Hey Princess!! Could You Add Me To Your Taglist, Pls ? 💓

Hector fort taking care of reader who had her period unprepared and is embarrassed about it cuz her ex used to get mad at her for it?

Maybe?

Perhaps?

(Idk how to request if you didn’t notice already 😭)

❦ - unexpected but never a problem.

summary:: what the req says.

warnings:: nooooone? cussing i think…?

writers notes:: i love you anon you’re so cute i saw it and instantly wrote it you’re adorable! anyways im not very good w requests so i really dunno if this is what you wanted but i hope u love it nonetheless? gimme feedback yg i beg 💔. ALSO I HAVE NO JOAO REQUESTS GIMME SOME PLSSS

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

you realize it too late.

the uncomfortable dampness, the slight cramping you brushed off earlier, the way hector’s hoodie, his favorite one, now feels impossibly heavy around your waist as you tie it there in a desperate attempt to hide the evidence.

you should have known. you should have been prepared. but your cycle has always been unpredictable, and with how distracted you’ve been lately, school, work, trying not to fall too hard for the boy currently walking beside you - you weren’t paying attention.

now, you’re hyperaware. of every step you take, of every shift in fabric, of how you can feel it, and god, you don’t even want to check. you don’t want to know how bad it is.

but the worst part? you know what happens next.

or, at least, you think you do.

‘you good?’ hector asks, nudging your shoulder gently.

his voice is casual, light, but you can hear the underlying concern. you’re usually more talkative, always teasing him about something, and now you’re barely saying a word.

you swallow hard. ‘yeah. just… tired.’

he doesn’t look convinced. he studies you for a second, his gaze flicking to the hoodie tied around your waist.

then he stops walking.

‘okay, what’s wrong?’

your stomach twists. ‘nothing, hector, i just..’

‘nah, you’re acting weird. did something happen?’

the worry in his voice only makes the knot in your throat worse. but what are you supposed to say? hey, i just bled through my clothes, and i’m freaking out because my ex used to act like it was the worst thing in the world whenever this happened?

your silence lasts a second too long.

hector frowns. then his eyes flick down again, just for a second, before realization dawns on his face.

your heart pounds.

this is it. this is where he pulls back, where he sighs in frustration, where he makes some offhand comment about how you should’ve planned better. you brace for it, already shrinking into yourself, already fighting back the burning embarrassment

but then he’s shrugging off his jacket.

before you can react, he steps closer, wrapping it securely around your waist, completely covering the hoodie. he makes quick work of tying the sleeves, knotting them tight like it’s second nature.

your breath catches.

‘there,’ he says easily, tugging once to make sure it’s secure. ‘you wanna go home?’

you blink. ‘…what?’

he gives you a look. ‘you’re clearly not comfortable. we can dip.’

he’s not mad. he’s not annoyed.

he’s just helping.

you stare at him, your chest tight, emotions tangling together too fast for you to process.

‘you don’t have to do all that,’ you mumble.

he shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ‘why wouldn’t i?’

you hesitate, fingers gripping the edge of the jacket now wrapped around you. ‘because it’s gross.’

his brow furrows. ‘who told you that?’

you freeze.

you don’t mean to react, but the words hit you like a gut punch. because you know who told you that. over and over again, in every careless remark, every sigh, every time he made you feel like something you couldn’t control was your fault.

and hector sees it.

he exhales, dragging a hand down his face, before looking at you again, softer this time.

‘listen, i don’t know who made you feel bad about this, but that’s bullshit. it’s not gross, it’s not your fault, and you sure as hell don’t need to be embarrassed about it.’ he shakes his head, muttering, ‘like, how do you even get mad at someone for having a body? that’s insane.’

you let out a breathy laugh, small, but real.

hector smirks. ‘there she is.’

you roll your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosens. ‘you’re stupid.’

‘nah, i just have common sense.’ he reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours like it’s the easiest thing in the world. ‘now, c’mon. let’s get you home.’

you don’t argue. you just squeeze his hand, let yourself lean into the warmth of him, and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel ashamed.

fc barcelona headers

like/reblog if you save x

- requested!!

the awkward night

credits to the owner!

summary: it's just an awkward first night with gavi

warnings: none

pairing: pablo gavi x fem!reader

request: heeyyy can you do one where the reader is so shy person and one day she needs to sleep next to gavi but he sleeps always with only a boxer so she has nothing to accept the situation! thanksssss if you writed it 💖

a/n: oh my days, i hate that one 😭

taglist: @paucubarsisimp, @barcapix, @joaosnovia

requests are open!

masterlist

Relatively, you were an extremely shy person and had no experience in relationships. Your relationship with Gavi was your first and it was still quite new, you had only been together for three months and you had never once stayed at his place or he at yours for the night.

Today, however, he asked you to stay with him for the night, and you hesitantly agreed, not wanting to disappoint him with your strange behavior.

There was no hiding the fact that you were stressed. You were nervous and overthinking how the night would go. Sure, you had laid together before, but you had never slept next to each other, Gavi had accidentally fallen asleep on your lap after a tiring workout, but nothing more.

You were currently in the bathroom, taking deep breaths, trying to calm down. You finally grabbed the doorknob and saw Pablo already lying in bed, waiting for you.

He gave you a smile and opened the duvet for you to join him, which you did very hesitantly. You noticed that the boy was sleeping in only boxers, which made you tense and blush.

You felt awkward, you didn't know how to behave in a new situation for you, and there was no way to avoid it.

Gavi didn't notice your discomfort and just pulled you closer to him, sighing loudly in pleasure. You lay still, as if paralyzed, you couldn't shake the feeling of discomfort, even though he was your boyfriend and you shouldn't feel like that.

At some point, Gavi sensed some anxiety coming from you. He raised his head, looking at you questioningly.

"Is everything okay, honey?" he asked and you sighed. He was so cute and you were complicated.

“Yes, don't worry” you said, smiling slightly, but he didn't believe you.

“Tell me the truth” he said, looking at you with puppy dog eyes.

“No, that's stupid” you said flustered and he clucked, shaking his head.

"It can't be stupid if you're uncomfortable" he announced. "I-Is it me?" he asked uncertainly.

“No, it's just-” you started. "You sleep in boxers and I've never slept with a guy and it's kind of... awkward" you finally confessed, feeling your cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“Oh” he opened his mouth, but smiled at you. "If you feel better then, I can put on shorts" he said.

You nodded slightly, and the boy stood up from the bed and complied with your request. He put on his shorts before climbing back into the bed with a smile, pulling you close to him again and you giggled.

“Tell me next time, I want you to feel safe with me” he whispered, looking into your eyes and you nodded.

"I just have to get used to it. It'll be better next time" you announced, and he smiled and placed a sweet kiss on your lips.

After that you went to sleep, Gavi fell asleep before you and you could finally feel at peace.

And like you said, the next time was better. You started to be more open to the new situation, and Pablo started to pay more attention to you, especially taking care of your comfort. The awkwardness was forgotten, it was just you and him in your bubble where you found complete understanding.

if you like this, please like, reblog or comment🫶🏻

jules core

WHAT IS THIS VIDEO I’M HOLLERING

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.

hiya!! could you write something for jamal Musiala about how you two being out and about in london, it’s a relatively warm spring day, you’re wearing a midi red polka dot dress, some docs paired with your miu miu ivy bag with cute charms on and jamal was wearing green baggy carhartt cargos, a black graphic tshirt, his go to black Nike cortez and a surpreme cap. You’re both wearing your matching jewelry (rosequartz bracelet) . His arm never leaves your waist, you’re snuggled into each other while walking and laughing about silly stuff your talking about or seeing on the street. You then go in for a kiss but his cap is in the way so he puts it on backwards, looking even more handsome, something about that backward cap is doing something to you, you quite frankly can’t stop staring and kissing him. in the middle of one kiss you’re getting interrupted by fans who want to take a picture, kindly accepting their request. You both have swollen and red lips from kissing and the most love sick smiles on your faces. Paparazzi and the internet goes crazy over you two.

Thank you :)

❦ - london days.

summary:: req says enough

warnings:: none.

writers notes:: idek what to say atp bro but it’s a cute concept i love it & also idk what happened but this didn’t save so this is rushed now

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp

the sun was shining brightly in london, a soft warmth filling the air as you strolled down the busy streets, hand in hand with jamal. it was one of those rare spring days where the warmth made everything feel light and easy. you couldn’t have asked for a better day.

you were both in your element, laughing, joking around, and just enjoying each other’s company. your red midi polka dot dress flowed gently around your legs as you walked, paired with your docs that added a little edge to your otherwise soft look. your miu miu ivy bag with its cute little charms swung lightly with every step. jamal, as always, looked effortlessly good. he was wearing his green baggy carhartt cargos, a black graphic t-shirt, and his usual black nike cortez. his supreme cap sat snugly on his head, completing the look.

but what made it all better was the way his arm never left your waist, how close he kept you, the way he pulled you into him like it was second nature. it was easy, familiar, like the most natural thing in the world.

‘you know,’ jamal said, a laugh in his voice, ‘i swear that guy just tried to sell me a “limited edition” air max for 500 pounds. i told him they weren’t even real’

you burst out laughing at the way he imitated the vendor, shaking your head. ‘you’re too nice, jamal. if i were you, i would’ve asked for a discount’

‘hey,’ he grinned, pulling you a little closer, ‘i’ve got a reputation to keep up. wouldn’t want to look too gullible’

you snorted, ‘right, right, so instead, you’re just gullible in a different way, got it’

he nudged you with his shoulder, his smile still wide. he made everything feel easy, like nothing in the world could go wrong as long as you were together.

as you turned a corner, the moment felt perfect. the streets of london were busy, but none of it really mattered. you were so wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world just faded into the background.

without thinking, you reached up to kiss him, but his cap got in the way, pressing against your forehead. he laughed, pulling back just enough to flip it backwards in one quick motion.

and something about that made you stop.

he somehow looked even better like this. the way the cap sat on his head, the effortless confidence in the way he adjusted it, your heart skipped a beat.

without thinking, you kissed him again, your hands finding their way to his face as he smiled against your lips. he kissed you back just as eagerly, his hands resting on your waist, holding you there like he never wanted to let go.

but then, just as you were completely lost in him, voices interrupted the moment.

‘excuse me, could we take a picture with you two?’

you pulled away, cheeks warm, lips slightly swollen. jamal looked at you, his expression just as dazed as yours, before turning to the fans with a grin.

‘of course’

they quickly snapped a few pictures, giggling and thanking you both. you tried to compose yourself, smoothing down your dress, though you could still feel the ghost of jamal’s lips on yours.

‘thanks for being so nice,’ one of them said, smiling as they walked away.

as soon as they were gone, you looked up at jamal. his lips were still a little red from kissing you, and his cheeks had a faint flush. he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

‘you okay?’ you teased, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

he grinned, eyes soft. ‘yeah. just… getting used to this whole public couple thing’

you laughed, but you both knew it was true. the internet and paparazzi had already caught onto you two, and the pictures were probably spreading like wildfire. people loved the way you two looked together, how natural and real it seemed.

but none of that mattered. all that mattered was the way he was still holding onto you, how he wasn’t letting go.

you kept walking, still laughing, still holding each other close. the spring day had just gotten a whole lot better.

Pablo Gavi (FCBarcelona) - Ugly Sweater

Day 25 of Christmas

Prompt: Ugly Sweater Contest

25 Days Of Christmas

Happy Christmas!

The camera zooms in on the bustling training ground of FC Barcelona. The players are gathered for a unique challenge, and the atmosphere is electric with excitement. Pablo Gavi and Y/n Y/l/n are at the center of it all, surrounded by an array of colorful fabric paints, glitters, and other crafting materials scattered across a large table. “Hola culers, I am Y/n Y/l/n, here with Pablo Gavi and we are here to see who can make the ugliest Christmas jumper.”

“Vamos, Y/n!” Pablo exclaims, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Who do you think is going to make the ugliest jumper?” Y/n rolls her eyes playfully, a grin spreading across her face. “Please, Pablo. You’re the king of ugly. I’m just here to help you look good for once”

“Yo y lo feo no deberíamos estar en la misma frase. A veces me sorprendes, Y/n.” He responds with a laugh, grabbing a neon green paint. “This is going to be epic!” Y/n couldn't help but laugh at the new word he learned just earlier that week: epic. As they dive into the challenge, they begin painting and glueing random materials onto their sweaters. Y/n grabs a handful of googly eyes, sticking them haphazardly all over her sweater. “Mira, Pablo. Un monstruo.” She declares, giggling. Pablo, not one to be outdone, quickly snatches a handful of bright pink feathers. “Ves esto? I’ll make a flamingo sweater. Que original.”

“Original? Creo que quieres decir horrible.” Y/n teases, sticking a paintbrush covered in blue paint into his hair. “Ese es el punto de este desafío, no?” The crew laughed behidn the camera as Pablo tried dodging the paint, but failing miserably. “Oh my god, I am so sorry!” Y/n laughed, not meaning to actually paint his hair. Pablo laughs, attempting to swipe the paint off his head but only making it worse. “You’re going to regret that, Y/n. Just wait until I win this challenge!”

As the clock counts down, they both put the finishing touches on their creations. Pablo, with a shirt that looks like a flamboyant bird’s nest, and Y/n, with a monstrous creation covered in eyes and glitter. “Okay, time’s up! Muestra tu suéter!” Yhe crew shouts, eager to see their creations. They step back, proudly displaying their sweaters. Pablo poses dramatically, striking a pose that makes the crew burst into laughter. “Mira esto! El más feo del mundo!” He declares. “More like the most ridiculous.” Y/n laughs, sticking her tongue out at him. They both turn to the camera, their playful rivalry shining through.

“Okay, final round is a catwalk.” Y/n says, glancing at Pablo with a mischievous glint in her eyes. As they both momentarily turned around to put their jumpers on, the crew let out a few quiet laughs. They counted down from 3 and turned to face eachother, looking one another up and down. Y/n hummed. “You know, it’s hard to have an ugly sweater when you have a face like that.” She gestures playfully at him, her words laced with flirtation. Pablo’s cheeks turn a deep shade of red, and the crew erupts in laughter. “No te rías de mí!” He protests, trying to hide his embarrassment. But his playful smile gives him away.

“Sorry, Pablito, but you really can’t help it.” Y/n adds, leaning closer as she pretends to inspect his sweater. “Qué dices? I’m handsome?” He grins, his blush deepens. “Pero, mi suéter es más feo.” Y/n scoffs. “Más feo? Have you seen mine?” Y/n raises an eyebrow, unable to contain her laughter. “I think you've lost this challenge, guapo.”

“Alright, alright! Let’s just let the viewers decide who’s the winner.” Pablo says, regaining his composure, but the smile never leaves his face. “But we both know it’s going to be me.”

joao felix getting w neymars ex is the weirdest link up ever?? bro i’d never expect joao to b w sm1 that neymar got with in 2014.. as long as he’s happy!! gabriella lenzi, you better not be the new magui

HELLLO TIS I

okay so no.1 the theme ate SO HARD??? im drooling and i am on my KNEES

anyhow here to req a joao fic !!

so like what if reader is a ballerina or figure skater and she obvs comes home with like cuts and bruises from training and comps and stuff and basically joao makes thee BIGGEST fuss over it

like it can be treated with time but no. that man will bring a whole medic bag to treat the TINIEST cut and will overreact to every single injury she has !

this is so shitty but i requested this to someone else *uhm uhm evelina uhm uhm* and she has NOT written it yet so i'm frolicking here

you can ignore this if you want bc the idea is shit but yeah idk i js wanted to req something

BYEYEYYE HAVE A GOOD DAY / NIGHT AND ILYYYYY <33

MWAHHHH

❦ - delicate.

summary:: well there isn’t much to summarise bro 💔.

warnings:: none?

writers notes:: first and foremost i love this req and im tryna make my fics longer but idk how to drag it on yk? but i think if somewhat figured it out! ALSO EVE I MANAGED TO DO IT BEFORE YOU 👅👅👅👅👅👅👅.

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

joão swore he almost had a heart attack the first time he saw them.

the tiny, angry red cuts littering your feet and ankles, some fading into soft pink scars, others fresh from your last competition. you had always told him ballet was tough, that it wasn’t just twirling around in pretty dresses, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

you were sitting on the couch, legs stretched over his lap, casually scrolling through your phone like nothing was wrong. meanwhile, he was staring at your feet like they had personally offended him.

‘what the hell is this?’ he blurted out, his fingers hovering over one particularly deep cut near your ankle.

you glanced at him, unfazed. ‘what’s what?’

‘this,’ he practically whined, gesturing wildly at your feet. ‘why do you look like you’ve been fighting for your life?’

you snorted. ‘joão, relax. they’re just cuts from my pointe shoes. they’ll heal.’

‘heal?’ he repeated, horrified. ‘how long have they been like this?’

you shrugged. ‘i don’t know. it happens all the time.’

his jaw dropped. ‘all the time?’

you sighed, putting your phone down. ‘it’s normal, babe. every ballerina deals with it. my feet just need time to recover between competitions.’

joão wasn’t hearing any of it.

‘this isn’t normal. this is self-destruction. why didn’t you tell me?’

‘because i knew you’d react like this.’

he scoffed. ‘of course i’m reacting like this! you’re literally injured and acting like it’s nothing.’

you groaned, throwing your head back against the couch. ‘joão, they’re fine. it’s not like i broke something. they’ll be healed in a few days.’

but he was already shaking his head, carefully lifting your foot to examine it closer.

‘you should’ve told me,’ he muttered, brows furrowed in concern.

‘what would you have done?’ you teased. ‘wrap me in bubble wrap?’

he didn’t answer, which told you exactly what you needed to know.

you laughed, cupping his cheek. ‘you’re ridiculous, you know that?’

‘you’re the ridiculous one,’ he shot back, still frowning at your feet. ‘how can you just ignore pain like this?’

‘because i have to. it comes with the sport.’

he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

‘so what, you just suffer in silence?’

you bit your lip. ‘i wouldn’t call it suffering. it’s just part of the process. like how you play with bruises or minor sprains sometimes.’

joão blinked, then scowled. ‘not the same thing.’

‘it’s literally the same thing.’

he huffed, still clearly displeased.

‘okay, but do you at least take care of them? like, properly?’

you hesitated for half a second, and that was all the answer he needed.

‘you don’t, do you?’ he accused.

‘joão—’

‘unbelievable.’

before you could stop him, he was already up, marching toward the bathroom.

you sighed, knowing exactly what was coming.

he returned moments later with a first-aid kit, a determined look on his face.

‘babe, really?’ you groaned.

‘yes, really. you clearly need someone to take care of you since you won’t do it yourself.’

you rolled your eyes but let him take your foot in his hands. he was surprisingly gentle, his fingers light as he dabbed at the cuts with antiseptic wipes.

he paused when you flinched, looking up at you with wide eyes.

‘does it hurt?’

‘not really.’

his glare told you he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t argue. instead, he carefully applied ointment to each cut, blowing softly on your skin like it would somehow make the sting go away.

you watched him work, your chest tightening.

‘you really don’t have to do this,’ you whispered.

he glanced up, his gaze softening. ‘i want to.’

you smiled, threading your fingers through his hair.

‘you’re a little dramatic, you know that?’

he snorted. ‘yeah? well, you’re a little reckless, so i guess we balance each other out.’

you laughed, letting him finish bandaging your feet.

when he was done, he pressed a kiss to each foot before meeting your gaze.

‘no more competitions for a while, right?’

‘not for a few weeks.’

‘good. because i’m making sure you actually rest this time.’

‘yes, doctor félix,’ you teased.

he smirked. ‘damn right.’

he pulled you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he needed to keep you safe from the world.

you sighed, relaxing into him.

maybe having someone fuss over you wasn’t so bad after all.

but joão wasn’t done.

for the next two days, he treated you like you were made of glass. he wouldn’t let you walk barefoot around the apartment, claiming the floors were ‘too rough.’ he brought you socks, ice packs, pillows, anything he thought might help, even though you insisted you were fine.

‘joão, i can literally walk perfectly. i danced on these feet last week,’ you reminded him.

he scoffed, tossing you another pillow. ‘yeah, and look where that got you.’

‘oh my god.’

he followed you around, ready to catch you at the slightest sign of discomfort. if you so much as winced, he was at your side in seconds.

‘are you okay?’

‘joão, i stubbed my toe.’

‘that’s how it starts!’

you groaned, shoving his face away.

but as much as he annoyed you, you knew it came from love.

late at night, when you were curled up in bed, he would trace the scars on your ankles with gentle fingers, his touch barely there.

‘you work so hard,’ he murmured against your skin.

‘so do you.’

‘yeah, but i don’t bleed for it.’

you turned in his arms, brushing your lips over his.

‘this is what i love, joão, and i know you hate seeing me hurt, but it’s part of what makes me strong.’

he exhaled, pulling you even closer. ‘i just wish i could take the pain for you.’

you smiled, tucking your head under his chin.

‘you already do, in your own way.’

he kissed the top of your head, whispering, ‘always.’

and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to carry the weight alone.

hey do u write for hector fort 😭? and if u do please write some headcanons for my man 🙏🙏

❦ - hector fort boyfriend headcannons

summary:: pov; you’re hector’s girlfriend.

warnings:: none!

writers note:: ofc i’ll write for hec!! i’ll write for anyone so idmmm!! i love headcannons it’s easy and i’ve js clocked that my hcs are descriptive asf. 😭 also this is the end of my inbox which is crazy so keep on requesting bc i have no ideas of my own fics… AND IM WRITING THIS DURING BARCA VS BETIS SO GAVI GOALLLL 🤍

ꨄ - quality time ; his love language is definitely quality time. he loves spending time with you whether it’s quiet evenings inside or going for a late night walk.

ꨄ - he’s the type to bring you flowers randomly, not bc it’s a special occasion but on a random tuesday, just because why not.

ꨄ - he’s not fond of pda at all so instead he’ll just hold your hand or rest his arm around your shoulders just to make it known you’re his.

ꨄ - COMMUNICATION IS KEY. he’s big on communication so he’ll always make you feel heard.

ꨄ - his gifting is thoughtful ; he pays close attention to things you love and will always include that in gifting whenever he can.

ꨄ - he loves being close to you. whenever you’re together he’ll bring you closer to him and if you’re away for days he’ll send voice notes talking about how much he misses you.

ꨄ - whenever he’s with his teammates he’ll always try and mention you, and if you visit him after his training, they’ll never stop teasing him.

ꨄ - he ‘accidentally’ leaves his hoodies at your place.

ꨄ - lowkey a cutie bc whenever you fall asleep on him he’ll take a photo of you and post it on his story for you to see when you wake up

SORRY THIS IS SHORT I WAS LOWKEY OUT OF IDEAS