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the-offside-rule · 1 year ago

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Carlos Sainz Jr (Scuderia Ferrari) - Un Poco Secreto

Requested: yes

Prompts: 39) "Like what you see?"

40) "Ah, ah, ah, no touching."

41) "Do that thing I like."

Warnings: smut, age gap, overstimulation, fighting over being a dom, alonso!daughter x Carlos Sainz

Y/n gasped as she felt her back hit the door, before Carlos pounced and their lips connected once again. Carlos grunted in disapproval as he reached for the door handle of his Hotel room, trying his best not to break the kiss he had with Y/n. He could feel her smile against his lips. "Having trouble?" She challenged. "Shut...up." He replied simply, making her laugh. "What? I'm just saying what I see." Carlos looked back at her. "Do you want to go back to your room?" He asked. Y/n shrugged her shoulders. "Fine, I'll-" She went to walk past him before Carlos finally opened his door and brought her with him. "We are never going to your room, your room is always beside your father or someone else we know." He said before his lips attacked her neck. She hummed in response. "You're literally right next to Charles."

"That's not the same." He whispered, pushing her towards the bed and taking off his shirt. "And you don't think the team will be suspicious of you going missing?" She asked, her brow arched as Carlos flung his Ferrari shirt to the side and focusing on the buckle of his belt. "I don't give a fuck what they think." He replied, finally getting around the buckle and pulling his trousers down. "Now, let's get to the matter of business." He tugged at the sides of her shorts. "Why the shorts today?" Y/n chuckled as she watched him fiddle with the zipper. "I thought they looked good on me." She replied simply. "And you know, I agree. But keep these for our 'outings' in Monaco." He said, pulling them down and throwing them right next to his shirt.

"Did they drive you that crazy?" She asked as he loomed over her. "Princesa, I drove past the pit wall just to get a look at you, nevermind what I was thinking of doing to you in them." His lips trailed down her toned torso, leaving gentle kisses as he did. Y/n shivered with the feeling, looking down through hooded eyes and seeing the spaniard biting her lace panties and pulling at them. She giggled, running her fingers through his hair. "Show me what you want to do to me." Carlos' lips left a wet trail of hungry kisses all over her, even leaving traces of lilac bruises in a few spots where no one would see them, but in the event someone would, they would know she belonged to him; his own personal stamp.

"As much as I'm enjoying this-" She paused, rolling the pair over and pushing him down into the mattress. "I'd much prefer if I was on top this time." Carlos' brows knotted in confusion. "Why? Do you think I don't do a good enough job?" He asked. "No, I just think I could do better." Grinning, Carlos relaxed into the bed, his hands resting behind his head, watching closely as Y/N straddled him and sat comfortably on his hips. She slowly pulled off her shirt, revealing a matching bra. His lips parted as he took a breath in. "Like what you see?" She asked, running her fingers up his abs. His fingers ran up her thighs until his hands had a firm grip of her ass. She tapped his hands away. "Ah, ah, ah, no touching, Carlitos." She purred. Carlos smirked as he watched her tower over him. "I think you're in for a very long night." Carlos chuckled. "Is that a promise?" He shivered at that question. "I swear." He replied.

Y/n lined herself up with Carlos' cock, teasing by making him wait much longer than he would ever have to. "Please, amor. Just let me feel you." She smiled at his pathetic pleads and gave him what he desired. Her head fell bad in ecstacy as she slid down, trying her best to take him all as best she could. "You need to relax, you don't don't have all of it yet." A wild grin appeared on her face. "Egotistical much?" She was quickly shut up by Carlos raising his hips slightly and pushing in just a bit more. She bit her lip to muffle her moan yet she failed miserably. "You're sounding like you're enjoying this too much." He grimaced as his hands slowly traced lines on the skin of her thigh again. She groaned in annoyance, grabbing his hands and pulling them up over his head, pinning them to the headboard. He looked at her, an element of surprise on his face. "Don't be so impatient." Her hips moved agonisingly slow as she watched how Carlos' mouth fell open. "Eso se siente bien." He groaned, his head falling back into the pillow, showing his delicious jawline. "Me has enseñado bien." She whispered, kissing his throat and continuing on. "You're going to be the death of me, amor."

As she rode him she felt herself coming closer to her high and Carlos could feel it. Her walls tightened around him and her grip on his wrists became tighter as her mind focused on her orgasm. "Lo estás haciendo muy bien, amor. Sigue adelante." Although they were both Spanish, something did it for him speaking to her in Spanish. She felt herself crumbling as his words helped to cloud her mind before she finally reached her high, riding it out and her grip loosening. Once she stopped, she looked down at Carlos, a small and innocent smile on her lips. The smile soon left her face as she saw him look at her like a lion looks at its prey. "My turn." Before she could say another word, Carlos was on top, the long pieces of his hair dangling down near Y/n's forehead. He slid in, earning a moan from Y/n. She gripped his shoulders as he began at a relentless pace, making her overstimulated. She struggled to make any sounds, the noise stuck in her throat. "I can't hear you princesa." He whispered in her ear as he dropped to his forearms, his thrusts going deeper. Almost like he gave her permission, the sinful sounds came from her lips. "Fuck, Carlos." She said, her voice strained. She felt his grin against the skin on the crook of her neck.

Suddenly, Carlos felt a sharp sensation on his shoulder. He winced and raised his head, seeing Y/n pull away. "What are you-"

"Oh what? So you get to mark me but I can't leave my mark on you?" Carlos chuckled, pulling out. Y/n looked at his, desperation for her to orgasm a second time in her eyes. "He lay on his back again and grabbed her hand, lowering it down to his cock. "I want to watch you do it." He rasped. Y/n bit her lip, once again sitting up once again and straddling him. Her hips rocked back and fourth. She lowered herself down so her head would rest on his chest. Her lips explored his chest, bruises being staining his skin like watercolour stains a blank canvas. "Fuck." He mumbled. He could feel himself getting closer. He gripped her hips and began with his sloppy thrusts. Y/n's hands roamed his body. "Hold the headboard." He instructed, getting annoyed with the wandering hands. She reached up and held the headboard as it banged against the wall, undoubtedly chipping the wall. She felt a hand reach up and grab one of her tits, squeezing and playing with them as if it were a toy, but she liked it. She felt herself coming to a second orgasm sooner than she expected, but she wasn't complaining.

As the pair rode out their orgasms, their panting and the smell of sex filled the room. Y/n had climbed off Carlos and lay beside him, a comfortable silence surrounding them. Carlos, tracing circles on Y/n's hand, suddenly looked deep into her eyes. She knotted her brows. "What?" She asked. "I can't believe how incredibly lucky I am to have you in my life." She laughs, slapping his bare chest as if he was joking and trying to be cliche, but when her eyes went back to his, they held the most sincerest look she had ever seen. "You make me feel like me." He paused. "You're my everything." Y/n smiled, playing with Carlos's hair. "You're my everything too, Carlos, but-"

He groaned knowing where this was going. "Not again." He mumbled, turning to lay on his back. "Carlos." She started. "We have to tell him. He will kill me if we don't." She said. "He will kill me if we do!" He retorted. "Carlos, we have to tell my dad. I have to tell my dad." Carlos looked as her chin rested on his chest. He couldn't help but feel so terribly bad. "He is going to kill us." He whispered, wrapping his arms around her. "Maybe, but I want to actually come to you without having to be so secretive." He had to admit, the whole secret thing was getting ridiculous. Even the simplest thing like liking one another's posts can and would be investigated by fans; it's what they did. "Can I think about what I'm going to say? I don't think he's going to appreciate me going out with his daughter who is ten years younger than me."

"Nine and a half years younger." She corrected. "Like that changes it." He rolled his eyes. "Carlos, if we don't tell him I'm not going to be with you. We have kept this secret for almost a year now and I would like to actually go out with you outside the paddock." Carlos sighed and looked between her eyes. He couldn't say no to her. "Okay, I'm not sure when we will but we will." He lifted her hand to rest on his chest. "As long as my heart beats, it's yours and since it's yours, it will do what you ask." Y/n smiled. "Will it let me bring you to the shower?"

"As tempting as that sounds, I have to head back to the paddock to get some work done." Carlos replied, kissing her. "But we can tomorrow morning." She nodded as she got up out of bed and headed to the bathroom whilst Carlos got up and collected his clothes, promptly dressing himself. "Jesus fucking christ." Carlos muttered, looking at his bare chest in the mirror. "My finest work yet." Y/n smiled, wrapping her arms around him and pecking his shoulder. He hummed, a tone of unamusement lingering. "At least its less noticeable than-" He paused, turning to Y/n in her towel. "Than whatever the fuck I have done to you." He was of course referring to the many bruises left on her collarbone and all down her torso. "I can't even wear my nice dress to dinner with my dad now." She uttered, faking her sadness. "If it's any consolation, mi amor, Fernando thinks that dress will prompt the single and younger drivers to make a move on you and he doesn't want that." His arms wrapped around her waist, resting on her lower back. "He has nothing to worry about. I have my old and not-so-single driver right here." She joked. "They could never do what I do." Y/n arched a brow. "You don't think Oscar would-"

"Get out before you make me even more late!"

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theonottsbxtch · 5 months ago

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FIRST SIP | FC43

an: hello dear friends i am back! on my break i did some writing and im posting a few of them now, this story is short and based off a request, it is more friends that coupley but hey ho! hope you guys missed me fr

wc: 2.3k

THE GLITTERING LIGHTS of the awards ceremony sparkled like tiny constellations scattered across the ceiling, casting a soft glow on the crowd of motorsport elite. She adjusted her sleek black dress, smoothing invisible wrinkles as the chatter of voices buzzed around her. The air was thick with champagne, pride, and promises of the future—her future. Formula One.

Her heart still fluttered at the thought. Next season, she’d be trading her Formula Two championship-winning car for the dizzying heights of the world’s most iconic racing series. The title champion still felt surreal, even with the trophy gleaming beside her seat.

She reached for her clutch bag, which was precariously balanced on her lap, when her fingers snagged, and the small lipstick she’d stashed inside went tumbling to the floor.

“Damn it,” she muttered, dropping to her knees before catching herself. “Joder… maldita sea,” she corrected herself in a breath, practising the Spanish that had become her second language these past few months. Her soon-to-be teammate, a rookie sensation turned veteran heartthrob with a reputation for fiery radio calls, spoke English on his own terms, and she wasn’t going to be the rookie who relied on a translator.

She stretched forward, only for her hand to collide with someone else’s. Warm fingers curled around the lipstick, and she looked up to see a man straightening with it between his fingers.

“¿Esto es tuyo?” he asked, holding it out to her. The rich accent made her mind stumble for a second before she registered the words: Is this yours?

“Sí… gracias,” she replied, taking it carefully. But as she glanced up at him, the dim lighting made it hard to see his face.

The man didn’t leave, though. He stuffed his free hand into his pocket and continued in rapid Spanish, “Deberías tener más cuidado. Estas cosas ruedan lejos, y luego todos se están tropezando.”

Her brain tripped over the words. Something about things rolling away? And people tripping? Her cheeks heated as she scrambled to reply. “Ah, sí, tienes razón. Um, gracias otra vez.”

“¿Estás bien? Pareces un poco nerviosa,” he said, tilting his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Are you okay? You seem a little nervous.

Her heart stuttered. Nerviosa? Nervous? No, no, not nervous. Not because he was tall and charmingly dishevelled in his tuxedo, or because his Spanish was making her carefully rehearsed phrases feel utterly useless.

“I’m fine,” she blurted, before realising it had slipped out in English. Heat rose to her face, and she quickly backtracked. “Estoy bien, quiero decir. Um…” She fumbled, searching for words. “No�� nerviosa.”

The man laughed, low and warm. “¿Segura? Porque pareces que estás practicando un examen de español.” His teasing tone was unmistakable: Are you sure? Because it looks like you’re practising for a Spanish exam.

She swallowed, willing her racing brain to catch up. “No,” she managed, her lips twitching into a sheepish smile. “No examen… solo, um, aprendiendo.” Not an exam, just… learning.

“¿Aprendiendo?” His dark brows arched, intrigued. “¿Por qué?”

She hesitated. Did she admit why? Or keep it vague? Her pride wanted to play it cool, but her words were clumsy as they spilled out. “Para, um, la próxima temporada.” For, um, next season.

That made him pause, his head tilting slightly. “¿Eres piloto?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder as though expecting a team logo or badge to confirm it.

“Sí,” she said quickly, eager to hold onto the thread of the conversation. Then, her nerves pushed her to add, “Pero… F2.”

His eyes lit up with understanding. “Ah, campeona,” Ah, champion he said, grinning now. “Vi las noticias. Felicidades.” I saw the news, congratulations His Spanish slowed slightly, the warmth in his tone calming her as he added, “Subir a F1 es un gran paso. ¿En qué equipo vas a correr?” Moving up to F1 is a big step. What team are you going to race on?

Her chest tightened. Of course he’d ask that. She debated deflecting, but her pride wouldn’t let her. “Um… contigo.”

His brows furrowed, the grin flickering into confusion. “¿Conmigo?”

“Sí,” she murmured, suddenly very interested in the lipstick still in her hand. “Teammates.”

The realisation hit him, and in the shifting lights, she caught the flash of his expression: surprise, then delight. “¡Ah, en serio!” He ran a hand through his dark hair, laughing softly. “Bueno, entonces, tienes que practicar más. No puedes entender mis chistes si no hablas bien español.” Well, then, you have to practice more. You can’t understand my jokes if you don’t speak Spanish well.

She couldn’t help it—she laughed, the nerves ebbing just slightly. “Lo intentaré,” she promised, finally meeting his eyes with a shy smile. I’ll try.

“Bueno. Porque hago muchos chistes.” His grin was playful, his words laced with a teasing warmth. Good. Because I make a lot of jokes.

Her new apartment still smelled faintly of fresh paint and new furniture, the kind of sterile scent that made it obvious she’d only just moved in. Boxes were still scattered across the living room floor, some half-unpacked, others untouched, their labels scrawled with things like kitchen stuff and racing gear. She was making progress—slowly—but there was still so much to sort out.

At the moment, she was standing in the middle of the chaos, holding two framed photos and trying to decide which one deserved a place on the narrow entryway table. Her Formula 2 championship-winning moment? Or the first karting trophy she’d ever won?

She barely had time to decide before a sharp knock at the door interrupted her.

Frowning, she set the frames down and padded over, expecting maybe a team liaison or a delivery she’d forgotten about. But when she swung the door open, her breath hitched.

Franco stood on the other side, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other tucked into his hoodie pocket, his usual easy grin in place.

“Hola, vecina,” he greeted, his voice warm and teasing. Hello, neighbour.

Her brain stalled. “Wait—what?”

His grin widened, and he jerked his chin towards the apartment next door. “You didn’t know?”

She shook her head, still caught between shock and amusement. “Not at all. No one mentioned I’d be living next to you.”

Franco laughed, crossing his arms. “I’ve always lived here. My teammates come and go, but I stay.”

She glanced past him at the door to his apartment, as if seeing it in a new light. “So all this time, I was moving in right next to you?”

“Seems that way.” He smirked, then leaned in slightly, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I hope you’re not too loud, rookie. I need my sleep.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “I could say the same to you. Who knows what kind of noise you make?”

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence. “I am an excellent neighbour.”

She let out a small laugh, the initial surprise settling into something easier, something natural. There was something oddly reassuring about knowing he was just next door.

Then Franco’s gaze flickered to the open boxes behind her. “Still unpacking?”

“Yeah,” she admitted, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s taking longer than I thought.”

He hummed, then, without warning, asked, “Do you drink mate?”

She blinked. “Mate?”

“The drink,” he clarified, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “Not a… friend.”

She let out a short laugh. “I know what it is, but no—I’ve never tried it.”

Franco gasped again, this time genuinely horrified. “Never?”

“Never,” she repeated, biting back a smile at his dramatic reaction.

“No, no, this is unacceptable,” he said, shaking his head. “Forget coffee. You’re coming over, and we’re drinking mate.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

“Claro,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You have time, no?”

She hesitated, glancing back at the mess of boxes, the half-unpacked apartment. But, really, it wasn’t much of a choice at all. Franco was standing there, already expecting her to agree, already acting as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was. Maybe this was just how things were going to be—her new life, her new teammate, her new neighbour.

“Alright,” she said, grabbing her keys. “Show me what I’ve been missing.”

Franco grinned, stepping back to let her out. “That’s more like it, rookie.”

Franco’s apartment was warm and lived-in, the kind of place that felt effortlessly comfortable. Unlike hers, which still smelled like fresh paint and cardboard, his had a distinct mix of coffee, something faintly citrusy, and a hint of leather—probably from the well-worn sofa in the living room. A few racing helmets were stacked on a shelf, along with books and framed photos, though nothing was arranged too neatly. It felt like a home, not just a temporary place to stay.

She took it all in as he motioned for her to sit on the couch. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, already heading towards the kitchen.

She did, tucking her legs up slightly as she looked around. “You’ve been here a while?”

“Since my first F1 contract,” Franco called over his shoulder. “They always offer a team apartment, and I never saw the point of moving. Too much effort.” He returned a moment later, carrying a wooden tray with a mate gourd, a thermos, and a small metal straw—the bombilla.

“Let me guess,” she teased, watching as he expertly poured hot water into the gourd. “You can’t live without mate?”

He smirked. “Obviously.” Handing her the gourd, he added, “It’s a tradition where I’m from. You share it. One person pours, and everyone drinks from the same cup.”

She looked down at the drink, slightly wary. “So, we’re… sharing?”

Franco nodded, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “That’s how it works.”

She hesitated for only a second before bringing the gourd to her lips, taking a sip. The taste hit her instantly—earthy, slightly bitter, with a strange sort of warmth. It wasn’t bad, just… different.

“Well?” Franco asked, watching her reaction.

She lowered the gourd, lips pursing slightly. “It tastes like… grass.”

Franco burst out laughing. “You sound like every non-South American I’ve ever given mate to.”

She laughed too, handing the gourd back to him. “It’s not bad. Just… an acquired taste.”

“You’ll get used to it.” He took a sip himself, leaning back into the couch, looking completely at ease. “So, rookie, tell me something about you.”

She arched a brow. “You already know I’m your new teammate.”

“That doesn’t count,” he said, waving a hand. “I mean something real. Who are you when you’re not driving a car?”

She hesitated. It was an odd question—one she wasn’t sure she had an easy answer for. For so long, racing had been everything. But Franco was looking at her expectantly, so she thought for a moment before answering.

“I used to play piano when I was younger,” she admitted. “I stopped when racing got serious, but I still love music.”

Franco’s eyes lit up. “Piano? That’s cool. You should start again.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t even know if I remember how.”

“You don’t forget things like that,” he said, taking another sip of mate before passing it back to her. “It’s like driving.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Not everything is like driving, you know.”

“For us, it kind of is,” he pointed out, grinning. “Okay, my turn. Ask me something.”

She thought for a second, then smirked. “What’s the worst crash you’ve ever had?”

Franco groaned. “Really? That’s your question?”

“Come on, I’m curious,” she said, nudging him playfully.

He sighed dramatically but answered anyway. “F3. Macau. I ended up in the barriers, completely destroyed the car.” He shook his head. “The worst part? I wasn’t even leading. Just a stupid mistake.”

She winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” He glanced at her. “What about you?”

She exhaled through her nose. “F4. Spa. Hydroplaned and took three people out with me. Worst day of my life.”

Franco winced in sympathy. “Spa in the rain is brutal.”

“Tell me about it.”

There was a pause, but it wasn’t awkward. It was easy, comfortable, like they’d known each other longer than just a few weeks.

She took another sip of mate, barely noticing how the taste wasn’t as strange anymore.

Franco stretched his arms behind his head, looking at her with an easy smile. “You know, I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

She met his gaze, feeling the same.

“Yeah,” she agreed softly. “I think so too.”

She handed the mate gourd back to Franco, her fingers brushing against his for just a second longer than necessary. It was nothing—just a simple handoff—but she felt the warmth of his skin, the briefest pause before he finally took it from her.

Her heart stuttered slightly. It was stupid, really. She’d never been the type to get flustered over things like this. But something about the quiet, the closeness, the way he looked at her with that easy smile—it caught her off guard.

Franco took a sip, his lips pressing against the same spot she had just drunk from, and she swore she felt her face heat.

If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned back, exhaling contentedly, and then—just like that—slipped back into Spanish.

“Te acostumbrarás al mate, ya verás,” he murmured, tapping the gourd lightly with his fingers. You’ll get used to mate, you’ll see.

She let out a soft laugh, tucking her legs up underneath her. “Tal vez,” she said, the words slow, careful. Maybe.

His eyes flickered with something amused, something warm. “Eres mejor en español de lo que crees.” You’re better at Spanish than you think.

She scrunched her nose. “No lo sé.” I don’t know.

Franco smirked. “Lo sé yo.” I know.

There was a beat of silence—comfortable, easy.

She glanced down at the mate gourd in his hands, then back up at him. “I’m glad you’re my first Formula One teammate,” she admitted, voice softer now, more honest.

Franco tilted his head slightly, as if considering her words. Then he smiled—genuine, warm. “I’m glad too, rookie.”

And somehow, she knew he really meant it.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby@iamred-iamyellow @driverlando

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mxstellatayte · 1 year ago

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hiiii ! could you write a part 2 for the charles and the vibe fic?

YIPPEE!!

i was gonna write it anyways but now i have an excuse to do it!

warnings: this is pure filth, threesome (mmf,) p in v sex, unprotected sex (DONT DO THAT,) mirror sex, carlos is an ass guy, charles is a boobs guy tho, kinda exhibitionism?, creampie, sex under the influence kinda?, it's all consensual though!

all you wanted to do was tease charles. all you wanted to do was see how much you could tempt his resolve before it would crumble. you had no idea it would result in getting eaten out in the bathroom and then promptly realizing that carlos had heard the whole thing and had covered for you and charles.

in exchange, carlos wanted to make even on a bet that he and charles had made at the start of the 2023 season.

monaco. february 10th, 2023.

"what do you think the odds are that one of us wins a race this year?"

charles looked up from the chessboard, his eyebrows furrowing. "what do you mean?"

"i was looking at the red bull and mclaren numbers and our car splits them. we have a fighting chance this year, so do you think one of us will get a win this year?" charles moves a rook, taking one of carlos' pawns.

"it depends. if my entire radio just sounds like 'we are checking, we are checking' and i have to make my own strategy and tyre calls, maybe. if xavi learns basic engineering and communicative skills or gets replaced altogether, i'd say yeah, there's a chance."

"you wanna bet?"

"what are we betting?"

carlos hesitates, then looks up when he hears the door opening. something clatters in the closet before you can be heard cursing quietly, then rearranging the fallen shoes onto the rack. eventually, you come through the doorway to the living room, and, when you see carlos, your face lights up.

"carlos! cómo estás?" (how are you?) you walk over and lean down, kissing his cheek in greeting.

"bien. un poco nervioso para bahrain, pero el carro maneja fantástico este año. y vos?" (good. a bit nervous for bahrain, but the car drives amazing this year. what about you?) you walk over to the kitchen while he's talking and pull out ingredients to make yourself a bowl of yogurt and berries- your favorite snack to have after work before you take your pit bull out for a walk.

"i'm alright. the marketing team made a stupid mistake so i had to do some damage control that took way longer than it should have, but i know martin is going to give them absolute hell tomorrow for it, so at least it doesn't reflect badly on me." your bowl clinks on the countertop as you sit down at the island and take out your computer, your headphones that were previously resting around your neck being slipped over your ears. "i've got some emails to write for an upcoming content creator collab we're doing, so i'll be in my zone. you guys know the drill?"

charles nods. "hermit mode?"

you smile, slipping the second speaker over your ear. "hermit mode."

a few moments pass before carlos speaks again. "are you okay with betting her?"

charles' eyebrows raise. "what do you mean?"

carlos makes his move on the chessboard. "if i win more races than you this year, i get her for a night. if you win more races than me, you can use me for a night. however you want."

the thought of his teammate and closest friend getting to fuck you lights a fire inside of charles, and while he wants nothing more than to agree to the bet purely for the stakes of it, he needs to check in with you first. "can i run it by her and get back to you on that?"

carlos nods. "just get me an answer by bahrain so we can figure something else out if she doesn't want to do that."

italy. february 3rd, 2024.

you had forgotten about the bet. charles and carlos had not.

now, just minutes later, you find yourself with your back once again against the wall, but this time you're staring into carlos' eyes while he fingers you gently, your legs wrapped around his waist and charles leaning against the vanity facing both of you. your eyes unintentionally flick over carlos' shoulder to your boyfriend who is an absolute mess. he's palming himself over his slacks, and you can tell just from the flush in his face that creeps down to his neck and the way his eyebrows are pinched together that he likes what he sees. before you can eye-fuck him the way you know he likes, carlos pulls his fingers out of you and you whine, but he carries you over to the vanity and taps your ass to get you to let go. "spin around, amor. let me see that beautiful ass of yours."

this is a side of carlos that you've never seen before, and it would be a lie to say that it's not hot. without a second thought, you spin yourself around so that your back is resting against his chest and your ass rests against his crotch. "come on, hermosa. bend over." as slowly as you can, you lean forward, resting your hands on the vanity and grinding yourself against him and you swear you can feel his dick twitch inside of his own black slacks. as soon as your forearms are fully resting on the granite vanity, carlos runs his hands down your back and to the front of your legs where he pulls the scarlet fabric of your dress to gather on your left side, the slit opening so that your entire ass is exposed. "no panties?" oh. you forgot about that.

"i kept them for good measure," charles says, pulling them out of his pocket. "you want 'em? you might have to shut her up. she never stops moaning."

"i know. i heard everything. you two are lucky i was the one outside and not anyone else. now," carlos says, taking your panties from your boyfriend and shoving them in his pocket, "do you feel like returning the favor?"

the whiskey you'd downed earlier is taking its effect, and you can't help but bite your lip and nod. normally, you wouldn't be nearly as confident as you are now with someone other than your boyfriend having you in the position you're in right now, but you trust carlos and frankly, you're too turned on to care. charles is in the same room and you're both comfortable enough in your relationship that it's okay. "yes, carlos. i'll return the favor. whatever you want." as you're talking, you can hear carlos unbuckle his belt and unzip his slacks, and when there's finally one layer of fabric between the two of you, carlos reaches into his jacket packet and pulls out a condom. before he opens it, though, you pipe up, your voice embarrassingly breathy and high. "i'm clean and on the pill. don't waste it if getting me pregnant is your only concern."

"are you sure?" carlos says, glancing over at charles. your boyfriend only responds with a shrug and points his thumb at you.

"whatever she says. you're the one fucking her."

carlos doesn't waste a second setting the condom on the vanity, pulling his slacks and underwear down his thighs just enough so that it's comfortable, and pushing into you. you have to bite your lip and cover your own mouth to prevent yourself from moaning too loudly, the stretch from carlos being so different to the one you're accustomed to with charles.

when you look up, carlos' head is thrown back and his hands grip your hips so tight his knuckles are white. it might be the hottest sight you've ever seen. "carlos." your voice is whiny, and you're shocked you can even get his name out.

"hm?"

"fuck me, please."

"are you sure?" his voice lilts in the way you're used to hearing, but this time, there's something slightly different about it. maybe it's the fact that he's currently buried inside of you, his hips flush with your own, or maybe it's the fact that every time you move your head to look up at him, your cunt squeezes around him so perfectly he fears he might cum within three thrusts, but either way, you feel so, so perfect.

"positive. now please. fuck. me." slowly, carlos pulls his hips back before pushing into you, slowly increasing his pace until every time his body meets your ass, you're shoved forward slightly on the counter and your breasts bounce forward, almost falling out of the low neckline of your dress.

"mierda, amor, tienes un coño hecho para mi," (shit, love, you have a cunt made for me,) carlos groans out, pulling your arms back and holding them with one hand while the other goes to hold you up by your neck. the restriction to your windpipe makes your head spin and the new angle has carlos' entire cock running against your g-spot with every thrust. you're able to wiggle your hands free, your left hand reaching back to tug at carlos' hair and your right goes down to rub circles around your clit, making you tighten around carlos' dick, and the combination of the pain from his hair being pulled and your cunt spasming around him makes him tip over the edge.

the feeling of carlos filling you up in turn sends you into your own orgasm, and as you cum, you look to your left, where charles jerks himself off watching you. when you make eye contact with him, though, it's the last straw and he spills into his hand with a quiet groan and his head thrown back.

the three of you catch your breaths and carlos pulls out of you gently, then shoves his cum back inside of you. the forgotten egg vibrator in charles' coat pocket is reinserted into your cunt and you whine at the overstimulation, slightly anxious that charles might tease you again, but he whispers a quiet promise in your ear that you've been good tonight, he won't turn it on anymore.

eventually, carlos slips out of the bathroom and you follow shortly after, walking back down the large hallway to return to the event. later that night, after speeches have been made, hollow promises have been spoken, and many, many bottles of expensive champagne have been toasted with, you make your way back outside, your arm linked with charles' as he calls his car to be pulled with the valet service. carlos walks up and stands next to the two of you, his car already on its way up, and turns to you.

"i'd say the bet is settled, no?"

there you have it folks :D

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gingerdusk · 5 months ago

Text

Ghost Paldea: Arven Battle Skip Tutorial

The Paldean tutorial is 47 minutes of button mashing and dialogue. Fine your first time, but maybe you're not wanting to be part of that yet. Maybe you just wanna run around, catch some 'Mons, fill up your dex.

Enter Ghost Paldea.

Scarlet (and presumably, Violet) exist in a weird state during the tutorial segment.

Titans don't exist and neither do their caves

Gyms don't activate

Cassiopeia never contacts you about Team Star

The Team Star bell never does anything

The music stays the same no matter where you go, unless it's in town

You can't ride the box legendary

You can't Terastalize (until Nemona gives you a Tera Orb)

But there IS a way to run around this weird, empty version of Paldea. And it's one I stumbled across by accident during the beginning of my Pokédex playthrough, because I wanted a Buizel before I left Poco Path.

Here's how to do it.

Step one:

Play the game up until Nemona tells you to go to the lighthouse. This means choosing your starter, meeting the box legendary, and getting out of the cave.

Now, if you try to go back down there through the hole in the fence, the game stops you. Mostly because it wants to railroad you, because the cave you just popped out of NORMALLY leads to South Area One.

However...that's not the only way down.

Step one is to go to here:

Pokémon spawn up here, but you can't climb up on foot.

Not a problem! This is Pokémon Scarlet. You can do what you want forever.

Target a Pokémon with ZL like so (this takes a few tries, you've gotta balance distance with line of sight):

Then once you've got one, toss YOUR 'Mon with ZR.

Congrats! You've jumped up on the ledge! Run away from battle.

You're going to want to fall back down onto the same place you were, just a little bit to the right:

You're now "out of bounds," as far as where the game expects you to be right now.

Run around the outside of the fence until you get here:

Drop down onto that grassy ledge, then onto the beach:

Congrats!

You've skipped Arven and broken out of Poco Path. Pokémon Centers work as expected, and you can catch things without being interrupted by the tutorial.

But we aren't quite done yet. If you do this, you've got Area One, sure, but the game won't let you into the Mesagoza South Gate until Nemona battles you here. Which means the rest of the world, outside Area One, is still gated off to you.

Not a problem! This is Pokémon Scarlet. You can do what you want forever.

Go here:

And we're going to use the same target-teleport trick we did to get up on that ledge in Poco Path. This one is a little harder, though; you're gonna want to get as close to the other ledge as possible, and just wait until something drifts close enough.

Try to have more than one 'Mon, though, in case the 20something you target faints your starter.

Run away, and now you're in Area Four! The rest of the world is open to you in this weird, progress-less state. Have fun!

#pokemon #pkmn #scarvio #glitches #long post

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scuderia-piastri · 4 months ago

Text

networking

✮⋆˙summary: two moments where red has managed to bond with her fellow drivers, and one moment where she hasn’t (sort of)

✮⋆˙warnings: google translated spanish because i don’t speak spanish (duo is rolling in his grave), stupid fia regulations, danica patrick, pierre’s hair (or lack thereof)

✮⋆˙a/n: took a while but motivation struck at 4 am and who am i to ignore it after it ghosted me for weeks on end? also, thank you so much to my friends @foreveralbon and @vroomvroomcircuit for helping with this one !! <3

rrcsav masterlist

one

sitting in the stewards office, red’s eyes darted around to whatever her vision could focus on. plaques, posters, clocks, anything. next to her, franco stared straight ahead with not a single thought behind his eyes. and nobody could blame them, because the stewards office was definitely the last place either of them wanted to be at the moment.

but the rules were written, and no matter how unfair they were, the two drivers couldn’t avoid a summons to the stewards office for their “derogatory remarks about the FIA” at the press conference. at least the other drivers found them funny. hell, even lewis gave red a pat on the back and said not to worry. still, she doubted the team would be too happy about the fact that their new driver was about to be the first to receive a fine for the new regulations.

“so,” the steward sitting directly in front of her started the conversation, glancing down at his notes. “mr. colapinto, you and ms-“ he hesitated.

“red is fine.” she replied automatically, not bothering to wait for him to attempt to pronounce her last name.

the steward nodded. “during the press conference, you two stated that you think the new regulations were ‘unnecessary and an insult to the drivers’ rights to free speech’. i assume you both have read through the regulations of this year, and understand why the FIA has deemed them necessary?” he looked to franco.

“lo siento, no hablo inglés, no entiendo qué dices.” franco replied immediately, to which red, as well as the stewards, gave him a strange look. franco returned the look with one of his own, signaling to her to play along. (sorry, i don’t speak english, i don’t understand what you’re saying.)

getting the hint, she bit back a smile and turned to the stewards. “kya? mujhe aapka bhaat nahi samhaj tah hain. aap hamase baat kya kaarana chaahate hain?” (what? i don’t understand you. what did you want to talk to us about?)

the men in front of them looked at each other uncomfortably. “everyone-”

“estoy un poco cansado de esta reunión, tal vez deberíamos irnos ahora.” (i’m getting a bit tired of this meeting, maybe we should leave now.)

“vaah, ye office kya sundar hain. ise kon banaaya?” (wow, this office is so pretty. who made it?)

“maybe we should all go, practice should be starting soon.” the man on the far right decided, setting his notes down. “you can have a warning, this speech won’t be tolerated next time. you’re free to go.”

“ah, gracias!” franco beamed, looking at red in success.

two

“i mean, just look at how she’s performed so far. you could claim it’s the lack of experience or because she’s a rookie, but oliver bearman, an f2 driver at the time, stepped into a ferrari in 2024 on short notice on a very difficult track and still managed to finish ahead of lewis hamilton himself. let’s face it, the girl is not ready.”

red stood and watched the footage with her arms crossed. she hadn’t done as bad as danica was making it seem at all, and it wasn’t fair. of course she was behind lewis, she was a goddamn rookie up against a seven time world champion for christ’s sake.

“she talks quite a lot, doesn’t she?” ollie remarked, coming up behind red and crossing his arms as well. “she seems to have a great tendency to twist data to be in her favor and leave out important bits.”

“that’s a great way to put it.” red scoffed. “for a woman, she sure talks like she hates every other one trying to get into the sport.”

“more the reason not to pay her any attention.” ollie shrugged, turning to face red. “you did a good quali, by the way. that squeeze into q3 at the last minute after the botched strategy was impressive. i just have one question.”

she smiled back at him. “thanks, you did great too. what’s the question?”

“kimi and i have a little bet. did you and franco really manage to talk your way out of a penalty from that press conference?”

three

“no, no, i’m not saying it’s bad. i’m just saying…” red titled her head. “is flavio making you do this? do you really need to spare all the weight from the car that you can?”

pierre shot her a glare in return. “no-”

“you have to admit it’s weird to outside eyes! both you and jack just seemingly shaved your heads at the same time. if this is a call for help-”

“oh mon dieu, i don’t have time for this.”

francisca.cgomes

francisca.cgomes ❤️

redracing OH MY GOD YOURE GORGEOUSSSS

redracing oh my god pierre’s hair….

⬑ pierregasly …🤨?

⬑ redracing no, it’s nice… it’s… wow!

⬑ pierregasly Isn’t it past your bedtime?

landonorris the hair, mate 😂

⬑ redracing lots of talking for someone who looks like they walked out of a old time western saloon with that mullet

⬑ landonorris you were literally just making fun of him too!

⬑ redracing okay yeah and that was ME what’s your excuse

⬑ landonorris okay ms “had to pretend to forget english to get out of a penalty last week”

⬑ charlesleclerc lando be nice

⬑ landonorris what did i do ????

⬑ redracing thanks… dad?

⬑ oscarpiastri oh new sibling. cool. welcome to the family.

⬑ maxverstappen charles stop adopting the rookies we have too many

taglist: @sid-is-gr8 @mellowarcadefun @justadesirebel @foreveralbon @inchidentofftrack @demvnsriot

#✮⋆˙ red racing cars sunset and vine #rrcsav series #f1 x female driver #f1 x driver!reader #f1 x desi!reader #f1 x oc

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arabella-syntax · 1 day ago

Text

Poco a poco

(A/N: My first attempt at a WOSO fan fiction. A little unconventional as usually it’s between Footballer x Reader. But I’m quite intrigued to explore the recent dynamics seen on social media between Jana Fernandez and Aggie Beever-Jones. So this is my totally, fictional take. Don’t sue me, savvy?)

Pairing: Jana Fernández x Aggie Beever-Jones

Tone: Slow burn, dry humour, soft queer joy.

Word count: > 30K, one shot.

Summary: It started, as most catastrophes do, with an Instagram like.

———————————————————————

It started, as most catastrophes do, with an Instagram like.

Jana Fernández was finishing up her second post-training recovery shake when the notification popped up:

@aggiebeeverjones liked your post.

Not strange. They were both professional footballers. Liking each other’s matchday photos wasn’t exactly criminal behaviour. But then came the second like. And the third. The third was on a post from 2022. Jana squinted. That was deep-scroll territory.

She didn’t say anything at first. But when she opened her DMs and found a message—

“Your header clearances were so peng it hurt.”

—she dropped her phone.

“Joder,” she muttered. (Fuck)

“Who’s peng?” Vicky López asked from across the locker room, towel slung over her shoulder.

“No one.”

Vicky raised a brow and padded over. “Esperar. ¿A quién le escribes? Parece que acabas de ver un fantasma. Or worse—got followed by a Chelsea player.” (Wait. Who are you writing to? You look like you just saw a ghost.)

Jana stayed quiet.

“Esperar. WAIT. This about that English girl? Beever-Jones?”

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s what people say when it’s definitely something.”

Alexia, tying her shoelaces with casual slowness, glanced up. “Blue tick?”

Vicky nodded. “Blue tick. Chelsea forward. Sorprendentemente linda.” (Surprisingly cute.)

Alexia smirked. “Hmm. Barça-Chelsea. Forbidden fruit.”

“I am not doing anything,” Jana insisted, which made it sound instantly worse.

The thing was… she was doing something. Namely: checking her own Instagram to see if Aggie had liked anything else. She had. A team photo. A charity event. A photo of Jana eating gelato in Girona with the caption “Poco a poco.” (Little by little)

Jana didn’t reply to the DM straight away.

She did the professional thing.

She showed it to Ona.

Ona glanced at the message and blinked. “She called your clearances ‘peng’?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means hot.”

“Well.” Ona handed the phone back. “At least it wasn’t about your throw-ins.”

Meanwhile, in Cobham, Aggie was panicking.

“What if she thinks I’m a stalker?”

“You are a stalker,” Niamh Charles said without looking up from her protein bar.

“I’m just admiring her defending!”

“Sure. That’s why you scrolled to her Girona trip in July and double-tapped it.”

“I meant to double-tap the ice cream.”

“Uh-huh.”

Aggie flopped back against the bench. “She’s just… cool, okay? She doesn’t post dumb thirst traps. She reads books and eats peaches and probably listens to indie Catalan pop.”

“You’re projecting.”

“Shut up.”

“You’ve got it bad.”

Aggie buried her face in her hands. “I think I like her.”

Back in Barcelona, Jana finally replied:

“Gracias. But ‘peng’? That’s good, yes?”

Aggie wrote back immediately:

“Very good. Like… 10/10 would defend against again.”

Jana smiled.

It was ridiculous.

She was defending against this girl. Technically, they were rivals.

But it didn’t feel like rivalry.

Not when Aggie said things like “You were class” or used emoji combinations no sane adult would choose.

That night, Jana found herself scrolling through Aggie’s stories, watching a TikTok of her dancing terribly with Niamh in the gym. The caption read: Defenders hate her. Coaches fear her. She can’t dance but she can score.

Jana replied with a simple:

“🤨 esto es criminal.” (This is criminal.)

Aggie:

“Only if you arrest me.”

Jana laughed so hard she nearly choked on her chamomile tea.

Barça vs Chelsea. Champions League semi-final, leg one. Camp Nou.

It had been a bruiser of a match. Aggie Beever-Jones had nearly slipped past Patri twice. Jana had won five headers and one key interception that led to their second goal. And Aggie had smiled at her exactly three times—which, statistically, was probably illegal.

Now, in the tunnel post-match, players were doing the usual exchange: sweaty hugs, shirt swaps, murmured buen partidos and a few grumbles about the ref.

Jana spotted Aggie near the mouth of the tunnel. Alone. Strapping her wrist. Hair damp and curling slightly at the ends.

She didn’t mean to walk over.

She just did.

Aggie looked up. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jana said. “Tough game.”

Aggie gave a tired smile. “You tackled me like I owed you money.”

Jana tilted her head. “Maybe you do.”

Aggie blinked. “For what?”

She shrugged, lips twitching. “Entertainment.”

Aggie laughed. “You’re not as serious as people think.”

“Only on matchdays.”

“This was a matchday.”

“I made exception.”

Aggie opened her mouth—maybe to flirt back, maybe to just keep her there—but then a third voice joined in.

“Vale, que ya está bien,” Alexia said as she appeared at Jana’s shoulder, eyeing Aggie with the amused suspicion of someone who knew far too much for comfort. (Okay, that’s enough.)

“Ale…” Jana said, sighing.

Alexia raised a brow. “So. This is the famous Chelsea striker, no?”

Aggie blinked. “Famous is a stretch.”

Alexia looked her up and down. “You speak Spanish?”

Aggie blinked again. “Uhh… poquito?” (A little.)

“Hmm. Dangerous,” Alexia said in English, the word heavy with her accent. She turned to Jana and added in Spanish, “Habla poco, pero mira mucho.” (Speaks a little, but looks a lot.)

Jana elbowed her. “Ale, por favor.”

“Just saying,” Alexia said, holding up both hands. “No me fío. You see the way she look at you? Like… Camp Nou es tu cara.” (I don’t trust…Camp Nou is your face.)

Aggie was very obviously trying to follow the conversation, which made it worse.

“What did she say?” she asked, smiling.

“She said… you look at me like I’m Camp Nou,” Jana muttered.

Aggie laughed. “Well… you did keep me out the box like you were defending holy land.”

Alexia made a soft, dramatic tsk noise.

“Careful with her, eh?” she said to Aggie, tapping her temple. “She look sweet, but she bite.”

“I’m starting to hope so,” Aggie muttered.

Jana groaned. “Okay. That’s enough.”

Later, in the dressing room, Ona tossed Jana a protein bar and raised an eyebrow.

“So?” she asked.

“So what?”

“You talked.”

“We exchanged five sentences and Alexia tried to murder me with her eyes.”

Ona grinned. “That’s basically dating for you.”

Seville. Nations League matchday.

Spain vs. England.

The weather was brutal—32 degrees, bone-dry, the kind of heat that made defenders cranky and wingers reckless. The score was 1–1 at half-time, and both Jana and Aggie had been subbed for “load management,” which was just a polite way of saying don’t break your stars right before Champions League.

Now, the two of them sat on the bench—stretching, hydrating, watching their teammates run wild.

Aggie glanced sideways. “Hot enough for you?”

Jana, dabbing her forehead with a towel, snorted. “You call this hot? Try Cádiz en agosto.” (Cadiz in August.)

Aggie laughed. “I’d melt.”

“You’re already red.”

“British blood. We weren’t built for sunlight.”

Jana smiled, sipping from her bottle. “You run well for someone solar-powered.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that buzzes with unspoken jokes. The pitch glimmered in front of them. Leah Williamson was yelling something at Millie Bright. Aitana was clapping furiously. Someone had just missed a sitter.

Aggie leaned closer. “Do you always play this… intense?”

Jana raised an eyebrow. “You mean serious?”

“I mean, you look like you’re solving a murder out there.”

Jana smirked. “Well. Sometimes I am.”

Aggie laughed.

Then, as if rehearsed, their hands reached for the same bottle of electrolyte water.

“Sorry—” Aggie said.

“No, tú,” Jana replied. (You.)

Their fingers touched.

Neither pulled away.

Until someone cleared their throat behind them.

“Vaya, vaya,” said a voice that could only belong to Vicky López. “¿Qué tenemos aquí?” (Oh, oh, what do we have here?)

Jana rolled her eyes. “Vicky…”

Vicky plopped down on Jana’s other side, grinning. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you flirt with the enemy?”

Aggie looked at Jana. “What’d she say?”

“She said I’m flirting.”

Aggie blinked innocently. “Are you?”

Jana paused. “Estoy… being friendly.”

Aggie smirked. “Is that what they call it here?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you flirt back.”

Vicky groaned loudly. “Dios mío, get a room.” (My God…)

Later, in the England camp, Leah watched from a distance as Aggie scrolled through something on her phone, cheeks slightly flushed.

“You FaceTiming her again?”

Aggie glanced up. “What? No.”

Leah raised an eyebrow.

Aggie held her hands up. “I’m not!”

Niamh strolled past. “She is.”

“Bloody snitch,” Aggie muttered.

“She likes the Barça girl,” Niamh sang under her breath.

“I don’t—” Aggie started, then stopped. “Okay. I do. A bit.”

Leah smirked. “Just don’t get nutmegged by your girlfriend in the next match.”

“Shut up.”

Back in the Spain camp, Vicky leaned against the doorframe of Jana’s room.

“¿Te gusta de verdad?” (Do you like it?)

Jana looked up from her phone.

“¿Quién?” (Who?)

Vicky gave her a look.

Jana hesitated, then admitted quietly, “Tiene algo… no sé. She’s funny. And real.” (There's something about it... I don't know.)

“Y guapa.” (And pretty.)

Jana rolled her eyes. “Obvio.” (Obvious)

Vicky smirked. “Vale. Pues no la cagues.” (Okay. Don't screw it up.)

It escalated like all disasters do: through memes and thirst traps.

The DM window between Aggie and Jana was officially alive. Chaotic. Bilingual. And teetering somewhere between “friendly banter” and “pre-dating with a side of emotional repression.”

Aggie started it with a TikTok of herself and Niamh trying to copy the latest dance trend in the Chelsea gym. It was awful.

Jana replied:

“You dance like you’ve been tackled mid-air.”

Aggie:

“Better than your throw-ins.”

Jana:

“Oye, mis saques laterales son arte.” (Hey, my throw-ins are art.)

Aggie sent a voice note just to hear her say “laterales.”

That week, Jana sent her a video of Kika and Vicky attempting a “serious tactical breakdown” using tortilla chips as players and guacamole as the midfield.

Kika yelled, “THIS is the 4-4-2 diamond!”

Vicky responded, “You just ate the right back!”

Aggie replied:

“Your team is unhinged.”

Jana:

“We are artists.”

Aggie:

“Kika licked guac off the tactics board.”

Jana:

“Performance art.”

Brighton was cold, damp, and smelled faintly of chips and sea salt.

Jana loved it.

She was visiting Bruna Vilamala for the weekend. Bruna had been on loan at Brighton for almost a season now, and while she missed Barça, she had fully adopted seagull-core chaos.

They sat on a graffiti-covered bench overlooking the pebble beach, wrapped in coats, nursing overpriced takeaway coffees.

Jana scrolled on her phone. Bruna glanced sideways.

“Is it her again?”

Jana didn’t look up. “No.”

Bruna snorted. “Then why are you smiling like a lovesick Labrador?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Cállate.” (Be quiet)

Bruna grabbed her own phone and opened Instagram. “She liked your photo again. The one of us in London. Should I feel replaced?”

“You’re not replaced.”

“Just benched?” Bruna deadpanned. “I get it. The Chelsea girl’s got those cheekbones and chaos curls.”

“She’s not chaos,” Jana muttered.

“She FaceTimed you from a Sainsbury’s.”

“She was looking for the right tea.”

“She bought one called ‘Proper Builders Brew,’ Jana.”

Jana cracked a grin. “It was strong.”

“Yeah, like your feelings.”

Jana groaned. “I came here for friendship. Not psychological warfare.”

“Too bad. I’m your best friend. It’s in the contract.”

Later, at the training ground, Bruna introduced Jana to her Brighton teammates as “la que roba corazones en Champions.” (the one who steals hearts in the Champions League)

Jana blushed. “No estoy robando nada.” (I'm not stealing anything.)

“Right,” Bruna smirked. “You just ‘accidentally’ tackle her like you’re asking for her number with your shins.”

“I play clean.”

“Clean-ish.”

After training, as they walked along the pier, Bruna grew a little quiet.

“You like her, huh?”

Jana hesitated. “Sí. But… we’re on different paths. Different leagues. Different languages.”

Bruna nodded. “Yeah. But same game. Same heart.”

Jana looked at her. “That’s deep.”

“I watched a lot of rom-coms during flights between London and Barcelona. Estoy transformada.” (I’m transformed.)

Back in the hotel that night, Jana opened her phone to find a message from Aggie.

Aggie:

I saw your Brighton story. Beach girl now?

Jana:

Only if the beach has football. And you.

Aggie:

Careful. I might hop over.

Jana:

Do it. I’ll bring you guantes.

Aggie:

What’s that mean?

Jana:

Gloves. For when I steal your heart and leave you cold.

Aggie sent back an audio message of her laughing.

Jana played it three times.

One night, long after midnight in Barcelona, Aggie FaceTimed without thinking.

To her horror, Jana picked up immediately. Hoodie, glasses, hair a little messy. Her voice soft: “Aggie?”

“Sorry—I didn’t think you’d actually answer.”

Jana tilted her head. “You called me.”

“Yeah, but like… midnight brain, you know?”

Jana smiled. “No hay problema.” (No problem.)

Aggie’s voice softened. “What were you doing?”

“Reading.”

“What book?”

Jana held it up: Nada by Carmen Laforet.

Aggie squinted. “That’s… not English.”

“Correct.”

Aggie smiled. “You’re a book girl.”

“I like words,” Jana shrugged. “Sometimes better than people.”

Aggie blinked. “So… I’m an exception?”

Jana paused. “Eres una interrupción agradable.”

“What’s that mean?”

Jana smiled slowly. “A nice interruption.”

Aggie looked genuinely flustered.

“God, say something terrible so I stop liking you.”

“Your accent when you say ‘vale’ is criminal.”

“There it is.”

The next morning, Alexia found Jana still scrolling through their conversation history. They were in Alexia’s apartment - planning their trip to London after Copa de la Reina’s final - it was specifically a trip to watch Beyoncé’s concert.

Alexia sat on the bed. “You’re smiling like… una idiota enamorada.” (…an idiot in love.)

“Ale… no es así.” (It is not like that.)

“¿No?” Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Then why do I hear you giggling at 2 a.m.?”

“It’s not like that.”

Alexia nodded solemnly. “Claro. Of course. Not like that. You just want to learn British slang and suddenly drink tea at five.” (Clear)

Jana groaned. “You’re worse than Vicky.”

“Vicky thinks she’s going to be the flower girl.”

Back at Chelsea training, Niamh casually tossed a ball toward Aggie. “You seeing her this weekend?”

Aggie blinked. “What?”

“She’s coming to London, yeah?”

“How do you know?”

“Beyoncé concert. Her and Alexia.”

Aggie almost choked. “How you’d know?”

Niamh winked. “I saw your texts! Better get that hair sorted, Beever-Jones.”

It was raining in Barcelona and Jana was holed up in the recovery room scrolling through her messages when Alexia walked in, soaking wet and holding two coffees.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just handed one cup over and sat down across from her like a therapist about to begin the session.

Jana raised an eyebrow. “Gracias… pero why are you staring at me like that?”

Alexia sipped. “No digo nada… todavía.” (I'm not saying anything... yet.)

“Ale…”

Alexia smirked. “Okay, okay. Just one thing. You watch that clip of her goal how many times now?”

Jana flushed. “Once.”

“Please. You’re watching it like it’s a romantic drama.”

“It was a good goal.”

“She almost tripped during the celebration.”

“I found it charming.”

Alexia sighed. “Ay Dios… estás perdida.” (Oh God... you're lost.)

Jana buried her face in her hoodie.

Alexia continued: “You know… this is what happens when you watch too much British TikTok. You start liking girls who say ‘innit’ and call crisps ‘chips’.”

Jana peeked up. “You think it’s a bad idea?”

Alexia sat with it for a moment. “No… no es mala idea. But it is… complicated.”

Jana nodded slowly.

“She’s far. Different league. You’ll get busy. She’ll get busier. People talk.”

“I know.”

Alexia stared at her, serious now. “But… if she makes you feel safe… and seen… entonces vale la pena.” (then it's worth it.)

Jana blinked. “That was almost tender.”

Alexia shrugged. “I can do sentiment when required.”

Then, softer: “Just don’t lose yourself, ¿vale? You have a big heart. Make sure she deserves it.”

Jana exhaled. “Gracias, Ale.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until I scare her at the Beyoncé concert.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Soy hermana. Es mi trabajo.” (I'm a sister. It's my job.)

Later that evening, Jana sat by the window, texting.

Jana:

If I bring you to a Beyoncé concert, would you survive?

Aggie:

Only if I’m sitting next to you.

Jana:

That’s negotiable.

Aggie:

Then I’m bringing binoculars.

Jana:

Why?

Aggie:

To study Catalan cheekbones in their natural habitat.

Jana smiled, heart warm and full of dread.

The official reason for the London trip was the Beyoncé concert.

The unofficial reason was Aggie.

Jana hadn’t said it aloud, but Alexia knew. She wasn’t born yesterday. She’d seen Jana put on lip balm three times at the airport and switch hoodies at the last minute because “this one feels more… me.”

Suspicious.

They landed at Heathrow on a gray afternoon. A black car picked them up. Alexia played DJ, putting on a mix of Rosalia and Bey. Jana stared out the window, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

“You nervous?” Alexia asked, glancing at her.

Jana blinked. “For the concert?”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Sure. For the concert.”

“Shut up.”

“I said nothing.”

“You said everything.”

They checked into their AirBNB that Jana insisted on - with two separate rooms. Jana asked a passerby in the hallway as they were about to open the door to their accommodation, if there was a “good café nearby that might have Wi-Fi and no paparazzi.”

Alexia didn’t comment.

Yet.

Later that evening, they arrived at Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, surrounded by tens of thousands of glittering people. Sequins, boots, rhinestones. A glittered-up universe.

They were both decked in Cowboy-inspired outfits.

They made it to their VIP row just as the lights dimmed.

And there, just across the section, was Aggie.

In a leather jacket. Hair braided loosely. Standing next to Niamh Charles.

She spotted Jana instantly. Her smile was immediate. Like she’d been waiting for this moment.

Jana waved, soft and awkward.

Alexia leaned over. “Vaya… Look who’s also a Beyhive member.”

Jana pretended not to hear her.

Midway through Love On Top, Aggie texted:

Aggie:

This song is about you, you know.

Jana:

You’re not even subtle.

Aggie:

You love it.

Jana:

Maybe.

Aggie:

Wanna meet after?

Jana hesitated. Then looked over at Alexia.

“Ale… voy a ver a Aggie un rato después, ¿vale?” (…I'm going to see Aggie a little later, okay?)

Alexia didn’t even flinch. “Claro. But if she breaks your heart… Beyoncé will hear about it.”

“You’ll tell her yourself?”

“She follows me on Instagram.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Alexia sipped her overpriced bottled water. “Not yet.”

After the final encore, the stadium slowly emptied.

Jana met Aggie outside by a pretzel stand. Their eyes met and it was… soft. Familiar. Charged.

“You looked very focused during ‘Partition,’” Aggie teased.

Jana rolled her eyes. “And you? Scream-singing ‘Alien Superstar’? Interesting choice.”

Aggie stepped a little closer. “Only because you were standing there looking like you were in a music video.”

“I was just watching the show.”

“You are the show.”

Jana blushed. “Shut up.”

Aggie offered her a bite of her pretzel. “We’ve crossed into something, haven’t we?”

Jana nodded. “And we’re not pretending anymore.”

The next morning, the rain had returned.

Gray, soft, romantic—the kind of drizzle that made the city look cinematic.

Jana stood outside a small café in Soho, tugging her hoodie over her ponytail. She texted one word.

Jana:

Aquí.

Aggie replied instantly.

Aggie:

Coming.

Three minutes later, Aggie jogged up the pavement in an oversized coat and Doc Martens, her fringe curling at the edges from the rain. She looked like a music video you didn’t mean to fall into.

They hugged.

It wasn’t long.

But it was long enough.

They ducked into the café, ordered two flat whites, and claimed a quiet corner. Aggie sat across from Jana and smiled like she already knew the ending to a story they were both still writing.

“So,” Aggie said, hands wrapped around her cup. “You’re in London for… Beyoncé? Any other purpose?”

Jana ignored Aggie’s latter question, raised an eyebrow. “It’s Bey”

“I live here.”

“And?”

Aggie grinned. “And here I thought you missed me, you want to see me.”

Jana looked down at her cup. “Tal vez.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Maybe.”

Aggie leaned forward, a little softer now. “You always switch languages when you’re being honest.”

“Me gusta tener secretos.”

Aggie tilted her head. “You like having secrets?”

Jana met her eyes. “I like when they’re shared.”

Outside, the rain picked up.

Inside, their knees touched under the table.

They talked about football, upcoming matches, Kika’s latest TikTok disaster, and how Vicky López had once told the Spanish media that Aggie looked like a “bad decision in boots.”

Aggie was still laughing about that. “Tell her I said thanks.”

“I will,” Jana said. “She thinks you’re trouble.”

“I am.”

Jana smiled. “I know.”

Two hours later, they walked in silence down the narrow streets of Soho, sharing Aggie’s umbrella. Their arms brushed. Aggie didn’t pull away.

“You know,” Aggie said, voice low, “this feels like something.”

“It is.”

“But it’s complicated.”

“I know.”

Aggie looked up at her. “You still want it?”

Jana hesitated. “Tengo ganas.”

Aggie paused. “That’s the word again. What’s it mean?”

Jana looked at her gently. “It means… I want.”

Aggie’s breath hitched.

And then, just as the rain slowed, she leaned in.

They didn’t kiss—not yet.

But their foreheads touched.

And that was somehow louder.

Back at their accomodation, Alexia opened the door to find Jana quietly slipping off her shoes.

“Y bien?” she asked without looking up from her phone.

Jana shrugged, face carefully neutral. “Solo café.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Just coffee. That’s why you’re glowing.”

Jana muttered, “Ale…”

Alexia nodded. “Okay. No judgement. But please—usa protección.” (…use protection.)

Jana blinked. “What?”

Alexia pointed at her phone. “From gossip.”

Jana threw a pillow at her.

The night before Jana flew back to Barcelona, they met again.

No cameras. No teammates. No pretzels or concerts.

Just them. Quiet. Unrushed.

Aggie’s flat in London wasn’t massive, but it was warm. The kind of place where the heater ticked and the couch was too small to sit on without knees touching.

Jana sat curled up in the corner of it, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Aggie brought tea—proper English tea—and plopped beside her, legs folding like she’d done this a hundred times.

“You drink this every day?” Jana asked, taking a sip.

Aggie grinned. “Religiously.”

“It’s aggressive.”

“You’re just soft.”

“I’m Catalan. We prefer wine.”

“Classy.”

“You prefer this?”

Aggie took the mug from her hand and stole a sip. “Only if you’re drinking it too.”

Jana blinked. “That was kind of cheesy.”

“I’m trying here.”

“It’s working.”

Silence stretched, soft and full.

Aggie turned toward her. “I meant it… you know. When I said it felt like something.”

Jana nodded. “It does.”

“But we’re not in the same city. Not even in the same league.”

“I know.”

“And we’re both—what—twenty? Twenty-one?”

“Twenty-three.”

Aggie smiled. “You’re old.”

“Respect your elders.”

They both laughed.

And then, slowly, the air shifted.

Jana looked down at her hands. “Tengo ganas de ti.”

Aggie blinked. “That word again. Ganas.”

Jana nodded. “It’s hard to translate. But it’s like… longing. Craving. Wanting something in a way that’s not just physical. Like your soul wants it.”

Aggie was very still. “You have that… for me?”

Jana didn’t hesitate. “Sí.”

Aggie’s breath hitched.

And then she kissed her.

Finally.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t fireworks.

It was real.

Soft lips. A hand on a cheek. A pause that said I’ve been waiting for this, and a smile that answered me too.

When they pulled apart, Aggie whispered, “You taste like overpriced English tea.”

“You kiss like a footballer.”

“Strong?”

Jana smiled. “Precise.”

They didn’t talk about what it meant.

Not yet.

But when Jana left the next morning, Aggie walked her to the car.

And as Jana buckled her seatbelt, Aggie pressed her hand through the open window and said: “Let me know when you want to come back.”

Jana nodded. “Siempre tengo ganas.” (I always feel like it.)

There were no official declarations.

No Instagram hard-launch. No “us” photo with matching captions. No post-win kiss on the cheek broadcast to millions.

Just:

A playlist Jana made and sent over WhatsApp titled “Soft like you”.

A blurry selfie from Aggie’s couch with a caption that read “still cold but she made tea.”

An inside joke that Alexia didn’t understand but side-eyed anyway.

It was slow. Soft. Ongoing.

Poco a poco.

After the London trip, they fell into rhythm.

Morning DMs. Evening FaceTimes. Voice notes full of silence and city sounds—Barcelona rain on Jana’s window, London traffic outside Aggie’s gym.

Jana went back to defending with even sharper focus.

Aggie scored twice in the WSL and pointed vaguely to the crowd—something only Jana understood.

Alexia, of course, understood everything.

“Estás enamorada,” she told her one day in training, voice dry. “Completely.” (You are in love.)

“No digas eso,” Jana muttered, cheeks pink. (Don’t say that.)

“Don’t worry,” Alexia said, patting her on the head. “You’re just becoming British. Soon you’ll wear bucket hats and eat beans for breakfast.”

Jana deadpanned, “Nunca.” (Never.)

Bruna visited Barcelona during her Brighton break.

They sat on the rooftop, sharing sunflower seeds and watching the sky turn pink.

“So?” Bruna asked.

“So…”

Bruna grinned. “You’re happy.”

“I’m… working on it.”

“She’s part of that?”

“Sí.”

Bruna bumped her shoulder. “Then don’t overthink it. Let her be soft with you.”

One day, during an early morning call, Aggie asked:

“Do you think this will… last?”

Jana thought for a long moment.

Then answered honestly.

“Not if we rush.”

Aggie nodded. “So we don’t rush.”

“Poco a poco.”

“Together?”

“Sí.”

Aggie smiled. “Say it again. That phrase.”

Jana did.

Aggie recorded it.

They still hadn’t defined anything.

Aggie called it “slow-burn international chaos.”

Jana called it ‘lo que me hace sentir tranquila.’ (what makes me feel calm…)

But every time Aggie texted “vale,” and every time Jana replied “on my way,” something grew between them.

Something honest.

Something whole.

And in every language, it meant the same thing.

Fast forward to a few months of whatever they called their relationship, it had been a strange season.

Busy. Electric. A little bit lonely.

They hadn’t said “girlfriend,” not exactly, but Jana and Aggie had slipped into something steady—messages every morning, calls every night, Spotify playlists shared like love notes. They never rushed. Never forced the label.

Until now.

Jana was sprawled on her sofa in sweatpants, rewatching match tape with a spoonful of almond butter in one hand when she heard the doorbell.

She wasn’t expecting anyone. Alexia had gone to Madrid with her partner Olga, Ona was visiting Lucy in London, and Bruna was back in Brighton.

She opened the door.

And nearly dropped the spoon.

“Hi,” Aggie said, grinning under the hood of her coat, slightly breathless from hauling a suitcase through El Born’s cobbled streets.

“Aggie—” Jana blinked. “¿Qué… cómo estás aquí?” (What… how are you here?)

Aggie shrugged. “Wanted to see you. It’s Valentine’s. And… your birthday’s close. Felt like good excuses.”

Jana just stared.

“I brought snacks,” Aggie added, lifting a tote bag.

Jana pulled her inside and kissed her senseless.

They spent the day wandering through the Gothic Quarter, trading kisses near murals and churros under napkins. Aggie refused to tell Jana what the plan was, only insisting, “Wear something that makes you feel unfairly attractive.”

Jana obliged.

At 7:30 PM, a car picked them up and drove them along the shimmering curve of the coastline, finally stopping outside a Michelin-starred restaurant with subtle lighting and panoramic sea views.

Jana blinked. “This is… expensive.”

“You’re worth it,” Aggie said, completely serious.

Jana rolled her eyes to hide the blush. “British girls and their dramatics.”

Inside, they ate - slow. Talked softer.

Wine glasses clinked. Dishes with foam and edible flowers made them giggle. Between courses, Aggie held her hand under the table.

“You planned all this?” Jana asked, eyes warm.

Aggie nodded. “And more.”

After dinner, the car took them to the W Hotel. Towering. Glass. Ocean glitter below.

“I wanted you to feel spoiled,” Aggie whispered as the elevator ascended. “You always work so hard. Always carry everything.”

The suite was breathtaking—floor-to-ceiling windows, ocean beyond, soft lights and even softer sheets.

Jana turned to her. “You did all this… for me?”

Aggie stepped closer, brushed a curl from her cheek. “Not just for you.”

Jana’s breath hitched.

Aggie held her gaze. “For us.”

A pause.

Then: “I want this to be real, Jana. Official. Not just playlists and stolen weekends.”

Jana starred. “You mean…?”

“I want to be with you,” Aggie said. “Fully. I’m falling in love with you.”

The world tilted. Not in a dizzy way—but like something clicking into place.

Jana exhaled. “Yo también.” (Me too.)

And then she kissed her again—no more holding back.

That night.

They moved together like people who had memorized each other from afar and were finally free to touch the real thing.

Lips. Hands. Mouths speaking things that didn’t need words.

Clothes fell to the floor. Breaths turned ragged.

The night was ocean-lit and quiet, save for whispered yeses and te quiero, over and over, until everything disappeared but skin and safety and something dangerously close to forever.

The morning after.

The light was blue and slow.

Jana stirred, tangled in sheets, her leg wrapped over Aggie’s. They were quiet, lazy, kisses trailing from shoulders to spines, laughter buried in skin.

Aggie pressed a kiss to her collarbone. “You’re insatiable.”

Jana smiled against her neck. “You started it.”

“I regret nothing.”

“Liar.”

They were about to go for round three when Jana’s phone buzzed violently on the nightstand.

She groaned. “Ignore it.”

It kept buzzing.

Then dinging.

Then buzzing again.

Aggie reached over. “Do you always get this many messages at 8 AM?”

Jana frowned, grabbed her phone, and unlocked it.

There were 37 new messages from a group chat titled:

💥Las Reinas del Caos (ft. Ale)💥(The Queens of Chaos…)

Alexia:

¿Estás viva? No ha posteado en 48 horas. Alarmante. (Are you alive? You hadn’t posted in 48 hours. Alarming.)

Send SOS if you’ve been kidnapped by the Chelsea girl.

Ona:

At this point, I’d believe it.

Vicky:

Pics or it didn’t happen. Also: is she good at kissing? Asking for science.

Kika:

Check in or we’re calling your abuela.

Patri:

Someone call the Mossos.

Then Vicky did the unthinkable.

Vicky started a group video call.

Jana panicked. Her thumb slipped as she meant to hit decline—

—and accidentally hit accept.

The screen lit up.

Five faces.

Alexia. Vicky. Ona. Patri. Kika.

Staring.

All at once.

Staring at Jana mid-orgasm.

Or, to be fair, post-orgasm but definitely still flushed, topless, and with Aggie’s hand visibly in frame.

“OH MY GOD—” Jana shrieked.

Aggie yelped and dove for the blanket.

Alexia blinked. “Bueno…” she said, eyebrows high.

Vicky howled. “¡lo sabía!” (I knew it!)

Ona cackled. “Look at her. Can’t even lie now.”

Patri sipped tea from an invisible cup. “Esto es lo más emocionante que he visto en toda la temporada.” (This is the most exciting thing I've seen all season.)

Kika: “Wait, did we interrupt the ‘ganas’ thing again?”

Jana fumbled the phone, finally ending the call.

Silence.

Aggie buried her face in the pillow. “I want to die.”

Jana lay beside her, staring at the ceiling.

Then: “At least now they’ll stop asking.”

Aggie turned her head. “You okay?”

Jana nodded, breathless. “Yeah. They know.”

Aggie smiled. “You sure?”

Jana leaned in and kissed her. “I’m sure.”

—————————————————————

THE END.

For now.

#woso imagine #jana fernandez #aggie beever jones #jana fernandez x reader #aggie beever jones x reader #alexia putellas #ona batlle #patri guijarro #vicky lopez #kika nazareth #leah williamson #niamh charles #barca femeni #chelsea wfc #jaggie #fanfic #Jana fernandez x Aggie beever jones

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