𝙵𝙸𝙵𝙰.

okay next, i js wanna laugh. okay so, were at a charity event or something, and im volunteering, helping hand out juice boxes, signing people in, keeping children from using cones as swords, that typa stuff. until FRANCO COLAPINATA shows up, he's js being annoying really, until shes had enough and YEET the juice box at his head, and then he's all nonchalant and shit like "UH HUH I DESERVED THATTT AHAHA" .... and then you can tell the juice box turned him on bc you can like tell he wants her, and thennn WEEKS pass, and he DM's her. "saw apple juice today. thought of you. still flinch when i see boxes. wanna hang out?” MUWUAHAHSNA

❦ - manzanas contigo.

warnings:: none, maybe cussing..?

writers notes:: pls send more franco/f1 reqs bc i loved writing this sm and hes so fun to write for!

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you don’t even want to be here.

the email had said volunteers needed, and your overly kind soul had said sure, why not, and now you’re seven hours deep into wrangling children hopped up on fruit snacks and sun. the charity event is cute in theory, music, booths, a little track set up for games, and a bounce house, but in practice? it’s a battlefield.

you’re stationed at the welcome tent, handing out wristbands and juice boxes and fake smiles.

your feet hurt. your shirt is sticking to your back. a toddler is crying because he dropped his balloon into a bush. and some guy just tried to cut the line because he ‘swears his cousin is already inside.’

you’re not proud of how close you came to smacking him with the clipboard.

but then, because life has a sense of humor, he appears.

franco colapinto.

and you know it’s him, because who else shows up to a local charity event in an alpine cap, looking like he walked out of a sports magazine and directly into your personal hell?

you glance up at the exact moment he’s brushing a curl out of his eyes, all casual and oops i’m hot and didn’t mean to beenergy.

he scans the crowd, sunglasses pushed up on his head, mouth curled like he already knows he’s being stared at. and of course he is. a group of teenage volunteers behind you are whispering, one of them literally smacks the other on the arm and goes that’s him. that’s that guy. the car one.

sigh.

maybe if you stay perfectly still, he won’t notice you.

but of course, you are not blessed with that kind of luck.

his eyes land on you. direct. intentional.

and he starts walking over.

great.

you busy yourself with the juice boxes, shuffling them around pointlessly as if they need organizing, as if you’re not seconds away from face to face contact with a walking headache.

‘so,’ he says, leaning against the table like this is his full time job. ‘what does a guy gotta do to get one of those?’

you glance up. ‘a wristband?’

‘nah. a juice box.’

you stare.

he smiles.

you hold one up. ‘take it and leave.’

‘whoa. feisty. is this how you treat all guests, or am i special?’

you blink. ‘i’ve been here since 6am. i have zero patience and less charm left.’

‘good thing i’ve got enough charm for both of us.’

you raise a brow. ‘that supposed to work on me?’

he shrugs, peeling the wrapper off a straw. ‘worth a shot.’

he doesn’t leave.

he just stands there, sipping slowly, watching you like he’s never seen anyone pass out juice before. his gaze trails across your face, not in a creepy way, just annoyingly observant. like he’s trying to figure out what kind of person signs up for this kind of chaos and doesn’t run away screaming.

you try to ignore him. you really do.

but then he starts helping. like… physically taking wristbands from your hand to hand them to kids, leaning way too close to read names off the sign in list, nodding solemnly at the parents like he belongs here.

and the worst part? people believe it.

‘you two are adorable,’ one lady says as she signs in her daughter.

you nearly choke. ‘we’re not—‘

‘thank you,’ franco cuts in, smiling like he just won an oscar. ‘we try.’

you give him a look. he winks. kill me, you think.

it gets worse when a small child asks for apple juice and franco picks one up, does a dramatic gasp, and goes, ‘apple! the superior juice. i like your taste, kid.’

you break.

you don’t mean to. you truly don’t. but something inside you snaps, and the next thing you know, you’re yeeting a juice box straight at him.

it arcs through the air with surprising grace, smacks him right in the shoulder, and bounces off harmlessly onto the grass.

a moment of silence.

he blinks.

then he laughs. hard.

‘okay,’ he says, holding his hands up in surrender. ‘i deserved that. i fully, absolutely, one hundred percent deserved that.’

you cross your arms. ‘you think?’

he’s still grinning as he bends to pick it up. ‘apple again. symbolic.’

‘you’re ridiculous.’

‘you like me though.’

you scoff. ‘i like peace and quiet.’

‘you’re blushing.’

‘i’m hot. it’s eighty degrees.’

‘you threw a juice box at me.’

‘you were annoying.’

he tilts his head. ‘admit it. it was kinda satisfying.’

you bite back a smile. ‘maybe a little.’

he grins, stepping back finally. ‘i’ll leave you to your cone wrangling duties. but don’t be surprised if you see me again.’

‘god help me,’ you mutter.

he strolls away, sipping the slightly dented juice like it’s champagne.

and yeah. maybe your heart is doing something dumb.

maybe you do glance up once or twice, wondering if he’s still watching you.

maybe he is.

you don’t expect to see him again.

honestly, you’d hoped the juice box incident would be enough to scare him off. but two saturdays later, at a completely different event, you’re there, collecting raffle tickets and babysitting the world’s most chaotic face paint station, and there he is.

franco colapinto.

wearing a hoodie this time. hood up. trying and failing to blend in, as if his stupidly nice smile and the way he walks like the world was made for him don’t give him away instantly.

you see him from across the lot.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. just lifts his hand in a little wave and starts walking straight toward you like this is a planned reunion and not a complete surprise.

you look around. as if there’s someone else he could be greeting. spoiler: there isn’t.

‘you again,’ you say when he reaches you.

‘me again,’ he grins, pulling down his hood like he’s revealing a secret identity.

you sigh. ‘are you following me?’

‘you wish.’

‘so this is a coincidence?’

he shrugs. ‘or fate.’

you deadpan. ‘you’re insufferable.’

‘you say that every time.’

‘i mean it every time.’

he gestures around, like he’s settling in. ‘need help again? or do i have to earn my juice box rights this time?’

you narrow your eyes. ‘don’t you have a job?’

‘i do. it’s off-season. i’m thriving.’

‘this is how you spend your free time? crashing fundraisers?’

‘not crashing,’ he says, very seriously. ‘contributing. i donated five bucks to the bouncy castle. i’m basically a hero.’

you don’t laugh. you don’t.

okay, maybe a little.

he’s already rolling up his sleeves and jumping into whatever task you’re doing, like last time, and suddenly you’re stuck with him for three hours again.

he helps a little girl glue pom poms onto a paper crown.

he nearly gets paint on his nose and doesn’t notice.

he lets a five year old draw a blue lightning bolt across his cheek and calls it his new racing stripe.

and every now and then, he looks over at you like you’re the funniest thing in the world, even when you’re just frowning at a clipboard or trying to untangle a balloon string from a folding chair.

you pretend not to care.

you pretend really hard.

the third time is the worst.

mostly because… you kind of expect him now.

you’ve made the mistake of mentioning your volunteer schedule to a friend on your story. and it’s fine. really. except now, when you show up to the saturday pet adoption drive with a clipboard and a tight ponytail, you scan the crowd. like an idiot.

he’s not there.

you tell yourself you’re relieved. that you don’t need another afternoon of his smug little comments and stupidly good hair.

but you still keep checking.

twenty minutes pass.

an hour.

two.

he doesn’t come.

you keep busy. hand out flyers. try not to cry when a little dog named charlie gets adopted. organize leashes by size.

and you don’t look at the time more than seven times. promise.

at some point, you’re wiping your hands with a napkin behind the tent when your phone buzzes.

it’s a dm.

from franco.

you blink.

sorry i couldn’t be there today. doing actual job things. tragic.

you stare at it.

then another:

but saw apple juice earlier. still flinched.

and another:

still want to hang out sometime. even if you hit me with stuff. maybe especially because you hit me with stuff.

you can’t help it. your lips twitch.

you don’t reply right away.

you finish your shift. take the long way home. drink half a juice box you saved from the cooler, even though it’s lukewarm now.

and when you’re lying on your bed, staring at the message, you finally type:

you’re impossible.

three dots.

impossible but charming?

you:

debatable.

him:

you didn’t say no though.

you stare at your screen for a second too long.

then:

one coffee. you pay. no weird pickup lines.

his response is immediate.

deal. i’ll try to behave. no promises.

you tell yourself it’s just a coffee.

one coffee. thirty minutes, max. maybe forty five if he says something dumb and you need time to drag him for it.

it’s not a big deal.

except it is. because you spend too long picking an outfit. change your shirt twice. then change it again. then panic change it back to the first one and tell yourself to get a grip.

you meet at some small place he picked, half hipster café, half bookstore. it smells like cinnamon and old paperbacks. you hate how nice it is.

franco’s already there.

and of course he looks… stupidly good. hoodie, again. curls poking out. one hand lazily spinning his coffee cup. and that grin, that stupid boyish grin, when he spots you.

‘you came,’ he says, standing.

‘don’t sound so surprised.’

he does a little half bow. ‘welcome to the least boring hour of your life.’

you roll your eyes and sit across from him. ‘don’t flatter yourself.’

‘not flattering. manifesting.’

you try to look annoyed, but the truth is, you’re already smiling. just a little. traitorous.

you talk.

not about anything huge at first. just… dumb things. favorite drinks. worst airport experiences. why he thinks pineapple on pizza should be illegal (you argue passionately against this).

he tells you about crashing a go kart once when he was twelve because he was ‘trying to wave like a champion’ and forgot to steer.

you tell him about the time you accidentally walked into the wrong class and sat through fifteen minutes of astrophysics before realising.

he laughs with his whole chest.

and it’s easy. too easy. every time your fingers brush reaching for the sugar, it feels like something electric. every time he leans in a little, like he’s really listening, your heart stutters.

you should not be this into him. and yet.

you’re both halfway through your drinks when he goes quiet for a second, then says, ‘i almost didn’t message you.’

you blink. ‘why not?’

he shrugs, looks down, spins the empty cup between his hands. ‘i dunno. didn’t want to be annoying.’

‘you already are.’

he grins, but it’s softer now. ‘yeah, but like… in a cute way.’

you shake your head, but your cheeks are warm. ‘you’re such a menace.’

‘you threw juice at me.’

‘because you were asking for it.’

he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes on yours. ‘maybe i was.’

your breath catches. just a little. just enough.

you clear your throat. ‘you’re not smooth, you know.’

‘i don’t need to be. i just need to make you smile.’

you hate him.

you really, really don’t.

you leave the café two hours later.

two.

neither of you wants to say goodbye yet, so you walk. just… around. your shoulder brushes his once. then again. then a third time, and this time, it stays there. just for a second longer than it should.

he doesn’t let go first.

eventually, you end up back where you started.

he looks at you like he wants to say something. then looks away. then back.

‘can i see you again?’ he asks, soft.

you nod. and for once, don’t try to be clever.

‘yeah. i’d like that.’

the second date happens faster than either of you expect.

you’d planned to wait. play it cool. but then franco sends you a picture of a strawberry smoothie and says ‘looked gross. thought of u,’ and you end up laughing so hard in the middle of your kitchen that you just… cave.

you text him:
you free tonight?

he replies in literal seconds:
always. pick the time. i’ll teleport.

you meet again at the same café. but this time, he’s not already sitting.

he’s waiting outside. leaning on the wall. hoodie again, he really only owns five of them, he tells you later, and his curls are just barely damp from the light rain that’s started falling.

he sees you and that grin hits his face like clockwork. like he’d been saving it just for you.

‘you came,’ he says.

‘you say that every time.’

‘yeah, but like… every time you do, it messes me up a little.’

you pretend you don’t hear that part.

it’s darker inside. quieter. the same table’s free, but this time, you sit next to each other.

close.

too close.

he smells good. not in an obvious, cologne drenched way. it’s something warmer. shampoo and sugar and the kind of scent that lingers even after he leaves.

your knees touch under the table.

neither of you moves.

you talk again.

about bigger things this time. pressure. travel. burnout. he admits he sometimes feels like everything’s moving too fast, and he’s scared he won’t be able to hold on.

you nod. you tell him about how you fake confidence half the time. how sometimes you feel invisible until someone needs something.

he listens. really listens.

then says, ‘you’re not invisible.’

you blink. ‘okay?’

‘just saying. i notice you. always have.’

you laugh a little. ‘that’s creepy.’

‘yeah,’ he says, smiling into his drink. ‘but like… romantic creepy.’

you don’t mean to stay late. but time’s slippery around him.

by the time you realize it’s almost midnight, you’re both sitting outside the café, sharing a leftover pastry and watching the rain slide down the windows.

you don’t want to go.

he doesn’t want to say goodbye.

so he walks you home.

he stops outside your door.

you both kind of hover there. like two idiots waiting for someone to do something. say something.

‘this was nice,’ you say quietly.

‘yeah,’ he says, and then, softer, ‘i wanna kiss you.’

your breath catches.

he doesn’t move closer. doesn’t touch you. he just stands there, all warm eyes and soft voice.

you whisper, ‘then why don’t you?’

he grins. all teeth and nerves and too much hope.

‘cause the minute i kiss you, i’m not gonna stop thinking about it. and i want you to wanna kiss me back. like really want to.’

you stare at him.

he shrugs. ‘just being honest.’

you nod. heart in your throat.

then say, ‘next time.’

he smirks, already backing away.

‘i’ll hold you to that.’

you tell yourself you’re not waiting.

not waiting for a text. not waiting for a call. not waiting for the memory of him saying i wanna kiss you to stop looping in your head like some kind of cursed romantic ringtone.

but when his name flashes on your screen two days later, your whole face warms.

what if we didn’t do coffee this time?

you stare.

what do you wanna do then?

he replies instantly.

drive. music. idfk. i’ll bring snacks. you bring the vibe.

you:
so i’m the vibe?

him:
always.

he picks you up at 7:03.

he’s in a black hoodie this time, and his car smells like mint gum and the ghost of bad fast food. there’s a half eaten bag of crisps on the passenger seat, which he tosses in the back when you open the door.

‘you’re late,’ you say.

‘you’re early. time’s fake. get in.’

he drives like he thinks he’s in a movie.

one hand on the wheel. other messing with the aux. windows down. hair wind-blown and wild. he sings under his breath to every second song. raps to the third one badly. you don’t stop laughing the entire first hour.

you don’t know where he’s going, but you don’t care.

being next to him feels like its own kind of destination.

eventually, he parks by the water.

some random lookout. the city’s lights glitter below, far enough to feel small. the kind of view that feels too beautiful to deserve.

you sit on the hood of his car. shoulder to shoulder. knee to knee. the air’s cold, but not too cold. and everything’s soft. quiet.

for a second, neither of you says anything.

and then, gently, he says, ‘i think about kissing you a lot.’

you blink.

he keeps staring ahead, like he didn’t just drop a bomb. ‘not in a creepy way.’

you laugh. ‘do you always think you’re being creepy?’

‘only when i like someone too much.’

the words settle in your chest like warmth. like lightning.

‘franco,’ you say.

he turns.

‘kiss me.’

his eyes go wide. like for a second, he’s not sure if he heard you right.

then, slowly, he leans in.

he kisses you like he’s afraid to mess it up. like he’s been waiting exactly this long, and not a second less. soft, steady, sure.

and when he pulls back, he just rests his forehead against yours.

neither of you speaks for a minute.

you break the silence. ‘not bad.’

he huffs a laugh. ‘that’s it? not bad?’

‘seven out of ten. you’ll need practice.’

‘cool. guess i better keep showing up.’

you’re not sure when it shifted.

when the maybe turned into definitely. when the texting turned into facetime turned into mornings with your feet tangled under his on the couch. when the almost turned into always.

but now, here you are, franco at your door with a half-melted milkshake and a stupid grin, like he’s been thinking about this all day.

‘you’re late,’ you tease, taking the drink.

‘you’re still hot,’ he says, walking in like he lives here.

(he kind of does.)

you’ve been soft ever since the drive.

he kisses you now like he needs to. like he missed you, even if it’s only been a few hours. like kissing you is just a normal part of his day, something between brushing his teeth and ruining your kitchen by cooking you breakfast at 2 a.m.

sometimes, you wake up to his hand resting on your waist, his face buried in your shoulder. like his body forgets how to be without you.

you don’t say it. not yet. but you feel it.

you think he does too.

it’s been weeks.

weeks since franco colapinto got beaned in the forehead with apple juice and decided that was the hottest thing that had ever happened to him.

weeks since he dm’d you with that dumb message:
saw apple juice today. thought of you. still flinch when i see boxes. wanna hang out?

weeks since you said yes.

and now here you are, propped up on his couch, socks mismatched, face lit by the glow of a documentary you’re not watching, because franco’s lying with his head in your lap and he keeps dragging his fingers along your leg like he can’t believe you’re real.

‘what,’ you murmur.

‘nothing,’ he says. then, quietly: ‘just thinking about the juicebox.’

you snort. ‘again?’

he nods, sleepy and fond. ‘you threw that thing with intention. it was beautiful.’

‘you’re so weird.’

‘you’re the one who assaulted me with a children’s drink.’

‘you flirted with me for two hours while i was working.’

‘you looked hot with a clipboard. sue me.’

you roll your eyes. he reaches up, brushes your hair behind your ear.

‘you know i really did think about you every time i saw juice after that?’

‘you said that already.’

‘i mean it. i’d be in a store and be like… damn. i miss her aim.’

you swat him. he laughs. kisses your wrist.

later, when you’re brushing your teeth in his oversized hoodie, he pulls you into his arms and rests his chin on your head.

‘should we save the juicebox?’ he asks, voice muffled in your hair.

‘what, like… frame it?’

‘yeah. put it above the bed. shrine to our origin story.’

‘you’re so dumb.’

‘dumb for you.’

you groan. he grins.

he still gets teased by his friends about the Incident.

he still buys apple juice ‘for the bit’ and lines the fridge with it like a threat.

but when he kisses you goodbye before his next race, all soft and slow like he’s imprinting it in his memory, he says:

‘thanks for hitting me.’

and you say,
‘thanks for being annoying enough to deserve it.’

and maybe, maybe, that’s just your love language now.

RIGHT. this is absolute blasphemy where are the joao fics at?? I SWEAR TO GOD yall are driving me insane like fym i have to write them MYSELF? excuse me. SO. send me joao requests if you wish because on god i’ve had enough of this nonsense 🤬. i miss when there was new fics every week like some of them were absolutely peak writing like i think ab that kiss me thru the phone fic every day #bringthatback 💔. @barcapix i love u pls don’t ever die bc i need you to make more fics b4 this flu sends me to heaven ❤️. OKAY LOVE YOU GUYS

João req! How he would spend the readers birthday for the first time together?

❦ - yours for the day.

summary:: it’s your first birthday with joao, and he made sure to make it the best day you’ve ever had.

warnings:: uhhh none?

writers note:: i don’t think i’ve ever been so happy to see a request in my life because i had a draft vers of sum similar but i didn’t like it so bc of this i was able to give it a glow up and give it use to thank you darling! 🩵

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if you wanna be added or removed!

your birthday had never been a big deal to you. sure, you appreciated the messages, the cake, the occasional gift, but you never expected much. so when joão asked you a week before what you wanted to do, you just shrugged.

‘whatever you want, i’m happy with.’

he had frowned at that, shaking his head. ‘nah, this is your day. i want to make it special.’

you didn’t argue, just smiled and let him plan. and now, waking up to soft kisses trailing along your shoulder, you figured you’d made the right choice.

‘bom dia, meu amor,’ he murmured, voice still heavy with sleep. ‘happy birthday.’

you turned over to face him, heart melting at the sight of his messy hair and sleepy smile. ‘thank you.’

he kissed your forehead before getting up. ‘stay in bed, i’ll be right back.’

you obeyed, stretching under the covers, wondering what he was up to. moments later, he returned with a tray, fresh fruit, pastries, a cup of coffee just the way you liked it.

‘breakfast in bed?’ you teased, sitting up.

he grinned. ‘of course. only the best for my birthday girl.’

you laughed, taking a bite of a flaky croissant. ‘if this is how you do birthdays, i might start liking them more.’

joão’s eyes softened as he watched you. ‘that’s the goal.’

the morning passed lazily, the two of you tangled in each other, talking about everything and nothing. he didn’t rush you, didn’t push any plans, just let you enjoy the slow start to the day.

eventually, he pulled you up from bed. ‘come on, we’ve got places to be.’

‘where are we going?’

he smirked. ‘not telling.’

you groaned, but let him lead you outside, where his car was waiting. the drive was peaceful, his hand resting on your thigh as he hummed along to the music.

when he finally parked, you blinked in surprise. ‘joão…’

he had taken you to an art museum, one you’d mentioned in passing months ago, saying you’d love to visit someday. you hadn’t expected him to remember.

‘you said you wanted to come here,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘thought it’d be a nice way to spend the afternoon.’

your chest warmed at the thoughtfulness. ‘this is perfect.’

he smiled, grabbing your hand as you both walked inside.

you wandered through the exhibits, taking your time, soaking in the art. joão wasn’t the biggest art guy, but he listened when you talked about your favorite pieces, nodding along even when he didn’t fully get it.

at one point, he pulled you aside, his eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘if you could steal one painting and no one would ever know, which one would it be?’

you bit your lip, scanning the room before pointing to a serene landscape painting. ‘that one.’

he chuckled. ‘good choice. mine would be that weird abstract one over there.’

you laughed. ‘of course it would.’

after the museum, he took you to a cozy little restaurant, another place you’d mentioned wanting to try. the dinner was perfect, filled with laughter and quiet moments where he just looked at you like you were the best thing he’d ever seen.

when you got back home, you were sure the day was over. but joão had one more surprise.

he led you to the living room, where a small box sat on the table. ‘open it.’

you shot him a look. ‘joão, you didn’t have to—’

‘just open it,’ he insisted, grinning.

rolling your eyes fondly, you lifted the lid. inside was a delicate necklace, a small charm in the shape of a star hanging from the chain.

‘because you’re my estrela,’ he murmured, fastening it around your neck.

you swallowed past the lump in your throat, turning to him. ‘this is…’

he cupped your face, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. ‘i just wanted you to know how much you mean to me. i hope today was everything you wanted.’

you smiled, pulling him into a hug. ‘it was perfect. you’re perfect.’

he chuckled, kissing your temple. ‘happy birthday, meu amor.’

and for the first time in a long time, you really, truly loved your birthday.

request: lewis hamilton black and white headers

credits to lewstappn, like/reblog if you save or use and please don't repost

❦ - i knew you were trouble

summary:: you and kenans relationship is falling apart but you can’t help but love him amongst it all.

warnings:: angst

writers note:: i lowkey planned on finishing this series ages ago but i need to include kenan so here we are! and also a joao fic coming too from this series nd then i need to clear my inbox ! xx thank uu all for being so patient w me 😭

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if you wanna be added!

The bass reverberated through the club, low and steady, like the pulse in her ears as she watched him from across the room. Kenan leaned back against the bar, head tilted, an easy smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

He didn’t see her yet, or maybe he did, and he was pretending not to. That would be his style, wouldn’t it? To play with the tension like it was his own personal game, the stakes as unimportant to him as a casual flick of his wrist.

She knew better now. Too late, but she knew.

The first time they met, he was magnetic in a way she couldn’t quite explain. He didn’t have to try to be charming; it was effortless. His voice, low and smooth, carried promises that made her breath hitch without her even realizing it. He’d been trouble from the start, but she hadn’t wanted to admit it. Not then. Not until the shine faded and the jagged edges of his confidence started to cut.

Tonight, she thought, she’d walked in knowing exactly what she was walking into. She’d come here to end it. To look him in the eye, tell him she was done, and mean it. Yet now, standing there with the echo of his laughter cutting through the crowd, she faltered.

He turned. His gaze landed on her like he’d been waiting for her all along, and her stomach sank. That smile, infuriatingly self assured, spread wider, as though he already knew she wouldn’t follow through. He pushed away from the bar and crossed the room without hesitation, his stride slow but deliberate, like a hunter cornering his prey.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said when he stopped in front of her. Her voice wavered, betraying her resolve.

Kenan tilted his head, studying her in that way he had that made her feel like he could see every thought she was trying to hide. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be either,’ he said, his tone light, teasing. But there was a weight in his eyes that told her he wasn’t joking, not really.

She hated that he could do this. That he could stand there, so calm, so casual, while her chest burned with a thousand unsaid words. She hated that no matter how much she prepared herself, he always unraveled her in seconds.

‘You don’t even care, do you?’ she said, her voice sharper now. Anger was easier than the ache clawing at her chest. ‘You do what you want, say what you want, and then act surprised when everything falls apart.’

His expression didn’t change, but she saw the flicker of something in his eyes; guilt, maybe, or regret. ‘You’re wrong,’ he said, quietly this time. ‘I care more than you think.’

She didn’t believe him. Not anymore. But the way he reached for her hand, the way his thumb brushed over her knuckles, made her wonder if maybe she wanted to.

Maybe that was the real trouble; she didn’t want to let him go.

And he knew it.

saira i have an idea

what if i send you a joao fic idea everyday until i die (have to go offline)

how about yes! i have a few other fics (a LOT of kenan and cubarsi but i have a draft for a joao one u requested 👅

UGHH the things this man makes me wanna do is soooo i just wanna bite his hands bro THOSE VEINNNSSS OMDSSSS🥴🥴

I want him to look at me like that bro like stawppp😝😝🤪

fc barcelona headers

like/reblog if you save x

- requested!!

Love && war part 4 pleaseeeeee

❦ - love && war part 4.

warnings:: none

writers notes:: chat… IVE DONE IT! last fic i have to format until i finish writing the 6 remaining but its currently 16/4/25 rn and i’ve actually finished formatting the 14 fics that i’ve been needing to format since monday (it’s saturday now tf). also i think this is the last part

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @universefcb @mariejuli @nngkay

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it was one of those warm, late afternoons. the sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the tennis courts. the crowd buzzed with excitement, some cheering for the match, others just soaking in the atmosphere. but for you, we there was only one person in the stands who made your heart race in a completely different way.

gavi was there, as he had been for the past few months. it started off as casual support, but now, you couldn’t remember what life had been like without his constant presence in your corner. whether it was texting you between sets, bringing you water when you were feeling drained, or just sitting quietly, watching you play, it always felt like he was there for more than just the game.

as you walked onto the court, your heart skipped a beat. your opponent was good, really good. the pressure was on. you were about to step into a match that could solidify your place in the semifinals of the tournament. but no matter how important the game was, you couldn’t help but glance at the stands.

gavi caught your eye instantly. he grinned, giving you a small, encouraging wave. it was a simple gesture, but it made your nerves settle, just enough to steady your breathing.

you took a deep breath, the game starting to play out. you focused, set your mind on each point, each serve, each return. but every now and then, you'd hear a slight cheer or catch a glimpse of gavi watching you, and you couldn't help but smile. the way he watched you with such intent, his eyes locked on you, made everything feel... different.

you played harder, your moves becoming more fluid. the match was close, and with every rally, the intensity grew. you were fully in your zone now, feeling the adrenaline pushing you to do better. your focus was unshakable.

but then, just as you went to hit a perfect serve, you heard gavi shout, ‘come on!’ from the stands.

it wasn’t loud, but the way his voice was full of confidence, cheering you on like he always did, gave you the burst of energy you needed. without thinking, you served harder than before, sending the ball past your opponent’s reach.

‘game, set, match,’ the umpire called, signaling your win.

the crowd erupted, but in that moment, your eyes sought gavi once more. he was already standing, hands raised in celebration, that same proud smile on his face. you couldn't help it, your heart swelled at the sight of him, cheering you on like you were the only one on his mind.

you jogged over to your bench to grab your towel, but before you even had the chance to sit down, you spotted gavi making his way down from the stands. his eyes locked with yours, and that wide grin on his face made your heart skip a beat. he was making his way towards you, dodging the crowd of people in the process.

‘you did amazing,’ he said breathlessly, standing right in front of you, his hands brushing the hair away from your face.

you couldn't help but laugh softly. ‘thank you, gavi. i think i might’ve been more motivated with you here.’

his eyes softened as he looked at you, his hands still lingering at your sides. ‘it’s all you,’ he said, giving you a playful smirk. ‘i just get to watch you shine.’

his words made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the game. there was something about the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel like everything was right in the world. he wasn’t just supporting you because of the sport. it was more. much more.

he stepped closer, his hand gently cupping your cheek. ‘i’m proud of you,’ he murmured, his voice low and sincere. ‘you’ve worked so hard for this.’

your breath caught in your throat as you stared at him, his face so close to yours, his presence overwhelming in the best way. you could feel the chemistry between the two of you, palpable, undeniable.

before you could say anything else, he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, the warmth of his lips sending a thrill through your entire body.

you both stood there for a moment, the world around you fading as you shared the brief, intimate moment. but eventually, the noise from the crowd and the sound of people congratulating you snapped you both back to reality.

you smiled at gavi, your heart racing. ‘thank you for always being here,’ you said, your voice just above a whisper.

he grinned, his eyes shining with something deeper than just admiration. ‘i’m not going anywhere, y/n.’

and in that moment, you knew he meant it. no matter where your career took you, no matter how busy the world became, gavi would always be right there in your corner, cheering you on, not just for your tennis, but for you.

Hiii, quick question, what nationality are you???

hii darlinggg, i’m bangladeshi, spanish and palestinian but im from england!! 🤍