#alejandro balde

[archivingbarca]

alejandrobalde

(ig story, 10/04/25)

[pdriesta]

balde injured 😭

okay call my crazy but i think he’ll be back sooner. they are still running tests but it’s like a grade 1 hamstring strain. obviously, he shouldn’t rush himself when he isn’t ready but i think intesive rehab will shorten the recovery time

[messfcbi]

balde injury

[ikram1909]

THE VIDEO LALIGA POSTED WITH THE LEGANES MASCOT CUBA TORRE AND BALDE BRO I'M CRYING

Not even mascots are immune to our kids' mischief 😭😭

[bukayo-saka]

Alejandro Balde I'm 👀👀👀

[blackgirlwhowrites2k23]

Yes yes yes ! This was a great read😫👍🏾 I live for angst so this was right up my alley🙏🏾🥸

I need some compassion

word count: 2,812

pairing: alejandro balde x black female reader

summary: things between you and alejandro aren’t how they used to be and you don’t know what could’ve changed.

warning ‼️: angst. mentions of sex but no full out smut.

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

@amirawrah

note: here’s my first alejandro fic! and it’s angst, sorry guys lol. i’ll write a fun, nice one for him soon but i wanted to experiment a bit. as always, enjoy and tell me what you think!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alejandro had always been the romantic type.

But not in the shallow, performative way that most people toss the word around. He didn’t just show up with flowers because it was expected. He didn’t take you out to dinner because it was what boyfriends were “supposed” to do. No, Alejandro moved through romance like it was instinct. Like it was something etched into the marrow of his bones. His love wasn’t a series of gestures—it was an atmosphere. A way of being. A gravitational pull that swept you into orbit before you even realized you’d left the ground.

He loved with his whole self. Not just his hands and his mouth, but his silences. His timing. His patience. He listened like each word you said was a delicate string he didn’t want to snap. He remembered things. Small things. Things most people would let slide into the background. He’d recall how you once mentioned loving the smell of rain on hot pavement—and a month later, he drove you through backroads in a summer storm with the windows down just so you could breathe it in.

His kind of love wasn’t just romantic—it was transformative.

It changed the air around you. The way your body moved through space. The way you held yourself, like maybe you really were the sun in someone’s sky, the steady pulse at the center of a world built just for you. When Alejandro looked at you—really looked—it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t passing. It was stillness. Arresting. Like you were something sacred. Like you were a living prayer, and he had just remembered how to kneel.

You could still remember the exact way he used to hold your face when he kissed you.

His palms weren’t soft—he was an athlete, after all—but when they cupped your cheeks, they felt reverent. Like he was holding something fragile, something holy. His thumbs would brush just under your eyes, slow and careful, like he thought you might vanish if he touched too hard. He would trace your cheekbone with such aching gentleness it felt like he was reading braille, like your skin was telling him secrets only he could hear.

He had this habit of tucking your hair behind your ear, not just to tidy it or to see you better, but because it gave him a reason to be close. To touch. To linger. There was something grounding in it for him—like the silk of your hair between his fingers reminded him of what was real, what mattered. He noticed things others missed: the way your back responded best to slow, clockwise circles when you couldn’t sleep, or how you always left the last sip of your coffee untouched unless it had oat milk in it.

In the beginning, being with him felt like stepping into sunlight after years of shadow.

It wasn’t a grand revelation, not a fireworks-and-fanfare moment—but something quieter. Truer. Like breath, or gravity. Like the two of you had always been orbiting, and finally, finally, you’d collided in the softest kind of miracle.

But now?

Now you weren’t even sure he saw you.

Not really.

His eyes still landed on you—but they didn’t linger. They didn’t see. Not in that soul-cradling, heart-stopping way that used to make you feel like the most alive thing in any room. The motions were all still there—the gestures, the habits—but they were stripped of meaning, like a song played on mute.

The dinners still happened.

You still sat across from each other in dimly lit restaurants that smelled of roasted garlic and candle wax. The tables were dressed in crisp linen. The wine glasses were tall and thin, filled with something French and expensive. The waiters wore pressed shirts and shoes that clicked softly against hardwood floors. From the outside, it looked perfect. A couple in love, living well.

But from your side of the table, it felt like theater.

You said your lines. He said his.

The conversation was a script neither of you had the heart to rewrite, so you kept performing it. The roles you once inhabited so fully—lover, partner, confidant—felt like costumes now. Heavy and ill-fitting.

“How was training?” you’d ask, twirling your fork like it mattered.

“Fine. We ran tactics for Saturday.”

“Oh. That sounds intense.”

“No really. Just repetitive.”

That was it. That was the scene.

The scrape of your fork against the ceramic plate sounded louder than his voice. You’d nod, swallow some overpriced Cabernet, and offer him a practiced smile. The kind of smile you might give to a neighbor in an elevator. Not the man who had kissed you breathless just three days ago after a fight. Not the man whose body had curled instinctively toward yours that morning in bed, even in sleep.

You missed him. God, you missed him.

But maybe worse—you missed yourself in his love.

You missed the version of you that bloomed under the warmth of his gaze. The woman who felt easy in her skin, held, seen, known. The version of you who didn’t have to earn affection or translate silences or decode sighs.

You missed the way his touch used to speak.

He used to rest his hand on your thigh during car rides, fingers splayed like they belonged there, like they were always meant to be there. He used to kiss the curve of your shoulder while you stirred dinner, his lips brushing your skin like punctuation marks in a language only he could write.

Now, when he touched you, it felt...dutiful. Or worse—automatic.

The easy, unconscious intimacy had calcified into muscle memory. Something rehearsed. Something fading.

And the fighting? That had changed too.

You fought more now. Not loud, slam-the-door fights. But slow, painful ones. Heavy and sharp. The kind that didn’t clear the air but poisoned it. Words came out barbed and jagged, slicing deep before either of you realized what you were even trying to say. You didn’t argue to resolve—you argued to survive. And somewhere in the chaos, you forgot how to speak each other’s language.

Still—after the fights, when the dust of your anger hadn’t even settled yet, he would reach for you.

And you would let him.

You always let him.

His mouth would crash against yours like a man starving, like the fight hadn’t cracked something open but cracked something loose. And your body—traitorous, aching, hungry—would answer. Would open. Would respond like it still remembered everything even your mind tried to forget.

He would hold you like a man lost in a storm. Not tenderly, not gently—but like a drowning man clutching a rope. His hands would grip, his breath would catch, and his forehead would fall against yours with a desperate kind of pressure that said: Please.

He never said the words.

He never said I’m sorry.

But in those moments—in the trembling press of his hands, in the way he breathed your name like a prayer—it almost felt like he meant it.

Like maybe, just maybe, this was his version of an apology.

A wordless, frantic, clumsy kind of love that still didn’t know how to stop choosing you.

Even if everything else had already started to let go.

And you hated that.

Hated the twisted ritual of it all.

How the closest you ever felt to him now came not in the lightness of laughter or the comfort of everyday touches, but in the ashes of your worst arguments. After the yelling. After the silence. After you’d both stood there, wounded and raw, having thrown knives shaped like words. That was when he touched you like he still remembered. Like his skin ached without yours. Like he could undo the wreckage with the heat of his mouth and the desperation of his hands.

You hated that pain had become the precursor to passion. That intimacy now arrived hand-in-hand with suffering. That your body still opened for him—hungry, responsive, needy—while your heart cowered in the corner, whispering pull away, please, pull away.

You were split in two: the version of you that still loved him so deeply it hurt, and the version that was tired of bleeding for that love.

And the worst part? You knew he noticed.

You saw it in the quiet moments. The ones he didn’t think you were watching.

Like the way his gaze would drift to you and then quickly away, like he was afraid of what he might see reflected in your eyes. Not wonder. Not the awe he once wore like second skin around you. But guilt. Maybe shame. Confusion.

You caught him lingering in the hallway sometimes, paused mid-step like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or retreat. You saw the way he held his phone, scrolling slowly through old photos of you together when he thought you were asleep—his thumb brushing over the screen like a prayer, eyes glassy in the dim blue light.

There was one night—3:12 a.m.—you’d padded into the living room for water and found him sitting there, hunched over, elbows on knees, phone lit up with that same photo album. Your playlist—the one you used to make love to, the one that played during lazy Sunday breakfasts and long, tangled mornings—was playing faintly through the speakers. It was like he was trying to summon a ghost. Trying to remember what it felt like to be close without the aftermath of a storm.

He was searching. Always searching. For a cure. A quick fix. A lifeline.

But that was the problem. Alejandro kept looking outside himself.

He acted like love was a riddle to solve. A game with hidden clues. Like if he just found the right podcast episode, if he bookmarked the right advice meme on Instagram, if he could just piece together enough romantic gestures—a surprise dinner here, a hotel room with rose petals there—it would all click. The connection would return. The love would flow again. The warmth would come back like water from a turned tap.

But love doesn’t work like that.

Love doesn’t live in checklists.

It’s not a problem to be fixed. It’s a presence. A choice. A quiet, continuous offering.

And the truth was: no getaway could replace what had gone missing. No luxury could fill the vacancy of being emotionally abandoned. No Pinterest-perfect date could make up for the fact that you hadn’t felt seen by him in weeks.

You didn’t want more effort if it wasn’t honest. You didn’t want bigger gestures if they were just smokescreens for absence.

You needed presence. Consistency. The unsexy, unglamorous kind.

You needed to feel him in the room. In the moment. In the ordinary.

You didn’t need more flowers. You needed to not feel like a stranger sitting across from someone who used to trace galaxies into your spine.

You didn’t want to feel like a task on his to-do list.

You wanted to feel like his.

And if he couldn’t offer that—if he couldn’t meet you where you were, couldn’t choose you on the hard days, in the silence, in the slow spaces—then you’d have to walk away.

Not because you stopped loving him.

But because you finally loved yourself enough not to stay where you were slowly fading.

You both knew the end wasn’t what either of you wanted. Not truly. Not yet.

Too many pieces of your shared life still whispered of love.

His hoodie, crumpled in the laundry basket, still carried the scent of him—warm sandalwood and sweet caramel.

Your silk scarf still hung from the back of a dining chair, left there the last time he undressed you with frantic hands and aching want.

The photo booth strip still clung to the fridge by a single magnet—his smile wide, face pressed to your cheek, your mouth mid-laugh, joy radiating off the print. Neither of you had moved it. Neither of you could.

But nostalgia wasn’t enough.

Love couldn’t breathe in memories alone.

So now, you sat on opposite ends of the couch—two familiar strangers in a home you once built together.

The space between you was thick. Dense with everything unsaid. With every swallowed apology, every unmet need, every moment you’d both pulled back when you should’ve leaned in.

Your arms were folded. Legs curled up beneath you like a shield. Your gaze fixed on nothing, because eye contact felt like too much.

Alejandro leaned forward.

His elbows balanced on his knees, fingers raking restlessly through his curls—longer now than they used to be, messier.

His knee bounced, jittery with nerves.

“I don’t want to break up” you said, voice hushed but heavy, like the words might shatter if you spoke them too loud.

His head snapped up instantly. “No. Yo tampoco.” (No. Me neither)

His accent—thicker now, untouched by translation—carried the weight of truth. He never softened it when he was being vulnerable. When he was speaking from the deepest part of himself.

You watched him closely. The way his jaw flexed. The flicker of fear behind his eyes. He looked like someone teetering at the edge, unsure if the next step was going to bring him back to you or send him spiraling further away.

“I just…” you hesitated, swallowed, pushed past the knot in your throat. “I feel like we’re fading. We’re both watching it happen in real time and just… hoping the other person will do something.”

His exhale was sharp. Painful. He pressed his palms into his face, fingers curled like claws.

“I know.”

When he looked at you again, his eyes were rimmed red. Raw. Wide open.

“I’m—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard. Tried again. “I’m trying. I swear. But it’s…” he shook his head, voice barely above a whisper, “Joder. It’s like I forgot how to move. How to feel.” (Fuck)

He touched his temple. Then his chest.

“In here. And in here.”

You said nothing. You just let him speak. Spill. Unravel.

“I feel frozen” he confessed. “The man who loved you—he’s still in me. But he’s… buried. Quiet. Waiting for me to let him speak again.”

Your arms tightened around your knees.

“I want to love you right” he went on. “I want to kiss you like I mean it. Not like a routine. I want to hold you because I need to, no because I feel like I should. But I get scared. And then I freeze. And then you pull back. And I panic. Then we fight.”

His voice broke again. “Lo odio, joder.” (I fucking hate it)

“I hate it too” you whispered, eyes stinging. “And I hate that the only time we’re close now is when we’re making up. Not even apologizing.”

He flinched like you’d hit him.

“No” he said quickly. “No, that’s not it. That’s not true. I always want you. I still see you.”

“But you don’t show it”

“I know” He blinked hard. “And I hate that even more”

He looked wrecked. Like someone standing in the rubble of something sacred, unsure where to begin the rebuild.

“I’ve been lost” he said. “Been living in my own silence. But you were always the thing that bring me back to life.”

You bit down on your trembling lip.

“I don’t need perfection” you said. “I just need presence. I need to trust that I’m still loved… not as a duty, not as a memory. But now. As I am.”

“I do love you. Muchisimo” he said, with a force that made your breath catch. “Even when I don’t say it right. Te lo juro. Every time you walk into a room. Every time I hear you laugh, even when it’s not for me. When you’re angry. I look at you and I still think, Dios… how did I get this lucky?” (A lot) (I swear to you)

A tear slid down your cheek, uninvited. You wiped it with the back of your hand, smiling through the ache.

“I want to turn the page” you said. “Not pretend the rest of the book doesn’t exist. I want to grow from it. With you.”

He nodded, slowly. Like he understood for the first time.

“I want that too. Contigo. Real this time. Honest.” (With you)

You sniffled. “Can you show up for me? Even on the numb days? Even when it’s hard?”

He moved closer—just enough for his knee to touch yours. His hand slid gently to your thigh. Not urgent. Not possessive. Just warm. Steady. Seeking.

“I promise” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Even if it come out messy. Even if I don’t always get the right word. Tú eres mi corazón. Always.” (You are my heart)

And no—maybe this wouldn’t be easy.

But in that moment, with his hand on your leg, his eyes open and pleading, his voice cracking beneath the weight of it all—you believed him.

And for now…

That was enough.

[hersidekick]

hearing my baby came off injured :/ safe recovery to him. Hopefully it’s not a long one ❤️💙

[strawberryblue-blog]

Kisses —FC BARCELONA.

summary: What are their kisses like or how do they like to kiss you?

warnings: none. cute, soft, fluff, headcanon.

—Pedri Gonzalez.

His kisses are too long and affectionate. He likes the sensation of feeling you close to him, he thinks it is intimate and the most tender way to show love.

He could spend hours kissing your lips, soft and delicate, showing you how much he likes your lips. He is very shy at times but if you kiss him first, he will not be able to stop.

Your soft and full lips are like an addiction for Pedri, he loves the sensation of feeling them on his skin at any time. Whether on his cheeks or forehead. During sex, he also kisses your lips a lot, especially to silence his squeals and to make you feel loved. Because he really loves you and your lips a lot.

—Pablo Gavi.

One of the most amateur kissers in history, not of your lips but of your neck and jaw. He likes your lips but is obsessed with the soft, supple skin of your neck.

Especially because he likes to mark his trails, so when his lips are on your neck, he will play with you until you turn red. He loves the sensation of hearing you gasp and laugh at the same time.

During sex, he prefers not so much to kiss as to watch. Watching you is more his thing, but, after the action he is very affectionate and caring. Maybe there he kisses you too much to make up for what he couldn't kiss you before.

—Ferran Torres.

Ferran knows what a good kisser he is, he always received compliments about it and you always remind him of it. So when he is with you he likes to kiss you all the time because he knows how much you like his kisses.

He kisses you anywhere, no matter where it is, he knows how to make your skin bristle with so little. On your lips, neck and shoulders. Your shoulders are his weakness.

When you are having sex he doesn't kiss so much because he likes to concentrate on you but from time to time he seeks your lips. His kisses are very long and seductive.

—Fermin López.

Fermín loves kissing, loves kissing you and loves to be kissed by you. An exchange of mutual love which, for Fermín, is heaven itself. He loves to feel your lips on his, short or long, he doesn't care.

He could kiss you all day long, on your lips, your thighs, your belly, your neck or your face. He's super cheesy and tender. He knows you like it and he will take advantage of it to feel you.

Not necessarily during sex, because sometimes he can't hold back the moans and has to let them out but after he's done, he'll be a ball of love. He will kiss you so much, until you fall asleep. Just like the next morning, he will wake you up with his kisses.

—Alejandro Balde.

Although he loves to kiss your lips, his lips always find your hands to kiss them delicately. He is so tender and delicate, he loves to make you feel like a princess.

Although your lips are his favorite, he will kiss them whenever you can. Every now and then he will give you a peck on your lips. He finds it fun and romantic. He is obsessed with your mouth, so lips and tongue for him.

When you are having sex, he likes to kiss you even more. It's a different kind of connection and he loves to feel your warm lips on his.

—Hector Fort.

He's definitely a kisser, a lot. Too much. And not only that, he kisses like the gods. Hector has a gift and he knows how to use it on you.

Kissing your neck, chest and shoulders is his favorite pastime while you're together. No matter what you do he will come and take his time with you. He concentrates on you, kissing your skin delicately with that seductive and haughty touch he has.

During sex he kisses much more your breasts or shoulders than your lips. But when you're done, he'll take care of leaving you with lungs and lips asleep.

—Lamine Yamal.

He is overconfident and despite being young, he has a certain amount of experience. He loves to kiss you either on the lips or on your forehead, he finds it protective and tender.

He likes to kiss your nose too, as a little detail he has with you. But sometimes he plays rough and wants you to kiss him and take the initiative.

In sex he is a little kisser but not so much, maybe more your neck or bite your shoulders but he will definitely do it when he finishes and kiss you for a while afterwards.

—Pau Cubarsí.

He is not a big fan of kissing on the lips because he thinks he doesn't give them correctly. He's still young and just learning, he's also a bit insecure.

Clearly he doesn't agree with that, Pau is a good kisser and when he kisses you he is intense and fiery. But he likes it when you kiss him long and deep.

He prefers to kiss your face how, forehead, nose, cheeks and ears. He finds it tender and that is his way of showing his love. In bed he may be a little more kissy to show his love for you, he likes to be gentle and soft with you.

[cutesoccerguys]

[archivingbarca]

alejandrobalde: Job’s not finished! 💙❤️

(ig, 10/04/25)

[pdriesta]

PROLOGUE

“tripping, falling with no safety net”

pairings —balde x black!barçafemeni player

summary — solana munõz, barça’s newest midfield star, seems fearless on the pitch but struggles with anxiety and homesickness off it. after a rocky first meeting, alejandro balde becomes an unexpected source of support, determined to help her navigate a new city and career. as their bond deepens, late-night talks and shared vulnerabilities blur the lines of friendship, but one thing remains certain—alejandro is determined to make barçelona home for her.

word count — 2k (for prologue)

an — thank you to everyone who responded to my polls. for those who waited during my writer’s block, i love you dearly. let me know if you’re interested in a taglist!

masterlist

alejandro’s day had gone from frustrating to downright miserable. he’d barely slept the night before, replaying yesterday’s training session in his mind, analyzing every missed tackle and misjudged pass. he was his own worst critic, and his performance had fallen short of the standards he held himself to. the pressure to be a leader, to embody everything barçelona meant to the fans, was starting to weigh on him. even as he walked through training grounds corridors, he felt it—a nagging sense of dissatisfaction that he couldn’t shake. on top of that, there was a flood of media noise over his recent interview, twisting his words into headlines he barely recognized. he’d been trying to ignore his phone all morning, scrolling past messages from teammates trying to lighten his mood and family telling him to take it easy. nothing helped.

as he rounded the corner, lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice her until they collided. her phone clattered to the ground, shattering the silence with the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. the girl in front of him looked up, eyes wide, and he could tell from her stunned expression that she knew exactly who he was. great, he thought, another fan who somehow managed to get in here.

“watch where you’re going,” he muttered, a little harsher than he intended, but he was already stepping around her, his focus back on the day ahead. he hadn’t even registered the way her mouth had opened, as if she’d been about to say something before his brusque tone cut her off.

but as he began to walk away, he heard her voice, small and hesitant but gathering strength as she spoke. “um, excuse me. i… i was just trying to find the locker room,” she said, the words tumbling out, her accent distinctly american even as she spoke spanish. she stood there, clutching her phone, clearly shaken but holding her ground.

alejandro turned back, arching an eyebrow. “, well, maybe instead of wandering around, you should read the signs. you shouldn’t be wandering around where you don’t belong.” he didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but his mood had no patience left. her expression faltered, her eyes dropping as if he’d knocked the courage out of her.

she swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the broken screen in her hands, feeling the sharp sting of his dismissal. back home, she’d never felt this out of place. she’d grown up in southern california, where fields stretched endlessly under a bright blue sky, where every corner of her hometown felt familiar, a place where she was somebody. she’d trained there since she was a kid, her dreams beginning on those quiet, unremarkable fields, where she’d envisioned herself on a bigger stage one day. her recent call-up to the USWNT had been the highlight of her career so far, and this move to barçelona was supposed to be the next step; after all, when the biggest club offers you a chance to prove yourself in europe, you take it. but now, standing here, she felt so far from home it was almost dizzying.

this place was a shrine to football history, with its gleaming walls and framed photos of legends who’d graced the camp nou. lionel messi, whose fierce loyalty to liverpool had made her believe in something more than just winning. iniesta, whose quicksilver feet and passion had inspired her when she was just a kid, watching highlight reels on an old laptop in her bedroom, staying up late despite her parents’ warnings. barçelona had been a distant dream then, something magical from across the ocean, a place where the greats became legends. and now, somehow, she was here. the reality of it was overwhelming, an entire ocean separating her from everything she knew, everyone she loved.

she could feel her throat tightening as she glanced down at her broken phone, trying to hold herself together. “i… i do belong here,” she spoke so lowly, alejandro almost leaned forward to hear her. he met her with suffocating silence as alejandro just stared at her, his expression unreadable before he scoffed, not bothering to apologize or even ask if she was alright.

“right. well, good luck with that,” he muttered, barely sparing her a second glance before walking away, leaving her standing there alone, with only the pieces of her phone and her dignity cracked underfoot.

biting back tears, she took a shaky breath and forced herself to move, desperate to find somewhere to compose herself. she found a small storage closet nearby, slipping inside and closing the door softly behind her. the moment she was alone, the facade crumbled, and the tears she’d been holding back spilled over. she pressed her hands to her face, trying to quiet her breathing, to stop the wave of homesickness and doubt crashing over her. she’d wanted this so badly, sacrificed so much to be here, but right now, she didn’t feel like she was ready for any of it.

after a few minutes, she managed to pull herself together, straightening up and wiping her eyes. she attempted to convince herself that she couldn’t afford to let this get to her. she had worked too hard, endured too much, to let a rough start throw her off.

the following week, the barça training facility was winding down for the day. sweat lingered in the air like an unspoken exhaustion, clinging to jerseys and the backs of necks. players lounged around the locker room and treatment tables, some icing knees or checking their phones, others halfheartedly debating where to eat. sunlight bled in through the tall windows in long golden beams, dust specks dancing lazily in its glow.

alejandro was tugging his hoodie over his head when ansu’s voice cut across the chatter.

“yo—put the tv on. i wanna watch the new girl’s interview,” he said, gesturing to the training room screen above the treadmill section.

pedri looked up from untying his boots. “who?”

“the one who signed last week. american midfielder. i heard she’s crazy good,” ansu said, already grabbing the remote and flipping through the club’s internal media channel. “i asked ferran to do digging for me but no one knows anything about her. i swear not even her teammates”

“because she’s literally never posted anything other than her team and sponsorships,” ferran called out from the other side of the room. “like a ghost.”

“nah,” ansu grinned, settling in front of the tv, “i saw her in training this morning. small, but sharp. moves like she’s already three plays ahead.”

alejandro was only half-listening, still toweling off, but something about ansu’s voice—his interest—made him glance up.

the screen flickered, and then the club’s signature intro reel played: blue and red graphics, a quick highlight montage of the women’s team, and finally the camera settled on her.

there she was.

or should he say — solana muñoz.

the girl from the hallway.

this time, not in motion or mid-apology, but sitting calmly on a stool with the practice field in the background, dressed in the full kit. her braids were swept neatly into a ponytail, her posture straight but not stiff. she looked confident in a quiet, almost careful way—like someone used to holding her own, even when no one was watching.

“joining us today is barcelona femení’s newest midfield addition, “solana muñoz,” the interviewer began with a warm smile. “solana was born in colombia and later raised in southern california. her father is colombian, her mother ethiopian—which explains how amazing her spanish is. she’s the oldest of three siblings and one of the most anticipated midfield signings this season. welcome to barçelona, solana.”

“thank you,” she said, her voice calm and melodic, touched with an american lilt softened by years of speaking spanish at home. “i’m really happy to be here.”

“firstly, tell us your full name and age?” the interview wasted no time filling the gaps about the girl infornt of her.

“my full name is solana muñoz ali. ali is from my mom and muñoz, my dad. i am curre you twenty-one” she stated pointedly, knowing she had related the same information countless of times since signing.

“you’re very young. you’ll fit right in with the young core on barça femení. next: how’s barcelona treating you so far?” the interviewer asked. “i imagine it’s quite a change.”

solana nodded, a small laugh escaping her. “i’ve visited colombia before, but living in spain is completely different—especially barcelona. everything here moves differently. the pace, the energy, even the silence. it’s louder in its own way. but it’s beautiful. i dreamed of being here, and now that i am… even the hard parts feel like a blessing.”

she looked young. still. composed, but cautious. like she wasn’t quite sure she belonged yet—even though everyone watching would know she did.

“practicing your catalan?” the interviewer switched seamlessly to catalan and offered the phrase with a laugh. to which solana hesitantly follow suit hesitantly

“una mica” she pinched her index and pointer finger shyly as she received praise from interviewer. alejandro processed how different her words sound accompanied by her american lith as she spoke his native language.

"there has been a lot of talk on your signing. many curlers have compared to rakitić,” the interviewer said, her tone curious. “especially in the way you move in transitions and how you read the space. thoughts?”

the girl smiled, polite but firm. “he was incredible, for sure,” she said, her accent a mix of american vowels and something smoother. “but i wouldn't say i play like him. i looked up to all the great midfielders—xavi, iniesta, busquets. even now, watching alexia, aitana, hansen, and pedri and gavi? it's surreal. i’m just trying to learn from them. from all of them.”

she looked small on the screen. not just in stature—though she was petite—but in the way she held herself. poised, but reserved. like she was trying to compress her presence into something manageable. her hands were folded neatly in her lap, thumbs worrying each other quietly. her shoulders were square, but not rigid. she was clearly nervous, but she was holding her ground.

alejandro leaned forward slightly, phone resting on his thigh. the locker room noise faded into a dull backdrop.

“you’ve had a pretty incredible year,” the interviewer continued. “nwsl champion. youngest player to hit fifteen assists in a season. after the run you’ve had there’s a lot of buzz about you.”

she blinked, clearly uncomfortable. “i was just lucky to be part of a great team,” she murmured, her voice dipping lower. “a lot of those assists weren’t even anything special—just quick passes, and my teammates made something beautiful out of them.”

“but still,” the interviewer pressed, “you’ve achieved more than most players your age. how does it feel, coming to a place like barça?”

she hesitated. then she exhaled slowly, her hands tightening just a little. “it’s a dream. but it’s also… a lot. i’m far from home. i’ve never lived in europe before. it’s overwhelming sometimes, but i’m here to learn. that’s all i want—to learn and grow. i know i have a long way to go.”

there was something in her tone that stuck in his chest. not just humility—though that was there—but a rawness, an earnestness that couldn’t be fake.

alejandro leaned forward slowly, forgetting the towel draped around his neck.

her voice was calm, even, but there was something beneath it—something tender and real.

"what made you choose barça?” the interviewer asked.

her smile turned soft, almost nostalgic. “i used to wake up early—like five in the morning early—just to watch la liga games,” she said, laughing a little. “even when i was a kid. i never stopped. i’d rush home after school to watch champions league nights, wear my barça jersey almost everyday like it was part of my armor.” while she spoke, the proof appeared on screen through a photo of her as a toddler in a barça shirt while cuddled with her papa.

“now… being here? walking into this training ground? it’s something i used to dream about so much it felt like it couldn’t ever be real.” she finished and alejandro noticed the breath she let out afterwards.

a beat of silence passed before the interviewer spoke again. “a lot of culers and your future teammates—first team and femení—mentioned they didn’t know much about you.”

“i know,” she said with a little shrug. “i’m not that present online. i just play. i hope one day my football speaks loud enough on its own.”

the room was quiet for a second. as the interview came to an end alejandro couldn’t help but gaze at her once more until the tv was shut off.

“she’s beautiful,” ansu said suddenly spoke, as if in a daze, not even bothering to hide the way the girl piqued his interest. “like… ridiculously.”

someone chuckled at his words, but alejandro didn’t laugh.

he was too busy remembering the way her eyes flickered when she mentioned the club’s midfielders, the reverence in her tone when she said surreal. it tugged at something in his chest he hadn’t expected—a familiar ache. he remembered being in that position,. being that hungry. he remembered the nerves too, the pressure of finally stepping into something you’d only ever watched from afar.

and worse, he remembered how cold he’d been when she bumped into him. like she was some intern who didn’t belong. his jaw tensed.

she belonged here. she really did.

guilt gnawed at him as he remembered the look on her face, the way she’d tried to stand up for herself despite how out of place she must have felt. he’d been rude, harsh, and now he couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, silent and hurt, as he’d walked away.

next

© PDRIESTA 2025

[littlebeluu]

needy for him

marc guiu × female reader

warnings: smut

He looked so hot. He looked so hot laying in that couch wearing only a pair of boxers that you couldn't help but clench your thighs. He was used to doing that, walking around the house in underwear, pretending he didn't know it provoked you. You've never been so attracted to anyone like you were towards Marc. His back and arms were huge although his sport didn't involve having a big upper body. But he trained hard, he was probably the most disciplined person you knew. His abs weren't that marked but his v-line was what made you go feral. It made such a good contrast with his small waist that you couldn't help but constantly imagine wrapping your legs around him. But the cherry on top for you was his happy trail. You find it so sexy that you'd actually get mad whenever he shaved it. Your face dropping when you noticed, and him laughing at you for being so dramatic.

And there he sat, on the couch of your apartment where he would sleep at almost every day. His legs spread and his arms outstretched while he watched some old game that he missed due to training. You walked towards him and looked him in the eyes trying to catch his attention. All you ever wanted was his attention. He kept his eyes on the TV as if he didn't know what you wanted. So you softly caressed his huge thighs and proceeded to sit on his lap. God you loved snuggling on top of him, it would make you feel so tiny.

"Love, you know I'm trying to watch the game" he said barely making eye contact with you. You didn't answer. Instead you began to leave wet kisses on his neck while slowly caressing the back of his hair. You felt him sigh and move a little under you. You knew you had him wrapped around your finger. Marc put his hands on your waist and slowly lifted his big hand under your shirt, lovingly brushing your shoulders with his finger tips. He unclasped your bra and then took your shirt and the bra off, leaving you wearing only your blue undies. You started to grind against him, so horny that all you wanted was to soothe all that desire that has been building in your lower tummy. Marc loved when you dry humped him. He knew that it meant you needed him and he loved to feel needed. The whimpers that he left out were making that funny feeling in your pussy even stronger. The wetness on your panties were staining his boxers. You could see the outline of his cock. His tip was out, and his happy trail was glistening due to his pre-cum and your juices. Sexiest sight ever.

"You're going to kill me one of these days baby"

You looked at him lovingly, there was nothing hotter than the words and sounds he left out whenever he was aroused. You pulled his underwear down and grabbed his shaft, slowly stroking him. He was wet from your mixed juices. You bit your lip looking at it and Marc swears he could have cum just from that look. While lifting your hips you drag his tip in between your folds and whine when it brushes your swollen clit. Marc impatiently thrusts his hips and pushes his cock inside you and you both can't help but moan loudly. It feels like you were made for each other. He grabs your hips with the kind of pressure that you know is going to leave marks tomorrow, but you don't care because it hurts so good. He guides your movements while he sucks your tits, sometimes licking and sometimes biting gently. Your clit would constantly brush over his trimmed pubic hair and you knew you were getting closer and closer.

"I can feel you clenching around me, so needy for me. F-fucking gorgeous"

And he was right, you needed him all the time, at all hours, one right move and he'll have you clenching your thighs while looking at him. You could tell he was about to cum too, he would sometimes shut his eyes and his grip on your hips would be even harder while he quietly cussed. You move your hips faster, with one hand holding onto his shoulder and the other resting on his thigh. The pleasure was so intense that you moved forward, pressing your chest against him and screaming loudly, your orgasm always being better than the previous one, your legs shaking while you feel his spurts of cum fill you up so deep. He groans loudly as his hips uncontrollably thrust into you. You loved that he was so vocal while fucking, never saved a sound to himself.

"I love you Marc" You said while looking into his eyes. His eyes were so beautiful. They were sometimes brown and sometimes amber, and they would wrinkle when he smiled. And right now he was smirking while holding eye contact, his forehead and chest sweaty and his breath heavy.

"I love you even more baby"

[ikram1909]

Gavi getting mad really is this club's favourite source of entertainment 😭😭

[insidekatmind]

Bet-Alejandro Balde

Wearning: +18,smut

Request: yes!

It was a fiery night in Jeddah, the city vibrating with the clamor of the Clásico. Real Madrid against Barcelona, the most anticipated match of the season. The tension in the air was palpable, but for you, y/n, it was much more: it was a personal matter.

"Y/n, are you ready to lost this bet?" Alejandro Balde had said to you a few days before, with an arrogant smile painted on his face.

"Don't count on it, Balde. Real will win, and then you will be the one to swallow your words" you had replied, with a confidence that now seemed to waver.

But now you were there. The match was over. 5-2 for Barcelona. And, as if that wasn't enough, Balde had scored one of the decisive goals.

You were sitting on the couch in his apartment, still wearing your Real Madrid jersey, your hands crossed on your knees. He, leaning on the kitchen counter, was staring at you with an amused expression.

“I thought you’d take that shirt off as soon as you came in,” he said, his tone playful but with a hint of mischief.

“Don’t count on it, Balde,” you replied, staring at him with challenging eyes.

He approached slowly, like a predator studying his prey. Each step felt like a blow to your pride. He stopped in front of you, his gaze piercing.

“You remember our bet, right?”

“Yes, I do,” you replied through gritted teeth.

“So, y/n… are you ready to keep your word?”

“I didn’t mean to lose,” you admitted, trying to keep your composure.

“But you lost,” he replied with a triumphant smile. “And now you’re here.”

There was a moment of silence. Then he sat down next to you, moving just close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.

He reached for your shirt and ran his hands along the fabric, feeling the soft texture of the fabric.

"This shirt is beautiful," he whispered, his voice low and husky. "But it would look better on my bedroom floor, don't you think?"

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you tried to remain impassive.

"You're not serious," you replied, trying to keep your cool.

"Oh, I am," he said, his fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. "You lost the bet, y/n. You promised you'd do whatever I wanted."

you look at him badly "I will not go to bed with a dirty culers" you say angry.

Alejandro laughed, a low, husky sound that sent goosebumps across your skin.

"Oh, y/n," he said, his fingers tracing patterns on your thigh. "You don't know what you're missing. But don't worry, we don't have to go to bed yet. There's so much we can do right here, on this couch."

At his words you look at him badly again.He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "You know, I've always had a thing for feisty girls like you," he murmured, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

"You're so tough, but I know how to bring out your more submissive side."

Alejandro lifted you from the couch and placed you in his lap, his arms encircling your waist. You tried to resist, but he held you firmly, his gaze piercing yours. "You can fight it all you want, y/n, but deep down, you know you're already mine."

His hands roamed over you slowly, exploring every inch of your body. "Just give in," he whispered, kissing your neck. "Let me make you feel what you truly crave."

"fuck you, I'm not yours and I never will be" you say confidently but in the meantime you try to move your neck more to give him more space.

Alejandro chuckled, his teeth grazing against your skin. "Oh, y/n," he murmured between kisses. "You can lie to yourself, but your body doesn't lie. It knows that it needs me."

His hands caressed your thighs, teasingly inching closer and closer to their center.

You tried to resist, to push him away, but his touch was too persuasive. Your breath was coming in short gasps now, and the warmth spreading through you was undeniable.

"Shh," he whispered. "Just be a good girl and give in. I promise you'll enjoy it immensely"

His fingers traced the edge of your panties, teasing you with their feather-like caress. You felt yourself weakening, the tension of the game forgotten as his touch ignited a fire within you. He watched your reaction with a cocky smile, knowing he was slowly breaking down your defenses.

"That's it, y/n," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "Stop fighting it. You know you want this as much as I do."

His hands continued their exploration, their touch growing more confident as they found their way beneath your underwear. A low moan escaped your lips as his fingers brushed against your most sensitive spot.

"See? You can't resist," he purred, his fingers slowly stroking your most intimate place. "Just let go, y/n. Give in to me."

You tried to hold on, to fight the growing heat within you, but the sensations were too powerful. The way he touched you, the way he whispered in your ear - it was all too much. You gasped and arched against him, your body surrendering uncontrollably to his touch.

"That's a good girl," he praised, his lips capturing yours in a fierce kiss. His fingers kept moving, teasing and pleasuring with skillful precision. His other hand wandered up the hem of your t- shirt, pushing the fabric up to reveal your trembling body.

You moan into the kiss, and start to move closer to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and deepening the kiss

"Mmm," he murmured against your lips, his hands now roaming your bare skin. "I knew you'd come around, y/n."

Alejandro lifted you and placed you on his lap, the evidence of his own desire pressing against you as he continued to kiss you deeply.

You moan as you feel his erection against you and you grind against him as you deepen the kiss.

He groaned in pleasure, his hands gripping your hips and encouraging your movements. "Gods, y/n," he muttered, breaking the kiss and nipping at your neck. "You're driving me insane."

He moved against you, creating a delicious friction that made both of you gasp.

You were completely in his control now, surrendering to the sensations that rocked through you. His touch was electric, his kisses hungry, and the way he held you, possessive.

"You're mine," he whispered fiercely, his hands gripping your hips harder as he rocked against you. "Mine."

With a swift move, he lifted you into his arms and carried you to the nearby bed, laying your body down against the soft covers. His eyes, darker with desire, roamed over you, drinking in the sight of your flushed skin and parted lips.

"So beautiful," he murmured, his hands gently parting your legs to give him better access. His touch was both teasing and assertive as his fingers traced the inner side of your thighs.

Alejandro quickly undresses you, smiling at the sight of you naked "so sexy' he muttered.Then, his face was between your legs, his tongue delving into your most intimate center, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you. You cry out, your fingers gripping the sheets as he worked his magic, pushing you to the brink of ecstasy.

He added two fingers inside you while sucking your clit sending you to the limit.You moaned loudly and blocked his head by putting your hands on his hair and your legs resting on his neck. You moaned loudly "shit, keep going I'm coming" you moan as you push your pussy harder on his face.

Alejandro moans and moves his fingers faster and licking, sucking and kissing your pussy more making you come. "You taste so good baby" he whispers licking his fingers.

Slowly, he positioned himself above you, looking down at you with a mix of desire and dominance. "Now," he said, his voice a husky murmur, "Tell me who owns you."

You can barely form a coherent thought, your mind clouded with pleasure, but you know what he wants.

"You," you manage to gasp out, your body still quivering from your release. "I belong to you."

He smiles, satisfied with your answer, and then he leans down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss. "Good girl," he murmurs, his hands roaming over your body, his touch both possessive and tender. "All mine."

Alejandro smiles as he sucks and nibbles your nipples making you moan. Then he gently pulls away from your nipple and begins to undress and flips you over onto all fours.

He positions himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips. "You're all mine," he reiterates, his voice husky with desire. "Every inch of this body is mine."

His hands caress your skin, tracing patterns along your spine before his lips follow, kissing every inch of skin he can reach.

You can feel his breath against your skin, his lips warm and soft, sending shivers of anticipation through you. His hands continue to roam your body, exploring every curve and contour, claiming every inch of you as his own.

Alejandro starts rubbing himself on your ass and then enters you making you scream with pleasure.

"Mmm, you're so tight," he murmurs, his voice a low growl in your ear. "You feel so good around me."

He starts moving slowly, his hands still roaming your body, his touch both possessive and gentle. The sensations are overwhelming, the sounds and pleasure mixing together in a heady cocktail. You cry out, your body responding to him passionately, arching more towards him.

Alejandro smiles and grabs your ass and moves you towards him to make you arch better. "That's right, take it all like the good girl you are for me" he murmurs in your ear nibbling making you moan.

"That's it," he praises, his voice husky with pleasure. "Let go. Give yourself to me completely."

His movements become faster, more urgent, as he completely takes control of your body. He whispers praises and dirty words into your ear, his mouth hot against your skin, his teeth nipping lightly at your neck.

With each thrust, you feel yourself slipping deeper into the storm of pleasure. Your body is no longer your own, surrendering completely to the rhythm he sets. You cry out, lost in the sensations, the world around you fading away until all that remains is his touch, his voice, and the overwhelming pleasure that washes over you like a wave.

Alejandro slaps your ass and fucks you faster. You scream with pleasure and Alejandro smiles "You like getting fucked by a Barcelona player, eh Madridista?" he teases you by pushing harder

You can barely respond, your mind clouded by the sensations coursing through you. You manage to gasp out a response, your voice thick with desire. "Shut up, you dirty culer," you choke out, your words slightly slurred by the pleasure that consumes you. "You're just a cocky bastard, that's all."

Alejandro laughs and pushes himself harder into you. "I don't understand, repeat madridista" he teases.

You glare at him turning your head to look at him and Alejandro grabs you by the neck , the effect is lost in the haze of pleasure that surrounds you. "You know damn well what I said, you arrogant bastard," you grumble, your words laced with irritation.He just laughs, clearly enjoying your feisty attitude. "No manners, madridista," he says, his voice thick with amusement. "I'll have to teach you some."

He pushes himself in deeper, his hand gripping your hip tightly. "Are you ready to admit I'm the superior player?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "That Madrid is nothing compared to Barcelona?"

You moan at his strong thrusts "never, you had any luck on the field" you blurt out.

He laughs at your defiance, clearly enjoying your fiery spirit. "Luck, you say?" he murmurs, his voice a low purr against your skin. "You really believe that, little madridista?"

He thrusts harder, making you gasp and arch your back, his movements slow and deliberate.

He leans in, his lips brushing against your neck. "Let me show you the real power of a Barcelona player," he whispers, his voice low and laced with arrogance. "I'm going to make you scream my name, madridista, and you'll never forget who owns this game."

With that, he picks up the pace, his body moving with powerful, purposeful strokes, each one claiming you completely. You can feel yourself slipping into a haze of pleasure, all thoughts of rivalry and competition fading away beneath the intoxicating rhythm of his movements.

You find yourself gasping and moaning, unable to form coherent thoughts or words, your mind consumed by the overwhelming sensations that ripple through you. The only sound that escapes your lips is his name, echoing softly in the air around you.

"Yes, that's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Say my name, madridista. Admit who owns you now."

You barely register the words, lost in the storm of pleasure, but somehow, you manage to choke out his name, your voice broken and shaky.

"Alejandro" you moan loudly arching to take more "so big" you hum in pleasure "so good" you continue to moan, almost whimpering with pleasure.

He's encouraged by your response, his movements growing rougher, more possessive. "My little madridista," he purrs, his voice husky and full of dominance. "You feel so good around me. All mine."

Each word sends a shiver down your spine, adding to the growing tension within you.

You're completely swept up in the moment, your body responding to his touch like a puppet to its master. He controls everything - the rhythm, the pace, the pleasure - and you're completely helpless beneath him, surrendering every inch of yourself to him.

Your mind is a storm of emotions and sensations, your body a battlefield for his touch. You can feel your climax building, growing in intensity, a slow burn that builds and builds until it finally explodes in a rush of pleasure and release. You cry out his name, the sound swallowed up by the waves of ecstasy that crash over you, your body shuddering beneath his.

Alejandro grabs your hair to push himself deeper into you.

You moan at his rough, possessive touch, the slight edge of pain adding to the overwhelming pleasure that engulfs you. "Yes," you gasp out, your voice hoarse and low. "God, yes, deeper."

His movements become rougher, more demanding, each thrust sending shocks of pleasure through your body. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, your mind lost in a haze of ecstasy.

He growls into your ear, his voice thick with possession. "Mine," he grunts, his words punctuated by deep, powerful thrusts. "You're all mine, madridista. Only mine."

You can feel yourself slipping deeper into the abyss of pleasure, your body responding to his every movement, every word, every touch. There's nothing left now but the storm of passion and dominance that surrounds you, the world outside fading away until all that remains is the two of you and the explosive connection that binds you together.

"Come for me," he groans into your ear, his voice a low, commanding growl. "Scream my name, madridista. Show me who owns you now."

You're helpless against his command, your body and soul completely under his control. You cry out his name, your voice hoarse and broken, as the waves of ecstasy wash over you, consuming you completely. Your body shudders and twitches beneath him, your mind a dizzying whirlwind of pleasure and surrender.

He holds you close, your bodies locked together in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and pleasure. He whispers soft, possessive words in your ear, the sound of his voice a soothing balm to your racing heart. Slowly, slowly, the storm of passion begins to subside, leaving you both gasping for breath and blissfully exhausted.

You gasp as you feel him release inside of you, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. You cling to him, your body still trembling from the force of your climax, your mind blissfully blank and free of all thoughts except the sweet, bone-deep satisfaction that envelops you both.

"You're mine," he whispers into your ear, his voice a possessive purr. "Mine. Always mine."

You can only respond with a soft sigh, your body and mind too exhausted to form a coherent thought. You feel him pull you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a gentle, yet firm embrace. You bury your face in his chest, breathing in his scent, letting yourself bask in the afterglow of pleasure and connection.

[p8driesta]

POV: you’ve just won the Supercopa 😎🏆

[strawberryblue-blog]

Please can u do barca boys being clingy with the reader? (add hector fort plss!)

Super clingy —FC Barcelona.

summary: request.

warnings: none. cute, soft, excess of romanticism.

words count: +1.1k

💌: Masterlist.

Pedri González.

Endless hugs.

He always finds an excuse to hug or touch you, even when there is no apparent reason. If you're sitting on the couch, he settles in behind you, wrapping his arms around you while resting his head on your shoulder.

"It's just that I'm more comfortable here" he tells you, even though you know he just wants to feel you close.

If you move, he adjusts his embrace without complaint, as if you are a puzzle piece that needs to fit perfectly with him. If you walk the other way around the house, he will follow you, trying to catch you again.

Ferran Torres.

Kisses all the time.

Not an hour goes by without him giving you a kiss. Whether on the forehead, on the cheek, on the tip of the nose or on the lips, his gestures are constant. He approaches without a word and leans in to kiss you anyway.

"I just can't help it, you're too cute" he says whenever you protest.

Even in public, he finds ways to drop you a quick kiss, if only to remind you how much he adores you. Sometimes it's accompanied by a hug from behind and he'll linger for a while until you ask him to move (in a good way)

Pablo Gavi.

Sticky hands.

If they're watching a movie, their fingers gently run up and down your arm, drawing little circles without you noticing. If you have loose hair, he takes it between his fingers and caresses it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

Sometimes, he touches your face, gently tracing the line of your jaw or your nose.

"I just like to memorize you" he tells you when you ask what he's doing. His hands don't hold back and will touch you for as long as he has the chance.

Fermín López.

Enchanted words.

He tells you "I love you" with a frequency that seems exaggerated, but it never feels forced. "Did you know you're the best thing that ever happened to me?" he asks you at least once a day.

"Did I tell you already that you look beautiful today? Because you are. Always" Even when you're disheveled or in your pajamas, he finds a way to remind you how much you mean to him.

He chases you with compliments, anywhere, any time, he is tender and delicate, telling you how much he loves and appreciates you.

Alejandro Balde.

Faithful companion.

No matter what you are doing, he wants to be with you. If you are cooking, he stays in the kitchen, even if it's just to lean on the counter and watch you. If you're studying, he's your moral support by your side, never leaving you alone.

If you have to go out shopping, he insists on going with you, if you visit the doctor, if you have dinner with your parents, even if you do something simple like go to the bathroom.

"I don't want to miss a second with you" he says with a smile, as if it really is a luxury to be by your side even in the most mundane tasks.

Hector Fort.

Annoying romantic.

Suddenly, without warning, he takes you by the hand and starts dancing with you, even though there is no music.

"Listen, there's a song in my head and it's perfect for us" he says as he guides you with awkward steps around the room.

He hugs you, lifts you up, throws you on the couch to tickle you, undoes your hair,olesta practically but romantically. Even if you laugh at his witticism, you can't help but feel special as he's obsessed with you.

Lamine Yamal.

Personal protector.

If you're tired, he carries your bag without you asking. If you're in a crowded place, he holds your hand firmly, as if he wants to make sure you don't get lost.

If someone speaks to you in a way he considers inappropriate, he discreetly places you behind him. "Don't worry, I'm here" he says with a security that makes you feel completely protected that even seeing seems annoying but isn't.

He takes care of you in front of others and gets extremely affectionate to protect you from anything.

Pau Cubarsí.

Deep glances.

Maybe he is the least annoying in terms of affection. But he loves mirartc When you fall asleep, how peacefully you rest next to him, while he admires you in love.

"You look so peaceful like that" he says when you wake up and find him looking at you with a smile.

If you move, he arranges the blanket over you, making sure you don't get cold. If you come up, he carefully pulls it down, if your hair gets out of place, Pau rearranges it. Sometimes, he even leaves you little notes that you find when you wake up.