tikitakatia

[tikitakatia]

Let's Play A Game

Part 3

You thought your initiation into the Barcelona team was complete with that humiliating singing performance. But at the first team bonding night, you find yourself roped into a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill.

Wordcount: 4.7k

Warnings: 18+ for sex scenes. lots and lots of smut

Part 1 Part 2

You are coiled tight the entire walk back to their apartment just twelve blocks away from Mapi and Ingrid’s place.

Jenni’s talking about something. But your focus is pulled by the way Alexia’s hand keeps lightly brushing yours. It is not in cadence with her stride, it’s purely intentional. A pinky tap here. A graze against your palm there.

It is driving you mad.

You want to reach out and touch her, but number one you’re in public which means the kind of touching you want to do would likely be frowned upon, and number two the kind of touching you want to do is executed much better if both of your bodies are still. And sans clothing.

So you resign yourself to sucking in a breath each time her electric fingers send zaps down your spine. And pray that you’ll get to theirs soon, letting your mind zone out as Jenni’s arm over your shoulders carries your feet in the right direction.

The striker fills the silence with commentary on the season and the upcoming matches on the schedule.

You don't even attempt to pretend to listen, hungry eyes locked on the side profile of Alexia's face, her small smirk just barely visible in the low light from the streetlamps.

Finally, finally, you make it to theirs. A white stucco building with expensive looking hardware. It's a quiet street, some people still lingering about, but everyone minding their own business.

Alexia opens the door, ushering you inside first. You miss the slap she gives to Jenni's ass, but definitely hear the stifled groan the madrileña tries to contain.

You're all standing in the landing hallway of the 4-unit building, you at the lead but with no idea where to go from here.

"Last door on the left," Alexia softly murmurs, a hand winding down to link with one of Jenni's.

The two of them watch you confidently turn and saunter towards their home, briefly turning around to throw a "what? not coming?" back at where they stand unmoved.

And that has Jenni grinning wolfishly and bounding forward. She reaches you just as you reach their door, pushing your front flush against it as her front makes contact with your back.

A slow, meticulous hand inches around your hip and grazes against your upper thigh, pulling a raged breath from your lips.

Your palms reach up to ground yourself on their dark grey door, fingers splayed.

You hear Alexia murmur, "not here," from slightly behind your left shoulder.

And at that Jenni abandons her teasing, hand still wrapped around your side, but fingers now deftly inputting their code into the lock a few inches above your belt line.

She twists the tumbler and shoves the door open, you jolting forward at the action.

Jenni's other hand steadies you, grip tight on your left hip. And then she's again pushing you forward with her body, into their apartment, invading your space in a way that has you trembling.

Alexia follows, closing the door behind all three of you and locking it.

You glance around, taking in their home. It looks to be a loft with huge two-story windows in the open layout living space. You bet the lighting is fantastic during the day.

The kitchen is gorgeous with a centerpiece island you're not sure sees much cooking, all of you so tied to the football schedule that most players use meal prep services or eat at the Barça training grounds.

But the white marble island is massive, and you're envious all the same. Even if you haven't cooked more than a handful of days in the past year yourself.

You whistle, impressed. "Damn," you verbalize. "This is some place you've got."

Jenni looks at you, proudly.

Alexia looks at you, hungry. "Didn't bring you here for a tour," she mutters, pulling you into her body by your wrist.

The striker chuckles at her girlfriend's lack of manners, so singularly focused on the need you stoked in her those weeks ago at Irene's house during that now infamous game of Fuck, Marry, Kill.

"Water, cari?" Jenni asks the room.

You're unsure if she's talking to you or Alexia so you stay silent, eyes trapped in a staring match with the midfielder.

"Okayyy," Jenni drawls. "I'll get you both a glass. I have a feeling we're going to need hydration at some point."

While she gets that sorted, Alexia pulls you towards the glass staircase at the far end of the room, shoving you gently in the back as a sign to start climbing.

The further you ascend the stairs the more breathtaking the view becomes from their living room windows, until finally you're on the loft floor, staring at what is clearly their bed space.

The bed is large, outfitted with a plush white comforter and more pillows than seems reasonable for two people. The wood frame is mesmerizing and clearly custom. You run your fingers over the grain, feeling the cool, smooth surface. Even your fingers can tell it's expensive.

Alexia watches you silently, one shoulder leaned against a wall you absentmindedly walked past on your way to their bed.

You can see an equally impressive bathroom in the cracked door to her left.

"Nice place," you murmur quietly.

The catalana hums but doesn't respond otherwise, eyes tracking you as you take in the rest of their space. The one beside table with only a singular book on it. The cluttered mess of hair ties and rings and an electric blue digital alarm on the other. You grin. Clearly the latter is Jenni's space.

You turn to say as much to Alexia and let out a gasp to find her standing right behind you now.

The gasp spurs her forward, hand reaching into your hair and cradling the back of your head as she angles it back to look up at her face, your shorter frame feeling quite dwarfed next to her.

Your eyes land on her lips and you unconsciously bite your own bottom lip in a small show of restraint. You really want to kiss her right now.

Alexia groans, thumb reaching out to trace across your cheek. "Tell me to stop," she warns.

It's your turn to moan. "Don't stop," you breathe out. "Please."

And at that she surges forward, claiming your lips as hers. Her mouth moves decisively against yours, fully aware of what she's doing and why.

Her tongue sweeps into your mouth, pulling a filthy groan from the back of your throat. You would have pegged her as a slow-build kisser. She's anything but. Dominant and demanding and deliciously in charge.

She walks you both back towards the edge of the bed, urging you to sink down as she drops her mouth to your neck.

You can barely breathe. She's everywhere, leaving hot, electric trails of desire where her mouth touches. The spot behind your ear that makes your knees buckle slightly. The column of your neck, All along your collarbones, dipping down into the valley your blouse offers on display.

It's too much and not enough all at the same time.

"More," you whine as she slowly pulls back.

"Clothes off," she replies, stepping out of your embrace.

"You do it."

An eyebrow raise. Eyes flickering down your body in consideration. And then fingers moving deftly towards your body.

Jenni joins you then, chuckling at how utterly wrecked you already look, flushed and chest heaving as Alexia removes your top.

"Got started without me?" the striker murmurs to Alexia, dropping to leave a kiss to her shoulder.

"Getting her warmed up," the catalana replies, turning her head over her right shoulder to gently kiss her girlfriend on the lips in apology for not waiting.

Jenni doesn't seem irritated at that, though, grinning and quipping back, "not sure she needed any warming up, amor. You're soaking, aren't you?" she teases, eyes glued to your blown pupils.

You can only nod.

"Since the patio?" she questions again, a finger slowly dragging up your now exposed legs towards the black lace panties still covering your core.

You suck in a ragged breath as her path curls towards your inner thigh. Another nod. "You were touching her," you croak, a hand gesturing to where Alexia stands behind Jenni, slowly removing her girlfriend's clothes as well.

"And you wanted it to be you?" the madrileña guesses.

"Sí," you stutter as her finger finds the edge of your underwear. So close to where you want her.

"Ah, muy bien, chica," Jenni teases.

"Please," you whimper, hips gently thrusting up, asking for more contact.

Jenni ignores you for a moment, turning her now naked body to help Alexia remove the last of her own clothing. "Ale, you want her first?" she asks softly, running a hand reverently down the plane of her girlfriend's abs, clearly unable to keep her hands to herself when the midfielder is naked in front of her.

Alexia smiles softly, kisses her twice, and replies, "you first."

Jenni grins and pushes her lightly towards the other side of the bed, bracketing you between them as both get in, comforter kicked down to the end of the mattress.

"So, cari," Jenni states. "Any no-gos?"

You stop to think for a second, trying to clear the fog of arousal from your mind enough to be coherent. "No ass stuff" you firmly state.

Alexia smirks. "Not our jam," she admits softly.

"Good," you breathe out. "Me either."

Jenni's mouth has descended on you now. She presses soft, quick kisses to your hips, your abs, your ribs, setting you on fire as she makes her way up to pull a nipple into her mouth.

You gasp and arch into her.

"What about mouth? Fingers?" Alexia continues the conversation.

"Sí," you moan. "All that. Please!"

Jenni grins around your breast, pulling off with a pop. "Okay, cari. Got it. We'll make you feel good, okay? But let us know if you want to stop at any point or need a minute."

"More," you whine, pushing her head back down your body.

While she feels so good lavishing your chest with bites and kisses, you really want her mouth further south.

"Need you," you pant, trying to move this along. You were wet for them hours ago. This has been the longest tease of your life. And what was an alluring game of seduction back on the patio is teetering dangerously close to your arousal swinging past the point of return into that annoying, terrible state of too overstimulated to be touched.

And you definitely want to be touched.

Jenni doesn't tease. She doesn't draw your discomfort out longer.

You're not sure if she sees the obvious need on your face, the way the tension causes the skin around your eyes to tighten as you spend all your energy staying sane as her fingers dance everywhere but between your legs.

Or maybe it is the way your legs are positively vibrating from repressed desire.

"Fingers or tongue?" she questions quietly, a hand firmly grounding where it rests on your ribcage.

Before you can answer, Alexia is peppering kisses over your shoulder. "You want her mouth," she informs you. "Trust me."

Jenni grins and waits for your nod before she kisses her way purposefully down your body this time, destination in sight.

The first touch of her tongue to your clit has your whole body jerking up as if pulled by strings.

Holy fuck.

You're so incredibly aroused that that one slow swipe has your legs tensing as if you're already on the edge.

And you might be? All you know is that your mind has gone hazy, one hand is threaded through Jenni's dark hair, gaining you an appreciative moan as your fingers tighten and tug slightly at the roots. And the other hand? Firmly anchoring you to earth via Alexia's thigh. Her powerful, muscular thigh that belongs to one of the literal soccer gods.

Alexia's hand curls around your neck, dragging your head to the side to face her.

Her golden irises find yours, and the way they darken staring at your bitten lips has you reaching up to capture hers.

Jenni's tongue swipes through your wet folds again, drawing a high-pitched whine from you as she lands on your clit and starts to gently suck.

"Shitttt," you pant into Alexia's mouth.

"Told you," the midfielder responds with a small smirk. "Her mouth is the best."

And, oh, you know it now.

Your eyes roll back as you feel her tongue thrust into you as the striker sets a rhythm. Lick up, circle your clit, suck, swipe back down, enter.

And holy fuck. It takes every ounce of willpower not to clamp your thighs around her head and rut up into her mouth to chase your orgasm.

You can feel it building, right there below your belly button. You can feel it in how your abs tighten every time she sucks you closer and closer to the edge. You can feel it in the way your thighs tremble when she dips inside. And in the way your back starts involuntarily arching the tighter she winds you up.

But it's Alexia who pushes you over the edge ultimately.

The catalana nips at your ear, soothing the moan it pulls out of you before her lips travel higher, stopping to whisper just for you to hear, "I can't wait to wreck you with my fingers once Jenni's made you cum on her tongue."

Your soul leaves your body with the force of the clench from your core at her words.

Jenni lets out a strangled noise as you lose the battle of will against your thighs and they clamp down on her ears, your second hand coming to join the first in her hair. Your hips buck uncontrollably as Jenni continues to suck you through your orgasm.

You've never experienced anyone continuing once your orgasm has hit, but she's riding you right up to the edge of pain and pleasure. You can't tell if you're begging her to stop or begging her to keep going. But it all comes out as a chant of her name, "Jenni, Jenni, Jenni."

Alexia murmurs in your ear, "that's my good girl," and you roll right into a second orgasm, mouth dropping moans in a continuous chorus. And finally Jenni starts slowing down, bringing you into a soft landing.

When finally she's placed your feet back on the metaphorical ground, your thighs fall from her ears, and her grinning and glistening mouth reappears.

"You taste good, cari," she states. And despite all the filthy things she just did to you, that praise causes you to blush.

Alexia reaches an arm down, dragging Jenni's torso up so she can connect her mouth to her girlfriend. She moans, tasting you off Jenni's tongue. And your core clenches painfully. You just came, but shit, you think you could again if they continue to make out like that.

They taper it off, much to the relief of your beating heart. And Jenni slides out of bed to grab the glasses of water she abandoned on Alexia's nightstand.

"Drink up, cari," she tells you, "Ale is insatiable. You are going to need your strength," she grins teasingly.

Alexia rolls her eyes at her girlfriend's antics. "I'm just way more patient than Jenni," she replies. "I'll get you that orgasm," she promises, staring you down. "But you're going to have to beg for it."

Your thighs clench around air.

You see Alexia's eyes dart down, tracking the movement of your muscles. You like the tease, and now she knows it too.

She doesn't move forward to touch you, though, leaning over to kiss Jenni again, giving your body a chance to settle into that languid state post-orgasm, muscles finally bleeding out all their tension into a loose-limb state of being.

Alexia presses up into Jenni, the striker laid back, hands gripping the catalana's waist gently.

"Amor," Jenni states breathlessly, hips pushing up into Alexia.

"Sí?" Ale breathe into their next kiss.

"Touch me," the madrileña demands.

"But our guest…" Alexia teases, fingers ghosting down her side.

"Is recovering from the two orgasms I just gave her," the striker responds cockily. "Right cari?"

You hum in agreement, still recovering, still catching your breath.

"See?" the dark-haired woman teases, "she needs a few more minutes before she can take you. But me? I'm ready right now," she punctuates with a nip to Alexia's neck.

The midfielder thinks about it. Jenni opens her mouth to convince her further when Alexia's hand drops down, teasing through the wetness found there.

"So wet, so ready," she mutters into Jenni's neck.

Jenni isn't loud, but the way her hips press up into the pressure from Alexia's fingers tells her girlfriend all she needs to know about just how ready the woman is for release. She got herself all worked up getting you off.

You watch them.

You are loud, you know this. Past partners have mentioned it; and the noise complaint you once received the morning after at a delicious night between the sheets in your hotel room in Greece (complete with a red faced hotel attendant relaying the message to a mortified you) also confirmed that your volume is higher than most.

But Jenni is near silent. She is all quiet gasps and soft huffs of air as Alexia's fingers dance over her clit, strong, firm fingers pulling her up the cliff towards her orgasm.

You can only imagine how those fingers feel.

Alexia's hands are something of lore in the lesbian futfem circle. Big hands. Long fingers.

You're drenched just thinking of the possibility of having her inside.

She whispers something to Jenni, not for your ears. And you realize that the dirty mutterings she used on you must not be new for her. Because here she is winding Jenni up much the same way. With dancing fingers and a dirty mouth.

The dark haired woman tenses, long legs locked as her toes curl. She buries her exhale in the catalana's neck, one hand gripping the white sheets while the other curls around Alexia's back, nails scraping down the tattooed skin there.

You can tell Jenni has returned from the edge when her legs fall heavy to the mattress, hands too, laid out like a very relaxed starfish.

You chuckle. She looks well fucked.

The laugh draws her attention and she smiles at you. "Best hands," she mutters.

And with that Alexia flips around, dragging you into her body now as Jenni's eyes close while she catches her breath.

"Ready?" Alexia murmurs as she drops a kiss to your cheek.

You nod. Very.

Where her kisses were direct and to the point, her touch is lingering, gliding slowly up one calf, bypassing the area between your legs, and following up your stomach to your shoulder.

You're panting before she reaches your elbow, desperate for her touch.

"Ale," you moan as her nails faintly drag up your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Yes?" she asks innocently.

You try to glare, but end up with your eyes rolling back as her mouth scrapes teeth down the column of your neck, her breath hot as it hits your skin.

"Oh fuck," you groan at the sensation.

"Are you going to be a good girl and let me take control of this?" she asks quietly, demanding your attention in the quiet way she leads even on the field. Some need noise, need loudness, to demand respect. She only needs to whisper.

"Yes," you respond instantly. "Please."

Alexia hums, skimming back down your body as her mouth finds yours, her body pressing into your side, her right hand occupied by your skin as her left props her up.

You spot a tattooed hand curl over Alexia's right shoulder, nails scraping gently down her arm. And you watch the catalana shiver at the contact, Jenni curls up into her back, sandwiching her between the two of you.

Alexia's deft fingers finally land at the spot you want them most, dragging slowly through your slick folds.

You moan, hand reaching down to hold her wrist in place as your hips cant up against the pressure from her fingertips.

Alexia starts pulling her hand away and you whine.

"That is not you being a good girl," she growls.

And you feel yourself positively drip at her possessive tone.

You groan, and the show of submission must be enough for her because she moves her hand back to cup you.

"Please, Ale," you beg.

She slowly wanders down to your inner thighs and then back up to the crease where your leg meets your hip.

"You want this?" she breathes.

"More than anything," you whimper, pulling her mouth back down to yours, your hips thrusting upward gently in an effort to entice her to finish what she has (so slowly) started.

And that seems to do the trick.

Alexia drops the soft, lingering touches for firmer pressure. It pulls a keen from your mouth, clit finally touched as you want.

She circles twice before dipping a single finger down towards your soaked entrance.

"Oh fuck, yes," you mutter as she slowly pushes inside, digit making space inside you.

She starts a gentle rhythm, shallowly thrusting as her thumb swipes over your clit every other push in.

And she feels so good. The stretch is noticeable, even if a singular finger doesn't usually leave you feeling quite this full.

"Faster? Please?" you pant, delirious with desire. You need more of her. Now. You've been so patient. Such a good girl.

But you need her to dominate you. Take you hard and fast.

Jenni murmurs something to Alexia. You're way too far gone to translate the Spanish. You hope it's in support of your request. You really, really hope so.

Whatever her girlfriend says, it spurs Alexia to add a second finger, increasing the stretch.

You groan, hand slapping down to her thigh to ground yourself on her body next to you.

"God, yes," you moan as your hips pick up speed on their own, chasing that tight, curling feeling in your belly towards an orgasm.

Alexia pushes up into more of a sitting position to get a better angle to work your body.

And the shift in position pushes her fingers deeper into you.

You feel your pussy start the rhythmic pull that always precedes an orgasm.

"Gonna cum," you warn her.

Alexia just doubles down, her second hand dropping to continuously circle your clit in fast, firm strokes.

And that does it. You fly off the ledge fast and furious, pussy clenching around her fingers tightly, muscles tensed in a standoff against the swooping feeling rushing through your gut.

She leaves you light headed, the room spinning.

And then you feel the telltale push of her hips into your one as she rubs against your side, clearly turned on by the way she just dismantled you piece by piece.

Jenni's fingers reach around to find her clit, the striker's body pushing Alexia more firmly against you.

It's insanely quick.

Alexia isn't quite a quiet as Jenni, but neither is she you. She comes with a panting "fuckkkk," as her girlfriend circles her clit in fast, efficient movements, clearly well experienced at getting Alexia off.

The midfielder moans slightly as sensitivity sets in, gently pulling Jenni's hand away from her core.

The madrileña rolls Alexia onto her back as she scoots up against her.

You and Alexia catch your breath as Jenni just grins at the two of you.

“So,” Jenni ventures. “Still happy with your Fuck, Marry, Kill answer?”

You sigh contentedly. “I might just have to marry Alexia instead,” you tease.

Jenni sticks her tongue out at you before laughing.

“That was…wow,” you confess. “Your mouth. And Alexia's hands," you admit with a grin. "Ale, you’re really talented, you know?” You chuckle to relieve the last of the tension. “Shit, you might have broken me.”

The midfielder blushes slightly at your praise being so fully thrown on her. Her dominance in the moment has waned back into her standard introverted tendencies, not quite enjoying the attention being focused on her.

Jenni tugs her girlfriend even further into her side, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I know, right?” she brags. “Best in the world in more ways than people know,” she says suggestively, eyebrows raising.

Alexia slaps her playfully, rolling her eyes at her girlfriend’s antics but not denying her words. “Jenni is pretty talented herself,” she adds, eyeing her girlfriend appreciatively. “You should see her strap game.”

You watch Jenni’s hand flex on Alexia’s hip, their eyes locked in a heated stare. And you really do want to see Jenni’s strap game.

You laugh. “Okay, maybe Marry, Marry, Kill is more accurate,” you state. “Not sure I’d be able to choose between the two of you now.”

Jenni grins, completely unperturbed that you are seriously starting to fancy her girlfriend and her many talents.

“But, Mapi is definitely still being killed,” you state firmly.

That pulls a chuckle from Alexia. “She’s had it coming for years,” she states plainly, causing you to turn to her and incline your head as you silently ask for more of the story.

“She dated my sister,” Alexia answers. “She’s lucky she’s still on the team.”

Jenni snorts. “More like your sister dated her, amor. We both know who was in charge in that relationship.”

Alexia purses her lips but you see a small smirk slip through the façade.

“You Putellas girls like to take control, eh?” you tease. “Maybe you can introduce us.”

“No,” Alexia responds instantly.

You nod in acceptance and suppose that might be a bit weird for her to set you up with her little sister after what you just finished doing together.

“I don’t share,” Alexia answers with a singular eyebrow raise, daring you to reply.

Jenni can’t help herself. “Unless it’s with me,” she quips with glee, breaking up the moment and climbing over both you and Alexia. She pushes you forward to deposit in Alexia’s arms as she snuggles into your back, effectively sandwiching you between the two of them.

“Besides,” Alexia whispers at you, eyes locked on yours inches from your face. “My sister has tiny hands compared to me.”

The laugh that spills out of you is unrestrained and full, tears gathering in your eyes as you struggle to breathe at her sudden injection of humor. She’s so serious, so focused. To hear her crack a joke as she pulls you into her naked body after the things she just did to yours, well, you’re not sure she could get any more attractive.

She’s definitely your type, even if her hair is a few shades lighter than the mark. “Have you ever considered dying your hair darker?” you question the catalana.

Jenni chortles behind you.

“Not happy with having your cake and eating it too?” Alexia questions softly, knowingly.

You blush. “You heard that?”

Alexia bites her bottom lip with her teeth, eyes tracing down your body.

Jenni’s lips brush your ear. “She couldn’t take her eyes off you all game, cari. She wanted you before, but the second you said you would choose her to fuck…”

You shudder at the knowledge, arousal pooling between your legs once again, hands reaching out to grab Alexia’s hips.

“I thought fucks were a one time thing and you married the girls you’d want more than once?” Alexia teases, fingers lightly glancing across the swell of your breast and causing you to suck in a breath as your chest involuntarily pushes out towards her hands.

“I did say I’d marry you too….” you answer breathlessly.

“You did,” she admits with a small smile.

You moan as her thigh slots in between your legs, pushing up and into your core.

“Maybe I’ll dye it dark one day,” Alexia whispers into your ear.

And both her breath trailing across your skin and the image of an Alexia with dark hair have you groaning into her mouth as she confidently surges forward for a kiss, intent on making this more than a one time thing.

[tikitakatia]

Clueless- Alexia Putellas

Summary: Alexia needs someone to control. Y/n's a liar who needs money.

Warnings: mentions sub/dub relationship dynamics, power imbalance; nothing sexually explicit though.

Word count: 4.7k

infos: escort!reader

A/n: this was written in may <3 (draft)

..

It was the preseason before the Euros, and Alexia Putellas needed a distraction.

Alexia had always been calm, collected and composed, both in and outside of the pitch. 

On the surface, she was everything anyone could ever aspire to be: a focused captain that could be trusted with anything, a caring daughter, a thoughtful sister, and a skilled player.

But none of it felt like enough anymore. Not with so much piling onto her shoulders that some days, she genuinely had to remind herself to breathe. Like her lungs forgot how to work under pressure, like she had to fight for the air coming in through her nostrils. 

Sleep wasn’t as easy as it was a few months back. Alexia couldn’t quite place when it had started; she just noticed things were off when she found herself lying awake on her bed for hours, even before decisive matches.

She was restless. People started to notice. First her teammates, then her mom. It had become physical, the purple marks below her eyes, her skin that looked more pale than usual because she didn’t want to go out as much.

That was when she started inviting girls over. They were momentary figures in her sheets, gone before the sun was even up, getting out of her bed with scattered clothes in their hands, begging Alexia to let them stay.

She never did.

Now, they were just names she didn’t bother to remember. Faces she couldn’t recognise anywhere. 

But they did help Alexia for a while. Alexia was always very clear with what she wanted: someone who could take orders, someone who was going to do exactly what she expected them to.

 Most of the girls Alexia had in her bed were nice, obedient. Some of them were proper brats, purposely going out of their way to provoke Alexia, thinking it was all a game.

But for Alexia, it never was. 

The moment some girls started to act as if Alexia were a brat tamer, she would quickly ask them to leave. She didn’t get off when they tried to push her buttons, when they tried to get her attention in any way possible.

She just wanted someone docile, dutiful, and pliant.

And she wasn’t going to find that in one of those stupid clubs her sister was always dragging her to, or in one of those coffees the younger girls on the team would drag her to.

And that’s when Alexia had an idea, a brilliant one, too. She tried to ignore it for a few days, tried to tell herself that she couldn’t, shouldn’t follow it. That she was Capitana, that she had a reputation and a name to honour, and that the idea could risk it all.

She pushed the idea away, she did nothing for two months. Especially after renewing her contract with Nike and signing a clause that said she was prohibited from taking part in any kind of scandals.

But after Barcelona had lost one of the games to Real Madrid and she had no one on her bed, ready to help her blow off some steam, that’s when Alexia agreed to her own idea.

She needed company. Not a lover. Not a one-night stand. But someone who was there when she said so. Someone who listened. Obedient. Quiet. Someone is easily controlled. Not a brat, no, definitely not.

Just…a distraction,

That was when she found the girl.

It was late, almost one in the morning, when Alexia began to search for one of those evenings when the weight in Alexia’s chest wouldn’t let her sit still. 

So she searched. She typed the words very slowly, hating how the word ‘Escort’ felt so dirty and demeaning.

Alexia ignored it as she looked through websites. Some were clearly frauds, others were focused on heterosexual relationships. Some weren’t clear whether they would keep Alexia’s privacy, others were way too secretive about their women. 

She kept searching. She clicked. She Scrolled. Until she found the exact type of business she wanted. It was obviously an escort website, focusing on hiring women for sexual activities, but more importantly, sex scenes. 

Alexia would be able to pay while keeping her name and security number private. There wouldn’t be any evidence of the transaction. 

What made Alexia less guilty about this whole thing was that the money would go straight to the bank accounts of the girl she picked. The website wasn’t acting as a pimp, selling the girls out. They were there because they wanted to, because they also wanted to find someone to play in scenes ,too, all while making money.

Alexia had a lot of money, so she didn’t mind.

It didn’t take long for Alexia to find her.

No photo. No name. Just an age–young. The girl was a few years younger than Alexia, but legal, and listed clearly. That was enough, Alexia didn’t care as long as the law and the girl didn’t.

There was a short list of rules on the girl's profile, a series of dos and don’ts. It was detailed, filled with her own boundaries, her wishes, things she was open to negotiate and topics that were hard don’ts. 

Alexia read it carefully. The same care she showed when she was faced with a very tactful team on the pitch. She read the girl’s profile too, looked at her age again, then at the absent picture, and checked that the girl was from Barcelona.

Then she focused her attention on the list again. Alexia had never created this sort of list for herself; she just knew what she liked and what she didn’t like, but as her eyes scanned the skin, she realised she had found the perfect one.

Submissive. 

Open to dom/sub dynamics, both sexual and not. 

Comfortable with discipline.

No group scenes. No exhibitionism. 

Consent to restraints, spanking with belts and other objects, too.

It was everything Alexia hadn’t known she was looking for. As if the girl behind that profile had materialised out of her dreams.

Alexia quickly clicked Contact. And wrote an email stating that she was interested in getting to know the girl, that their preferences matched and that the girl wouldn't have to worry about money. Alexia would make sure to deposit as soon as the girl agreed. It was direct. To the point.

A few days later, she got a reply, right after she was leaving a hard training session, sweat was dripping down her forehead, as the girls talked about some locker room gossip, Alexia was too tired to care about.

The girl wrote that they could arrange a meeting if Alexia agreed to pay half the amount up front. She finished saying that, if Alexia didn’t wish to be with her at the end of their meeting, she would give the money back.

Alexia agreed. She made the payment inside her car, as she was ready to go home. The girl replied fast. She wrote ’Thank you for the payment’ and said that Alexia could set a date up for them to meet, no matter the day or time.

 She only had one condition: it had to be in a public space for her own safety.

Alexia didn’t mind. She wanted to keep the whole ‘relationship’ as secret as possible, so she would much prefer their first date would be at her house, but the girl’s condition was reasonable. Smart even.

After a very long time, Alexia was feeling something more than just…numbness. 

..

Y/n was a liar. 

She got in trouble a lot during her teenhood, not for lying, just for doing things her parents decided were wrong. The way she found to get around her parents’ watchful eyes was to lie. Lying became the only way to keep her living the way she wanted. 

It turned into a survival mechanism that she held tight to. She never lied to twist stories around for fun, or to make things greater than they were. No. She lied when she had to, when she needed to.

She got used to it. Didn’t even feel it when a white, innocent lie would fall through her lips; she had grown accustomed to it.

So, it just felt appropriate that she would also lie on the consort website. 

Y/n was in the last semester of college; she was studying biomedical sciences, hoping to get into medical school (which she did). She applied to Barcelona’s University, did a test, an interview and was one of the few selected.

She was going to be in medical school in the fall.

The only problem? She didn’t have money.

Barcelona’s University didn’t charge any form of tuition, but it didn’t pay for housing, food or anything else, either. That meant Y/n had to find a way to live, to pay for the groceries and for the bills that were piling up. 

She had worked in bars and coffee shops, she babysat and pet sat more times than she could count. Her side jobs were okay, they paid enough for Y/n to have a decent living. 

But then her parents decided not to parent anymore, and Y/n ended up with her fourteen-year-old sister to take care of as well.

Two mouths to feed were a lot, especially when said mouth was a growing teen. 

Y/n didn’t care if she had to skip a meal or two. But she definitely would not make Catalina go through that as well. 

She did what she had to do. She stepped up and began looking for a new job, one that paid more. One that could cover the rent, one that would get Catalina proper shoes.

She wasn’t embarrassed about how her eyes lit up when she saw an advertisement about how some site (that Y/n had never heard about) was looking for escorts. 

She didn’t wait too long to contact the site. They quickly allowed her to sign in as an escort, and as they did, they gave her two options. 

One. Being an escort purely for show. She wasn’t expected to do anything sexual with whoever hired her.

Second. An escort would be expected to perform sexual acts, but, of course, everything within her limits.

Option number two paid more. Y/n picked that one.

Y/n was then met with a list, one she was supposed to fill with her preferences and boundaries. She had to search what most of those things meant. 

She had never participated in anything related to BDSM in her life. Never.

That was her first lie.

The biggest one until now, too. But she got to it, she filled the form with dos and don’ts about things she didn’t even get close to doing. 

Y/n wasn’t completely inexperienced, but she was rather vanilla. She only had two sexual partners, both girls she met in college. 

It was sweet, simple and efficient. Nothing rough, nothing wild. They never got to use any toys either, no vibrator… no nothing.

But Y/n needed to check as many boxes as she could. 

There were higher chances of her finding someone if she said yes to more stuff, right? 

She had only said no to actions that would be too distressing for her. 

She would get a fourth side job to get Catalina her schoolbooks, but she would not participate in watersports. 

Yes. She had to Google it. 

Yes. She regretted it immensely.

..

Her second lie came as she was putting on a dress. 

It was a black one, long, showing no clavicle; it was tight, just right, not enough to make her feel like she was vacuum-sealed. She had bought the goddamn dress when she was working as an Event server a few months ago.

“Where are you going?” Catalina asked, her glasses too big for her face. 

“I have work tonight.” This one lie didn’t hurt to say because it was kinda true. Y/n was getting ready for work, just not a work that was very much accepted. But still, people paid.

Catalina just didn’t need to know the nature of her job, not yet.

Plus, Y/n wasn’t even sure if the woman was going to like her enough to sign the whole deal. Maybe she would look at Y/n and decide she wasn’t right for her.

Maybe she would look Y/n in the eyes and see that she had never been in a BDSM scene, that she didn’t know what she was doing.

That it was all pretend.

She didn’t mind pretending, though.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to get any more jobs?” She sat on the edge of Y/n’s bed. “Because you failed your last test, remember? You were too tired to study?”

Y/n hated when Catalina brought that forsaken test up. It was a molecular biology class, and Y/n had slept through her alarm clock – she had been up till late tending the bar a few streets up – when she woke up, she was 30 minutes late.

She failed the test badly, and she was too shy to ask the professor for a second chance, so she just accepted the 30/100 she got.

Y/n looked through her lipstick options, there weren’t a lot, maybe four, one of them had expired two years ago, but there was enough there for Y/n to use, so she wasn’t going to throw it away. She questioned if she should go for red, but it seemed too bold.

“If everything goes right tonight,” Y/n said, putting on her last bit of make-up and looking at her younger sister through the mirror. “Then I’ll only keep this one job.”

“No more babysitting the twins downstairs?” Catalina teased. “Hmm, I think I’ll miss you coming back with your face filled with sharpie drawings.”

“No more drawing on my face while I nap, nope”, Y/n answered, turning around. “And this one pays good too, maybe we can finally get you some proper glasses, one that fits.”

The girl pouted. “I like my glasses.”

“Of course you do,” Y/n rolled her eyes, taking a step further and hugging her sister. “You just like them because they were mine first.”

Y/n was ready to leave through the door. She had already told Catalina the usual: “Don’t open the door to anyone”, “If something happens call the police and then call me,” “Don’t eat all the snacks.”

Catalina was accustomed to being left alone at the house. Y/n always had to work during the night, so Catalina learned to fend for herself. 

She said she didn’t mind, but Y/n felt guilty. 

A fourteen-year-old shouldn’t spend all nights alone in a broken-down apartment. But it was what they had right now, and it was going to be enough.

As Y/n took the metro (the taxi was too expensive) she thought of who she was going to be. 

She needed to be sweet and gentle, which was okay, she was like that normally. If the woman wanted something bolder, then she would have to pretend to be confident, a bit more spirited.

She needed to meet the woman first, and then she analysed who the person needed her to be. At this point in her life, Y/n didn't care to just play her part.

It was all just going to be another big lie.

..

The third lie came when Y/n found herself face to face with the woman who had just deposited twenty-five hundred euros into her account.

Alexia Putellas.

When she first made contact with, Y/n had not known it was the Alexia. The email didn’t have a name, just a time, place and the transfer.

So she was more than surprised when she walked into the restaurant, Amar Barcelona, a five-star restaurant, and saw that who was sitting there was Spain and Barcelona’s captain.

Their table was in a private area.

No one else was around.

Y/n froze.

Y/n wasn’t a fan, didn’t keep up with football or any sport beyond occasional tennis matches. But one didn’t need to be a fan to recognise Alexia Putellas. 

It was impossible to live in Barcelona and not know her.

La reina. That’s what they called her. 

Alexia must have sensed her presence because she looked up from the menu. Y/n felt her eyes running up and down her body. 

Then, in a swift motion, Alexia rose to her feet. She was a bit taller than Y/n, not a lot, just enough to be a little intimidating, just enough to unsettle.

“Good evening,” Alexia said. “ Let’s start, sí?”

She sounded formal. Should Y/n be formal too? Maybe…they should shake hands, at least?

Alexia took one step closer and pulled the other chair from the table, She pointed at it with her chin. “Sit.”

Her tone was soft, almost gentle, but it didn’t leave any room for arguing or disagreement.

Y/n did what she asked, she sat and felt as Alexia put the chair back in place, as if Y/n weighed nothing. Y/n felt the table against her rib. Alexia had pressed her too tightly, but she wasn’t going to say anything. 

Alexia was authoritative.

It made Y/n nervous. 

She wasn’t used to being talked to like that. it didn’t bring any bad feelings, though. It was just weird. Different.

“I’m Alexia,” she said, so casually it almost sounded like a joke.

Why was she presenting herself? Wasn’t that obvious already?

Alexia looked at her, as if waiting for something.

Oh. Right. Her name.

“I–I prefer not to share my real name” Y/n said, saying every word slowly just like she had practised at home. “Not for now, at least.”

She had promised herself she wasn’t going to share her real name with whoever had chosen her. Not in the beginning.

Alexia didn’t seem like a crazy person. But still, Y/n had to be careful... her name was also intertwined with Catalina’s, and the last thing Y/n was going to do was put her in danger. 

Alexia lifted her eyebrows as she leaned back into her chair. She didn’t expect that answer. 

“Okay,” Alexia said. “What should I call you, then?”

Alexia didn’t shy away from eye contact, her hazel eyes were burning Y/n.

 It made her feel small. She didn’t know what to answer, didn’t know what she should be called.

She looked away. Silence.

“I asked you a question,” Alexia’s voice was colder now. What should I call you?”

Y/n quickly found her way back to Alexia’s face, she studied it, trying to read her. Her lips were pressed thin, but not so much that you couldn’t see them. 

Her brows were knit together in a way that said she was annoyed.

Great. First time meeting Alexia, the woman who was supposed to hire her, and she was already slacking.

Alexia wanted answers. Quick and clean, with no hesitation. Y/n swallowed. She figured she better become exactly that.

“You can pick,” Y/n said. “Whatever you wanna call me is fine.”

Alexia nodded, just once.

“You think too much, cariño,” she said. “And take too long to speak.”

Cariño.

Y/n felt the word land softly in her ear, especially sweet coming from someone as reserved as Alexia.

She smiled. Just a bit. Just enough for Alexia to see that she liked the nickname. Not that it would have mattered if she hadn’t. She’d given the player the green light to call her whatever she wanted.

“I’m sorry,” Y/n said. “I’ve never done this before.”

Alexia raised one brow. “Been in a restaurant?”

Y/n rolled her eyes (mentally). She had a feeling Alexia wouldn’t appreciate it if she actually did.

“No,” she said, waving her hands. “This sort of talk, I mean.”

“First time escorting?” Alexia asked.

“Yes", Y/n replied, quicker now. She hoped Alexia liked that she hadn’t been with anyone else–well, at least not in this way. “Is it that obvious?”

“No, but you’re nervous. Haven’t stopped moving your hands since you’ve got here,” she said bluntly. “I don’t want you to be nervous.” 

Y/n looked down at her hands. They were shaking a little. She put them under the tablecloth, taking them away from Alexia’s vision. “Okay, I won’t”

She was definitely going to keep being nervous, she was just going to get better at pretending she wasn’t. Alexia’s presence was intimidating. 

“Good,” Alexia reached for the menu, then passed it across the table to her. The leather folder was warm from her hands. “Pick whatever you want,”

“And f you wish to make it official–” The blonde paused, placing her elbows on the table, talking business now. “-eat something light.”

Y/n blinked.

“We can go to my place after this,” Alexia added, like it was the most casual thing in the world, as if she were just offering Y/n a ride.

Y/n’s stomach sank even further. That was a lot of information to process.

First: not a single dish on that menu resembled real food. Where was the pasta? The chicken? Caesar salad? Instead, she had Orecchio di elefante schnitzel with poached egg and truffle. What even was that?

Second: go to her house?! Oficial? What was happening? Why did Alexia have to deliver things so forthrightly?

Y/n didn’t expect it to escalate tonight. Not like this. Fuck, she was wearing her old underwear. And now she was apparently heading to Alexia Putellas’ house, where they would have sex. Kinky sex.

The type of sex Y/n knew nothing about. The kind Y/n had lied on the website, saying she knew about it, that she was a connoisseur, even.

Fuck.

What if she didn’t want to? What if she got there and Alexia started to kiss her, and she felt nothing? Y/n began to sweat, her foot was tapping on the floor, and her hand was slightly shaking.

So much for trying to hide how anxious she really was.

Y/n was an escort now. She couldn’t get nervous about the idea of sex! This is what she agreed on; it was what she had signed up for when she logged into the site and offered her company and her body for the exchange of money.

“We don’t have to.” 

Alexia’s voice pulled Y/n out of her thoughts. Y/n looked from the menu to Alexia.

Her face was expressionless.

“W-what?” Y/n blinked. 

We don’t have to?

Her stomach dropped. Did Alexia not want to keep this going? Was she backing out? Ending everything before it even began?

No, no, no, that wasn’t good. She couldn’t afford that. Not when Catalina needed some good shoes, and the rainy season was just starting.

“We don’t have to go to my house,” Alexia explained. “Not if you don't want to. I just thought there would be a better place for us to talk about things in more detail.”

Ok, okay. Then she still wanted Y/n. She could fix it. She was going to be honest now.

“I’m not ready for a scene yet,” Y/n blurred, heat rushing to her cheeks.. 

Had she used the right term? 

Alexia absolutely couldn’t know Y/n knew nothing about BDSM. It was stated in Alexia’s contract that her escort was aware and had practised BDSM before.

Y/n hadn’t. 

“We aren’t going to do any scenes,” Alexia said slowly. “Not for some time.”

Y/n was caught by surprise. 

“Why?” she tilted her head.

Alexia furrowed her eyebrows. 

“What do you mean, why? We barely know each other,” Alexia said. “We’ve got a long way to go before we’re comfortable, sí? I need to trust you–and more importantly, you need to trust me.”

“Oh,” Y/n said. “Yes, sorry. You’re right.” She looked down.

Alexia didn’t say anything. She just turned her attention back to the menu. “Do you know what you want?” she asked, eyes still on the page.

“No,” Y/n admitted. “I… I don’t really know what half of these dishes are.”

Alexia hummed. “Do you like brut wine?”

Y/n nodded automatically, but she had no idea what brut wine meant. As far as she knew, wine was supposed to be either red, white or rosé. 

“Great, is my favourite,” Alexia said as she pressed a small button on the table, and seconds later, a waitress stepped into the room.

“Hello, Miss Putellas,” the girl said. She looked nervous to be speaking with Alexia. Y/n didn’t feel so alone. “How can I help you?”

“I want a bottle of wine, Dom Pérignon Pinot Noir, Chardonnay,” Alexia said. “Sautéed clams and portobello mushrooms for her. Smoked salmon and caviar bikini for me.”

The girl wrote it down carefully, then swiftly disappeared from the private room.

..

Alexia took a minute to observe the girl sitting in front of her; the girl whose name she didn’t know, the girl who looked far too agitated to be an escort. 

Her shoulders were tense, her eyes darting every time one of the waitresses walked in to fill their glass of wine. She even tried to hide her hands from Alexia, but she could feel the way her fingers were twitching under the table.

She looked apprehensive. She expected to be reprimanded by Alexia at any second. 

Alexia would not. Not for now, at least. Alexia enjoyed a good scolding; she got off on a good reprehension and discipline. 

The feeling of control that came with it, the tension, the narrow silence that followed it. Being obeyed because she was right and the other person should just listen to her…it all felt like a drug to Alexia

But none of that could happen until the full contract was signed. The one that allowed Alexia to do so, that gave her full permission.

Alexia didn’t associate well with the word ‘dom’; she thought it was rather ridiculous, even though it matched exactly what she was and how she felt. She didn’t like to use it though, it felt too much like a cliché, too real. 

If she didn’t use the word, then her desires were just that: deep and private yearning.

Alexia was looking for someone who would obey her, someone who would sit quietly at her side while she watched a movie, quiet because Alexia told her to be, someone she could take care of mentally and physically.

Someone who would let her lead.

When the girl first walked in, Alexia had been sure Cariño wasn’t that girl at all. She seemed like she didn’t know what she was doing there. Completely lost. 

When she told Alexia it was her first time escorting, it all made sense.

She was probably, given her age, a college girl who envisioned that her interest in BDSM could become something more: a job, a way to make money. 

But again…she looked young, too young to be here. She looked pretty, Alexia could not deny that. Her personality wasn’t bad either. 

She was very awkward, but it looked like she was really trying to be polite and gracious. Not bratty at all, too, she hadn’t said anything witty or done anything to rile Alexia up.

Alexia could see herself going on more dates with her, maybe take her to some coffee shop, outside of Barcelona, somewhere she wouldn’t be recognised. 

The only thing that was bothering Alexia was how the girl seemed clueless about everything. 

She did’t know how to behave in five-star restaurants; she didn’t know how to have a proper conversation with Alexia, and didn’t even know how to eat clams.

Alexia was eating her salmon with the same demeanour she always carried, cutting it cleanly. 

The girl across from her was…stabbing the clam with her fork. As if it were a piece of red meat, its shell even had scratch marks from the fork.

Alexia let her try again before quietly placing a spoon (that the waitress had given her for the clam) at the edge of the girl’s plate.

“Use this,” she said.  “You won’t get much done with the fork.”

The girl looked embarrassed as she accepted the cutlery, holding it as if it were something precious.

Cute. She looked cute.

Maybe Alexia liked clueless. 

..

A/n: wanted to try and write something a bit different.

The restaurant mentioned really exists and it's in Barcelona. I copied their menu into the fic, you can check it here.

Tag list: @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics @riyaexee @miaereen

[tikitakatia]

everywhere, everything | l.o.

leila ouahabi x putellas!reader | 1.7k | old unspoken feelings rise when you reunite with leila after your move to man city

ˏˋ°•*⁀ leila appreciation <3 lowkey feel like all my writing sucks lately but hopefully you can all enjoy it!! <3 a little leila distraction from thinking about the final today

any and all feedback, comments, reblogs etc are very appreciated and welcome <3

You were Alexia’s twin in every sense of the word. The two of you did everything together, which transcended into your football career. While you were twins, and taking on the football world together since you could remember, you were always reminded that you were second best to Alexia. Born second, even if only a few minutes separated you both, it still seemed to make that difference. 

You were always a few beats behind, at least that’s how everyone saw the two of you. Alexia was the golden girl and you were her sister. You were just as good, you put in the hard work and made your career what it was today. But to others you were just not as good as Alexia.

You should have known this was coming, but nothing would’ve prepared you. Nothing could prepare you for having to leave the club you’ve dedicated your life to, to leave the club that was your family’s. Alexia’s renewal came about so quickly, she’d never have anything to worry about. Not like you. You should’ve known when the days dragged on, turning into weeks of silence. Silence from the club. Until the meeting where they told you they weren’t going to offer you a new contract.

It tore your heart in two. Even more when you were at the airport, your life packed into a bad, saying goodbye to your family and boarding the plane, not knowing what the next three years were about to bring you.

Manchester. There was a constant chill in the air, one that hit you as soon as you stepped foot off the plane. The sky, always a little grey, always a little dull. It was definitely no Barcelona. Though as soon as you stepped foot into Manchester City’s training grounds and your eyes found Leila’s, it was like the sun had been restored. 

‘Hola Lei,’ Leila’s smile faltered for a second when she realised you were standing in front of her. Of course she knew you were coming to City and she’d seen you around national team camps, but it wasn’t the same as you being here, in front of her, right now. It felt different.

‘Hola stranger,’ Leila smirked, wrapping her arm around your shoulder, like no time had passed.

Your heart raced the same it always has whenever you’re around Leila. The feelings never leaving no matter the distance you both had put between each other. Leila putting physical distance and you, emotional distance.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

‘I wish you weren’t leaving,’ You sighed out, tracing shapes against Leila’s skin while you were tangled up together in your bed. Leila didn’t say anything, just a small sigh as she pulled you in closer to her body. 

You and Leila, it was complicated but not at the same time. It confused you the more you thought about it. So you always chose to push away all the thoughts and enjoyed every moment you spent with her. Alexia had asked you a few times about you and Leila, if there was anything between you.

It was obvious to everyone that there was something, you were never just friends. Even if that’s what you told everyone who asked. Late nights spent in each other's beds, all the dates that were never labelled as dates you shared, the stolen kisses in the moments where it was just the two of you no matter where you were. Neither of you talked about it.

When you had worked up the courage to disturb the peace of whatever you and Leila had fallen into, Leila told you she wasn’t staying in Barcelona. ‘What will we do?’ is all you could say and when she said, ‘We’ll stay friends,’ You smiled the best you could even if it was like your heart had torn in two.

Here you were, spending Leila’s last night in Barcelona wrapped up in your bed. You felt a heaviness in your chest and you hoped Leila also felt it. Leila kissed the top of your head, her lips lingering while she took you in. Her hand gripping your hip and holding you like she never wanted to let go.

‘You won’t forget about me, promesa?’ You looked up at Leila, head staying against her chest.

‘Forget you? I could never,’ Leila’s touch was gentle on your face, lifting your head, her lips finding yours. 

‘I love you,’ You’d whispered that night when you were sure that Leila had fallen asleep. When you woke up the next morning, you whispered out into the now empty space beside you, ‘I know you don’t love me the same,’

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

‘I can help you with English,’ Leila spoke proudly, her English had improved but you definitely would not depend on her as your only teacher.

‘You? Help me?’ You laughed out, shaking your head at her, ‘I’d need someone better,’ 

‘Eh, sί, bad learner you,’ You scoffed, playfully pushing her away from you. 

You and Leila easily fell back into the same routine and rhythm the two of you had shared back in Barcelona. She was someone you knew, so it was easy with her. Though you’d be lying if you said none of this scared you. You tried to not think about it but all you could think about was how easy it seemed to be for Leila to leave you the first time. To leave what the two of you had shared behind. Who’s to say it wouldn’t happen again.

Leila could tell something was off with you. But she had put it down to you having just moved away from your family for the first time. Moving away to a new country, new language, new teammates. There was always some sort of adjustment period.

So she kept it to herself, quietly watching you without you noticing. Being with you was comfortable and she wouldn’t admit to it yet but having you around, Leila felt like she was home. A feeling she hadn’t felt since the night she left you.

Holding your phone tightly in your hands, the call with your sister made all the thoughts and insecurities you’d been pushing away come crashing back. Alexia noticed the changes with you and Leila during the few camps you’d all been on since your move. 

Alexia watched you fall apart a little when Leila left, your sister wasn’t stupid and no matter how much you denied everything she didn’t want to see it happen again. Your thoughts were on overdrive. You walked back into the room where Leila was frustratedly looking at the instructions of the shelves she offered to help you build.

‘Dios mio,’ Leila muttered, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, one hand flailing in exasperation as she flipped the paper back and forth, ‘Makes no sense,’ 

If you weren’t so stuck in your head, you might have laughed or done something more, having to hold back from distracting Leila in a way that would leave the shelving unassembled in the middle of the room for the rest of the night. 

The way her brow furrowed, lips silently moving trying to make sense of the instructions, the way she chewed at her lip when she was frustrated. Leila’s fierce determination, and lack of patience always had an effect on you. 

Leila looked up from the piece of paper in her hands, having felt your presence return. The concern and worry in her eyes was instant when she saw you looking like you were worlds away, ‘What’s wrong amor?’ Leila’s voice cut through, bringing you back to reality.

‘Leila…,’ you took a shaky breath, contemplating if you were actually going to say what was on your mind or whether you’d make up a lie on the spot. Leila had abandoned what she was doing and slowly made her way towards you. Looking up, catching her gaze with yours, ‘What are we?’

You almost instantly tore your eyes away, afraid of seeing her face tell you what she couldn’t actually say with words. Leila’s eyes were soft, she sucked in a breath, taking your hands in hers and leading you towards the couch. 

Not once did she drop your hands, gently smoothing her thumbs over your fingers, ‘What do you want us to be?’ 

‘I’m scared, Lei,’ Your confession hung heavily in the space between you. You’d let it be a secret for far too long, ‘Last time you left. It’s not your fault, we both never spoke about it. But you left and then it felt like I stopped mattering. Now I’m here, you’re here, is it just convenience until the same thing happens again…’ Your voice was small while you spoke. Leila didn’t interrupt, she let you say everything you needed, let your spiralling thoughts be heard instead of you bottling them up like you were used to.

Leila’s hands tightened around yours, a squeeze of reassurance, that she’s really heard your words, ‘Lo siento,’ She opened and closed her mouth a few times, trying to find the right words to say to you, ‘I didn’t mean for it to feel that way. I didn’t know how to do it all then, but you never stopped mattering to me,’ 

‘It hurt,’ You breathed out, Leila’s eyes were filled with guilt and regret. 

‘Lo sé,’ Leila leaned her head down, resting against your hands that she held in hers. She kissed your hands softly, only her eyes lifting up to look at you, ‘I want to do this right. If you want me. I show you I’m not going anywhere this time,’ 

You blinked a few times, your eyes glossy but refusing to let the tears fall. You could read Leila like a book. It’s always been that way, she wears her emotions on her sleeve and you knew she wasn’t holding anything back from you this time. 

Leila let go of your hands, reaching up to softly cup your face, ‘Por favor, you mean so much,’ 

‘Estύpida,’ Your lips quirked up a little, making the air between you a little lighter. You could trust Leila.

Leila laughed out in relief, ‘Sí,’ Her laugh hit your lips and you smiled more. Leila leaned in slow, your face still in her hands, you closed the distance capturing her lips with yours. No rush in the kiss, it was slow, soft and everything you needed from her. 

When you finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against yours. It felt good to finally talk about the unspoken feelings that had been lingering. It felt even better to know that Leila saw you the same way you saw her. It wasn’t one sided and despite the past you knew you wanted to work towards a future with her.

[tikitakatia]

Bossy

Yes it’s another head fic. I personally don’t think there’s enough fics with Alexia getting 👅

Smut 18

You weren't usually a tease. 

You liked to give Alexia what she wanted, when she wanted, how she wanted, whenever she wanted. All she had to do was ask and you would do it. 

Quickie in the car? Yeah! Some head while you watch football? Let's do it! A slow finger fuck in the shower. Jump in! Strap while diners cooking? Why not, just turn the heat down.

You loved it. You loved to give and take all while being her submissive little princess. 

But tonight was different. 

Because tonight she was wearing those obscenely short-shorts that rode up her arse, giving you more than what was considered an eye full.

Her arse was practically eating the baby blue fabric. The clothing hardly covered her cheeks. 

Not that you were complaining. 

You had watched her after her shower. Her blonde hair, all but gone now. Droplets of water cascaded down from the last bits of box dyed strands and onto your bedroom floor as she brushed it out. 

You spoke about your plans for tomorrow while she creamed her naked body in front of you. It was the shea butter cream she would always steal from you years back. You would find it missing from your kit bag. She told you it was the only way she could think to talk to you. But she still used it to this day.  

Then she pulled out those shorts.

If you could call them that. 

The conversation became one sided. Alexia hadn't noticed that you were basically ignoring her lunch plans as your eyes traveled down her rear, watching the way her thick thighs sat snuggly in the shorts. 

Or maybe that was her plan all along. 

Because it was how you found yourself laying on your stomach with your head between Alexia's thick thighs while the girl moaned helplessly above you.

The baby blue shorts were now a forgotten memory as they sat crumpled by the sofa.

“Amor, please!” Alexia begged again. 

But her pleas fell on deaf ears. You weren't rushing this for anybody, not even Alexia.

The Spaniard had one arm slung behind her head, while the other gripped at her shirt. At first she had sat like that to be cocky, smirking to herself as she got comfortable while she watched you crawl between her legs without her even having to ask.

But now her fingers were gripping the sofa arm so hard she might have actually tore the fabric.

Because you hadn't actually put your tongue on her yet, you were too entranced by her thighs, her skin, her smell, her sounds.

You had started from her knee, kissing the scar on her left leg. Then slowly kissed and sucked every inch of her skin while you travelled higher. When you got to the crease of her thigh and sex she was already trying to move you to where she wanted you, pleading for you to go to where she needed, but that wasn't your plan.

“Have some patience, baby.” You mumbled against her skin. 

A puff of air left her lips. You smiled against her skin before your lips went back to worshiping Alexia thighs.

God, her thighs. 

You’d find yourself day dreaming about them often. The way they would pin you down when she rode your face, her soft skin pressing against your own. Hardly being able to breathe while she fucked your mouth, but you didnt care. It was your own heaven. Or the way they would tighten around you moments before she would come around your fingers. The strong muscles shaken like jelly because of you.

And you loved the way her body responded to you whenever you were near them. Just like now. You had only been kissing her thighs for about 2-3 minutes… okay maybe it was more like 8 - 10 but you couldn't help yourself!

You fucking loved her thighs. 

“Dios! Please!” She groaned, slapping her hand over her eyes in frustration.

Keep begging.

While your mouth was busy, your finger tips delicately traced small patterns along her hips, tracing the ridges of her abs as they flexed under your touch.

Alexia gently stroked your loose strands from your face, tangling her fingers in your hair, trying so subtly to guide you to her cunt. 

“Not yet.” You mumbled.

She threw her head back. Groaning as she tried to ignore the way her clit screamed for some attention. 

Her patience was wearing thin.

“Whyyy! Why are you being such a tease?” She cried out, hoping you would give in and actually eat her out.

But you ignored her.

Your kisses had become more sloppy, leaving wet patches all over her skin, though you weren't sure what was your spit and what was Alexia's own wetness. 

Because she was well and truly wet.

Within a minute of your kisses you had seen the first trickle of arousal beginning to drip from Alexia’s lips. You had to physically reframe yourself from tasting her right then and there. 

It gave you the confidence to tease her about it, even though your own pj shorts were ruined before you even laid a kiss on her. 

She didn't need to know that though.

Her hips started to move, her body desperately wanting some kind of release but you only sunk your teeth in her flesh to warn her. Earring you a small but very cute yelp.

“I can’t believe how worked up you are, Ale. Can’t you handle a little kissing?” You teased, making sure to let your breath tickle at her lips. 

Her hips bucked from that. Earning her another bite. Earning you another groan.

“Babita please. Please. I can’t take it anymore.” Her voice was strained.

You looked up at her then. God, she was a mess.

Her face had a faint tint of sweat to it. Her eyes were half shut, making her look worn out, but also like she was about to scream. Her hair, once neat, was now messy, she must have pushed her hand through it or even tugged it a few times.

Her bicep flexed as she continued to hold on to the sofa arm, giving her some kind of anchor. 

Alexia was losing it. Her whole body was vibrating in an almost painful way. She closed her eyes as she tried to control her breathing, but your tongue and lips were making it difficult. 

To no control of her own, her hips bucked again, but she didn't feel your teeth this time, she felt your lips getting closer, but not close enough.

What she really wanted to do was to grab your head and fuck your face until she came on your tongue. 

Not that she would admit it, but there was a small part of her that was enjoying this. She liked your teasing, she liked the way her legs trembled from being so desperate, being at your mercy. 

But god, was it hard.

A loud whine escapes her, you almost felt bad, but you were having so much fun with her thighs. 

Both of her hands landed on your head then, and your own cunt twitched. 

“PLEASE!”

She doesn't push you. She just holds you. Her fingers sink into your hair and her hips instinctively start to rock. Desperately looking for that sweet release. 

“You need me, don’t you baby?” You smirk as you suck her thigh, leaving a small red mark.

“Yes! So bad!” 

“Hmmm.” 

You shuffle a little closer.

Alexia’s cunt was physically aching. She could feel all of the nerves and muscles contracting on nothing, her own body was screaming at her to do something. Fix this! 

“I need you, please bebé. I need your mouth.” She choked out. 

You look up again, your pussy melted at the sight of Alexia’s body moving out of desperation, her abs tighten with her movements while her thighs become weak around you.

“Fuck. You’re so desperate.” 

She pouts at you then, trying to make you feel bad. And it works.

“Fine, but your hands stay on the sofa.” 

“What? Whyyy?” She sulks.

Alexia loved to have her hands on you while you ate her out, she loved feeling the strands between her fingers as she rocked her pussy into your face, pulling on your roots until you moaned into her. And so did you, but right now you're in charge.

You raise an eyebrow when she doesn't move her hands. But with a sigh and some cursing under her breath she does what she's told. 

“Good girl.” You wink at her. Way too proud of yourself. 

She tries to hide the smirk that pulls at her lips but you see it.

You kiss her skin again, then glide your tongue at the crease of her thigh, you taste her wetness that has managed to smear itself up there. You groan when you recognise the taste.

“You’ve got yourself so messy, baby.” You whisper before taking another swipe, cleaning her of her own mess.

Alexia’s losing her patience. She's sure she can feel tears start to gather as she feels you talking into her skin. 

She wants to scream. She's going to scream if you don't put your mouth on her cun-

“FUCK!” 

Both of Alexia’s arms fly behind her head, gripping onto the sofa for dear life.

You had to hold back the giggle in your throat.

Your first lick was gentle. You barely even pushed past her lips, knowing the girl would be sensitive, but you didn't expect that reaction.

“You okay there?” You chuckled before taking another swipe. 

Alexia didn't have time to respond, not when your tongue was actually where it needed to be, where it should have been for the past 15 minutes. 

Another puff of air left her lips as she tried to settle her body. 

You took another lick, this time your tongue rolled over her very swollen clit. 

“Ghmmmm, diossssss!” 

Alexia’s hands left the sofa, gripping your head, forcing you to get closer.

“Uh ah. No hands.” You moved your head back.

“Ho sento, ho sento. Please…just don't stop.” She begged again while putting her hands back behind the sofa. 

“Don’t make this harder, baby, don’t you think I want to make you feel good?” You husked before kissing her wet and messy lips.

Her breath hitched when you wrapped your lips around her clit.

“Sí, sí, si, síííííí! Just like that!”

Finally you gave her what she wanted. 

You sucked ever so gently on the swollen bud, slowly gliding your tongue up and down before suckling the bundle of nerves between your lips. You swore you could feel it beating in your mouth, just faintly against your tongue. 

The brunette moaned above you, her body rocking helplessly as she finally felt you on her. One of her hands had travelled into her own hair, while the other stayed latched to the sofa. 

You began to bob your head, groaning as you dipped your tongue inside her tight soaking wet hole. The sensation of your tongue pushing inside her sent shivers up her spine, forcing her to arch her back.

“Oh my God. That feels so good.” 

You gently fucked her with your tongue, stroking her tight walls as best as you physically could. Alexia counted her hips upwards, helping you push yourself deeper.

“Merda, I’m close. I’m already close.” She whimpered. 

You moved back just slightly, a trail of wetness stuck to your chin. 

You flattened your tongue and eagerly licked from her hole, and slowly dragged your tongue up through her folds and reattached your mouth to her clit. 

“Déu meu, m'encanta la teva boca.” She whispered to you.

“I love your pussy.” You said before diving back in.

Alexia wasn't joking when she said she was close, because after a few more licks 

her body began to shake, her thighs clamped around your head, covering your cheeks with her wetness. 

Alexia was on the edge, her hands gripped hold of anything that wasn't you. Even though she really wanted to lace her fingers into your hair and feel you under her touch. 

Her hips moved with a mind of their own as you groaned and sucked her clit, giving her everything she needed. You kept your mouth on her as best as you could with her body shaking desperately beneath you. Your hands gripped at her hips, holding her down while you swallowed her juices.

Your name tumbled from her mouth when she came.

A gush of wetness flooded your mouth as her body finally got the release it needed. 

Alexia gasped and panted, her sinful moans filled your ears. You stayed on her, pressing your tongue against her clit before sucking again. 

Alexia found the strength to look between her legs. Your eyes were closed as you kept licking.

“Hmm, amore. I can’t.” She whimpered weakly. But she didn't do anything to stop you.

“You can.” You shot back.

You grabbed her wrist and guided her hands to your head. 

Because as much as you liked being in charge you still wanted to feel the control she had over you.

She whipped her head up to look at you. “I can touch?” She whispered.

“Yeah, you earned it.” You smiled.

And yeah, she definitely could because her fingers laced in your hair the moment she felt you.

You gave it all to her. You sucked and slurped her clit like you were starving. It became a mess of wetness, her juices stuck to your cheeks while she eagerly rocked her hips into your face. 

She gripped at your hair, grabbing the back of your head while she fucked your mouth. You could hear her small pants falling from her mouth, she sounded close again.

You moved your mouth away, and easily pushed two fingers inside her earning you a loud gasp.

“You going to come for me again, Ale? Be my good girl?”

She nodded, her cute little frown line sat between her brows, her hazel eyes tried to concentrate on you as you slowly fucked her. 

“You’re so messy, baby. Got my fingers all wet.” 

Alexia moaned from your words, gripping at your roots, pushing your head towards her cunt.

“You want my mouth? Is that what you want, baby. My mouth?”

“Sí, your mouth, I want your mouth.” 

You hummed before spitting on her lips and messily sucking your spit back up.

“Fuck!” Alexia gripped your hair and pushed your head back to her cunt. 

You whimpered loudly as she grinded her hips into your face. 

Your fingers picked up a faster pace. Pushing her over the edge. 

Her body went completely ridged as she came for the second time.

Your fingers kept moving and your mouth kept sucking until you felt her hands pull at your hair. 

“Amor…wow.” She chuckled hoarsely as she ran her hands through her hair.

You smiled and gave her pussy one more sweet kiss before you crawled up her body. 

“Give me those lips.” She smiled 

She hummed into your mouth as you shared a sweet kiss.

She pulled back from your kiss, hazel eyes looked over your face. 

“So… what made you so bossy?” She chuckled before planting another kiss on your lips.

“I don’t know.” You shrugged, smiling to yourself. “It just felt right.”

“I liked it. A lot.” She confessed, biting her sweet lips.  

“It also might have been those blue shorts of yours.” You whispered before kissing her neck, inhaling the smell of her shae cream. 

“I knew it!” She giggled as she easily moved you backwards, laying her body on top of yours. “You’re so easy.” 

You giggled underneath her. Happy to be covered in kisses from your girlfriend.

“I’ll have to wear them more," she hummed into your neck before slotting her hand into your shorts.

“Fuck.” She moaned as she felt your wetness cover her digits. Her fingers traced over your clit making you moan into her neck. 

“I’m never throwing those shorts away.” She said before pushing two fingers inside you, smirking to herself as you whimpered against her.

“Now, it's my turn to be in charge.” 

[tikitakatia]

Serás mi amiga?

alexia putellas x reader

some connections are harder to break than distance. 14 years is a long time, but some people are unforgettable.

tw - light mentions of abuse (but I promise not extreme or graphic in any way)

5.8k words

this is my first story so i hope you like it!

~~~~~~

The Barcelona airport used to be so familiar. But now you walk through the arrivals terminal feeling nothing but distant nostalgia of a place you once called home. The place you had grown to love, grown to belong in. 

You remember crying as you flew home when you were fifteen, promising yourself that as soon as you were 18 you would move back to Spain. Back to her. 

But those three years passed and you broke your promise, deciding to study in Amsterdam. And then another five years passed and you applied and were selected for your dream internship, tying you down to life in the Netherlands for three more years. More years continued to fly by and now you find yourself back in Barcelona on a work trip, 14 years since your last visit. 

You still think about Alexia often, the one child in your preschool class who would sit and play with you even though she didn’t understand what you were saying. You had grown up with her, as your mother had grown up with hers and your brother had grown up with Alba. She was your best friend for 12 years and you left without even saying goodbye. 

How could you say goodbye to something that was a part of you?

There had been no communication since that day, not a single word. Neither of you had phones and when you did finally get one, it had been too long. You wonder, sometimes, if she ever thought about you. If she was angry like you had been or if she missed you like you desperately missed her for so many years. 

But as soon as you arrived back in the Netherlands, you were forced so quickly into life-altering circumstances, and those changes completely detached you from the person you were in Spain. You didn’t think Alexia would even want to know this new, scarred and traumatised version of yourself that you had somehow become. 

You hadn’t wanted to experiment with your feelings and be left disappointed. You couldn’t deal with any more disappointment. 

Your breath hitched even as you walked outside, the bright sun hitting your face and the warm and humid air blanketing your every sense. It looked like nothing had changed, yet everything really had. The old row of taxis that used to sit outside was replaced by mismatched Ubers, their drivers sat inside the car on their phones rather than outside, a charming smile on their face as they waited for some tired travellers to accept their ride. 

They had organised a driver to take you to your hotel and you sat in the back of the car, eyes filled with tears as you stared out the window, taking in the surroundings. The street he pulled up on was unfamiliar, something you were grateful for. You wouldn’t have been able to hold yourself together if he dropped you off on a street you grew up on. 

You met with some colleagues that night, in a bar not far from where you had been put up. They were all working on the movie production too, visual effects artists, sound designers, mixers, the music supervisor, the director, producer, editor. All people who were here just for a few days to take a look at filming to get a feel of the new movie. 

It ends up being a nice evening, albeit a little awkward. They always are a bit, meeting in small bars in quieter neighbourhoods with upscale and wealthy people who just want to stay hidden for the night. It’s an unfamiliar crew this time, the first movie you have worked on in Spain. 

Nothing could have prepared you for the moment half the Barcelona squad saunters in though, confidence radiating around them like they own the place. 

You’re mid conversation with a mixer when the door creaks open, and you freeze mid sentence. She’s not at the front, of course she’s not. But you recognise her teammates and you see her through a crack in faces. 

Standing right there, not 10 metres away from you after 14 years of nothing.   

The mixer, Henry, asks if you’re alright and you can’t give him an answer. You nod, absently before muttering something about the bathroom and excusing yourself from the table. 

You know she wouldn’t recognise you, not after so long. You disappeared for years, only resurfacing after your surname had changed, only when you needed social media for your job. 

But you recognised her. You know who she is, what she stands for. You know that she’s one of the best in the world like you had always expected. You know she is the captain of Barcelona, as she had always dreamed of being. 

You had both reached your dreams, the ones you had spoken to life with her time after time. 

“Mamma!” your dutch is fluent by now, you are three years old. But your Spanish is another story entirely. You can just about say hola, but you barely know what it means. It had been a long day at preschool for you, not able to communicate with any of your peers. 

Your mother crouched to your level, scooping you up into a hug and bringing you with her as she stood up. 

“How was your day at school, schatje?”

She had expected the usual nod, the shrug or the sigh. She had expected you to say that you didn’t understand people, that they didn’t understand you. Nothing could have prepared her for the words that would come out of your little mouth. 

“I made a friend, Mamma! Her name is Alexia.”

Tears welled in your mother’s eyes, a small amount of that weight that settled on her shoulders lifting. 

“Oh my baby girl, I am so happy for you!” She had grinned, pulling you in tight before depositing you back on the ground. 

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, silently thanking Alexia and her parents for raising her in a way that was accepting of new peers who couldn’t speak the same language. 

“She played with me all recess and sat next to me afterwards. I think other people wanted her to sit with them but she shook her head and said something and stayed next to me!” 

You were practically skipping, your hand gripping onto your mothers as you told her about your day. 

“After school, she gave me a hug and waved. I think ‘adios’ means bye!”

She let out a teary laugh, nodding and repeating the word. 

“Adios does mean goodbye, schatje! Good job!” 

You’re quiet for a moment, clogs in your head turning as you formulate a plan.

“Can we learn more Spanish tonight? I want to say thank you to Alexia for playing with me. I want to ask her if she will be my friend!” 

“We can learn all the Spanish you want, my love. Anything.”

~~~~~~

“Hola, Alexia!” She sat down beside you, immediately looking over at your drawing. 

“Hola,” she replied. She pointed at the flower you had drawn and tapped your shoulder. You looked at her and she put her thumb up, grinning.

“Gracias!” you almost yelled out in excitement. You then pointed at her shirt, showing her a thumbs up sign as well, “me gusta… tu… camita!” (I like your shirt)

Your Spanish was hesitant, but you were determined. 

“Camisa,” she corrected you, “y gracias! Me gusta tu camisa.”

“Ik vind je topje leuk,” you giggled, repeating the sentence again in your own language. Alexia looked at you, unimpressed. 

“No entiendo,” she sighed, “holandesa.” (I don’t understand… dutch)

“Si! Me holandesa!” You look at her in excitement, your eyes wide. “Soy y/n y soy de Holanda. No hablo español.”

“Soy Alexia y soy de Barcelona! No hablo holandesa.”

Your face turns serious for a moment, looking back at your colourful flower. 

“Alexia,” you say, a blush sneaking onto your cheeks. “Serás mi amiga?” (Will you be my friend?)

She grins, “Si!” 

~~~~~~

It was the beginning of an unbreakable bond that grew in tandem with your growing Spanish skills. By the time you were five and heading to school, you were practically fluent in the language. Your father, although rarely home, would speak to you exclusively in Spanish and you would only ever watch Spanish TV shows and read Spanish books. 

You listened to Spanish at preschool, followed Spanish instructions and attempted to speak to Alexia every day. Often the conversations were just short compliments that your Mamma had taught you the night before, but sometimes you could say more. 

But now you have a best friend and you can talk to her. You know things about her, like how she has a little sister called Alba and that she loves to watch football. She supports Barcelona and she is disappointed when you tell her you like the red of your home club, Twente. She said your name was too dutch, too difficult to say so she called you cami, short for camisa. 

By the time you were eight, you spent every moment together except for when Alexia was at training. When she was at training, you were at your music lessons, spending all your time learning as many possible instruments as you could and proving to be rather talented. 

But after practice, you would beg your parents to let you meet up, sleeping over at one of the houses before school the next day. 

You would lay awake in bed late into the night, talking for hours about the lives you spent together. She would rave about football, excitedly recounting every step she took in her game to beat the boys and you would reply with equal excitement. She would listen intently as you described how you finally mastered a difficult piece on the piano, begging you to play it for her the next day. She’d complain about Alba and you’d complain about being an only child. You’d talk about other people at school, the friends Alexia made through football and your friends from back home that you missed. But you’d never talk about the one thing that pressed on your mind more than anything else. You never dove into the topic of your parents. 

You knew you weren’t allowed to. You knew you would get in trouble if you did. 

By the time you were 11, your friendship had only grown. She moved to La Masia and you were worried about what it would do to your friendship. It changed nothing really, if not making you closer. You spent more time with her outside of school, helping her with her homework when it got difficult and letting her sit in as your hours practicing the piano and the cello became more intense. Sometimes, she would sit beside you on the piano stall, pressing random high keys as you repeated the same complicated bars over and over until you got the passage correct ten times in a row. 

She kissed you when you were 13, a few days after you told her your Mamma was pregnant. She told you she was excited for you, that you’d finally get the sibling you always wanted. You were excited, you thought, but you had no idea what it meant for your family. You didn’t want to think about what would happen now. 

It was when you were thirteen that you were allowed to go out together without one of your parents there as a chaperone. The fights got louder at your house and you spent more time eating dinner with Alexia’s family, but anxiety would still eat away at your stomach as you ate. 

You worried about your Mamma, about the new baby she was carrying. You wanted to stay home to help her, but you knew you would be able to do nothing. She always told you to stay in your room, to lock your doors and to pretend you were asleep. 

It was less scary at Alexia’s house, where laughter bounced off the walls and her parents sat beside each other at the dinner table, rosy cheeks and loving glances. 

You were sitting on the beach when you almost told her everything. The moonlight was reflecting on the water, lighting up the empty sand. You sat with your knees held up to your chest, your hands shaking. It had been a particularly bad night last night, and you hadn’t been able to get it out of your head all day. 

“Ale,” you had whispered, not sure where to begin, not sure even if you could bring yourself to tell her anything. You wanted to tell her that you were scared, that you felt trapped with no way out. You wanted to say that her house was like a safety blanket and you wish your Mamma could come stay there with you too. You wanted to tell her that your Mamma was sad, that she would cry as she hugged you before you went to school, that she would sit at the bench in the kitchen all day as she waited for him to get home. 

But you didn’t get any of those words out. You thought about what he could do. The baby sister that was due in only a few months. You wanted everything to be ok, to go back to how it was five years ago. Telling Alexia would only make it more real. 

She still looked at you expectantly as you hesitated, and you quickly found a way to get out of the hotseat. 

“What do you want to do when you're older?”

She looked at you with a smile, “you know the answer to this, cami, I want to play football. I want to play for Barcelona and for Spain. To be the best there is. I want you to be there beside me while you live your dream. Whatever your dream is. But for me to live mine, I need you by my side.”

You had smiled softly, leaning into her side. She placed an arm around you.

“I want to be beside you too, Ale.”

“What is your dream?”

“I want to play piano. And the cello. I want to learn more instruments too. I want to be able to write music and play it, but not for the radio. Maybe for orchestras, become a composer. Maybe for something else.”

“Maybe for movies,” she suggested, “that would be cool.”

And she had unknowingly opened up a whole new door for you, curating the perfect dream. 

You kissed her again that night, under the stars. A promise for the future, a promise for the present. 

A promise that was broken only two years later. 

~~~~~~

The wall of the bar was cold against your back, the outside wind stinging your skin. You hear someone also leave the bar, their footsteps becoming louder until they stop, the person sliding down to sit beside you. 

Eline is a music supervisor, one you have worked with many times over the years. You interned with her fresh out of university. She was one of your few friends in the industry, one who you were always happy to see as a colleague on a project. 

“You ok?”

You shrug, bringing a hand up to rub at your face. 

“I lived here for almost 13 years when I was growing up and haven’t been back since, it’s brought back some memories.”

She gently places an arm over your shoulders and you think she is genuinely lost for words. 

“I’m assuming they’re not good memories?”

You shake your head, a tear finally slipping down your cheek. 

“No, they’re great memories.”

~~~~~~

You went home soon after that, Eline sitting beside you quietly in the taxi. She is staying in the same building as you but walks you up to your room first, reminding you that she’s there if you want someone to talk to. 

You both know how isolating this lifestyle can become, travelling alone for short periods of time, working primarily on your own from a private studio or office. Sometimes when you’re away it’s nice to have that extra comfort, but you tell Eline that you’ll be ok and she leaves you for the rest of the night. 

It’s a few days later when you finally get a moment to yourself. The rest of the group that you were out with the other night have gone to do some sightseeing, leaving the hotel early in the morning to squeeze in as much as possible on their day off. You decide against going, instead choosing to do something on your own. 

Eli Putellas had been like another mother to you when you lived in Barcelona. It was rare for you not to eat dinner with her family each night when you were older, using their house as an escape from the fear that engulfed you as soon as you stepped foot in your own. 

There was a phase in which you resented her. You were sure she knew everything, that she could tell from your mannerisms or from when she spoke to your Mamma. You were angry with her because she never did anything. She never intervened, never offered to help. 

But she didn’t know, you realised later, because there’s no way a woman that was as maternal and loving as Eli would ever avoid protecting people when they needed it most. 

Your relationship with Jaume was different. He was like an idol to you, someone who came right out of a book or a movie. While your own father terrified you, Alexia’s father was a shoulder to cry on. He was everything to his two daughters and you can vividly remember watching them interact with such love and feeling nothing but the pit of jealousy and sadness imploding from the inside. 

You didn’t know that he had died until last year. Your mother found out through the grapevine, you assumed and had told you with a grim frown and tears in her eyes. You both cried together, yet you still don’t know if all those tears were just the grief of Jaume Putellas passing away, or from the shared trauma that was so rarely brought up or remembered. 

Typically, you associated your years in Barcelona with Alexia. With growing up and experiencing a unique childhood in the sun far from home. You had all your friends, your school, your teachers and your music. You had a best friend, you had a girlfriend. 

There are a lot of things that Barcelona means to you, but since leaving you tried to avoid associating it with your father and everything he did to you and your mother. 

But for her, there was one thing. For 10 years she lived in Barcelona, watching you grow up and experiencing abuse. What was emotional became physical, what was drunken and unmeaningful became purposeful and sober. When Wieke arrived, she had something else to live for. A new baby, a new beautiful girl that she could use as protection. 

Your father was evil, but he never hurt you or your sister. You don’t know what would have happened if he was around when you grew. 

Your mother is grateful that nobody will ever find out. 

But while you can associate your time in Spain with all those things that made you so happy during the thirteen years, your stomach still rolled uncomfortably as the uber rolled to a stop outside the house that was once your second home. 

The driver turned around and looked at you as you hesitated, your hand on the door handle shaking and clammy. You catch his gaze briefly, mumble a quick thank you, and open the door. 

You can only hope that Eli is home by herself. You can only hope that she is home at all and you don’t have to just walk back up the street and call another uber to take you back to the hotel. 

You hadn’t planned on visiting her when you saw you were required in Barcelona. You considered it, but ultimately decided against it. You didn’t want to open the trap doors of your old life back up again, you didn’t want to poke and prod at the demon that could easily wake up again and attack you like it had all those years ago. 

But you knew you couldn’t go sightseeing with your colleagues like you hadn’t spent the majority of your childhood running around with the other kids from your neighbourhood. 

And you couldn’t help but think of Eli’s warm smile, the love she radiated through hugs and home cooked meals. You hadn’t planned for the possibility that Alexia could very well be visiting her mother at the same time, or Alba for that matter. 

You hadn’t factored in that possibility, and the threat loomed at you like a raging monster, something you were completely terrified of and completely unprepared for. But there was no turning back. Not after being dropped at the doorstep. Not after the possibility that Eli or any guests at her house could have possibly already seen you through the open windows. 

You feel lightheaded as you step onto the landing, your hand heavy as you lift it to press the doorbell. Your head rests against the wall beside you, somehow unable to hold itself up. It’s terrifying, you realise, to the extent that you feel physically ill. 

You wait for a few moments after ringing the doorbell before you hear footsteps. Then you hear Eli’s voice, so familiar yet so worn and tired. She opens the door abruptly, but pauses when she sees your face. 

Her hand lifts to cover her dropped jaw, a quiet gasp just audible. 

“y/n,” she whispers, “is that you?”

Your nod is small, timid and you bite your lip. You feel your eyes tingling, your lips quivering. You try to swallow back the lump in your throat but it comes out as a quiet sob instead, your hand coming to cover your face as you stand still outside the entryway to Eli’s home. 

She remains frozen for a split second but quickly moves to action, allowing you to collapse in her arms as you succumb to quiet cries and leaky eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, her arms still firm around your trembling body, “I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye.”

You feel her deep inhale, her eyes closed as she tightens her hold. 

“Don’t apologise for something you had no control over,” she replies, her voice wobbly, “you were only a little girl.”

Eventually, the tears subside and your breathing evens out, at which point she releases you from her embrace and you sit up beside her. 

“Do you feel better?” Her Spanish is like a lullaby, soft and warm, so unfamiliar in my ears. You nod, and she smiles softly, “sometimes you just need to let it all out.”

“I’m sorry about Jaume,” you then whisper, noticing how she smiles through the sadness.

“It’s ok,” she smiles, “he’s always with us.” 

There is a moment of quiet, a silence of sorts. 

“I’m sorry about your father,” she is the first to break the silence, and I look at her in confusion. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about-” you begin before the realisation hits you. “How do you know?”

“Your Mamma came to visit maybe three years ago. She broke down in a similar way to you just now.”

“You know everything?”

She nods grimly, her smile faltering. 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I think about it all the time, how we didn’t realise. You were here all the time and some nights you were so quiet… I put it down to being tired, missing home. I’m sorry I wasn’t more worried about you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, realising she has no idea how you really felt about her place in your life. You hesitate, though, before continuing. 

At home, your fathers abuse is a taboo topic. The elephant sits in the corner of the room and you both know that if it decides to stand up and make itself known it will destroy the foundations of your well-built home. The elephant is huge, heavy, impossible to ignore. It is bigger than anything you can fully grasp. 

Once, it was a baby elephant, small and tameable, something you and your Mamma could manage together. You had tiptoed around it, whispered quietly. It was unfamiliar, but something that brought you closer to your Mamma. But as you had grown, so had the elephant. 

It is a shock that your Mamma had stirred that elephant, poked it with a stick from afar. She had done it carefully, she made sure that there was no way the elephant would make itself known by wreaking havoc through your homes. 

But she had come here, she had told Eli. You never really realised how deep their bond ran.

“Eli,” you start, “you and your family were the reason I didn’t fall apart. Mamma tried her best but she was so young, younger than me now and she didn’t know how to get herself through it. She struggled so much with Wieke once she was born and I knew I couldn’t rely on her like I did when I was small. You and Jaume were who I relied on. This house…” you hesitate, looking around with emotion flooding your eyes, “this house was like a safety blanket and it was so warm and inviting. You were everything to me, there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Your eyes land on a photo of you and Alexia, a baby Wieke in Alexia’s arms and your arms around her. You’re both smiling down at the baby and the memory invades your memory before you can think about stopping it. 

You blink at the photo, stunned by just how small your grown sister was. A year old, maybe. Now she’s 18, past wearing the captain’s armband for her youth teams but signed for her dream club and representing her country with such pride. 

And she has no idea that Alexia, her idol, the player whose posters once covered her bedroom wall, once held her like that, looking at her like she would always protect her, that she would always be safe if they had each other. 

“Alexia was everything to me.”

Eli nods solemnly, her eyes landing on the same picture. 

“She never stopped missing you, you know? She looks at that picture almost every time she comes home, I think to remind herself. It’s been a long time and she tries so hard not to forget.”

It’s uncomfortable, you think. You were practically the same person for so long but then suddenly you weren’t. She tries desperately to remember you because there was nothing else holding her to those years but you, 1500km away, try to forget about the anxiety and trepidation those years gave you, unwillingly also trying to let go of the memories of your best friend. 

But if you could place a bet, you would guess that you had more of those memories stored in your brain. It’s easier to forget when you want to remember. It’s harder to forget when you don’t want to remember. 

“She never stopped thinking about you,” Eli continues softly, “sometimes I wondered if she was waiting for you to come back… or trying to forget you because it hurt too much to wait. But she has never opened up to someone in the way she did to you. Not once.”

You sit with Eli on the sofa for a while longer, speaking quietly about memories, about how things were. You don’t talk about what happened after you left. She doesn’t ask about how you are, but you can feel it coming. When she stands and puts the kettle on, you follow her to the kitchen. She passes you her plate of rousquille, motioning for you to take one. 

It is when you bite into the familiar goodness that she starts asking the questions. 

“Why are you here, cariño, what brings you to Barcelona?”

“Work.” Your response is simple, although not what she was hoping for, “I am supposed to leave tomorrow.”

“But you do not want to?” She looks at me with the empathy that only Eli Putellas could hold in this situation. “You want to see Ale?”

You shake your head and then you shrug. 

“It has been so long, Eli. My whole life has changed and I am not the same person as I was when I left,” you take a deep breath, an attempt to stop yourself from becoming overwhelmed. “I don’t know what I would say. I don’t even know if she would recognise me.”

The older woman studies you, taking in your distraught opinion, “you have been through a lot, but so has she. It has been fourteen years, she has also changed. You look different, older. But you are still that beautiful girl with the beautiful soul that my daughter loved. She is the same, y/n.”

You nod once, then again. “Wieke, the baby. My sister,” you start again, “she plays football professionally too. For her country. She signed for Chelsea last year and has just made her debut.”

Eli smiles and you realise your mother probably already told her this.

“Alexia is her favourite player. Her idol. I haven’t been able to tell her that Alexia used to hold her and kiss her forehead.”

“She would ask you lots of questions. It would be difficult to explain everything. Does Wieke know about anything?”

You shake your head this time, “Mamma told her that Pappa was in an accident. She doesn’t know that he was in prison and she doesn’t know about the abuse. How do you tell a five year old that her Pappa was killed in prison?”

“You don’t,” Eli confirms, “maybe one day she will know, but there is no need.” 

“She didn’t play against Spain in the world cup, but I watched them hug at the end. Alexia has no idea that Wieke Kaptein is the same baby Wieke she used to know either,” you move the subject back to where you are more comfortable. 

“Your surname changed, how would she know?” 

You shrug, sighing quietly.

“Anyway. I want to know about you as well, cariño! I have missed you so much.”

You smile, diving into your life. “I compose scores for movies and I love it. I studied for a few years, a masters in composition and I could major in instrumentation, so practicing actually playing rather than mixing. I interned for a few years when I graduated and then from that I was hired for my first job. It was a small netflix movie but it just told me everything I needed to know. I love my job.”

Eli’s face splits into a smile, probably glad that there is something in my life that is good. There are lots of things that are good, really, but my return to Barcelona has brought all the bad bits right to the surface. 

“That was your dream,” she stated easily, “I’m proud of you.”

“I never thought I would be on the red carpets, but it can be fun sometimes.”

She chuckles, shaking her head, “you always look gorgeous. It’s the Spanish upbringing.”

You laugh, but your eyes sparkle with tears, “you’ve seen them?”

“Since your Mamma came and told me everything. She told me that you’d changed your surname, I found you online. I see the pictures they post on google, but you don’t put any on your own account. You should, you are a beautiful girl.”

“Eli-” you hesitate, “you don’t know how much that means to me.”

You had always assumed the Spanish family would resent you for leaving their eldest daughter like you did. You thought they would be angry, offended that you couldn’t even say goodbye. You often wonder how they had realised. Was it hysterical or was it indifferent? You imagine if it had been the other way round, if you had knocked on Alexia’s door to get no response, to see her house being sold without a word. To go to her school and find out she hadn’t been there in days, that she had left. 

You always thought that your reaction would be that of devastation, but you never know unless you are put into that situation. 

Eli is loving, she is kind and genuine, but she is fiercely protective of those she loves. You realise, now, that she loved you too. That she was likely worried about what happened. 

The thought that there is no anger comforts you immensely. At least from Eli.

You feel like you sit in the kitchen with Eli for hours. You talk about everything that has happened in the past fourteen years. You regale her with tales of growing up with your younger sister, how she was so cheeky and cheerful, blissfully unaware of the trauma that was embedded within her mother and sister. You discuss the benefits of studying at uni when pursuing a job that doesn’t need a degree, and you tell her all about your job, how it works, where you do it and when you have to travel. 

She tells you about how she struggled when her husband died, and how now she dedicates her entire life to her two girls. She talks about navigating life alone, about how she would never reveal to Alba or Alexia how lonely she often feels. She says she wanted to come and visit you in the Netherlands, that she had spent the past few years just wanting to see you, to give you a hug and ask if you were ok. She apparently had expected you to show up at some point or another, she knew you well enough to know that you wouldn’t come to Barcelona without stopping by. 

But hours after you arrived, as your eating probably your fifth rousquille, you hear a key click in the door and you freeze mid bite. 

Eli also freezes, pausing her sentence and looking at the door.

“I think it will be Alba,” she sighs, “I’m sorry.”

You nod hesitantly, turning to look at the entry to the kitchen, the nerves flooding back into your system after being easily washed away by Eli’s comfort. You should have expected to be interrupted after so many hours. 

Alba greets her mother as she enters the house, but is quickly silenced as she sees the back of your head, confusion swarming her system. 

“Mami?”

You turn around and she looks at you with confused familiarity, uncertainty clear in her eyes until she realises.

“Cami?” her voice is still uncertain, like she either can’t believe it is really you sat in her mother’s kitchen or because you have become someone so unrecognisable over the years you had been absent. 

“Hola, Alba,” you whisper. 

~~~~~~

i hope you liked it

please let me know what you think :)

[tikitakatia]

i do write for attention, actually, because that's a normal reason to create art

[tikitakatia]

But just hold me now, ‘cause our love will light the way

About when, during a wedding, you are still scared of your love but she holds you closer

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 word count: +5.7k

》 Happy is the bride the sun shines on, happy is the corpse the rain falls on [proverb with origins in folklore and superstition]

It may not look the same, not to anyone and not everywhere.

But for the athletes, especially footballers, when the regular season ends, another, way more challenging, starts.

The wedding season.

It’s a short window of time, holding on between the last games of the major championships and whatever international commitments are going to take place later in the summer. Spread widely all over the world, filled with long-time no-see acquaintances and friends who feel like home by now. Flowers, thoughtfully picked dresses, free drinks and music that after hours you end up dancing to without a care.

The years as a professional athlete forgets you for times like this, shaped you into a precise and infallible logistic-machine on heels. You collect the invitations, update the spreadsheet your sister teases you relentlessly for, and make sure to be dressed for the occasion.

Even before the regular season comes to an end, you have already attended two weddings. In two different continents.

The first one was a lovely, little ceremony in a rural cottage in Galizia. The bride’s an old family friend who, a couple of weeks after her 30th birthday, decided to move in the middle of nowhere to cook for pilgrims. She married a nice guy who delayed his arrival to the Catedral just to spend more time with her, walked his way back and asked her out on a date. Some cried hearing their story during the exchange of vows, more burst out laughing when the dog almost buried the rings.

The second one felt less like a fairytale and more like well-orchestrated chaos. A situationship-turned-friend decided to transform the wedding into a local festival, themed colors and a dress code included. Your date, a girl whose full name you realized you couldn’t quite recall mid-vows, showed up in costume sneakers and a flower crown, much to your dismay. No need to say that was your last date.

This time around, though, is going to be a little different.

The silk dress you pick for the occasion hugs your body in a way should be illegal if it weren’t so comfortable. The no-existen creases you keep smoothing are a clear tell of how nervous you actually are, standing with a single red rose in your hand and waiting for the bride to make her entrance.

You were barely older enough to live on your own, too far away from home to be left unsupervised by any kind of adult, when you met Titi – older, none the wiser. However, she took you under her wing without a hint of hesitation after spotting you recording random training and film sessions. You, unwillingly, admitted to go through them in the peace of your apartment, slower, sometimes too overwhelmed by the different language. Titi started to randomly appear by your side, whispering jokes and explaining the rapid spanish instructions in a more clear way.

You have been attached by the hips ever since.

The loan ended after two years and a dramatic Cup final, but the friendship’ still going strong – despite the bad jokes, the even worst dance moves and the tease for the most stupid thing.

So, when she called on a random Thursday, it’s clear she has more to say than just the latest drama on the national team. It took you a raised eyebrow and a half-truth threat of hanging up for her to spill everything.

Drunk and euphoric after a win, she blurred out a messy proposal to her long-time girlfriend – Beatrice. She said yes, obviously, because anyone who can put up with Titi this long must truly love her. Despite being proposed without a ring in a pub’s bathroom.

A month later, when you find yourself in Spain for a visit to the now happily-engaged couple, they dropped on you the bomb: they’re getting married in the summer and you will stand by Titi’s side as her maid of honor.

That’s how you ended up in this situation.

It’s the absurd music suddenly diffusing in the garden that brings you back to the present, causing a snort you don’t even try to hide. Only Titi could walk down the aisle with a barely slowed down version of “Highway Unicorn”.

Pride and happiness fills your chest, gaze fixed on your friend as she walks toward the front of the venue. Confident steps and bright eyes that can fool everyone but you.

Titi knows how to spot your tells, when you need to talk about something and when you just need to kick a ball as hard as possible. She knows when to tease and when to give the most insightful advice, always followed by some inappropriate joke. You, on the other hand, know how to read between the lines of her attitude and the way she hides behind an armor of apparent immaturity.

“I’m freaking out!”, she mutters out, close enough just for you to hear.

“You better be, I’ll not believe she actually will marry you ‘til I see it happening right in front of my eyes”

That seems to calm her long enough for Beatrice to appear, way more appropriate song announcing her. She walks the aisle with the certainty of someone who knows exactly what is doing and the genuine smile of who is doing it happily.

Not like you had any doubt.

The ceremony is officiated by the old lady of whom Titi destroyed all the plants with carelessly-kicked balls as a kid. She used to threaten to throw the girl’s ball so far away she could be too old to play with it once recovered – but also offered water breaks and help with homework.

The woman, wide grin and white hair styled better than most guests, starts a heartfelt speech about long-lasting love and commitment much stronger than the little flaws that can drive someone crazy. You listen attentively, catching the subtle hints and teases, at least till your gaze wanders around the venue.

Old teammates and family who traveled all over the world to be here, friends from both sides you meet in passing before. Faces you can’t put a name on, others you can’t wait to greet after long. Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, your eyes lock with a pair of green ones you remember all too well.

Alexia.

Of course she is here.

And, of course, she smiles in that way she reserved just for you.

Subtle, the curve of her lips barely raising, but sparkling something in her eyes that means so much more. The way she used to tell she loved you when words felt like not enough, when holding you felt like not close enough.

It started out of a bet.

You were already pretty familiar with each other, thanks to Titi’s insistence to have you in the same room – absolutely clueless of your crush. During an international friendly, joking about owing the one on the scoresheet drinks and teasing-rights over Titi’s new hairstyle. You ended up scoring twice, the first a worldie you find space outside the box for after winning a loose ball against none other than the Span’s captain. That same night, Alexia reluctantly buyed you a drink and, definitely less reluctantly, headed up to your hotel’s room.

And the rest’s history.

Improvised dates between fixtures and international breaks, subtle gestures during games against each other and not so subtle displays of affection in the privacy of your bubbles. Family teasing, friends relentlessly joking on your expenses – you two too whipped to care about it all. She filled your fridge with vegetables, your closet with a never ending stock of hoodies, and your life with heartwarming care and attention.

But it ended, out of all odds.

Memories still hunting your minds, the rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of touching vows and terrible jokes. You follow the wedding planner’s instructions to the letter, moving around the venue as she gestures like your life depends on it.

It probably does.

“You fucking made it!”, you whisper at Titi as soon as you manage to hug her.

“Let’s see how long before she asks for divorce”

“Don’t worry about that, I already filled the papers for her”

Beatrice laughs loud beside you, welcoming you into her arms as an older sister used to this kind of banther.

The fun is short lived as the planner kidnaps the just-married couple for some photos and all the guests are moved to a wider area of the garden. You nod at the nth recommendation of not disappearing for too long and not drinking too much – at least until your speech.

You’re pretty sure she’s holding back to ask to revise said speech.

“Why does she look at you like you’re a step away from ruining the whole wedding?”

The only reason why you don’t jump out of your skin is thanks to heels too high for you to do that without risking your ankles.

You meet Patri’s grin before hugging her, careful at both glasses of champagne and even more precocious make-up. A run in the bathroom to fresh up is in order before the couple comes back for more drinks and photos.

“She hates me”, you answer after a bit, not needing to follow her gaze to know the infamous wedding planner is still keeping an eye on you.

“What did you do?”

“I may have had a little too much fun with Titi at rehearsal dinner and now she think I’m a ticking bomb”

“Fair enough”

“An overkill, if you ask me”, you comment, sipping from the glass just to hide a grin.

You catch up with Patri like not time passed, like it’s not been months since she last saw you – since she heard from whispers in the locker room that you and her captain had broken up.

It’s easy enough to fall into the familiar banther, to remember why the friendship with the Majorcan is such a close one to your heart. Patri is a good friend, one who doesn’t need many explanations or reasons. She doesn’t ask questions, she just holds you when the world feels like falling apart or shows up at your apartment with enough food to feed an army and monopolises the TV putting on something absurd.

“You should come for a visit before the Euros”

“Not planning a trip to Barcelona anytime soon”

“Alexia got the rights on all the Barça’s friends?”, she calls you out, half-joking.

“No, we splitted equally. I picked Jana over you and Claudia”, you retort back.

Maybe you neglected some friendships after the break up, but the bond between Alexia and her teammates is so deep and personal that you felt like giving her the comfort of those relationships. You met most of them through her anyway, even a judge could have awarded full custody.

“I’m your friend too, I miss you too”

“I know, I know”, you admit, gaze fixed on the condensation covering the glass, “I’m sorry, I guess– I needed space”.

Space from Barcelona, the city having reminders of her and of your story around every corner. The spots that have been the backdrop of your dates, the roads you learned to navigate during the short visits, the name of her favourite treats in the bakery close to her apartment.

Space from the memories, the most random things that, completely out of nowhere, carve an Alexia-shaped hole in your chest. Roses and books remind you of the first Diada de Sant Jordi as girlfriends, Rosalìa’ songs passing on the radio sounds like her laugh on weekends off, the kid’s label she gifted as a joke still tied to your handbag because you can’t find the strength to get rid of it.

Space from Alexia, from a break-up either of you saw coming.

“I thought you two were it”, Patri says almost casually, almost cruelly.

You know she doesn’t want to be mean, but it still feels like your heart forgets to beat and your lungs can’t hold air properly. And yet, it’s so simple to admit, “I still think we are”.

“You should talk”

“I should go, the wedding planner is acting like a maniac again”, you state as you hug her, less carefully this time, promising to catch up later.

While talking with Patri, you felt Alexia’s gaze on you with a certainty that only comes with fears and insecurities shared to someone who knows how to protect them. But your eyes haven’t locked since that moment during the ceremony, she hasn’t come to you yet.

And you can’t tell if the breaths out are a sigh of relief or frustration.

The cool breeze that carries the flowers’ scent and the guests’ laughs is enough to make you forget your ex is walking around like she couldn’t crush your life and rebuild it just with soft words and even more gentle touches.

The planner is explaining to you, one more time, when you’re supposed to make your speech, but thankfully the couple’s entrance saves you – with an absurd redemption of “I Don’t Need a Man” by The Pussycat Dolls playing in the background and giving an heart attack to the already stressed woman in front of you.

You are almost sorry for her.

Almost.

Especially when, after another round of applause for the couple and drinks for the nerves, you find your seat for the wedding reception.

The tables arranged in a more open side of the landscape garden are framed by green plants and fragrant flowers, while the live band is alternating all-time pop classics and songs straight-out of an emo-kid’s playlist.

An incredible atmosphere, the perfect combination of Bea’s and Titi’s characters, that can entertain you up to a certain point after feeling Alexia approaching.

It may be her perfume, one so long lingering in your life that still permeates your couch’s pillows and a forgotten coat on the entryway rack. It may be the eyes fixed on you, both from her and some guests you care very little about right now. It may be the way your body reacts when hers is close by.

It remains a fact that, when she approaches, you feel it before she speaks.

“I think the wedding planner fucked up”

That, you don’t expect.

“What?”

As a good-enough response, she points to the little personalized place card on the seat at your right.

Oh.

The only reason why you don’t smash your head on the table, vigorously and repetitively to wake from this waking nightmare, is to avoid the already judging glances – planner included.

You will not give it to her so easily.

A moment too long passes, Alexia still standing close with that awkward smile she sports when she doesn’t know how to act properly. A part of you wants to know what she could do, but another, much bigger, wants this embarrassing situation to end as soon as possible.

“Sit your ass down, Titi’s mom is looking at us and I don’t want to cause a scene”, you hiss, nodding your head at the woman on a nearby table.

“She could drop her own daughter for you in a heartbeat”

“Yeah, I know, and I want to keep it that way”

Her smile turns more genuine and relaxed as she takes the seat next to you, as if she hasn’t done it a million times before. As if she never stopped.

Taking advantage of her engaging in small talks with the guests filling the other seats, you finally indulge and properly look at Alexia.

The dress is slick on her body, thin straps accentuating her defined, tan shoulders. A light turquoise that makes her eyes pop and take your breath away – the exact shade of your purse, because you’re over-prepared and she’s too attentive. Hair, tied up in a relaxed low bun, less blonde than you remember.

You study her profile as she politely follows a conversation you don’t even pretend to be interested in, too busy tracing her features to make sure everything is the same as engraved in your mind. Same moles, same wrinkles around her eyes when she smiles, same way to furrow her eyebrows at bad jokes.

However, she’s holding herself in a way you’re not used to. A way that doesn’t feel right between the two of you.

Still deep into your study, you don’t realise the bridal couple is making the nth round of greetings until Beatrice doesn’t wrap her arms around you. She’s holding you from behind like this is the best day of her life and she just had the best drink too, so you don’t complain when she down yours. The chat is funny and light-hearted, at least until Titi drops her wife’s hands to not-so-subtly nudging you to follow her.

“I swear I had no idea”, she blurs out, too troubled to notice you’re still too close to the table for this kind of apology, “I told the wedding planner to seat Ale with the other girls”

“It’s fine”

“We can still arrange it, I can tell them to add a seat there and–”

“Titi, please, breath”, you interrupt with a soft grin, “I said it’s fine”

Well, maybe it’s not really that fine, but you will manage.

Alexia could have been invited anyway, being Titi’s national teammate for longer than you even knew them, but you were supposed to come to the wedding together. As a couple.

The planner must not have received the memo but, at this point, you’re pretty sure she has an agenda against you.

“We can sit next to each other for the rest of the dinner, it’s not like I’m going to stab her with a butter knife”

“I’m more worried about you trying to stab yourself with a dessertspoon”

“I couldn’t even know what to look for”

“Reassuring. The fact you didn’t try to deny it is pretty alarming, but otherwise reassuring”, she points out, teasing just like a good friend could do.

You hold her in a tight hug, because you can and because one of the most important people in your life just got married to the love of their life. It’s a beautiful day. You’re not going to ruin it with what-ifs and self-pity, everyone is happy and you’re the happiest for them. Genuinely.

The part of you that wants to scream, shout and kick for how unfair and ironic life can be will behave for today.

Alexia seems to think the same, trying to hold back and making sure there’s space for Jesus if he wants to seat between you two.

Even though the desire to touch, to engage in conversation, to feel each other in a way that’s both familiar and foreign is so strong. Clear in the way she always makes sure your glass is filled with water and you pass finger-food and bread without her having to ask. Undeniable in the way it takes a moment too long to break contact when your arms barely brush or when your gazes meet in the middle of conversation.

If the other guests notice they don’t say anything, not out loud at least.

Not even Leon, Beatrice’s brother and best man, who has the same knowing smirk and sharp eyes. He makes a couple of comments between the appetizers and the main course, calling you out for a lingering touch or being distracted for apparently no reason. Thankfully, his wife has mercy and stops the teasing before Alexia’s blush could match the decorative roses and you could find that butter knife.

When you think you can finally enjoy the food without someone making fun of your almost-breakdowns anytime your ex does the most normal things, like thanking the waiters or humming the song playing, the wedding planner comes crushing your dream.

She passes the microphone as handing you a bomb, not even trying to hide how terrified she is of what you can say or do. You can stand close to the bridal table with the same resignation of someone sentenced to death.

Let’s get it over with.

“Here we are! For those of you who don’t know me, I’m sorry. For those who know, I’m sorry too”, you start, raising the glass of champagne in your hand and setting the mood. “First of all, thank you to the brides for asking me to speak today. Beatrice told me if I do decent enough job I can do her next wedding too, so bear with me”

The women burst out laughing, shaking their heads as the room joins in and you make sure to wink in the wedding planner’s direction.

“I know everyone is expecting a funny, witty speech filled with embarrassing stories of Titi and advice for Bea from a Tumblr blog called ‘how ancients used to kill their spouses and get away with it’. I was so proud of it, trust me. But five minutes ago Titi’s mom came up to me and said she couldn’t wait to hear my speech and I panicked. I don’t want to disappoint her, so I’ll improvise”, you breathe in and breathe out, not ready at all.

And right in that moment, your gaze locks with Alexia’s.

She’s smiling, genuinely, with elbows on the table and chin in her hand. Amused, you can tell that for sure after so long together, but also supportive in a way that makes you feel like climbing mountains with bare hands and swimming oceans with tied legs.

“I know you’re not supposed to talk about yourself in this kind of situation, for whatever reason, but I’m going to do just that. I am, indeed, the reason we’re all here today as one of my biggest achievements is that I brought Beatrice and Titi together. I’m not saying you own me one, but– yeah, you own me a huge one!”

A loud roar rises from the crowd as you hold up the glass in your best friend’s direction, blowing her a kiss.

You tell the story of how they met.

How you dragged Titi to an awful party seven years ago. How she didn’t want to go, complaining about a sore ankle and an alignment of the planets plotting against her. How you bribe her with drinks and half-hearted promises to indulge in her stupid pre-game dances.

But then, there she was.

Beatrice.

Standing by the bar, talking about books Titi had never read and plants she pretended to care about. You witnessed your annoying, over-confident friend turning into an even bigger idiot. She tripped over an empty glass, offering her number by writing it on a wet napkin, and still, somehow and for reasons not even the stars can explain, Bea didn’t run in the opposite direction.

You tell the story of the moment you felt it, so clearly, they’re perfect for each other.

“That was the moment I knew”, your voice softens, gaze never leaving the couple. Beatrice is looking at you, pride in her eyes as if you’re doing something remarkable, while Titi smiles like she’s hearing these stories for the first time.

“I got to witness a quiet miracle. Something small and messy and real. Two people finding each other, truly seeing each other. Ever since that day, I have witnessed this genuine, unconditional love growing. Loud and ordinary and everyday. So, if you can, I want you to rise your ass and your glass for a toast”

The room fills with a soft laughter and screeching cutlery. You glance at Alexia, one more time, just because you want to. She’s looking at you with something in her eyes you will never be able to fully understand. Something that resonates in your chest.

“To Beatrice, for showing me what it really means to know someone. Underneath the questionable jokes, the chaos, the quite disturbing dance moves. To Titiana, for showing me that love can be hilarious, sometimes messy, slightly scary, but always full-hearted. To the happy couple, for proving us love always finds its way. And if you ever forget how lucky you are– please, just remember, I did this”

The room erupts into applause while you exhale as if you just barely scored a penalty shootout. Titi bursts into a half-laugh-half-cry so raw and unexpected that you’re pretty proud of the confidence and the foresight to bribe the photographer. Beatrice, ever the saint, wraps the two of you in one of the warmest hugs ever experienced on heart.

Even the wedding planner looks impressed, or, at least, mildly relieved.

You make your way back to your seat, heart racing as you feel way too many eyes still on you. The attention is different when you’re not performing, whatever it’s on a football field or in front of a microphone.

Alexia pulls the chair out for you without saying anything at first, just passes you a glass of water and smiles. Like taking care of you comes naturally, instinctive. Your fingers brush for a second too long, familiar and foreign.

“Nice speech”, she eventually comments, her voice a soft contrast to the loud chatter and background music.

“Thanks, I wrote it using that stupid AI robot”

Her laugh is quiet, but real, and you hate how much you’ve missed it.

She knows you must have spent weeks in front of a blank page, cursing Titi and thinking about how to get away with such an awful task.

“I didn’t expect you to wrap it up like that”

“Neither did I”, you admit, “I was hoping for light and funny, accidentally took a detour through emotional growth”

The midfielder must realise just then you really did improvised the speech, not entirely because of Titi’s mom, she’s not sure if she wants to know why. The rest of the table has already drifted into their own conversations, distracted by more food arriving and chatting with other friends.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you in your own bubble.

As it once was, as it still feels so right.

“You were amazing”, she compliments, “You always are”

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t make you feel like your heart sets on its natural rhythm, like your chest can fully rise and your mind finally eases.

You can’t look at her, turning away to stare across the garden. Fairy lights are strung through the trees, their soft glow reflecting all around the venue as the sun casts a magical atmosphere simply by dusking behind.

There’s so much you want to say, so many things that ache to break free. Instead, you offer her the chocolate dessert still untouched in front of you.

The silence isn't heavy, but it’s full of questions and desires. To reach out, to explain. To understand. To fix whatever breaks in your relationship for you to not realise sooner.

Moments after, the excuse to catch up with someone weak, but she let you go.

This time, not out of fear, but knowing you need to find your breath to come back to her.

As you walk around the garden, Titi’s mom stops you without a word to hold you firmly like a mother who knows what you need even if you’re not brave enough to ask for it. Your friend has the same warm, comforting way to wrap her arms around you completely.

Before you can properly freshen up and hide the signs of impending tears, Patri spots you and waves her hands as someone could do to get the attention of help while trapped on a desert island – same urgency. You can hear the laughs and smell the champagne even before reaching the group of loud footballers, holding glasses as there isn’t an impending international sport event waiting.

“Look who remembered she still has friends in Barcelona!”

“The last time we faced each other the scoreboard on your side wasn’t really that friendly”, you joke, taking turns to greet everyone you missed until then.

“At least you scored the one goal on yours”

As a response, you snitch the glasses from Mariona’s hand to pass it back emptied.

The others laugh, stealing a chair from a close table and welcoming you into the circle. Jana, clearly tipsy, keeps making faces and stopping mid-sentence to laugh at someone else’s comment. Irene, for some reason barefoot, is narrating a dramatic story about an away game turned into a reality show episode.

You fit right in, like no time has passed. Like you don’t feel a missing piece, used to be surrendered by these people with Alexia’s comforting presence by your side. Like you didn’t let heartbreak and distance pull you away from them.

Patri steps closer when most of the group is captivated by yet another of Jana’s adventures on English soil, her voice low as to not pry, “Are you good?”

You don’t answer right away, staring around in the landscape – your eyes searching for something, someone, in a way so instinctive that’s almost scary.

“She looks at me the same way”

“You expected her not to?”, the Majorcan asks, genuinely curious.

“I was terrified she wouldn’t”

“You’re allowed to miss her”, she states, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, “But you’re also allowed to try again, you just have to do it scared this time”

You take a breath, not deep enough but steadier, “Let’s talk about literally anything else before I start crying at a wedding that isn’t even mine”

Patri laughs, clinking her glass with ones you find in your hand without even realising how.

The music changes then, bleeding into something upbeat and catchy. The band is playing one of those classics you’re legally required to dance to. The crowd begins to fill a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the garden, energy building over friends, couples and someone’s drunk aunt’s mad moves.

The girls drag you with them, stumbling into carefully pleased flowers and glowing under soft lights. It may be the top-shelf champagne, or the quite talented drummer, but you join in without a care. Surrendered by warmth and laughter and Patri’s terrible rhythm, it’s easier to think everything it’s going to be fine.

Jana pulls you into a spin, shouting something in Catalan you barely hear over the music, and for a while it’s just breathless laughter and out-of-tone singalong. You leave on the dance floor all you got, shame and sweat forgotten when someone unsuspectingly requests a song that reminds you of care-free teen times.

You feel the pull toward Alexia, dancing close by with Irene and some girls you can’t recognise by the back of their heads, but thankfully there’s always someone breaking in the middle.

And then, as to give you a moment to catch your breath, the music changes at a slower pace. The beat doesn’t resonate in your chest and the crowd dissipates, following a different flow. Only couples remain, taking space and moving on their own accounts like nothing else matters.

You withdraw silently, finding your seat on the now empty table. Leon and his wife are on the dance floor, while the others are scattered all around the venue. The wedding planner is somewhere around you, barking quiet but firm instructions as the cake’s moment is fast approaching, and you make a mental note to avoid her for at least the next hour.

A smile spreads on your lips as you spot Titi and Beatrice, dancing beneath the strings of light and surrender by people who love them. They move like they’ve got all the time in the world. And maybe, after today, it feels like they do.

You’re halfway through another glass when the air shifts.

“You gave up?”

“I’m too old and too alone to keep it up”, you half-joke, sipping your champagne.

Alexia is standing beside you, close enough for you to feel the heat from her skin – glowing under this light. She tilts her head toward you, teasing, “What happened to not disappearing or drinking too much?”

“I gave the speech, I’m off-duty. I don’t own that mad-planner anything else”

That earns a soft laugh that makes you glance at her, catching the moment she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cheeks a little pink from the alcohol or the dancing or, maybe, from being near you again.

Too scared of this hope, you glance away to the dance floor, now filled with more guests. The brides are in the middle of it all, Titi whispering something, probably unhinged, right into Bea’s ear, who’s laughing too hard for theirs not to be true love.

“You want to dance?”, she asks, almost like she didn’t mean to say it too loud.

“Do you want to?”

“I’m trying something new”, Alexia grins at your raised eyebrows, “Not pretending I don’t want something and asking for it”

There’s a pause after that, your heart exploding in your chest and her smile growing on her face. The music shifts once again, the singer introducing a song you don’t know but you’re pretty sure will never forget.

And before you can change your mind, before fear could wrap around your wants, you take her hand.

It’s so familiar it almost hurts.

You lead her toward the dance floor, weaving through the other guests and ignoring the curious glances – especially Patri’s, who’s jumping happily with her thumbs up. You find your place on a more secluded side, however private it can be with Bea’s knowing smirk burning on the back of your head.

Alexia pulls you in with a hand lightly resting on your waist, like figuring out if she’s still allowed to hold you close. You visibly relax under her touch and almost hear her exhale in relief. The movements are slow, hesitant at first, but familiar. Comforting, even.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you together again.

So you let yourself be held. Between soft lights, colours and scents you had no idea could belong to flowers, instants straight out from a fairly tails. Between friends’ laughter and promises someone will fight to keep. Between before and after, Alexia allows herself to hold you like she wants to do forevermore.

“Do you think it was the right thing?”, she asks when your forehead brushes her cheek.

“No, but I don’t know how to fix it”

“We will figure our way out”

[tikitakatia]

caught in a landslide

alexia putellas x reader

summary: you hide in Barcelona to delay the inevitable and, well, the footballer is just too enticing

words: 9041

content warnings: mentions of drugs (very lightly) and some morally-grey behaviour

notes: so one day I just thought about this and so I wrote it idk

it's inspired by Bohemian Rhapsody and Mamma Mia (the song and the film, respectively). I'm not sure if the resemblance to the former is there but who tf cares hehe

I think there'll be a second part...

Initially, your fiancé gives you one week to delay the inevitable. 

He’s a nice guy, you suppose. Richard. Goes by ‘Rich’, or ‘Fez’ to his old boarding school roommates. 

He works with your dad. Or, rather, for your dad. 

He gets on with your brothers. All three of them – even the rogue drug-addict who refuses to acknowledge that the family business does in fact lend to him a certain sort of privilege. 

“He’s quite dreamy,” your best friend argues, just as she has been doing since the day the medieval betrothal was announced. “Handsome. Successful. He goes to the gym.” 

“Saskia.” Her smile is tight-lipped and failing to be sincere. “He drinks blended eggs and probably takes steroids.” 

“At least he’s clever.” She looks pretty in the light of the early evening, with September slowly fading into a golden autumn and the garden of your parent’s house descending into a gentle chill. It doesn’t surprise you, the glow of her skin and the shine of her hair – she’s always been like this. You’ve always been like this. 

Perfect. Put-together. Poised and ready to be moved as a pawn on the chessboard, only given one direction. 

“It’s hardly difficult to get into Oxford when your chief master is best friends with the professors,” you say, because you don’t want him to have good qualities. And it is also true. 

Saskia’s eyes — bluer than the Italian mosaic of the floor — narrow. “I thought your mum said you didn’t have to marry him if you hated him. Didn’t she hate your dad at first anyway?” 

You sigh, twisting the engagement ring around your finger with enough force to suggest you want the diamond to come loose. It won’t, of course, because it’s a family heirloom on his side and has lasted through generations of uncomfortable yet practical marriages. “Yes. But the implication didn’t match what she said and it was right before reminding me that hate is just passion without direction.”

Saskia snorts into her peppermint tea. “She’s a romantic.” 

“She’s insane,” you mutter, eyes flicking towards the back of the garden. Some poor stablehand has been tasked with weeding the flower beds. He looks awfully uncomfortable without his horses nearby. “She gave me a list of ‘acceptable names for a child’ yesterday. And a bump of coke.” 

Saskia laughs properly now. “At least we know where you get it from.” 

You allow yourself a crooked smile. “I’m not my brother.” 

“No, but you value your life just as little as he does.”

The smile drops.

“Do you think I’m being ridiculous?” you ask, voice quieter now. The doubt feels like a betrayal, but you can’t help shrinking under her narrowing gaze. 

She doesn’t answer right away. Saskia examines you, perceptive and scrutinising. Unafraid to tell you the truth, yet hesitant with how she phrases it. You know she is treading lightly because she leans forwards, over the metal bistro table and her mug, and her mouth is pressed into something gentle, but not without heat. 

“I think you’re in love with being miserable.” 

You blink. “Wow.” 

“I’m not saying Richard is your soulmate,” she rushes to clarify. “Personally, I think he’s a walking-talking concoction of protein shakes and cigars, humming to the tune of his glory days on the rugby pitch. But he’s not confining you to his bed, nor is he forcing you to spend more time with him than you have to.” She’s not wrong in that respect, though it is a terrible observation to have to make. “You’re choosing to be dragged, really.” 

You scoff, but it’s half-hearted. 

She continues. “You don’t love him, sure. But you haven’t told him no. You haven’t even told your parents no. You just keep waiting, hoping someone else will cause the explosion for you.”

It would be ignorant to pretend the passivity is not self-inflicted. You showed no interest in anyone at university nor at school nor when you were granted entry into the family business. Every man you slept with, tried to eat breakfast with, and then failed to love has blended into a blur of mundanity and beige. 

A fire first needs a spark. 

You sit back, suddenly exhausted. A silence grows between you, its net familiar and safe, yet somehow still suffocating. 

Saskia’s shoulders drop as she finishes the last of her tea, resisting the urge to suck on the teabag in case the housekeeper, who is always hovering in your house, appears and disapproves. She softens at the despairing contortion your face has moulded itself into. 

“Richard agreed to a week. One week before you start planning the wedding.” She exhales, as if she has no more advice left to give. You stare at her hopefully. “Do something with it.” 

You nod. 

Then, a beat. 

“I don’t want to be her, you know.” 

“Who?” she asks. 

“My mother. Trapped in a life she has convinced herself she loves.” 

Saskia reaches for your hand. “Okay,” she says. “Don’t be.” 

The stablehand cries out as he picks up a handful of nettles without his gloves on. You both watch for a moment as he scrambles to find a dock leaf. And then, without another word, you stand up and walk inside the house.

You hear the restrained urgency of Saskia’s footsteps as she follows you through the winding corridor that leads to your room. She makes no move to interrupt the journey, but she’s present and she’s willing to entertain it for the time being. 

She watches as you pull out a suitcase from underneath your bed.

You start with counting pairs of knickers. Socks, next. 

And you’re halfway through packing before you tell her where you’re going. 

…

You like Barcelona as a city. History is crammed into every paving stone and brick. The people are similar. Everything is kissed with the sun and holds the rays in its heart with cosmic secrecy. 

There’s no need to book a hotel. An old friend – Carlota – lives in one of those flats only parents could gift. She’s welcoming. Says only ‘congratulations’ with the right balance of sincerity and sarcasm. Gets it. 

“I’m here for a week,” you tell her firmly. 

She nods like she doesn’t believe you. 

Her older sister was just named the most influential woman in this financial year. She probably says similar things to you. 

“So,” Carlota says when you have smoothed the creases in your linens and joined her for a glass of wine on her balcony, “he seems pretty accommodating. Enamoured?” 

You laugh. Red wine drips down the glass, falling on white trousers. It won’t come out. You don’t want it to.

“I don’t want to get married yet.” 

Carlota loved poetry at school, taught you that you needn’t try too hard if you read her annotations over her shoulder and copied them into essays. She loved art and perspective and reading into things. She purses her lips as you sit before her now: “Why do you elongate your sentences?” 

You push her shoulder. She holds onto the balcony rail for balance, grinning like she’s glad she ripped off the scab. 

Later, she takes you to her studio. Carlota lives a fantastical life too, but she plays the part well. It’s a room in a warehouse in Poblenou. Trendy, apparently. From where you’re standing, among canvases and paint splatters, it seems to be nothing but a mess. 

Out of politeness, you refrain from pinching your nose at the overwhelming smell. 

Carlota explains that she’s exploring representations of the female body. Curves, muscles, hard lines, soft fat. The difference between Aphrodite and today’s supermodels. The lens of love or hatred or jealousy. 

Her art is uncomfortable, like it is shouting at you to look inwards and correct yourself. You suspect Carlota has grown tired of the life she was born to lead. 

In the corner, away from the collection of outspoken women crafted to criticise, is a smaller, more intimate series of canvases. A woman, again, but the same face in each painting. You can feel the emotion seeping out of the dried bursts of colour and you almost don’t have to ask who she is. You do, just in case. 

“Is that your girlfriend?” 

Carlota holds her breath, as if you’re not supposed to know that. Her eyes meet yours for a moment, deep and earnest, before she exhales – the only sound in the room. She looks at the canvas currently set on the easel: laughter, a head that’s tipped back and immortalised in happiness. 

“She’s in LA,” she says eventually. “Working on a new project. We’re trying long-distance.” 

The steadiness in her voice surprises you. Carlota has always been stoic, grounded, but this is… different. You catch the hint of defensiveness like the swift flick of a blade to the throat. 

“It’s good, actually,” she continues, a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips. “Hard, but good. And it’s mine. She’s mine.” 

This is not a performance. This is a choice. 

Carlota doesn’t mean to do this to you, but she has and she cannot take it back. 

You clear your throat, finding it suddenly raw and scratchy. “What did your parents say?” 

She shrugs. Playful, though. “Mamá sends her the headlines and talks about them over dinner. Papá calls her my amiga especial, but he’s stopped looking like he’s choking as he gets the words out. It’s… coming together.” 

You think about what your parents would say about Carlota if they heard this. “Oh, they’re so much wilder in Spain,” your mother would laugh. “And Carlota has always been one to rebel.” 

She’d wave it off and continue to wait for a wedding invitation with forenames and surnames that match her idea of marriage. 

Carlota no longer looks afraid. 

“That’s nice,” you decide, happy for her. 

“It is.” She’s grinning.

You move to the corner of the studio, brushing your fingers lightly along the edge of one of the canvases. The woman is beautiful, not just in the way she has been depicted. Your fingers tingle at the passion in the paintings. You blush. 

“Do you love her?” 

Calota nods. “Madly.” Her mouth opens, but she pauses before continuing. Perhaps she is about to deliver a blow. “I want to marry her.” 

It strikes you deep in the stomach. 

“I desperately want to marry her.” 

You know what Carlota is doing. You know why she feels she has to. 

“You don’t have to marry him if you don’t want to.”

She wants to save you. You’re not sure if she will ever admit that she can’t.  

…

This engagement party really sucks. The lights are too warm, too cosy. The drinks are too weak. It’s getting too late. 

Alexia, for all these reasons and more, is hiding in the corner, arms folded across her chest as some aunt from her mother’s side guns for the nosiest-woman-of-the-year award. She’s all, “what happened to that friend of yours?” and “when will you get married?”. Every question is a grain of sand dropping into a growing pile. Alexia shrugs off the feeling of time running out. 

And they flock like pigeons on telephone wires. A chorus of prodding and poking. 

It’s Tia Martina who says, “it’s about time you settled down. You should let us help you!” 

Tia Anna nods enthusiastically. She’s a valiant drainer of the bar – she’s actually managed to get herself drunk. “I have a friend, whose friend’s daughter is a lesbian.” She pauses, humming. “No, no. She’s – what are they? Bisexual? That’ll do, no?” 

Alexia shifts her weight, feet aching from wearing new boots at training. The lights are still too soft, and the cava Tia Montse (who has left her swaying husband in favour of the gaggle of gossipers) hands her is flat. She’s backed herself into a corner here. If she had thought this would make her invisible, she was unfortunately wrong. 

“Nena,” coos another one, blinking at her with that squint that means the probe is incoming. “What happened to that pretty one who was older than you? Your teammate?” 

Alexia exhales through her nose. “She moved teams.” 

“You can still be together though, no?” Tia Anna says, confused as Alexia shakes her head. She doesn’t need to know about the fights and the screaming and the tears that slowly killed them. “Shame.” And it’s like Jenni no longer has purpose to her. 

Another one swoops in. Briefly, Alexia curses her cousin’s pursuit of marriage with all the hatred she can muster within. “You’re not getting younger, and football won’t warm your bed when you’re fifty.” 

“It might,” Alexia says, dry as her throat at the thought of the future. “The Champions League trophy is quite large.” 

Laughter prickles nearby: Alba, eavesdropping from behind a tower of croquetas. But the women are undeterred, as if fighting a second revolution. They carry the resilience of women with a cause. Bold. Unrelenting. 

“It’s about time you settled down,” Tia Martina repeats. “You should let us help you.” 

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “Help me to do what, exactly?” 

“I have a different friend,” Tia Anna offers, expecting gratitude and receiving none. “Her niece works in Girona. Or is it Granollers?” The women around her laugh, all finding this fun and amusing and charity work that really does bring a sense of satisfaction. “She plays padel! She’s got strong legs. You like that, don’t you?” 

The sip of flat cava that Alexia takes does nothing to improve the situation. 

“She’s bisexual as well,” Tia Anna adds. “That is close enough, no?” 

Alexia pinches the bridge of her nose. “Not how that works.” 

“Oh, but she’s lovely! And she follows you on that app. Instant-gram.”

“Brilliant,” Alexia mutters. “I’ll pick a wife out of my DMs.” 

They don’t know what that means. 

Tia Martina leans in, lipstick on her teeth and breath tainted with tobacco. “Just think about it. A nice Catalan girl. Local, easy. A family we know. None of this jet-setting to Paris and Rome and London–” 

“It’s part of my job.”

Everyone else shrugs, as if that is a ridiculous statement and far from justification. 

“All that travelling… no wonder you haven’t settled!” 

Alexia’s jaw tenses. She loves her family. She does. 

They want her to be happy. Even if they assume that means ignoring her clear signals for them to fuck off right now. 

Alexia drains the rest of the cava just to give her hands something to do. The glass is now warm, her fingers damp with condensation. She wants to throw it. She knows she won’t. 

“Do you know what would help?” The sharpness of her voice cuts through the conspiring. Her aunts listen eagerly. She grins, but she is not about to tell a joke. “If you all stopped trying to auction me off like livestock at the village fair.” 

There’s a pause. A twitch of silence. 

Then, from an aunt she doesn’t even remember being part of the conversation, the first volley of offence: “We just want you to be happy, petita.” 

“I am happy.” 

It comes firmly. A few of them blink and shuffle their drinks in nervous hands. 

From the corner of her eye, Alexia catches Alba raising her own glass of cava towards her older sister. A salute. Everyone’s been here before. 

Only Tia Anna dares to go in again. “You always say that, Alex. But look at you. You’re so alone.” 

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Alexia restrains herself. She’s had hours of media training. She knows how to mould herself into composure. 

“I’m not alone,” she says with as much diplomacy as possible. “And I’m not interested in being paraded around like a prized pig.” 

“Alexia!” someone gasps, scandalised by the word ‘pig’ more so than the implication behind it. 

To her relief, Alba appears beside her then, sliding in like a shield. The escape is on. 

Alexia will remember to stick with her uncles next time. They can talk about football. Something simpler, with less controversy. Something she knows and can deal with. 

Love is not what she’s looking for. It doesn’t shine? It doesn’t help her career, and it certainly isn’t important on her journey to merge her being with football until her name and the sport become synonymous. 

She craves victory. 

Everyone else will always come second. 

…

You’re covered in paint, laughing at Carlota’s stupid jokes, when your phone rings. She’s adding white paint to the last of her installations, claiming it is the most important part. Your phone case gets smudged with red as you pick up the device. 

“Rich, hi.”  

“Hello.” He sounds surprised you’ve answered. “I hear you’re in Barcelona.” 

“Saskia,” you mutter, half a confession. 

“In all fairness, I did say ‘pretty please’.” 

You smile tightly, rubbing green paint off your thumb with the edge of your t-shirt. In front of you lies a bad imitation of a daisy that Carlota calls ‘abstract’. “She worries.” 

“Naturally.” He’s rather dismissive. “Anyway, no problem. I called to ask you if we’re still on for March. The caterer’s asking. Also, your mother’s suggesting orchids. That’s fine, right?” 

You blink at the ease with which he barrels through the call. Efficient. Another task on a busy to-do list, you presume.

“I’ve not spared a thought for flowers.” It’s a petulant response but you don’t care. Carlota hides her smirk behind a comically large paintbrush.

“I’ll tell her to run with it, then.” He clicks his tongue as though he is waiting for an opportunity to wrap this up. 

“You do know I haven’t agreed to marry you yet,” you point out, hoping you don’t sound too afraid of the prospect. “Before you finalise anything.” 

“Yes, I’m aware. That’s why you have, what? Three days left? Get it out of your system.” Saskia had said, before it became apparent that Richard was to be your husband, that he was sleeping with his secretary. A northern girl. Manchester, maybe. Fake blonde with long eyelashes and longer nails. All the boys do it. “Oh, and, darling, you can’t ignore the wedding planner. I’m too busy to be her first port of call.” 

You sigh. “What’s her name again?” 

“Gosh, no idea.” 

“Richard,” you groan. “I’m supposed to have a week.” 

“Three days.” 

“Carlota’s asked me to organise her latest exhibition.” You hear her laugh, shaking her head. It’s a lie, but you assume that’s why she was eager to bring you into the studio anyway. It’s like a passion project. “I’ll need at least a month.” 

“Just get plane tickets on the Amex.” 

To him, that seems to settle it. A month, a week, three days – time doesn’t exist when it can be charged to a card and buried under ‘miscellaneous expenses’. 

Your scoff is not entirely fair. “You’re serious?” 

“Of course I’m serious. That’s what it’s for. Christ.” He sighs as though you have overstepped. You suppose you already know how this works; playing dumb simply brings a temporary tingle of satisfaction. “Your mother’s already moved the florist and bumped the dress fitting. She’s having the time of her life. There’s so much talk that Vogue are interested – the tacky bastards.” 

Carlota snorts. You stifle a grin, imagining your mother’s face when she receives that email. 

“I mean, fine. I’m just throwing money at it at this point.” 

“How deeply caring of you,” you drawl, hypocritical but with a valid point. 

“Oh, darling, I care.” He doesn’t. “It’s just that this whole thing’s turned into a spectacle. Not what I agreed to, but whatever. Apparently that’s the vibe now.” 

You bite your tongue. He’s using air quotes, you can hear it.

“Have I reiterated my point sufficiently?” 

Richard is as obnoxious as he has been cultivated to be. 

“I’m supposed to have a week,” you say again. 

He groans. In all fairness, you’re discounting the time spiralling in England. And not mentioning the additional weeks needed to plan Carlota’s show. “You do know it’s Barcelona, not a spiritual retreat. Do your tapas, wear linen, whatever. But let’s not drag this out. You’ve got to be here so that I can, you know, work.” Or make the most of his last fucks with the secretary. But that goes unsaid. 

“I did say Carlota’s collection will need a month.” 

You feel Carlota freeze behind you, then quickly resume humming. Her parents are good friends with Richard’s, which had initially slipped your mind. There’s pressure on all sides here. 

“Right, well, that sounds terribly artistic. Just please don’t forget the RSVP deadline for the meat options.” 

You close your eyes. “I still haven’t said yes.” 

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Sure, but you will.” You hold your breath. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Your father’s calling a board meeting and, well, as the newest member…” 

“Bye, Richard,” you sigh. 

“Yeah, bye, darling.” 

There’s a retching sound echoing through the room once the call is finally finished. Carlota’s shameless about it, laughing as she goes, hoping to make you smile too. All you can think about is how you will have to spend the rest of your life with him. 

“When we were little,” she says as she resumes painting, prompting you to follow suit, “he would let me paint his nails and do his makeup. Until the shooting came, and with that, the fatherly voice of elitism. He’s a good man.” 

“Are you convincing me?” you ask, eyebrows raised. 

She shakes her head, lips pressed against each other in conflict. Maybe she means: don’t torture him, don’t make him suffer. Maybe she just said it, because she’s Carlota and she is unpredictable and wild and too creative for the confines of this world. She doesn’t seek to elaborate, and you’re not sure you want her to. The only thing that Carlota must grill you on now is this: “So how are you going to curate the exhibition, señorita?” 

With no answer just yet, you watch as Carlota’s brush makes one last satisfied flick against the canvas. She leans back, stretching in her (unintentionally) colourful apron, staring at her work with the satisfaction of someone who is done. 

You blink at the chaos around you – canvases leaning against the walls, some still glistening with wet varnish, others already sun-dried and cracked. They fill the room, and now this is your circus, so you better at least ask properly about her project.

“This is the whole collection?” 

“All of her.” 

You tilt your head. “Her?” 

“The body. Mine, yours, the woman across the street wearing polka dots. Fuck me if I know. But her.” She gestures broadly with a roll of her eyes, then points to a large canvas propped near the back wall. It’s striking: deep blue saturated with bloody crimson, each wrinkle of a rolled-up shirt painted to precision, each line of the skin equally as vivid. She bears no face but her power is unmistakable. 

“That’s a footballer,” Carlota says, already half-distracted, digging through a pile of tangled wires and paintbrushes for a misplaced lighter. “From here. Barcelona. You wouldn’t know her, but the whole country does. Stares at her. Marvels at her. Stuff you see in documentaries.” 

You step closer. Her body is rendered with aching precision, muscles sinewy with strength and endurance. Elegant. Controlled. Reverent in the way Carlota’s brush has captured the angle of the spine, the bulge of her quadriceps. The posture of a victor.  

“She trains nearby?” you ask. 

Carlota shrugs. She was asked to attend a match but she doesn’t remember much. “I saw her play,” she settles on, sparing misconstrued details. You don’t even like football. “She’s… captivating. The world holds its breath.” 

You stare. You’re no better than the rest of them, scrutinising each divot in the stomach, qualifying her physique. The thought stings your throat with ridiculous guilt. 

You move on. Carlota has more interesting paintings, anyway.

…

Alexia doesn’t know how she feels about the news her agent has just given her. 

She understands fans: edits, drawings, posters. People look up to her like that, because she’s successful and she has been cleverly marketed into being the face of Barça Femení. And it’s no surprise that people do analyse her – she knows she’s not ugly, she knows that the muscles she obtains for work have superficial benefits too. 

But an actual artist – a well-known artist – painting her? Adding her into a collection titled Cuerpa that explores the female body to a level of intellectualism she gets imposter syndrome just imagining?

“Well, Ale, you’re going to have to see it in person.” When Alexia hired this agency, made for stars not footballers, she knew it was because there was too much fame for Josep to handle. Sharron understands these big things, like being hung in a gallery and immortalised in an art collection estimated to be worth quite a lot. “The artist herself has invited you.” 

“Who is the artist?” The tips of her ears go red as she hopes she at least knows their name. 

“Carlota de Montcada.” 

The name means nothing and everything. “As in the family that invested in the club?” 

Sharron nods. “But their daughter is an artist in her own right, and a good one at that. The exhibition is nearly finished, curated by another… you know. Very prestigious, if not because of nepotism.” 

“She painted me without telling me?” Alexia says, blinking. “Why would she even want to paint me?” 

Sharron doesn’t answer right away. She’s used to this: an athlete out of her depth, using resistance to mask the insecurity of attending anything that isn’t strictly earned through training, matches, and sweat. Although she does wish Alexia’s tunnel vision would widen so that she could understand that this is all part of her success. 

“It’s a compliment, you know,” she says lightly, when Alexia has frowned enough to stretch out her face. “You’re compelling. Visually. Culturally. You’re an icon, whether you like it or not.” 

Alexia scoffs, pushing her hand through her hair, damp from the shower she had after training. “Compelling? I’m not a… ballerina. Or a politician. I kick a ball around and lift weights until something breaks, and then I do it again. That has nothing to do with her fancy little intellectual body collection.”

“Cuerpa,” comes Sharron’s fast correction. 

Alexia’s aching feet hit the wooden floorboards with relentless panic-anxiety-confusion. “And I’m supposed to visit this stranger and… thank her for it? Where does that fit into my schedule?” 

Sharron looks down at her phone, already with Alexia’s calendar open. “You have a sizable gap tomorrow afternoon.” 

The pacing stops. “No, I don’t.” 

God, please don’t let her. 

“Yes, you do,” Sharron says, voice light with amusement. “You’ve got recovery in the morning, and the rest of the day is clear unless you want me to rebook that call with Hellman’s you cancelled on last week.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got time, Alexia.”

Alexia exhales sharply, folding her arms. “I didn’t sign up for this.” 

“Technically, you did. There’s a likeness contract with your signature on it. Digital.” Sharron knows Alexia never bothered to read that, getting her lawyers to summarise while she focused on whatever important match she had next. 

Her glare has no real heat behind it. “She’s from that family. The Montcadas.” 

“Yes,” says Sharron, neutrally frustrated with the prolonged duration of this chat. 

“The ones who invested in the club.” A redeeming factor, at least. 

“Yes.” Sharron is growing bored of this conversation and Alexia is growing tired of having her agent in her kitchen when all she really wants to do is rewatch the footage from last season. 

“She must have seen me before.” 

“Like the rest of Spain.” 

Alexia stares at the floor for a long beat, jaw clenched. Then, finally: “what if I don’t like it?” 

“Then you don’t like it. But you’ll still be in it, and that will mean something.” 

Alexia’s quiet again, head swirling somewhere between irritation and curiosity. She doesn’t like the feeling of being seen without permission, but there’s also a part of her – hidden, sharp – that wants to see what Carlota saw. What she thought was worth immortalising. 

She huffs. “Fine. But I get to bring my sister.” Alba likes this kind of stuff. 

Sharron’s smirk is of satisfaction – the kind that the owner has deemed inevitable. “Good. I’ll message you the address.” 

They end up trekking up two flights of concrete stairs in Poblenou, until they reach a floor with a small plaque (carlota de montcada, it read in lowercase) by the door and a doorbell that looks like it is often pressed and ignored. 

“This is so cool,” Alba murmurs, trailing behind as Alexia knocks, half-hearted. She chooses not to touch the paint-stained button. 

Inside, it smells like chemicals, varnish, coffee, and faint incense. The space is tall and open, with large windows that let the autumn sun flood the room before it hides for winter. The floor is a mess of footprints and old paint spills. Everything feels like it breathes.

And then: “you’re early.” 

Carlota de Montcada appears from behind a freestanding canvas. She’s wearing wide-leg trousers splattered with what looks like ink, and a thin black tank top. Her hair is clipped up in that haphazard elegance she of course carries. 

Instinctively, Alexia sizes her up. She’s cool. Very obviously knows she’s cool. There’s something even theatrical about it, and Alexia already knows, without question, that Carlota and her exist in different worlds. 

“Hi,” Carlota says, stepping forwards. “It’s lovely to meet you, Alexia.” Carlota glances at Alba. “And you must be Alba?” 

Alba beams like she’s been personally invited to Versaille at its peak. “Hi. This place is amazing.”

Carlota shrugs modestly, then turns to Alexia with an expression that sits somewhere between curiosity and professional detachment. “Want to see it?”

Alexia nods. She doesn’t really want to talk to Carlota. The intensity of her annoyance is stuck in purgatory. 

The painting is propped near the centre of the room, still uncovered. It’s bigger than she expected. Technically, it’s a portrait – that much Alexia does know – but it’s not stiff or traditional. It’s a captured movement: a turn, sweat rolling down her stomach as she pulls up the hem of her shirt. And it’s faceless. 

Alba lets out a breath. 

“You’ve never met me.” Alexia, unlike her sister, is quite sceptical about this. 

Carlota’s head tilts slightly. “I watched you. Last season.” 

“You like football?” 

Although Carlota would like to say she was in search of a muse, the truth is far more routine and boring: “I was with my father.” 

Alexia nods with a triumphant hum. She doesn’t know what game she’s playing, but she is sure that she is currently winning. 

Her eyes are caught by the painting once more. Power strikes her – the power of her stance, her body. The boldness of the colour. The brilliance of the hand with which it was painted. 

But she bites her lip, uncomfortable with this notion. Not provoked, definitely not complimented, but not exactly wanting to look away. 

It is then that Alba clears the tension. A quick, “Carlota, is that your girlfriend?” and all heads are turned to the corner of the room. “She works in film, no?”

“Yeah.” Carlota says it slowly, as though she isn’t clear of Alba’s intentions. Her sister isn’t either, and Alexia catches herself wondering if Alba has been influenced by her aunts. 

An alarm goes off silently that tells everyone: don’t talk about Carlota’s private life! Alexia remembers that Carlota is far more important than she is. She thinks. She’s not sure. 

Carlota turns to her again, after she parries any further questions. “You don’t like it.” The statement lacks disappointment. 

“I didn’t say that.” It comes out with indignation. 

“You didn’t need to.” 

Alexia shrugs. “I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.” 

A voice interrupts before anyone can break the moment further. 

“Carlota, your bloody front door’s impossible.” 

The sisters exchange glances at the whiplash the accent gives them. Carlota mutters something under her breath, smiles in the way that preludes an apology for changing the language, and holds her hand up in surrender. 

You walk in barely looking up from your phone, mid-text, scowl so deeply set that you’re certain it will leave a mark. The cable-knit you’re wearing is too warm for the atmosphere of Carlota’s studio, and Alexia notes that white linens may not be the safest here. She decides very quickly that you are not a fellow artist. 

“I swear to God, if I have to talk to Richard once more about flights home, I will fake my own death.”

Carlota hums. “Perfect timing.”

“I know.” You finally glance up, freezing when you see two strange women staring at you like you just screamed Hala Madrid in the middle of Las Ramblas (oh, yes, you are true catalan now after one month of inhabitance). “Ah.” 

“Meet Alexia Putellas.” Carlota is wearing a smirk that you cannot place, but you know that she is conspiring. “And her sister, Alba.” 

You hold out your hand for Alexia to shake, but she seems positively puzzled at your appearance. Her sister gladly grips on to save you from total embarrassment. 

“Those—” Carlota points at the defined muscles on the canvas. “Belong to her.” 

“Football,” you mutter, but it’s not a question. Just exhaled air. A sound. 

Alexia nods, stiffly. Unsure of how to look at you, unsure of how you look at her. Your eyes are penetrating, like a bird of prey scanning for its next kill, and you hardly seem impressed by her job title. That’s not something Alexia is used to. She doesn’t like it – doesn’t think it’s fair. 

“Carlota did a marvellous job. I’m having it right in the middle with a comfortable bench in front of it.” It sounds like an insult. “Very left-wing. An exploration of hard-working women.” 

“Foreign concept?” Carlota chimes in, grinning as you swat her shoulder. 

“Anywho. I must dash. Do you have that folder I left in here? I’ve got to take it to the gallery.” 

“Where is the exhibition being held?” Alba asks, looking at Carlota and hoping she will translate. Or, perhaps, know herself. 

“MACBA,” you answer. “The opening is in two weeks. You should have been invited.” 

“I haven’t asked my agent,” Alexia explains, feeling the need to. That must annoy you, because your smile disappears and something else replaces it. “I’ll be there.” 

You pause. Something ignites with the words — you’re almost excited for it. The reminder of the exhibition is a reminder of purpose and hard work. 

You can add something else to your name that doesn’t connect to your family or your idiot fiancé. 

You can slide pearls around your neck like armour and ride into battle. Be thrilled by it. 

You can see what footballers look like when they are out of their depth. When they’re not arrogant and uninterested and glorified chiselled statues. When she won’t carry the cockiness that makes your fingers tingle.  

“Good.” You regain control of yourself and your musings. The time will come, and Alexia will be there for you to enjoy. “You’re the main event.” 

The artist, whose artwork actually should be the main event, clears her throat: a very obvious reminder to back out of the conversation and save the intensity for the meeting you are about to be late for. 

You rush off before Carlota can whine in your ear. You feel the footballer’s gaze linger on your back. You try to force your mind to think about flight times. 

…

The first thing that goes through your mind when Carlota’s father dictates that both of you appear at the Barcelona women’s team Champions League match is that you don’t want to go. Never have you ever wanted to go. 

Granted, you went to your boyfriend’s matches at school, back when you’d be on exeat and the Westminster boys insisted on kicking balls around, losing to the creators of the sport consistently and embarrassingly. 

But. 

Well, that was different. 

Now you’re in a seat that is far from comfortable, surrounded by businessmen and Carlota’s family, being subjected to watching athletic women run around for an hour and a half. 

And her girlfriend is here. Carlota’s girlfriend.

Hannah. 

An American, which she admits with a grim smile as you glance at your friend and wonder how she did it. 

“You know,” says Carlota, sipping a lemonade contentedly as the second half begins, Barça comfortable in their five-goal lead. “Hannah played football for Harvard.”

“Charming.” 

“You just have to give it a chance,” Hannah says, fingers intertwining with Carlota’s as though to prove something else. You glance at their hands and roll your eyes. Fuck them both. 

For once, when Richard calls you, you don’t delay in picking up. 

“Darling,” he says with a laugh, already amused. “What’s this I hear about a football match? Hardly you.” He doesn’t really know you, but you bite your tongue. “And a women’s match. Full of lesbos, isn’t it?” 

“I’m with Carlota and her girlfriend.” 

Richard is out — you can hear the raucous rabble of his mates from university, the echoes of ‘Fez is pussy-whipped’ resounding on the other end of the line. You grit your teeth. He chuckles. “No need to be so… PA. Lota’s one of my best friends. But don’t you start with it.” 

Carlota’s interest suddenly grows, alerted by the nickname and the voice that said it. 

“Dickie!” She grasps the phone out of your house. “What’s this about lesbians and football matches?” 

“Don’t turn my fiancée into a—” And you’ve stopped listening by then. 

 Carlota has him now, tangled in some biting rebuke about misogyny and laziness and the ignorance it takes to be unable to distinguish between a team of elite athletes and a Pride parade. You let her have him. She’s good at making men flinch. 

You turn your face back to the pitch. The fans are screaming. They chant a name you know. The one name you know. 

She wears the number eleven. You wonder if there’s a reason for it, or if she closed her eyes once and the digits stuck. 

The light has shifted, an early evening chill seeping in through the bodies. Alexia turns to shout at a teammate. The captain’s armband rides high on her bicep, stretched over muscle that tightens every time she moves. 

And she moves like she’s solving something. Like football is a puzzle to her — one that she has already worked out. It’s full of instinct: the way she runs and tracks back and controls the game. It’s full of blood and work. 

Early mornings, late nights. Passion. Dedication. Grace. 

You don’t even like football. You don’t know why you’re watching her. You don’t know why you can’t stop, either. 

It’s captivating. So you don’t even care when Hannah leans over to her girlfriend and murmurs, “I don’t think it’s us he should be wary of.” 

…

Hammarby are utterly destroyed by the end of the match. Alexia still doesn’t feel satisfied. 

She had come off in the seventy-seventh minute. She could’ve at least gotten a brace, but the opportunity had vanished. 

But she doesn’t yet class her mood as annoyed. 

Until Kika bounds over with a grin on her face. A grin that means mischief. A grin that Alexia is too defeated to cope with.

“You’ve just become a trophy wife.” 

The crowd hasn’t disappeared yet and they are still standing on the pitch, yet no amount of publicity training can school the expression in Alexia’s face. 

“What?” 

Kika pats her captain on the back and then the guilty hand raises until Alexia sees three women in the stands; two of them familiar. 

“Isn’t she the daughter of that guy we had to kiss up to?” Kika’s index points at dark hair pulled back into a messy bun — the best way to identify Carlota from afar. 

“Carlota de Montcada,” Alexia supplies, wearily.

“Mm-hm. And that,” Kika says as she now lands on the woman beside Carlota. She’s wearing dark aviators even though it isn’t sunny and she’s holding Alexia’s favourite artist’s hand. “That must be her girlfriend. The one who Jana kept talking about — that American who was wearing a senyera when she collected her Academy award.” 

Alexia shrugs. She has heard of Carlota de Montcada’s girlfriend (Alba made sure of that), but it’s really none of her business. She has more important things to worry about: footage, a new technical drill, maintaining her reputation as the best footballer in the game.  

“So…” Kika turns to Alexia. “Who is the third one? The one who was staring at you like she wanted to eat you?” 

Oh, Alexia thinks with disappointment. It’s the curator.

You’re talking to a man in a suit. His arms gesticulate wildly as though congratulating you, though Alexia isn’t convinced you’ve done much to be praised for. 

“Carlota de Montcada. Her girlfriend. And then her,” Kika prompts impatiently. 

“Carlota’s friend.” 

Kika raises her eyebrows, bouncing gleefully on the balls of her feet. “You’ve met?” 

“That’s a strong word for it.” A beat passes and Alexia feels the need to justify her exit from this conversation. “Don’t get too excited, anyway. She’s not interested in people like us.” 

“People with abs and thighs that she has been politely drooling over for the entire second half? I mean, you’re enough to make anyone squeeze their legs together and blush. Especially on the pitch.” 

“Can you name three Picasso paintings?” Kika shakes her head. Alexia’s point is proven. “And, in case you still don’t get it, she’s straight. Probably dating Carlota’s cousin.” 

Venom drips from her words, sliding down her throat and pouring out of her mouth, so overwhelming that Kika’s playfulness fades until she is scrutinising the pure disgust in her captain’s tone. It’s not clear why this conversation has bothered Alexia so, but the line was crossed and Kika is eager to rectify it. Alexia’s always been touchy about relationships. She should have known better. For her next sentence, it doesn’t matter which language she speaks it in, because Alexia will always understand. 

“Let’s bask in our victory.” 

Bask they do. Even if Alexia is convinced that the best reward is more time spent in the gym, because that will make her stronger and better and keep the rush of winning going. And she finds a new personal coach who’s insistent on her solely training on her right foot. 

She’s sweaty and she’s busy and she’s happy like this. 

Obviously, Sharron ruins when she brings her the dress she needs to wear for tonight’s gallery opening, the jade satin sliding over her skin like a very fashionable chain. “I was sorry to hear about Alba’s food poisoning,” says Sharron as her accompanying message.

This is a big betrayal on her sister’s part. 

“You’ll be fine on your own,” she continues. No one is convinced. “Just stick to football. Stuff you know. People you know.” 

“Will there be people I know?” It drips with sarcasm. 

“You know Carlota. And the curator.” 

Two bullets fired that wound Alexia further. 

She traipses into the event with faux enthusiasm that is only believable the bluntest tools in the shed. Even if she looks good. Even if she knows they want her to be here. 

Champagne flutes clink against inherited rings, laughter full of a certain quality that money cannot buy. There are lots of people here, each selected for their own unique purpose, just as elite as the next. The chatter they make, often ‘oohing’ at each installation as they go, is accompanied by a string quartet (all women, of course). Alexia doesn’t remember the last time she heard music that wasn’t to encourage her body to move; to dance with her mother, to train, to celebrate a win. 

The jade satin catches the gallery lights and refuses to let go – it clings, cuts across her back, reminds her of every time someone has called her beautiful when they had meant to say marketable. She knows how to own a pitch, how to own a moment, but this isn’t familiar. This is something else. 

Cuerpa consists of a number of canvases, varying in size and medium. She recognises a charcoal pair of breasts, darkly shaded in and etched with streaks of red oil pastel. 

Mitjanit, that one’s called. 

It has a crowd around it. Or rather, around Carlota, who is thriving and laughing and holding the hand of her girlfriend as though no one here cares. Her presence cuts through the crowd like a knife, slicing clean lines of attention. The girlfriend is prettier in person, which Alexia finds interesting, and she kisses Carlota’s cheek like she’s whispering a threat. 

Alexia tries not to stare. 

And then there’s a hand on her shoulder. Manicured. Unadorned. 

“They’re sickening.” 

It’s you. 

Why are you talking to her? Why are you not busy in that same crowd, drinking in that same praise? 

Why are you not walking around with a man on your arm, regaling family-friends with details for your boutique wedding?

“You were at the match,” is all Alexia can think to say, realising her accusation only when you sharply retract your hand from her shoulder. As your hands clasp together, she notices your engagement ring. “You don’t like football.” 

“It wasn’t my choice.” 

“Why stay?” 

“It’s the polite thing to do,” you reply with a smile that doesn’t reach earnestness. Her eyes narrow but you don’t seem to wither in your desire to bother her. “Did you not want me there?” 

Alexia considers it for a moment. “I don’t think about things like that when I’m playing.” 

It seems to amuse you, and you laugh, taking her hand and leading her further into the gallery. 

She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t expect to receive an answer. 

You reach a bench – a comfortable bench, as you’d promised – that is not yet occupied but the old and frail who have tired of playing at liberalism in Carlota’s company. You tell her to sit. She complies. 

“You don’t like the painting,” you point out as Alexia feels herself frown upon realising where you have brought her. “Too humble?” 

“Has anyone ever painted you?” she retorts, along the lines of ‘you will never understand me’. 

She soon understands the error of her ways when you laugh again. A note that belongs in tonight’s key signature, perfectly harmonising with the noise around you.

“Of course they have. Never as flattering as this.” 

You sit beside her, neatly pressing your legs together with the sort of elegant indifference that belongs to people who have never had to look at a bill or sell a car or worry about tomorrow. You look like you have never once been unsure of what to do with your hands. 

Alexia can’t decide if she hates you or just wants to work you out. 

You lean back, glancing sideways at her with a smile she doesn’t trust. It’s one that has betrayed her before. “Do you want to play a game?” 

“No,” she says, immediately. 

“Good. It’s called twenty questions.” 

“I don’t—” 

“First question.” You ignore her. “Do you believe in love at first sight?” 

Her scoff is automatic. “No.” 

“Too sensible,” you say with a nod, like you’re taking an emotional inventory. “Do you believe in fate?”

“No.” 

“Ah, you wouldn’t. Someone who has to fight for everything.” 

Alexia turns to look at you properly now. You’re not smirking, not yet, but you’re definitely enjoying yourself. There’s something behind your gaze that doesn’t belong here. Curiosity, maybe. Or maybe it’s something worse. 

You continue, undeterred. “Do you prefer early morning or late nights?” 

She shrugs. “Mornings. A question of discipline.” 

“Naturally.” It doesn’t seem like an agreement. “Do you believe people can change?” 

This one makes her pause. 

“Yes,” she says finally. “But most won’t. Don’t. Can’t.” 

You nod again, almost thoughtfully. “Favourite place in the world?”

This game seems very unfair. 

“The pitch,” Alexia answers, wishing she were there right now. 

“Place, not concept,” you answer with a shake of your head. 

“It is a place.” 

She watches as your lips twitch. “Five questions in and already you’re evasive.” 

“You're asking me ridiculous questions.”

“You wanted to play a game.” 

She’s about to point out that she didn’t – doesn’t. That you had coerced her here with some kind of intoxicating mysteriousness and she really should be talking to one of the Barça board members that she has just spotted in the corner of the room. That she’s not sure you’re supposed to be talking to her, anyway. 

But you don’t give her a chance. 

You turn slightly to face her. “Here’s one: are you happy?” 

She blinks. 

You can’t ask this. “It’s none of your business.” 

“Wrong. Everything is my business when I’m interested.” 

Alexia’s mouth tightens, frustrated. Who the fuck do you think you are, really? She should square her shoulders and point at the massive painting herself opposite the two of you. She should say, “that’s me. I’m important. I mean something.” Put passion behind the words – make it worth it, because she’d be winning then. 

But she doesn’t say any of that and you don’t stop. “Have you ever been in love?” is what you next fire out at her, seemingly uninterested in her answers and achieving in being perceived as a total narcissist. 

“Yes.” It’s an honest answer. 

“How many times?” 

She thinks back to Jenni and the girls that came between. Hates that you’ve made her look inwards in the middle of a sophisticated gallery opening that she isn’t meant to have attended. She definitely regrets coming now. 

“One and a half.” 

That makes you laugh again. “How delightfully cryptic.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be,” she replies, frowning. 

You nod, once. “Does it scare you? The idea of being seen. Not by fans or cameras or the analysis they have on those boring shows. By a person who knows you; who understands you.” 

Alexia takes a long time to answer. 

She searches for it, eyes flitting to where you have placed your hand between the two of you, engagement ring gleaming but not sitting as proudly as it should. She looks at your face; the crinkle of your brow, the blurred line between amusement and boredom. The mask that it all is. 

Maybe it’s a self-indulgent question, she thinks. Maybe you are projecting.

And she feels a glimpse of pity. 

Whatever has drawn you here to her – she pities you for it. 

“Yes, it does.” 

The air shifts.

You glance at the floor for a second. Then you look back up with a smaller smile, one that feels like it has been earned. It makes Alexia smile too. “You’re very good at this game.” 

She laughs incredulously. “I haven’t asked you any questions.” 

“Exactly.”

Alexia tilts her head, studying you, drowning out the sounds of the other guests making their way to her painting, treating it with the same awe and bemusement of the smudged boobs in charcoal. 

“Why me?” 

You look away for a moment, giving a polite smile to a woman with a severe string of pearls and an even more severe expression. 

“What do you mean?” you ask her. Truthfully. 

“You know so many people in this room. You have your friends, Carlota, her girlfriend, whoever you’re engaged to.” Her eyes flick to the ring at the same time as yours. “Why are you sitting here?” 

You seem surprised she’s asked. As if it hadn’t occurred to you she might turn it around. Really, it hadn’t, because you had assumed the footballer would tolerate your taunts in lieu of actually socialising, probably finding it easier to suffer at the hands of one of you than multiple. It had felt a bit like a favour – more so an experiment. You think she’d prefer that you tell her it was an experiment. A less sympathetic response, perhaps. 

“I want to see what it would take to make someone like you uncomfortable.” 

She sees no cruelty in it. For the moment. 

“And?” 

“Not much,” you admit. “But also… not in the way I’d expected.” Less brute force and more emotional intelligence, is what had gone down in your mental research journal. 

Alexia frowns nevertheless, not fond of being a test subject. She feels control slipping from her grasp and grieves it. With piercing eyes and piercing questions, you have opened her chest and stared – studied – and she is not glad to be at your mercy. 

Your hand twitches on the bench. Moves closer to her dress, but not near enough to touch. “Can I ask you something I shouldn’t?” 

“No.” 

You lean in anyway. “When did you decide you wanted to fuck me?” 

Alexia doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. 

But her breath pulls tighter in her chest, and she feels the way your words settle into her skin; bruises buds bursting to bloom. 

You’re waiting, frozen too. She’s trapped but she hasn’t bitten. It’s an aching moment between two inevitable events. 

“Who’s your fiancé?” 

Your face falls. Only briefly, but she is scrutinising you so she catches it. Of course she catches it. 

“His name is Richard. He is very wealthy and very darling, but I don’t love him and I’m afraid he doesn’t love me back. We’re to be married in March.” It comes out rather impatiently – an obstacle in a path that is still clear and easily found. 

“Spring,” Alexia states like an idiot, too confused by the situation to absorb anything else. It’s not spring yet.

“New beginnings.”

Alexia laughs. It’s a surrender. She waves the white flag. She falls for it. She should never have come. 

“You’re an awful person,” she says, which she means with her whole being. But she knows that she is playing a game, and the only way to lose is to sit back and let it pass her by. It’s no secret that the winner has been clear from the start, but that doesn’t quite deter her. She answers your question instead – her next move. “One hour ago.” 

“Oh,” you reply, your teeth capturing your bottom lip and ruining its perfect shading. “Good.”

[tikitakatia]

Part 4

You go to your cousins wedding in Spain, and you catch the eye of the Alexia Putellas, she unintentionally becomes your plus one

Wordcount: 6k

“Do you want to come in?” you asked quietly, unsure if it was too much, too soon, but already knowing your answer.

Alexia didn’t answer right away. Her gaze searched yours for the briefest moment, then she nodded once, slow, deliberate. “If you want me to.”

You reached for her hand, fingers curling gently around hers as you stepped backwards, guiding her into the room behind you.

She followed.

The soft click of the door behind you hushed the world outside. The room was dim, only the warm glow of the bedside lamp casting golden light across the bed, the edge of the armchair, the curtains that still swayed slightly from the open balcony doors. The air held the faintest scent of your perfume and something floral from the wedding.

You led Alexia inside without saying anything, still holding her hand, your fingers laced like you didn’t want to let go. Neither of you moved quickly everything was slow now, a quiet hum beneath your skin, tension and curiosity and want woven together.

She looked around the room briefly, then back at you, like she was seeing it through you anyway. You stopped near the bed, turned to face her, your hands still joined between you.

Alexia stepped closer, the tip of her shoe brushing yours.

“You okay?” she asked gently, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. It was an honest question, not just a pause before a kiss.

You nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”

Her smile was soft. “I’m very okay.”

You both laughed under your breath. The kind of nervous laugh that comes right before something new.

You let go of her hand only to reach up, your fingers smoothing over her lapel, then sliding up to her shoulder, your palm resting against the side of her neck. Her skin was warm, she leaned into it just slightly, just enough.

“I liked today,” you said quietly.

Alexia’s voice was barely a whisper. “I like you.”

That did it.

You kissed her again, this time slower than on the dance floor no audience, no music. Just breath, just mouths finding each other, more tender this time, more deliberate. Her hands found your waist and yours curled behind her neck. She pulled you closer, but not too fast. Like she was learning every inch of how you fit.

She tasted like red wine and mint and something uniquely her. When your lips parted slightly and the kiss deepened, your fingers slipped into her hair without thinking. She sighed against your mouth like she’d been waiting for that all night.

When you broke the kiss, your foreheads touched, both of you still catching your breath.

“Do you want to stay?” you whispered, not out of insecurity but wanting her to know it was up to her.

Alexia didn’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”

It was that simple. You kissed her again as her jacket slid off her shoulders, as your fingers trailed over the bare skin of her arms. The night wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t wild, it was slow, sweet, the quiet kind of intimacy that felt like turning a page you both wanted to read together.

And for the first time, with no boat, no team, no teasing friends it was just you and her.

Alexia’s fingers trailed lightly down your arms as she looked at you, her gaze soft but intent. You stood facing her, she reached for your hand first, raising it to her lips for a gentle kiss, her eyes never leaving yours. Then, with slow certainty, her hands slid to your waist.

"May I?" she asked, voice quiet but steady.

You nodded, your breath catching a little, her fingers found the small zipper at your back. The sound of it being undone was barely audible over the gentle breeze outside, but it made your heart thump louder. She moved slowly, delicately, as though the dress were something fragile or maybe it was the moment she didn’t want to break.

As the fabric loosened at your shoulders, her hands brushed your skin, making goosebumps rise in their wake. She let the sleeves slide down your arms, letting the dress fall gradually, reverently. It pooled at your feet, and for a long moment, neither of you said a word.

Alexia’s hands came to rest lightly on your sides. Her touch was warm, steadying. She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder, her voice low near your skin. “You’re beautiful.”

You smiled, your cheeks warm, a quiet rush moving through your chest as you gently pulled her closer.

Your fingers found the first button of Alexia’s shirt, and with a soft breath, you began working your way down. Each button undone revealed a little more of her, the soft dip of her collarbone, the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

Alexia didn’t rush you. She stood close, her hands resting lightly on your hips, her eyes warm as they held yours. But the moment her shirt started to loosen, she leaned in placing a gentle kiss just below your jaw.

You smiled, your fingers pausing. “That tickled,” you whispered.

Her only reply was a soft chuckle as her lips moved lower, to the curve of your neck. You continued unbuttoning, a little slower now, distracted by the trail of kisses she was leaving her lips finding your shoulder, your collarbone, and the space just beneath your ear. Each kiss was featherlight, deliberate, like she was memorising you inch by inch.

As her shirt slipped from her shoulders, your hands traced over her back, the skin warm beneath your touch. She pulled back just enough to look at you, really look, before brushing her nose against yours with a grin.

“You make me nervous,” she said, her voice playful but honest.

You tilted your head. “Me?”

Alexia nodded. “Yes, but… in good way. Like before a big game.”

You grinned, leaning forward to press a kiss to her chest, just over her heart. “Then I must be special.”

“You are,” she said simply.

Your hands lingered just above the waistband of Alexia’s trousers, fingertips brushing the soft fabric as you toyed with the button, you weren’t in a rush the tension was delicious, but so was the quiet, teasing energy that had built between you.

Alexia’s eyes flicked between your hands and your face as she bit down on her bottom lip, smirking. The tension between you thick with anticipation, but still playful still you and her, the corner of her mouth curved into a crooked smile one that made your stomach flip and you could see something forming behind her eyes, she shifted slightly, her hands brushing along your waist as she tried to stay composed. You could tell she was trying to say something bold it was in the way her mouth curved, the way her brows furrowed just a touch as she searched for the words.

Alexia’s breath hitched almost subtly, her hands sliding along your waist, eyes flickering down to where your fingers paused. There was a playful glint in her expression, one you were starting to know well. Mischief mixed with affection. “I am…” she began, clearly trying to find the right words in English, her accent a little thicker with the moment. Her smile widened as she looked at your hands still at her waistband. “I am ready for… you to make the strip?”

You blinked. “Sorry?” you said, biting your lip to stifle a laugh.

She furrowed her brows, concentrating. “No… like… you take off my pants. Sexy.” She gestured vaguely down her body with a serious nod, as if that helped.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, dropping your forehead to her shoulder as she groaned, clearly knowing she’d said it wrong now.

“I mean… I mean you can do it. If you want. The… taking off. You make the undress.”

You leaned back, grinning up at her. “You are butchering English right now.”

She gave you an exaggerated sigh, hiding her face in your neck. “I was trying to be sexy.”

“You were,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around her, “Just maybe not how you meant to be.”

She pulled back with a smile, eyes crinkling. “Still, you not stop touching me.”

You shrugged, fingers brushing the button again, teasing. “True. Maybe I like your awkward charm.”

“Maybe you like me a lot,” she said, grinning wider.

You gave her a look. “Maybe I do.”

Her hand came up to cup your face gently. “Even when I say the wrong sexy words?”

You kissed her softly. “Especially then.”

“I try to be sexy,” she huffed, clearly trying to stay annoyed but failing as she smiled again.

You leaned in, your lips brushing her cheek. “You don’t even have to try.” Her breath hitched just a little at that, you grinned, your hands still resting at her waistband “And you were,” you teased. “Just… not with the right words.”

She pulled back enough to pout at you. “Then help me say it better.”

You brushed your lips across hers, barely a kiss. “Maybe later,” you whispered. “If you’re good.”

Alexia’s smile returned, playful and defiant. “I’m always good.”

You arched a brow. “Well, now that’s up for debate.” You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, your forehead leaning gently against hers “Maybe just say it in Spanish. I won’t understand it, but I have a feeling it’ll still have the same effect on me your after.”

Alexia let out a soft laugh, her cheeks pink, but her eyes dark with amusement and something else something warmer, deeper. She leaned in again, her lips brushing against your ear.

She murmured something soft, slow, completely in Spanish. You didn’t have a clue what the words meant, but her voice, her tone, the way her hands found your waist and held you just a little tighter, it sent a spark right through you.

You exhaled a breathy laugh. “Yeah… that’ll do.”

She smiled smugly, pressing her forehead to yours. “Better?”

You nodded, heart thudding. “Much.”

Alexia’s hands slid down your sides, fingers splaying over your hips as she leaned in to kiss you again slow, deep, and full of anticipation. Her hands gripped just beneath your arse, and without so much as a warning, she lifted you effortlessly. You let out a surprised breath, instinctively wrapping your arms around her shoulders, your legs around her waist.

She carried you the short distance to the small desk by the window, one of those odd hotel furniture pieces that never quite seemed to serve a purpose, before sitting you gently on the cool surface. Her hands settled on either side of you, fingers brushing your thighs as her body slotted between them, the warmth of her skin radiating into yours.

Your kiss resumed, more heated now, your mouths finding a rhythm as the press of her against you felt more urgent. Her lips moved from yours to your jaw, down your neck, making your skin prickle and your stomach tighten.

It was slow but electric hands moving tentatively over new skin, lingering at the curve of a waist, the line of a back. There was a gentle kind of wonder in it, both of you discovering each other not in rushed desperation, but with careful reverence.

Alexia’s hands paused briefly on your sides, her breath uneven against your collarbone. She pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You okay?” she asked softly, her accent curling around the words, her thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin.

You nodded, smiling, your fingertips running across her ribs. “More than okay.”

The look she gave you in return, tender, a little awestruck said everything. This wasn’t just desire. It was something gentler underneath, something real, either of you said it yet, but it was there.

Your breath hitched as Alexia's lips trailed from your mouth down the line of your jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. Her hands, steady and warm, rested at your waist before sliding up your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine through the fabric of your bra, unclasping it with ease before discarding it.

The soft, deliberate way she moved made you melt into her, your hands anchoring at her hips as she leaned in closer, the press of her body familiar now yet still new in a way that made your skin buzz with anticipation.

Her mouth reached the top of your chest, her kisses becoming slower, more thoughtful. She wasn’t rushing, there was something in the way she touched you, careful, focused, like she was learning you one kiss at a time. You tilted your head back slightly, letting out a soft exhale as her fingers swept lightly along your ribcage, thumbs brushing just under the edge of your breast.

You whispered her name without thinking, half warning, half plea and she paused to meet your eyes.

"You tell me to stop, okay?" she said, her voice lower, her accent thicker now.

You nodded, heart thudding, fingers threading into her hair gently as your forehead pressed to hers. “I don’t want you to.”

That was all she needed. Her lips returned to your skin, slow and purposeful, as her hands explored more bravely now never rushing, never pushing, just touching, learning, offering.

Her hand was cradled your thigh gently. She kissed your shoulder, her voice hushed against your skin. “Okay?” she asked again, always checking.

You nodded, too breathless to say much, your body already humming with the anticipation she’d so carefully built. Her fingers trailed along the inside of your thigh, patient, exploratory, making your skin tighten with heat. When she finally touched you properly, your hips twitched, breath catching.

It wasn’t rushed it was reverent. Like she was mapping you out by instinct, watching every shift in your face, every sound that escaped you, responding with even more care. The strokes were slow at first, gentle, as though she wanted to give you time to feel every ounce of what she was offering.

Your hands found her shoulder, gripping gently for anchor as the sensations began to build. It was impossible to stay quiet—your breath came quicker, your body arching under her touch as a low moan slipped out before you could stop it.

She kissed the corner of your mouth, whispering something in Spanish you didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. The way she said it, how her lips brushed your skin every bit of it felt like worship. The rhythm of her fingers deepened, her free hand gently holding your hand as your thighs tightened around her.

It crested slowly waves of pleasure tightening your core until it swept over you completely. Your back arched, mouth falling open in a breathy gasp as the tension broke, release washing over you in pulsing waves. Alexia didn’t stop right away she guided you through it, steady and soft, until the tremors faded and you lay, spent and blinking at the ceiling.

She didn’t ask for praise. She just rested her forehead to yours, brushing back a strand of hair as you caught your breath, still dazed, “Estás bien?” she murmured, voice thick with affection.

You let out a laugh, shaky and breathless, pulling her in for a kiss, “More than fine.”

She kissed you like she didn’t want to come up for air, like she couldn’t quite believe you were real and here with her. Her hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, and in one smooth motion, she lifted you from the desk as though it was nothing.

You gasped against her lips, arms winding around her neck instinctively, legs curling around her waist yet again. The way she held you effortlessly strong, gentle but unshakable made something flutter low in your stomach.

She laughed softly at the sound you made, her forehead resting briefly against yours, she turned and carried you the few steps across the room, lowering you slowly onto the bed, her hands never leaving your skin. She looked down at you for a moment, soaking you in eyes flickering over your flushed cheeks, your lips, the curve of your body resting against the covers. There was something soft and reverent in her expression, like she was taking in every detail.

Then she joined you, sliding over you, her body warm and close, her lips brushing yours again. You kissed slowly, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that told you everything she didn’t say out loud. Her hands found yours, fingers lacing together, grounding you both in this moment just the two of you, nothing else.

You and Alexia moved together, hands roaming, exploring familiar shapes that still felt new in this closeness. The room was quiet aside from the soft sounds you made breaths that hitched, whispered names, the occasional stuttered laugh when touches surprised or delighted. Especially when you'd rolled to your side and she took the chance to smack your ass, "Cheeky" you muttered against her lips.

Your bodies shifted, tangled, equal in rhythm and want. There was something natural about it, like you'd both instinctively known how to match the other. You pressed closer, breath catching as her hands moved, nothing rushed, nothing forced, just the two of you reading each other like your bodies spoke a language all their own.

Her forehead rested against yours as you held each other through it tension building and rising in tandem, like waves threatening to crest at the same time. You could feel her heartbeat thudding against your chest, mirroring your own. The connection between you sparked, deep and overwhelming.

Then it hit together, not loud or dramatic, just an overwhelming rush of warmth and relief and closeness. You both stilled, clutching at each other, riding the moment out with soft gasps and shaky laughs. Your eyes were still closed when you felt her lips brush your temple, her body pressing gently into yours like she never wanted to let you go and maybe you didn’t want her to, either.

☀️

Alexia’s arm draped over your waist, her hand lazily tracing the curve of your hip beneath the sheet. You were still catching your breath, cheeks warm, limbs heavy but content. Her skin was soft against yours, her chest rising and falling gently at your back.

“What do you like?” you asked softly, your voice a mix of curiosity and affection as your fingers idly played with hers.

Alexia hummed behind you, thinking. “Mmm… I like to read. In off-season. Or go the beach. Sometimes cook with Alba.”

You paused, blinking, then turned your head slightly to look at her over your shoulder. “No, I meant… what do you like in bed?”

She shifted behind you, not catching your tone. “In bed?” she repeated, thoughtful. “I like to sleep on the left side. But only if is not near the door. I don’t like that.” Her hand gestured lazily as she went on, “And always window open or fan. Even in winter. I get hot.”

You bit back a laugh, rolling to face her, your nose nearly brushing hers. Her brows pinched in confusion when she saw the look on your face. You grinned, eyes sparkling. “That’s not what I meant, Alexia.”

“No?” she blinked, then her mouth parted a little as she realised. “Ohhhh.”

You giggled, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “I mean what do you like in bed. Not in bed, but in bed.”

She gave a half-laugh, half-groan, burying her face in your neck. “You are too much,” she muttered in a groan, the tips of her ears visibly pink.

“You make it too easy,” you teased, nudging her playfully with your knee. “I ask one simple flirty question and you give me a full sleep routine.”

She pulled back, still hiding her blush with a hand. “I thought… I really thought you mean sleep!”

You grinned, curling into her. “We’ll revisit the question. When you’re less… off-season mode.”

She laughed again, more relaxed now, pulling you close. “Okay, okay. I think next time I ask you confirm first.”

“Deal,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to hers, still smiling.

The quiet in the room settled again, the type of silence that felt full rather than empty your bare legs tangled together under the sheet, Alexia’s thumb brushing lightly over your ribs in a way that felt almost too soft to bear.

She was quiet for a few moments, eyes on your face as if she was thinking hard, searching for the right words.

Then she spoke, voice a little hesitant, “I don’t… want just… how you say…” Her brows pulled together, lips pressing tight as she frowned in concentration. “One time… thing? Like… one night?”

You tilted your head, watching her carefully. “You don’t want a one night stand?”

“Yes! That,” she said quickly, relieved you helped. Then she shook her head firmly. “No. I don’t want that.”

You smiled, heart tugging at how serious she looked. “Okay. So what do you want?”

She huffed, frustrated with her English. “I want… keep see you. After this. I want dates. Real ones. You and me. I take you.”

You bit your bottom lip, trying not to melt completely. “You want to take me on dates?”

Alexia gave a soft groan. “Yes, this is what I say. Why your English have so many… stupid phrases?”

You laughed, burying your head into her shoulder, kissing it softly. “Because you saying them wrong is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She looked down at you, exasperated but smiling. “I serious. I like you. I don’t want just this night.”

“I like you too,” you whispered, brushing your fingers gently along her jaw. “And I want dates too. Real ones.”

Her expression softened even more, and she leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to your lips slow and sincere. “Good,” she murmured as she pulled back just enough to whisper it. “Then is not just stupid English night stand.”

You laughed into her mouth as you kissed her again, heart aching in the best way possible.

☀️

The soft warmth of morning crept into the room, the light barely filtering through the curtains when you felt the gentle press of lips against your shoulder blade. A slow, lazy kiss, then another and another, a trail of affection that made you stir with a faint smile, your eyes still closed.

You felt her shift behind you the press of her chest against your bare back as her arm draped over your waist. Her breath tickled your ear as she nuzzled close, her voice husky from sleep and her Spanish lilt even softer than usual. “Mm… buenos días,” she whispered. “It’s time for breakfast.”

You mumbled something unintelligible, still half-dreaming, earning a quiet chuckle from her. Her nose brushed the curve of your neck before she kissed just beneath your ear, a little firmer this time.

“Come on,” she coaxed sweetly. “I know you don’t want, but we go… we eat. Then… maybe come back to bed.”

That made you smile as you turned your head slightly toward her, eyes finally blinking open. “You bribing me with food and more bed?”

Her grin was lazy and smug as she tucked a bit of your hair behind your ear. “Is good plan, no?”

You hummed in agreement, still half-wrapped in sleep, and let yourself melt for just a little longer into her warmth before eventually sitting up Alexia following close behind, already reaching for the shirt she’d discarded the night before, still watching you like you were the first thing she wanted to see every morning.

Alexia had disappeared with a soft kiss and a whispered, “I go change, five minutes,” slipping out with her shoes in hand and her shirt half-buttoned. You'd taken the opportunity to freshen up, padding into the small hotel bathroom in nothing but one of the white fluffy towels, your toothbrush lazily working through minty foam.

The bathroom mirror was a little fogged from your shower, but clear enough to spot the moment she came back. You didn’t hear the door, she moved quietly but her reflection appeared behind you, and your eyes met hers in the glass.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, now in a soft linen shirt tucked into loose trousers. Simple, clean, somehow effortlessly perfect. Her hair was a little damp at the ends, and she’d clearly rushed, but she was smiling as her eyes took you in.

“You always look good,” she said, voice low and fond as she pushed off the frame and walked toward you.

You finished brushing, trying not to smile with your mouth full of toothpaste. She came up behind you, meeting your eyes again in the mirror, her hands gently sliding onto your hips over the towel.

You spat into the sink, rinsed, and wiped your mouth before glancing at her reflection again. “You were gone five minutes,” you teased lightly.

“I said five minutes,” she shrugged, like it was a challenge to beat her own prediction. Then, softer “I don’t want be gone long.”

You turned in her arms, the towel still snug around you, and raised an eyebrow. “Miss me already?”

She smiled, pressing a quick kiss to your damp shoulder. “Mucho.”

☀️

As you both left your room, the door clicking shut behind you, Alexia’s hand found yours again with ease, her fingers naturally sliding between yours like they belonged there. You were heading toward the lift to meet the rest of the wedding party for breakfast, and she walked close your arms brushing, her thumb gently stroking the back of your hand every few steps.

In the lift, it only intensified. She let go of your hand just to wrap her arm around your waist instead, her palm resting against the curve of your hip, pulling you slightly into her side. You looked up at her, amused.

She wasn’t trying to hide anything. In fact, she looked content like holding you this way was second nature. You rested your head lightly against her shoulder for a second, a small smile tugging at your lips.

As the lift doors opened, her arm stayed around your waist as you walked through the hotel corridor toward the breakfast area. The corridor was quiet, your steps soft on the carpet. Every now and then, Alexia leaned in to murmur something soft in Spanish something you couldn’t understand but didn’t really need to. Her tone was warm, intimate, her hand slipping a little lower as she guided you forward.

You glanced up at her, playful. “I like this touchy feely version of you.” you said as her fingertips grazed your ass.

Alexia gave a bashful smile, her hand still holding you close. “Touchy feely?”

You nodded, amused. “Yeah… affectionate. Handsy. I could get used to it.”

She looked down at you with a grin, then leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek just as you neared where you needed to be. “Get used,” she repeated softly, “please…”

As you rounded the final corner and the soft murmur of conversation grew louder, you spotted Eli and Alba already seated at the breakfast table near the window, sunlight pouring in and catching on their coffee cups and orange juice glasses. They looked up, spotting you both, smiles already forming.

You felt a flutter in your chest something between nerves and anticipation and leaned closer to Alexia as her hand slid naturally to your lower back again.

“How do I say good morning to them?” you asked quietly, eyes on the table ahead.

Alexia glanced at you, a little smile playing at her lips, clearly charmed by your effort. “Buenos días,” she said gently, leaning closer so the words were just between you. “Say it slow bweh-nos dee-ahs.”

You repeated it softly under your breath once.

“Perfecto,” she whispered, squeezing your side. “They will love that you try.”

As you reached the table, Alexia moved ahead just slightly, smiling at her family. You gave them both a small, nervous smile and said, “Buenos días,” your accent shy but sincere.

Eli’s smile grew warm immediately. “Buenos días!” she said brightly, clearly touched.

Alba grinned, nodding approvingly. “Very good,” she said in English, giving you a wink.

You took your seat beside Alexia, who leaned in as you settled. Her voice was soft and proud. “You’re so cute when you try Spanish.”

You smiled, cheeks warm, glancing between the two women across the table.

Alexia added teasingly, “Now they know you’re polite and brave.”

The warm buzz of conversation floated over the table as the breakfast plates were being enjoyed and coffee refilled. You were halfway through your croissant when a family member arrived, carefully placing a comically oversized card down at the end of the table. It had soft gold lettering on the front and a floral border clearly a wedding card for the happy couple.

You watched with quiet curiosity as Eli carefully pulled the cap off a thick pen and began writing inside, her brows furrowing in thought. Alba followed, adding a cheeky message and an affectionate little doodle that made Alexia laugh under her breath.

You sipped your orange juice, trying not to not look out of place too obviously, when you noticed Alexia subtly pull a napkin closer to your side of the table. She kept her eyes on her family, her hand scribbling something casually with the hotel pen. You glanced down, scrawled in a quick, slightly messy script, you are cute.

A small smile tugged at your lips. You turned your head toward her, raising an eyebrow, but Alexia didn’t look at you at least, not right away. Then, when you least expected it, she tilted her head slightly, her eyes flickering your way with a smug, dimpled grin.

You leaned in just a little, voice low. “You’re distracting me from being polite to your family.”

Alexia shrugged with mock innocence, eyes sparkling. “No. I say truth.”

You tried to keep your cool, but you couldn’t help the grin spreading across your face. You picked up the napkin, folding it and tucking it into your bag earning a knowing look from Alba, who’d clearly caught at least part of the exchange.

Alexia leaned in again, whispering, “You save it? You like it?”

You nodded, brushing your knee against hers under the table. “I do. Might frame it.”

☀️

The hotel lobby was quiet except for the low hum of suitcase wheels and the soft chime of the automatic doors opening and closing. You stood near one of the velvet couches with your suitcase upright at your side, your fingers loosely curled around the handle. The morning sun streamed through the tall glass windows, casting warm golden light on the marble floor too pretty a day to be leaving.

Eli was already outside, keeping an eye on the street, her arms folded and eyes occasionally scanning for the arriving taxi. Alba lingered by the check-in desk, pretending to scroll her phone but clearly stalling. She glanced your way now and then, smiling faintly like she knew something neither of you were saying aloud.

Alexia, on the other hand, didn’t pretend.

She stood directly in front of you, her brows drawn slightly, her expression soft but stubborn. Her arms were around your waist for what had to be the third or fourth time in the last ten minutes, her forehead resting lightly against your temple.

"I no like this part," she mumbled quietly, her voice muffled in your hair.

You let out a breathy laugh, trying not to let the lump in your throat form fully. “You’ve hugged me enough times to break a record.”

"Not enough," she murmured, pulling back just far enough to look at you, her hands slid from your waist to your lower back. “You sure you have to go?”

“I don’t want to go,” you said honestly, smoothing a wrinkle in her sleeve with your thumb. “But yes. Real life calls.”

Alexia pouted slightly, then leaned in again, burying her face in your neck for a moment before whispering, “Next time, I go to you.”

You smiled, nodding against her. “Promise?”

“Prometo.” She leaned back, giving you one last squeeze.

From outside, Eli knocked on the glass and waved the taxi had arrived. Alba looked up from her phone with a quiet sigh and started walking toward the doors, Alexia didn’t let go.

Reluctantly, you placed a quick kiss at the corner of her mouth. “I’ll text when I land.”

She nodded, but her eyes followed you all the way to the doors, her hand slipping from yours only when the automatic glass separated you. As the taxi boot popped open, she pressed a hand to the window, watching as you turned one last time to wave.

Even then, she didn’t look away until the taxi pulled out of view.

☀️

You’d barely been home an hour.

The flat still smelled faintly of your suitcase clothes in need of washing, perfumes you don’t remember spraying, a crumpled wedding programme still wedged into a pocket. You’d just showered and pulled on some old pyjamas, your hair damp and tied up, when the buzzer rang.

You paused mid-cup of tea, glancing toward the door with a little frown, you weren’t expecting anyone. Crossing the room, you pressed the intercom button. “Hello?”

“Delivery for [Your Name],” a voice said cheerfully.

Still puzzled, you buzzed them in and cracked open your door. A few minutes later, the lift pinged and opened and the man stepped out with both arms completely full of flowers. Not just flowers a bouquet, massive and absurdly beautiful, the kind you only ever saw in magazines or on Pinterest boards. Soft blush peonies, cream roses, lilac wildflowers, and eucalyptus all carefully wrapped in brown paper tied with a satin ribbon.

You blinked.

“This... is for me?”

He checked the name on his delivery slip and smiled. “Sure is. Enjoy.”

You mumbled a thank you, accepting the weight of the bouquet carefully in both hands. It smelled incredible like summer mornings and something expensive. You set it gently on the kitchen counter, still stunned, before you noticed the envelope tucked neatly within the ribbon.

Your name was handwritten on the front in neat handwriting. You opened it carefully, heart already tugging in your chest.

Inside:

Thank you for being my date. Todo mi amor, A

Your smile spread so wide it almost hurt.

You pressed the card to your chest for a moment, already reaching for your phone with the other hand, this was so Alexia. Effortless romance, quiet intensity, thoughtful beyond words and you missed her already.

You couldn't stop smiling as you held the bouquet in your arms, the flat smelled divine now like florists and fairy tales. You reached for your phone, switching to the front camera, and tilted it toward the mirror.

You stood with your back to the mirror, torso and face behind the bouquet so only your bottom half peeked out. Snap. You uploaded it to your Instagram story with no caption, just a white heart emoji and a smiley face.

It didn’t take long before your phone started ringing. Carmen.

You laughed to yourself, already expecting what was coming as you answered.

“So that’s why Alexia Putellas wanted your address,” Carmen said, no greeting, just immediately calling you out. “I think you need to catch me up, don’t you think?”

You bit your lip to suppress your grin and wandered over to the sofa with the phone. “I was going to tell you, I swear.”

“Don’t even,” she cut in, mock-offended. “You’ve been keeping secrets since the wedding, and now you’re out here getting five-star floral confessions from Spain’s national treasure. Babe. Come on.”

You laughed. “I wasn’t keeping secrets. I was just… figuring it out.”

“Figuring out what? That she’s obsessed with you? Because I could have told you that when she spent thirty solid minutes watching you pour sangria and blushed every time you said her name that night.”

You let out a little groan, flopping back against the cushions, cheeks warm. “Okay, maybe I’ve been in denial.”

“She sent you a literal fairytale garden. That’s not denial territory, that’s main character energy,” Carmen teased. “Right, spill. How did you get to a place where Ale is sending you flowers please? And do not skip anything.”

You glanced over at the bouquet again, still stunned it was real, still stunned she was real. You smiled into the phone. “Okay. It started at your International game, with her asking me to be her date to a family wedding… and then things got very, very real.”

[tikitakatia]

A duo that has everyone in a chokehold rn 😩

[tikitakatia]

trophy

pairing: alexia putellas x reader

wc: 3.1k

tags: 18+!!!! smut, sugar mommy alexia, mafia alexia, fingering (r receiving), mirror sex, cunnilingus (r receiving), alexia grinding on r, dirty talk, jealousy, possessiveness but the good kind, alexia threatens a guy, aftercare and fluff at the end

a/n: i love a good sugar mommy alexia dynamic and the mafia just adds the perfect touch to me lol hope you enjoy!

The restaurant felt like somewhere the characters from Succession would eat, which honestly probably wasn’t too far off. Alexia was across the small table, eyes darting across a wine menu like she was deciphering some ancient cipher instead. Her brow had certain quirk to it, her forehead wrinkled just so as she read through the list of foreign reds and whites. The soft candlelight only accentuated her soft features as you sat there, staring, unabashedly, like nothing else in the world mattered. At that moment, it didn’t. 

“Where did you say we were going after this, baby?”

“An event.” She said quickly, not looking up from the list.

“Do I get any more detail than that?” you said, batting your eyelashes in that way that always pissed Alexia off. Of course, it only made her mad because it made her melt for you.

“Stop that, and no. I told you everything you need to know.”

“All you said was to stay as close to you as possible, stay quiet, and look pretty.”

“Exactly, that is all you need to know.”

You sat back in your seat with a sigh and continued watching. The fabric of your dress was tight, but not too tight. The shoes were silver, and you honestly could not remember if this was a pair studded with real diamonds or not. You had too many too keep track. The necklace, though, those were definitely real. You remember Alexia coming home with the box on a random Wednesday a few months ago, almost giving you a heart attack in the living room when you saw the exquisite piece.

Alexia ordered the wine and the food, as usual. She liked to do everything short of actually chewing your food for you like a mama bird. And honestly, you wouldn’t put it past her. 

You really had no idea what you ate—there was no point wasting energy on even looking at the menu when Alexia decided everything. Not that you minded, of course. One less decision for you to make. You told her about your day, your internship, your coworker who had bought you coffee twice this week, and yeah, had you brought that up just to see her jaw clench and her pupils dilate? Maybe. “Princesa, you know you don’t have to work that silly job, right? If this man is bothering you…”

“Yes baby, I know. You’ve told me a million times. But I want to, okay? I would go crazy sitting at home all day waiting for you. And I promise he is not a big deal. He doesn’t matter. Don’t do anything stupid on his account, ‘kay?”

“Mmm…I make no promises when it comes to you.”

“Ale…” You smirked. Alexia flashed back her wolfish smile that never failed to make you squirm in your seat. God this meeting or event or whatever better not take too long. Maybe I can convince her to leave early.

Dinner was comfortable and quick, just the precursor to the rest of the evening.

“Come, the car is outside,” Alexia’s hand found it’s place at the small of your back, leading you through the dimly-lit restaurant, out into the crisp night air, and into the back of the unassuming black car she had hired. You couldn’t remember the last time you had driven anywhere. Would you even remember how if given the opportunity? You didn’t waste too much time on the thought, brought back to reality quickly by Alexia’s hand squeezing your thigh. “Remember princesa, stay close and quiet. Don’t move out of my sight. Let everyone drool over you and make sure they know who you go home with,” she husked.

“Is that it? I’m here so you can show me off on your arm and make these assholes jealous?” you smirked.

Alexia gave me an unimpressed look and sighed. “Don’t- I’m not-”

I chuckled, shutting her up with a kiss. “Shut up. I love when you show me off, I love being your trophy”

“I don’t want you to think that’s all I see you as.”

“Ale, I know. You love me,” you smirked, lips just millimeters from hers.

“Brat.”

“You loveee me,” you sing-songed, playfully pecking her lips over and over again, your lipstick tinting her lips in a soft pink that just made you want to keep going and going.

The black car pulled up to what looked to be some kind of event center or hotel, again, you couldn’t bother yourself with the details when you knew Alexia would take care of everything.

The security guard escorted us in, not hesitating to lower his head in respect when he saw Alexia. You clocked her facial expression as you both strutted into the event, the subtle changes to her posture, her eyes darkening, her jaw clenching in the same way it did earlier. You felt her energy shift from the car to now; this was no longer your Ale, your wife, your love. No, this was Alexia Putellas. This was La Reina. Everyone knew not to mess with her or they should face the consequences. You were grateful to be on her arm and not a face in the crowd. Even in a room of potential danger, you felt as safe as you could by her side.

The next several hours were a blur of Alexia talking to various associates about god-knows-what. Honestly, you were just focused on her. The feeling that was buzzing underneath your skin, combined with the several drinks Alexia had gotten you from the bar, was begging to get out of that stuffy room and back home. “Ale,” you whispered in between conversations.

“Yes, carinyo?”

“How much longer do we have to stay?” You batted your eyelashes, giving your best pouty look that you knew she could never resist.

You saw the mask slip, her tough exterior fade for just a moment. “Not long, I promise. Stop it with the eyes, brat.”

I smirked in victory and leaned my head onto her shoulder as she led us away to another man she needed to converse with. Only a short while later, I felt an unfamiliar touch on my shoulder. Flinching further into Alexia, I looked up to see a man in a suit looking down at me with hungry eyes. “Quién es esta linda chica, Putellas?” he said, his voice slimy and sending shivers down my spine.

“Aléjate de ella antes de que te corte la garganta, Javier,” Alexia said, low and full of anger. She tugged you closer to her.

“Veo que la reina tiene una mascota ahora?”

Alexia took a deep breath before speaking again. “Podría matarte aquí mismo, y nadie vendría corriendo a por ti. Cuida tus palabras.”

Your Spanish wasn’t perfect, far from it, but you knew enough to know the gist of what was going on. And you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the specifics of how she was threatening that man, anyway. Once she was done her threat, she dragged both of you away to the entrance, already on the phone with the driver, making demands in rapid Catalan.

You didn’t dare speak until the driver safely deposited us at Alexia’s house. “Are you okay, Ale?” you said softly, almost worried she would explode again.

“Yes, princesa. I despise those men, every one of them. Even the thought that one of them would make you uncomfortable, let alone touch you, fills me with rage. I needed to leave before I did something I would regret doing in front of you.”

You clocked her choice of words immediately. In front of you. She would have killed that man like he was an ant in the blink of an eye if you were not watching, you were sure of it. The thought that she was willing to do such a thing in the name of protecting you filled you with heat. 

“I’m okay, baby, I promise. Thank you for protecting me. I loved seeing you in your element tonight, by the way.”

“Yeah? You liked that? Liked seeing me boss everyone else around for a change? Not just you?” Alexia’s hands were all over you, running over the smooth silk of your dress.

“Mhm…loved seeing everyone scared of you..” Alexia’s lips were barely a breath away from yours, ghosting over them to tease you.

“Everyone there was staring at you, mi vida. I could tell. They all wanted you. But you come home with me? Don’t you?” she whispered against your skin.

“Y-yes…’m yours..” Alexia’s smirk came back, stopping for a moment before her grip on your waist tightened and her lips moved to attack your neck. “Fuck, Ale. Mark me, please.”

Alexia groaned against your neck as she sucked a bruise to the spot below your ear that made you squirm in her hold.

“Ale, please. Please- bed,” you moaned out after what felt like a lifetime of Alexia biting and sucking at your neck and collarbones.

“What? Your little pussy can’t handle a little kissing? You need more of me?”

“Y-yes! Yes baby, I need more.”

Without a word, Alexia scooped me into her arms and carried me into the large master bedroom, placing you down in front of the dresser and large mirror that sat on top of it. Alexia stood behind you and softly kissed the back of your neck as she took off your jewelry. Her large hands ran down the back of your legs as she knelt down to undo the buckles of your heels. Her fingers grasped the zipper at the top of the dress and paused. “Keep your eyes on the mirror, princesa.”

You whimpered softly, bracing yourself on the dresser with my forearms as Alexia freed your body from the sleeveless black silk. The dress puddled around your ankles on the hardwood floor, leaving you in nothing but the red lace panties Alexia had picked out for you hours ago. “Every time I am amazed at how beautiful you are, darling. So perfect, and all mine.”

“Yours.” You gasped out at Alexia’s hands began wandering, wrapping around your front to softly knead your breasts. She dragged her fingertips lightly around your nipples, the feather-light touch on the hardened buds making you squirm. You watched her hands work like magic against your body in the mirror. You could feel you wetness gathering between your thighs, desperation growing. You were always desperate for Alexia, but how could you blame yourself? 

You resisted. Resisted the urge to let you head fall forward and eyes flutter closed in ecstasy. Resisted the urge to push your hips back into Alexia’s, silently begging. Resisted the urge to slip your own hand between your legs and get some kind of relief.

“All this,” she spoke in your ear as she lazily dragged her hands around your chest, back, stomach, and thighs, “is mine.”

“Yes..yes it’s yours. All yours. Alexia please.”

“Do you need more, carinyo?”

“Yes. Please.”

Her hands drifted down to your hips and toyed with the waistband of your panties for what felt like an eternity. You squirmed and whined, dropping your head to hang between your arms, the feeling of need becoming close to too much. You immediately felt one of Alexia’s hands snap up and tangle itself in your hair, yanking hard forcing your head back up, forcing you to make eye contact with yourself. The sharp prickles of pain from your scalp sent sparks straight to your core. You moaned, and Alexia tightened her grip.

“If you want me to touch you, watch. I won’t ask again.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Ale please.”

“Shhh…I’m gonna take care of you. Just keep those pretty eyes up there.” You managed a nod and a whine as her hands released your hair and returned to your hips, one of them snaking around to feel through the thin fabric convering your pussy. She hummed in satisfaction at the wetness she found there. “What is this, princesa? All for me, hm?”

At this point you didn’t have words, turned on beyond belief and using every ounce of self-control to keep your eyes where she wanted them. Another sharp tung on your hair had you gasping into the suddenly too-hot air of your bedroom. “Words, mi vida.”

“Y-yes! Yes, it’s all for you Alexia!” you choked out. She took her time, gliding her fingertips through your silky folds like she was mapping them out in her mind even though you both knew she already had it memorized like the back of her own hand. The rough pad of her thumb made sudden, rough contact with your clit, causing you to gasp and buck your hips back towards the source of your pleasure. Your high was building quickly, the tension coiling in your lower stomach and threatening to break in what should be considered an embarrassingly short amount of time. “A-Ale..Ale I’m gonna-”

“Not until I give you permission, remember?” You glanced behind you in the mirror to see Alexia’s biting smirk looking down at you. You whimpered but nodded your head, biting your tongue until you tasted copper to try and starve off the climax begging to overtake your body. The visual stimulation of seeing yourself, seeing the desperation and pleasure in your eyes as Alexia played your body like she was in an orchestra kept you dangerously close to the edge. Alexia’s thumb slowed it’s circles around your clit and her middle and index finger were inside you before you could even whine in protest. “I love feeling you squeeze around me carinyo. Who’s pussy is this? Hm?”

“Y-yours! Yours, yours, yours!”

The uncontrollable facial expressions you watched yourself make were downright sinful. Alexia’s words, low and husked and laced with the Catalan accent that made you weak in the knees in a normal atmosphere, only added to the growing mess between your legs when combined with the current context.

“That’s it, baby. Watch yourself fall apart. Watch how you give yourself to me. God, you look so perfect like this, don’t you think? I should just keep you like all the time, dripping and begging for me. Would you like that? My perfect, slutty, little toy for whenever I want?”

All you could do was whimper and nod as Alexia’s talented fingers hammered against all of your most sensitive spots.

“Alexia-! I need- needa’..please” you babbled incoherent nonsense as Alexia pushed you just to edge and kept you dangled there for what seemed like decades. Tears filled your eyes, falling down your flushed cheeks as you blinked them out to regain your vision.

“Don’t you dare take your eyes off the mirror. Watch your perfect eyes when you come for me,” Alexia hissed against the shell of your ear, attacking your neck in bites as she finally pushed you over the edge. The sounds that ripped from your throat were completely feral and animalistic. Alexia continued her movements, not stopping until you were writhing from the overstimulation. Your head dropped onto the dresser as you attempted to catch your breath. But Alexia, obviously, was not done. Her strong hands wrapped around your hips and dragged you over the bed, laying you down and knocking your legs open. You swore you could see her mouth watering, even through your post-orgasm haze that hadn’t even begun to fade, your heart still racing and your skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. 

“So good for me, watching yourself like that, coming so hard for me. Let me clean my girl up, and then you can help me out, okay?” You only nodded and took a deep breath. Alexia’s soft lips kissed your pussy, still sensitive and slightly raw from before. “I’ll be gentle, I promise,” you could feel the smirk against your skin and knew she wasn’t being entirely truthful, but you couldn’t find it to mind.

Alexia lapped gently at the arousal pooled in your folds, drinking it up like she had been craving it for weeks. She focused the tip of her tongue on your clit, eliciting a gasp from you and your hips to buck up. Not one to allow you any kind of control, she tossed your legs over her shoulders and linked her fingers over your stomach, effectively trapping you exactly where she wanted you. 

She alternated between sucking on your clit, fucking you with her tongue, and flattening her tongue against your folds, slowly building your arousal again until you were a shaking mess beneath her. “Ale-!”

“Shh, you’ve been good tonight. Come when you feel it.”

“Mmm- thank you thank you-“

You babbled out thanks and nonsense as another wave of your arousal flooded her mouth. She drank it up with no complaint and moved up to kiss you, your slick still coating her mouth and chin. You moaned, tasting yourself on her. 

She slid her hips up until her bare cunt was rested against your abdomen. She used your gasp as an opportunity to slide her tongue into your mouth as she grinded her soaked pussy along your abdominal muscles. You loved being used by her like this, even after two orgasms it sent sparks straight to your core.

Unsurprisingly, Alexia came fast after getting to toy with you for so long. She collapsed onto the sheets beside you, fingers coming up to trail imaginary paths along your side. “You okay, amor?”

“More than okay,” you hummed, turning you body to tuck your face into her neck and cuddle into her side.

“Good. You want a bath?”

“Only if you get in with me.”

“Brat. Deal..” Alexia smirked and moved gingerly up from the bed, taking your hand and supporting most of your weight on the way to the bathroom. She ran the bath with the utmost care, triple-checking the water temperature and that she had the scent that you preferred in the soap. Although you really didn’t care about all that, as long as you were in a warm bath, back pressed against Alexia’s chest, you would be content.

You sighed in satisfaction at the feeling of the hot water on your over exerted muscles. Alexia slid in behind you, carefully holding you against her chest with her strong arms. Your head leaned back to her shoulder and her lips pressed against your temple gently. 

After some time soaking in the bathtub, Alexia spoke, her voice miles away from the confident and powerful woman that had stepped into the event hours ago or fucked you to tears just minutes ago. “I’m sorry that man made you uncomfortable. I should have been keeping a better eye on you, and on everyone else.”

“Not your fault Ale, it’s okay. Don’t tell me what you said to him after though, okay?”

“That was the plan mi vida. I love you.”

“I love you more. Every version of you.”

[tikitakatia]

Better Than You — A. Putellas x Reader

WC: 0.9k

Summary: Alexia loves a good challenge, especially when it involves impressing her girlfriend. This time however, her competitiveness doesn´t reap its usual result.

Alexia spots the game before you do, a ridiculous carnival stand with stacked cans, neon signs, and a mountain of oversized stuffed animals practically screaming come humiliate yourself here. She stops dead in her tracks, eyes narrowing at the display like it just challenged her to a penalty shootout.

“You want one?” she asks, like you didn’t already slow down two booths ago to eye the line of plushies the size of a small car.

“They’re cute.” You shrug casually.

And that’s all it takes.

“I’ll win you one,” she says with conviction, handing her water bottle to you like she’s about to go to war.

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t have to..”

But she’s already fishing out her wallet, sleeves pushed up and jaw set with determination. She hands over the cash to the booth guy and steps up like she’s about to take a penalty in Camp Nou.

You lean on the railing and smile. Alexia has many skills: balance, power, precision. Carnival games, however? Debatable.

At her first attempt, the ball bounces off the can tower without so much as nudging it and Alexia stares at the setup like it slapped her right across the face.

Second try: same result.

“Rigged,” she mutters.

You’re try not to laugh. “Amor, just walk away. You don’t have to prove anything.”

She ignores you obviously.

Third attempt. Then fourth. Then fifth. Her throw gets more intense each time, like if she just channels enough rage, the laws of physics will break for her.

People are starting to notice now. The booth guy looks mildly terrified. The kid behind you whispers, 

“Isn’t that Alexia Putellas?”

“Shh,” you whisper back, grinning.

By the seventh try, she’s visibly sweating and her wallet is lighter. Her ego? In shambles.

Finally, she turns to you with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. 

“Okay. I give up. These games are a scam.”

You step forward, kiss her cheek, and murmur, “Let me try?”

Alexia blinks. “You?”

“Just one shot.” You smile sweetly at her.

You hand over a single coin, take the ball, and with way less power and way more aim, manage to knock the tower over on your first try.

It clatters to the floor in slow motion. The booth guy actually claps.

Alexia’s jaw drops.

You turn to her, beaming. “So… which one do you want?”

She narrows her eyes. “I was trying to win you one.”

You hand the giant purple dinosaur (the booth guy picked it with enthusiasm) to her with a wink. 

“Well, now we both win.”

Alexia takes it reluctantly, clutching the oversized thing like it just beat her at her own game

“This is embarrassing.”

You wrap your arm around her waist. 

“It's okay amor, you´re good at other things.”

She leans into you after a beat, a smile tugging at her lips. 

“Don’t tell the team.”

“Of course not baby.”

The next morning, you and Alexia walk into the training facilities side by side, coffees in one hand and the enormous purple dinosaur awkwardly cradled between you, each gripping one of its stubby arms like shared custody parents. Alexia had insisted on bringing it, said she was going to dump it in Vicky’s cubicle with no explanation, just wanted to get rid of the thing as soon as possible.

You’re both trying to act normal, walking in sync like this is a completely reasonable way to enter a professional training centre. Alexia wears her usual game face, cool and composed, as if yesterday’s public humiliation never happened. But her fingers are just a little too tight on the plushie's paw, and you're pretty sure she's pretending not to notice the way its giant head keeps bumping her hip.

You’re halfway through the back entrance when Mapi appears, phone already in hand, smile way too smug.

“Well, well, well,” she sing-songs. “Look what made it to Twitter.”

Alexia freezes. “No.”

Mapi hits play.

You hear your own voice first: Let me try? Then the glorious crash of the cans, the crowd´s noise, the triumphant booth guy. And finally Alexia’s face, stunned, confused, mildly betrayed.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. 

“They filmed it?”

“Multiple angles,” says Patri, appearing behind Mapi.

“Look, this one’s in slo-mo.” She laughs.

Alexia groans and shoves her face into the dinosaur’s neck like she can disappear inside it.

“You’re a meme now,” Mapi says, nearly vibrating. “Look, someone added, ‘me trying to impress my crush.’”

“Do not show me that,” Alexia grumbles.

Too late. Ingrid walks by and pats the dinosaur’s head.

“At least you got the prize.”

“She didn’t,” you say brightly. “I did.”

Mapi nearly falls over laughing.

Alexia glares at you. “I just wanted to do something romantic.”

“And it was!” you say, kissing her cheek. 

“Romantic and publicly humiliating.” You can´t help but tease.

By the time training ends, the dinosaur has made itself at home on the bench, propped up like it belongs there. Someone’s stuck a spare training bib on it, your sunglasses are perched on its nose, and it’s holding a water bottle like it’s ready for drills.

There’s even tape on one of its stubby legs, Ingrid insists it pulled a hamstring.

Alexia groans when she sees it.

“Oh my god. He’s still here?”

You grin. “He’s part of the team now.”

“Please don’t tell me they named it.”

Mapi winks. “Too late.”

Cata, stretching nearby, calls out proudly, “Say hello to Penaldo!”

You absolutely lose it.

Alexia drags a hand down her face. “I hate all of you.”

You just kiss her temple. “Penaldo loves you.”

[tikitakatia]

MVP - reader x alexia x leila

Summary: lesbian sex between reader, Leila, and Alexia- that's all I have to say.

Warnings: SMUT (+18); threesome; strap (r receiving) oral (r giving and receiving); fingering (r receiving).

A/n: guys, I'm not very good at writing smut with more than two characters, but I hope this is ok. sorry for any typos, I literally haven't had a glass of water since I began writing this two hours ago.

..

When Alexia sat you down and told you she wanted to make your sex life more enticing, you hesitated for a moment. 

No one had touched you before Alexia; she was the only one to have her mouth on your cunt, the only one to make you cum in less than five minutes, the only one allowed to see you naked and worship you.

Alexia was proud of that, too. Cocky, even to be the only one for you, to be the only fingers that had ever touched your body.

That's why you were rather surprised when Alexia was the one who brought up Leila Ouahabi.

Alexia and Leila were teammates on the Spanish national team. You didn't know much about her, except that she was also Alexia's friend.

What was supposed to be a casual thing turned into something else entirely.

Before any of you could notice, the three of you had created this intoxicating relationship. It wasn't planned or premeditated, it just…happened.

Maybe it was the tender way Leila treated you after you came down from your climaxes in bed. Perhaps it was how she always brushed Alexia's hair after matches. It could be a lot of things, small details, and moments that led to this one.

The team had just beaten Belgium, and your two girlfriends were riding that post-match high. And even you were feeling it, even though you were just watching from the stands.

You knew it was going to be a long night, mostly because of how wet you got when you saw Alexia wrapping her arms around Leila.

How she kissed Leila's shoulder and how Leila pressed her lips against Alexia's temple in such an intimate way that made you feel a little bit jealous not to be there on the pitch as well.

You knew you needed both of them. Needed them like they were a physiological demand of your body.

You were used to waiting for them after games, but it seemed like the post-match showers and media were taking way longer than necessary. 

So much so that you decided to wait for them in the hotel room, the one Alexia had booked specifically for the three of you to share.

It was on a separate floor from the rest of the team. Alexia chose it because of privacy. You didn't want prying eyes or prying ears.

You had already showered and were now waiting for them in nothing but one of Leila's shirts, it was the same one that she had tossed on the bedroom floor that morning when Alexia woke her up with her mouth on her.

Thankfully, it didn't take long for them to walk in.

They looked tired, but the second they saw your bare thighs and hard nipples poking through the thin fabric of the shirt, their faces shifted, almost instantly.

You could only describe their expression as that of predators hunting for their next prey.

Alexia got to you first; her feet were heavy on the wood floor.

She wrapped her arms around your waist, bringing you close until your lower abdomen was pressed against her.

"Hola, mi amor," she said, pecking your lips as her hands boldly groped your ass. "Proud of us?"

"Uh huh," you nodded, your eyes closing as she began kissing your neck, leaving a wet trail on your jaw as well.ç

Leila was quickly behind Alexia now. She wrapped her arms around the captain's waist and moved her hair to the side to kiss the tattoo on the back of her neck.

"Did you see Alexia's goal, cariño?" Leila asked, her voice raspy, probably from being in the rain during the match. "She's our MVP."

"I did. I was screaming a lot for her," you replied.

Alexia lifted the hem of your shirt, tossing it aside and leaving you completely bare in front of them while Leila kept kissing Alexia's neck; by the way she was shivering, it was obvious she was struggling to focus on you, and not on Leila's mouth.

"I wonder if we can make you scream in here, too, no?" Alexia twisted your nipples, towering over you.

The only reason she wasn't completely on top of you already was because of Leila's firm hand holding her in place.

"Of course, we can," Leila chuckled rather sarcastically. "We can do whatever we want with her, Ale. Right, cariño?"

"Yes," you answered quickly as Alexia's lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking so slowly it made you moan.

"Look at me," Leila said in that voice, the one that meant business.

You did as you were told. You were very good at following orders.

"You'll let me and Alexia take care of you?" Leila asked, her fingers tilting your chin up. Alexia's mouth never leaving your tits.

"We're still very high on adrenaline," she continued, with a grin. "We need our little doll."

"Your tits taste so good," Alexia murmured, now leaving what felt like three hickeys on each breast. "Can only imagine how your cunt tastes right now."

You weren't exactly sure how you ended up on the bed on all fours.

But Alexia was eating you out from behind, her tongue rubbing your clit raw while your face was buried right in front of Leila's cunt, she was sitting pretty on the bed, her back against the headboard, slowly pleasuring herself with her fingers as you stared.

Just stared.

Turns out, Leila thought you had to earn her cunt, so she left you there, watching her wet pussy, smelling her, while Alexia so slowly penetrated you with two fingers, her tongue making eight-figurrs on your clit.

You couldn't think straight, not with the way your walls were welcoming Alexia's fingers, not with how deep they were.

Alexia always had long fingers, but it never stopped surprising you how easily she could reach your G-spot.

You wanted to lean over and lick Leila's pussy clean. It had been so long since she had let you have a taste.

Normally, she preferred to be more on the giving side, but still, you were so good to them today, you deserved it.

You wore the personalised shirt with both their names on it. You waited patiently for them, never once complaining about how much time they spent training. You just wanted to taste Leila…just that.

"Tell me about your view, amor, "Alexia said, pulling her mouth off you, making you whine. You didn't like it when she stopped. "Tell me, and I'll keep eating you out."

You looked up at Leila, giving her your biggest puppy eyes, but she only looked at you like she had you wrapped around her finger, which she did. Your eyes dropped again, back to her core.

"Leila's rubbing her clit with her index finger," you managed to say, your breath growing more shallow as Alexia added a third finger, her tongue spreading your wetness across your folds. "And–"

"And what?" Leila asked, raising an eyebrow. The hand she wasn't using came to your face, cupping your cheek. "What do you want me to do next?"

It seemed like you had forgotten how to speak. But Leila was staring you down, clearly impatient, and you knew Alexia would take her mouth off you again if you didn't answer soon.

"I–I want you to put a finger inside," you said, eyes rolling back as Alexia sucked on your clit.

"You want me to finger myself, cariño?" Leila's condescending tone only made you wetter, pulling you closer to the edge.

"Y-yes, please?" 

"You're so polite, aren't you?" Leila stopped touching herself, only to bring her hand to your mouth, tapping your lips so you would open them.

Her fingers tasted like her cunt, and you welcomed them eagerly, sucking them in, getting them nice and wet, ready for her.

"Our good girl," Leila praised, watching you as she twisted her fingers inside your mouth before pulling them out, with a thin string of saliva connecting you both. "You got me nice and ready."

Without wasting another second, Leila slipped a finger inside herself, then another.

She began thrusting, almost in sync with the way Alexia was fucking you. 

The wicked sounds filled the room, obfuscating the rain that poured over Switzerland.

"You look so good on all four, baby," Leila said. "All spread open for Alexia to do whatever she wants with you."

"I-'im close," you whined. "Please, please…can I?"

Leila added a third finger inside herself, her mouth agape as she kept thrusting. "Fuck, yeah, baby, cum with me. Alexia's gonna make you cum, sí?"

Alexia was probably paying attention to what Leila said, because she curled her fingers in that way, making you cum on the spot.

You felt that all-too-familiar wave rush through you, the ecstasy, the warmth, all at once.

Your arms and knees were too tired to hold you up, so you let yourself collapse onto the mattress, head still facing Leila's cunt. 

Her fingers were still working her close to the edge. Alexia had taken her fingers out of you and was now kissing the inside of your thighs, gentle pecks were being scattered across your body as you looked up and watched Leila on the edge.

You watched in pure devotion as Leila parted her lips, her eyebrows furrowing, her hips shaking as she came.

She wasn't a moaner. She nor Alexia really were, but you still caught the soft noises she made as she rode her high.

She leaned her head against the headboard, chest rising and falling as she caught her breath.

But Leila was the only one who got a break.

Because it didn't take long before you felt a different pressure on your back.

Alexia was on top of you, lying fully against your back as she cupped Leila's face, pulled her closer, and kissed her deeply.

And that's when you felt it, something pressing at your cunt.

Somehow…somewhere, Alexia had gotten the strap. When had she even put the harness on? You didn't know. You weren't sure of anything in your current state of mind.

Alexia didn't ask, she didn't give any warning when she worked her hips into you, filling you up completely with the strap.

"So fucking tight," Alexia murmured against Leila's lips.

"Ugh–" You moaned, your face squished into the pillow as Alexia and Leila kept kissing, slow and deep. 

It was as if you weren't even there, like their whole focus was on each other, and you were just their toy to use however they wanted.

When they finally broke the kiss (probably from lack of air), Leila spread her legs wider and shifted closer to your face. She cupped your cheek and guided your head right next to her cunt.

"You can eat me out now," Leila purred. "Go on, make me cum, doll."

You were more than happy to obey.

You ate Leila out messily and slowly, desperate to taste her in every centimetre of your tongue while Alexia kept thrusting into you from behind. 

Alexia held your hips down, pressing your body flat against the mattress, grinding into you deeply as she and Leila shared more kisses than you could count.

Hours later, you were lying right in the middle of them. Leila was out; she had fallen asleep almost immediately after you gave her an orgasm with your mouth.

But that didn't mean things had stopped between you and Alexia.

She had fucked you with her strap until you had drenched the sheets; she didn't stop until you begged her to. 

You were laid curled into Leila's side, your face tucked closer to her chest as Alexia spread your legs again and cleaned your cunt with her tongue.

But Alexia couldn't help herself.

She caught your clit in her mouth and sucked it until you came all over again. You nearly woke poor Leila in the process.

When Alexia finally laid down to rest, her face had that cocky little grin that you knew well enough.

She kissed Leila's forehead, then pressed a softer kiss to your cheek.

"I fucking love the euros," Alexia grinned, wrapping her arms around both you and Leila.

"Of course you do," You mumbled in a small voice, eyes already closing. "Miss MVP."

"Your MVP," she said cheekily. "Yours and Leila's." 

..

A/n: I hope u guys liked it!

Tag list: @footy-lover264 , @fortifyde, @naomigirmadefender , @neutraiise , @milkveed, @browercc , @ace-of-baked , @ikzzzya , @sky-the-trans-guy00 , @knight-16 , @wosohk04 , @evaissleepy13, @papimapileon , @unpoppablebubbles @whiskeredshrimp-blog @goodloe-e @liloandstitchstan @s0ciety-cxv @dfwspky @karmajn @awosofavs @wosofavfanfics @riyaexee

[tikitakatia]

hey 👋👋

I was thinking of a fic but not with a specific player in mind, so be my guest:

y/n has a dream of marrying, taking care of the house and possibly of the children in the future and all that, but as everyone is getting married/engaged, her girlfriend hasn't made any move and she's worried she doesn't want to marry her at all

not angst because her girlfriend DOES want to marry her

-

“I’ve come to terms with the fact you don’t want to marry me,” you say, not accusatory, just observational, like noting the lack of garlic salt in a recipe you’ve made seventeen times. “That’s fine. Not everyone wants things.”

Alexia turns one page of the book in her lap—Revolución y Cultura, a dusty political magazine she only reads when she’s trying to relax—and doesn’t respond. This, of course, confirms it.

You wait three seconds, which is generous considering she’s just annihilated your future together with the casual grace of a cat brushing a glass off a table, and then you push her shin with your toe. Her legs are bare, and she’s wearing your hoodie. It looks better on her. It’s from university, has a bleach stain on the left sleeve and a warped zip that catches your knuckle when you’re nervous. She calls it la reliquia. She’s currently using the excess material at its hem to rest her elbow on, like an old woman leaning into a window to judge her neighbours.

“I’m serious,” you say, even though you aren’t. Not quite. But maybe if you keep saying it, you’ll edge closer to truth. “You’re never going to propose. You’ve made peace with the fact that I’ll die your unwed companion, mentioned vaguely in a speech at your testimonial match. ‘She supported me off the pitch,’ they’ll say, and someone will clap, and someone else will whisper, What was her name again?”

Alexia exhales through her nose. Not a laugh. Not not a laugh.

You push her again. “You’re laughing because it’s true.”

“I’m laughing,” she says, in that absurdly slow, composed way she’s developed since turning thirty, “because you’re doing that thing where you pretend you’re joking but your heartbeat is genuinely faster and you’ve been weird all week.”

“I haven’t—”

“Tuesday. You cried at a binmen’s strike documentary.”

“It was deeply moving,” you say, defensive. “All they wanted was gloves.”

“You said, and I quote, they work so hard and no one ever gives them enough credit.”

You cross your arms. She marks her page with the postcard your sister sent from Mykonos—Wish you were here, kind of x—and folds it shut. Her magazine, not the marriage conversation. That, apparently, is still alive and gasping.

“Everyone’s getting married,” you say, a touch too quickly. “Every time I open Instagram, someone’s holding up a ring a diamond the size of a grape. You know how many lesbians I’ve seen on one knee this month alone?”

“Twelve,” she says. “You’ve been keeping a tally on the fridge.”

You sniff.

She sits forward, arms folded over her knees, forearms tight with that casual sinew footballers have even when they’re allegedly resting. There’s a tiny scar above her right eyebrow, from an old boot to the face in training, and the baby hairs at her temple curl up when it’s muggy out. Her earring’s come loose—just one, the right—and it swings like a pendulum. You make a mental note to fix it, then wonder if you’ll even be allowed to at this rate.

“You want to get married?” she says eventually. Not mockingly. Not avoidant either. Just calm, like she’s asking if you’d like tea.

“No,” you say immediately. “Of course not. Obviously not. It’s archaic. Patriarchal. Heteronormative. And so on.”

Alexia nods like she believes you. She doesn’t. You both know this.

“Also,” you say. “I’ve already picked the band I want to walk down the aisle to.”

She raises one eyebrow.

“You’re judging,” you say.

“I’m listening,” she says.

“Arctic Monkeys. But like. The slow stuff. Old man crooning. Maybe ‘No.1 Party Anthem.’ Or actually—fuck, maybe that’s too on the nose. You pick. You’re the stoic Catalan. I’m the romantic disaster.”

“You’re not a disaster.”

“Not yet,” you mutter. “But if you keep not proposing I will become one. I’ll spiral. I’ll start following bridal stylists on TikTok. I’ll buy silk pyjamas with Mrs. Putellas embroidered on the pocket. I’ll make vision boards.”

“You already have vision boards.”

“Those are thematic lifestyle collages.”

She leans back into the arm of the sofa and looks at you like someone doing a silent jigsaw puzzle—fascinated, confused, and not entirely convinced the box matches the contents. Her fingers twitch like she’s about to reach for you, but she doesn’t. You have to respect her restraint. You’re being impossible.

You sigh. “Forget it.”

“No.”

“Don’t humour me.”

“I’m not. I’m…” she squints, then says the most terrifying thing she’s ever said, which is: “I’m thinking.”

You narrow your eyes. “Thinking about what?”

“About what I want.”

You feel your stomach fold in on itself like a badly designed chair.

Alexia runs a hand through her hair. It’s clean—she used your shampoo this morning, the fancy rosemary one you bought in a panic the day your ex got engaged and you needed to feel like you were growing. She always rinses it out better than you do. Always leaves the bathroom neater. Puts the towels in that weirdly specific way that makes you feel like a child. You trust her with your passwords. Your underwear drawer. Your ugly moods and your mother.

“I do want to marry you,” she says.

You blink.

“I just don’t want to propose because I think you’d say yes too quickly. Like you’re proving a point.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “That’s… you—what?”

“You’d say yes immediately,” she says, “and then panic that you didn’t make it dramatic enough. Or start spiralling about all the other versions of your answer you could’ve done better. Then you’d blame me for not rehearsing it with you.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“You’d say, Why didn’t you make me practise how I’d react, Ale? Now it’s going to look like I’m ungrateful and everyone will think I hate romance. Even the algorithm will be disappointed.”

You hate how accurate that is.

“I want to marry you,” she says again, slower now. “But I want you to feel like you chose it, not like you won some competition with every other lesbian on the internet.”

“Oh,” you say.

“Also,” she adds. “I’ve been waiting for your sister to stop posting thirst traps before I tell your family anything. It’s distracting. She posted a carousel yesterday with a slideshow of her in lingerie next to your dad’s BAFTA.”

You wince. “Right.”

Alexia reaches for your foot and pulls it into her lap. You watch, momentarily stunned, as she starts massaging it. Thumb under arch. Fingertips at heel. Controlled. Clinical. You hate that you like it.

“I’ll propose,” she says, almost offhandedly. “I have a plan. But if you keep pushing me, I’m going to do it somewhere stupid. Like a Lidl.”

You glare at her. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. I’ll drop the ring in a bag of paprika crisps and pretend it was a mistake. You’ll have to fish it out with orange fingers. And I’ll take a picture. Send it to Revolución y Cultura. Tell them this is how the revolution ends.”

You snort. “You’re evil.”

She presses a kiss to your ankle. “You’re dramatic.”

“You’re cold.”

“You’re wearing my hoodie.”

You pause. Then: “So you really are going to propose?”

Alexia sighs. “Yes.”

“When?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to suffer a little bit first. It’s character-building.”

You grin despite yourself. “You’re a bitch.”

She lifts your foot and drops it dramatically back onto the sofa. “And you,” she says, standing, stretching, looking mildly regal in your old hoodie and a pair of shorts that definitely have you staring longer than you should, “are going to help me do the dishes if you want to stay engaged to me in future.”

You groan. “I’d rather go back to spiralling.”

Alexia grins, walking out of the room, calling over her shoulder, “Fine. I’ll propose in Lidl.”

[tikitakatia]

“How’s your WIP going?”

"Have you made any progress?”

“How close are you to being done?”

[tikitakatia]

hi everyone ! how are we doing today ? open to chat and answer asks if anyone is in the mood :)

[tikitakatia]

No oressure or anything at all but will you continue the bodyguard fic? 🙏🏽

no pressure at all, and yes it will be continued as soon as i manage to finish my brainstorming ! :D