and he has yet to ask her on a date? I might collapse if I hear another shocking piece of information." Ale exclaimed, one hand over his heart as he leaned over, Ansu above him in what appeared to be genuine distress for his cardiac health.

"Pablo," Pedri started, sitting up in his seat and placing his elbows on his shoulders, obviously meaning business. "Now it's time to exercise that one petite little romantic muscle in your body."

"Isn't every muscle in his body petite?" Ansu braced himself for the punch in the arm that he received, but it was softer than previous attacks. Maybe the alcohol was really hitting him.

"Does it bother you that she asked to come over?"

"No!" Pablo responded quicker than his teammates thought possible. "I always want her to come over. She doesn't even need to ask. I would give her a key to the place if she wanted. Hell, I would sign the house over in her name. Do you think I could ask her to move in with me as friends?" His foggy brain registered the laughter, but didn't quite understand it. He would love for you to be in his house, walking through the door with you every evening, eating on the couch, fighting over the comforter and cuddling in the cold.

"See now that's... kind of a lot for a girl who doesn't know you have feelings for her. Which is a whole separate issue of oblivion that we can address later. Let's edit it down. Hand me your phone."

[Pablito]: never too busy for you. see you in an hour ;)

You stared at the wink on your screen with wide eyes. Had Pablo's phone been hacked? He had sent emojis before, but usually when he was making a cheesy joke or mocking someone else. This was ... well you actually couldn't say. Calling this behavior 'weird' would really make everything you two did, like cuddling and sleeping over and trauma-dumping, seem 'weird' as well. The only time he had ever been so outwardly flirty with you was when...

[Doctora]: Pablo are you drunk?

[Doctora]: I'm coming over to kick ur ass

"I think I got you in trouble." Pedri said, sheepishly handing back the device. Pablo groaned, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol more strongly, head spinning and stomach churning at the thought of getting scolded by you. But something in him also burned at the idea of you getting worried about him when you weren't being paid for it.

"Alright boys, let's head out so Romeo can get back to the castle on time." Pedri ushered the three tipsy boys to the car, Ansu and Ale hunched over and giggling in the back, and Pablo slumped with a cheek pressed up against the passenger window.

"Wait! I just thought of something really important!" Ale practically yelled, leaning against the car in front of his place, Ansu waiting by the door to be let in for their own sleepover and gossip session (which may become a breakfast and gossip session given their current state).

"If the doctor tries to kiss him, will Pablo have to get on his tiptoes?"

The uproar of laughter was so loud it could be categorized as a public disturbance. Ale stood, mind foggy but genuine, watching Pedri clutch both the steering wheel and his ribs. Ansu was worse for wear, falling to his knees and gripping the sidewalk for dear life, all while Pablo gripped his head in pain and embarrassment.

"Ale, please, please open the door. I'm going to piss myself laughing from the mental image. Please, Ale."

"I'm actually taller than she is, just for everyone's information." The rebuttal was coupled with crossed arms and a pout.

"With or without shoes?" Ale's follow-up question set off another round of rambunctious laughter. Pablo was now properly tipsy and overly sensitive, and was ready to go home. Ale finally let go of the coop, preventing Ansu's public urination, and Pedri could finally make his way to Pablo's place. The green vehicle pulled into the driveway, and you followed just minutes later.

"Pedri, I'm worried."

The Canarian stared at the boy beside him. That's still what Pablo was. At his young age, he was bearing the back-breaking pressure of being the best right out of the gate, and soul-crushing weight of being in love. It was more than Pedri knew himself and many of his friends able to withstand. And though he understood the sentiment clearly, he asked anyways.

"What're you worried about?"

Pablo was many thing when he had a few drinks. He was noticeably louder, more vibrant and talkative. His usual shy self loosened up, and he was much more vulnerable. He did whatever he felt like: danced, flirted with women, made bets - anything he could imagine that would make him feel alive before the liquid courage wore off and he was back to silencing the bickering voices in his head.

"I'm worried that I'm going to say something stupid and scare her off."

"Ignore what people say online, hermano. You're not actually that scary." The giggle in return allowed Pedri to breathe a little easier. He tried to push away the twinge of guilt that reminded him he had been the one to pressure Pablo to drink, and he had been the one shoving this relationship forward at a faster pace than the participants may have liked.

"No I mean... even if the 1 in a million occurs and she gives me a chance, what if I come on too strong and kill it instantly? Can you come with me?" The request and the puppy-dog look both worked to catch Pedri off guard.

"Come with you to hang out with your girl?"

"You don't have to sit with us. You can fire up the PS5 and do whatever you want. But I won't tell her I want to grow old with her like the couple in The Notebook if you're in the house."

"You want to live out the plot of The Notebook with the doctora?"

"How did you know that?" Pablo asked with wide eyes, fully convinced that the older had read his mind.

"You just told me! How much alcohol did you actually have?" Pedri was now concerned. Could he not count? Pablo had only had three beers. He didn't remember him being such a lightweight, but it probably would explain a lot.

"Ugh, see! Pedri please, I need you. Just come with me!"

Before Pedri could protest again, a small knock was heard on Pablo's window, causing both the Barca boys to jump slightly.

"Ugh, fine. But only because your gameshock controller has never been thrown into a wall."

As the two stepped out of the car, your nose was instantly assaulted with the scent of alcohol and smoke. Pablo looked at you with a red face and slightly unfocused eyes.

"Doctora! Hey!" As he moved in to give you a hug, you stepped back from him, covering your nose with the sleeve of your (Gavi's) hoodie. You looked harshly at the boys, glare flipping between the two boys.

"I can't believe you asked me to come here while you're wasted. And you! What the hell do you think you're doing driving drunk?" You yelled, and Pedri ran forward to prevent the neighbors from hearing your misconception.

"I'm not drunk! I had one beer and waited more than an hour before driving. Pablo had three beers. We smell like shit because a waitress spilled a tray full of shots at the table. Let's continue arguing inside."

You looked at them skeptically, trying to find a smidge of deceit in either of their faces. Pablo approached you and draped an arm around your shoulder. Pressed up against you, it seemed like the smell of liquor dissipated, replaced by the last traces of his cologne and his own signature scent. Leaning down slightly, his lips brushed against the shell of your ear, sending shockwaves throughout your nervous system.

"Come on, Doctora. You know I'd never lie to you. Come inside now. I need to get in the shower."

Speechless and wide-eyed, you were helpless to do anything but nod your head and be lead back inside the house that you had come to know so well.

"I'm going to get in the shower. I think it will help me sober up a bit. And help me stop smelling like Kettle One."

"Oh."

"Don't seem so disappointed, Doctora. I'll only be gone for five minutes. You can wait for me on the balcony; you won't even miss me. Or if you really can't be without me for a single moment, I have a very large shower."

You had stared at Gavi in shock for the umpteenth time that evening, unable to process how he was being so... unadulterated with you. It reminded you of that very first night in the club, when he had stared you up and down and commended Angel on his ability to pick girls.

"Wait you have a balcony?"

That's what lead to your current situation: sitting with your knees pressed to your chest, breathing in the early April Catalan air, and staring at the beautiful view from the window. The street was illuminated in a soft yellow glow, people roaming with hands held and laughs exchanged. The moon was full, shining its beauty down onto the street, painting everything a soft silver color that contrasted with the hazes of gold. It was one of those moments you wish you could trap between plates of glass and visit at a moment's notice. One of those moments that reminded you how far you had come. That dream, that life you had worked, cried, and prayed for - you were in it right now.

The glass door slid open behind you, ending the trance as Pablo stepped out with more blankets over one arm and two mugs in hand. You took them from him, hands warmed as he draped a blue and red blanket (his favorite, unbeknownst to you) around your shoulders. He wrapped himself in a pale yellow one and took his seat next to you, legs also by his chest as he retrieved his steaming mug. Taking a sip, the thick liquid coated your tongue, sweet and rich and reminiscent of childhood.

"So you can't even boil an egg correctly, but you know how to make perfect Chocolate Caliente while tipsy? How does that make any sense?"

Turning to you, he took a pause. The wind gently pushed your hair back, allowing the moonlight to fully illuminate your eyes, and his already hazy mind struggled not to just let himself drown in them. He was beginning to sober up, but it was nowhere near how he wanted to be in your presence.

"It was my favorite breakfast as a kid. My dad used to take Aurora and I to have them for breakfast on the weekends. When I came to Barcelona, I didn't really have anyone to take care of me like that anymore, so I learned to make it myself." Pablo hadn't meant for this to be a sad story, but apparently his tone came across as such, demonstrated by your scooching over to him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. No matter the cause, he accepted the invitation to lean against you, sharing your body warmth.

"Must've been hard for you, moving here alone." Your voice was far off, as if spoken to a different person and in a different time. Flashes played in your mind of teary goodbyes and security gates, only one of your parents caring enough to drive you to the airport.

"You know what it's like," Pablo responded. "You did the same thing." He wanted to life his head and look at you, but you move first, resting your temple against his, slotting perfectly together like a teacup that had found its saucer.

"Yeah but I was 18. You were what? 11?" Your voice is still heavy with a burden that Pablo can't understand. His parents had gone with him when he first moved - and you knew that. They had only gone back to Sevilla when Gavi, shy and petite little thing that he was (and remains) told them he was fine to stay in the dorm. He had made friends quick and been praised for his football skills quicker. His parents were only two hours away, and visited semi-frequently. Life at La Masia had been Disney Channel-esque. So why did you speak about it with the same somber tone as old war stories?

"I hate that you say 'I was 18' like it was a thousand years ago, Doctora."

Pablo could feel your cheeks form a wide smile, and wrapped an arm loosely around your waist as you leaned deeper into his orbit. Of all the times the two of you had been cuddly, this was quickly becoming his favorite. Because he wasn't holding you like a secret, in the dark of night when all you wanted to do was pass out. He could see you, here in his arms of your own free will, not running away, but rather leaning in. He got to sweep the hair from your eyes, and if he focused hard enough, the dull beat of your helping the tension dissipate from his bones.

It was moments like these when Pablo knew that he was wholly and completely in love. His heart didn't race around you anymore. It wa quite the opposite now: only when he was around you could his heart beat like it was intended. It felt full. Otherwise he was walking around with this tugging in his chest, begging him to drop everything and run to wherever you were. And once he arrived, he would tear the beating organ from his chest for you upon request. It was your property, anyways.

"But I was 18 like a century ago. I'm old and withered now Pablo. What you're doing now is taking care of the elderly."

His laugh in response made him fall forward, burying his head in your lap as you blushed profusely, laughter light and breathy as to not draw attention (or get him to move). His face pressed against one of your thighs, giggling a bit too hard at a very generic joke without a singular care in the world. He leans back slightly and places a kiss to your thigh, so quick and delicate you almost missed it.

"I'll always take care of you, Doctora. As long as you let me."

You couldn't bring yourself to speak at that moment, opting to instead bring a hand up to play with his hair. Gently, you wove your fingers through the locks, softly scratching at his head like the sleepy puppy he resembled in that moment.

Several minutes of comfortable silence elapsed before he spoke again.

"Remember the first time we met?"

"Vividly." The response came quickly and honestly from you, and you were banking on Pablo's slightly incapacitated state to prevent him mocking you. But it was one of those moments seared into your memory. The lights, the sweat, the deep urge to pull Pablo against you and kiss him until that perfect pout disappeared.

"You didn't think I was 18 then. It was a hard blow to my ego. I didn't want a pretty girl to think of me as a child. But now, I'm glad we met when we did."

Soft music floated in the air towards the balcony, the performers a few streets over finishing off the night with something soft and romantic to tug on the heartstrings of passing couples in hope of separating them from some Euros. Gavi lifted his head, body following shortly as he stood. He held out a hand to help you to your feet as well. "Come and dance with me." Rising, Pablo never released your hand from his, pulling you in as close as possible, keeping you pressed to him with one arm. He began swaying and you followed his lead, now your turn to rest your head on his shoulder and simply enjoy the euphoria of being in his arms. His breath was next to your ear, raising the flesh on your neck with every exhale, before finally saying,

"Because in the future when we're real senior citizens, I get to tell people I've known you my entire adult life."

You faltered slightly, stopping Gavi in his tracks as he met your eyes. God, those eyes. If only you knew the power they had over a certain Sevillano.

"You think I'll still be around when you're an old man?" You asked, trying to stay light and airy and nonchalant as your heart hammered against the confines of your ribcage.

"Of course, Doctora. Where else would you be other than beside me?"

This was it. This was the moment. You were dancing on his balcony in his hoodie as he told you that he never wanted you to leave his side. This was the time to agree, to jump and have those strong arms catch you as you said those three words that could show you the gates of heaven or the depths of hell. You traced shaking fingers down one of his biceps, eyes meeting as with ragged breath you began.

"Pablo..."

The response was the sound of the glass door being shoved open, causing the two of you to jump a foot apart. Pedri stood there, cheeks flushed like when Xavi played him all 120 minutes.

"Pablito!! You had a case of beer in the fridge to reward me for being the DD!" This man was on another planet, bringing you back down to earth.

"You should get him to bed. I need to get going anyways."

"No!" The protest was louder than anticipated, startling both you and Pedri, who had gotten bored of playing sober FIFA and may have over-indulged when Pablo's balcony date with you entered its second hour.

"I mean, I'll get him to bed. You haven't told me your story yet. I would hate for you to leave without finishing the reason why you came. Wait for me on the couch, I'll be five minutes."

There was a pause, almost a reluctance from you to break the strong eye contact. He knew that there was something else you wanted to say. There was always something left unsaid between the two of you. He watched your form disappear down the stairs as he guided Pedri to his room (he didn't want his soon-arriving sister to sleep on dirty sheets). "You have the worst timing imaginable, hermano." Pablo muttered out, blood boiling at how the evening had gone from 200 back down to zero in a matter of seconds. When did he even put a case of beer in the fridge? Neither of you were drinkers. His fridge was always stocked with every delight and craving you had mentioned in passing.

"You told me to make sure you didn't say anything stupid." Pedri responded, making Gavi squint at him in suspicion. He must have not as been as out of it as he let on.

"Yeah but I think she- nevermind. Go to sleep."

"Calm down Pablito. It's not like I interrupted your first kiss."

Forcing himself to take a deep, self-soothing breath, Pablo turned from his inebriated friend and shut the door.

Making your way to the living room, you once again filled your senses with the boyish football decor of the living room. Checking to make sure he wasn't coming down the stairs, you sped over to the front door. The pictures on the wall remained as they were previously: childhood, family, football. Your heart sank slightly at the thought of your Christmas present sitting ripped and crumpled at the bottom of his club-issued backpack. You turned back into the living room, making your way to the couch.

Flopping on the soft material, you kicked your feet up on the table, glancing over to look at his obnoxiously large Barca book. And there, sitting on top of it, was a simple black frame, slightly dented in one corner like it had been dropped. The frame held the two of you, angry and standoffish and forever frozen in that moment before the floodgates had been irreversibly opened. He had framed it. Pablo Gavi, the busiest boy in football right now, had decided you were worth the frame and the position front and center on his favorite book.

"So, what was so groundbreaking you needed to see my reaction in person?" His question snapped you out of your trance, and you sprung up from your place on the sofa, needing to get the photo out of your field of vision for your own sanity. Making a B-line to the fridge, the cold was inviting to your flushed face. Fruit, bread, cheese, cold cuts - no Spanish boys here. Just the comfort of food.

"Do you want a sandwich?"

"There's no way you said that to her! Who are you and what have you done with the Doctora I know?" Despite his reprimand, the beautiful boy before you joined in the fits of giggles that had taken over you. Having deprived yourself of a decent meal for the last week due to work (they had finally handed over all of Antonio's medical notes and they were in shambles), you fixed yourself and Pablo the most impressive sandwich you had ever conjured in your adult life. After filling his arms with every possible accompaniment, he plopped himself beside you on the couch, crossing his legs so his knee rested against yours. Before he got comfortable, he jumped up, stating he had forgotten something.

"I got these for you." The jar he placed on the table was filled with green liquid, and as you leaned in closer to inspect the label, your eyes lit up.

"You... bought me a jar of pickles?"

"Yeah. Remember one time you said you liked them so I got these. They look like the same jar." That's when you let yourself burst into tears.

The hour following had been you and Pablo in various states: his arm around you as you cried into his shoulder about how shit the people in your life had been, then hunched over plates stuffing your faces and joking around, and finally the current one of eating pickles and chips and whatever else was on the table as you recounted your demonic phone call.

"I did but like I've wanted to say it to her for months now! You don't understand, Pablo, because you're friends with the amazing, caring, thoughtful being that is me." More giggles as he shoved a pillow into you, smile so bright it could light up the entire first floor. He was never afraid to be like this around you: silly and playful and just comfortable.

"La la Doctora, ladies shouldn't use such foul language." It was your turn to shove his shoulder, probably causing you more damage than him due to the rock-solid muscle.

"Thanks papa, appreciate the advice. But like seriously, she asked me to drive her to Madrid one weekend - as in like Madrid five hours away - to go to a specific store. You know what she bought there? Buttons. 10 hours of my life and a hell of a lot of gas so she could get buttons! And it's not like I expected anything in return-"

"No of course not. It's just when you do nice things for people and are kind to them, you want them to act the same. Treat others how you want to be treated." Pablo bit his tongue there, scared he would sound immature or stupid. You were several years his senior in age and education, and the last thing he wanted was for you to water-down your feelings because you thought he wouldn't understand.

"Right?! See, you get it! And I just, ugh, I feel kinda bad because like she didn't really do anything directly. Like yeah her show and stuff but there wasn't really a moment or like a fallout." You moved towards Pablo, leaning on his shoulder as the moment took a more serious turn.

"But that's the whole point isn't it? That she didn't do anything, she was just kind of there and reaping all the benefits of friendship with no effort. And-"

"Doctora, can I interrupt you for a minute?" You felt Pablo's shoulder dip slightly, and disappointed as you were, took the sign to lift your head.

"Sorry I didn't mean to take over your personal sp-"

"Ay shut up about my personal space. I'd handcuff you to me if I had the chance." He quickly looked away from you, processing his comment after he had said it. Nice one Gavito - real friendly. He moved some of the cushions to the end of the couch by the arm rest, kicking off the more decorative ones and leaning down. Honey eyes looked at you between thick lashes, and patted the narrow sliver of space beside him. Rolling his eyes at the confused raising of your brow, he verbalized his request.

"Come lay next to me while you rant."

Oh. Oh. Had he ever asked you outright to cuddle with him? The first time, you had been the instigator. You had taken that leap off the bridge - no, the cliff - and yet there he had been, warm and welcoming, catching you with grace. Ever since then, there had really been no words. Talking about his desires and feelings didn't come naturally to Pablo, and so he steered clear of them all together. It was always something unspoken: he would be at your apartment and just follow you down the hall when you declared it to be bedtime. Or when you had spent too much time at the Gavira house watching reruns of the same telenovela, and Gavi just switched the TV off and guided you up the stairs. No matter the location it was always the same. Him on the right side, you on the left, but both magnetically drawn to the center and one another. You slotted into his side, head on his heart, and stabilized by his embrace. Sometimes he wore a shirt - most times he didn't. He hugged you a little closer whenever you were in his clothing, trying to dispense his scent onto it anew and make sure you would think of him whenever there was a breeze. But there were never words. Only feelings and longing gazes and that same settled silence.

"You want me to?"

"Why would I ask if I didn't want you to? Last time you fell asleep on my shoulder you almost broke your neck. Now if you fall asleep you will only be semi-sore in the morning. I mean you don't have to if you-"

"No. I mean yes. I mean no I don't not want to do that."

"Is your Spanish getting worse or did that make no sense?"

You sighed in defeat, laying beside Pablo on the couch, sinking into the fabric and into him. One of his arms was acting as your pillow, and his hand made its way upwards to softly play with your hair, an instant soother. Body turning inwards toward him, your arms were up and palms gently pressed to his chest.

"Am I too close?" You asked, Pablo's previous comment about wanting to be physically attached to you seemed to have evaporated from your mind. His second arm fell around your waist, pulling you closer in. Your thigh was now pressed between his legs, and you both seemed to hold your breath for a moment. The alarms went off in his brain while his eyes held yours. He just stared at you. That's all he ever really wanted to do nowadays. He unfroze and shook his head before prompting you to continue your story.

"Oh, right - where was I?"

"She never put any effort into the relationship."

"Oh, right." You sat up to grab one of the blankets, draping the warmth on the tangled mess of limbs, and laying back down. It was not lost on you that Pablo, despite all the jokes, had listened intently to every word you had said. Nothing Pablo did, from the way he shifted his misaligned hips to his soft breathing to the way his fingers traced shapes in your side, was ever lost on you.

"So..." and on continued your rant for about an hour. It was a different kind of catharsis to speak about your pain and receive empathy in response. To be told that the feelings poisoning your spirit were ones that had been planted and could be weeded out. It was a relief that also brought about a tiredness, where once your emotions were freed, your eyelids grew substantially heavier. But the fingers remained soothing against your hair, twisting and smoothing the locks. He pushed a few stray pieces from your face, smiling at the sleepy state on your face.

"Excited for this last month of the season?" The short international break had allowed for the season to be neatly wrapped up by the first week of May, with the Champions League final and awards ceremonies following directly after.

"Mhm," you hummed back, eyes now fully closed and cheek pressed against Pablo's warm skin. "But it's not really a month for me. It's more like a week left of the season. Copa Del Rey in three days, then you score a screamer in the net at home to win La Liga three days later. Once the season is decided, I'm back at school for practical exams." The vibration in his chest reverberated throughout your entire being, and your semi-sleeping form nuzzled deeper into Pablo, which neither of you thought possible. Fingers tightened around the semi-exposed skin of your waist, and he felt a sensation akin to weilding fire at will. Knowing full well the flames could engulf him in a torturous inferno, but oh how beautiful to hold and let dance at the tips of his fingers.

"So we have two more matches with you?"

"Three if you choke again and let the other borderline relegation team score three goals." He tugged lightly at your hair as a reprimand, your smile spreading against his neck.

"I wasn't even on the field for the full 90 minutes last game. Don't worry, we're bringing home both trophies this week. And you're getting that screamer of a goal. Make sure to record it so I can gloat forever." A gentle nod and a hum, but the sleep was slowly seeping into your senses.

"So after that, what? What's next?"

"Well you already know that Xavi offered me a permanent position for when I graduate next year. So I'm at the club on automatic placement renewal. He he I was the first one in my class to get it."

"Of course you were, Doctora. You're the best there is." Warm cheeks yet again. Pablo must think you're a natural furnace, not realizing that his sticky sweet compliments were always triggering the "Heart Overheating" alarms in your mind.

"You think too highly of me. I'll see you when you come back for preseason medicals and training. They might let me run it this year. Oh, and at the Bondor. I'll be there, too."

"At the what?"

"The Bondor." You repeated, unaware of how much you were mumbling as you drifted in and out of consciousness.

"Slow down for me, Doctora. One word at a time. Where will I see you?"

"Ballon. D'or." You repeated for the third time as slowly as possible. It was too hard to stay awake now, and let yourself slip fully into the depth of relaxation, tangled in a web of warm Pablo, basking in this moment where you could just rest contently.

Pablo on the other hand was now on high alert. There had been a lot of commotion in the club when the nominations were announced. Pedri had pulled up the livestream on the projector, the entire squad waiting with baited breath for the categories of interest. There mutters all around about how the whole ceremony was a scam and had royally screwed over Robert, but who was going to turn down the honor? You had seen the stampede (led of course by Luca, who was always at the head of any effort to get out of doing his job) and followed quickly, afraid someone else had passed out. The players had been pushing themselves to stay miles above Madrid in the league, and it was taking a real toll. You looked up at the ceiling as you speed-walked, praying that everyone (especially Dembele) was okay. You would really like a calm week.

"Now, the nominees for the Kopa Trophy, awarded to the best player under 21 years of age..."

Ansu caught your eye as you entered and waived you over, instructing you to sit with him and the other young Barca boys. Gavi had been given a seat in the middle, the throne of the meeting room, as the murmurs circulated once again. You hadn't been aware that Pablo was a contender for this award - not surprised, but your schedule didn't allow you to keep on on Twitter as you once had. You wrung your fingers, heart hammering as the presenter spoke with that slow TV drawl that made everyone want to commit arson.

"Jude Bellingham, Jamal Musiala, Bukayo Saka, Eduardo Camavinga, Gavi-"

You were sure there were other nominees, but the shouts of joy and thunderous claps on Gavi's shoulders prevented any more information from entering your ears. The coaching staff and older players commended him on the achievement, and you had to wait until the room was essentially cleared to stick out your hand and offer a congratulatory message.

"Are we doing handshakes now?" He asked, eyes flitting between you and Pedri's gossip circle occupying the far corner.

"It feels more professional. This is a professional achievement after all."

""I haven't achieved anything yet." He said shaking your hand firmly and lingering much longer than was appropriate for the workplace (and 'friends').

"What are you talking about? You've been nominated! That's huge in itself given that a lot of your teammates also qualify for that award."

"Yeah but Pedri snatched it last year. They won't hand it over to the same club two years in a row."

"Doesn't Messi have like 27 Ballon D'ors in a row?"

"Please don't use Leo as an example. I am just a regular human being." As the two of you made your way into the hall, out of the line of sight of Pedri's tea spilling team, the laughter and teasing died down. You turned to Pablo, bringing one hand to rest on his arm, smoothing the fabric of his training jacket with your fingers as you looked up at him.

"You're a brilliant player, Pablo. One of the best this club has ever seen. You are incredible and have the brightest future ahead of you, and I just hope I get to be a part of it. That award it yours - I can feel it. But even if it isn't, don't sell yourself short. You amaze me every day."

This was the best news since his promotion to the first team. He had been pushing the Paris trip to the far recesses of his brain, a bout of nausea and anxiety striking him every time he conjured the thought of walking down that carpet or speaking on stage. But now you were going to be there. You would see him in the finest suit D&G would lend him, hair perfectly gelled down (he would need a trim). And he let himself ever so briefly entertain the fantasy of you watching him win. Of the announcer calling out his name, the crowd rising to their feet in deafening applause as he accepted the trophy from Pedri. He would look out into the crowd and see you there, sending a wink your way before thanking everyone who helped him achieve this, especially the medical staff. He drifted off to sleep replaying this scenario in his head, a trophy in one arm and the girl of his dreams in the other.

Pedri woke up with a minor headache in the morning, sunlight pouring through the large windows directly into his eyes. He would be buying Pablo some blackout curtains for Christmas. Descending from his place, he walked across it: a real sight to behold. You and Gavi were tangled together on the couch, legs an absolute mess with the blanket pooled around them. Your head was on his chest, face nuzzled upward into his neck. Your hands were fisting his shirt, as if afraid someone would rip him from your clutches. Pablo wasn't much better. He had his arms wrapped around you, one on the back of your head and one around your waist. He had managed to pull you on top of him in the night, his back flat on the sofa and your weight pooled on his chest and bringing him tranquility. His lips rested against your forehead, his face perfectly positioned with yours. He held you tight against him, and your unconscious form rose and fell with each of his deep and even breaths. Despite his best efforts, Pedri couldn't stop himself from snapping a picture of the moment. Thank God his ringer was always off. He did have enough self restraint to prevent him from sharing the photo with his group chat with Ansu, Ale, Eric, and surprisingly Robert (he just likes to be included). The name had changed numerous times in the last several months, and was now simply called "friendship" my ass for obvious reasons. He knew this would be a picture Pablo and you would look back on fondly when one was finally courageous enough to just let go. But until then, it sat safely in his hidden folder, and he tiptoed out the door, sparing one last look at the pair of you, sleeping more deeply than well-fed toddlers. The tension in Pablo's face was gone. Pedri hoped it would stay that way.

"And we are just minutes from kicking off what could be the league-winning match for Barcelona here in Spotify Camp Nou! Set to be an exciting game against Atletico Madrid, and the crowd is absolutely on fire."

"Just as well, Peter. I mean Barcelona have the ability to make this an incredible three trophy season right here today. They're coming off a massive win against Sevilla in the Copa Del Rey final, at home for what could be the league winner, and the performances we're going to see today are going to be full energy full power now that the Ballon D'Or nominee list has been announced."

"That's right we have Robert Lewandowski shortlisted for the titular award after two incredible seasons at Bayern Munich. We also have Pedri potentially passing the 'Golden Boy' torch onto his fellow midfielder Gavi, who has had an absolutely stellar season."

"Who can forget about that performance in the Supercopa, Peter. Three goal contributions in a Classico no less, the likes of which we haven't seen since Leo Messi stepped up to the plate, and we all know how that played out. He's really been putting in amazing performances week after week, and the most surprising thing is the level of health Barca have been able to maintain. For a team riddled with injuries all of last season, it is a miracle turnaround. Kick off right here after the break."

The tunnel was always busy right before kick off, but today it was quadruple-fold. You weren't sure if Barca was just extra confident in a victory today, but the media passes had tripled, and everyone was eager to get candids of the young blaugrana boys. You were pushing through people's shoulders, 'excuse-me' shifting very quickly into 'get out of the way' as you made your way to the players line up to adjust resistance tape and back braces. You were in the official physio uniform today, Nike jacket hugging your skin and tucked neatly into your trousers. The entire staff had been gifted with a new pair of cleats with the date on one side and a number of their choice on the other.

"I'm assuming 6 for you?" You had been caught off guard by the assumption from the brand rep.

"Why would you assume that? Have other players been telling you things about me?" You must have looked genuinely afraid and shocked, as the rep raised his hands in innocence, face going pale.

"No no no. I have absolutely no idea who you are. You have a 6 on your hoodie, so I thought you would want something to match."

It was discreet, a small black number on the back of your heel, and yet it was the only thing that Gavi could see as you worked to adjust Frenkie's shoulder. Did all of you have numbers? Were they in order, yours just happening to fall in the 6th position? Were there even 6 people on the physio team? His eyes stayed on your shoes until they were in front of his. He looked up to meet you raised brow.

"Why are you staring? Your shoes are nicer than mine."

Turning around, he let you test his hip alignment as he allowed himself to speak away the nerves buzzing throughout his system.

"Think we're going to win?"

"I always think you're going to win. I'm just waiting for that incredible goal you promised last week."

"What, the three goal contributions in the Supercopa weren't enough for you? You have high standards, Doctora."

"Of course. That was back in January. It's April now, Pablo. I want you to make my last game good." As you released him from your grip, he turned to face you, putting both hands on your shoulders. A few players turned their heads, but only for a cursory glance.

"If I score today, you let me pick you up as a celebration."

"Are you allowed to do that?"

"Who's going to stop me?"

"One of your fangirls might dive onto the field and tackle me."

"I have faith in you, Doctora. You seem like a fast runner."

"Always nice to have your unwavering support. Deal. Better be a good goal."

"A screamer."

You moved onto Pedri, who was next in the numerical line up, and his eyebrows did all the talking for him. You muttered a quick 'good luck' before continuing your duties in the remaining minutes before they walked out for the match.

"What a friendly little deal you've made, hermano." He leaned over and said, but the players began walking before Pablo could respond. Post -anthem, you took your place on the sidelines, jittery from the electric energy ricocheting around the stadium. No Joao for Gavi to shove around, but Griezmann was going to be a problem. The first half was rough and fast-paced, but remained scoreless. As the players came off for half time, you were instructed to help out the ones with high muscle tension. Passing Pablo, you placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke into his ear, quick and soft: "Looks like I'm staying seated all game."

Pablo turned just in time to watch you scamper off, a smirk on his lips. Pablo loved a challenge, and it was all the better to have it come from you. He had a couple opportunities during the first half, but he was scared of getting fouled too early on. Now was the time were he was able to push, with the anxiety from the beginning of the game shaken off. He tuned back into Xavi's pep talk and instructions for the second half, lips still upturned.

The media was always puffing up players, but it was true that Pedri was a magician with the ball. There was something captivating about the way he calmly danced between players, maneuvering skillfully. A pass to Araujo, then back to him. The roar of the crowd was dulled by the thrum of your heart and the snapping as you bit at your nails in anticipation. The boys had been pressing hard, and a score seemed eminent. Pedri lifted his head, looking for his striker. Lewa was locked up on the right. It seemed the moment to move back, alleviate the press and recalculate. But then a flash of blue and red streaked across his vision and his foot reacted faster than his brain. Minute 85, a scoreless game, and a ball crossed high and fast towards the menace that was Gavi. His foot connected in the far left corner of the box and there it went, screaming past the goalie's fingertips before nestling in the top corner of the net.

An explosion. You were the slowest person to react, slack jawed as the other physios shoved and shook you in celebration. Hands coming to his chest, he gripped the crest like it was a crown jewel, looking right as you as he brought it to his lips, kissing it with a force and passion that had flowed in him since he was 11 years old. He ran towards you, teammates following swiftly, and suddenly there were arms around your thighs as he lifted you. He bounced you in the air as his teammates clapped him on the shoulders, congratulating him and showering him with the well-deserved praise. You looked down, hands rested on Pablo's shoulders. His gaze was locked with yours. you wanted to tease him or commend him but there were no words. He released you, pointing at ou before taking his position.

They lifted the trophy shortly after, the players looking like children as they danced and sang in a circle. The players all took their turns squeezing the living daylights out of you.

"Doctora!" It was Dembele who called out to you, waving you over. Under the watchful eyes of his coaches, Gavi was more careful not to get too close to you (even though he had just Lion-King lifted you during the game).

"Come take a picture with all your patients and their trophy!" The request was made with laughs all around as you stood behind the trophy, Ousmane on one arm and Pedri on the other. Balde and Ansu got into the photo as well, arms all around each other.

"Gavi! Get in here! You're the one with the most clinic hours." Ousmane called out to him as well. He blushed as he walked (waddled) over, stopping to pick up the trophy and dropping it into your hands.

"This is your achievement too, Doctora. You should be proud." Pedri shoved him in beside you, claiming it helped 'balance the photo'. The flash went off twice. Once with Pablo paying attention to the camera, smiling brightly having just won MOTM in their league decider. The second was almost identical, but his head was turned to you. The smile was softer, the eyes kinder. He looked at you like the ultimate prize. As he said his goodbyes to you, promising not to miss you too much in the month you would be seperated, he realized one thing: he was going to need more frames.

@gaviraconcubine: ok i thot it was stupid but maybe gavi is actually w his physio???? just look at them

1,272 Likes 677 Retweets 385 Replies

@blaugranaboy: if you FEMALES knew anything, you would know barca has had shit physios and is always getting injured. since she came on staff they staying healthy. i would pick her ass up to

@barbiebalde: @blaugranaboy *too. Sexist AND bad english? pick a struggle

@88rizzing: ok but theres also pics of her out with pedri at a prada store so idk anymore???????

@gavitaylorsversion: her instagram is private :( can someone drop clearer pictures of her

You had been through some difficult situations in the last ten months, but these practical exams were the biggest challenge you had faced in your existence. 8am to 8pm lectures for two weeks, followed by a week straight of performing concussion protocols, lifting stiff boards, and demonstrating a whopping 6 different types of sutures had finally come to an end. It was May 5th, the final day of your exams, and three days before your flight to Paris for the ceremony. Your phone had been discarded for practically the entirety of the month, logged out of all social media and having your focus set to only let through emergency calls (and, of course, texts from Pablo). They had been less frequent given his understanding of your schedule.

[Pablito]: i know you have stitches today. Good luck <3

[Pablito]: Kounde asked about you today. He hasn't realized you've been missing the last two weeks. He really isn't on this planet

[Pablito]: the finale of our show came on last night. I recorded it so we can watch it together after your exams.

And now the most recent one had come through:

[Pablito]: Congrats on surviving the epic battle of your practical exams. I sent you dinner. Have a great night!

The doorbell rang in some scary accurate timing, and you graciously accepted the package from the delivery driver. Sitting on your couch to watch any comedic show that would help you decompress. The bag was huge, and seemingly filled to the brim with containers. Pasta, pizza, two types of bread, fried chicken, and three slices of cake (chocolate, cheesecake, and tres leches). There was also a bottle of sugar-free soda, for balance apparently. As you picked up your phone to ask Pablo if you were meant to feed the whole building, another text popped up on your screen.

[Santa Naranja]: Hi! I'm not sure if you remember me, but I'm the stylist who worked with Pedro for his Prada shoot? I got this number from him. You should yell at him for giving out your number so easily.

[Santa Naranja]: Anyways, I just got the list for the Ballon D'Or ceremony and I saw your name on there. How exciting! My company is styling Barca for the event, and I wanted to reach out personally to see what you would be interested in wearing.

[Santa Naranja]: Because I'm assuming you don't want to be in a suit? But I could be wrong.

You replied instantly, telling her how grateful you were for contacting you. You had been planning on wearing one of your old wedding-guest dresses, not having the time to go pick up something else. The two of you arranged to meet tomorrow at her studio, and you went back to your original mission: snapping a picture and sending it to Gavi.

He opened the message instantly, feeling all warm and fuzzy staring at the food spread on your lap and his old shirt hanging off your shoulders. You hair was up, face bare, and he wanted to reach through the phone and kiss you on the forehead.

[Doctora]: thanks for the food, pablito <3 see u in paris

"Ouch!" He yelled out, taken out of his daydream by a needle shoved into his wrist. "Pedri! Tell your friend to be gentle."

"First of all, we're not friends-"

"We're not?" Pedri asked the stylist, the smoke practically rising from her ears. She glared at him, looking extra menacing with the pins between her teeth.

"No. We're not. You're only allowed to be here if you're silent, remember? And second of all we are tailoring your suit sleeves. You're going to get stabbed if you keep moving your arms! Now hold still. She's still going to be there in 15 minutes for you to gush over."

"How did you know who I was talking to?" Pablo asked, genuine shock and curiosity across his features.

"Oh please, for the love of God, don't tell me you think you're being subtle?!"

"Hi! Come in come in! I didn't even realize it was raining."

Santa Naranja was, as you had recently discovered, not just Pedri's stylist. She wasn't even a Prada stylist. She was now a senior assistant stylist for Style Di Fortuna, a global firm that worked to style celebrities for different events. Since Herno and D&G started dressing the club, management had received official notice regarding their event attire.

"You should have seen the letter they sent. It was like a scolding from the school principal. 'Players must be formally and professionally styled during all official events as to avoid conflict in brand image and the tarnishing of the brand's respectability. Can you imagine dressing so poorly that you could ruin the reputation of an entire brand? Although I shouldn't expect any less. Pedro's jorts could bring about doomsday."

It was the other girls in the office that had given her the nickname 'Santa' for her saint-like patience in dealing with Pedri for... reasons. She was a completely different person when his cheshire cat smile and bushy brows were not in the room. She was calm and fun and humorous. She scurried around the workshop, pouring you a cup of cinnamon tea loaded with sugar, before running back into a warehouse closet and throwing about twenty garment bags over her arms.

"Did you have anything in mind for your look? I know that the club must have given you some basic guidelines, but what about your personal style?"

"Oh yeah, they came with the invitation. Long skirt, no slit, no trains, no plunging necklines, no open backs, no beading or gems, no appliques, and no bright colors."

The poor stylist stopped in her tracks, returning virtually every dress she had in her hands.

"Okay, let's go to the nun section of the closet. What colors would you like? Keep them boring and muted." You giggled at the remark, rattling off a list of colors. She either hummed in agreement or gave a slight pause, allowing you time to retract the wrong choice. Green, red, and white were all off the table, seeing as the wags had already claimed them.

"What's Gavi's favorite color?" She teased, shoving a garment bag at you and ushering you behind the separator to change.

"Haha, very funny. I'm not going as his date."

"You can add the 'unfortunately' to the end of that. I won't judge you."

"Sure. It's unfortunate I'm not Pablo's date in the same way it's unfortunate that you're not Pedri's."

"Please don't speak such wicked thoughts about me and Pedro into the universe."

After cycling through about 15 dresses, the weight of the event and the pressure of traveling in two days was beginning to weigh on you, a tightness settling into your chest and disrupting your breathing.

"I'm going to look so stupid at this event. Nothing looks good." You huffed as you resisted the urge to face plant into the million euro pile of fabric on the floor. Your companion huffed as well, racking her brain for any guidance on how to dress you without making you look like a churchly sister or a plastic bag.

"Okay. Do you know anything about fashion?" She asked. Her tone was soft and delicate, like a kindergarten teacher asking a poor 6-year old if they knew how to tie their shoes.

"I try and keep up."

"If you could pick any look from the last like 10 years on the runway that you would wear to this event, what would it be?"

"I can't afford-"

"Not telling you to buy it. Just imagine. If you could wish a dress into your hands right now, what would it be?"

You sat and thought for a moment. It had been a long time since you separated yourself from the imposed masculine nature of your job. Your hair stayed up, your nails stayed short, your face always painted naturally (you had gotten dress-coded for winged eyeliner once). It had been years if not a complete decade since you allowed your thoughts to be pink and flowery. You had put girlhood on pause, allowed it to hibernate for the harsh winter war of professional success. But now it was spring, and the blossoms emerged once again. You weren't a physio going for a meeting. You were a princess preparing for her magical night in Paris, your fairy standing before you. This was one of those moments where you just had to take a pause. You had worked to hard to make it here. Now that you were here, enjoy it.

"Well, Viktor and Rolf had the most gorgeous tulle dresses ad fashion week. They were all strapless and tight at the top, and they had these beautiful full skirts and velvet ribbons. If I was a wag or a footballer accepting my own award, I would wear that." You said, still allowing the rose color of your imagination to tint your reality. You entertained the thought briefly that this is the first time Pablo would see you properly dolled up, and it made you want to squeal and kick your feet like a girl waiting for prom.

"Oh my God you're so smart!" She yelled, running back into the dark passage of the closet. She returned a moment later with a black fabric bag, gold filigree embossed onto the material. She hung and began to unzip, unveiling the most beautiful dress you had ever seen in your life. It was a pale nude, almost the color of beach sand, with a fitted corset top that came down to the top of the hip bone. It then flares slightly into a layered tulle skirt, the color solid except for one band of pale blue that wrapped around the skirt, the waist accentuated with a velvet bow in the same dusty blue. You reached out one shaking hand to smooth down the fabric, almost afraid it would disintegrate in your touch. (dress inspo for those interested)

"Bouguessa just sent us this. It's more subtle than the Viktor and Rolf ones, it goes with gold and silver jewelry, won't draw too much attention, and follows that ridiculous novel of rules." She said, hands on her hips behind you.

"I can't wear this." You said, trembling at the very thought of spilling a drop of... well anything really on this dress.

"You can and you will. We had it shorted for some actress wearing it in Cannes later this month, so wear nice shoes. Nothing too tall though - Pablo is 5'7 after all." You turned to her, and the face she had expected to smile back at her held eyes welling with tears. You pulled her against you, too fast for her to process, and let the tears stream down your cheeks.

"I have never had anyone be so kind to me. I can't thank you enough."

"I'm just letting you borrow a dress," she said, arms wrapping around you as well. "Do you not have friends?"

"Let's not open that can of worms."

"Hi, Dr. Gonzalez. You wanted to see me?" Your head peaked in ever so slightly to catch his hand waving you over. Despite knowing on a deep psychological level that he respected you as a professional, he still scared the bejeezus out of you.

"Yes. I forgot to give you your passes for tonight's flight. You'll be able to use this to get directly into the lounge and then on the jet we have chartered this evening."

"The... what?"

"How were planning on getting to Paris exactly, Miss y/n?" He took off his small glasses, a gesture to emphasize how stupid you were being at the present.

"I was going to take the train in tomorrow?" You responded extremely unsure of yourself.

"Take the train in the morning of the ceremony? Oh this generation. No foresight. You'll meet the team in the lounge at exactly 8pm this evening."

"So what I'm hearing is... I'm going on the private jet with Xavi and the squad?"

"Yes."

"And my accomodation..?"

"You will have a room in the hotel on the same floor as the rest of the team. Any other logistical questions? Do I need to explain what the Ballon D'Or is?"

"No, no, of course not. Thank you so much Dr. Gonzalez. I'll be sure to represent Barca well as an organization that loves women!" You got up hastily from your chair, exiting the office with Dr. Gonzalez yelling behind you.

"We didn't send you because you're a woman! Don't say that to any reporters!"

The Barcelona airport was, in your opinion, nothing special. That was until the woman at the check-in desk saw your badge and personally guided you past security and into a private Air France lounge. The room was decked out in plush sofas and chaise lounges, soft spa music bouncing between the walls. Enough food to feed the entire terminal had been laid out on stone and marble platters, and three girls in matching dark blue uniforms strolled around the room, waiting to be flagged down for assistance. This was nice. Maybe gold digging was really the best choice. It's a miracle that not everyone on the quad had Ferran-sized heads if this was the treatment they were used to.

"Ay look who finally made it." The voice greeting you belonged to Xavi, who was the first to stand up and embrace you. You greeted the rest of the group and introduced yourself to both Xavi and Robert's wives, thinking it more appropriate to sit with the other women on the trip. You chatted with them until it was time to board, at which point you could no longer exercise self control. You walked up to Pablo, tapping him on the shoulder.

He couldn't suppress his smile when he saw you, and Anna whispered to her husband how you had not introduced yourself as Gavi's girlfriend.

"Well, they're not together. She's a physio at the club."

"He looks at her like he's in love."

"Yeah. Everyone has noticed except the two of them."

Fighting the urge to stuff you into his hoodie so you could never disappear for a month again, Pablo opted to instead put one arm around you, embracing you in a tight side hug. You two walked onto the plane together, effectively abandoning Pedri, while catching up on everything that had gone on since your last meeting. He sat beside you on one of the couches, spinning around to lay with his legs on top of you, which were swiftly pushed off. The two of you now sat side by side, eating from a bag of sour gummies.

"I missed you." He said softly as you watched Barcelona grow smaller and smaller beneath you. You turned back to him resting your head on his shoulder. "I missed you too. A lot more than I thought I would." There was no more talk after that. No mention of feelings or trophies or anything really. Just sour bears and that telenovela finale he promised to watch with you.

The clock in the hotel lobby read 11:44pm as you fought with Pablo to try and carry your own bag in. Well, fought is a vague term - you tugged on his bicep while he dragged you and your suitcase inside.

"We're only here for two days - what on Earth could you have brought?" He asked, letting out an exaggerated huff as he set it down on its wheels.

"Makeup is heavy, my dress is heavy, my shoes are heavy - society's beauty standards are just weighing me down at every turn." He smiled back at you, your fingers itching to pinch his cheeks and kiss him on the tip of his nose and tell him that he had a smile that could bring cities to their knees.

"Pedri! Gavi!"

You turned around to the source of the voice, watching Pedri embrace a very tall and very familiar Spaniard. As he made his way over to Gavi, he gave you a once over that indicated his brain was still trying to figure out who you were. As his hand connected with Gavi's, it was like the electricity had switched back on.

"Oh, hey! You came and interviewed at Chelsea. Convince her to stay then, hermanito?" he clapped Gavi on the back of the neck.

"No, I didn't have to say anything. She spent an afternoon with you guys and came running back to the better club." You smiled shyly, feeling a little awkward at your once potential club interacting with the one you had chosen to stay at. You stepped to the side, noticing Perdi deep in conversation with someone else. Tan, tall, and beautiful, he turned to you, smiling wide and approaching.

"Ah hello again." You were in a hug before you knew it. You reciprocated, wishing one of the boys would take a photo so you could send it to ever girl in your high school.

"Joao! Great to see you again. How have you been?" He pulled away, hands still on your upper arms as he ranted to you about his difficult second half of the season had been. Pablo sat back, loosely listening to the exchange between Pedri and Kepa, with most of his energy focused on seething at the sight in front of him. Joao had talked to you for what? An hour? Why did he feel so comfortable touching you like this? His tongue found purchase in his cheek, his arms crossed over his chest. Xavi tapped him on the shoulder to hand him the key cards for your three, giving him a perfect excuse to break up your conversation.

"Here you go, Doctora. This one's yours. Doing well Joao?" There was an obvious hint of animosity in his voice that was evident to the both of you. Nevertheless, Joao released you to shake Gavi's hand.

"I saw you on TV the other day getting picked up by this one. Twitter went crazy speculating about you two dating. You guys.. aren't dating, right?" Joao directed the question to you, now fully turned away from Gavi, whose body temperature had exceeded 100 degrees.

"No, no. We're..." your eyes flashes to him, "just friends".

"I guess anyone would be grateful to have someone like you caring for their wellbeing. A shame that you didn't come over to us for this season. But I may get the privilege if I can get Xavi to place a bid on me." Pablo let out a laugh that was too loud and enthusiastic to be polite. If Joao had been offended, he didn't let it on.

"Oh, Mason is here, too! We're going out with him and his friend Jude for drinks here at the hotel bar. You should come with us! You can come too, Gavi- oh wait, are you even old enough to drink?" The question was punctuated with a smirk, an obvious rebuttal to Gavi's humor at him joining the club.

"I'm flattered but I need to get some rest for tom- wait Jude as in Bellingham?" You asked, eyes wide.

"Of course. Know any other Jude's being nominated?" You heard Gavi breathing loud and heavy beside you, taking this as your cue to call it a night. Before you left, Joao grabbed your wrist, taking a look at your card.

"Floor three. Same as us. Maybe we'll see you around." He hugged you once more as a good night, then headed over to Mason, who waved at the group of you with Jude beside him. You made your way to the elevator with Gavi and felt embarrassed. You hadn't even done anything but be polite, but in some way you felt like you had committed a sin in talking so freely with Joao. Engrossed in thought, your face met Gavi's back as he suddenly stopped in front of a door.

"This is my room. I'll see you tomorrow." You stopped him in his tracks, one hand preventing him from crossing the threshold.

"Are you mad at me?" You asked, voice soft and even, trying to disguise the hurt.

"I- no, of course not, Doctora. Just nervous. Didn't think I'd be seeing my competition tonight." You pulled him into a hug, hands around his waist and your head on his chest with his above it. He let out a shaky breath, and all his fears with them. Joao had invited you out and yet you were still here, in his arms and in front of his door.

"Will I see you tomorrow? Before the 'big show'?" He asked, keeping you against his chest, just for a moment longer.

"Staff aren't allowed on the carpet so I'll see you inside the theater."

"Don't sit next to Joao tomorrow." He said with a slight pout, and you wanted to just pull him down and kiss him so hard he lost consciousness from the lack of air.

"I don't think they'll let me sit next to the players. Not important enough."

"You're going to be one of the most important people in that room. And just, don't sit next to him."

"I won't Pablo."

"Promise?" He said, sticking out his pinky. You rolled your eyes and wrapped your finger around his, bringing your conjoined hands upwards. You twisted them so that your thumb was facing him and vice versa. You leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to the skin of his hand. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed audibly.

"What are you.. what was that?"

"You have to kiss it to seal the promise."

He brought your entwined hands up to his lips, looking at you once more for any objection, before closing his eyes and kissing your knuckles.

"You have soft lips." You said looking between his lips and his hooded eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Well, I'm two rooms over. Good night, Pablo. Good luck."

He watched you walk down the hall and enter your room, only returning to his when the door clicked shut. He pressed his back to the wood, allowing it to cool the sweat pooling under his hoodie. He was so thankful that he wasn't sharing a room with Pedri, because the feeling of your lips on his skin, soft and plump, had made him so incredibly hard.

"We are here live from the red carpet of the annual Ballon D'or ceremony, and the stars of the football world have come out in full force. On the carpet now Xavi Hernandez and his wife Núria, as well as Ballon D'Or contender Robert Lewandowski and his wife, champion in her own right, Anna. These are the veterans of football, and they should be shortly accompanied by the young trailblazers leading the New Era of Barcelona football."

It was three minutes until Gavi was supposed to step onto the carpet, and he was panicking. His breathing was shallow, his collar felt like it was suffocating him, and he was sweating bullets under his suit.

"Pedri, I can't do this." He said, genuine fear swimming in his eyes as he looked to his friend for comfort.

"Yes you can, hermano. All you have to do is walk and smile. Maybe answer some questions. You can absolutely do all of those things."

"What if I make an ass of myself?" He said, hiding behind Pedri as their handler signalled 30 seconds until they walked.

"You are here being told you are one of the best under 21 players in the world, and then you get to walk into the theater and see the best person in the world."

"I do really want to see her in a dress."

"I was talking about Leo Messi." Pedri deadpanned, and Gavi was shoved on the carpet genuinely laughing, a million bulbs flashing to capture his joy. He was here. He was 18 years old and on his way to shake hands with greatness. He was walking the carpet with his best friend in the world in a five thousand euro suit. He thought to his younger self, eleven years old and hiding behind his mother on his first day at La Masia. All the dreams he had were now the blueprint for his reality. Barca first team player? Check. Goal scorer? Check. Trophy winner? Check. Beautiful girl to share every euphoric moment with? Pending.

He took a few steps forward, waiting for Pedri to be photographed before he walked down to the end of the carpet, taking a group photo and heading to the microphones.

"Gavi! You look wonderful this evening. Are you excited for your first ceremony?"

"Oh, yeah, of course. It's something that I always dreamed about and now that my dream is a reality, I am just trying to enjoy every moment."

"Well you have had an absolutely stellar season playing with the reigning Kopa winner here, Pedri. Is it something you're thankful for, to play with him and to play with Barca?"

He looked over at Pedri, whose eyebrows were wiggling causing his serious demeanor to break.

"I'm absolutely so pleased to work with this guy here. He's just incredible on the field and we work well together. Barca is my lifelong club, and I am grateful to play there, to have them take care of me and keep me healthy." The reporter gave a thumbs up, and the boy stepped to the side to allow Pedri to finish his interview, wanted to have company as he entered the theater.

"Taking care of you and keeping you healthy, hm? Why didn't you just say her full name?"

The theater was glorious, all gold ornaments and plush red velvet, giving it a timeless and glamorous look. He craned his neck, looking around for those familiar eyes and inviting smile that had made his life so much worse and simultaneously so much better.

"Pablo." The voice came from behind him, and when he turned around, the world moved in slow motion. Your dress, pale nude and powder blue, made you look like a Greek deity. You could give the entire Spanish royal family a run for their money with the way the bodice seemed to mold against you, flaring out into a beautiful cascade of material. It ended at the bottom of your ankles, your feet hugged by blue heels, an anklet handing off that Gavi couldn't quite make out. Your jewelry glinted in the lights, the necklaces sitting between your collar bones drawing in the eye to the expanse of your chest and neck, and he had to try so, so hard to tear his eyes from this. He focused on all these details because looking at your face made him go slack-jawed.

Your hair was cascading freely, front pieces twirled away to show off the beauty of your feature. Your makeup was simple - glowing skin with rosy cheeks, black liner framing and highlighting your eyes, and glossy pink lips. Pablo knew nothing about makeup, but he knew for certain that if he got his hands on you, he would destroy whatever you had painted on your lips to make them shine. You batted your long lashes, and smiled shyly as Pedri let out a low whistle.

"Wow, who knew you were hiding all of this? Were you looking for husband tonight? This is the way to get it." He offered a hand, spinning you around so he (or rather Gavi) could get a full look, the blue bow in your hair flowing beautifully.

"You're too sweet, Pedri. I just didn't want to embarrass the club."

"Embarrass?!" They both exclaimed loudly, catching the attention of a few bystanders.

"You're on track to upstage us. They pay you enough to afford Prada?" Pedri asked again, pointing to your shoes.

"Your mortal enemy lent them to me."

A friend of Pedri's came up to whisk him away to another group, leaving you standing with Pablo.

"So, what do you think, Pablo? Too much?" You were nervous, resisting the urge to clench your dress in your fists and scurry off. You smoothed your clammy palms down the fabric as well.

"Doctora, you know I'm not super smart like you. I don't even know the words I want to tell you right now. So I'll use one I know: you look breathtaking." He practically whispered out the last word, causing your head to snap up, eyes meeting. "I think you might be the prettiest girl in the room right now." He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, swallowing back his nerves and pride. You were absolutely stunning, and no friendship or professionalism would stop him from letting you know.

"Thank you, Pablo. You have no idea how much that means coming from you." You moved forward, adjusting his bowtie as an usher came to guide him to his seat. You moved to the back with other team staff members, waving to him as he walked off. You were independent and a girlboss and all that, but it felt good to have him think you were pretty.

"And the winner is... Gavi."

The crowd erupted in cheers, the clapping so loud it was deafening. Pedri smiled from ear to ear, watching as his friend came up to the stage to take his place as Europe's shining star, their Golden Boy. Gavi had been frozen in his seat for a second before Robert pushed him up, clapping him on the back and congradulating him. As he placed his hands around the trophy, his peripheral vision registered the people moving from their seats, standing and clapping for his success. Pedri was smug in his congratulations, reminding Pablo he never had a doubt he would be handing off this trophy to him. And as Pablo took his place at the podium, the gold statue adorning his side, he saw you. In the third to last row of the theater, you stood, by yourself in a row full of staff, clapping excitedly for his achievement. Your smile was bright, teeth on full display to convey the level of genuine joy you felt in that moment. You almost looked happier than Gavi himself. And as the applause died down and people retook their seats, he watched you sit back down, hands crossed over your chest in pride and admiration. He looked straight at you, a point of comfort in the large crowd, and only then did he allow the unbridled joy of being the very best to fill him.

"Thank you. I am so proud to have achieved this, to have won such a prestigious award in my first full season with Barca's first team. Thank you to my family for standing by me in the good times and the bad, and for believing in me. Thank you to the club, who gave me every opportunity to play and show my skill this season. A huge thanks to my coach and teammates for helping me succeed. And finally, I want to recognize and thank the Barca staff, especially the physio team, for all their hard work this season. I wouldn't be here without their dedication. Once again, thank you very much for the honor. Visca Barca."

All he wanted was to run off the stage into your arms, to ignore the questions about his season and his success, but there would be time later. You, on the other hand, were trying to recover from the shell shock of Pablo recognizing you specifically during his acceptance speech. Your phone buzzed in your lap at a mile a minute, text messages flooding in from friends and family telling you they had watched Gavi's praise of you on TV. You sat in that same shocked state until the ceremony ended.

Why on Earth did so many people want to talk to Gavi? Sure, he had just won one of the most important awards in football, but they had already played his highlight reel. What else could they want to know that wasn't on YouTube? He still smiled politely, congratulating Luka and Robert on their awards before he was able to catch a spare moment alone at a far table, Pedri pulling up to his side shortly after, also fatigued from small talk. His trophy was in hand, a little less shiny now that every person who greeted him had asked to hold it, the luster dulled by grease and fingerprints. The two stood in a comfortable silence, exchanging remarks about the room or the guests at the function every once in a while.

"Pablo! There you are!"

He looked up at the sound of your voice, but not nearly fast enough as you came barreling into him, arms thrown around his neck and embracing him so tight he thought he might pass out (not that he was complaining).

"I'm so, so proud of you." You whispered in his ear, squeezing a little tighter before releasing him, smoothing the soft material of his blazer to release the wrinkles you caused with your attack.

"I'm so glad all your hard work had amounted to this, and I hope I'm around to see how amazing you'll be in the future." You said, emotion making your voice crack slightly. There was something about Pablo that convinced you, deep in your soul, that you were two halves meant to come together. He was young, passionate, ambitious - a reflection of yourself. And to watch him succeed? To see him soar to heights previously thought impossible? It was something you wouldn't trade for the world.

Gavi's heartstrings were so tight they were ready to snap. He had prayed to hear so many different things from you, but never realized that this recognition, this pride expressed so freely, would be the most meaningful. This was it. This was the moment. Suit on, trophy in hand, this was the moment to express how much needed you in his life in a different way. How much he needed to keep making you proud.

"Y/N! There you are."

Joao's built arm was wrapped around you, smelling slightly of whiskey and Dior Fahrenheit. The anger vein in Gavi's forehead began to make a reappearance.

"Mason had to see you and introduce you to some of the boys." Mason greeted you as well, and called over his 'friend Jude' to be introduced. Jude Bellingham was an absolute sculpture, holding a glass of God knows what in such an effortless manner, his tie also abandoned in favor of leaving his first two buttons popped.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Jude. I've heard about you from this one - thinks you're a medical Godsend." He ended with a wink. Pedri could feel the heat radiating from Gavi's side, and apparently so could Jude, who looked up and offered a wave.

"Congrats, mate. Brilliant speech." He said, raising a glass to help bridge the language barrier. You turned your head, quickly translating the sentiment.

"Oh, you're with them? The super special physio that's gotten praised in his speech? I should've known I was in the presence of greatness." You laughed politely, tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear.

"I'm really nothing special."

"Oh, well, that can't be true. I'll see for myself when I'm in SPain next year." A wink. Pedri grasped Pablo's arm to prevent blows. "Come with me, I want to introduce you to some of the boys and the staff from City."

You quickly turned around, finding Gavi and Pedri whispering to one another.

"Pablo! He wants to introduce me to some people. I'll come find you!"

Thirty minutes later, Pablo was at a table with his trophy and a scowl, moping on what should be a happy night. After his second turn around the room, Pedri joined him, hoping to alleviate the burden.

"Hermano, are you-"

"Why would she just go with him? Like, I understand not being able to turn someone away when they're in your face, but to go with him?! Why would she do that?" He asked, sounding more and more small and child-like as he continued.

"She was just networking, hermano. Trying to meet people and make connections."

"Connections. Look what her connections have got her. Other guys coming up to her, trying to flirt in the most obvious ways possible. None of them know her like I do. None of them will ever - can ever - care about her in the way that I do. She needs to realize that no one will ever want to treat her right the way that I long to."

"Maybe you need to realize that it's not always the best guy that will get the girl, but the boldest one."

"What?"

"How many opportunities have you had, hm? To tell her you wanted her, to profess your love, to kiss her in her car or under street lamps or in front of the whole world? But you just stay sitting on the sidelines waiting for her to come to you. You know what's happening during that time? A Joao or a Jude or a Martin is taking the risk of telling her she's amazing, and she's going to accept. She's going to accept love that's less than yours because someone else was willing to give it to her, proudly and confidently. And you'll be sitting next to me, twenty years from now when we're both retired, talking about how the love of your life slipped between your fingers. She's here, right now, and you are still waiting. Either take the shot or let someone else shoot."

A fear shot through Pablo that he had never felt before. The idea of you, right now, falling in love with someone else made the bile rise in his throat. He couldn't do it again. He couldn't watch you be with a man who thought you were anything less than the entire universe. It was him. Pablo Gavi was the one meant to have you, to hold you, to protect you from every evil and show you every joy. You were his soulmate, and he would move heaven and earth for his lover who was written for him in the stars.

He stood, scurrying to where Jude and the others had congregated. "Sorry to interrupt, but have you seen y/n?" He asked, trying to keep his voice steady and free from the terror threatening to consume him. He couldn't see your form anywhere in the ballroom.

"Oh," Kepa was the one to reply as the official Spanish speaker, "she went up to her room a few minutes ago. I think Joao took her up."

Pablo nodded before speed walking towards the door, breaking into a full sprint towards the elevators. Please. Please no. Please not Joao. Please not anyone. The ding when the elevator reached the third floor made his blood ripple, and he speed walked to your door, muttering under his breath.

"Please don't be in love with someone else."

He reached the door of your room, paralyzed with fear. He didn't know what he was about to do, but he knew he would implode and self-destruct if he didn't do something.

He lifted his fist, took a breath, and knocked firmly on the door. A moment later, you opened the door, still in the perfect shape he saw you before, but now barefoot on the plush carpet of the hotel.

"Pablo?"

He peered over your shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of the room behind.

"Are you looking for something?"

"Please, tell me he's not in there."

"Who, Pablo?"

"Anyone. Please tell me that there is no one in there now waiting on you. Please tell me," he pleaded softly, moving toward you and placing his hands on your shoulder, moving one down to rest right above where your heart beat. "Please tell me there is no one else in here. I have never begged in my life, Doctora, but I'm here now to beg you: tell me who is the one you're reserving a place in your heart for. Because I know, more than I know anything else in this world, that my soul is yours. Everything I could possibly give, I am asking you to take it without a second thought. And I have pretended, for months now, that I don't need you like the very air I'm breathing. But the more I pretend, the more clear it becomes: I have never loved anything as strongly as I love you. It is overwhelming and all consuming the way every heartbeat and breath is just for you. So just tell me how long I will have to wait. Days, months, years - tell me how long it will be until I get to love you, wholly and completely. Until I get to love you as you deserve. Because there is no other choice. There is no moving on. Every angel in heaven knows that I would struggle in vain until my last dying breath trying to get over you."

There were no words. Hell, there was no air. There was only Pablo, breathless and shaking before you, his fragile heart in your hands. Your hands moved to cup his face, and the urge to cry didn't consume you. You pulled him in, lips finally connecting with his, and the electricity that jolted through you could have lit up all of Paris. His lips were slow to react, and as you pulled away he followed, reluctant to stop kissing you in fear he would never start again.

"You, Pablo. My heart is yours. I'm yours. I always have been."

This time it was Pablo who pulled you in, his arms around your waist lifting you into him. He basked in the plump flesh of your lips, the way it felt to hold you in his arms, a million times better than he could have imagined. It was as if your hearts were racing in sync, thumping the same beat that reverberated around the little bubble the two of you were in. You shifted hands from his face to his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. You had craved this, to be so close and connected with Pablo. The kiss was slow, passionate, the kiss to say 'I have waited for you for so long' and the one in return to say 'I'm here to stay'.

Pedri had gone upstairs to look for Pablo, scared he had committed manslaughter, and found the two of you there, kissing in the hallway, arms enveloping each other and lips locked in a soft and tender embrace. He placed Pablo's trophy (his whole reason for finding him on the ground, turning to leave before stopping and performing his duties as a friend: taking a picture. Maybe he should buy Gavi a whole pack of frames.

You finally pulled away, face flushed and lips pinkish and swollen from the liplock. You kept your arms around Pablo, turning your face to hide in his shoulder. You spotted the golden statue on the floor and smiled as you moved to pick it up, stopped by his strong and unfaltering embrace.

"Your award, Pablo."

"You're my real prize of this evening."

"Ugh how corny." You laughed, finally freeing yourself to go and pick it up. You carried it before turning from Pablo to unlock your room door, timidly standing in the entryway.

"Do... you want to come inside?" You asked, cradling his trophy in your arms.

"Do you want me to come inside?" He asked, heart threatening to break his sternum. He had never thought of going so far so fast.

"I mean if you don't want to-"

"No I want to, preciosa. God I want- but I don't want to make you feel like you have to."

"You're not. I want you Pablo. All of you." You opened the door wider, inviting him in. "Dale, campeon."

You left Pablo on the bed while you went to slip out of your dress. As much as you wanted Pablo (in an immediate fashion), you couldn't risk stains or rips on such an expensive lended piece. You re-emerged from the bathroom in a black night gown, a satin slip that came just past your fingertips. Pablo had made himself comfortable, stripping his jacket and shoes, abandoning the bowtie and unbuttoning the top of his shirt. You walked out slowly, standing in front of him shyly.

"What do you think?" You asked, giving a little spin. He reached out a hand, pulling you down to the bed and seating you on his lap.

"I lied before," he said softly. "You weren't 'maybe the prettiest girl tonight'. You're the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. In every room and on every night." His hands found your hips and his lips found yours, and the flames were fanned. He moved with a fervor you had never experienced, like he couldn't get enough of the feel of your lips or the taste of your tongue. He bit down softly on your bottom lip, desperate to illicit every pretty sound he could from you. He nibbled gently, pulling with his teeth and then soothing with his tongue before reuniting it with yours. He gripped the flesh of your hips, and your hands leg his lower, encouraging him to find stability on the flesh of your ass.

"You're perfect." He said breathlessly, moving to kiss and nibble at your neck. You shifted on his lap, desperate for any friction to help douse the flames between your legs. He shifted the two of you so that you were straddling one of his thighs, allowing you rock yourself back and forth as he continued worshipping and lapping at your skin.

"Pablo, it's so good." You whined as he moved down to kiss the exposed tops of your breasts. He looked up at you, asking for permission to remove your nightgown, which you gave with quick enthusiasm. He grabbed at the bottom hem, lifting it over your head in one fluid motion before stopping. He stared at you, moving across your bare chest and down to your nude lace thong.

"Oh this won't do." He muttered while gripping your waist and flipping your positions so that you were laying on the mattress with him above you.

"What?" You asked while your arms moved to cover your chest. He removed them swiftly, licking his lips and giving each breast a kiss, making your nipples harden.

"I need to have you spread out underneath me so I can take in every gorgeous inch of you." He said before he trailed his lips down your entire torso.

"Can't believe someone who looks like you is all mine. I've wanted you for so long." He finished his sentence with a searing kiss to your lips.

"Just wanted you to see how much someone could love you. And I would still love you, even if you want to stop right now and never do this again." He said, pulling back slightly before you threaded your fingers through his hair and brought his mouth to your chest.

"No, don't wanna stop. I want you. I need you Pablo please." You whine out, and hoped he knew that you meant it in every possible way. He allowed his tongue to drag across your nipples before sucking one into his mouth, playing with the other as he watched for your reactions. His cock was straining against his boxers and dress pants, and he rutted against the mattress for any sort of relief.

"Pablo it's too good."

"Always want to be good for you, Doctora. Wanna give you the best."

He moved his hands to the waistband of your panties, moving them down and watching the resistance, seeing how big the wet patch was and how your thighs clenched for some sort of pleasure.

"Open up, pretty girl."

"Pablo, want you. Want you please."

"I'm right here, baby. All yours."

You grabbed on of his hands sucking two of his fingers in his mouth while keeping your eyes locked, tongue circling and his cock now rubbing up on the flesh of your thigh.

"Want you inside me. Please, Pablo."

He rubbed his two wet fingers up and down your slit, teasing and just listening to the way you reacted. The cool air heightened everything, and you could do nothing but squirm in place.

"Love the way you say my name, preciosa. Let me take care of you." He slipped a finger inside, and you both moaned in sync. You at the feeling of finally having Pablo pleasing you, and him at the wetness he encountered. He quickly put in another, lips going back to yours as if they were addictive. He leaned back, slipping out of his trousers and boxers when you put a hand on his chest.

"Pablo. I..."

"We can stop if you want." He said, already making a move to get up and redress despite his cock leaking.

"No. I want this. I want you. I just... promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Please don't leave me after we have sex."

He looked at your hurting eyes and felt his chest squeeze. He cupped your face, kissing your forehead. "I could never leave you, Doctora." Another chaste kiss, this time to the tip of your nose. "You don't have to worry. I'll always be with you. I promise." He brought you in and kissed you, lips slotting together and tongues dancing together as if they had years of practice.

"Always have to seal the promise with a kiss." He said playfully, and you looked away in embarrassment. He spread your legs and found a space between them, tilting your head with a finger under your chin.

"Look at me baby. I want to see that pretty face when I make you feel good. Wanna see how hot you are when you cum all over me. Make the cutest little mess." He said, spitting in his hand slightly and rubbing the length of his cock. You sat up on your forearms, watching the erotic sight as Pablo ran his tip up and down your slit.

"Pablo," you whined.

He lined himself up, lifting you by the back of the neck to kiss you as he pushed in, the stretch causing you to bite his bottom lip harder than expected (he kind of liked it). He stayed for a minute on his forearms above you, hoping that time would allow you to adjust and prevent him from busting on stroke three. He placed his arms beside your head, leaning down and resting his forehead on yours.

"I love you." He said, picking up his pace as he did so. Your whine was high pitched and loud, fueling Pablo's ego tremendously.

"I love you more." You retorted, moving your hips to spur him to go faster. He pulled out of your slowly once again, then re-sheathed himself with force. He was moving slow and taking his sweet time, savoring every delicious second of the evening.

"Not possible, angel." And then pulled all the way out before slamming back in. Pablo was forceful, shifting your body with every thrust. He kissed your lips and neck, purple springs blooming from each spot he touched. You loved the feeling. You belonged to him, body and soul, and you wanted everybody to know.

"Please, Pablo. Faster. I'm begging." You breathed out, and he could do nothing but oblige.

"That's my pretty girl, taking it so well. Feeling so fucking good wrapped around me. So wet and sucking me in. Fuck. You're so good for me."

You had decided to suck on Pablo's neck to prevent you from moaning your heart out to all of Paris. A large hickey was developing just above his collarbone with not one care towards its ability to be covered. You were feeling that familiar buildup in your stomach, and brought a hand down to play with your clit that was quickly swatted away.

"Gonna cum, baby? Let me spoil you. Let me take care of you." He said as he pressed his thumb to your clit and started rubbing circles into the sensitive bud. There was no more suppressing your moans as they emerged full force. It was perfect. Pablo was perfect, telling you how much he wanted and loved you while looking after your pleasure.

"Please don't stop Pablo I'm so so fucking close."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He said, and seconds later, his name was the only thing on your lips as you came, gripping onto his back and trailing your nails down, his toned back the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. He finished a minute after you, rolling over in exhaustion. You expected him to turn onto his side and ignore you like every other man you had slept with. Instead, he got you both under the comforter, laying down and bringing you to lay on his chest.

"You're so incredible, do you know that?" He asked, kissing your forehead gently.

"You're one to talk." There's giggles and comfort despite the lack of clothes. When the high dies down, you turn to his tired form, which is still smiling at you.

"What are you so smiley for?" You asked.

"I'm with the best person in the world. How can I not smile when I'm with you?"

You laid back on his chest, guilt and paranoia seeping in, obvious by the tension building in your form.

"I love you, Doctora. I love you, I love you, I love you. You are worth more than sex. And I don't love you just because you're hot. You complete me, in every possible way."

"I love you more, Pablo."

"As the medical professional, you should know that's not possible."

He released you from his grip to get shirts and underwear for the two of you to sleep in, still not used to Pablo + you + nudity. You laid back down, cuddled into Pablo's chest as you had for months now, and drifted off into the most relaxing sleep. You were in love with a boy. And he was hopelessly, desperately in love with you. And there was nothing else in the world that mattered in this moment except for the way you tangled together to feel safe. Before he could drift off, Pablo heard the ding of his phone. A photo from Pedri of the two of you in the hall.

[Pedri]: congrats on all your wins today hermano

The flight back to Barcelona was nerve-racking for you. You were anxious as to how your boss and peers would perceive your new relationship with Pablo, which he established right away.

"No 'what are we' bullshit'. You're my girlfriend, and that's only because I didn't have a ring on me to make you my fiancee."

His hand was laced through yours the entire walk through the terminal, so proud to show you off to the world as his. As you two boarded the flight, it was Anna who finally asked if something had happened in Paris.

"I asked her to be my girl and she said yes."

There was a round of cheering from those on the plane, and after a swift whatsapp message from Pedri, there were hundreds of messages in the groupchat, from congrats to jokes to utter disbelief. Neither of you looked at any of it. Pablo was too busy counting the stars he saw in your eyes, studying every feature on your face, sneaking in a kiss whenever he could. And you listened to him ramble, intoxicated by the sound of his voice, the melody bringing you tranquility. He was your peace. He was your everything.

"Ah, so you two will be needing these." Xavi said, placing the 'Relationship Disclosure' form and two pens in front of the both of you. "Gavi, don't distract her from her work."

"Hey! Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"No. You're the distraction." You teased, earning Pablo's full attention and wrath.

"I can tell by the way you've been staring at me for two days."

"Oh Pablo, I've been staring at you much longer than that."

"I hope you never stop."

A/N: and there it is folks. Almost 8 months later, here is Just Pretend. There will be an epilogue to this at some point to show what happens with their relationship (and it will have better smut), but this is it for the main story. Please share any feedback you have in replies, reblogs, or in the ask box. Thank you so so much to everyone who has stuck by this story for so long. I love you all.

*~*Taglist*~*

@l0verl4ne @vibinwkay @anastasia-nova @mxgvmiii @mads-grace4 @bubblebeep69 @katluckybear @scuderiabarca @alwaysclassyeagle @simpingmyassoff @grlwithprblms @lqvesoph @pink-manz @graziemille @xxenia14 @nngkay @icedlattewithextracaramel @gyusrose @vip-access @julianalvarez9 @lavie3nrose @ge0rg1ewaa @i8yul @lovefordilfs271 @remuslupinluver @thattaylorswiftobsessedbitch @chaotic-taco-collector-blog @kaismybabe @notanenthucutlet @fullsun9890 @venomwh0re @renaissancewhxre @gaviandgrizisgirl @altgojo @urmomdotcom5678 @eliseline @invidia-of-alhambra @pixwls @stell4rrrs @80sloverry @car1no-xx @mrsgavira @888bear @kylianmbappee @ivyhrry @gaviypedrisbride @grlwithprblms @dessxoxsworld @user6373738 @sideeblogsstuff @halaxxx @berriesaren

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

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Try Not To Laugh Challenge (Pedri)

Summary: You and Pedri are co-workers who are paired up to do a video for the Barcelona Instagram account - the only thing is you’re dating and both bad at hiding the feelings.

Warning(s): none

A/N: Please send in any requests if you have any.

Word Count: [2035]

You stared at the email in disbelief. Just your luck.

You were currently being asked by your manager to meet him on the training grounds to film a video for Barcelona’s Instagram page with Pedri.

Big no.

Originally, Gavi was supposed to film the video with him but had to cancel last minute as the shoot he was doing with Nike was taking longer than anticipated.

Because of the short notice, the players had already been sent home, with only Pedri remaining after practice.

This led to you getting an email from your manager to step up and take the role as you were the team’s social media intern.

You didn’t want to turn him down, one because he was your boss and technically you weren’t even sure if you could without getting fired, but two also because you hadn’t seen Pedri all week and a small part of your brain, that was filled with all the mushy gushy feelings missed him.

Keep reading

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

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heyy, can u write one where gavi is obsessed by reader's smell?

Surprise (Gavi)

Summary: You and Gavi are in a long-distance relationship and you go to his game to surprise him, but he catches you.

Warning(s): None

Requested: Yes

A/N: Hey anon! Thank you so much for the request and thanks for being patient. Hopefully, I did the prompt justice! Not proofread.

Word Count: [1666]

You had reached out to Pedri a week ago asking him to help you surprise Gavi at the final La Liga game.

You were in university studying in America, and the two of you had been doing long distance since last summer. It was now early May and you had finished your exams just in time to be in Barcelona for the final game.

You had lied and told Gavi you wouldn’t be done for another week, before wishing him the best and making yourself scarce, telling him you were busy studying.

In the meantime, you had set up a plan to surprise him with Pedri and booked your tickets.

Once you landed in Barcelona, Pedri came to pick you up. You both smiled at each other warmly, telling each other about your lives since you’d been apart.

“I haven’t seen you since December. How have you been hermana?” Pedri questioned.

You laughed, telling him about your school and all the things you and your friends got up to.

“That sounds so fun. Now I’m jealous I never got to go to school in America!” He exclaimed.

“Mm. It’s probably not as fun as being a famous footballer.” You shrugged playfully.

“Yah I guess that’s cool too.” He remarked.

Before you knew it, you were pulling up to the stadium, and the nerves were beginning to set it in. You hadn’t seen Gavi in almost six months and you were a little nervous to see him again. Did he look the same? Would he be excited to see you?

Pedri could tell that you were getting in your head, and he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t overthink it, he’ll be happy to see you. He was so sad you couldn’t be here.”

You looked up at him, “Really?”

He nodded affirmatively and you felt yourself loosen up, “Thanks Pedri.”

He gave you a smile, ushering you out of the car and into the stadium.

“Ok so we only have a few minutes before the rest of the team gets here so we have to be quick.” Pedri spoke leading you into the locker room.

The plan was that you would leave a note in Gavi’s locker telling him to look up into the family section of the stands, and he would glance up before the game and see you standing there wearing his jersey, cheering him on.

You didn’t want to mess up the before-game ritual, or the meeting with his team, so you opted for seeing him after the game as opposed to before.

You had just placed the note in his locker when you heard the locker room door open, male voices filling the air.

You looked up at Pedri in horror, his facial expression mirroring yours, as you both froze.

He snapped out of it first and pushed you towards the showers, “Oh shit, go hide!”

You had just snapped the shower curtain closed when you heard a voice, “Pedri, hey man. Why are you here so early?”

You heard Pedri let out an awkward laugh, and you cringed, poor boy was never a good liar, “Oh hey Ansu. Uhm- y’know just like to be early.”

A new voice responded, “Really since when?”

You breath caught in your throat, it was Gavi.

It had been so long since you heard his voice in person, it sounded so real, and so close. You felt a wave of emotions hit you. Hearing his voice made it ten times harder to keep yourself hidden, and only amplified how much you missed him.

“Ehh big game so wanted to start now.”

The boys seemed to accept his answer, continuing their conversation.

You silently prayed that they would move toward the other end of the locker room so that you could make a quick escape.

But it seemed like luck was not on your side today.

Gavi was in the middle of a sentence when he abruptly cut himself off.

“Do you smell that?” He asked, pausing to inhale.

“Did you just sniff the air?” Pedri asked him, trying to hold back his laughter.

“Shut up, it smells like Y/n.”

You felt your blood run cold. Oh shit. You had totally forgot about your perfume.

You had bought the perfume months ago, back when you were still with Gavi in Barcelona last summer. You had been looking for something that smelled like warm summer nights and when you found it you bought it instantly. However, it wasn’t just you who loved the smell as just twenty minutes after you wore it for the first time Gavi had you spread out on the couch, lips planting kisses all over you, hands exploring every inch of your body.

“You smell so good.” He groaned, kissing the column of your neck.

Your breathing was unsteady, and you found it hard to concentrate, “Thanks, I just bought it. It’s supposed to smell like summer."

“Well whatever it is, I love it.” Gavi murmured, his words caught between his mouth and your skin.

Since then, it had become your everyday perfume, and you spent the rest of summer wearing it and driving Gavi crazy.

He said it smelled exactly how he imagined you to be. Sweet and intoxicating.

Now you were wearing the same exact perfume, having forgotten about Gavi’s obsession with it.

You were scared that you had just outed yourself, but you were also impressed that the perfume had lingered for that long.

Guess it was a good buy.

“What?” Pedri asked him pretending to be confused, his voice pulling you out of your thoughts.

“She always smells like coconut and jasmine, and the locker room smells exactly like that.”

“I think the dirty socks are getting to your head. Go get ready.” Pedri retorted, trying to steer the conversation away from you.

Gavi shook his head, “Pedri I swear. Am I going crazy?”

Ansu spoke, “Nah bro I smell it too.”

That was all the confirmation Gavi needed, “Where is it coming from?” He asked as he set his bag down beginning to move around the room.

You could hear Pedri shuffling as well, presumably following the boy, “C’mon this is stupid. Let’s focus on the game. The rest of the team will be here any minute.”

Gavi sighed, “Ok yah.” He resigned, moving to go change into his uniform.

“Be honest Pedri, did you have a girl in here?” Ansu asked playfully.

You heard Pedri sputter, and you let out a small gasp, not being able to hold back your laughter.

“What was that?”

“What?” Pedri asked, his voice rising unintentionally.

“Swear I heard something over there.” Ansu stated.

You bit your lip, moving back into the shower, cursing yourself for making noise.

It was quiet for a moment, and then a second later you felt the shower curtain being ripped open.

You were greeted by a very stressed-out Pedri and a confused Ansu.

“What the fu-“ You desperately held up a finger to your mouth, pleading with him to be silent.

“What?” Gavi asked coming over.

Ansu quickly shut the curtain again, “Oh nothing. Just thought I saw a spider.”

They all moved away from the showers, and you let out a breathe. You couldn’t believe how close you were to being caught.

All you had wanted to do was surprise your boyfriend, but that was turning out to be much harder than you thought.

You heard more voices begin to fill the locker room, and you wondered if Pedri was going to come and get you or if you were on your own.

A moment later, the shower curtain slowly opened and Pedri popped his head inside.

“That was so close!” He whispered.

You stepped out of the shower, “I know! Now get me out of here.”

“Ok, most of the guys are in the main changing area, waiting for coach. We’re going the other way, so just walk in front of me and we’ll be good.”

You nodded, feeling Pedri walk behind you as you took a left out of the shower area.

You had your sights fixed on the door and were just steps away when a voice interrupted. “Pedri, do you know anything about this no-“ You heard Gavi ask before his voice faltered,

“Who’s that?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, knowing your cover had officially been blown.

You felt Pedri freeze behind you. He began to speak without turning around, scrambling to come up with something.

You cut him off, turning around and finally revealing yourself, “Surprise!”

Gavi stood there in shock staring at you for about five seconds, unmoving, before his body caught up to his brain and then he was colliding into you, arms wrapping around you and pulling you into a tight hug.

“Holy shit. Y/n? What are you doing here bebe?” He asked his voice rising in excitement.

You giggled as he picked you up, spinning you around.

You looked up at him once he put you down, reaching up to caress his cheek, “I wanted to surprise you! But you kind of ruined it for yourself.” You admitted.

“I don’t even care. I’m so happy you’re here.” He spoke, grabbing your hand and intertwining your fingers.

You smiled, kissing his cheek as you promised you’d find him after the game.

He walked you to the door, as you basked in each other’s presence.

You gave him one last kiss before pulling away.

“I knew I smelled you!” he exclaimed.

You giggled, “Yah I forgot about that. Can’t believe you sniffed me out.” You teased while ruffling his hair.

He gave you a playful glare before fixing his hair, “Oh c’mon you know I love it.”

You smiled, “I know.”

You gave him one last wave before turning and walking through the tunnels towards the seats.

You heard him yell after you, “Nice jersey!”

You turned around, a grin on your face, “Thanks. It’s my boyfriend’s.”

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

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WAKE TF UP YALL

Just Pretend (Gavi x reader)

Part 9

Warnings: okay so some angst! Brief mentions of eating disorders. I think that's it but if not let me know pls

Word Count: 12.0K (fun fact: if you've read the whole story so far, you've read 124 pages!)

A/N: Okay y'all buckle up we're covering a LOT of ground in this chapter. I'm talking MONTHS of stuff happening, okay? Strap in.

"No way! He posted himself doing Pedri's celebration?"

"How am I always getting caught in the crossfire?? I wasn't even on the field!"

This caused fits of giggles to erupt from both Pablo and yourself, as you both huddled over his illuminated phone screen, reflecting on the posts from the Manchester United team. While most of them had been normal action shots with stereotypical captions, regurgitating some version of "It all comes down to the next round!", one in particular had stood out. Alejandro Garnacho, the youngest little gremlin in red, had posted a picture doing Pedri's goggle celebration. The caption read: "The best players will be on the field for round 2."

Now admittedly, this was a rather low blow. Eyebrow-slit boy was making it seem as though Pedri had been benched for the next game, when rather it was a sprain that would keep him out of the following round to make sure he was fully healed for the Supercopa. Pablo had now opened up the comment section, point out all the funniest ones to you, hoping to catch a glimpse of your infectious smile in the dark setting of the bus. You tried to stifle your childish little chitters, knowing that the rest of the team was exhausted from the physical and mental toll of an away game, amplified tenfold by the pressure of the Champion's League. But you couldn't help it. You were shoulder to shoulder with Pablo, laughing at strangers on the internet like high school sweethearts, and the logical part of your brain was helpless to overpower the desire of your heart to live in this moment forever.

"Look at this one: "man has to win this trophy to fund his next teen pregnancy."

"Pablo! That's not funny to talk about his kids!" You said, entirely unconvincing as you punctuated the reprimand with giggles. "Besides, you're just jealous that he's already continuing his family legacy at the ripe age of 18."

"Jealous?? Me?? I don't think you understand, Doctora. You know a couple major fears of mine: snakes, spiders, dragons, so on. But-"

"Did you just say fucking dragons?" Both of your heads snapped towards the seats across the aisle, where the Canarian laid with an elevated leg.

"Cállate Pepi - not one word until you finish Game of Thrones. As I was saying; of all my major fears, becoming a teenage father tops that list by a long shot." He said, shuddering at the mere thought. He could not imagine having to care for another life form right now. He was still a child himself.

"What if you found a girl that you really liked? Think you'd want to have kids any faster?"

You actively worked to maintain eye contact while you waited for the answer to your question. Gavi leaned back against his seat, looking forward as the silver moonlight poured through the large windows. The reflections bounced off of Pablo's features, making him glow like the radiance of his soul was escaping his mortal form. The side profile of his face was shadowed slightly, and you wished your hands were capable of capturing this moment in a painting. But had the colors even been invented to do Pablo justice? Or would they pale in comparison to the beauty they tried to replicate?

"I think when I find a girl I really like, I'll just want to spend every possible minute with her. Talking, laughing, breathing - just being in her orbit. And her in mine obviously. My dream girl has to be just as in love as I am, if not more. And I think it would be easier to love each other in that cheesy, all-consuming, kind of gross way if there's no Pablo the Third running around. Or would it be Pablo the Fourth? I can't remember."

'Me!' Your heart seemed to scream out, pushing against your ribs like it wanted to rip through your flesh and jump into Pablo's hands. Ever since your little heart to heart with Pedri, you had allowed a new thought to take root in your brain, filling your mind with red roses and the scent of something nostalgic: longing. It had been years since you had longed for something with your whole heart and soul. In high school, it was an acceptance letter written in English, welcoming you to a campus across the Atlantic, where you could realize your full academic potential, connecting with a whole world you never accessed before. In university, it had been for acceptance into a physiotherapy program in Spain. The glimmering veil of America had been lifted, and despite the praise you had been shrouded with and the lucrative offers to stay and work in Basketball, the call of family and potential of football was too strong for you to resist or ignore. Feet on stone streets and lungs full of Spanish air, you longed once again. This time it was for red and blue stripes, fan chants, fresh cut grass, and the Catalan flag waiving above a victorious team, trophy reflecting light on thousands of admirers. Here you were, months later, once again having the dark maroon petals of longing shade the logical part of your mind. You were longing for the beautiful boy before you, a stained glass window shining iridescent, heavenly light into every moment you lived with him. The sharp thorns poked through the haze, reminding you how much you could lose if you succumbed to the fragrance of want. The job you had pined after since you were old enough to articulate you heart's desire. The family you had cultivated in matching Spotify-sponsored shirts. And most importantly, you could extinguish this bright twin flame that burned between you and Pablo. This bright light was meant to be in your life, and by meddling with the universe's balance, you could cause a catastrophe, an explosion, and submerge yourself into darkness. Oh, but wouldn't it be a glorious demise to engulfed and scorched by an all consuming need for Pablo Gavi?

"Wow Pablo, I think that's the most profound thing you've ever said in your life. Now shut up and come here so we can keep watching Game of Thrones and I can make fun of you for being afraid of CGI."

Pablo turned to face Pedri, and swore he saw your face drop slightly at the suggestion that he become Pedri's company rather than yours. He locked eyes with the older boy, trying to convey with his glare that he was not ready to give up your company. Dark brown eyes responded with a look indicating he couldn't care less. Why in the world would Pedri decide to have the attention span of a 2nd grader right now? Despite the occasional comment about Gavi being a horny teenage boy whenever he caught whiff of you, he had made it extremely clear that Gavi needed to develop and nurture rizz of his own, and Pedri was going to act like a Greek deity: lay back, eat grapes, and watch the mere mortal fools try and figure out love.

Begrudgingly, Pablo moved from his seat, trying to squeeze by you while forgetting how big football thighs actually were. Sheepishly, he watched you giggle and rise to provide him with enough space to move. You felt like an absolute freak, sitting in your seat with crossed legs and chin in hand examining the way Pablo's back muscles rippled. You could have watched the fabric tug and dip for eons without ever feeling even the most fleeting boredom. He was a perfect and captivating creature. Or you were just sick in the head.

Pedri lifted his leg to free the seat for his young friend, plopping it back down onto his lap and eliciting a quiet 'oof'. Pablo propped his phone up with the episode up; the one the two of them were supposed to watch on the flight home if not for Pedri's little seating magic trick. He had paid Ansu a high-protein snickers to walk past the two of you and snap an incognito photograph so that he could be a part of the action without having to get up. Now, as the Lannisters droned on about war or incest or something, Pedri was furiously typing into his notes app. Before Gavi could exclaim that he had been dragged over only to be ignored, the too-bright and slightly chipped phone screen was shoved into his hands. The text on the screen read:

-we need to talk now before we get back to the training center and i cant do that out loud. ur gonna go home w the dr

A thick eyebrow shot into the air, and Pedri had to stifle the laugh threatening to erupt as a response to the obvious confusion on the young boy's face. He gestured to the screen and encouraged Pablo to type out his response, which was elegant and articulate as usual:

-?????????????

Peering over, you caught a faint glimpse of the bright screen being passed between the players to your right. Pedri once again wrote out his response before handing over the device, looking up to meet your inquisitive stare.

"Can I help you?" He asked, amusement obvious in his voice.

"Are you two... passing notes to one another? Like school children?" A mangled web of curiosity and insecurity twisted inside you, and as the seconds ticked on you grew more anxious to know what they were saying that couldn't be heard by you.

"Pablo has a running list of all the characters on the show, as well as their relationships to one another. I get confused so he keeps track for me." Pablo turned his head, immensely impressed by the quick yet smooth nature of the lie. He nodded his head to punctuate the point, although admittedly a little too vigorously. You hummed lightly, returning to the wonderful world of Instagram comments.

-dr didnt come with us to the uk so she doesnt have a car here. i cant drive and u dont have a ride home. i will just call an uber, and she takes my car and goes to ur place and spends the night there.

-what if she doesnt want to spend the nite at my house

-then u can sleep at her house

The noise Pablo made in response was somewhere between a gasp and a choke, causing you to look up very concerned as you watched him chug a water bottle, raising a thumb to signal he was all good. Well, physically at least. Internally he was an absolute anxious wreck, and pictured himself on the floor rocking back and forth. His heart rate was as rapid as if he was in training sessions, and he felt beads of sweat trickle down the skin of his neck at the mere suggestion.

Pablo, despite his plethora of varied life experiences, was still just an 18 year old -- a teenage boy. He still didn't understand fully the concept of love or how it should be expressed (Ansu told him there was a test he could take). So even though he understood that the way he felt about you, the way he wanted you, wasn't a normal crush. It wasn't something that could be dampened or washed away by the flow of time. But what was there to do except let the weight of this intense liking crush him. In a fit of rage, he allowed himself to get to the brink of a crime of passion, to the brink of telling this girl the power she had over him. But you had stopped him, telling him that he was just a colleague, someone from work who she happened to tolerate more than everyone else. But then you had come back to him, almost as if through magnetic pull, to share his music and rest on his shoulder. You had gone out of your way to tell him that he meant more to you than you let on. Had asked him to stay close. Should he dare allow himself to hope again?

-i cant do that i would die

-shut up and jsut do it. ask her how shes going hme and when she says taxi then give her my keys. shes gonna do the rest just trust me

Pablo couldn't respond fast enough, as Pedri dug his hands into the pocket of his joggers tossing the keys to his car, handing the discretely to Gavi so that you wouldn't notice anything was amiss. The bus creaked to a stop, shifting Gavi's stomach even further from its original location than Pedri's suggestion had. He watched you stand up, shirt riding up slightly, the sliver of skin making Pablo's heart jump. It expanded as you reached above your head, retrieving the miniscule bag you had carried with you. He jumped up, reaching the compartment before you. Skin sparked against skin as his hand grazed yours, making you look behind you and lock your gaze with his. His soft eyes and gentle smile were the only thing that existed in the universe, and they were the only thing you focused on as you watched him lift your luggage and carry it, along with his, off the bus.

You unfroze as his frame disappeared off the bus, leaving you blinking in place. As you took a breath to collect yourself, you felt a hand clap you on the shoulder, causing you to practically jump from your skin, goosebumps in the wake of the subtle touch. Pedri's Cheshire cat smile met you, and you tried as hard as possible to stop the blood from flowing to your cheeks (you knew it was medically impossible, yet despite all your education, you silently prayed for magic). What about your friend Gavi carrying a goddamn Amazon suitcase was making you stare? And what about Pedri catching you in this simple act made embarrassment creep through your system?

"You know, his back is starting to look really good after working with the new trainers. Especially in the long sleeves."

"Really?" You asked, tensing when you realized what you had said. You had noticed the way Pablo started to fill out his shirts more, but you didn't need to voice that to his teammate. Honestly, you were embarrassed that you had been so observant of everything that Pablo did. Every shift in his demeanor or behavior. Every little sound or misstep. The way his eyes drooped when he was exhausted. The way he smiled shyly when the boys teased him about one thing or another. You could've written novels on the way that his breathing changed when he saw something that excited him.

"I mean has he really been working with the new trainers? I didn't notice a major shift." His laugh rang behind you, arm fully draped around your shoulders, resting his weight on your backpack.

"Come on, Doctora. No need to lie." You looked up at Pedri, brow raised and confusion etched onto your face. He looked down, laugh dying down as he asked, "What's wrong?"

"No, nothing's wrong. It just... it's weird when you call me that."

"Call you what?"

"Doctora."

"Why is that weird? That's your title, isn't it?"

"I mean yeah like officially. But everyone calls me Doctora y/n or Doctora y/l/n. Only Pablo calls me just "Doctora". That nickname... I don't know. It's just his."

It was enough to have cavities form in Pedri's teeth watching the way your eyes glazed over at the thought of Pablo's special name for you. That there was something special shared between the two of you, so secret and sacred that the phrase passing between the lips of an outsider tainted its purity. Oh what fools these mortals be, so helplessly in love and so blind to recognize that they were both reaching for one another, millimeters from grasping their other half.

"Do you need help getting down?" You asked, offering an extended arm to Pedri. Despite your lingering bashfulness, you still wanted to make sure he wasn't going to have a hard time walking.

"No, I got it. And if I don't, Ansu's got me. Go catch up with Pablo and get your bag. We wouldn't want to keep you out too late."

Replying with a gentle smile, you turned away from Pedri and skipped off, scanning the parking lot of the training center. The suitcases had been lined up neatly in front of the bus, and players collected their things, chatting and bidding farewells as they headed to their respective luxury cars. And then there was Pablo, carless and waiting with both his and your luggage, off on his own. Ever desperate to stay out of everyone's way, he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to another under the glow of a far corner street lamp.

"What's going on with those two?" Ansu had no idea that his question was the one on many minds, from coaches to players to even the people involved, but there was no one answer. Should the answer be the current situation from an outsider perspective, which would be that they were just two people whose personalities clicked well? Should it be the insider scoop he had as Gavi's closest confidant, that gentle touches and warm nights had been exchanged between the two, blurring the boundaries imposed by work? Or should it be Pedri's deepest ponderings and hypotheses, which said without a shadow of a doubt that these two lost souls were meant to come together, intertwined and in love, and yet happiness still escaped them?

"They're both the same type of stupid, Ansu. Therefore, nothing. Nothing is going on with them."

Gavi watched your approach, focusing very hard on the way your hair swayed with each step, because it was the easiest thing to pay attention to without losing his goddamn mind. Curse Pedro Gonzalez for putting these godforsaken ideas into his head.

"You didn't need to carry my bag for me Pablo. There isn't that much in it. You should've just gotten your own."

"You know, Doctora, you can just say 'thank you' when I do things for you. No need to always make yourself seem unworthy."

You took two steps towards him, taking the bag from his hands, and placing in gently on the floor. Before he could ask or protest, you stepped even closer. Arms wrapped around his torso, Pablo's body went limp as you pulled him into you. Head resting against his collarbone, you breathed in his scent. 1 million cologne and Gavira. An Eros scent that seeped into the ridges of your brain. You made a mental note to buy him another bottle as a gift.

"Thank you, Pablo. For everything."

He shushed the part of his brain that started questioning your intentions, and instead focused all his energy on living in this moment. He had been so close to losing you to blue shirts across blue seas. He had been so close to you disappearing into the mist of terrible friends and even worse boyfriends. But now you were here, and he would never take a moment with you for granted again.

"I'm glad that just because we're back in Spain, things haven't changed. This is just like last time."

You looked into his deep brown eyes, arms remaining in their position around his waist.

"What do you mean?"

"When we were outside my place. Under the streetlamp. You hugged me then, too."

Realization of the moment in question was evident across your face, and vivid, intense memories flooded in quickly like the gates of a dam had been pried open. You had lost so much since then, pieces of your life you thought were permanent had disappeared into thin air.

"I wish I could go back to then, sometimes."

"Why is that?"

"I had friends back then."

He looked at you in a strange manner, shifting one strand of hair behind your ear.

"Are we not friends, Doctora?"

"For better or worse, you're my best friend, Pablo."

Silence. You hadn't meant to phrase it in a way that placed Pablo in the dreaded friendzone. If you both were honest, your friendship had passed the traditional sense of the word months ago. His eyes stayed soft, and he gave you the same gentle, sad smile that people gave three-legged puppies.

From 15 meters away, a small crowd had gathered to watch the exchange. Pedri used Ansu as a crutch, and the two breathed as quietly as they could, hoping to catch a stray sentence on the night air. Alejandro had joined them, and after asking rather loudly what they were doing (and being promptly shushed), he also joined the eavesdropping posy. Torre was next to join. Then, against Ferran's wishes, Eric became part of the group. Luca pretended he wasn't interested, but stood close enough to the group to hear all the mutterings and speculation. One of the assistant coaches, who came to see if anyone needed a ride home, was silenced and roped into the spy club. So they huddled in the darkness, not slick in the slightest. If either of you had turned around, their actions would have been very obvious. But as it had been since you could remember, there was an alternate universe that formed when you and Gavi were together.

"It's late. How are you getting home?"

"Oh, I'm just going to call an Uber."

"No way. You're not getting in an Uber by yourself at this hour." He thought about the key that sat like a hot stone in his pocket, and swallowed his pride. Curiosity killed the cat, and he was a tabby stepping onto a busy highway.

"Pedri... he gave me his car key to... he said you could drive it home since he can't drive and your car isn't here." He handed the key to you like one handed over their soul: carefully, reluctantly, and yet optimistically. Your gave never shifted from Pablo's face.

"How are you getting home?"

"I'll Uber."

"It doesn't make sense for me to get to drive home and you have to call a car in the middle of the night. Plus, you're way more famous than me."

"Well, if your offer is for me to take the car and drive myself home, I can't exactly do that. Unless your goal is to get me arrested for driving without a license. Which I wouldn't put past you." A smile broke out on both your faces, grinning from ear to ear at the silliness. This is what you had been missing in your life. Laugher. Jokes. Nonsense. Oh how you missed the nonsense. How you missed the ability to breathe without feeling like there was an iron fist wrapped around your trachea. The sound of your giggles were foreign to you in their genuinity, as it had been virtual eons since you had been truly amused. Truly happy. But that was the feeling Pablo brought to you. Warm and sweet like cider, through your veins and arteries and the threads of your soul. He brought you happiness. He served it to you on a silver platter, feeding it to you spoonful by wonderful spoonful. He sparked happiness within you, your heart sparkling like fresh-popped champagne, overflowing and turning everything delectable and golden. He allowed you to see the bright blues and deep reds of life, vibrant colors that were previously dulled by the consistent papercuts the book of life dished out. Gavi was a blessing in every way.

"I can just drive you home. It's not like it would be the first time since you can't figure out how to operate a car."

"I can operate a car! I'm just busy. And you're not going to drive me home. I live the opposite way from your place, and I want you to go home and get some rest. You've had a tiring trip."

"Didn't seem to mind making me drive before."

"Oh don't worry. You'll be back to chauffeuring me at dawn." More giggles. More light touches. More blushes.

"Totally friendly behavior." Eric said, with snickers rippling across the gaggle of stalkers.

The key was pressed into your palm, the brush of his fingers leaving sparks in its wake. You hoped that he never needed medical attention from you again, because at this rate, even just doing your job might set you ablaze.

"What if you came and stayed at mine?"

The silence was palpable and suffocating. Eyebrows elevated, Gavi looked at you as if you had asked if he would like to receive a lobotomy. You didn't even fully process your own suggestion. But you were looking at him with a sense of expectation and slight fear of rejection. If asked you would never be able to articulate why you asked him over. The best you might muster would be a shrug of the shoulder. But something about Pablo made you feel like you were five years old again. You would meet a new kid at the playground. Maybe they would loan you a truck or give you a turn on the swings. Whatever gesture it was, your little mind would interpret that they were your new best friend. And you just wanted to be around them all the time. Begging to go to the playground again. Putting on your best puppy dog eyes to get them to stay just 10 minutes more. It was that childlike instinct to invite him over, with the same eager hopefulness that you had when your other little friends arrived at your house and played with your toys with you on the pretty plush carpet. The want to have them in your bedroom, in your space, and hide in your closet with him, keeping your voices low so he wouldn't have to go home.

"Came and slept... at your house?"

"I've had sleepovers at yours. Now it's your turn to have a sleepover at mine."

You tried not to bite your lip too hard, as you didn't want to worry Pablo with active bleeding. The longer he took to respond, the more you felt another familiar feeling: rejection. Like when you had been told that the girls didn't want to share their dolls with you because yours had ugly dresses. Or when boys came and asked if you could talk to your friends for them, mocking your good grades and arm hair as they sauntered off. Or worst of all, when in a room of a hundred college kids, you still heard the name 'ice princess' float from one guest to another, bringing scorn and rejection and rage your way.

"Is your bed big enough for the both of us?"

The nod in response was so swift that you probably pulled a neck muscle. He agreed, and the two of you turned to look for Pedri's car, noticing the large group of Barca boys staring intently. Freezing like deer in some headlights, you looked at Pablo to see if he understood why there was an observation deck for your conversation.

"Need something boys?" You inquired, uneasy at the amount of eyes on you.

"I just need to grab something from my car before you take off. Pablo, you want me to add your place as a stop for the Uber?" Pedri said, smooth as ever despite having watched and lip-read the entire exchange.

"Oh um, I'm actually gonna go, um, with-" and then pointed at you. The smirk spread to Portugal, and Ansu's ears perked up.

"Pedrito," Ansu said, eyes still on Gavi, "add me as a stop after you. I want to... make sure you get home safe." He prayed for a flat tire on the way home so he didn't miss one ounce of the gossip.

As Pablo climbed into the car, his phone chimed, and he read the message with a grimace.

[Pedri]: never question my methods ever again. and wear a condom.

"I can't believe you live on the third floor and have no elevator. What do you do when you buy groceries?"

The question from Pablo released the millionth giggle that night from you that night, as there seemed to be an infinite supply when he was around you.

"I suffer. And the fact that the club feeds me 2 out of 3 meals has helped with this dilemma quite a lot."

It felt so natural, coming home and unlocking the door, walking in with Pablo. You apologized for the state of the place, but he brushed it off, taking in your living space. Your entryway held a small table piled high with issues of Vogue Espana. Your small kitchen was polished wooden cabinets, shiny countertops, and a fridge littered with a few magnets from different places in the world. He made a mental note to bring you back one the next time he went abroad. He slipped off his shoes, leaving them at the door neatly lined beside yours as he followed you in. He stopped in his tracks in the living room, jaw dropping so far it almost hit the tile floor of the apartment. It was not the worn sofa or old TV that caught his attention.

"Oh I hate you so much."

That's all he was able to say. He looked at the walls of your apartment, taking in all of the sports merchandise hanging on the walls. On left wall, it was basketball memorabilia, several framed newspapers, framed by vibrant blue banners and ticket stubs. It was the same university name that was on your car, the one in America. You obviously had a deep connection to it, and yet in all your conversations with Gavi, it was never a topic that came up. On the right wall, it was cars. Pictures of cars mid-race, replica helmets, the works. But it was the back wall behind the couch that got him. There was an explosion of Barca hung there, displaying team photos, scarfs, and other pieces of club history. All of it centered around a huge black frame, holding a 2009 Barca jersey, the number five on the back, with a signature right beneath.

"You have a 2009 jersey from Puyol?! That's the sextuple year! How the hell did you afford this?"

"He gave it to me?" You said, stating it as a question out of nerves. You recounted to him your childhood trips to the Camp Nou with your father, having been one of the lucky kids to get a jersey thrown at them in the front of the stands.

"I don't want to hear a word about my coffee table book anymore. You're obsessive."

He steeled himself as he followed you into your bedroom. It was a lot more simple than the living room, walls barren except for a few posters and a large cork board hanging the wooden desk. A bed, a chest of drawers, a mirror in the corner. Light pastels contrasted with dark gray sheets. He watched you walk over and light a candle, the label reading out 'Parisian Rose', and suddenly he was somewhere else. He was 6 years old again, coming home from school. He was standing in the doorway as his mom helped him shrug off his school bag, reminding him not to run in his socks as he took off to go pester his sister. He was outside dribbling a ball away from his father, laughing loudly whenever he scored a goal, falling in to the grass as his celebration. He was in a twin bed with a football comforter, being tucked in by sweet perfume and warm hands and soft kisses. He felt safe. He felt a sense of home.

"Did you leave your bag in the car? Here, I'll get you something to wear."

The question took him out of his trance, bringing him away from rose-scented childhood memories and into the present moment. He should have felt emasculated. He should have insisted he go grab his own clothing, refusing to let a girl dress him in her garments. He should have felt a sense of deep embarrassment that the two of you might wear the same size. But none of it registered. His mind was too busy watching the way you flitted between the closet and dresser, digging through your items. He studied the way your hair fell from its placed as you leaned over each drawer, and it was just ... beautiful.

"Here. These should fit. The sweats are my dad's, but I stole them from him years ago. I hope that's okay."

You disappeared into the bathroom to change, trembling hand turning the lock. Pablo was really here. In your house. In your bedroom. About to wear your clothes. He seemed to be much calmer than yourself as you slipped into pajamas.

Gavi was not, in fact, calm at all. He stared at the clothing in his hands, watching the fabric as if it would come to life and strangle him. He was about to put on your clothes. And sleep in your bed. With you also in the bed. He had not thought this through. He had just been on the brink of spilling his guts. Fucking Pedri making him think this would be okay. It was not. He was on the verge of a panic attack. How was he supposed to act around you now? If you asked to sleep on his chest again, he might actually explode. It was borderline self-harm what he was putting himself through. Like letting you poke him with a sewing needle over and over and over again. Pinpricks of pain and blood rising to the surface - not enough to kill him, but enough to have him on his knees begging for mercy.

Too absorbed in his own ponderings, he had just barely gotten the pants on when you opened the bathroom door, face freshly washed and moisturized, hair pulled back, and airport clothes clumped in your arms. Your baggy t-shirt hung around your frame, hitting the top of your satin pajama pants.

"If you don't want to wear a shirt, you don't have to." You said, turning to place your clothing in the hamper. Gavi stumbled out several incoherent syllables, covering his chest like a cartoon character before slipping the shirt over his head. Looking down, it was the same university logo on your wall. You walked out of the room, reentering with two glasses of water while Gavi was still short-circuiting. You placed one on each side table, turning on the lamp before asking him to switch off the lights. In the dim glow, he shuffled into bed beside you, the tension and excitement in the room palpable.

"Can I ask you something?"

You turned over on your side, head resting on folded hands as you faced Pablo to respond to his question.

"Anything. What's up?"

"Why do you never talk about your time in university? I have heard about every single other time in your life. I mean obviously you love your university - you have it everywhere. But you never bring it up. Why?"

It was his turn to roll over, and now the both of you laid on your sides facing each other. It was so cliche that you almost expected the rom-com director to yell out 'Cut!'.

"I love my university, the basketball team, and all the friends I made there, but..." Silence settled into the small vacant mattress between you. Pablo knew he was approaching murky waters. But there was something that kept pushing him. He wanted to know everything he could about you. What you loved, longed for, and feared. He wanted the image of you in his mind to be whole and complete. He wanted to know everything he should do and everything he shouldn't. He wanted you to see him as he saw you: perfection personified.

"But?"

You sighed deeply. When you tried to talk to Angelika about the mental toll the university social scene took on you, she had brushed you off, with quips about how it must have been so hard being the most sought after prize of Greek life participants. "Oh yes, it must have been hell getting invited to every party, walking in and getting your pick of the litter from the boys. Poor little thing." You couldn't talk to your family about it either. Society would never be progressive enough where you could tell your mother you felt objectified. And for the reasons mentioned previously, it's not like you had any male friends to confide him.

"My life was never better than when I was in university. But it has also never been worse."

The brightness of your phone made Gavi squint in discomfort. You showed him an Instagram post from your university.There were five photos in the sequence. The first was you posed in your delicate blue graduation robes, looking like an absolute dream. The white dress and heels made your skin look radiant, highlighting all of your features. You stood proudly in front of a historic-looking building, smiling proudly. Three or four colorful strands of rope hung from your shoulders.

"Your graduation pictures are really pretty. You should have one framed in your office by your diploma. What do the different colored ropes mean?"

"You're too nice to me, Pablito. Those are cords. Each color is a different award. The two yellow ones are for graduating with highest distinction and honors. The pink one is for being president of Students in Sports Medicine. The blue one is for working with student athletes. And the purple one is for being an anatomy teaching assistant."

The next photo was a large team one. You stood beside a fully uniformed basketball team in a fresh-pressed polo. You smiled brightly, arms around two 6 foot something athletes who Pablo would have to ask Pedri about. Slide three was a candid photo. Behind you was a large poster that read 'Students in Sports Medicine', and you were surrounded by a gaggle of doe-eyed bushy-tailed students, eager to absorb the drops of wisdom you offered. Gavi smiled to himself. If he had not chosen football, he could have been one of them. A university student looking at you like royalty. Well, he didn't really need to be your underclassman to think of you as a princess. The fourth was another candid, this time you stood in front of a packed auditorium, presenting your research project on the screen. It was about how taking into account the dominance of a limb when treating torn muscles. He smiled brightly.

"This is what you still use for the treatment plans for us! I had no idea you developed it yourself."

"Oh I mean it's all based on prior research. Not really that special."

"The greatest football club in the world now uses methods you created. Simmer down, Doctora genia. Let me keep looking."

The final picture was the most alive he's ever seen you. In a basketball jersey, you sat on top of someone's shoulder, hands thrown up, face blissed out among a crowd of your peers. Your hair flowed behind you: a stunning vision in the moonlight. He then moved onto the caption:

"Y/n Y/ln is a fourth year student double majoring in Exercise Science and Sports Medicine, with a minor in Spanish for the medical professions. Since moving from her hometown of Barcelona, Spain, she has worked on the junior sports med team for your national championship basketball team. The players describe her as motivated, hard working, and always able to brighten a room. Away from the court, she is serving her second term as presidents of SSM, where she mentors other students hoping to work with professional teams. She graduates this spring with Highest Honors, Distinction, and a Dean's list placement. Her next steps include a return to Barcelona to complete her physiotherapy masters degree and certification, and to pursue her dream of working with a professional soccer team. Best of luck!"

"This is so cool, Doctora. I didn't know you were so accomplished. And by the looks of it popular."

Your sharp, pained bark of a laugh startled Gavi. He looked over at the tears welling in your eyes and stopped abruptly.

"Oh I was popular alright. You want to know when the first time I got hit on in college was? Two days before my first year even started. I was at an exhibition football match and these guys cornered me. Sat on either side of me and started asking me, 'Oh, do you think my friend is cute? Do you want him to give you his number?' And I just had to sit there, because where could I go?"

You were sitting up in bed at this point, laughing in a sort of degranged way as you hugged your arms around your torso in an attempt to self soothe.

"And then this guy appeared out of nowhere, tapped them on the shoulder and told the that the seats were taken. And looking back at it now he was so gross and weird and..."

"Greasy?" Pablo offered. You watched him sit up as well, moving closer to you. He opened his arms and watched you hesitate for a moment. All he wanted was to grab you by the collar and make you accept his comfort, but now was not the time to do so, even in jest. He had obviously ripped off a massive emotional bandage, and now he was watching years of pent up feelings bleed out onto charcoal gray sheets. He waited, arms aching slightly as you shuffled towards him. Your back pressed against his chest as hands grabbed your wrists, replacing your trembling arms with his own. He held you tightly against him, leaning back against the headboard as fingers move slowly against your skin.

"Yeah," you giggled out, more amusement than distress than your previous laugh. "Greasy as all hell. His name was Max, and he told me he was so sorry that I had to deal with those guys. He was a year older than me. Showed me around campus, got me into parties, the works. He became my-" Your whole body tensed before you could get out your next words. "My best fucking friend. He used to do everything for me. Used to make sure I ate meals. Stopped guys from being gross with me at his frat. I mentioned one time that I was afraid of thunderstorms, and so he started calling me during every thunderstorm we had to make sure I was okay. He stayed with me on the phone for hours."

Pablo felt that nervous feeling in his stomach, like right before the drop on a big roller-coaster. This seemed like a situation he had seen before... and was currently living.

"He asked me out once, about a month after school started. Well, he asked if I wanted to go get dinner. I told him that I already had a date with Calvin, who was his fucking frat brother, so I'm surprised he didn't know. But otherwise, I never thought of him as something more than a friend."

Pablo felt you start to relax in his arms. Your muscle tension lessened, and you slumped back further into chest. You were now half laying down, head rested near his shoulder. You put your hands on top of his, and started playing with his fingers as a mild distraction.

"And then we were at a party, and I was playing seven minutes like a stupid 18 year-old, no offense. And I think he paid his friend to put us in there together, but the closet door closed and he tried to kiss me. I told him that I just wanted to be his friend, and he fucking just exploded. Kind of like Martin." The lack of breathing behind you gave off the impression that the joke may have been too soon.

"Told me that he had been so nice to me, put up with my bitching for months, just for me to reject him. Like he deserved sex from me."

Pablo had never felt this type of sadness. It was like looking at a bird with a broken wing. He could almost see it, the bright spark of potential that burned in your chest. But he wondered how much more dazzling your heart could have been if not mangled by these little boys who thought of no one but themselves.

"And here's the real kicker. I told him that I was sorry. Me. He called me a tease, a I was the one to fucking apologize, saying I wasn't ready for a relationship. He said he never wanted to be with me, just to sleep with me. I was a girl good for sex but not for a label. Called me a sex object to my face. Walked out of that closet and called me the 'ice princess', whose heart was too cold to love anyone, even herself."

Pablo's head was now lowered, nuzzling into your neck. He didn't know what to say. If there even was anything to say.

"And that's how I went through college. When I wasn't studying or working, I was trying to understand what boys wanted from me. What I needed to do to make them see me as a fucking person. And I tried to be that fun and cool hook up party girl and I stopped fucking eating. I couldn't because I made myself sick to my stomach. And so I was celibate basically, and yet still. 'Ice Princess' everywhere I went. Then I got a boyfriend, and it wasn't any better. Boys in his frat bet on how long until 'Ice Princess' put out. And when I finally warmed up to him, he cheats on me. Tells me that I'm too hard to love. So I graduated from college with amazing grades, fantastic references, and so much damage to my self-esteem that I don't know if I'll ever feel like I'm worthy of love again. And that is the short and sweet of why I don't talk about my college."

You let out a deep breath, feeling some relief of finally sharing the burden of what had been holding you down. You laid back against Gavi's chest, and in that moment he felt your heartbeat fall in synch with his. He could not believe his ears. How could anyone try and love you, when every breath he took was in effort to try not to. He had expended every effort to try not to love you so completely. Trying not to imagine you in his arms, in his house, in his bed, in his life forever and ever. He tried not to see the shimmer of your eyes every time he dared close his.

But alas. Trying not to love you was like asking the sun to stop spreading its gorgeous golden rays every dawn. It was like asking the sand and the sea to fall out of love and part ways forever. It was like watering a plastic plant and waiting for a gently blossom. Trying not to love you was the most futile effort there was. Your mind body and soul were built to be loved and cared for. You were destined for life on a pedestal, with some lucky bastard on his by your feet begging for one measly ounce of affection. His heart ached for you, and every single beat seemed to call out your name. How could anyone treat loving you as a chore when it was the ultimate reward mere mortals could receive. What a pleasure it would be to love you.

"I hope you know that your only crime in all this is allowing yourself to be nice to fucking assholes. None of that is your fault, and you shouldn't let it weigh on you as it has. And above all, I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry that again and again you've had people around you who weren't looking out for your best interest. Who didn't protect you or put you first. You've given up so much of yourself for everyone else, Doctora. You deserve to come first in someone's eyes. Especially your own."

You looked up at Gavi, unable to process all the feelings in your chest. Why was it Pablo? The only person to show you friendship, affection, feelings that didn't come with descriptions. Why him? The one person who you never wanted to lose. Your best friend and your greatest desire in one gorgeous Sevillan package, holding you in his arms like you were made of crystal. You turned to him, chest to chest, face now pressed against his neck, and placed a gentle kiss on his pulse point.

Pablo's brain had officially short circuited. Was that... was it real? What he had just felt on his neck? Was he asleep? His eyes were wide and staring at the ceiling. It was the perfect moment. For him to pull you up, tell you to forget about every stupid motherfucker you had ever spoken to, and kiss you until he was the only man on your mind. To never let you escape this moment. But how could he do such a thing mere minutes after you had confided in him your deep fear of all your male friends only wanting you for sex. A kiss right now might traumatize you forever. Maybe it was in Pablo's best interest to do something he had never done before: be patient. If he wanted to give you what you needed, give you the love that would truly improve your self image and your life, he would need to do it as a friend. If he really did feel your lips to his skin, then he would just have to pray you would have the courage to go further one of these days. He had to just be what you needed until he could be what you wanted.

You lifted your head, eye level with him now. Your breath was slow while his was erratic. He tried to find any focus point other than your eyes. They would weaken his resolve and he couldn't let that happen. Pablo was going to be your best friend. Even if it killed him.

"Is that my shirt from the other night?" Now it was your turn to be caught off guard. Peeping down at your shirt, it was in fact the one he had let you sleep in the last time you were at Casa Gavira.

"If you want, I can give it back."

"Are you offering to take off your shirt right now?" There was fire in your cheeks, and you hid your face in his muscled shoulder that shook with laughter at your slight humiliation.

"No, I mean after I wash it."

"Stop trying to give things back to me, Doctora. I like giving you things. Keep my shirt and my sweats. Keep my hoodie that I saw on the couch earlier. Everything I give you, you can keep forever."

And it remained unspoken as you laid on his chest, lighthearted conversation flowing into the twilight air.

"My heart, doctora. When I give it to you, please keep it. Forever."

"One month after a disappointing exit from the Champions League, Barcelona are headed to Saudi Arabia to fight for the Spanish SuperCopa!"

"That's right, Peter. To be fair, there was not one stroke of bad luck that Barca managed to escape. First, there was Pedri going down in the first half of Leg 1, then the penalty gifted to Man U by Marcos Alonso's stray arm, and of course, the loss of the fire cracker Gavi before minute 30 to a red card. Playing a ten man game during the Champion's League is near impossible, but what an amazing run for a club that, last year, was on the brink of absolute ruin."

"Absolutely, Tom. They still have an amazing shot for the Supercopa and the Copa Del Rey, as well as the La Liga season title. And now with Ballon D'Or nominations closing in, this could be the last cup game where Gavi could show he's worthy of the nod."

"Why are you listening to football broadcasts in English? I thought your Spanish was okay." Pedri stated as he entered the car, giving you a quick hug as a greeting.

"Shut up and put your seatbelt on. The Spanish presenters are too biased, usually towards Madrid, and I don't need to be sick this early in the morning."

"Valid point. This isn't the way to the studio, though."

"I'm well aware, pepito. But I need to stop and get a coffee. I forgot you weren't Gavi - he usually brings me one."

As you stepped out of the car, Pedri whipped out his phone to type yet another smug message. He reckons he had sent at least one a day for the past month. The first was right before he got into the Uber upon their return from England. Then, it was the morning after, when he checked Gavi's location to find him still in your neighborhood. Every day since then, it had been constant messages gloating about how right he was.

[Pedri]: you guys were in her office for an hour and 15 mins. do i need to disinfect the table before i go in?

[Pedri]: at her house again? did she give you a drawer yet? or a ring? ;)

[Pedri]: will see u after my physio session. try not to overheat with jealousy

And today was no different. He loved Pablo, he truly saw him as a little brother, but there was just something so satisfying about always keeping him crushing and docile, keeping his softest side right at the surface.

[Pedri]: youve been bringing the dr coffee every morning? where was this treatment when i was ur driver???

[Pedri]: ik im not as hot but damn

He re-pocketed his phone as he watched you approach with two cups of coffee, setting them down in the cup holders and starting on the way to the studio.

"I don't drink coffee, but it was a sweet gesture."

"That wasn't for you. It's my second coffee after this one. I can just sense I'll be called back into camp for more muscle sessions after we finish at God knows what time."

It was the end of February, and after a disappointing exit from the UCL, the entire team was fired up to get their first trophy of the season with the Supercop (and you suspected Xavi had made some pretty severe threats of starving the team if they gave less than their entire soul on the field). The extra pressure to be perfect had caused the team to step up their personal care, and that involved getting muscle stretching sessions from you after glowing reviews from Ousmane and Pedri. So you had been staying late every evening, with Pablo accompanying you home several nights.

Well, 'home' was a relative term. Some nights he came over to yours, either being picked up later by a teammate, or staying over. Other nights you went to his house, giving him private muscle sessions (that you were certain Xavi would consider 'favoritism'), ordering in diet-friendly dinners and going to bed. It was something that you would never be able to explain to anyone else, because you couldn't explain it to yourself. The simplest way to put it was that to you two, it was like having a sleepover with your best friend from school. There was nothing but sweetness and friendship, good food and great nights of sleep. There were more silly conversations, about favorite superheros and the Rottweiler you always wanted but couldn't afford. Sometimes it turned more serious, such as Gavi's feelings about alcohol and your fractured relationship with your mother. You both knew it was not normal for friends to want to sleep in the same bed every other night, to feel an absence in their soul when there was a body-sized space on the mattress, but you wouldn't dare think of it deeper.

You had also been, for lack of a better term, babysitting Pedri for the last month. You had been the one to accompany Pedri whenever he could do anything that could potentially get him hurt. While the team defined this very broadly, this often meant going with him to Adidas promotional activities to regulate the motion he was doing. Today, you were actually excited to accompany the young star. He was shooting for the Adidas X Prada collection, and as a high fashion enjoyer, you were excited to get a first look at the collection. Pulling up to the studio, you were met by Tania, one of the Adidas assistants, who coldly directed you to the studio before taking your car to be parked.

"What's her problem?" You asked, waiting for the elevator to take you to the 16th floor.

"Tania? Yeah she doesn't like me."

"Why not? What did you do?" You asked, now intrigued. You were vaguely aware of the fact that Pedri was tuned in to the happenings of your life and your interactions with Pablo, and so it was nice to get a glimpse into the magical world of Pedri.

"She wrote her number on a slip and put it into one of my packages from Adidas. Boots or something else they sent me. The note was cute and flirty, so I texted saying hey."

"Uh huh. But?"

"...but I thought it was one of the other assistants. So I started the text with 'hey Silvia'. Now she hates my guts."

You were still laughing when the elevator doors opened, revealing the set up for the shoot. Sleek clean lines of black and silver, accented with red all around the room. Upon walking in, the director, Adidas rep, and photographer all greeted Pedri like and old friend, and he introduced your awkward form to the whole team. They told them that the Prada rep was in the back, talking to the stylist, and after a clap on the arm, he made his way to the back with you trailing closely. Ever suave and Italian, the Prada rep, Enzo, greeted Pedri, expressing his excitement to work with him on the project. Pedri smiled widely, returning the handshake and then grabbing you by the arm, pushing you forward while letting out a heavily accented 'My physio'.

You shook hands with Enzo, introducing yourself and explaining your role at the shoot today, nothing but a slight accent impeding your English fluency.

"It's a pleasure to have you, Dottoressa. Will you be translating for Pedri as well? I wasn't aware he would need linguistic services."

"Oh, yes. I think my English and Spanish are good enough to translate for him. As long as you don't make me translate something like 'sophisticated design principles'. I know how to say it in Spanish, but I just don't think he would understand it."

A soft laugh was heard from the far corner of the room, behind a rack of black and red athletic wear. Suddenly, Pedri had a spring in his step as he walked towards the sound.

"Naranja! I was wondering when you would make your appearance. Come on out and say hello." A visibly enraged girl emerged from behind the clothes, holding two different pairs of long Prada socks in each hand.

"Hello Pedro."

"No 'nice to see you again'?"

"No. I'm not a liar. Hi, nice to meet you. My name is-"

"No need to be so formal, naranja." Pedri said, draping an arm around the girl's shoulders and causing her to visibly tense, facing pinching in disgust. "This is the doctora. She's here to make sure your favorite styling client doesn't get hurt too bad."

"Oh, you must be Silvia." You said, extending a hand for her to shake. She laughed loudly, rolling her eyes and shaking your hand firmly.

"I'm not, actually. But the fact that you know about Silvia is hilarious. You have to see this idiot every day? How do you manage?"

"She's in love with my best friend." Your mouth dropped at the utterance of the L word. Whatever existed between you and Pablo, you wanted to explore and define it yourself, not have it poured over you like ice water by this little football imp.

"Who? Gavi?" She asked, eyes wide and eyebrow raised.

"I- that's not true it's-"

"Don't worry, doc. I don't believe 95% of the things that come out of Pedro's mouth. You," she pointed at Pedri with a harsh stare. "They need you in hair and makeup. Córrele! Come back to me when you're done."

The stylist linked her arm with you, leading you over to a table of decadent refreshments. She was eager to hear what it was like working with Barca, as she described her last dozen interactions with Pedri as ranking from annoying to absolutely insufferable.

"I have a question for you first: why does he call you naranja?"

"That's a long story doc. Maybe for another day."

"And he's done it! The magical Pedri, in his first game back for Barcelona, scores the winning penalty to send them into the finals of the Spanish Super cup! His difference is certainly felt as he rushes off the pitch to embrace the medical team who have worked day and night to speed up his recovery. And as the rest of his teammates join him, we look forward to a Classico final match in two days time."

The force of Pedri's crushing hug made you drop your phone, and you had the sense to kick it behind you before it was trampled by the incoming stampede of cleats and bouncing footballers. You can't remember the last time a victory felt this good. You returned the hug, jumping with the team in celebration as the stadium sang out in praise for the blaugrana brigade. The stands were foreign, as the Saudi Arabian crowd brought about a different energy, but the passion they felt for this club was something universal. They meant it with their entire being when they shouted out 'Mes Que Un Club'.

Once Gonzalez separated from you, your eyes scanned the field until they found the form they desperately sought out. There was Pablo, dancing and jumping with the rest of the squad, having reached his first final with the team. His toothy smile was wide and luminous, like a string of pearls fresh from the depths of the Mediterranean. His eyes looked up and met yours, and you would have done anything to frame this moment in your mind permanently. And you told him as much when he came to your hotel room for a post-post match drink and debrief (post twice because he went out with the boys first out of obligation). The drink of choice was a vitamin water, which you two shared sitting on your bed as Gavi described his feelings from the game.

"You wouldn't believe it, Doctora! I thought the crowd was going to be intense because we're so far from home, but it was incredible. They were so loud and passionate, and it just made us work harder. Coach told us to go for blood on the field, and it was just... amazing. And now we're so close to our first trophy that I can almost taste it. I want it, y/n. So bad."

"And you'll do it Pablo. If anyone can, it will be you. You have Modric's ancient bones rattling at the thought of having to go up against you again."

A laugh. A real one. One that rattled his chest and squinted his eyes and made him sink into you. In the lingering silence, you put your hand over his, playing with his fingers once again. It had become your favorite form of fidgeting, washing over you with a shower of calm. And it calmed Gavi as well - possibly more than you both comprehended.

A loud banging at the door woke you up from your sleep, and you bolted straight up, untangling yourself from Pablo's sleeping arms. He was still groggy, covering his head with a pillow to drown out the ruckus. You walked over to the door, opening it to find Pedri and Ansu standing in front of you with their arms crossed, training uniforms on. Your face paled instantly.

"Good morning boys. How can I help you? I don't have to start stretches until 11am."

"Good morning, doctora. First of all, it's 10:30, so you're going to be starting soon... maybe sooner than you think. Secondly, and more importantly, we're looking for Pablo. We were supposed to meet with the coaching team at 10, but luckily it got pushed back to 11. He wasn't in his room so..." Pedri said, punctuating with an eyebrow raise and letting you fill in your own gaps.

"Um, why would you think he's here?" You asked, closing the door more and begging Pablo not to make any sounds.

"No one said he was here. But if Pablo Gavi was here, then he should get his ass in the shower and changed before he gets it whooped by mister." Ansu said, exchanging a michevous smirk with his teammate before they walked towards the elevators. You slammed the door behind you, leaning against it and groaning into your hands.

"Did they just say that I need to be at a coaching meeting in 30 minutes?"

"Well it's more like 27 minutes now."

"Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the final match of the Spanish Supercopa live from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia!"

Your stomach had been in knots all day, but now as the players lined up on the field, standing shoulder to shoulder and getting ready for kick off, you were truly ready to blow chunks. The energy in the locker room had been nervous at best. Xavi was reminding them to be vicious, merciless, downright ruthless in every attack. To step on their necks for 90 minutes straight. The players all wore expressions fitting of a battle, and there was little conversation that didn't revolve around strategy. You had been so busy with Pedri and Dembele that you had no time to say anything to Gavi, not having seen him since he sprinted from your room to his this morning. You hoped that he wasn't sore from the position that you had fallen asleep in. As he lined up to walk onto the pitch, you caught his hand, whispering a good luck with a soft smile, which he returned brightly with an added wink. It sent flutters through your chest, but they were all too familiar now. You were used to these butterflies that had sprouted in your ribcage ever since you first laid eyes on Pablo. Now, you welcomed them, the lightness in your chest, as you prayed for this to be it. The day he took his first step towards his destiny: towards greatness.

You watched with hands over your heart as the demons in white swirled and swarmed around the blaugrana, creating an overwhelming defensive line. But nevertheless he persisted. Taking on players double his size and age, he maneuvered through the line and ...

Time slowed. His foot connected to the ball, traveling past white jerseys and goalie gloves to find the back of the net. A pause. Wide eyes.

And the crowd erupted in deafening cheers. Barca had opened the scoring in a Classico final. No, it was more than that. As your eyes focused after the jumping and excited screeches, you saw him run to your side of the pitch, kissing the beautiful Catalan crest. Pablo had opened the scoring in the Supercopa.

He didn't plan on stopping any time soon. His goal was accompanied by two more assists, and when the 90 minute whistle was blown, you watched Xavi fall to his knees as the boys crowded around Pablito. The first trophy of the Xavi era. The first of many trophies for Gavi in blue and red. As he freed himself from the clutches of his teammates, he ran towards you at full speed, adorable and terrifying in its nature. He grabbed your wrist, pulling you onto the field, and the rest of the medical staff followed closely behind. He kept you close to him, lacing his fingers with yours as they sang the anthem of champions. You watched in pride as he was pulled away to receive his man of the match. You snapped a thousand pictures of him with a trophy in each hand, and he grabbed another one of his friends who had come to support to take a picture of the two of you with his awards.

"Are you sure you want me in this? It's your night."

"Of course, Doctora. I wouldn't be here without you."

As the rest of the team took their photos with the cup, dancing and singing together, he walked around the perimeter of the field with you, waving to his screaming admirers who he bestowed with his match shirt.

"The admins are about to go crazy. They got so much content of you today. You're going to be the only thing they post for a week."

"I just hope I look good. I always look insane in the team celebration photos."

"You'll look amazing, Pabloso. Like I said before, a trophy makes every man more handsome."

"Dr. Gonzalez, you wanted to see me?"

It had been several months since you had gotten in trouble with Dr. G, and yet the summons to his office still put the fear of God in you. You walked in and had a seat after his instruction, which was made up of one sharp nod.

"Yes, I won't take too long. As you are probably aware, Gavi has been nominated for the Kopa award at this year's Ballon D'Or ceremony. This is a very special occasion for everyone at the club, and especially those closest to Gavi."

You nodded quickly, playing with your crossed hands in your lap.

"We want to have our impeccable physiotherapy and medical staff represented at the event, as we do every year. But we also want to do this in a manner that fits in with Xavi's idea of promoting Barca's rebirth. You know, younger, newer, better. So," he turned around to retrieve something from his filing cabinet. It was a matte black envelope with a gold football embossed in the center.

"We have decided to send you as the representative to this year's ceremony."

You were utterly speechless. You had no way to show your appreciation to Dr. Gonzalez in this moment except to hug him, but you knew quite well he would not take kindly to that.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Gonzalez. I have no idea what to say."

"No need to say anything unnecessary. Flatter is not my cup of tea. I also wanted to present you with his relationship disclosure form, as I didn't find one on file."

"Um... what?"

"You need to disclosures your relationship with Gavi so that I can deliver it to HR."

"I'm not in a relationship with Pablo. That... that could cost me my job." You said very quietly, almost as if it was a secret.

"Miss y/l/n, due to the... historic lack of women in the club, we do not have internal policies regarding relationships between players and employees. We just use the ones that La Liga as a whole have put in place. Those are quite forgiving, in my opinion. You can enter a romantic workplace relationship as long as it is appropriately disclosed, and you cannot be terminated should that relationship end. I saw the photo of you being pulled onto the field during the final of the Supercopa. Do you mean to tell me it was not with romantic intent?"

~~~

A/N: SORRY I'M LATE SPECIFICALLY TO ALL THE HOT SEXY MED STUDENTS READING THIS!!! sorry this took me forever but there's only one part left. If you liked this story up to this point, please make sure to comment, reblog, tell me ur feelings in my ask box - the works!! Aso pls comment if you want to be on the taglist. Ok sorry bye the sun is literally rising.

*~*Taglist*~*

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Note

I loved your little jealously blurb 😭 but imagine it being the other way around and the whole trip you’re so used to girls hitting on him because most guys don’t go for it when they see you with him until you suddenly get sent these drinks and you’re like ohhh? When the bartender says they’re actually for you and Jude who’s just chilling drops his phone and is like don’t they see I’m right here while trying to locate these guys and you’re like, guess their blind just like all your girlfriends

we lurv jealous jude🤭🤭idk abt this so i hope it’s okay and again it’s a little longer than a normal blurb but yeah

“that feels good.” jude half moaned, head tipped to one side as he let his eyes slip closed. he basked in the feeling of your hands over his back and shoulders, fingers massaging the sun cream into his skin. you were working at the tense muscles and it was making his head spin, relaxation washing over him and making it a little hard to think.

“yeah?” you sounded amused, lips curled into a soft smile at how pliant he’d gone beneath your hands. you were perched behind him on the sofa, up on your knees so you could easily rub the cream into his shoulders and the back of his neck. you still had his chest to do and you wondered if your friends would simply accuse you of feeling him up. you skimmed your palms over his biceps.

“y’should just keep doing this all afternoon.”

“would you pay me?”

“maybe not in money.” there was a teasing lilt to his words and you knew he was smirking, his mind as always in the gutter. it had you rolling your eyes, nipping playfully at the soft skin on the inside of his elbow, more than satisfied when he hissed. “stop being mean.”

“stop being crude.” you argued, slipping your palms across his back, trying not to let your mouth water at the sight of his muscles shifting in the sunlight. jude was beautiful all the time but there was something extra special about summer jude, his prettiness almost doubling when shirtless in the sun.

“i was actually thinking of paying you back by taking you to dinner, maybe you should stop being crude.”

“you’re such a liar.” he only hummed a low acknowledgment at that, peaking his eyes open and craning his head to look at you. you’d worked the suncream completely into his skin but you were still running your hands over him and jude was enjoying the attention a lot more than he probably should. there was something intimate about it, especially when you held his gaze and dug your fingers softly into his shoulder.

“s’that a no to dinner then?”

“you never actually asked me.” jude rolled his eyes, muttered something about you being so high maintenance and raised his eyebrows.

“do you wanna get dinner tonight?”

“yeah, suppose so.”

“you’re so annoying sometimes.” he huffed, reaching his arm out behind him to prod at your side. it had you squirming, a soft giggle tumbling from your lips but before you could throw him a retort, a waiter appeared at the side of the table. he hovered in front of your group of friends, a cocktail tray holding one glass held in his hand. he lifted it in the direction of you and jude.

“a sex on the beach.”

“seriously jude, how many more of those are you gonna buy her before you actually just ask her to shag you on the beach?” your best friend sounded amused, her words eliciting a round of laughter and teasing from the rest of the people settled around the seats. your boyfriend simply flipped her his middle finger, shaking his head at the waiter as the two of you settled properly onto the sofa.

“i didn’t order it. are you sure it’s for us?” he asked, leaning back against the sofa, his arm against the back as his thumb brushed across your shoulder. the waiter followed that movement and a half embarrassed smile tipped his lips.

“uh, yeah. it’s for you,” from over the back of the seats he passed the fruity drink to you before jabbing his finger back in the general direction of the bar. “from the blonde kid at the bar. he said to give it to the pretty girl in the blue bikini.”

at his words more muffled laughter spilled from the group and a half snort got caught in your throat, eyes trailing the bar in search of your buyer. there were multiple blondes gathered in the area, more than a few looking your way so you weren’t exactly sure who it had come from. jude had shifted beside you, lifted a little on the sofa to scour the bar as well.

“are you fucking kidding me?” there was a notch between his brows, annoyance and obvious jealousy colouring his tone and the waiter muttered something quiet before turning away. he clearly didn’t want to wait around for jude to ask him to specifically point out which guy had sent his girl a drink.

“i think you’ve got competition, bro.” one of the lads snickered and jude turned a glare on him, clearly not at all happy. the look on his face made your tummy flutter, stupidly happy that he was jealous. the whole holiday you’d had to sit and watch girls hit on him, send him shots with their numbers hidden under the glasses, accidentally bump into him and spill their drink so they could feel him up under the pretence of cleaning him off. it was nice to have the roles reversed for once. nice to know that jude got just as jealous as you over something that really was insignificant.

“a sex on the beach? seriously? why didn’t he just come over here and ask you to shag him?” he complained, again turning to check the bar. you followed his gaze, admittedly curious about your admirer but jude’s head was in the way and you wondered if he was blocking your view on purpose.

“babe, it’s just a drink.” you tried not to sound amused, free hand settling on his bicep and you rubbed softly, squeezed until he turned his head to you. he met your gaze just as you took a sip from the straw and his mouth swung open, disbelief colouring his features.

“are you seriously drinking it?”

“it was a free drink.”

“it was a proposition.” jude’s voice went up an octave and you had to bite into your cheek to avoid grinning, holding his gaze as you both ignored the buzzing conversation of your friends. they were all trying to find the source of the drink, muttering teasing words about your boyfriends obvious annoyance.

“one that i obviously wasn’t gonna take him up on.” you went to take another sip but jude’s fingers were around the glass, tutting softly as he pulled it away from you. he thrust it in the general direction of the rest of the group.

“noah, drink that.”

“are you being serious right now?” you asked, shifting on the sofa as he again turned his head towards the bar. he was a little more annoyed than you’d originally thought, shoulder tense when you smoothed your hand over it.

“i’m sitting right here. right next to you! you’ve been feeling me up for the past twenty minutes and i was literally kissing you not even ten minutes ago. what made him think he could just send you a drink.” he grumbled low in his throat, arms folding over his chest as he slumped back against the seat. you raised your brows at him.

“maybe he’s as dense as all your girlfriends.” you commented and it earned you a half arsed glare. you blew out a breathy laugh, slid across the seat until you could climb into his lap, straddling him with your thighs on either side of his. “it’s just a drink, jude.”

“it was a sex on the beach.”

“so?” reaching for his arms you unfolded them, took his hands and guided them around your waist until he locked his fingers together at your back. “you’ve been buying me them all day.”

“well, yeah, cause i wanna fuck you on the beach. it’s a proposition.” he was pouting, avoiding your gaze and instead focusing on the necklace that hung just below your throat. a necklace that had his initial on. you ran your hands back up his arms, squeezed his shoulders. “i can’t believe he saw us together and still thought it was a good idea.”

jude turned his head again but your fingers were on his jaw, turning him back to face you with a soft smile. the pad of your thumb swiped over his bottom lip in an attempt to brush away his pout and you leant in to nudge your nose against his cheek.

“you have nothing to be jealous about, y’know?”

“it’s disrespectful.”

“but i love you.” you cupped his jaw in your hands, pressed a kiss to his lips and bumped his nose as you bit back a smile. “it’s cute when you get all jealous though.” you watched his eyes roll, his arms tightening around your waist.

“i’m gonna need you to stop being so pretty.”

“says the one who’s been hit on a million times in the past two days.” you kissed him again, short and sweet, giggled when he tried to chase your mouth for more. “y’know, the beach’ll be pretty empty when that dj set is on tonight.”

jude paused where he’d been kissing the corner of your mouth, pulled his head back to meet your gaze, a certain heat flaring behind his eyes. there was still a crease between his brows and you smoothed it out with your finger, flashed him a somewhat flirty smile.

“you could show me what that proposition is all about.”

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Text

Im literally fucking dying why haven’t I heard of this account before

you’re wearing his kit | pg8

summary: pedri and y/n go public with their relationship and it doesn't take long before the media digs up her past with another barcelona player whose name happens to be on the back of her kit in one photo

pairing: pedri x reader ft. platonic!gavi

warnings: angst, a bit of fluff first

a/n: what's uppppp!! i'm back from the dead to say that i've been obsessed with pedri lately, so here's me contributing to a better society. enjoy! and to anyone who's also in the middle of exams, good luck soldier <3

*******

"This is scary." Pedri shoots you a sideways glance. You nod, not daring to take your eyes off the phone in front of you even though the screen is still black. You sit in silence for another five minutes before footsteps come banging down the stairs. They halt abruptly at the doorway, then shuffle into the living room.

"Guys?" Fer stops behind the couch.

You hum at the same time that Pedri grunts. Like a caveman. You shoot him a funny look that goes unnoticed as his eyes remain glued to the coffee table.

Fer's head pops in between the two of you. "Not to interrupt...whatever you're doing, but why are you staring at my phone? It's not even turned on."

Pedri's head snaps to his brother. "What?"

You sit up and look at him as well. "What do you mean it's not turned on?"

Fer reaches over to grab his phone, clicking the side button several times. "It's dead. I need to charge it."

Feeling like someone just poked a hole into your chest, you deflate against the back of the couch, your head falling onto Pedri's shoulder with a breathy laughter. "So we've been staring at nothing the last 20 minutes?" You ask and Fer snorts, flinging himself into the single armchair on your left to look for a charger.

"Yes," he says, plucking the cable into his phone. "You weirdos."

Pedri's shoulder shakes with laughter. He runs a hand through his hair and lets his arm fall behind your back to pull you further into his side. "This is already getting over our heads."

"You think so?" You deadpan and let out a giggle when he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck.

"Maybe we should just cut off all electronics for the next couple of days," Pedri mumbles into your skin and you have a feeling he's just thinking out loud. "It's only been half an hour and I'm so stressed, I thought I was going to lose all my hair."

Mortified, you look up and give his hair an experimental tug. You tug once more, but Pedri quickly wraps his hand your wrist and kisses your pulse, making you narrow your eyes at him. "Don't you dare go bald on me right after we announced to the world that we're dating. It'd look bad on me if I left you because of your shiny scalp."

Pedri moves back and raises his brows at you. "You would break up with me if I lost my hair?"

"Yes," you say without an ounce of shame. Fer lets out a snort.

"Why?" Pedri sputters. "I'd still look the same. My face wouldn't change. Honestly, I could look great bald."

You scoff although the corners of your mouth tug up. "Are you telling me you want to go bald?"

Pedri falters for a split second, but he nods. "To prove a point? Of course."

You regard him for a moment, searching his eyes for any signs that he will back down. You're not surprised to find none. He never backs down. Finally, you shrug. "Fine."

Fer perks up. "Wait, what?"

Pedri is still looking at you with absolute confidence, his gaze flickering between your eyes. A sly smirk slowly sweeps over his lips. "You sure about that, princesa?" He moves closer until you can feel his breath on your face and his voice drops. "I know how much you love holding onto it when you're—"

A pillow hits the side of his head.

"Okay!" says Fer loudly, flinging his arms around as if to swat away the rising tension. Pedri has the audacity to laugh after taking one glance at your flustered face. You smack his face with the pillow before tossing it back at his brother. He only laughs harder.

"Gross. Actually vile," Fer mumbles, glaring at the two of you before resuming to his phone. He freezes and his thumb hovers over his screen, mid-scroll.

"What's wrong?" Pedri asks, concern pushing off the laughter in his voice. "Fer?"

"I—" His brother looks up, gaze flickering to you before his fingers rapidly fly across the keyboard of his phone. Your spine straightens.

"Fer?" You can't help but sound alarmed as well. He keeps muttering to himself and the only thing you can make out are 'can't be' and 'she wouldn't.' You really need to know what's going on.

Pedri slides forward, hand settling on your knee before he kicks Fer lightly in the leg. "Hermano, what's wrong?"

You watch in high anticipation as his eyes scan the screen and it takes everything in you not to urge him to just say it. Are people saying horrible stuff online? Was it a bad idea to go public? If this is a mistake, there's no going back. You feel your heart pounding against your ribcage and Pedri notices because, of course, he does. He squeezes your leg and you send him a small smile.

His warm gaze calms you but there's wariness pulling at his eyes, so you press a gentle kiss to his shoulder. His smile grows and he pecks your cheek before looking back over to his brother, about to speak only to be cut off by the familiar ringtone slicing through the thick tension of the room. The volume makes you jump and you move to stand up, but Pedri swiftly kisses to the top of your head, telling you that he'll get it before hauling himself over the back of the couch to answer the call.

You know that both of you turned off all notifications before you made the post on Instagram, only allowing calls from close friends and family to come through.

"Gavi?" Pedri's voice drifts from the kitchen and Fer inhales sharply. You furrow your brows. His eyes find yours and you want to ask him what’s wrong, but his face is carefully devoid of emotions. His gaze feels accusatory and it honestly freaks you out.

"Fer?" You say cautiously, fingers fiddling in your lap. "What happened?"

Before he could reply, Pedri reenters the room. His voice rises as he responds to the person on the other end. He ignores your questioning look and stops in front of his brother, jabbing out his hand impatiently. Fer immediately drops his phone into his palm and your confusion multiplies as you watch your boyfriend's eyebrows draw together, chest rising. Gavi's voice can be heard faintly through the phone that is still pressed to his ear and you only realise now that it's yours. You forgot you have the same ringtone.

"Mhm," says Pedri absently while scrolling through Fer's phone, "okay, yeah." You get the impression that he's not paying attention to whatever Pablo is saying and now you're pissed because you're pretty sure you're going to die of curiosity or old age before anyone even bothers to tell you what's going on.

"I can see it—" Pedri snaps and instantly stops himself. He closes his eyes and bites his lip, his knuckles loosening around Fer's phone. "I know it's not…can you just—" He lets out a shaky breath and you can see him forcing the tension out of his shoulders.

"Look, I really don't want to hear your voice right now. So just- It's fine. No, it's fine. I know…yeah, bye," Pedri mumbles halfheartedly before tossing your phone onto your lap without sparing you much of a glance. You look down at your lock screen of Pedri and you sharing a cone of ice cream at the beach before the screen fades into black and your reflection stares back at you.

You look up at your boyfriend whose eyes are fixed on a spot on the armchair Fer is sitting on. Slowly, you stand up and step forward, hand reaching out to find Pedri's. Your fingertips grace his and that seems to shake him out of his thoughts. He moves his hand back and finally looks at you.

"Pedri?" Your voice is soft, mostly because you're afraid that speaking any louder might push him away. He looks so fragile right now. "Please tell me what's going on."

Without a word, he hands you Fer's phone. Letting your eyes linger on him a moment longer, you shift your gaze to the bold headline taking up half of the screen.

Scandal rocks FC Barcelona as New Girlfriend of Star Player Caught in Love Triangle! Shocking Photos Show Her Wearing Another Player's Kit at Games Before Going Public with Pedri!

"What?" Your eyes widen. The phone nearly slips out of your hands as you hastily scroll through the rest of the article, searching for the photos. You didn't, you thought. You would never! The photos are at the very bottom of the page and every second is absolute torture, but once the images load, your breath stutters. "What the hell?"

"Yeah," Fer scoffs and your head snaps up so fast, your neck twinges. "What the hell, Y/N?"

You make to speak but your gaze sweeps over your boyfriend who is simmering with resentment and sadness. You want to reach out, touch him, but you can tell it's gradually bleeding into anger. He's never been mad with you before. The only times you've seen him lose his temper was on the pitch. It doesn't take much to see that he's trying his absolute best to compose himself. You take a deep breath and muster a levelled gaze at his brother. "Fer, can you please give us a moment?"

"What?” He frowns. "No. Y/N, what were you thinking—"

"Out."

Fer’s mouth snaps shut as Pedri's voice cuts through the room.

"What?"

"Get out," Pedri grits through his teeth. Fer looks between you two before shaking his head with a sigh. He plucks his phone out of your hands and casts one last look at you. Once the door on the floor above clicks shut, you step in front of Pedri.

"I can explain."

He scoffs, eyes burning into yours for a brief second. Then, he's across the room as if he can't bear the thought of you near him. It stings. He keeps shaking his head and if you were in any other situation, you would've found it amusing how similar he was to his brother.

"Can you—" You watch him pace around, your patience dwindling. He keeps moving, looking anywhere but you, and it's driving you insane. Your chest tightens as you feel him work himself up, the situation slipping further and further from your fingers. "Pedro, can you just stop for one goddamn moment and let me explain."

Huffing, he finally comes to a halt on the other side of the coffee table and meets your eye. For an odd second, you feel thankful that the flimsy piece of furniture is separating you. As if it could do anything while the predator is flashing his bloody fangs. "Fine. Go on. What's the great explanation to this? Were you two dating and you just never thought to tell me?" Pedri bites out, speaking over you like you never even opened your mouth. "It's all too well then. I've found out with the rest of the world, didn't I? You know how much I love surprises. I'm flattered, really."

The sarcasm dripping off his words burn like acid and no matter how much you're shaking your head and trying to cut him off, he's not stopping until he draws blood. You know it's to match his own wound, but it doesn't make it any less painful.

"Gavi called you. Not me, his team mate and best friend. You. That's enough of an explanation, so I guess it's just all about the details now. Were you fucking Gavi before you got bored and decided I would have to do? Enlighten me, please."

Your mind is collapsing, failing to register the blunt ends of Pedri's words piercing through your skin. Tears burn in your eyes, but you are not going to cry. You won't. Not because of this.

"Where is this coming from?" You hate how hollow your voice sounds.

Pedri blinks at you. "You're not really asking me that. Do you think I don't know about the rumours? You and Gavi? How you liked him before we got together. Why it didn't work out between you, I have no idea because Gavi liked you too, you know. We used to listen to him talk about you in the dressing room before he finally introduced you to us as just his friend. And I made sure you were nothing else to him before I asked you out because he's my best friend and I didn't want to ruin anything."

"You didn't," you say, frowning. "We were never together. I've told you this before. Pablo was never my boyfriend. Nothing ever happened.”

Pedri shakes his head. "That doesn't change the fact that you had feelings for him and probably still do. You wanted to keep us a secret for months and now I see you having no problems wearing his name on your back, showing it off to the entire world before I even got to see you in my kit. My own girlfriend. Do you know how stupid I feel?"

You're not sure how it happened but Pedri is standing before you now, eyes shining bright with so much hurt. You know he won't back down. He never does. Struggling to breath, you take a step back. Your voice is thick when you speak. "This isn't fair."

"No," Pedri says, bitterly, stepping back as well. "It isn't." He exhales and looks to the side, eyebrows still drawn together. "I think you should go."

You stare at him. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you slowly nod. Fine. Sure. Whatever he wants. Who cares what you want. You feel so tired. Without a word, you grab your phone and head out the front door, letting it slam behind you.

Three days later, a girl slips Pedri her phone number and he tucks it into his pocket. The video goes viral and your phone doesn’t stop going off, so you turn it off completely. After all, the only person you actually wanted to talk to still hasn’t called.

A week later, Pedri is flying to Madrid to train with the national team and the only reason you know about it, is because of the red circle glaring at you on your kitchen calendar. How did it all fall apart so fast?

************

i have no idea what happens next or if anyone’s interested in reading a second part but if u are, let me know how you’d want this to be resolved and end bc pedri said some mean stuff here and we don’t know what the reader did or didn’t do and i honestly just never plan these things lmao stay hydrated x

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Text

J’suis sa baby | partie 3

wc: 1.5K

genre: 18+, fem!receiving oral, he’s annoying, obsessed with you (the usual) okay, this was originally supposed to be longer, have the party scene after, but I just needed to post something so! there will be a part 4, and probably part 5 mwhaha the gift..

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Woken from the spell that is sleep, you see the blurry image of João, who stands before your bed, clothed, you may add. He’s laughing, “you look so stupid.”

He hit your head with a pillow, not hard, but enough to make you stir, enough to make you turn over. There’s a moment where you think you may have slept with him the previous night, and dread seeps down into your skin. How could you be so stupid as to let him stay? Were you drinking? Your brother was home and to even start to explain this you’d rather jump off a cliff.

“You wear that to bed too?” He’s snarky, eyes glancing over your figure. Your mind relaxed a little bit; you didn’t sleep with him.

You groan, pulling the blankets over your legs; they always fell off by the time you woke up. Did he have to make that stupid comment? He acts like a teenage boy who hasn’t seen you naked most times you’ve had conversations.

Really, all you wore was a shirt and underwear — pretty normal things. You could imagine, though, the picture he saw of you. He probably saw the shirt ridden up to your waist, your underwear that hardly covered anything. He saw the expanse of your legs while you were face first in a pillow, sleeping peacefully mind him.

“Okay—none of your business! Please leave!” You whisper-yell, trying to make it plain how worried you were about this predicament, that your brother could hear down the hallway. There would be no context in which this would be normal — maybe if you were dying and he was the only one who could save you maybe, but years of general acquaintance never meant you were suppose to be seen in rooms alone together— especially not your room at eight in the morning, a flushed face and painfully angry because your brothers best friend couldn’t seem to stop making sexual remarks, loudly, you digress.

“He went out to get coffee. Calm down.” He takes a step closer, and you push back into the headboard. “You know, we’re not going to get caught. He’s like, more dumb than you so—“

“Oh my God, get out of my room! I need to get dressed.”

“You act like whenever I see you, it’s never in less clothing. Honestly, you’re more recognizable naked than anything else.” He seems pleased with himself, tongue toying with the inside of his cheek, smiling like crazy.

“You know what? I hate talking to you. You’re absolutely insufferable! Just go back outside and wait for my brother. Forget this happened.”

“What?” He’s not actually startled. He knew you would react this way. It’s like whatever you say he found undeniably funny. He’s calm; you can see the gears turning in his head, but most importantly, you can see the way he eyes you. There’s no liquor in your system to make the pit in your stomach go away and suddenly, you’re cowering, eyes averting his to fake seeing something behind him.

“I was thinking earlier, ‘wow, wouldn’t the birthday girl love for me to give her her gift before everyone else?’”

You totally forgot it was your birthday. You try to shuffle your hands through the sheets, searching for your phone, but it’s too far away for your grasp, and he’s still staring at you. Fuck.

“What gift?” You ask. He had only ever given you small words before when it was your birthday. Except for last year, when he gave you a bracelet he said reminded him of you when away in another country. At that point, you believed it was a gift for having to put up with him and your brother for so many years.

Oh. You think you can put ‘gift’ and ‘alone in a room’ together and get a reasonable answer.

“You’re saying that your dick is a gift?” You scoff, face heating up. Your stomach tingling with the nerves you always felt with him. You wouldn’t be able to take his cock so early in the morning — you think you’d die of embarrassment how loud you’d be while he stretches you out. And besides, you had at most ten minutes, and nights with him would last at least a couple times more than that.

“When did I say we were having sex?”

“Well, I mean, it was implied—obviously.”

You hated when he played those stupid mind games.

He tears the sheets up from you, seeing your bare legs, curled up because you’re a bit afraid of his presence. It’s like, whenever he came onto you, you could never say no, but in a good way. In the way that urged you, egged you on because you were as much, if not more obsessed with this relationship as he was. Probably more.

“João…” you warn, but he doesn’t cease the hand that inches up your leg.

“Seeing as you always beg me for it…”

“I don’t beg you, I-I just assumed, Jesus Christ—he’s going to be home soon!” His head finds between your legs. You liked to think you didn’t beg, but most times you were outside his door, begging like a lost puppy, because you needed him.

Risky sex was never your thing. It was already risky enough sleeping with him the amount of times you had. It was risky to let someone so close to your family, someone you’ve grown up with, someone not only with so much weight with your brother, but with seemingly the whole world. You never really forgot how famous he was. It was always in the back of your mind. If you were ever asked to go along with him and your brother in public after his eventual rise to the starting eleven, you always denied, always fearful of media and stories and being pictured doing something you weren’t doing. You think your brother liked to be involved in his fast-paced life, but you hated it. It was better anyways, in the confines of four walls. Like now.

Despite all this paranoia, this numbness that coursed through your body, you let your hands tangle in his soft hair while he kisses along your thighs.

“I have…” he pushes your underwear to the side, looks up to make eye contact, “…an actual gift.”

It’s almost comical thinking about him ever seriously buying you a gift.

“Really?” You ask, but you’re throbbing and your grip gets tighter in his hair, sounding exasperated, because as much as you loved when he’d talk to you, you were pretty short on time this morning.

“So impatient,” he scolds, sinking his hands deeper into your skin. That chill of embarrassment seeps down your spine. You know it’s just sex, and he’s just toying with you because that’s what he’s always done, but you couldn’t help the over exaggeration your body did on its own. You felt things, full force. Your face was heating up at two words. You shift your hips up, looking at the ceiling as if to cool your face down. Looking at the scene before you— it was too much. You ached when his tongue would wet his bottom lip, when his fingers would squeeze your skin.

“You’re so ungrateful. No ‘thank you’?”

You let out a pathetic thanks. His hand rides the fabric of your shirt up, touching the delicate, sensitive skin of your torso.

“Don’t leave me like this.” You beg, feeling the wetness gather between your thighs. He hums along your skin as he presses his lips to your lower stomach.

“I wouldn’t—fuck, you’re too pretty when you cum.” He dives back between your legs, forcing one wider with his hand. You stifle a moan at his words, own hands clasping around your mouth.

It was never anything less than your imagination. Never anything less than the last time either. Your hips buck into him immediately, gasping when he sucks on your clit. He’s soft, but coordinated, knowing every spot and doubling down at every time you vocalize for more. Him groaning into you doesn’t help either.

But obviously, nothing could ever be this fun. You hear your brother call out for him, somewhere in the kitchen and you have to pry his head away because he doesn’t hear it. You curse, seeing yourself glisten his lips, his cheeks red, hair a mess. You’re throbbing still, pulsating around nothing. It feels so empty, so wrong, when he’s not there. He’s smiling, almost laughing at the situation and you have to pull yourself off this high to force him up off the bed, bickering at him to go.

“I’ll help you finish tonight, at the party.” His fingers go to wipe his lips and chin, sucking them in his mouth as if to clean up the mess.

“Just go, asshole.”

He can’t stop smiling, watching your figure as he opens the door.

236 notes · View notes

kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Text

you sunshine, you temptress; jude bellingham

summary: a quiet tryst isn’t as quiet as you think

pairing: jude bellingham x fem!reader

requested: yes

warnings: 18+ minors dni, oral (m), praise, kinda getting caught??

notes: you can find my masterlist here. uhm idk how i feel abt this so feel free to give feedback and hopefully u enjoy!

"this is terrible." you mumbled the words against jude's lips, let him swallow them down as he kissed you, your fingers wrapped loose around his cock. you dragged them up, squeezed softly at the tip to make him grunt, hips bucking further into your hand. your back was pressed against the bathroom door, jude's body flush against you, both of his hands cradling your jaw to keep you close.

"s'not, they won't even know we're, oh fuck, we're missing." he half whined when you tightened your grip and twisted your wrist, his legs feeling like jelly despite the fact you'd only just started. he'd been hard all afternoon, watching you in your low cut dress, his fingers grazing your bare thighs whenever he got the chance. he'd gotten tired of barely there touches and had dragged you up to the bathroom, pushed you up against the door and practically begged you to make him cum.

"i'm making an awful impression."

"they already love you."

"they won't if they find out what we're doing up here." jude was finding it hard to concentrate on your words or concerns, his mind blank from pleasure, his only thoughts being about getting you on your knees. his thumb swiped beneath your eye, the tip of his nose dragging up the side of yours as his hips rocked forward to match your pace.

"then we'll be quick," he kissed your cheek, lips trailing back to your mouth and his soft moan set your skin alight. you'd grazed your thumb over the head of his cock, teased over the slit as pre cum dripped over your fingers and jude had gone slightly dizzy. "just need your mouth, babe, need you to suck me off, yeah?"

you were nodding despite your worries over his family, and you pushed him back a little, just enough for you to drop to your knees in front of him, eyes locked on his. you licked your lips and blinked up at him, innocent as always and one of jude's hands reached for your face, brushed soft over your cheek before settling on the back of your head. his other hand wrapped around his cock, pumped a few times before he tapped the head against your lips.

"open for me, baby." you did as asked, jaw dropping open, tongue flat out and you hummed low in your throat when he grazed his tip over it. you watched his stomach tense the second you pressed your lips to him, soft and wet on the underside before you kissed down to his happy trail. your teeth sunk teasingly into the skin of his exposed hip before your tongue laid flat on the side of his cock. you were slow in dragging it over the length of him, kitten licking the swollen tip as he stroked his thumb over your jaw.

"look so fucking pretty, y'know." again you hummed at the compliment, wrapped your lips around the soft head and sucked, fluttered your lashes when you looked up at him. with his shirt gone you had a clear view of his chest and that ladder of hair that drove you crazy, your fingers reaching up to brush over it. his chest heaved on a staggered breath, head falling back just slightly until the vein in his neck tightened.

gaze still on him you slowly lowered your mouth over his cock, let your tongue glide over him as you took him halfway before pulling off again. you set a steady pace like that, not taking him in completely, focusing most of your attention on the swollen tip until he was getting impatient, pushing at the back of your head and urging his hips forward. he gave a frustrated grunt when you suckled his head again.

"baby, c'mon, don't tease. i know you can take more than that, take it all for me." he swiped his thumb over your cheek before pressing the palm of his hand flat against the door, his other once again pushing the back of your head to get you to take him deeper. without any resistance you let him, relaxed your throat and took him to the back of it, didn't stop until your nose was pressed into the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. he held you there with his head thrown back. "there you go, just like that."

his hips thrust forward, tried to push further down your throat and you gagged around him, nails sinking into the skin of his thighs as tears gathered in your eyes. jude only groaned, a low, rough sound that travelled through you, had wetness pooling in your underwear. when he let you pull off him you did so slowly, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth as you took him straight back in, ignoring the ache in your jaw at the stretch and the dizzying lack of oxygen.

with your hands on his thighs you let him guide you, opened your mouth and lolled your tongue so he could fuck his cock down your throat at the pace he liked. he kept it somewhat slow, lazy pumps of his hips and pushes of your head to make you take everything, your gags and splutters only urging him on. he was getting loud, breathy moans and grunts of your name echoing in the bathroom but having his cock stuffed completely down your throat had all concerns of being quiet out of the window.

"god, you feel so good." jude rocked his hips, used your mouth like he would your pussy and when you swirled your tongue over him, swallowed around his thick length his legs almost buckled. "m'gonna cum, gonna fill your mouth and you're gonna swallow it all yeah? show me how good you are." you couldn't answer, could only moan around him, the vibrations enough to make his hand press harder against your head.

you managed to move at your own pace again, head bobbing over his cock, one hand coming up to squeeze softly at his balls until his moans sounded more like whimpers. he was close, cock twitching on your tongue, his stomach tense and he bucked messily towards your face when you hollowed your cheeks and sucked around him. your fingers wrapped around what you couldn't comfortably fit in your mouth and you jerked him quickly, focused on dragging your mouth over the top of his cock, sucking softly at his tip.

"oh my god, fuck, baby." his orgasm hit him hard and he came with a whiney cry of your name, unable to stop the noises from spilling past swollen lips when you took him to the back of your throat again. his cum filled your mouth, dripped down his cock and your fingers as you worked him through it, wrist twisting to wring as much and pleasure out of him as possible. "good girl, just like that, yeah? doing so well for me, keep your mouth open, babe."

you did as you were told, swallowed everything he gave you and kept your jaw slack, enough so jude could pump his hips and ride it out at his own pace. his cock was softening and he watched with hooded eyes as you licked him clean, pressed a kiss to his tip before tucking him back into his boxers. he was slightly dazed, skin hot to touch and a little sweaty, his entire body weight held up by one hand pressed against the door.

you grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter, cleaned up your hand and wiped away the spit and cum that had spilled passed your lips. jude was trying to catch his breath, chest rising and falling rapidly and he hummed in appreciation when you kissed the spot over his heart. your lips dragged across his chest, pressed hot over his throat before finding his jaw, nipping teasingly at the sensitive skin.

"you're gonna kill me one day." he mumbled into your ear, returning your kisses with his own against your hair.

"because i'm so good at giving head?"

"you're sinful at giving head." you could only giggle, nose at the underside of his jaw as he arms wrapped tight around your waist. he stroked his fingers over your back, light and teasing beneath your shirt and you felt him smirk when you shuddered. "we should probably go help with dinner."

"i need to fix my make up." jude pulled his head back at that, tilted his gaze down to take in the smudged mascara beneath your eyes and the slight mess of lipstick over your chin. he gave a soft chuckle and pressed a kiss to your lips.

"you look like you just gave the best blow job of your life." your grin was crooked, your eyes raking down his body, fingers slipping beneath the elastic of his boxers before letting it snap against his skin. he hissed.

"you look like you just got the best blow job of your life."

the two of you had thought you'd gotten away with it, were convinced you hadn't been too loud, that no one had heard anything suspicious. in your head you thought jude hadn’t been that loud, sure he’d been noisy but not enough to be heard downstairs and you’d both cleaned up enough not to look messy. that was until midway through cleaning up after dinner when jude’s dad spoke up.

“the bathroom isn’t soundproof y’know, son.” silence followed his words, his smirk only growing as he watched you and jude glance at each other, his mum confused at her spot by the fridge. jobe raised his eyebrows, clearly just as confused.

“i- uh, okay?” his dad gave a laugh and shook his head and that’s when it clicked, jude’s eyes widening, your own jaw dropping as embarrassment flooded over you. “oh my god.”

“just a little word of warning for next time. actually, please don’t let their be a next time, we share that bathroom.” jobe’s laughter joined his father’s loud and overly entertained and you had never wanted the floor to swallow you more. jude groaned from his spot beside you, his arm pulling you closer when you hid your face away in chest.

his mum didn’t know where to look, her gaze darting from you and your boyfriend to her laughing husband and son, clearly not finding the situation funny the way they did. she gave a shake of her head and sighed, a sigh that said she was sick of being surrounded by boys.

“jude, please keep those things to your bedroom, okay?”

“bro, you are so not living this down!”

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

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I’m literally in love

the way i just KNOW jude wld be so obsessed with just slowly rubbing ur clit to get u all worked up then he'd just leave

oh he'd be such a bitch when it came to stuff like this??!! watching you get ready in the morning as he's sorting his shower out, your eyes catching in the reflection of the mirror as you'd ask him what he was looking at but he'd just shrug all playfully. so you'd go back to minding your own business as you carried on getting ready, jude taking you by surprise as he'd hug you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as his hands would cup your stomach.

and you didn't have to question him because you knew he loved being close to you, his eyes glinting as you smiled at him softly. his hands would drop, fingers toying with the waistband of your trousers and he could tell the sudden change in your breathing at the thought of his hands venturing further. and then they would, his fingers slipping between the thin cotton of your underwear, blindly finding your clit as he'd press a finger against it.

he'd be so slow and deliberate, rubbing it in small circles as you'd arch your back slightly into him and grip the sides of the sink. his eyes wouldn't leave your reflection, the sight of your eyelids growing heavy and your mouth falling open making him want to bend you over and take you right there; but he'd simply drag his hand from between your legs, your clit burning from where you missed him. and you didn't even get a chance to protest as he'd press a kiss to your temple before pouting that he was going to be late for training.

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Text

don’t call me baby - jude bellingham

summary: jude isn’t happy you brought a date to the monthly hangout and jealousy gets the better of him

pairing: situationship!jude x fem!reader

warnings: 18+, minors dni, fingering, choking

notes: you can find my masterlist here. kinda based on this ask that i got

"ow, what're you doing? get off." jude clicked his tongue at your tone and the way you yanked your arm from his grip, pushed you lightly through the bathroom door. he locked it behind you, leant up against it with a deep frown. you hated him for looking so hot when he was clearly pissed off at you. you matched his glare with one of your own. "what do you want?"

"you brought a date?" it was mostly an amused scoff but you heard the hard edge of annoyance in the last word, a stab of victory flaring inside of you. you folded your arms and leant back against the bathroom counter, the few feet between you suddenly feeling like miles. your skin felt hot under his gaze, need blooming deep in your chest because it had been at least two weeks since he'd last touched you and as much as you hated it, you craved the feeling of him.

"he's not my date."

"he know that?" you narrowed your eyes at the boy in front of you before lowering your gaze, picking at your nails in a disinterested manner. your heart thudded because he'd stepped a little closer and you could smell the faint scent of his aftershave. it was your favourite, the one he told you once he only wore because he knew you liked it and knowing he'd chosen to wear it tonight made you just a little giddy.

"probably," you shrugged. "who cares, i'll be going home with him whether he's my date or not." you wouldn't be but jude didn't need to know that. you wanted to rile him up enough that he'd break the two week drought you'd been in. you knew it was working when his jaw clenched, nostrils flaring just a little. his brows dug a deeper groove in his forehead and he took another step towards you. his white shirt was open at the top and the tiny slither of skin almost had you drooling.

"oh really?"

"mhm, he promised he'd take care of me." jude's eyes flashed and then suddenly he was directly in front of you, both hands on the counter by your hips to block you in. he'd clocked the underlying meaning to your words and you knew he wasn't happy, the glare on his face making you ache, thighs pressing together in an attempt to dull the feeling. the scent of his aftershave again wrapped around you, made you want to press your face into his neck and breathe him in.

"did he now? what exactly did he promise he'd do, babe?" his head dipped and for the first time in two weeks his lips were on your skin. he brushed them lightly over your jaw, grinned when you shivered against him and your head tipped back just slightly. his touch was too light, his chest too far away. you wanted him against you, wanted to feel the heat of his skin, to feel his fingers grip you so hard there were guaranteed to be bruises left behind. "he promise he'd fuck you?"

"i don't really think it's any of your business." your voice shook just a little because he'd sunk his teeth softly into the sweet spot below your ear, soothed his tongue over the mark only a second later. everything beyond the bathroom door faded away, it was just the two of you, still stuck in this dangerous dance. you needed him to touch you properly, to get it over with because the ache was so intense you almost wanted to cry. hands balled into fists, you refused to touch him first, willed him with your mind to press his hand beneath your skirt.

"is that a no then?" he made a noise of faux sympathy, lifted his head from the crook of your neck and met your gaze again. a hand lifted from the counter and he brushed his knuckles softly over your jaw, the gesture far too adoring for the relationship the two of you had. you tried not to lean into him, swallowed thickly when he thumbed at your bottom lip. "how long's it been?"

"hm?" you couldn't think straight, his hips were flush to yours and you could feel his cock, hard and heavy pressing against you. his fingers danced across your throat, tickled over your collarbone but he kept his eyes fixed on yours, even when they grazed the swell of your boob in the low cut top you'd chosen to wear.

"how long's it been since someone fucked you?" he wasn't asking out of innocent curiosity, what he really wanted to know was if he had been the last person to fuck you. instead of answering you gave him a half shrug. "well you're looking at me like you want me to take you right now so i'm guessing it's been a while." his lips tilted into a smug smirk, his hand finding it's way over your side and down your thigh until he could tug at the hem of your skirt. "tell me you want it."

you stared at him in silence for a few seconds, brows drawn in together, pussy wet and throbbing from how close he was to touching you. his fingers were toying with the lace of your underwear, slipping beneath it to smooth over your skin. he shifted his hips to grind his dick against you and your breath hitched, annoyance and lust tangling together. you were hypersensitive to his touch, to his fingers and the way his lips were hovering over your jaw, his breath washing hot across your skin.

"or do you wanna go home with someone you know can't make you feel as good as i can?" he was so cocky you wanted to punch him but a stronger part of you wanted to kiss him, to shift his hand over just a few inches and let him ruin you. the second part of you won.

"god, you're so fucking full of yourself." your arms were suddenly around his neck, one hand against the back of his head to tug him towards you and the second your lips landed on his it was over. his mouth covered yours in a heated kiss, a sigh of relief catching in your throat. jude pressed a hand against your back, pulled you closer to him as he rocked his hips towards you, his other hand still dangerously close to your pussy.

the kiss turned harsher, the desperate drags of his tongue over yours making it hard to think, even more so when he nipped at your bottom lip. with his foot he knocked your feet a little further apart, pressed you harder into the counter with a low groan. he still wasn't touching you and it was driving you insane, your hips wriggling against him.

"jude."

"tell me what you want."

"you know what i want." his mouth was on your neck, teeth and tongue teasing across your skin until you were whining, all composure out of the window. one of your hands reached for his, fingers wrapping around his wrist to guide him between your legs. he pressed his palm flat over your underwear and let you grind yourself over him.

"tell me or i'll stop."

"why're you being so difficult?"

"if you wanted it that bad you'd just tell me." you rocked into his palm, the constant bump against your clit making your head spin but it still wasn't enough. jude sucked a mark against your jaw. "c'mon, use your words like we talked about." before jude you would never be demanding during sex, would never ask for what you wanted but with him it was different. he wanted you to ask. he wanted you to tell him exactly what you needed from him.

"i want you to make me cum."

"yeah? how?" you pouted despite the fact he wasn't looking at you and pressed a little harder against his palm. your underwear was in the way and the pleasure going to your clit wasn't enough, you needed more of him.

"your fingers. please, jude. want you to finger me." your cheeks burned, half in embarrassment, half in need and jude made a soft sound, kissed his way back to your mouth and offered you a grin.

"what would greg think if he heard you like this?" he slipped his hand into your underwear and the second his middle finger found your clit you went weak against the counter. he circled it slowly.

"his name's george."

"i really don't care." he was kissing you once more, brushing his fingers through your folds before pressing over your clit again. it was humiliating how worked up you already were when he hadn’t really done anything. the slick sounds between your thighs had jude groaning into your mouth. “you’re fucking soaked, babe.”

you thought he was going to draw it out, make you work for it considering how annoyed he’d first seemed but he surprised you when he circled the tip of his finger around your slick hole. he teased it inside, pulled out and went back to your clit, rubbed soft circles over it with the pads of his fingers. your head fell back and his lips were on your throat in an instant, sucking and biting at every bit of skin he could reach, his fingers swiping over you just a little bit faster.

when he finally sunk his fingers into you, your entire body tensed, walls wrapping snug around the two digits and sucking them back in. jude hummed against your skin, let his mouth travel down your chest and across the swell of your boobs. his fingers twisted inside you and he bit down, had you whimpering his name as he marked you with his teeth. his pace started slow and steady, fingers hooking to press against that spongy spot that made your back arch and your legs quiver. your nails dug into the back of his neck and he hissed at the pain.

somewhere in the back of your mind you were aware your friends were all downstairs and had probably realised the two of you had disappeared together. it was no secret to them that the two of you had something going on, they’d caught you on more than a couple of occasions but you’d promised this time was different. you’d sworn there would be no going back to him, george was supposed to be proof of that.

george.

the boy you’d brought along was still downstairs, most definitely wondering where you were and although you should feel bad about that you couldn’t bring yourself to. instead you rocked against jude’s fingers, clenched around them when he scissored them slightly. his thumb was on your clit, pressing over it in messy circles, pushing you further and further towards the edge. you were so wet you could feel it dripping from you, making a mess of your thighs and underwear, stickying jude’s wrist.

“that’s it, fuck, can feel how tight you are, wish i was fucking you with my cock instead .” his mouth found yours again and he kissed you a little harsher than before, slowed the thrusts of his fingers as he switched his angle and pressed them a little deeper. your head felt thick with desperation and you couldn’t bite back the loud moan when the fingers of his other hand curled around your throat. he squeezed the sides lightly, let his mouth hover over yours as he watched your reaction.

“think you can handle another?” for a second you weren’t sure what he was referring to but then he stroked his fingers against your slick walls, smirked and you understand. you were quick to nod, rolling your hips forward again. your tummy burned and your clit throbbed, your orgasm fizzling low inside of you. “good girl.”

his third finger was quick to join the other two, the stretch making you whine and cling to him, pussy clamping down so tight jude gave a low groan of pleasure. his cock was hard in his jeans and he had no issues grinding against you to get some relief. he crooked his fingers and picked up his pace, fucked you so hard tears started to fill your lash line. the sounds were obscene, loud and echoey in the bathroom, your moans and the slick wetness of your cunt fighting for dominance over what could be louder.

jude upped the pressure around your throat, kissed softly at your bottom lip before pressing his forehead to yours. he was so close he was swallowing all the pants and moans you were letting loose, your noises only spurring him on until he was fucking you at such a brutal pace your knees threatened to give out. you clung to his biceps for support, nails digging deep into the muscles they were sure to leave behind marks. the pads of his fingers repeatedly assaulted the most sensitive spot inside of you, each pass against it making you even wetter.

“tell me you missed me, baby.” the term of endearment dripped from his lips in a tone you’d never heard before, soft and adoring, loving like it never had been. it had you whimpering, head shaking as your walls started go spasm around him.

“don’t call me that.” jude blinked and then scoffed, twisted his wrist harshly and bumped your clit. the action was a little mean and you half sobbed in reply, teetering so close to the edge it was almost painful. he squeezed again at your throat, tipped your head back a little and sucked at your jaw again. you knew you were gonna be covered in marks from his hands and his lips but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“y’don’t want me to call you baby but you wanna fuck yourself on my fingers?” you managed a weak glare in response and shut him up with a scathing kiss. he rocked his fingers faster, stretched you open even further with them as you started to gush around them, your orgasm right in front of you. jude knew it too and he pulled back with a slow grin, released your throat so he could wrap the material of your skirt on his fist and lift it.

he made sure your pussy was on display for him, soaked and puffy, tight hole stretched around his fingers and gripping them so tight. he angled his wrist so each time he fucked into you his palm rubbed over your clit, his actions rough and messy the way he knew you liked. his smirk doubled when your thighs started to shake and your moans got increasingly higher in pitch, walls fluttering around his fingers as you tried to suck him back in.

“there it is, c’mon, pretty girl, give it to me. wanna feel you cum. you’re doing so well, taking it like a champ, babe, gonna fuck you later, yeah? cause you’ve been so good f’me.” jude’s words made you light headed, made you ache with the need for release as he kept up the brutal pace. he fucked your hole as you leaked over your wrist, tears spilling over your cheeks from how good his palm felt over clit.

“jude,”

“shh, s’okay, i’ve got you. let it go. c’mon, soak my fingers, want everyone downstairs to know what i’m doing to you.” he let go of your skirt and slipped his hand around the back of your neck, brought you in for a desperate kiss and the second his lips met yours you were letting go.

you came around his fingers with a muffled cry, your release making a mess of his hand, dripping down your thighs as he fingered you through it. he shifted so he could rub soft circled over your clit to drag out the aftershocks, his fingers buried knuckle deep inside of you. he kept them there, stroked your swollen walls until you were shaking your head and clamping your thighs shut.

you pulled your lips from his, blinked heavily at him as he withdrew his fingers, sticky with your cum and brought them up to your mouth. you wrapped your lips around them obediently, sucked and swirled your tongue until they were clean. jude gave a quiet moan, went in for another kiss as soon as you let the three digits go. it was messy and a little lazy, slow drags of his tongue over yours.

you’re not sure how long you stayed like that, his body pressing yours into the counter, your mouths moving in slow tandem, his hand on your hip brushed soothing circles with his thumb. it was intimate, more intimate than coming on his fingers and you knew something had shifted between you. a sudden knock on the bathroom door broke you apart, had you shoving at jude’s chest and straightening out your clothes.

“if you two are done fucking, george is looking for you.” your best friends voice was laced with amusement, a stark contrast to jude’s expression when you met his gaze. his eyes were dark, brows drawn together, a twisted look on annoyance around his mouth. his voice was rough when he spoke.

“why don’t you go be a good girl and tell george you’re leaving early? i’ll get us an uber.” he didn’t have to ask if you were going home with him, it was a given after what had just happened. and it was sad, really, how quickly you'd ruin something good for the smallest chance jude might finally decide he wants you completely.

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Text

j’suis sa baby | partie 2 ★

wc: 3.3K

summary: he’s become your crux. the person you go to to relieve stress. but it’s complicated when things get too heated, tricked by love, and you kiss him as if he’s your boyfriend.

warnings: nsfw, cursing, dirty talk (he’s crazy), stupid party scenes, possessiveness, little bit of angst if you squint, let’s just say his fingers.

part 1!!

He liked to bend you over things, really just so he wouldn’t see your face. It was a way to distance himself, granted that was even possible if inside you. He was pretty good at sabotaging himself. He found it very hard to not give in with you on top a couple weeks ago, in all your panting, sweaty glory.

So he really doesn’t know how you’re underneath him, head hitting the pillow with anticipation laced on your face.

You had showed up a little bit disheveled, and he was confused. Sure, coming to his door, there was always an element of shame that surged through you, but today you looked different; at least for the split second because you’re on him in seconds, pushing him back towards the hallway while your fingers grab the hem of his shirt.

“Well, hello to you too—“ he says, softly taking hold of your wrists, so you can slow down, and so he can see you fully. You kinda forget that he knows you more as a person than he lets on. Like, he’s known you for years, and you’ve tried to skim past that part, that obviously he wasn’t close enough so none of this would ever make you feel more than you should, but alas, life never worked that way.

“Do all guys just cheat?” You ask, and he’s bewildered, mouth hung a little open. There’s a pause.

You hadn’t seen João in a couple weeks. He’s guessed why.

“You’ve been with this guy, what, three weeks?” He doesn’t say it in a condescending way, more like an absolutely shocked way. How could anyone cheat on you? Everyday, he thinks he can add more reasons on why you both should be together.

“Answer my question, please.” You’re still in the hallway, and he’s looking down on you like you just told him his pet fish died or something.

“Well, I wouldn’t, so that makes me one.”

“Okay, I don’t know why I asked the loser who doesn’t have a girlfriend.” Oh my god. He’d probably kick you out if he knew what was best for him. He probably gets annoyed that you use your usual rhetoric during serious moments, or at times that are so intimate he can taste your skin. But he smiles, hands still wrapped around your wrists. He always laughed when you said something immature.

He was also anything but a loser.

He hums, crinkles forming in the corner of his eyes, and your heart drops. You didn’t realize it, but you ached to see him the whole day. You tried to restrain yourself — that maybe you could get over this stupid relationship you had with this guy without falling into João’s bed. It wasn’t about the guy anymore — it never was. Oh God, it never was.

You realized how much time you spent trying to block him from your life.

You’d caught him studying in your living room. All with his overgrown hair, collared shirt, and scrawny legs, gnawing at the end of his pencil. He had that look only a teenage boy could emulate. You think your brother begged him to stop, and you watched as one day he grabbed the back of his head and forced him into the books he was reading. Joao would always yell at him, and then they’d go off to play football like they did everyday. And you finally could walk around freely because having Joao at your house nearly everyday, you couldn’t leave your bedroom — your heart pounded vigorously whenever he made conversation with you.

It was worse when you were stuck with him. His friend group intermingled with yours. As you got older, parties happened. He was impossible to miss. Sometimes you’d make eye contact for a little too long, but he was very unserious, so he’d just smile tauntingly.

He was that guy in the sense as he got taller than you he took it as free rein to tease as if you were his own little sister. Beneath the retorts, it made you furious. Not as furious as when you’d see pretty women attached to his hip though. They were different every week, which off-put you. But you told yourself that as long as he didn’t have a girlfriend, wait, why do you care again?

He was just annoying. And you felt things for other men, your relationships went well, very much healthy— until they weren’t and you showed up on his porch step for the fifth time in a month.

“Not very nice coming from someone who wants to have sex with me tonight.”

This would have been the part where you would have denied it but you tried to fuck him against the wall two minutes ago.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just joking—“

“It’s alright.” He smiles again. “I know I don’t have the best reputation with women anyways.”

Except you. Other than the fact that it’s strictly physical.

“I wonder why…?” you thought out loud, trying to rile him up on purpose now.

His response is to place his hands on the backs of your thighs, picking you up swiftly. You gasp, a small shriek coming out, but you let yourself lay against his neck, pressing your lips across the expanse you had access to while he walks to the one place you’ve grown to know very well: his bedroom.

“I don’t know why you keep coming back if you act like you don’t like it, like you don’t love me,” your back softly hits the bed, and he’s fast to talk, unbuckling his belt while hovering over you.

You hated how English had so much ambiguity for the most important words, more so you hated the obscurity of his. Obviously this was dirty talk and love didn’t mean what it actually meant, but you would’ve said yes if there wasn’t a logical side of your brain still working. You just keep eye contact, gaze following how his shirt lifts up a bit, showing his v-line briefly. That alone could make any girl blush and you were just a girl after all.

“Seems like you always come back to me,” he says absentmindedly, lips coming to kiss at your jaw. Sometimes he’d get so excited he’d stop whatever he was doing because you looked so kissable.

You don’t think he meant that either, or, you can’t tell anymore. Maybe it brought him this power, an ego, that you always seemed to want him more than your boyfriends. Most of them never lasted longer than a month, so it was evident the smug smile on his face.

You just kinda moan to give him an answer.

His hands find the soft skin underneath your shirt and you squirm at how warm they are. He’s busy connecting his mouth to your collarbone, furthering his exploration down. You’ve always been overwhelmed when you’re with him. Your brain is always in a frenzy. Your skin always hot like you’ve been sitting in the sun for hours.

He’s undressing you. Gentle, while you watch him with lazy eyes. How he props your body up easily so he can pull your shorts off.

“He ever do this to you?” He had a habit of talking about other men, comparing himself and his skills. He probably wanted to know he was the best at everything. Ugh. He valued your opinion too much.

“Huh?” He whispers, wanting you to speak with words. Everything that came from his mouth made you want to roll your eyes to the back of your head, especially how he had his hands so hot and heavy over your inner thighs; how his lips trail down your chest.

Fuck— you shouldn’t have done it. You kissed him. You titled his chin up, saw his big eyes watching and taking you in, and just kissed him because you were tired of acting like you didn’t like it.

As soon as you broke away, he’s on you like he’s granted all this newfound possibility. He holds your jaw, teases you by placing his lips so close you’re almost touching. You can hear the beating of your heart, feel the thick tension in the air that barely keeps you two apart. It’s silly that only by your reassurance does he feel comfortable doing something so rudimentary.

You gasp into his mouth when two fingers move your panties to the side and he wastes no time in stimulating you.

As hard as it is for him, he stops kissing you to watch the scene unfold. You always hated when he’d move down, put his face so close so he could watch as if this was his full time job, and stimulating you, bringing you over the edge, was his payoff. It was always embarrassing.

‘Hate’ is also a pretty ambiguous word considering it meant love in most circumstances with him. You loved it. Especially when he’d suck his own fingers after. You swear he must be doing this on purpose to make you fall in love with him. This was all part of his sick game to make you obsessed.

“God—“ he breathes out, picking up all the wetness that falls out, unsticking his two fingers to see the trail. You whimpered. Your bottom half was burning, your hips practically on edge, keening to his touch. It became an addiction. You couldn’t be without him for days. Honestly you don’t know how you got through two weeks. It’s easy to say you never stopped thinking about him though. Your fingers were never going to be his, as much as you’d try.

Your head falls back when he starts up again, rubbing in circles. Your thighs want to wrap around his head, and he tries his best to keep them wide, so he has to coo you and it just makes it harder; his voice mixed with his fingers is utter sin.

He never let that awkward silence settle between you. He liked to ramble, and you liked to listen — given you weren’t really coherent in the moment anyways.

“Hmm, I’m good aren’t I?” He says. Your heart pounds so hard in your ears. You can barely register anything.

“Shut up…” you manage to whimper. You sound pathetic. Sometimes you look back on your nights with him and wonder so often how he puts up with you. You were always a whiny, moaning mess and he’d barely even start. Most days you’re so tired you can’t please him like society’s told you to do. Secretly, you love it, but you also know he can leave whenever he wanted. There was no commitment, and you were always worried another woman would sweep him away.

“You love my voice…but you love my fingers more, huh?” All you can do is say his name, self conscious that he’s so close to bringing you to the edge so early.

He cleans you when you’re done, and even though you’re a bit delirious, you try to protest. He uses his new-found power to kiss you, to shut you up. And he wants so bad to keep you here, keep you wrapped in his sheets, but you shouldn’t be in his house. He was too hypnotized by you at his door to think any of this out throughly.

He thinks he took advantage of you. If you hadn’t broken up with that guy, if he hadn’t let you into his home so late at night, would you have kissed him? He doesn’t even know if you’re in the right mind.

It was so sudden and shame washed over you. He’s finally realized he didn’t need you. He helps you from the bed, pulling your underwear up your wobbly legs. It doesn’t go unnoticed his lingering touch.

“You should go home. It’s late. Please.”

He was your friend first before anything, and you don’t see it because your heart crumbles.

———

He hates when you speak languages he can’t understand. He feels left out and he wants to understand every word that comes out of your pretty mouth. He grasps onto the way your lips move — how different it is when you speak with him. Your voice changes slightly, your brows furrow more because you’re trying to concentrate on your own grammar. It doesn’t come as easily. You look so vulnerable and he doesn’t really know why. You kind of fidget with your hair too, eyes ducking down ever so often because of nervousness, long eyelashes brush your cheeks. All of this, and he’s spiraling.

All of this, this party, and he’s still spending it staring at you. Well, he had a pretty good reason: the man standing in front of you. He’s never seen him before. But he’s standing there, close, and watching you with a look João knows all too well; it’s the same look he gives you. That was concerning.

He felt awful watching, leaving the girl across from him slightly confused (though she was too drunk to fully understand), as you giggled at the man’s words, stepping closer with lust-stricken eyes. It was crushing — seeing your lips move, beautiful with a language he couldn’t understand. He wishes he could speak it with you. At least then, he’d know what that man was telling you, and that irritated him the most.

He can’t do anything. He’s your brothers friend. He has no say in anything. Besides, he hasn’t talked to you since that night he told you to go home. He felt awful.

He sees the man duck his head down to your ear, blocking his view of your face. It’s then when he has to sit down on the nearest surface to stop himself from doing something he shouldn’t. He hasn’t been drinking for this very reason. He wants to stay sober if you needed him for anything — which was childish, he knew. But God forbid something happened to you and he was too drunk to help. Your brother wasn’t here, he says. He felt overprotective, he justifies as his jaw clenched.

When your head emerges again, you’re still smiling, but you look around, and lock eyes with him. Eye contact with João always made your heart skip a beat. He sees you whisper something back to the guy.

He can barely believe when you make your way over to where he’s sitting. You’ve only ever really made eye contact with him at parties — tried to act cool with your friends in hopes they wouldn’t catch onto your fling. You look like a dream and you can see his eyes move up and down in the dim light.

He almost curses out. You stand over him for a moment, tell him hi in the sweetest voice. He thinks you’re trying to work your gears back into English. You abruptly place both your knees on either side of him, using his lap as a seat. He remembers a few weeks ago, you were in this position, without clothes and crying from it all. You cried from pleasure into his neck. You couldn’t walk straight, though try as you might’ve to deny it.

“How was training today?” You ask, and he’s watching every movement your eyes make, any indicator of anything really. Small talk was never forced between you two, but it’s kinda hard when you look straight out of his fantasies. He couldn’t focus in this position. Thinking too many awful things. That’s what you did to him: clouded his judgement.

“It was alright,” he hums. Usually he would talk more, but he’s trying to look everywhere but your face.

“What’s wrong with you?” You finally ask, heart beating fast, trying to figure out if it was rejection. You’ve sat for a long while on your own trying to figure out why he kicked you out, but maybe you were just a mess, thinking too much into it.

“Who’s the guy?” He can’t help it. It’s in his nature at this point.

You roll your eyes. “Is this how the night’s going to go?”

“Yes it is. What’d he say to you?” He doubles down. His large hand grips onto your thigh. Fuck. You look around the room, shuffle a bit in his lap.

“Just said some pretty vulgar things — when he started speaking into my ear I could barely understand. Wanted to go to a room or something. I don’t want to have sex with a random guy at a stupid party,” you slur out.

“Hmh — good decision, baby.” His voice was so deep. Maybe because it was so late at night. His adams apple so prominent too.

You were a little unkempt — he could tell. You were still well-spoken like you always were, but your eyes fluttered, some hair stuck to your mouth, glistening with alcohol.

“It’s better with people you know anyway.” You mutter, and he has to strain to hear you over the noise.

“Is it?” It’s like something clicks in his head, he smiles wider, bites his lip. He’s so cocky when you give him power, leverage.

“Okay, shut up, okay I’m still angry that you kicked me out. I didn’t even like my ex he wasn’t even—“

Your words are a jumble. They come out faster than you can register them. You sounded stupid, you gathered.

His hands had already snuck up to around your waist and you leaned in without realizing. It took everything within him to not kiss you shut. Instead, his one hand comes up to your neck, up to your jaw where he holds it. You stop talking. He’s so absorbed in you; it seems like he’s the one drunk now. You worry a bit that someone is watching, but you’d have to be mad to get up off his lap. Your mouth parts. Two fingers circle your lips, spreading the saliva and alcohol around. You pant, grinding against him.

He pulls your bottom lip down with his thumb. He sits there so sure of himself, licks his own lips at the sight of you unraveling.

“Don’t be alarmed, but your little foreign boy is watching.” He says, cupping your face and he was dumb because you were absolutely going to be alarmed. And he was also dumb because he was your foreign boy. Sometimes you wanted to smack him in the head for his ability to ruin moments. You’re pulled away from this, start to hear the loud noise from the party again, and not just the little world you shared with him for a few minutes.

“Oh God, thanks for embarrassing me. You know, our friends could see us!” you say. You grab the hand that’s still holding your face, pushing it down to his chest. He’s still smiling though. Any reaction from you meant he still had an effect.

“I love when you try to deny it. You wanted to suck my fingers, baby.”

You practically shake from the comment, but try your very best to act disgusted. You get up from that compromising position, hovering over him once again. He had all the power with his legs spread underneath you, watching you like prey. Pretty easy to hold that much power in his hands when he’s seen you naked a dozen times. It wasn’t something many men could pride themselves in. Your cheeks are burning red and not because you were tipsy.

“My birthday’s next week—“

“I know.” He interrupts.

“And…” you scowl, trying to flatten your frizzy hair, “you’re coming to my party—I mean— it’s not really a party. It’s just, friends, and—“

“I’ll be there. Don’t bring him.” He nods to the guy you were talking to previously, who’s been eyeing you this whole time. You thought you got rid of him. He acted like he left.

You groan loudly, start cursing in another language as you walk off to your friends, he presumes. He doesn’t care that he’s alone again. Really, he gets up to leave because that was all he needed that night.

a/n: please please reblog it helps me so much!!

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kouloukoukaka · 2 years ago

Text

Just Pretend (Gavi x reader)

Part 8

Warnings: ANGST! Idk if it's actually that angsty but I made myself sad. Very very brief mentions of kind of hurting yourself but not really? I actually can't remember what I wrote so if I miss something that needs a warning pls lmk

Word Count: 16.0k (fun fact: if you've read the whole series, you've read 105 pages single space)

A/N: y'all it's literally almost 1 am but I need to start this before I get crucified by the cult following I have created with this series. GIF credit @gavidaily

"You... are considering leaving Barca?"

Xavi looked at you with one brow raised. The same girl that had been fighting for her position at the club just 6 weeks prior was now thinking of quitting her job?

"You know Miss y/l/n, we are about to lose Antonio, and with how hard we push our players, we need to retain the largest amount of medical talent possible. You know that we think extremely highly of you and your ability, which is why you were selected specifically for this role. What can we do to make the job here at Barça more compelling than that of other clubs?”

You took a deep breath. You knew this question was coming. You had worked jobs and been in negotiations before. It would be a lot more expensive for them to hire someone new than to just give in to what they predicted would be a demanded increase in pay.

You looked at your lap, sighing with the weight of the feelings you had carried for God knows how long. It had sat on your subconscious, but was now bubbling to the surface, too powerful to be stopped. “Honestly, mister, I don’t think there’s anything that can be done.”

There’s a funny thing about women letting go. Some people call it the severance theory. Men are heavily guided by their emotions, contrary to popular belief. In a fit of rage they are capable of anything: screaming, blows - any number of crimes of passion. So when an extreme emotion overcomes them, be it sadness or anger or fear, they can end a relationship suddenly. Once they return to a base state of logic, that’s when the crawling back and groveling begins. Because they come to realize that her absence is a stronger pain than whatever drove him away. They exist in binary states: zeroes and ones. Either hatred or love. They don’t understand gradients or in-betweens. They don’t understand that there is another person who must also decide to return to the relationship.

Women on the other hand are much more resilient. It’s why we find the most gorgeous muses with the slimiest excuses for boyfriends. A woman will fall in love not with what she sees, but rather what she hears. What she is told. All the flowery, lovely promises about a glowning future, that’s what she clings to in the midst of a gray and bleak present. The soft whispers of “I love you” and “I don’t know how I would live without you” act as bandages, plugging the gaping wounds left by his actions. But her resolve slips the longer those promises go unfulfilled. The longer those holes go unfilled. She begins to see the truth of her situation, and realizes that the road she’s skipped down is a dead end. She imagines once again. She thinks of all the possible ways that he could change and be the man she wants. She searches for glimpses of it in his words, his movement, his aura. She does the silliest, most foolish thing a woman can do: she hopes. She holds on until not even her delusions can be a comfort. She realizes that there is no way for her to be happy with this man. That’s when she finally leaves. There’s no groveling, no tears, no remorse. It’s a clean severance of dead weight. She’s empty, and it lightens her being enough for her to walk away. There is no way to save it. The bridge has been burned and she was gone forever.

The funny part was, this didn’t just apply to men. That’s the thing about emptiness: it consumes everything. Loneliness is a black hole that swallows every ray of light that it encounters. That was your life recently. No light and no joy - not even sadness. You couldn’t feel anything strongly anymore. You picked up little habits to try and feel. You heated your food to scalding temperatures just to feel the heat on your lips. Your showers were icy, the pinpricks distracting you from the desire to cry. You no longer felt strong anger or desire or really anything. The color was slowly draining from your life, grays and sepias replacing the once vibrant existence around you. The beauty around you had mangled into gnarly trees and threatening uncertainty as you foolishly waited for the sun to peak through. But it had abandoned you. The sun had taken its rays and warmth elsewhere, almost mocking you as you shivered in the dirt. So maybe it was time to crate your own light: burn down the forest and start anew.

“Nothing? La, that can’t be true Doctora.”

Your eyes shot up at the title. There was, in fact, one feeling that you still sensed: pain. You could still feel physically pain, and inflicted it on yourself often just to experience an emotion. But nothing could compare to the sharp stabs and dull aches that lived in your heart. It was hard to look at Gavi without feeling like you wanted to fall on your knees. Realizing that you were in love was not beautiful or romantic. It was torturous, like snakes and thorns taking home in your throat. Reality was the salt in the wound; the knowledge that you two were destined to fail before you had began was a pill too big to swallow, suffocating you instead.

“If I can be honest, mister, I don’t feel like I belong here at Barça. I’ve been here for six months and I still don’t feel like part of the team. Maybe it’s just not a good environment or fit for me. That’s not something that can be fixed with just a salary increase. I just can’t tell if this is the place for me.”

Xavi looked at you, bringing his elbows to rest on the table and interlocking his fingers. He wanted to adamantly refuse, but there was truth to what you said. It was evident that there was a disconnect between you and the general environment of the team. You were close to some of the younger players, but had difficulty gaining the trust and respect of the older crowd and the medical staff. Your ideas for treatment were too modern - too far removed from what everyone else was used to. Hell, you were upsetting one of his players, and that was the opposite of your job as the support staff. But he would by lying if he said you weren't effective. The plan for Dembele that you had first presented got the striker back on the field weeks earlier than any other predictions. Your diligent maintenance had prevented players from getting injured as often, keeping the ones you were closest to on a strict exercise regimen, ensuring their continuous improvement. He cared for his players and his club. And if you were the miracle cure to keeping them healthy and playing, then he was going to keep you there, even if he had to tie you to the columns of Camp Nou.

"There must be something we can do to keep you. You're very familiar with the players and the equipment, as well as the workflow, and you're very good at your work. Hell, Gavi hasn't even had a cough since you started here, and he's quite accident-prone. Please let me know what I can possibly do to keep you with us."

"I really am not being shy or sneaky. I really have no demands. When then team heads to the UK for the game against Man U, I will visit the Chelsea facility and meet the staff. If I like what I see, I'll be moving there. I'm just... not happy here anymore."

There it was. The confession you had not even made to yourself. You were at the club of your dreams, living everything that your younger self had always wanted, and you just could not be happy. This was a disappointment that was hard to describe. Everyone always talks about shooting for the moon, but no one talks about what happens when you actually make it there. You work hard and your dreams become a reality: you're on the moon! But the moon is so, so far from Earth. And when you're cold and lonely and looking down on all of the people that could be loving you, then the moon doesn't seem so worth it anymore. When you realize the moon is just a rock, then what hope do you have left?

Thinking back, you recalled all the people that you pushed away to further your career goals. You think of the family gatherings and events that you missed to study and work. You think of all the friends you have lost touch with because they were never a priority. They were never smart or driven enough to keep up with you, and so they were left in the dust. You had a few, but none you could confidently say would pick up a call from you at 2am if you needed help. Boyfriends were even worse. Since your heartbreak in college, men had fallen to the wayside. You justified it to yourself, saying that you just needed to be successful, and you would attract someone at your level. Someone who wanted an equal. But here you were: alone, depressed, and thinking of running away from what you once thought was your life's purpose.

Before Xavi could respond, a loud thud from the hallway distracted the two of you, followed by shouts that chilled your blood.

"Gavi!"

You were out of your seat in seconds. There was no force that could stop you, feet and hands moving on their own accord as you entered the hall and laid eyes on the body on the floor. There was no air in your lungs or your larynx to make a sound, let alone scream.

Why was Gavi on the floor?

Your hearing was shot, like you were underwater. The faces of those surrounding were panicked, and all eyes were on you, shouts and points and calls for action flying straight over your head.

Why was Gavi on the floor?

Your stomach was twisting itself into elaborate knots, coiling tighter while pushing the bile further up your throat. Your eyes went in and out of focus, willing the scene in front of you to disappear. You blinked hard hoping for the image to change when your eyes opened again.

Why was Gavi on the floor?

"Doctora, please look at Pablo - he collapsed suddenly and we need to make sure he doesn't have a head injury. Move!" It was Antonio's hands on your shoulders and shouts that finally got you to move from your frozen position.

Kneeling over, Gavi looked even worse. His skin was pale, and he was crumpled like an aluminum can - limbs everywhere, like his life force had just abandoned him. You had to remove Gavi from the situation and pretend he was a practice dummy at school. You had to pretend he was plastic and rubber, because that's the only way you could go through head injury protocols with a calm mind. He couldn't be Pablo, because if he was, then the thought would have to fester in your head: Pablo was hurt when you had been distant. He was hurt because you had been distant. Worst case scenario, he could disappear from your life now, all because you hadn't been able to handle the proximity like a normal person. Your thoughts were spiraling now, painting scenarios of death and disease and making it even harder for you to stop the tremble in your hands.

But you had decided that his cold heap of flesh before you wasn't Gavi. It couldn't be. It wasn't even a person. You recited the head injury checklist under your breath: consciousness, breathing, vision, vomiting. Placing a hand on Gavi's neck, you felt a pulse, stopping you from performing CPR. The last thing you needed to do was unnecessarily crack a rib. You shook him several times, and received no response.

"Shine a light in his eyes!" "Shake him harder!" "Should we pour water on him? Get some water!" "You're not yelling his name loudly enough!"

You ignored the shouts of the peanut gallery, repeating the list like a mantra in your head. You would have time later to be angry at the staff for their utter uselessness in the situation, but right now, you just needed to keep going. Blood was pounding in your ears as you opened one of his eyelids. Consciousness, breathing, vision, vomiting. It snapped back into place, and Pablo's face was now in view. Other than his pale complexion, he looked perfectly at peace. His face was identical to the night you had spent sleeping next to him - sleeping atop him. His breathing was deep, as if he had spontaneously fallen asleep in the middle of the hallway. He was beautiful. And for the first time in days, it had allowed you to be filled with a warmth somewhat foreign to you now. Pablo was in your arms and beautiful, and you could not imagine how you were meant to go on with life seeing him every day and being denied this privilege. You didn't allow yourself to dwell on the thought. Breathing? Yes. Consciousness? No. That needed to be remedied.

"Pablo, if you can wake up now, it would be really helpful. Otherwise I'm going to have to cause you a lot of pain."

You waited for a response, but none came. You sighed deeply, moving your hands from the supple skin of his cheeks downwards, gripping the hem of his shirt and pulling it upwards, exposing the expanse of his chest. You made out the sounds of taunting and whistles, but they were promptly silenced by staff who reminded the crowd that this was not an appropriate moment for jokes. Forming a fist, you placed your knuckles on the center of Pablo's chest, pushing down and rubbing. Hard. His eyes shot open within seconds, and he threw your hand off, howling in pain. His breathing was shallow and panicked, vision erratic as teammates, coaches, and other staff all yelled questions and instructions at him.

"Everybody shut up! Let me do my job."

That was the voice he needed to hear. As the yells settled to murmurs, his breathing slowed and he began to see more clearly. His eyes fully focused on you, and it soothed the ache in his chest. His heart was racing faster than he had ever felt, causing Pablo to grab onto your shoulders to ground himself.

"Pablo, can you hear me?"

You were here. You were real. He could still hold you and feel you. He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. The nausea that he had felt before he blacked out still lingered, and the last thing he wanted to do was projectile vomit on you. He flinched slightly at the feeling of your hand returning to his face, but settled quickly, listening hard to your instructions. There was nothing easier than focusing on the sound of your voice.

"Look at me." You said, shining a light in Gavi's eyes, checking for any hemorrhaging or internal bleeding. What a silly request, he thought to himself, squinting under the brightness. How could he look anywhere else when you were in the room? How could he ever tear his eyes from you? How could he waste a single second of you before him, especially with the prospect of you leaving at the end of the month looming?

"No bleeding. Are you experiencing any double vision?"

A headshake no. You instructed someone behind you to grab a bottle of water, and then turned back to Pablo.

"Good. What is your name?"

Gavi swallowed thickly, and took a deep breath before speaking. "My name is Pablo Gavi."

"Good. And who am I?"

"Ah don't worry, Doctora. Even with amnesia, I could never forget you." There was that stabbing feeling in your chest again. That feeling that accompanied Pablo's sweet words and kind eyes. The cold shard of reality that reminded you that he would fade away into an Instagram mutual in a matter of months.

"Alright, Gavi. No internal bleeding and no memory loss. We need to go through more of the concussion protocols and make sure you're okay, but we can do this in my office. Are you okay to stand?"

After a curt nod, you helped Pablo stand, and began walking with him towards your office. You informed Xavi of the next steps, and he told you to do whatever necessary to make sure his 'golden angry bird' was okay. But of course, you could never know a day of peace, as each one must be filled with the noise pollution that was Ferran's voice.

"If the door isn't open, just know that Pablito isn't moaning in pain." A round of snickers was heard from both players and staff. But before they had time to add on to the nasty comment, you swiveled around to face the group. You were seething with anger, and one very important realization came to the center of your mind.

You had nothing left to lose.

It was Pablo Torre who was closest to you, and he was the person that received the start of your wrath.

"What the hell are you laughing at? The fact that your teammate could have serious head trauma? Or at the fact that, with Gavi potentially out of commission, they might take you off the bench long enough for you to remember what grass feels like?"

He was silent instantly, eyes wide. He had never received words this harsh from anyone at the club. Or anyone not on Twitter. You turned to two more assistant physios, Luca and Gabriel, who stood next to him, still muttering to one another in hushed tones.

"And you two! Do you want to know why everyone has to rush and get me whenever someone hits their head? Because out of everyone here, I'm the only one that knows proper concussion protocols and how to identify trauma. I have more medical knowledge in my fingernail than in both of your heads combined. I have to take him to my office because you two are incompetent at your jobs! And instead of doing anything useful, this is how you occupy your time: slacking, cigarette breaks, speculating who I'm sleeping with, and doing absolutely jack shit when a player gets injured. So keep giggling like school girls. I can't wait to see you both giggling on the street corner while begging for spare change."

You held Gavi harshly, storming off to your office. Your speed and the bounce was making him nauseous, but he knew better than to speak in this moment. His chest had swelled with pride. He was patiently waiting for the day that you would put the guys in their place. None of them were bad people - it had just been a while since most of them interacted with a woman they didn't want to sleep with. Gavi loved that you were capable of defending yourself, but could not ignore the part of him that wanted to be the one to defend you.

Call it a toxic trait if you want, but Pablo had always taken pride in his ability to intimidate. He had eventually come to terms with the fact that he was done growing at a sweet 5'7, despite his desire to break at least 5'9 (because his friend Hanna at La Masia told him that was the shortest a girl would go for. Looking back, taking this information from a 5'10 female footballer was probably not the best idea he's ever had). It had taken a while, but after weeks of daily affirmations in the mirror about how short Messi was, he held his chin higher. Once he started receiving praise from fellow players, coaches, and media, Pablo gained more confidence in the fact that he could be part of the next generation of great Barcelona football. This allowed him to go up against any player with no worries or fear, winning headers against people with a foot of height on him. Pablo began building his upper body in the gym as well, compensating with strength. A broad and reckless teenager, there was almost no one he wasn't ready to take on.

He sensed that same quality in you as well: a desire to prove yourself, no matter the cost. But he didn't want you to. He never wanted to see you scowl or have to hear you yell (despite it being semi-hot). Pablo wanted to be your knight, whose sole purpose in life was making sure that you never experienced feelings but joy and pleasure. He wanted others to go through him before daring to speak to you. Because how could every person just have access to the beauty that is you? To the radiant soul and shimmering aura that fills the room? How could he be content with you shouldering the burdens of living in this world? Even if he never got to have you romantically, Pablo wanted to shield you from every harm in the world. And not a day went by when he didn't feel it.

This was one of those moments. He wished he was able to verbally berate Ferran for the garbage he spewed on a regular basis, but he could do nothing except let himself be dragged by you through the halls of the sports center until they reached your office, where he was promptly flung towards the exam table. He watched as you brought him your small office trash can, setting it beside the bed. He was brought back to your first month at Barca, when he had challenged you and been proven wrong. There was a confidence in yourself and your abilities that had dissipated from then to now. Pablo smiled stupidly as he remembered the excruciating pain and discomfort of trying not to throw up in front of the pretty physio. If only he had known then that it was nothing compared to the pain of holding back these feelings.

"Lay down on the bed. Look up at the ceiling. If you need to vomit, do it in there." You instructed curtly before moving to sit at your computer. Short nails clicked harshly against the raised keyboard, keys slamming down rapidly, sound reverberating around the room. Gavi wanted so desperately to flip over, lay on his stomach and stare at you. Just to see the curves of your face and the way your eyes reflected the light. But he looked up at the ceiling like you asked, more worried about pushing you further away than watching you type. He took several deep breaths. This didn’t feel like the last time he was concussed. Last time, he had felt his brain rattle against his skull, waves of nausea starting immediately. His head ad throbbed, spots forming on his vision. His jaw was clenched, and he could’ve sworn there was a crack down the center of his cranium, blood oozing out of it onto the practice pitch.

He remembered that day so vividly despite the head trauma. He had been livid, Ferran dragging him to a new and inexperienced physio. Gavi had interpreted it as sabotage to that Ferran could get the left wing back. And then he saw you. Angry that he was he wasn’t receiving treatment by the best, he couldn’t say he was upset to look at you. You were a stunning kind of beauty, young and lively and clad in cool gray scrubs. But you were three years older than him, wildly advanced and talented, and he couldn’t swallow his pride - especially not with this nausea. He could not swallow the fact that you looked so damn familiar. He had seen you somewhere before: those eyes had looked at him with that same distress and concern. But he could not place it for the life of him.

Pablo thought back to how sweet you had been to him that day. How you had encouraged him to take pride in himself and be confident in the fact that he deserved all the success he had seen. He was so overwhelmed that day. His brain was absolute porridge, and he was doing his best for it not to pour out of his ears, all while his cheeks burned under your gaze. He was too preoccupied by his desire to muster one ounce of hatred to replace the overwhelming admiration in his brain that he could not determine where the hell he had seen you before.

And now here he was, once again staring at the ceiling, head throbbing, and the thought came to him again: why did you look familiar? Despite having known you for half a year now, the feeling that there was history had not left him. It wasn't that you had a common face. There was something about the way you looked at him, with a knowing and sadness, that touched a part of his soul. Like you knew things he had never even admitted to himself. While he thought that was just your way of being, he was coming to realize that look was one reserved specifically for Pablo. Now he wasn't nauseous, and focused on the rhythmic sounds of keys being slammed. He poised himself to ask a question, but not the one gnawing at his brain.

"What're you typing so excitedly? Hopefully not your resignation."

You looked up in time to watch Pablo's chest heave with the breathy (and very fake) laugh that he forced out. Your fingers rested against the keyboard, pausing your aggressive typing. How did Gavi know about your plans to leave? Had he been listening at the door? How long had he been standing there before-

"Is that why you fainted in the hallway? Because I'm leaving the club?"

"So you've already decided that you're leaving? You aren't even going to wait until you see whatever shithole you've been offered a spot at?"

There was an emotion that made Gavi's voice wobble, and you couldn't pin it exactly, but it sounded akin to betrayal. You finished the last sentence of your email, the swooshing sound indicating the message had been sent. Pablo bit his lip and stared hard at the fluorescent light. He didn't want you to see the distress in his face, but he couldn't help it. He hated how the dynamic between the two of you had been so warm, so close to the spark he desperately sought, just to go back to how icy your interactions began.

You pulled up a stool to sit next to him, and grabbed a pair of gloves as you approached. You noticed the slight quiver of his lip, and turned away to put your gloves on. The deep sadness in his eyes, the way his body tensed, the voice like a hurt child - was this all because of you?

"I was doing what I should've done my first week working here: I sent an email to HR about Ferran's nasty comments. Barca can't have a sexual harassment scandal right about now, especially not during the transfer window. And if they fire me, then they..." Your voice trailed off, throat closing up. It was still hard for you to process the possibility.

"If they fire me, then that's one less decision that I have to make."

You ran a gloved hand across his crown, feeling for any bumps or lacerations because of his fall. You felt worse the longer you continued the exam, the feeling that this was your fault sinking in. You had pushed Pablo away wordlessly after brining him in so close. But the majority of your brain screamed back at you how selfish it would be to drag Pablo into your black hole, ruining his career so that he could run after a girl who didn't even feel. If the sun in its greatness could not warm you, then how could ask this of Pablo?

"Now we need to talk about your fall in the hallway. It's quite obvious that you fainted but-"

"Were ever going to tell me? Or were you just going to freeze me out until you left the country?"

Gavi propped himself up on his elbows, eyes meeting you directly. You didn't know what to say. You couldn't tell him how you felt, especially not now. Not right before you disappeared.

"Have you ever fainted like that before? What have you eaten to day?" You asked, moving to throw away your gloves. "If you're having frequent spells of losing consciousness, then we need to have your blood iron tes-"

"Are you being serious right now, y/n? You're on the verge of quitting your dream job, packing up and leaving the country, and isolating yourself from everyone who cares about you, and you're asking about my blood iron? No."

Pablo stood, getting off the table faster than someone with a head injury should. He walked towards you, anger evident.

"No. You don't get to change the subject and talk about my iron. Or sit and try and diagnose me with anything. You know that I'm perfectly healthy. Want to know why I fainted? I'll tell you, Doctora."

Gavi was right in front of your face now, heavy breath fanning against your skin. You swallowed thickly, breathing just as heavy as you met his blazing stare. For the first time in weeks, your eyes started to moisten. Why was this scolding from Pablo going to bring you to tears?

Pablo was now cupping your face, holding it like it was the only thing that would tether him to the earth. He rested his head against yours, and suddenly it was too much. All the feelings that had escaped you for so long were coming back all at once, stacking on top of each other and smothering you. Your eyes welled with tears, and you wished the ground would swallow you whole to escape Gavi's piercing eyes looking straight through you.

"But you have to know that I don't just see you as a friend, Doctora. You have to know, even if you don't feel the same way, that I am -"

"We met before I got my job here. That's why you recognize me."

Gavi let go of your face, taking a step back. He looked at you with confusion and hurt. You both knew what he was about to say, and he couldn't understand why you wouldn't just let him get it off his chest. And as selfish as it was, you just couldn't take it. Pablo deserved better - someone that would lift him up, not hold him back. And if he said it, if it was out in the open, then you would never be able to put his needs first.

"The week of my interview, I went to pick up Angelika from the club. Angel went to get her from the VIP section and he left me in charge of keeping an eye on you."

"You... were watching me while I was drunk?" Pablo's brain was processing a thousand things at once. You had met him and remembered him? What had he said while drunk to make you hide that fact from him?

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

There were so many ways to answer this question that you didn't know where to begin. How could you explain to Gavi that you had been so captured by his beauty that night that it had thrown you off your axis, making you wonder if you had died and this was the angel sent to guide you to the pearly gates? How could you describe the intense pull Pablo had over you, tugging at your soul, urging you to stay with him? How were you to say the way your heart broke on his behalf, wanting to hold him in your arms and protect him from everything that made him feel less than the most special person alive? All you had wanted was to kiss him, to pull him in, to never let him go. But none of the words materialized. Because to you, the cruelest thing you could do to Pablo was keep pulling him into you. He was pure light, and you couldn't bear the burden of being the one to extinguish it.

"It was an insignificant moment in a club. Nothing worth mentioning. I didn't even remember until Pedri reminded me when I started."

There it was. The sentence that made Gavi crack. You watched the hurt seep into his features, and a heavy air filled the room. Brows coming together, he looked at you expectantly, waiting, praying, that you would take it back.

"Meeting me was ... insignificant?"

Eyes locked, there was nothing you could say that would erase this moment. You swallowed the lump in your throat, playing with your fingers. You spun the ring you wore around your finger, trying to occupy your mind with anything other than the thought that you were the human embodiment of garbage.

The silence remained, growing thicker with each passing second. It enveloped the both of you, tendrils wrapping around and ripping the two of you apart, fraying whatever string of fate had brought you together.

"You think it was just a coincidence, meeting me in the club weeks before we become coworkers? Friends? Something... beyond that...and you think that coincidence was so forgettable that it wasn't even worth mentioning?"

There it was. The cold front that you put up, the one that pushed everyone away, no matter how hot their love for you burned. You were the ice princess, destined to go through life cold and untouchable and alone.

"Some people you just meet, Pablo. It doesn't mean they're meant to be together. I needed to get my friend out of the club and I just ran into Angel. He left me in charge of you so that you wouldn't do anything stupid or childish while drunk. I was in a club babysitting an 18 year old kid who was pouring his heart out to me while wasted. I didn't say anything to save you from the embarrassment."

That was the straw that broke Gavi's heart. He stormed towards the door, unable to look at you any longer. Had he really been lead on; allowed to believe that you were his friend, or at the least respected him, when this entire time you just saw him as a little kid. His last line to you was spoken so softly you almost didn't hear it over the deafening slam of the door.

"They're going to love you in England."

"Your English is very good for someone educated in Spain."

You looked up at Steve, flashing a practiced professional smile that showed no indication of offense at the objectively offensive statement.

"Thank you, Dr. Hughes. I did complete my baccalaureate degree in the United States, but I'm glad the last two years in Barcelona have not damaged my language."

Now it was his turn to laugh uncomfortably as he lead you through the garish blue halls of Stamford bridge. The entire plane ride you had told yourself that this could be the fresh start you needed. This could be the opportunity to turn your life around, and so you should approach it with fresh eyes and an open mind. But the walls were hurting your eyes, the blue and white making you think of Martin in his kit. You were lead into the trophy room, which was a lot smaller than you were used to.

"Here you can see some of the club's shining moments. We have had an... interesting season this year, but you know that performance fluctuates between seasons. We hope to be back on top again very soon, especially with an entirely new medical team coming on board."

You scanned the shelves and glass cases, admiring the look of trophies you were familiar with, and ones you had never seen before.

"An entire new medical staff? No one is staying on?" You asked, confused. What kind of club replaced everyone all at the same time? Usually at least one person remained to pass the torch, to maintain familiarity. It set warning bells off in your head.

“Ah, well, many of our staff members were quite loyal to Dr. Henry, you know he was here for 17 years after all. So they all followed him out. But we are excited to usher in a new wave of sparkling young medical talent!”

You swallowed hard, still feeling from the information. You still hadn’t finished your degree, and yet you were being offered a head position at what was supposed to be a huge and well-respected club. You couldn’t help but think of the blaugrana.

Something flitted in your chest, a feeling that surrounded you whenever you walked into the camp. The feeling of family, like you were home. The coldness of Steve’s answer didn’t spark anything close to that feeling. Not every workplace needed to be a part of your heart, a new family. These days. You had no idea what your family was supposed to be, or if you had one at all. Your brain begged you to ask what the environment was like, how close the staff was, what created such a high level of loyalty that they would all follow this man wherever he went, abandoning club and home. But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, asking instead,

“Do you only display the most recent. Champions League trophy?”

More laughter from Steve, but of the fakest nature. “Yes we have one on this side, one on the other. They’re … ehem, all of our UCL trophies are displayed here.” Your cheeks warmed with subtle embarrassment. You knew nothing about this room or this club, and if you were honest with yourself, you had no desire to. You missed Barca. But you had to give this club its chance – an honest shot to be your new home.

The two of you continued through the halls as Steve showed you all the medical equipment and facilities that would be at your disposal should you accept. At the end, he led you to the players’ lounge, offering you a seat. The blue had given you a baby migraine, and you were incredibly grateful for the ability to sit and rest. You refused the gracious offers for food, sipping on a bottle of water to dull the throbbing against your skull. You searched the room for something, something familiar – a face, a number, to make you feel like everything was going to work out in the end. But it never appeared, the bright colors and foreign faces more of a discomfort than anything else.

"Make yourself comfortable, Doctor. Let me get some of the players that you'll be working with, and you can hear from them what the environment is like."

You nodded sweetly, sitting up straight with ankles crossed in the way Princess Diaries taught you to. As the footsteps faded slowly into the distance, a sigh passed between your lips. What were you doing? Despite the lecture given to yourself on the uncomfortable plane ride over (Chelsea would only pay for economy), it had all gone out the window. Your gut was in knots, and you couldn't shake the feeling that you were doing something wrong.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and the screen lit up in your hand to read "One Football: FC Barcelona vs Manchester United - Starting lineup now available." The notification had been pressed before you registered what was going on. Your eyes scanned the list just to land on one name. Your mind went back to the last conversation the two of you shared. The most venomous words had slipped past your lips, and you had finally done it: you pushed the last person who cared for you away. The sentiment was harsh. How could anyone ever recover a relationship after shattering it so completely? Despite how much much it hurt to grip the broken shards so tightly, you held on nonetheless, packing Gavi's hoodie in your bag, the '6' embroidered into the pocket cutting open a gaping wound in your heart, and yet you enjoyed its presence there.

"Doctora, I'm pleased to introduce Kepa and Christian. They have been with the club for a while, and they would be happy to answer all your questions."

"A scoreless first half here at Old Trafford as both Barcelona and Man U return to the locker rooms for half time. As we saw Pedri went down in those final minutes of the half, and we've received a report that he is out for the rest of the match. His injury status is unknown, but if the magician is out of commission, this could be a very easy steal for United."

The sounds of fists slamming against lockers was loud enough to be heard all the way home in Spain. Pedri Potter, the star, the leader of Barca's new era, was now in icing his right hamstring in some medical examination room, while the rest of the team scrambled to figure out a scenario in which they would win without him in a mere 15 minutes. Gavi bounced his leg anxiously, eager to see his friend and make sure he was okay.

"Listen up boys. We can win this game without Pedri. The score is now 1-0 to Man U, and all we need to do it score once to tie. Then we are back home, our turf and our fans. Robert, Rapha, your goal is to put the ball in the net. I don't care what you have to do. The middle, you need to get the ball in a good position for these two. That means Gavi, you'll be- Gavi pay attention!"

Head snapping up, Pablo's eyes met Xavi's directly. He knew he should be paying attention - this was the first of several games that needed to be won until they reached a trophy. He needed to be on his A-game, and yet, his mind was drifting. He wished it was just concern over Pedri capturing his attention. But in the corners of his mind, your voice lingered. "Babysitting... insignificant... embarrassment." All words you had used when talking about him as he was on the verge of pouring his entire soul out onto the linoleum for you. He didn't understand the anger that flowed through him. It was a sense of ... incompleteness. If you had let him finish, let him say the words that he didn't fully understand, then he would have been okay. He would have watched as you kicked his beating heart against the wall, telling him that you could never feel that way towards him. He would have been okay: relieved. But you had left him dangling off the edge of a cliff, with no relief in being pulled to safety nor mercy in being allowed to fall.

Xavi gave his instructions to the midfield and the defensive line, going over the weak points that needed to be addressed.

"Pedri is most likely out for the next eight weeks, missing both the next match and the SuperCopa, so this is your opportunity to adjust to playing in high-stress situations without him."

Gavi's head raised fully at this. Eight weeks? It has been forever since someone was out for that long. Since the beginning of the season... since you had joined the team. A pinch in Pablo's chest. His brain repeated over and over that the best thing to do was let you go. To let you be your own person, grow and be independent, saving himself the heartache because the one girl he wanted was the one he couldn't have. Yet his heart held on with an iron grip. It refused to release you, reminding him of every sweet moment shared in cars and offices and bedrooms. It was quick to forget the pain of being perceived as a child. Pablo's heart begged him to wait for you, because it was incapable of letting go of a devotion so intense. His heart ached for you, longing for the day he be deemed worthy enough to love you wholly and completely.

"Eight weeks is insane - we have never gone that long with our midfield handicapped. Is there no way to speed up recovery? Who gave the estimate?" Robert asked, wiping the sweat off his brow.

"Luca is the only one from the medical staff who is here right now. He is the one who made the determination. Of course, the rest of the staff will be free to reevaluate when we return home. But Luca will be the one continuing with the course of treatment, and so we will go with his estimate."

"What? Where is y/n?" The question came from Alejandro, followed by hushed agreement. Even if you were not the first point of contact for all the players, you were a team staple, becoming as familiar to them as the crest embroidered on their uniforms. The older players had watched as you performed medical miracles on their teammates that rivaled what Jesus did for the blind, allowing the team to prosper all season. 15 points at the top of the table, and at least half had your name on them. The youngers had felt your impact directly, following your instructions like gospel. They knew how much care you showed to every single one of them, from the starters to the bench warmers. Your hands had put them back together. A touch of you lingered in all the success achieved, and your absence felt closer to abandonment than anything else.

"You should ask Pablito - he would be the first one to notice that his girlfriend wasn't on the flight." Ferran's voice: the closest human equivalent to nails on a chalkboard. After everything that had taken place, it was a wonder he still had the energy to be an ass.

"Maybe you should ask Ferran about his HR investigation, which is a main reason that she's touring the Chelsea facility fight now. Hey, maybe you'll see her this summer when you get sold there. They're always looking for people to keep the bench warm while the important players are on the field." Gavi spoke calmly and evenly, like he was stating pure fact. He stood, leaving the room to avoid the round of questioning that was about to occur regarding HR and the doctora's new home.

The click of Pablo's cleats echoed loudly in the hallway a she approached the medical room, where Luca was fumbling with bandage and his laptop, while Pedri waited on the exam table like a fish at the market. His head turned at the sound of Gavi's approach, and he gave a weak smile to the younger player.

"I finally pushed it too far. Great timing, eh Hermano? It's only a Champion's League, a SuperCopa, and a potential classico that I'll miss. Nothing significant."

Gavi could do nothing but let out a slight laugh, cupping Pedri on the back of the neck. His heart hurt for his friend. This is what every player dreamed of: playing for cups, winning with the team of their dreams. And Pedri was going to miss all of it because they had relied on him to heavily, asked him to bridge too many gaps.

"Please don't say that word to me ever again. Luca, how's it looking? Eight weeks seems a little excessive for a sprain." Gavi knew that Luca was doing something wrong. Or stupid. Or, the most likely option, both. When Ansu had sprained his hamstring, he was back on the field in 28 days under your care. Alejandro had a minor tear in his meniscus, and yet still he was faster than the speed of sound 6 weeks later. Now there was no you. No melodic voice explaining muscle strain and stride length and tissue recovery. Just a stupid, lanky Spaniard in free Barca merch putting "leg hurts" into Web MD and seeing what he can diagnose with this time.

"Why don't you let the medical professionals do their job, Gavi, and you go back to putting your head in front of peoples' feet."

Looking to quickly diffuse the situation, Pedri turned to his friend, wanting to stop looking at the man who might end his football career with a wrong move and an 'oops'.

"I'll just let y/n look at it when I get back home. She'll fix me up in no time. That is, if you give me one of your spots on her schedule."

"Yeah, that's if she even comes back to work."

Pedri looked at the younger boy with confusion. It had been several weeks since he had seen Gavi with his favorite physio. Initially, he thought the crush had faded - that Pablo had found another pretty thing to maintain his interest, and you had fallen to the wayside with the other failed football loves. But Pablo was so clearly unhappy. He was more irritable, spending more and more time on his phone while avoiding the group all together. He sat silently in Pedri's passenger seat, screen illuminating his face but remaining silent.

[Doctora]: Good morning Pablo - running late. Will bring you an apology smoothie

[Doctora]: im going to need you to send me a video of you tying your shoes as proof

[Doctora]: i'll tell you when i see u tomorrow

Gavi had spent two weeks going back over every message you had ever sent him. He watched the way your tone changed from proper and professional to something lighter, more friendly and familiar. Over and over your voice played in his head.

"Pablo."

Pride be damned. He missed you. As he stood behind his teammates, whispers about the staff still whirling around the tunnel, it dawned on him. Barca, the club of his dreams, the fantasy of his childhood, would never - could never - be complete again if you left.

"And we're back in Old Trafford for the second half of this UCL match between the Historic FC Barcelona, and the red devils of Manchester United."

"That's incredible that you went to school there! I'm a ride or die for their basketball team, so you already have my respect."

You flashed Christian a smile - a real one, the first genuine display of joy you've been able to muster in a while. Both of the players had shown a genuine interest in getting to know you, trying to sell you on the idea of joining the club. Kepa had gushed over how much he loved living in London, citing his experiences as a fellow Spaniard.

"You're around so many Spanish speakers at the club, you hardly miss home."

Christian, the more injury-prone of the two, talked about his experiences with the medical team, and the close relationships he had built there. All of the medical team had become family to him in some way or the other. It calmed your previous anxieties. Maybe it was just a fear of change keeping you tethered to Barca, and all you needed was time to adjust.

"I think you'd get along really well with the other players, of course, the ones that opt-in to working with you."

This statement from Christian caught the attention of both you and Steve, who rushed over before you could ask for clarification. Opt-in? How could you opt-in to medical treatment?

"Miss, I think that Kepa and Christian have both done a wonderful job of providing just a small taste of what it means to be part of the Chelsea family. We don't want to keep them from afternoon training."

You said your thanks and goodbyes, but before they left Kepa turned to you, as if suddenly struck with a lightening bolt of realization.

"You're the Barca physio that works with Gavi, right?" He asked in Spanish. "He mentioned a girl physio during international training."

Another knot in your stomach at the mere mention of his name. "Yeah that would be me."

Kepa's face shifted, brows downturned and lips pursed. "Let me give you my contact information, in case you have any more questions." This line was in English, spoken more in Steve's direction than in yours. He approached, taking the phone from your hands and switching back to Spanish.

"Don't leave Barca. Gavi talked about you a lot during the break. They respect and value you a lot there - don't throw that away." He handed the phone back to you as you tried to contain your expression, suppressing the shock you felt from displaying itself on your features. What could Pablo have said that would make this man go out of his way to prevent you from joining this club? What had been so compelling that Kepa worked against his own best interest?

It was now just you and Steve in the room, and you turned to him, his skin flushed, to ask about Christian's little slip.

"There was something mentioned about players opting out of treatment?"

"Ah, just a small clause in your contract. Just says that players can choose not to be treated by club medical staff and find their own if they feel uncomfortable. It's all there in the paperwork somewhere. You can call my assistant if you read over it again and have more questions. Now, I know that you need to go soon, but I wouldn't be able to let you go without meeting one of our new signings. Someone else who knows what it's like to decide to make the shift from La Liga here to the old PL. Come with me."

You rose from your seat, migraine returning from the stress onset. What was being kept from you? Obviously you hadn't read your employment offer close enough. You walked through the passages somewhat mindlessly, following Steve with your body as your mind drifted elsewhere. What was being hidden from you?

"Joao, nice to see you again! This is Doctor y/l/n, and we're trying to convince her to make the same switch from Spain to London."

All of your medical education had told you that the masticator and other jaw muscles were voluntary; that they could be controlled and moved when you wanted. Not today. Your jaw went slack, and it refused to shut as you stared at the Portuguese beauty before you. There was no way. How had you missed the news of his move. How unprofessional was it to say 'pinch me' during what was essentially an interview.

"Nice to meet you, Doctora. I'm quite relieved that I don't have to speak in English - apparently my accent is not as good as I thought."

Joao Felix was shaking your hand. You had yet to say anything or even shut your mouth. Joao Felix was shaking your hand. You laughed lightly at his statement, muscles moving independently of the pudding that was your brain currently. Joao Felix was shaking your hand.

"I'm sorry, it's so nice to meet you, I'm just a little overwhelmed. You're one of my favorite players in football right now. I've been following you since your debut. Oh my God."

It was Joao's turn to laugh, a light and glorious sound. You had made him laugh. You wished someone was recording so you could send the video to Angeliika. And your mom. They would both go into cardiac arrest. His skin turned slightly pink as he scratched the back of his head, flattered by the admiration of someone so accomplished (and, as he would later reflect, gorgeous). Despite not understanding a lick of Spanish, Steve knew he had made a winning move by introducing you to Joao. The two of you leaned into each other as you spoke, and he motioned towards the field, inviting you to a stroll around the turf to chat.

All of your pride and prejudice fantasies were being realized in this moment. You were taking a polite stroll around the grounds with a man that you had salivated over while watching football on TV. A golden boy and future champion. He was something incredible. Witty and charismatic and easy to talk to. Everyone says not to meet your heroes, and yet here you were, floating several inches above the ground beside Joao.

"So, what club are you moving from? Can't be something in Madrid - I would remember you."

Lord, this was too much. You gave a silent thanks to the heavens, all the good karma you had accumulated throughout your life manifesting on this day.

"Oh no, not a Madrid club. Just a small Catalan club called Barca. Heard of it?" You teased as Joao stopped in his tracks. It was his turn to go wide-eyed and slack jawed.

"You're the Barca girl physio? I have heard of you! One of the physios at Atleti is your classmate. He said you're crazy smart."

How were you staying alive when all the blood in your body was in your face? How had so many people in the football space heard your name with you blissfully unaware. The smile on your face was not just due to the compliment. Maybe there were people ready to be there for you, and you just needed to reach arm out to them.

The conversation came to a close as you watched other groups come onto the field, preparations being made for upcoming matches. You thanked Joao for his time, once again involuntarily gushing about how surreal this experience was.

"Ah, there's really no need. The pleasure was all mine. I hope that I'll get to see more of you, Doctora, no matter what decision you end up making." Stretching his arm out, pulling you in for a hug. He enveloped you, arms wrapped tightly around your frame in a way that was borderline inappropriate for a goodbye. He smelled heavenly, the warmth radiating from his body akin to a fireplace. This was the stuff of dreams and imagination.

And yet, Joao was not the name on your mind. He way he smelled was beautiful and yet unfamiliar. Your thoughts traveled back to the last hug like this you had shared with someone. To the scent of One Million and powdery deodorant, mixed with something that couldn't be bottled. To the feeling of strong arms sitting lower on your waist. To brown hair and brown eyes and a brown leather couch. To white shirts and white bedsheets. To the soft voice and smooth voice that called for you.

"Doctora."

Logic be damned. You missed Pablo. And then the empty expanse of your soul filled with a feeling of dread. You had made a mistake. So many mistakes. Pushing away Pablo, lying to your friends about how much you needed them. Considering another job. Nothing in the the blue and white had given you even 1% of the feelings you experienced walking into Camp Nou every day. But you would never be able to go back if Gavi was angry with you. Ferran was cattle waiting to be sold. Gavi was a contender this year's golden boy, a powerhouse on the field, a bright star for both club and country. You reached into your bag, staring at his name in your phone. But your fingers shook too violently to press the call button. You remembered the hurt on his features, the way he couldn't even look at you as he passed in the halls. You weren't ready to see [Call Declined] appear on your screen. Instead you rested your phone on your lap, reaching in to retrieve your Chelsea contract.

Obviously, your eagerness to run away from your current life had blurred your vision. On page 22 of 31, there is was in what appeared to be a smaller font than the rest of the agreement.

"Under FIFA and British Football regulation, players may refuse treatment from club-appointed medical staff for any reason, including but not limited to feelings of fear, discomfort, lack of safety, and lack of confidence. Providers will be compensated on a fee-for-service basis, where compensation is scaled based on the number of players consistently treated. Should more than 40% of players request alternative treatment, the club may terminate the contract with the provider before the term of the contract has elapsed."

Your eyes widened, brows knitted together in confusion and borderline disgust. Women in medicine were already at a disadvantage, and that increased tenfold for women in sports medicine. Should the players feel uncomfortable with you because of your sex or age, you could spontaneously be out of a job after picking up and moving your whole life?!

Before you could pick up the phone and tell Steve that he would need to find someone else to fill this cursed position, a buzzing came from your bag. Who was calling your work phone?

"Hello?"

"Good evening Doctora y/l/n, hope that your visit at Chelsea went well." Andreas was Xavi's secretary, and he was the closest thing you would ever get to the cast of The Devil Wears Prada. He was rather cold in the way that he spoke, but never rude. Well dressed and straight to the point - commanding of respect.

"Went very well, Andreas. I got to meet-"

"Mister Xavi has asked for your presence on the flight back to Barcelona to discuss your future with the club. It is of the utmost importance that this meeting occur as soon as possible. So you need to be in Heathrow by tonight at 11pm for check in with the rest of the team."

"But my flight back to Barcelona is tomorrow and I-"

"You'll be fully reimbursed for the cost of changing your travel. We are leaving from Terminal 2. Have a wonderful evening."

Just like that, you were wondering how fast you could pack everything and leave in the next 6 hours when your personal phone buzzed in your lap.

[Pablo]: I know u said u need space but

[Pablo]: i rlly need to talk to u

[Pablo]: can i meet you somewhere?

Heart racing, you typed back as fast as you could with trembling fingers, telling him that you would be so happy to meet him, giving him the address of a café near your hotel. You didn't want him to see what your salary could actually afford (since Chelsea didn't cover your travel accommodations). You let out a sigh of relief. He wanted to see you. He wanted to speak with you. He wasn't completely lost.

Packing had been fast - you had only brought the essentials to London to avoid paying a bag fee on the budget airline you had traveled. Fixing yourself in the mirror, you let out a deep sigh. What were you even going to say to Pablo? Begging for forgiveness seemed the most logical choice. You practiced your apology in the mirror, and yet froze every time. How would you respond when he asked you why? Why it had been so easy for you to push him away, to strike him down, to make him feel so utterly unimportant to you and your life? You didn't know how you would respond.

Feelings of the heart are often the easiest to articulate. They're not like emotions. Emotions are straight forward: happiness, anger, sadness, jealousy. Things that were caused by one identifiable source, and could be expressed easily with words and actions. But the matters that went beyond feeling, those were the most difficult to understand, let alone communicate. Despite his form, it wasn't lust that drew you into Pablo. Those thoughts had made you breathe heavy and push your thighs together. The glimpses of Pablo's bare form were painted on the edge of your mind, soft skin and hard muscle, inviting you in for a touch, a taste. It was an exciting idea, but not the one that riled you up the most.

No, it was something different. It was a scene that had plagued your mind for weeks upon end, always causing you to wake in a cold sweat with a tightness in your chest, breaths labored. You pictured yourself laying on Pablo's bare chest, drawing circles on his skin as his heart beat rhythmically for you to listen to. As you drifted off, he would place a kiss on the top of your head, running a soothing hand down your spine. It wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer into him, as he whispered softly.

"Mine."

It was a magnetic pull that Pablo had, a force of nature that you were unable to escape. It could be described as nothing other than desire, like you would make the world stop spinning until the two of you were united. There was a higher force tying you to Pablo, and etched in your bones was a knowledge that you would never be able to leave him. But the sentiments died on your tongue before they could ever take to the air, never to fall on the ears of a certain Spaniard.

As your heels clicked against the city pavement, a sense of calm washed over you. He had reached out to you. There was an olive branch being extended. He was ready to hear what you had to say. Yet upon entering the small space, a different voice called out your name.

"Pedri?"

It was impossible to hide the disappointment in your voice. You had built up the confidence to come here solely based on the premise that Gavi wanted to see you. Your ego had deflated, back to feeling like utter garbage for the way you had treated the person who, in reality, was your closest friend. Before the self pity could fully sink its claws in, you noticed the full-leg brace that Pedri was sporting.

"I'm sorry that I used Pablo's phone to text you - didn't have your personal number, and it would be a little... salt-in-the-wound-ish to ask him for it right now. Especially since you asked him not to speak to you."

"I never said that!" You exclaimed a little more enthusiastically than intended, causing a couple people to glance in your direction. Pedri escorted you to a table in the corner, offering to go and get you a coffee to fight the chill of a London January.

"No please. It's completely fine. You shouldn't be standing with a torn muscle anyways."

Pedri looked at you inquisitively. He had not seen you in a while, especially with you and Gavi not on speaking terms. He had missed the quips and sarcastic comments he was able to catch during training. He missed the feeling of safety whenever you cared for himself or others on the field, as he knew that you were to be trusted with their bodies. He missed the fire you sparked in Pablo, leading to unparalleled passion and unprecedented performances. The air of natural confidence that you spoke with is what brought the smile to his face. Not hesitation or wobble in your voice. No need to consult a dozen others. Medically, you knew your shit.

"A tear? Luca told me it was only excessive strain on my hamstrings."

A scoff and an eye roll that widened Pedri's smile. "I wouldn't let Luca perform medicine on a Barbie. That's the wrong kind of brace if it's a sprain. It's immobilizing. You need something with compression - a thigh sleeve most likely. Have you been icing it?"

"How could you leave Barca when your successors are idiots like Luca?" His arms folded across the table in front of him as the realization spread across your features. You were acting like his physio on impulse.

"How did you know I was thinking about leaving?"

"Everybody knows. No one could focus on today's second half because of it. When I went down everyone was scrambling to find you and call you. Everyone, myself included, was waiting for you to run across the field, bag in those magic hands ready to come and give me a new leg. But then you weren't there. And I was just praying that Luca didn't schedule me for an amputation."

A shy smile and a breathy laugh. You met his kind eyes, piercing though you. It was surprising when you felt the wetness on your cheeks, registering you were crying only after the tears had rolled down to your chin. He brought his chair in closer, holding your hand, and you held on for dear life. Your tears were falling in earnest now, fat and fast enough to hit the table as you used Pedri as a lifeline.

"Come back to Barca."

"I can't Pedri. I've... I've just made such a mess of everything."

"You're talking about Pablo."

"I'm talking about everything. I have a player that actively hates me and is looking for every opportunity to get me fired. Everyone on the team thinks that I'm sleeping with Pablo. And Pablo - I can't even explain how much I messed up. I told him to stay away from me. To give me space. I don't want space." You rested your forehead against the cool wood of the table. "I just want him to talk to me. When you sent me that message I was so excited. I thought he was ready to forgive me."

"Don't worry for a second about Ferran. We heard about the complaint to HR and I'd be happy to speak on your behalf about the dogshit he says to you. Everyone with a brain knows you're not sleeping with Pablo - they all have so much respect for the work that you do. Dembele came to me after the match and told me to contact you. He said your first assignment for Barca was to work on his leg recovery, and it was the best treatment he's ever had." You raised your head, tears turning your eyes red and puffy as they stained your cheeks.

"This may be selfish of me to say, but I would do anything to have you stay at the club and work with me. I can't miss all of these cup games because the physios don't know what's going on. This is everything I have ever wanted in my life. And if you're the person that can help me get there, then nothing, especially not Ferran and the other airheads at the club, are going to hold me back."

He moved to grab your other hand as well, looking you straight in the eyes. There was not one indication that he was exaggerating his sentiments. He wanted to win more than he wanted to breathe.

"And Pablo? Don't worry about him."

"How can I not worry, Pedri. I was so cruel to him. He'll never speak to me again."

"Doctora, don't you know that there's no one on this earth he holds in higher regard?"

The terminal was surprisingly quite busy upon your arrival. It seemed that everyone was catching an international red-eye, causing you to stumble through crowds with your small bag and exhausted demeanor. You approached the airport staff, utterly lost in trying to find the meeting place. It was 10:56pm, and you didn't have the money to be missing the company-sponsored return flight.

"Excuse me, I'm with the F.C Barcelona team. Where can I check in for my flight?"

"I don't remember them becoming a unisex team.'' Your expression remained neutral as the staff member chuckled at his own joke. You didn't have time to give a lecture on the dangers of misogyny. "I need to see your Barca ID."

"I don't have my team ID badge, but if you let me speak to-"

"Don't you women have something better to do than try and fuck a footballer? Lord, you even have a suitcase and everything. I suggest that you go home and stop with these little charades - it's embarrassing."

You stood speechless as the man walked away, stationing himself in a different area of the terminal. Behind you, screams were heard coming from the door, followed by flashes of light in rapid succession.

"Gavi I love you!"

"Pedri Pedri! You're my idol!"

"Xavi have my babies!"

Your attention shifted to the security guarding the entrance as the Barca squad filtered through the doors, all dressed in coordinated pale yellow. You speed walked towards them, pace catching the attention of one of the guards.

"Miss, you need to maintain space."

Gavi turned to look at the person that was causing a disturbance. Usually it was a child who had gotten a little too excited to see their favorite players, and often the soft spot in his heart compelled him to give them a picture or signature. It was hard to have your dreams crushed as a child by a celebrity that didn't care, and he was determined not to be that type of person. That's when his eyes locked with a pair oh so familiar to him. He stood in place, frozen as his teammates narrowly avoided bumping into him and causing an awful domino effect. It felt like forever since he last looked at you this way: like you were the only person in the room.

"Ah, Doctora y/n, glad Andreas was able to coordinate with you. Sir, she's with us." Xavi's word was law, as usual, and you were allowed to pass through with the rest of the group, ushered to a more private area of the terminal, the screams of fans echoing behind you.

Pablo watched as you stood alongside the coach, chattering away about God knows what. Eric and Pedri were beside him, making conversation about the new additions introduced in the FIFA update.

"Did you know she was going to be here?" Gavi asked, interrupting Pedri's rant about how expensive different skins and expansions were. He had been desperate to see you, thinking of all the ways he might reconcile once he saw you again. But not now. He wasn't ready to face you - not ready to be told 'no' again. For the first time in years, a cold vein of fear ran through him. Was this it? Were you handing in your resignation, coming to Spain only to collect your things before moving to the gray fogginess of the Premier League?

"Yeah. We had a little chat earlier." Say what you want about the IQ of footballers, but Pedri was incredibly intelligent. He himself had given up a career in medicine to explore football greatness. This meant he was smart enough to have deleted the messages that he sent from Pablo's phone before he did his 78th re-read of all your text messages. He was also smart enough to figure out that Gavi had wanted you practically since he laid eyes on you. Contrary to what many may think, Gavi didn't really look at girls. He was usually absorbed in conversation with a friend, whether in person or virtually, and was not prone to looking at every pretty girl that crossed his path. He was hard to please and even harder to impress. So when he started seeking you out more often, mentioning you during random drives, he knew that Pablito was infatuated.

It was several months, however, before Pedri realized the extent of Pablo's affection towards you. It had been during the international break, when Pedri sat and played FIFA with Nico, the only worthy opponent among La Roja. Pablo was half watching the game, half staring at the illuminated screen when he stood suddenly. Pedri watched from the corner of his eye as Gavi stepped out onto the balcony in shorts and his training shirt in the bitter chill of December. When the match had ended (3-1 to him of course), he followed the younger outside, and found him with his phone pointed towards the horizon. The sun in its retirement had painted the sky the most vibrant shades of oranges and pinks, bleeding into a royal purple. The hazy, circular glow kept the sky warm, and the colors stretched out over the wide expanse of the city, painting everything in the golden light of dusk. That's when Pedri heard the shutter click.

"Since when do you take pictures of the sunset?" He was teasing again. It was always fun to rile up his fiery teammate.

"I'm sending them to the doctora. It's so pretty, I want her to see it."

"Isn't she in Barcelona right now? She's probably looking at the same sunset."

"But it's just so beautiful from this high up." Gavi said, eyes still transfixed on his phone as he searched for the most worthy flick to send you. "I just want to send her something beautiful. I want to send her every beautiful thing in the world."

Yes, Pedri was a smart man. Smart enough to see that Pablo's feelings to you were stronger than he had ever experienced for another. Probably the strongest he had ever experienced at all. He was smart enough to approach Alejandro and Ansu, while Gavi chewed on his lip at the prospect of speaking to you, to organize the seating during the flight home.

"Don't get too comfortable, Doctora. You'll be joining me upfront for a chat after takeoff." You laughed politely at Xavi as he boarded the plane. You gathered your things, acutely aware of Ferran's gaze on you while you bent over.

"Have a good time at Chelsea? Try and ruin any lives while there?" He asked, voice laced with annoyance. HR had approached him about your complaint, informing him that they would be asking other players and staff about comments made at your expense. While he could keep his friends quiet, he had done too much to piss off Gavi, leaving him vulnerable to everyone in his camp. His only hope was to get you to leave before the investigation had concluded.

"I would prefer we didn't speak about non-professional matters. Thank you, Ferran." You said, smiling so sweetly he felt his teeth throb. You boarded the plane last with the rest of the staff, Luca rushing past you like he would be left behind if he wasn't seated soon. Glancing down at your ticket, you read out your seat number. Row 6, seat G. Walking onto the aircraft, you were stunned by the beauty of the first class cabin. It was furnished completely with plush leather, with every two or three seats getting their own dividers from the rest of the passengers. You walked to row 6, and made your way across the aisle to the right side of the plane where your seat was meant to be. In row 6, seat F, sat Pablo. He looked up at the aisle at the sound of shuffling, and the two of you just stared at one another, wordlessly communicating a shared hurt. All you wanted was to pull him in and say how sorry you were. You just didn't know if he'd be ready to accept.

"Um, I think I'm in the seat next to you." You told him sheepishly. He moved from his place, allowing you to sit next to him by the window.

"I thought the staff usually sits together." He said, trying to prevent it from sounding like a complaint, because it truly wasn't. He wondered what force of fate had allowed your seat to be placed next to his. Little did he know that fate was from the Canary Islands. You sat next to him, adjusting your seat and the belt, before bouncing your leg nervously. The speed increased when you felt the vibration of the engine, watching the plane move from its parked space onto the runway. You wanted to say something - anything - but your throat was dry and the words failed you. You didn't know what to say to ensure that you would be forgiven. That was probably the scariest part: knowing that the forgiveness may never come.

"Are you afraid of flying?"

You turned your head at the question. Gavi's eyes were fixated on your sweatpants-clad thigh as it bounced at incredible speeds. There were many things you were scared of in that moment, but the plane didn't help quell any of them. You were going to be stuck next to Pablo for the next two hours at the least. The anxiety of not knowing how he felt towards you gnawed at your skin, eating you alive. You nodded your head, because in all honesty, it was the same fear, wasn't it? Flying, falling - all terrifying prospects.

Gavi put one airpod in, extending the other to you. It was a peace offering, the olive branch you had waited for. You accepted it graciously, muttering a quiet thank you as you slotted it into place. Your body turned back towards the window, 'Sky full of stars' playing softly in the right half of your brain. As the plane continued to move slowly down the runway, you felt a hand rest atop yours, bringing your bouncing leg to a halt. The skin on skin sent shockwaves through you, electricity running up and down your arm. His hand moved sideways, sliding under yours to lift, and then proceeding to interlock your fingers. The warmth of Pablo's hand, the strength of his grip. The slight squeeze as the plane began picking up speed. Despite lacking the confidence to look at him directly, you peaked at your joined hands. Pablo was here. And through the presses of his fingers and the soothing motion of his thumb, he reminded you that Pablo would always be here, so long as you would have him.

"y/n, Mister Xavi would like to see you now."

You hadn't even realized your hand was still laced with Pablo's until one of the assistant coaches came to collect you. Gavi had drifted off into a light sleep, waking as he felt the cold hit his once warm palm. He grabbed your wrist as you tried to follow the assistant coach.

"Don't leave." He said, voice dry and raspy. You weren't sure if he meant now or the club. You moved your hand to join it with the one on your wrist, giving a gentle squeeze of reassurance, as he had done for you.

"Don't worry. I'll be right back."

This was your first time on a plane that had a lounge. The coaching staff was spread across all four sofas, drinking champagne and discussing the efforts from this trip. Xavi sat at a table, an empty seat across from him.

"Doctora, welcome back from Chelsea. Did you enjoy your visit?" He asked, offering your a flute that you politely declined.

"It was wonderful. The staffand players were all great. I'm grateful for the opportunity."

Xavi raised an eyebrow at the diplomatic answer. You were not giving him much of an indication as to your decision. He reached into his bag and extracted a medical file, sliding it over to you.

"As I'm sure you saw on TV and online, Pedri suffered quite a severe injury during the Man U match. Pedri is a key component of our midfield, and Luca has estimated eight to ten weeks for his recovery. I'd like you to take a look at his medical examination report and recommend a course of treatment."

You took the papers in your hand, looking at Xavi cautiously. What was the purpose of this exercise?

"Well, I've already told Pedri that his brace was incorrect, and gave him the specifications for a sleeve to buy once we return home. The eight to ten weeks metric is based on the healing with this immobilization boot. Using the correct compression sleeves and ice, as well as rest, Pedri should be back on in 4 weeks. Five if you want to be safe. That would mean his first appearance back would be the SuperCopa semifinals."

Xavi laughed to himself, collecting the files and returning them to their place. He pulled out another sheet of documents, the words "Adjusted Contract" in bold at the top.

"Doctora y/l/n, it has become increasingly evident as I watch you practice and treat our players that you are a generational talent in sports medicine. You have a deep understanding of the body that few others, both in the club and outside, can fully grasp. At Barca, we strive to do everything in our power to keep generational talents in Camp Nou. I would like you to consider remaining at the club until the summer, when contract renegotiations occur. This would allow you to see out a season that you have contributed so greatly to."

"Why the new contract now then?"

"Just a few clause adjustments. Firstly, we have increased your compensation to absorb your living costs. Those will now be covered by the club. The other change is on this page here. It states that your main focus must be on starters, injured prioritized before healthy. So, if you choose to accept, Pedri would be the top priority as an injured starter. You would dedicate all the necessary time to his treatment."

You scanned the document, and it was just as he said. No other nonsense, just the clauses on compensation and prioritization.

"This is all so flattering sir, but..." Your voice trailed off, shy to speak in front of a legend and the man holding your future in his hands.

"What can we do to make this deal irrefutable?"

"The contract is perfect sir. What I would need is a promise from you. Chelsea's base compensation was higher, but the compensation was based on the number of services the medical staff provides. I could be fired at any moment if not enough players were comfortable being treated by me. I felt, or well rather I didn't feel the sense of loyalty, of family, that I get as Barca. And so I would need a promise from you."

"Name your demand."

"When the summer comes and my contract needs to be renegotiated, keep me on the team. Don't try and pawn me off to someone else. This is my team, my club, my family. So you have to promise me that I have a future here, or else I'll save the heartbreak and leave now."

Xavi placed a pen on the table, bringing his chair forward to be as close as possible to you. "Doctora, you are an incredible and frankly priceless asset to us. We were able to hand select you from the best of the best new physios in Spain. Our successes, any trophies and titles, we owe them in part to you. Help me finish the season with a strong and healthy squad, and I swear to you on my life that you will have a place at Barca until the day you die." He stretched out his hand, and you took a deep breath, meeting the shake midway. It felt weird, signing your contract again, but for more money. You definitely didn't expect to be in this position before you've even graduated, but it brought a pride to your soul. Xavi saw something in you. A generational talent. Somebody believed in what you could do.

You returned to your seat and found that it was Gavi's turn to bounce his leg. You sat down, and he followed you with his eyes. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

"Did you enjoy your trip?"

"Very much so. I got to meet Joao Felix."

Gavi's face turned to you, catching the beaming smile that broke out across your face.

"Yeah? You like him in person, or was he a disappointment?"

"He was less... dreamy than I had anticipated. But still sweet nonetheless. It was a cool experience."

Gavi responded with a hum, turning his music back on and looking away from you. His other airpod sat on the tray table, right where you left it.

"Pablo," it was your turn to rest a hand on his bouncing leg, "we have to talk."

Pablo turned to you, eyes sad and lip between his teeth. "Do we? I feel like you've said everything there is to say." He knew he was being difficult. He knew he was being petty. But Pablo could not let himself get hurt again, especially not in front of the entire team. If he was going to mourn your departure, it was going to be in the comfort of his own guest bed, the one piece of furniture he could sleep on for 7 continuous hours because it held no memories of you. It was your turn to find his fingers and slot them between your own.

"I didn't mean it. Any of it. I have so many reasons why I didn't mention meeting you, Pablo, but I'm just not brave enough to tell you yet. It wasn't because it wasn't important. It could never be. You are one of the most important people in my life. You're one of the only people I have left. Please don't push me away."

His eyes met yours, and he knew there was no way he could remain angry. It was you, after all. The person that made Pablo believe in the possibility of a soulmate. The one that Gavi thought of whenever songs about incredible love came up on his playlist. You were it. He gripped your hand tighter.

"Going to be hard to support you from several countries away, but I will try my best."

"You don't have to. I'm staying."

Gavi's eyes widened, face lighting up like a kid who had just been gifted an entire candy store. "You're staying?"

"Mhm. Barca is my home. My family. No matter how bad it gets, I could never leave this place behind." It felt as though you spoke those words right into his soul, breathing life back into his very being. You were staying. Your voice, your laugh, your energy - all of it would be at Camp Nou, waiting on the sidelines as he fought tooth and nail to capture your attention. "And plus, Pedri and Xavi basically begged me to come back so Luca doesn't have to treat him."

Gavi let a laugh fill his lungs and spill from his throat, maybe a little louder than necessary on a midnight flight. But he was feeling genuine joy course through his veins. He was a man on death row with a second chance at life. He removed his hand from your grip, bringing to above you and resting it across your shoulders. Professionalism be damned. He just wanted to be close to you right now.

"Xavi was more convincing than Joao? I bet that would be a blow to his ego if he found out." It was comfortable, sitting with Pablo in this way. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to be this close to him. You pushed up the hand rest so that the two of you could get even closer. Professionalism be damned. They wouldn't fire you while Pedri was still limping.

"Oh yeah. Portugal boy is cute, but Xavi in 2010? That was my first love. I could never refuse a request from him." More giggles from Gavi. You wished you would bottle this moment, eager to make his happiness perpetual. He was human sunshine, and he deserved every light and happy and beautiful moment life could offer.

"The spiky hair? Really?"

"Shut up!" Coupled with a smack to the chest. You rested your head on his shoulder, exhaustion of the day and its stressors finally catching up to you. "Every man looks hotter when carrying a trophy."

Gavi let out a light laugh, turning to hide his blush. Yet another motivation to lift as many cups as possible this season. He offered you his other airpod again, which you accepted, inserting it as a soft melody filled your ears. Your eyelids were heavy, and you were drifting in and out of consciousness.

"One day, we'll need to talk about it properly, you know." Pablo said from above you, voice soft and serious.

You nodded your head, letting out a quiet "Mhm" in a agreement. You knew it was an inevitable conversation. You would have to eventually face the music, let Gavi free himself from whatever feelings were sitting on his chest. But you couldn't do it now. Not with your future up in the air. Not with your feelings for Gavi still a massive tangle of emotions.

"Not tonight." You said to him softly, as he turned his head to meet your eyes.

"No, not tonight."

Your eyes finally closed and you began drifting off. Pablo's arm remained wrapped around you as he leaned in closer, basically cuddling you on this plane. Thank the lord for blessing the engineers with enough foresight to install dividers. As you breathed rhythmically against his chest, he pressed his nose into your hair, breathing deeply. Why was everything about you so intoxicating?

In the haze of your sleep, you heard Pablo speaking to you. You listened intently, hoping to catch these special words that he only released to your sleeping form.

"Doctora, I would wait for you forever. Even when you hit rock bottom, I'll be there, waiting for you with a ladder. You will always have me, no matter what."

~~~~~~~

A/N: Guys I did it!!! My longest part to date! I am so flipping tired. It's 4am. I don't remember a time before I started writing this part. Anyways, we are chugging along y'all! Only two parts left in the main story!! I surpassed my 15k word goal. Maybe next part is 18k? I think the next part is going to be my favorite. I haven't decided if I want the big boom pow event to be in part 9 or 10. We will see. Again, apologies for the long time between updates, but semi-decent writing takes time. As usual, please leave thoughts, feedback, predictions, etc. in the replies - I love reading all of them so much!!! If you notice any easter eggs/ small details, feel free to point them out!!! There are so many and I love when y'all get them. IDK when part 9 is coming out but when it's done y'all will be the first to know. Ok love y'all byeeeee.

Also please comment if you want to be added to the taglist ok bye

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