Fics like red on blaugrana

“What the fuck happened?” Jude asked. Vini was still on the ground, staring at Gavi’s back with diluted, panicked eyes. “Jude,” he said, shaky. “He— he—” Only now that Gavi was up did Jude notice the nasty blotch of saturated crimson staining Vini’s white shirt. Blood. And a lot of it. There was nothing else it could be. It smelled like copper too, that telltale scent that had Jude’s stomach roiling. “That freak had a knife.” Had he fucking stabbed Jude’s teammate?! “Are you— fuck— are you okay?” He babbled superfluously. “Get the meds over here asap!” he demanded, and it was when he raised the hand supporting Gavi’s waist to motion with it as well that he realized that sticky wetness he was feeling wasn’t stress sweat. It was blood. “It’s not mine,” Vini said, queasy. OR the one where a pitch invader descends el Clasico into chaos

Fics like red on blaugrana

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