woso-story

[woso-story]

Sun-Kissed Love

Ona Batlle x Reader

Barcelona hums softly in the distance, the usual city sounds muffled by the gentle rustling of leaves in the park. The air is warm, carrying the scent of the sea, and the sun sits high in the sky, draping everything in golden light. You and Ona are nestled in the grass, side by side, your fingers occasionally brushing as you bask in the peaceful afternoon.

It has been a perfect day.

The morning started slow, the way you both liked it on your off days. Waking up tangled in soft sheets, the first thing you saw was Ona’s sleepy face, her hair a mess, her freckles even more visible in the morning light. She had mumbled something incoherent when you kissed her cheek, making you chuckle as she buried her face into the pillow.

After finally dragging yourselves out of bed, you wandered down to your favorite cafe, hand in hand, stopping every few moments for a kiss or a lingering glance. Coffee was warm, breakfast was delicious, but the best part? The way Ona looked at you, like you were the only person in the world.

Then came the walk along the beach. The waves kissed the shore, your shoes dangled from your fingers, and Ona’s laughter mixed with the sound of the sea. You stole a few more kisses, and she let you, grinning every time, squeezing your hand just a little tighter.

Now, hours later, you’re here in the park, the two of you stretched out on the soft grass, letting the warmth of the sun sink into your skin.

Ona sits with her legs stretched out, one arm propped behind her, head tilted back as she lets the sunlight wash over her. Her eyes are closed, a small, content smile playing on her lips. And you? You can’t stop staring.

You’ve always loved looking at her, but there’s something about this moment—the way the sun highlights every little freckle on her skin, the way the light catches in her dark hair—that makes your chest ache with affection.

Her freckles.

You love them. Adore them.

They are scattered across her face like tiny brushstrokes of the sun, dotting her nose, spreading across her cheeks, trailing faintly along her forehead. They are perfectly imperfect, unique to her, and every time you look at them, you want to reach out and trace each one.

And so you do.

Your fingers move gently, lightly brushing over her cheek, following the freckles as if mapping out something sacred. She hums softly at the touch but keeps her eyes closed, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

You’re completely lost in her.

Then, as if sensing your gaze, Ona slowly opens her eyes.

Deep brown, rich and warm, they meet yours with that familiar, knowing look. The sunlight catches in them, making them glow, and you’re momentarily breathless.

And then she smiles.

That beautiful, radiant, heart-stopping smile.

It’s the kind of smile that makes the world pause, that makes you forget everything else. The kind of smile that has been yours from the moment you met her. The kind of smile that, even after all this time, still makes you fall even harder.

Ona tilts her head slightly, amusement flickering in her gaze. “What are you thinking about?” she asks, her voice light, teasing, but soft with affection.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you lean in, your lips brushing against hers in a gentle, lingering kiss. It’s short but sweet, and when you pull away, Ona’s grin is even wider.

“I love you,” she murmurs, her hand finding yours in the grass, fingers intertwining effortlessly.

And just like that, you’re melting.

“I love you too,” you whisper. Then, with a soft smile, you add, “I love your smile.”

Ona raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, running your thumb lightly over the back of her hand. “And your eyes.” You pause for a second before reaching up, gently tracing over her freckles again. “And most of all, all of these.”

A quiet laugh escapes her, her cheeks tinged slightly pink. “My freckles?”

You grin. “Every single one.”

Ona shakes her head, but she’s smiling so brightly now that it makes your heart stutter. She looks at you like you hung the stars, like you are something precious, something irreplaceable. And that’s exactly how you feel about her.

She leans in this time, pressing a quick, playful kiss to the tip of your nose before whispering, “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

She laughs, bumping her forehead against yours. “Yeah,” she says softly, “I really do.”

And in this moment, under the Barcelona sun, in the quiet of the park, with her freckles, her smile, her eyes, and her love—there is no place in the world you’d rather be.

[woso-story]

Time For The Next Chapter

Ingrid Engen x Mapi Leon x Barcelona

June in Barcelona had always been beautiful — warm breezes swept through the winding Gothic alleys, and the sea shimmered under the lengthening sun. But for Ingrid Engen, this June was not just the close of a season; it was the close of a chapter. A meaningful, life-shaping chapter that she wasn’t entirely ready to end.

The rumor had already broken across social media weeks ago. A few journalists had put the pieces together, and by the time the club had even begun drafting the official announcement, fans were tweeting, speculating, grieving — and, in some corners, criticizing.

“Ingrid Engen to leave Barcelona at the end of the season.”

Some posted thank-you messages. Others were less kind. Some said she was never good enough to be a starter, just another rotation player. Some whispered she was only there because of her relationship with Mapi Leon. But none of them knew the truth. None of them understood how hard it had been.

Ingrid hadn’t wanted to leave. Every fiber of her being had wanted to stay.

This city, this club, had given her so much. Four years of sweat, growth, laughter. Trophies and tears. She had come to Barcelona with Frido, both of them making the jump from Wolfsburg — two best friends chasing a bigger dream. Here, they had battled for greatness and found it. Here, Ingrid had become a better player.

And here, she had fallen in love.

Mapi Leon had changed everything.

It started quietly — a friendship formed over training banter and shared glances. But somewhere along the way, between away games and long evenings walking through the streets of Barcelona, it had become something undeniable. With Mapi, Ingrid felt seen. Known. Loved — not just for what she did on the pitch, but for who she was when the stadium lights were off.

Their relationship had become the cornerstone of her life in Spain. They’d built a rhythm — cooking dinner together after late trainings, sharing coffees on the terrace in the morning sun, whispering strategy under the covers on the night before Champions League clashes. Mapi was Barcelona through and through, but she’d carved out space for Ingrid. Made her feel like she belonged.

Which made this all the harder.

It wasn’t that Barcelona didn’t want her — she had been offered a new deal. Two more years. The same role: backup to Patri in midfield, maybe some minutes as center-back cover if injuries struck. But Ingrid was 27. In her prime. She didn’t want scraps. She didn’t want to sit and wait to be needed. She was needed — she had shown that last season when injuries forced the rotation. She had stepped up, delivered. But now, with everyone fit and new names like Laia Aleixandri arriving, it was clear.

There would be no room for her.

And still, she hesitated.

She had stood in the boardroom, the new contract on the table, and she had wanted to say yes. Two more years. Two more years of walking into the locker room and seeing Mapi. Two more years of late-night drives through the city after victories. Two more years of being part of this.

But she had looked across the table and asked the same question twice: “Can you guarantee me minutes?”

And twice, the answer had been a gentle no.

So she had done the hardest thing she had ever done.

She had said goodbye.

The night after, she had gone home and found Mapi sitting on the balcony, a bottle of red wine open, two glasses already poured.

Neither of them said much. There were no lectures, no guilt. Just quiet acceptance. Mapi had always known this might come. She had told Ingrid from the beginning, “I’ll never ask you to stay just for me.”

And Ingrid had always promised, “If I go, I’ll come back. Somehow.”

They clinked glasses in the warm twilight, holding each other a little tighter than usual.

The next morning, the announcement dropped.

And the locker room fell silent.

Ingrid had never felt so self-conscious walking into that space. All eyes turned to her. Some were red-rimmed. Others full of understanding. Mapi was right behind her, her fingers grazing the small of her back as they walked in — a quiet act of solidarity.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

Frido came first.

The hug was immediate — fierce and full of history. Wolfsburg. Rehab sessions. Those long training days in Spain’s summer heat. Frido was more than a friend. She was a sister in arms. Their journey had been parallel, and now, it was parting ways.

“Don’t forget who you are,” Frido whispered into her hair. “You were always enough.”

The others followed. Patri, who had fought for minutes herself once. Alexia, who gave her a knowing nod — she understood better than most the brutality of timing in football. Aitana, who told her to call any time. Even the younger players, some still too green to grasp the full weight of the moment, came over and wrapped her in hugs.

In the end, they formed a circle around her. A warm, tearful circle. Not of sadness, but of gratitude.

They weren’t mad. They got it.

Football was brutal. It didn’t matter how good you were if the timing wasn’t right. It didn’t matter how much you loved the badge if there wasn’t a place for you on the pitch. And they respected her for choosing herself.

But the fans didn’t all see it that way.

The messages were pouring in. Some supportive. Some brutal.

“Why would you leave when you had an offer?”

“You’re a traitor.”

“You were only here because of Mapi anyway.”

Ingrid didn’t respond to any of them. But they hurt. Of course they did.

She wanted to scream, I did everything I could! I wanted to stay! But shouting into the void never helped.

She had chosen to go to Lyon. A fresh start. A team that had watched her, believed in her, wanted her. Not as a backup. As a key piece. A player who could shape the game. Lyon — with its own rich history, its own expectations. She was nervous, but also excited.

It was never about leaving Barcelona. It was about not disappearing within it.

And she wasn’t turning her back on the club. She was stepping forward into herself.

That night, she lay in bed with Mapi, their legs tangled together, both quiet. It was hard. It would keep being hard. But love had never been about easy. It was about choosing each other, again and again, even across cities, even across time zones.

“You know I’d follow you anywhere, right?” Mapi murmured.

Ingrid smiled sadly. “And I’d never ask you to. This is your home, Maria.”

They kissed — gently, like the world was trying to break them and they were saying no with their mouths.

Barcelona would always be part of Ingrid. The city had changed her. The team had lifted her - literally. And Mapi… Mapi had given her a kind of love she never thought she’d have.

She would carry it all with her — every goal, every injury, every whispered I love you after a Champions League win.

And when she walked out in a Lyon jersey for the first time, she wouldn’t be leaving that behind.

She’d be building on it.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t hold you back. It hands you the key and says, go — and I’ll be right here, cheering for you.

Even if it’s from the other side of the pitch.

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Seven

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

Coming back to Munich felt like breathing for the first time in a long while.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed the smell of your mother’s cooking, the creak of the wooden stairs in your childhood home, the feel of familiar arms wrapping around you the second you arrived. Your family greeted you like you were made of porcelain—hugs a little too gentle, smiles a little too stretched—but you knew it was just worry buried in love.

They helped you with everything—getting in and out of bed, making tea, fluffing pillows, reminding you (like clockwork) to elevate your leg and rest, rest, rest. And even though the routine was slow and your body still hurt, your heart was lighter here.

The European Championship had started. Normally, you'd be in the thick of it—wearing your nation's crest, standing shoulder to shoulder with your teammates, singing the anthem with your heart pounding in your chest.

But this year, you watched from the couch.

You watched Spain's first match with your family—everyone cheering for Alexia, your dad teasing you when you clapped a little too loudly after one of her perfect assists. And then Germany’s match. You wore your national team’s jacket over your pajamas, fists clenched as they battled it out on the pitch. It was surreal—supporting your country and your girlfriend, in different games, from the same soft corner of the living room.

When Germany’s second match came around—against Denmark—you decided you were done watching from behind glass. You felt stronger mentally, and a little more at peace, so you pushed to go.

The stadium in Basel was electric. The noise. The people. The adrenaline. Even in your wheelchair, you felt like part of it all again.

Seeing the team warm up almost broke you.

The sound of cleats against grass. The shouts. The energy. God, you missed it.

But you were also grateful—grateful to be here, to support the people who once lifted you, and to feel like you still had a place.

After Germany's win, many of your teammates came over to greet you—sweaty, grinning, radiant. You reached out for hugs, high fives, shared laughter. You congratulated them on the win and whispered, “Go win this thing for all of us.”

They promised they would.

You stayed in Switzerland with your family. The tournament buzz had taken over Europe, and now you were right in the middle of it. You attended more matches, cheered both Alexia and your teammates on from the stands, lived in that weird emotional limbo where pride and longing lived side by side.

Then came the semifinal.

Spain vs. France.

You sat in the packed stadium, your eyes never leaving Alexia. She played with grace and fury—untouchable, breathtaking. When Spain won, she looked toward the stands immediately, searching. When her eyes finally found you, you waved, heart full.

She came over as soon as she could. You hadn’t seen her in person for nearly a month. It felt like years.

Alexia climbed the barrier with ease and folded herself into your arms—carefully, but fully. You held her tight. Both of you breathing each other in, savoring the moment. She didn’t want to let go. Neither did you.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I missed you more,” you replied.

But eventually, she had to leave—press conferences, team talks, recovery. That’s what it meant to be a professional. Still, she turned back more than once before disappearing into the tunnel.

And you smiled.

Because in just a few days, you'd see her again—on the biggest stage of all.

The night before the final, the phone call came.

Alexia's voice was soft and tired. “How are you feeling?”

“In pain,” you admitted. “But not too bad. The painkillers help. And I’m just… happy to be here. To get back to something normal again.”

There was a pause, then a teasing lilt to her voice. “You have a big dilemma tomorrow.”

You smirked. “Oh yeah?”

“Well, you have to wear my jersey. Obviously.”

You rolled your eyes with a dramatic sigh. “I could never do that. Not tomorrow.”

She laughed, warm and full, like music to your ears. “Fine. I understand. I’ll try not to hold it against you when I score.”

---

The stadium in Basel was sold out. Packed. A sea of black, red and gold on one side, red and yellow on the other.

Third versus second in the FIFA rankings. Germany versus Spain. A repeat of the Olympic showdown in Paris—but this time, for more than bronze.

The energy was overwhelming. Your heart thumped in your chest, your fingers curled around your scarf.

The match kicked off—and what a battle it was.

Tactically brilliant, physically demanding, emotionally exhausting. Your eyes flickered between the ball and your girlfriend. She was everywhere—commanding the field, directing play, always one step ahead.

When Alexia scored the first goal for Spain, your heart leapt with pride—and then immediately clenched with conflict. You didn’t cheer, not outwardly. But inside? You glowed.

Then Germany equalized after halftime, and the crowd erupted. You cheered like crazy—too crazy. The sharp pain in your ribs reminded you that celebration still had a price.

But you didn’t care.

In the 80th minute, Lea struck gold. The stadium nearly exploded. And you—weighed down in a wheelchair, body still recovering, soul still healing—you felt light as air.

When the whistle blew and Germany were crowned champions, the tears came freely.

The trophy ceremony started. The anthem rang out. The players celebrated with joy and disbelief. And then—Klara stepped forward with a familiar jersey in her hand.

Your jersey.

She held it up high for everyone to see.

Then she put it on.

Your name. Your number.

The crowd roared, and you had to hold back your tears.

Pride bloomed in your chest like a sunrise.

You didn’t need to be on the field to be part of this.

Alexia found you, slipping away from the Spanish team who stood silently near the side of the pitch. Her face was flushed from running, eyes a little red, but still glowing in the light of the stadium.

You opened your arms, and she didn’t hesitate.

She hugged you carefully, burying her face in your neck. You whispered everything she needed to hear.

“I’m so proud of you.”

“You were incredible.”

“This isn’t the end.”

When she finally looked at you, she was pouting.

“You didn’t wear my jersey.”

You grinned.

“Didn’t I?”

You lifted your German shirt just slightly, revealing the red fabric underneath. The Spanish kit. Number 11. Her name on the back.

Her eyes widened.

“You traitor.”

“I’m just layered,” you joked.

She kissed your forehead. “Well, now it all makes sense. It was your fault. Bad jersey luck.”

You laughed.

The loss still stung for her. But with you here, in her arms, even the hardest days weren’t so bad.

You both smiled, surrounded by cheers, flashlights, confetti—and somehow, in all of that chaos, there was peace.

In a few days, you’d be back in Barcelona.

Home.

Together.

And the healing would continue.

[woso-story]

Crash And Care

Alexia Putellas x Reader

The sun hung low over Phuket, casting golden streaks across the sky as the salty breeze from the ocean wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The streets buzzed with energy—locals selling their goods, tourists marveling at the vibrant culture, the scent of sizzling street food filling the air.

You stood next to a row of brightly colored mopeds, hands on your hips, grinning as you turned toward Alexia. She, on the other hand, had her arms crossed, an eyebrow raised, her expression laced with doubt.

"One moped," she said firmly, her Spanish accent wrapping around the words in that way that always made your heart stutter. "I drive, you hold onto me. Easy, safe."

You let out a chuckle, shaking your head. "Alexia, come on. It'll be more fun if we each have one. We can race—"

"Absolutely not."

"Not an actual race!" you amended quickly. "Just… you know, side by side, cruising through the streets, feeling the wind, enjoying the freedom."

She sighed, looking between you and the row of mopeds. "I don’t know… Are you even a good driver?"

You scoffed, feigning offense. "Of course, I am! I’ve got great reflexes, a solid sense of balance, and a need for speed."

Alexia let out a groan, rubbing her temples. "That last part is exactly why I don’t trust you on one."

You reached out, tugging on her hand with a pleading look. "Please? Just trust me."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head but smiling softly. "Fine. But if you crash, I will never let you forget it."

You grinned triumphantly. "Deal."

Little did you know, that deal would come back to haunt you sooner than you thought.

---

With your mopeds secured, the two of you took off through the bustling streets, weaving through traffic with ease. The warm air brushed against your skin, the world around you buzzing with life.

Every turn brought something new—colorful markets filled with handcrafted goods, vendors offering fresh tropical fruits, the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. You stopped frequently, indulging in juicy mangoes, sweet coconuts, and skewers of grilled meats that had your taste buds dancing.

At the beach, the sand was soft beneath your toes as you ran into the crystal-clear water, splashing at Alexia before she tackled you into the waves, both of you laughing as the sun kissed your skin.

Later, you found a secluded trail leading to a waterfall, the hike short but rewarding. The cascading water sparkled under the afternoon sun, the sound of nature wrapping around you as Alexia pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

"You were right," she murmured, watching as you ran your fingers through the cool water. "Today is perfect."

You turned to her with a proud smirk. "Told you. And see? No accidents, no crashes. I’m an excellent driver."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, you were right."

---

The journey back was smooth at first, the streets giving way to a more rugged, downhill path. The moped rumbled beneath you as you followed Alexia down the narrow trail, the setting sun casting long shadows across the road.

But then you felt it.

The road dipped unexpectedly, the moped picking up speed faster than you anticipated. Your heart hammered as you gripped the handlebars tighter, but the uneven ground made the ride unstable.

A bump. A sharp jolt. A sudden loss of control.

Time seemed to slow as the moped wobbled violently beneath you. Your instincts screamed at you to regain balance, but it was too late. The world tilted, and before you could react, you were thrown from the seat, crashing hard onto the rough terrain.

A sharp sting shot through your body as gravel scraped against your skin, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. For a moment, everything was a blur—distant voices, footsteps rushing toward you, the sensation of hands gently cradling your face.

Then, clarity.

Alexia was there, crouched beside you, her face pale with worry. "Amor, talk to me. What hurts?"

You groaned, trying to sit up, only for pain to flare through your left side. Looking down, you saw a long, angry scrape running down your leg, raw and stinging. Your arm throbbed, another large graze marking the skin.

"Shit…" you muttered, blinking away the haze.

Alexia’s hands hovered over you, hesitant to touch, as if afraid she’d make things worse. "Are you dizzy? Did you hit your head?"

You shook your head, wincing. "Helmet." You patted the scuffed but intact helmet still strapped to your head. "I’m okay… I think."

Locals had stopped to help, concerned voices mixing in Thai and English. With Alexia’s support, and a few strong hands, you were carefully lifted to your feet. Your whole body ached, your skin stung, but nothing felt broken.

Then, you saw it.

The moped, lying in a wrecked heap on the side of the road.

Guilt hit you instantly. "Lex, I'm so sorry. I wrecked it."

But she wasn’t even looking at the moped. She was looking at you, her jaw tight, eyes filled with something between fear and frustration.

"That’s not important," she said firmly. "You are."

The way she said it, the way her voice wavered slightly, made your chest tighten. She had been scared. Really scared.

You swallowed, feeling suddenly small. "I should’ve listened to you."

Alexia let out a breath, her hands gripping your shoulders. "Yes, you should have."

---

The next few hours were a blur—hospital, X-rays, bandages, and the relief of knowing nothing was broken. By the time you made it back to the Airbnb, exhaustion had settled deep in your bones.

The moment your head hit the pillow, you groaned. "This is not how I wanted our vacation to go."

Alexia, sitting on the edge of the bed, smirked. "It’s what happens when you don’t listen to me."

You cracked an eye open to glare at her, but she was already leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "But since you’re injured, I suppose I have to take care of you now."

And she did.

For the rest of the trip, Alexia was relentless. She insisted on bringing you food, making sure you were hydrated, helping you walk when your leg was sore, even tying your hair when your arm hurt too much to lift.

Every single time, she’d throw in a smug, "This is why I said one moped, mi amor. Because you are a terrible driver."

You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes. "I get it, I get it. You were right."

She beamed, clearly satisfied. "I love hearing that."

Despite the accident, the days that followed were still filled with laughter, love, and soft moments. Because as much as you might have wrecked the moped, you knew one thing for sure—Alexia would never let you fall alone.

[woso-story]

A Birthday To Hold On To

Ingrid Engen x Mapi Leon

Mapi Leon’s 30th Birthday — June 13th, 2025

The light in the bedroom was soft and honeyed, the early summer sun slipping through the white linen curtains with gentle persistence. Outside, the sea whispered against the shore, a quiet rhythm that echoed peace. Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of fresh coffee and strawberries—Ingrid’s doing, of course.

She had been awake for over an hour now, moving through the small kitchen in silence, careful not to wake the woman sleeping in their bed. Their bed. The thought brought a bittersweet pang to her chest. For how much longer would she be able to call it theirs?

Two days ago, Ingrid had made her announcement: she would be leaving Barcelona at the end of the summer. The words had been rehearsed, carefully chosen, shaped for the media, for fans, for her teammates. But there were no words that could soften it for Mapi.

And Mapi—strong, sarcastic, wild-hearted Mapi—had tried to act like it didn’t shake her. She had put on a brave face, joked about long-distance relationships, teased Ingrid about visiting her and distracting her during training. But when the news went public, when the interviews were done and the goodbyes started to feel real, the cracks began to show.

Mapi had cried. Not dramatically, not even out loud. But Ingrid had seen the quiet tears fall in the middle of the night, Mapi curled into her side like she didn’t want her to notice. That was the hardest part—seeing the one she loved try to hide her sadness, just to make it easier on her.

Barcelona had been home. Not just the city, or the team, or the fans. Mapi had been home. Their life together, their rituals, the ordinary magic of shared coffee cups, Netflix marathons, and long Sunday mornings in bed—that was home. And now they were counting days. Time suddenly felt like sand slipping through her fingers.

But not today.

Today was June 13th—Mapi Leon’s 30th birthday. And Ingrid had sworn to herself that it would be perfect. No sadness. No goodbyes. Just joy. Just them.

The breakfast tray was a quiet masterpiece. Fresh-squeezed orange juice. Avocado toast on crispy sourdough. Scrambled eggs exactly how Mapi liked them—slightly underdone, creamy. Coffee, strong and a little sweet. A croissant with a single birthday candle stuck into it like a wink. And strawberries. Big, juicy ones, already sliced and glistening. Mapi loved strawberries almost as much as she loved Ingrid—though she’d never admit that out loud.

Carrying the tray, Ingrid tiptoed back into the bedroom. The sight that greeted her stopped her for a second—Mapi, tangled in the sheets, one arm above her head, hair messy and face peaceful. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

She placed the tray down and leaned over her.

“Feliz cumpleaños, mi amor,” she whispered, brushing a kiss over Mapi’s cheek, then another on her collarbone, and another behind her ear.

Mapi let out a groan, trying to bury her face deeper into the pillow. “Nooo, five more minutes,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, but a lazy smile was already forming.

“You can have five more kisses. Not five more minutes.”

She kissed her again, and again, until Mapi gave up the fight and rolled onto her back, squinting up at her girlfriend.

“You’re too cute. It’s dangerous,” she muttered, then reached for a strawberry. Ingrid was faster, snatching it away with a grin.

They ate breakfast in bed, half-play fighting, half-feeding each other. Mapi stole most of the strawberries. Ingrid retaliated by threatening to sing to her in public later. Mapi shrieked with laughter and tackled her with a pillow. It was light and silly and sweet—exactly what Ingrid had hoped for.

By late morning, they were driving down the coast in Mapi’s car, music playing low, windows down. The mood was warm and easy. No pressure, no heavy conversations. Just the sea, the sun, and the woman she loved beside her.

They found a quiet beach not far from town, a hidden little cove with soft sand and no crowds. For hours, they did nothing. Lay on a blanket, their limbs tangled together. Talked about meaningless things. Went into the sea, floating lazily, arms around each other. Mapi had her chin on Ingrid’s shoulder at one point, her eyes closed.

“I could stay like this forever,” she murmured.

Ingrid had kissed her salt-damp forehead and whispered, “So could I.”

Later, they sat in a tiny beachside cafe, sharing an ice cream and sipping coffee. Their fingers stayed intertwined under the table. They didn’t talk about football. Or the Euros. Or Ingrid’s move. They didn’t need to. They just were.

Back at the apartment, the mood shifted slightly. The air felt heavier, full of anticipation. Ingrid had made a dinner reservation at a beautiful beachside restaurant, and she’d told Mapi earlier to dress up. “Wear something that makes me fall in love all over again,” she’d said.

But it wasn't Ingrid who ended up speechless.

Mapi stood in the living room in a cream-colored linen jumpsuit, skin sun-kissed, hair damp from the shower, effortlessly beautiful. But Mapi froze when Ingrid walked out.

Ingrid stood in the doorway, in a deep green dress that hugged her in all the right places. It made her eyes shine like emeralds, and Mapi looked like she’d momentarily forgotten how to function.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Mapi said in hushed Spanish.

Ingrid just grinned and walked up to her, arms sliding around her neck. “Do you like it? I got it for tonight.”

Mapi leaned in, lips brushing Ingrid’s ear. “Me encanta. So much I want to see it on the floor.”

Ingrid laughed, cheeks pink. “Later,” she teased. “We have a reservation.”

Dinner was beautiful. Wine flowed. Food was shared. Laughter bubbled between them as naturally as ever. They talked about the future—long-distance logistics, planned visits, video calls, silly countdowns until they saw each other again.

“We’ll figure it out,” Ingrid said, fingers circling the stem of her glass.

Mapi nodded. “Because we want to. Because we will.”

The walk back along the beach was quiet. They didn’t need words. Just the sound of the sea and their hands clasped tightly together. At one point, Mapi stopped and turned to Ingrid, brushing a curl behind her ear.

“Thank you. For all of today. For everything.”

Ingrid smiled. “It’s not over yet.”

Mapi raised an eyebrow.

“You still haven’t gotten your present.”

Mapi’s smirk was immediate. “Oh? And where is it?”

“Home,” Ingrid replied, her voice low, teasing.

Mapi suddenly lit up like a firecracker. “Well, then let's go!.”

Ingrid burst out laughing. “God, you’re like a over-excited golden retriever.”

“Your over-excited golden retriever,” Mapi corrected, already pulling her along the beach.

The night that followed was full of warmth and softness, laughter and intimacy—of love, both fierce and tender. It was the kind of night that gets folded carefully into memory, the kind that you revisit on long, lonely evenings apart.

A perfect chapter in a love story that was far from over.

Because in the end, leaving Barcelona wasn’t the end.

It was just the beginning of something new. And no matter where they went, no matter how long the stretches between moments like this, they would always find their way back to each other.

Always.

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Six

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

The laughter and lightness didn’t last. They never do when life keeps moving, while you’re stuck in place.

The joy from the Copa de la Reina final, the feeling of being back with your team—even if just on the sidelines—was something you tried to hold onto. But in the end, it was like trying to catch water with your bare hands. Eventually, the warmth slipped through your fingers.

It was mid-June now. A month since the accident.

Thirty days of pain, of progress, of frustration. Thirty days of staring at the same white ceilings. Of counting the seconds between painkillers. Of pretending you were okay when your heart was aching in places no medicine could reach.

And through all of it, there was Alexia.

Her love had become the only constant in the chaos. She had cared for you in a way no one ever had—without hesitation, without complaint, without making you feel small for needing help. She was your steady rhythm when the rest of the world felt like noise. Every bruise, every scar, every breakdown—you let her see it all.

You didn’t know you could love someone this much.

But love couldn’t stop time. Love couldn’t keep her here forever.

She sat on the edge of your bed that morning, lacing up her sneakers with slow, reluctant fingers. The soft hum of the suitcase wheels echoed faintly from the hallway.

The Spanish national team had called her in. The European Women’s Championship was two weeks away. And the truth was—she had to go.

Normally, you’d have been packing too. Preparing to join your German teammates, sharing hotel rooms with girls you’d grown up with. Laughing with Lea and Giulia, planning for penalties and late-night team talks.

Now? You were stuck on the sidelines—literally.

You’d put on a brave face. Told Alexia that of course she had to go. That you would be fine. That Mapi would take care of you. That you’d cheer for her from the couch like the proud girlfriend you were.

But deep down, your chest felt like it was cracking open.

You wanted to be strong for her, so you smiled. But when she knelt beside you and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, you couldn’t help the tears that threatened to spill.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

Alexia leaned in and kissed your forehead. “I’ll be back before you know it. And you’ll be better. Stronger.”

You gripped her hand tightly. “Promise me you’ll give your all.”

She smiled, even though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Promise me you’ll rest.”

She left later that morning, suitcase in hand, and your heart left with her.

The silence after the door closed was deafening. No laughter in the kitchen. No familiar footsteps. No soft voice asking if you were okay.

Just the buzz of your phone and the pressure behind your ribs.

Mapi arrived two hours later with a giant bag and a chaotic kind of energy that you didn’t know you needed.

“She told me to feed you, hydrate you, and report back every night,” Mapi announced as she kicked the door shut behind her. “Also to make you laugh at least twice a day.”

You blinked at her. “You’re not serious.”

She grinned. “Dead serious. I’m basically your jailer. A very stylish one.”

It was strange at first—adjusting to her instead of Alexia.

But Mapi… Mapi was a walking contradiction. Blunt and goofy. Gentle and bold. She helped you shower without flinching. She never made a big deal when you winced in pain. And she always made sure the remote was in your reach.

“I can handle this,” you told her on day three.

Mapi just laughed. “I know. But you don’t have to.”

Evenings were the best. She’d sprawl on the rug with a drink in hand, telling wild stories about Barcelona trainings or Ingrid’s weird sleep habits. She made you laugh—God, did she make you laugh.

Sometimes, it hurt too much, and you’d hold your ribs with a scowl while she cackled.

“Okay, okay, no more,” she’d say. “Back to boring stories. Like the time I reorganized my fridge alphabetically.”

You didn’t tell her, but those laughs saved you a little.

Rehab was still going slowly. Light stretches. Controlled movements. Gentle massages to remind your muscles that they still had a job to do.

Progress was slow. Some days, your leg felt like it wasn’t even part of you. Other days, it felt like it was screaming.

The worst part wasn’t the pain—it was the not knowing.

Would you play again? Would you ever be you again?

But every time you wanted to fall apart, Mapi was there. And every night, she called Alexia with a full report, just like she promised.

“She’s being annoying again.”

“Her progress? Slow but steady.”

“Tell her yourself. She misses you.”

You didn’t say it out loud, but you loved her for those calls.

The plan was that in two weeks, you’d fly home to Munich. Stay with your family. Maybe attend a few Euro games in Switzerland, if your body allowed it. If your heart could handle it.

Mapi would fly out directly to Switzerland to meet up with Ingrid’s family and cheer for her girlfriend.

You were both missing pieces of your lives. But somehow, you filled those spaces for each other. With jokes. With care. With unspoken understanding.

And while the world kept turning without you—you held on.

To the quiet strength of friendship.

To the fire still burning in your chest.

To the hope that one day, you’d be out there again.

Not just watching.

But running.

Chasing.

Winning.

Living.

[woso-story]

One Last Dance

Ingrid Engen x Barcelona

The late spring sun dipped low over Estadio El Alcoraz, casting a golden hue across the pitch. The stands were a sea of anticipation, painted in red and blue, filled with fans singing, cheering, and unknowingly preparing to witness a goodbye wrapped in glory. It was the Copa de la Reina Final—Barcelona vs. Atletico Madrid. The last game of the season. The final curtain.

But for Ingrid Engen, it wasn’t just a match. It was something much deeper. This was the final chapter of her story with FC Barcelona. Her last time wearing the blaugrana jersey. Her last dance.

The team sheet came out. Her name was there.

Starting.

She hadn’t seen her name there often in recent months. Injuries. Form. Tactical decisions. She had done her best to stay strong, to stay ready, even when minutes were scarce. But tonight, it was her turn again. She lined up as a center-back next to Irene—calm, solid, unwavering. Mapi sat on the bench, eyes on Ingrid, knowing exactly what this night meant to her.

The whistle blew.

Ingrid played with purpose, like every second mattered—because it did. Each pass was precise. Every tackle sharp. She barked instructions, kept the line tight, threw her body into blocks, not out of desperation but out of devotion. It wasn’t about proving a point. It was about giving everything she had left—for her team, for herself.

Four years of memories lived in her legs and heart. Four years of titles, growth, laughter, and tears. She had found her voice in this team. She had found friendships that would last a lifetime. And she had found love—deep, life-changing love—the kind she never believed was meant for her until it arrived in the form of Mapi Leon.

Barcelona were relentless. From back to front, they controlled the tempo. Pina danced through Atletico’s defense and slotted in the opener. Then came another—cool, composed, magical. 2-0. The fans roared.

But even through the joy, Ingrid felt the clock ticking down.

And then, the 89th minute.

The board went up.

Her number lit the screen.

She exhaled—hard—and took her first steps off the pitch. But she didn’t make it far.

Aitana, Jana, and Esmee came rushing toward her. They wrapped her in a hug right there on the grass, squeezing tightly, like they didn’t want to let go. And maybe they didn’t.

“You were brilliant,” Esmee whispered, voice barely audible over the crowd.

Ingrid smiled through the lump rising in her throat. She clapped toward the fans, looked around the stadium. She memorized the sound, the light, the faces. This was the last time she’d walk off wearing this crest. The gravity of that pressed into her chest, but she kept walking. Strong. Proud.

As she reached the sideline and sat down, she looked at the pitch one last time.

That part of her life was over.

Minutes later, the final whistle blew. A wall of sound erupted from the stands.

Barcelona 2 – Atletico Madrid 0.

Champions. Again.

The team collapsed into celebration. Players hugged. Staff cried. Mapi was one of the first to reach her, wrapping her arms around Ingrid and holding her close.

“You did it,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “We did it.”

The medal ceremony came next. Ingrid took hers, brushed her fingers across the crest engraved on it, and stepped into the spotlight with the rest of the team. The gold confetti exploded like fireworks above their heads, fluttering through the air like the final pages of a beautiful story.

Ingrid tilted her head up, eyes closed, stretched an arm to the sky. She wanted to feel it—really feel it. She wanted to bottle this moment. The sound, the taste of it, the smell of grass and champagne and history.

Then she heard her name through the cheers.

She looked up.

Alexia stood at the front, medal around her neck, trophy beside her, and she called out—clear, proud:

“Ingrid! Come, it’s yours.”

No hesitation. Just a breath, a look at Mapi, and then she stepped forward.

Her hands found the silver, smooth and heavy with meaning. She paused for a heartbeat. Then lifted it high into the sky.

Behind her, her teammates cheered louder, clapping and jumping. She closed her eyes and held it there, longer than she needed to. Because it was her moment. Her goodbye. And it felt right.

Moments later, chaos returned.

Laughter broke out as arms grabbed her from all sides.

“No, no, no!” she squealed, too late. They tossed her into the air.

She flew.

For a heartbeat, she hovered above it all—above the pitch, the team, the lights. Suspended in joy.

“Don’t drop me!” she shouted.

"Never!" they shouted back.

She landed safely in their arms. Of course she did. This team always had her back.

They let her down gently.

After the trophy lift and the chaos, came the photos.

She found Mapi, Esmee, Aitana, and Frido—and they huddled together for one last “family” picture with the trophy, like they had done so many times before. But this time, it was different. This time, they had new faces around them. Kika. Ewa. Sydney. Ellie.

New teammates. New “family” members. They had found their way into Ingrid’s life this season, each of them bringing something new to the dynamic. The team always joked that Ingrid “adopted” the younger, non-Spanish players—just like Alexia did with the Spanish ones. And maybe it was true. Ingrid had made it her mission to help them settle, to understand the club, to feel safe. Just like someone once had for her.

So they joined too. And the picture changed. Grew. Just like the family had.

Later, Mapi’s parents came down to the pitch. They pulled Ingrid into a warm hug, then stood with Mapi and the trophy—four of them now, side by side. A real family.

Another picture. Another memory for the album.

Eventually, the celebrations moved inside. Showers, music blasting, champagne uncorked and sprayed across the walls. Dancing in flip-flops. Jerseys swapped. Hugs that lasted just a few seconds too long.

Ingrid stayed near Mapi most of the time. They didn’t talk about it. They didn’t need to. Everything had already been said in glances, in small touches.

Hours passed.

And finally, when the noise faded and the lights dimmed, Ingrid found herself in her hotel bed. Exhausted. Full. Her medal lay on the nightstand, still glittering faintly under the soft lamp light. Her body ached in the best way.

She stared at the ceiling, hand resting over her heart.

This team had been her everything for four years. Her teammates were more than colleagues—they were her friends, her sisters, her family. Mapi was her heart. Barcelona was her home.

And now it was done.

She smiled, a soft, wistful smile.

She would miss it all. The good days. The hard ones. The way it felt to run out into Estadi Johan Cruyff. The laughter in the locker room. The shared coffees, the team dinners, the way everyone teased each other. The group chats. The wins. The heartbreaks.

But she had given her all.

And tonight, she had her one last dance.

And it was beautiful.

------------------------------------------------------------

It's over. I couldn't sleep well last night. Yesterday's game kind of broke my heart a little. Seeing Ingrid leave the pitch, holding back tears, was hard to watch. But it was also a beautiful farewell. She got to start one last time and help the team win. She received a fitting send-off from the fans, her teammates, and the staff.

I wish her all the best for her future and will continue to support her, even if that means I might watch Lyon games in the future.

[woso-story]

Pizza Night

Ingrid Engen x Mapi Leon x DaughterMila x BarcaTeammates

It was a typical Friday evening in the Engen-Leon household, which meant one thing—pizza night. The aroma of fresh ingredients already filled the air, and the house buzzed with laughter as their closest friends gathered in the living room. By 6 PM, Alexia, Fridolina, Esmee, Kika and Aitana were all comfortably settled, talking animatedly and sharing stories from the week.

As Ingrid leaned against the doorway, watching the lively chatter unfold, she finally called out, “Alright girls, let’s get started with the pizza making!”

Before anyone could even move, a small but determined voice cut through the conversation. “No!” Mila, their energetic four-year-old, crossed her arms. “We can’t start yet. Caroline isn’t here.”

Everyone chuckled knowingly. Mila’s admiration for Caroline was no secret. The little girl worshipped the Norwegian winger, and it was clear that no pizza night could begin without her.

Thirty minutes later, a firm knock echoed through the hallway. The moment the sound reached Mila’s ears, she jumped up from where she had been playing with Esmee, leaving her friend sitting alone with a pile of toy animals. “She’s here!” Mila squealed, dashing toward the front door.

Reaching the door, she placed both hands on it but didn’t push. “Mami!” she called urgently. “Open it, please!”

Mapi strolled over with a playful sigh and swung open the door to reveal Caroline, who stood there with Marta by her side. Before anyone could greet them properly, Mila threw her tiny arms around Caroline’s legs. “You’re finally here! Now we can start!”

Marta grinned and stepped inside, but Mapi crossed her arms, playfully pouting as she walked back to the living room. “Every time Caro’s here, the rest of us disappear,” she muttered to Marta, who laughed in response.

Minutes later, Caroline walked into the living room, Mila clinging to her like a koala. “Alright,” Caroline announced, “according to Miss Mila, we are now officially allowed to start.”

---

In the kitchen, chaos ensued in the best way possible. Mila, positioned as the self-appointed head chef, directed everyone on their roles. Ingrid handled the dough, while Frido and Kika argued over the perfect cheese-to-tomato ratio. Aitana and Esmee took turns sneaking olives off the counter, and Mapi tried (and failed) to keep flour from getting everywhere.

At some point, Mila, with tomato sauce smeared across her cheeks, took a handful and playfully smacked it onto Caroline’s nose. Gasps filled the room before Caroline retaliated by dabbing flour onto Mila’s tiny nose. From there, a full-blown ingredient battle commenced. Soon, everyone had flour in their hair and sauce on their hands, and their perfectly tidy kitchen was anything but.

By the time the pizzas were safely in the oven, Ingrid scooped up a giggling, messy Mila. “Alright, little chef, let’s get you cleaned up.”

After a bath that involved lots of bubbles and Mila making Ingrid wear a crown of soap foam, the two returned to the living room, where everyone had settled onto the couch, waiting for the pizzas to finish baking. Mila climbed onto Caroline’s lap without hesitation, making herself comfortable as the group put on a movie.

When the pizzas were finally ready, they all dug in, exchanging bites and rating each other’s creations as if they were professional critics. Mapi insisted hers was the best, while Alexia accused Kika of burning the crust on purpose. Mila, of course, declared Caroline’s pizza the winner without hesitation, making Mapi groan dramatically.

The rest of the night was filled with games, laughter, and the kind of warmth that only came from being surrounded by the people you love most. As the night wore on, Mila’s energy finally dwindled, and she curled up against Caroline’s shoulder, her small breaths steady and peaceful.

Mapi, arms crossed, nudged Ingrid with a smirk. “Next time, we tell Caro she has to babysit the whole weekend if she keeps stealing our daughter’s heart.”

Ingrid chuckled, leaning into Mapi. “I don’t think Mila would complain.”

And so, another perfect pizza night came to an end, filled with love, laughter, and a whole lot of flour-covered memories.

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Five

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

The Copa de la Reina final had arrived.

You hadn't wanted to go at first. Just the thought of navigating a packed stadium in a wheelchair made you anxious. You hated the idea of being seen like this—bandaged, bruised, broken in more ways than one. But Kika wouldn’t hear of it.

“You’re still part of this team,” she’d said, gently but firmly. “And you need to see that for yourself.”

So, you went.

Kika helped you dress, fixed your hair, and got you ready like it was the most normal thing in the world. She wheeled you into the stadium with quiet confidence, navigating through staff and fans like she’d been doing it all her life.

And then the fans saw you.

There was a moment of silence, a collective pause—and then, the roar. They cheered your name, waving banners with your number on them. Some held signs that read “We fight with you.” You immediately felt your cheeks flush, instinctively trying to shrink into your hoodie.

“I shouldn’t be here like this,” you whispered to Kika.

She leaned in. “No. You should be here. And you are. That’s what matters.”

Before you could process more, the team saw you.

Pina and Jana were the first to rush over during warm-ups, full of energy and chaotic joy. Jana knelt beside you while Pina poked fun. “You just didn’t want to run, admit it.”

“She planned this all along,” Jana added with a wink.

You clutched your ribs, trying not to laugh too hard. “Guys… you’re gonna kill me.”

“Back off,” Alexia’s voice cut in, suddenly behind them, full of mock-sternness. “She’s still healing.”

Your girlfriend knelt in front of you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, scanning you like she needed to make sure you were okay. “Too much excitement?” she asked softly.

You shook your head. “This… this is perfect.”

The match itself was thrilling. Barca dominated, and when they lifted the trophy, the pride in your chest swelled so big it almost pushed out the pain.

You turned to Kika. “Go celebrate with them. You earned it.”

But she shook her head. “No way. I’m here with you.”

Before you could say more, two familiar figures appeared behind you—Mapi and Esmee, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Oh no,” you muttered, already grinning.

“Special delivery,” Mapi announced with a grin, and the next thing you knew, they were carefully wheeling you onto the pitch.

The moment Salma and Patri spotted you, they started cheering. Soon, the whole team was around you. Hugs, laughter, claps on the shoulder. You didn’t score the goals, didn’t step onto the grass with cleats—but you were part of this. Fully. Unquestionably.

Alexia came over through the noise, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your head. “Mi campeona.”

The glow from that day stayed with you when you returned home—but so did the reality.

You were trying to adjust to this new version of your life. No early mornings at training. No ice baths, drills, or teammates yelling playful insults across the locker room. Just four walls, your thoughts, and the aching reminder of what you'd lost.

Alexia tried to fill the silence.

She made you breakfast in the mornings, held your hand during pain spikes, helped you into the shower with quiet tenderness. But it wasn’t just the physical pain that stung—it was the emotional weight. The loss of control. The way you had to ask for help with everything. It gnawed at your pride.

“Do you want to go to bed?” she’d ask softly.

“No,” you’d answer too quickly. “I just want to feel normal for five minutes.”

She never pushed. She just sat down next to you and pulled your hand into hers.

Rehab started a few days later.

The physio came to your apartment. Nothing too heavy—gentle stretches, slight movements, breathing exercises to strengthen your ribs. But even lifting your leg a few inches felt like running a marathon.

After the first session, you cried. Not because of the pain, but because you realized just how far you had to go.

Alexia sat beside you on the floor, wiping your tears with the sleeve of her hoodie. “It’s okay to feel like this,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

You nodded, eyes blurry, leaning your head against her shoulder.

A few days later, Ingrid and Mapi showed up with no warning.

“Girls’ night,” Ingrid declared as they entered the apartment, carrying snacks, comfort food, and a ridiculous romcom DVD collection.

“Don’t worry, no exercise today,” Mapi added with a wink. “Just terrible movies and a lot of complaining.”

You laughed—carefully—and it felt good. It was the first time in days you’d smiled without forcing it.

They stayed for hours. Talking, joking, gossiping about team drama you didn’t even know you missed. They didn’t treat you like you were broken. Just… different. Healing. Still you.

When they left that night, you felt lighter.

You were still a long way from running. From playing. From the game that made your heart beat faster.

But you were home. Surrounded by people who loved you.

And even if your body had broken, your spirit? That was still here. Still fighting.

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Four

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

The hospital became your whole world.

What was meant to be just one surgery turned into three. The doctors explained that complications in the healing of your leg required two more procedures to properly realign and stabilize the fractures. More anesthesia. More recovery. More pain.

The days blurred into each other—white walls, beeping machines, nurses coming and going. You counted hours by medication rounds. Counted days by how many times Alexia changed her clothes. She never left your side unless absolutely necessary. The team had training, meetings, travel prep. You should have been right there with them. But instead, you were stuck here, your leg suspended and wrapped in bandages and metal.

What hurt the most wasn’t the surgeries or the bruises. It was the absence.

The Women's Champions League Final was in Lisbon. The city you had dreamed of walking into with your team, ready to battle for another title. You'd visualized it—what kit you'd wear, the energy of the stadium, hearing your name being called out over the speakers. You were supposed to be there. You were supposed to play.

Instead, you sat in a hospital bed, a week after the accident, with your parents on either side of you, the game on the TV.

Alexia had flown out with the team two days ago. At first, she refused. She said she wasn’t leaving you behind, not for anything—not even for a final. But you’d made her go. You knew what that match meant, and you knew she'd regret it if she missed it. You were glad your parents had come to Barcelona. Otherwise, you would have been completely alone.

The game started and you felt it deep in your chest. Not the pain from the ribs or the leg—but the ache of not being there. Of watching your team from the outside.

And then the screen changed. During warmups, the entire team wore white shirts with a little message printed across the front:

“For Y/N — always with us.”

You pressed your fist to your mouth, holding back tears. You couldn’t speak. Your parents exchanged soft glances but said nothing, giving you space. Then, just before kickoff, the team gathered for the official photo.

And they held up your jersey.

Your number, your name, right there in front of the world.

You sobbed.

Not because you were sad—though that was part of it—but because you had never felt so loved. This wasn’t just a team. This was family. They didn’t forget you. They carried you with them.

When Ewa scored the first goal, the entire team ran together to the sideline. They pulled up their jerseys—and there, on every undershirt, was your number drawn in thick black marker with a little heart next to it.

That’s when the tears really came.

Barcelona won. Champions again. You were proud. So proud. But it didn’t take away the sting. You should have been out there, screaming and celebrating and lifting the trophy with them.

A little later, your phone buzzed. Ingrid.

She was FaceTiming you from the locker room, hair messy and wet from champagne, the medal around her neck. “Look who’s here!” she said, flipping the camera around. One by one, your teammates popped into the frame—smiling, shouting, waving, sending you kisses.

And then Alexia.

Her eyes were shining. Her medal glinted in the stadium lights, and the trophy stood behind her. “Mi vida,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, “this one’s for you.”

You cried again.

The next morning, she was back.

No media, no party, no all-night celebration. Just a flight at dawn and her footsteps echoing down the hospital hallway.

She walked in like she belonged there, which she did, dropped her bag, and kissed your forehead. “I’d rather be here than anywhere else,” she whispered.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

---

Two weeks after the accident you were finally discharged.

You hated hospitals. The smell, the food, the air—it all made your skin crawl by now. But getting home wasn’t exactly easy either. You had a wheelchair now, one with a leg elevation platform. Every bump in the road was felt in your ribs, every twist made your bruised arm flare with pain. But Alexia and your parents helped you, step by step, with infinite patience and care.

When you finally got through the door of your apartment, it hit you.

You were home. But not whole.

Alexia helped you out of the wheelchair and onto the couch. The bed was off-limits—you couldn’t spend another hour in one. Your parents gave you one last round of hugs, telling you they’d be back soon, promising to call every day. They hugged Alexia too, and not quietly. She was more than your girlfriend now. She was part of the family. Trusted. Loved.

And then it was just the two of you.

You exhaled slowly, letting the silence wrap around you like a blanket. Your living room. Your couch. Your life—half paused, half changed.

Alexia sat beside you, holding your hand gently. She could see it. The storm in your eyes. The ache of stillness, the frustration brewing just beneath the surface.

“Do you want me to get you something?” she asked quietly. “Water? A book? I could put on a show?”

You shook your head. “No. I just… I want to sit here. With you.”

She nodded, intertwining her fingers with yours. “Then we sit.”

And you did.

The apartment around you was quiet. Familiar. Just three weeks ago, you were laughing here, sprinting through the hallway, chasing Alexia after she filled your shoes with shaving foam. You were running. Jumping. Dancing. Now, you couldn’t even stand.

But she was still here.

So maybe it would be okay.

Maybe you’d find your way back. One painful, hopeful step at a time.

Together.

------------------------------------------------------------

This part was already written, and I didn't want to rewrite it now. Personally, I never thought Barcelona wouldn't win, but it is what it is. Congratulations to Arsenal.

[woso-story]

Hi , I love your mila verse , can I request where mila is like 7-8 years old and she is going to play in her first kids tournament and ingrid has warned her barca teammates not to come as she doesn't want any other kids and parents to feel overwhelmed with all the star players present but no one listen to her anyway and all the players show up in varying disguises to watch mila play and everyone shouting whenever any kids gets close to mila specially alexia and kika and ingrid is just left shaking her head lovingly while mila is so happy to see all her tias

Thank you

Just posted it!

First Tournament

[woso-story]

First Tournament

Ingrid Engen x Mapi Leon x DaughterMila x BarcaPlayers

The smell of tomato sauce filled the cozy kitchen, bubbling gently on the stove while Ingrid stirred it with practiced ease. Behind her, at the wooden table, eight-year-old Mila sat, her small brow furrowed in concentration as she worked through her math homework. Her long, dark hair was neatly braided, just like her Mama's always was on matchdays.

Ingrid glanced back with a soft smile. Her daughter had that spark—focused, determined, with a fiery little personality that was unmistakably hers. And while her mothers were both fierce defenders, Mila had taken a different path. A forward. And a natural one at that. Scoring goals seemed to run in her blood.

"Hey, Mama?" Mila's voice piped up, breaking Ingrid out of her thoughts.

"Yeah, cariño?" Ingrid replied, turning around.

Mila looked up, her pencil now still in her hand. "Will my tias be there for the tournament this weekend?"

Ingrid paused, her heart twinging just a little. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and turned toward her daughter fully. "No, mi amor. Just me and Mami," she said gently.

Mila's shoulders slumped and she looked down at her notebook. The sight hit Ingrid hard, and she quickly moved to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around Mila’s small frame.

“I know you want them there,” Ingrid said softly. “And they want to be there too. But I asked them not to come, because… well, you know how famous they are. If they show up, it becomes a whole thing. Photos, autographs, distractions. I just wanted the day to be about you and all the kids playing—not about them.”

Mila nodded slowly, trying to understand, though her eyes still looked a little disappointed. “But I learned everything from them,” she whispered.

Ingrid kissed her temple. “I know, and they’re so proud of you. So are your Mami and I. And this is just the beginning. They’ll be at so many of your games.”

What neither Ingrid nor Mila knew was that the FC Barcelona girls had made their own decision. There was no way in the world they’d miss Mila’s first tournament.

---

The pitch was buzzing with energy, the sun shining down on groups of excited girls tying their boots, bouncing balls, and shouting to their teammates. Mila stood on the field, jersey tucked neatly into her shorts, laces double-knotted, hair in a tight braid.

She glanced toward the sidelines where her moms stood—Mapi with her ever-cool sunglasses and Ingrid holding a water bottle and looking like she was trying not to pace.

Then, just as the referee lifted the whistle to start the game, Ingrid noticed movement. A whole crowd was coming toward them. And not just anyone.

Alexia. Esmee. Pina. Frido. Kika. Jana. All of them. The Barcelona family.

Ingrid groaned softly. “They came anyway,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Mapi let out a laugh. “You thought they’d stay away?”

Esmee leaned in with a grin. “Come on, Ings. This is Mila’s debut. No way we’re missing that.”

Ingrid’s heart warmed even as she rolled her eyes, clearly failing to hide her smile.

On the pitch, Mila turned just in time to see them all lined up, waving and shouting her name. Her whole face lit up with the biggest grin. She waved back excitedly… completely missing the ball that rolled right past her.

“Mila! Focus!” Alexia yelled playfully, cupping her hands around her mouth.

Mila immediately straightened up and nodded. “Focus on the game!” she muttered to herself, repeating Alexia’s timeless advice.

And oh, did she focus.

Barely five minutes later, she was weaving through defenders like it was second nature, tapping the ball forward with precision. Then, with a swift motion, she struck it cleanly into the back of the net.

Cheers erupted. Mila sprinted to the sideline, where the entire crew was shouting and clapping. Then, in a moment of pure inspiration, she bowed deeply in front of them all—an homage to Alexia’s iconic Champions League celebration. The girls screamed even louder, all of them touched and laughing.

“¡Esa es mi nina!” Kika shouted proudly.

As the game went on, the cheering never stopped. Every goal, every pass, every tackle had a chorus of elite players hyping her up. And when an opponent shoved Mila a little too hard, Alexia and Kika were already half-jumping over the barriers.

“FOUL!” they yelled in unison, making everyone around them laugh.

Mila’s team won the match, and then the next, and the next. By the end of the day, they had won the entire tournament. Mila had scored three out of the four goals in the final. She ran straight to her family, holding up her little medal like it was a World Cup trophy.

Frido scooped her up into a spinning hug. “You were incredible!”

“We’ve got a future Ballon d'Or winner right here,” Pina added, ruffling Mila’s hair.

Soon, Mila’s coach called her back for the team photo. She waved and ran off, medal bouncing against her chest.

Ingrid looked around at the group beside her. “So none of you listened to me.”

Jana smirked, raising her hands. “Nope. Not even for a second.”

Ingrid shook her head but her smile said it all. “I’m glad you didn’t. She’ll never forget this.”

And she wouldn’t.

Because it was only the beginning. The first of many medals. The first of many games where her family was there, screaming her name and cheering her on.

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Three

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

The second Mapi pulled into the hospital’s parking lot, Alexia was out of the car before the engine even stopped. She ran across the pavement, her boots slapping against the concrete, hair sticking to her face from the Barcelona heat. She didn’t wait for Ingrid or Mapi, didn’t bother with anything other than getting through the sliding doors and to the front desk.

“Excuse me, where is Y/N Y/L/N?” she asked, voice trembling. “She was brought in this morning—there was an accident. I need to know where she is.”

The nurse behind the counter looked up with a calm professionalism that only irritated Alexia more. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t give you that information unless you’re a family member.”

Alexia blinked. “What? No, you don’t understand. I’m her girlfriend. She lives with me. We’ve been together for over two years—por favor, I just need to know if she’s okay.”

“I understand, but you’re not registered as family. Without permission or documentation, I can’t release any information.”

The panic that had been simmering in Alexia’s chest erupted. “This is crazy! I don’t care about the paperwork, I just need to see her! What if something—”

“Alexia!” Ingrid’s voice cut through the haze, firm but gentle. She walked up beside her and put a calming hand on her arm. “Wait. Didn’t Y/N make you her emergency contact here in Spain? She told me once.”

Alexia froze.

Her mind reeled for a second, and then—it hit her. Months ago, when the team doctor asked everyone to fill out a basic medical info form. A “just in case.” You’d asked her if it was okay to put her name. She’d laughed and said, “Sure. Nothing bad’s ever gonna happen anyway.”

But here they were.

She scrambled for her phone, fingers shaking as she searched through old emails and scanned her cloud drive. Minutes passed—each one like an eternity—until she finally found it. A pdf. Her name, bold and clear, under Emergency Contact.

She shoved the phone across the counter with a trembling hand.

The nurse reviewed the document carefully, and finally gave a small nod. “She’s in surgery right now. That’s all I can tell you for now. I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait until a doctor comes to speak with you. It may be a while.”

Alexia barely heard the last part. “Surgery?”

“She’s stable,” the nurse added quickly. “But we don’t have more information yet.”

It wasn’t enough. Nothing was. But at least it was something.

The three women moved to the waiting area, and for a while, none of them spoke. Alexia sat down, but she was anything but calm. She couldn’t stop crying. Her hands trembled in her lap, her chest heaving with shallow breaths. The fear was pressing down on her like a weight she couldn’t lift. Her body was here, but her mind was still racing—through all the things she should’ve said, should’ve noticed, should’ve done.

Mapi leaned in, wrapping an arm around her best friend. “Breathe, Ale. You have to breathe.”

“I can’t,” Alexia gasped. “I can’t stop thinking—what if—what if she doesn’t…”

“She will,” Mapi said quickly, even if her voice wasn’t entirely confident. “She will. She’s strong. You know that.”

Ingrid stood, silently walking outside. She didn’t say anything, but she knew what needed to be done. She called the team first. Then your family. One by one. Her voice stayed calm, but her hands were clenched the entire time.

---

The world returned to you slowly, painfully.

You blinked against the harsh light, the ceiling above you coming into focus through the haze. Your head throbbed. Your body ached. And your leg..

You tried to sit up but a sharp jolt of pain froze you in place. You cried out, breath catching in your throat.

Your eyes darted down.

Bandages. A cast. Your leg—immobile, elevated, swollen and bruised, wrapped tightly from mid-thigh down.

Where was Alexia?

You were alone.

The panic rushed in immediately.

You needed her. Her voice. Her presence. The way she always made you feel like everything would be okay, even when the world fell apart.

“Alexia…” you whimpered, your voice weak and dry.

Moments later, the door opened. A doctor stepped inside, followed by a nurse. He looked young. Kind eyes. But you didn’t care.

“Where is Alexia?” you croaked. “Please.. I need her.”

The doctor exchanged a look with the nurse, then nodded. “You’ve been in an accident. A car hit you. You’re safe now, stable. You were in surgery—”

“Where is she?” you said again, more urgently.

The nurse softened. “She’s here. She’s been waiting for you. We’ll bring her in now.”

Alexia was on her feet before the doctor even finished calling your name. She bolted toward him, eyes wide and desperate.

“She’s awake?” she asked, not waiting for permission. “Can I see her?”

“She’s asking for you,” the doctor said gently.

That was all Alexia needed.

She followed him down the hall, Mapi and Ingrid behind her. Her heart was pounding as they reached your room. The moment she saw you—small, bruised, tangled in IV lines and bandages—her legs almost gave out.

You looked up, eyes glassy with unshed tears, and the moment your gaze met hers, Alexia fell apart all over again.

She rushed to your side, carefully taking your hand—the one that wasn’t wrapped in a splint—and kissed your fingers. “I’m here,” she whispered, tears falling freely. “I’m here, mi amor.”

You clung to her hand, grounding yourself in her presence as the doctor explained everything.

“You suffered two fractures in your right leg—one in the femur, one just below the knee. We performed surgery to stabilize it. You also have two fractured ribs, a bruised arm, and minor concussion. Thankfully, your helmet protected you from something worse. You’re lucky.”

You stared at him in stunned silence, your body stiff.

“Will I… can I still play?” you asked quietly.

The doctor paused. His expression shifted—empathetic, but unsure.

“We’ll have to wait and see how your healing progresses. There’s a chance, yes. But there’s also a possibility that you won’t return to professional football. It’s too early to know.”

The words hit you harder than the car ever did.

You looked at your leg, at the cast, at the machines around you—and everything felt like it was crashing down.

Football was your life. Your identity. Your purpose.

You broke down, sobbing, and Alexia moved closer immediately. She leaned over, pressing her lips gently to your forehead.

“We’ll get through this,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Together. Like we always do.”

You wanted to believe her. You really did.

But the doubt had already taken root.

[woso-story]

Omg Mila has her first real crush and it’s a girl. Please, I need a mini series for this where Ingrid and Mapi also meet the girl. Mila brings her home or something . Or better yet, not the same girl but a time jump to college Mila who brings home a girl covered in tattoos like her Mami😂. 🙏🏼🩵✨

Just posted the story.

Meeting The Parents

[woso-story]

Meeting The Parents

Ingrid Engen x Mapi Leon x DaughterMila

The sky was soft with the golden haze of an early Friday evening when Mila paced in the living room, arms crossed, staring down her mother.

“Mami, I’m serious,” she said, her brows drawn tight in frustration. “Don’t be weird tonight. Just… be normal.”

Mapi Leon lounged comfortably on the couch, her expression one of amused disbelief. “Carino, have I ever been weird?”

Mila gave her a pointed look. “Yes. Every time I brought a girl home. You grilled them like you were trying to break them.”

Mapi laughed. “That’s called being protective. Comes with the mom job.”

“Mami, please. This one is important to me.”

From the kitchen, the smell of Ingrid Engen's cooking wafted through the air — roasted vegetables, garlic, lemon chicken. “Mila,” Ingrid called out in her gentle Norwegian accent, “if it makes you feel better, I told her the same thing.”

Mapi raised her eyebrows. “You told me not to be weird?”

“Exact words,” Ingrid said with a wink as she stirred something on the stove.

Before Mapi could retort, there was a knock on the door.

Mila jumped up. “I got it!” she shouted, racing down the hall before either of her moms could even stand. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she opened the door, and there stood Sofia.

Beautiful, confident Sofia.

With her dark curls tucked behind one ear, a bright smile that could melt glaciers, and those kind eyes that always made Mila feel seen. She leaned down slightly and placed a soft kiss on Mila’s cheek. Mila, tall from her mama’s Norwegian genes, still had to look up a little at her girlfriend.

“Hey,” Sofia said softly, then pulled a single daisy from the bouquet in her hand and handed it to Mila. “This one’s just for you.”

Mila grinned, cheeks flushing. “Just one? That’s all I’m worth?”

Sofia chuckled. “One perfect flower for one perfect girl.”

Before Mila could respond, a throat cleared behind her. Both girls turned to see Mapi and Ingrid standing there, Ingrid with a warm smile, Mapi with her eyes narrowed just slightly.

“Hi,” Sofia said quickly, stepping forward. She handed Ingrid the bouquet. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Of course,” Ingrid replied warmly. “It’s lovely to meet you, Sofia.”

Sofia turned to Mapi and offered her a bottle of red wine. “And this… for you.”

Mapi gave her a long look, then took the bottle with a nod. “Gracias.”

“Dinner is ready,” Ingrid announced. “Let’s sit.”

Sofia pulled out Mila’s chair, and both Ingrid and Mapi noticed.

“She’s polite,” Ingrid whispered to Mapi, giving her a quick wink.

Mapi gave a small, begrudging smile, but then Sofia took off her jacket to hang it over the chair—and Mapi froze.

Sofia’s arms were fully tattooed. Sleeves of intricate ink — birds, roses, galaxies, lines of poetry in elegant script.

Mapi’s brows shot up. “How old are you, Sofia?”

Sofia looked over, sensing the shift in energy. “I’m twenty.”

Mila let out a soft groan. She knew what was coming.

Mapi sat up straighter. “Twenty?” she said sharply. “You’re too old for her.”

“Mami—” Mila started, but Mapi was already on a roll.

“She’s seventeen. You’re not just a little older. You’re—”

Ingrid cut in, placing a hand on her wife’s arm. “Maria. Sit. Let’s eat first.”

Mapi glared at Sofia, but sat down without another word. Sofia gave Mila a quick glance, her smile clearly forced now. Mila reached for her hand under the table and squeezed.

Dinner was… tense.

Ingrid tried to keep the conversation light, asking how they met.

“At the beach,” Sofia said, glancing at Mila with a fond smile. “She was with friends. Someone from her group accidentally hit me with a volleyball, and I came over to return it.”

Mila laughed quietly. “You had that smug little smirk. I was convinced you were trouble.”

“I was,” Sofia teased. “Still am.”

Mapi cleared her throat. “Clearly.”

The table fell quiet again. Until, out of nowhere, Mapi blurted, “Have you two had sex?”

Sofia choked on her water. Ingrid gasped. Mila stared at her mom, mortified.

“MAMI!”

“What? It’s a valid question! She's underage.”

“No, it’s not!” Mila stood, grabbing Sofia’s hand. “Come on.”

They stormed out into the backyard, leaving Ingrid staring at Mapi.

“What is wrong with you?” Ingrid asked, aghast.

Mapi crossed her arms. "It’s a valid question."

"It’s completely out of line," Ingrid said. "She’s not a baby anymore, Maria. She’s old enough to decide who she dates."

"She has tattoos all over her," Mapi said, like that proved everything.

Ingrid blinked and then laughed. "You have tattoos all over you. One of them literally says ‘looks can be deceiving’ on your neck!"

Mapi frowned. "That’s different."

"No, it’s not," Ingrid said firmly. "You’re being exactly the kind of person who would've judged you back in the day. If I'd listened to that thinking, we wouldn’t be married. Mila wouldn’t be here. So think carefully before you burn bridges with your daughter."

Mapi looked down, heart heavy. "I just… I don’t want her to get hurt."

"I know," Ingrid said gently. "But hurting her tonight won’t stop that."

Outside, Mila was still apologizing to Sofia on the patio. “I told you she’d be over the top but I didn’t think she’d—ugh! I’m sorry.”

Sofia smiled sadly. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You came here to make a good impression.”

Just then, the back door creaked open and Mapi stepped outside.

“I’d like to speak with Sofia alone. Please.”

Mila looked like she wanted to argue, but Sofia gently squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

Inside, Mila helped Ingrid with the dishes, venting about her insufferable mother while Ingrid tried to calm her down.

On the patio, Mapi and Sofia sat in silence. Finally, Mapi spoke.

“I’m sorry. For what I said. It was… too much.”

Sofia nodded. “I get it. I do.”

More silence.

“Do you really love her?” Mapi asked.

Sofia turned to look her straight in the eyes. “Yes. I’m in love with Mila. I know it’s still new, but it’s real. I’d never do anything to hurt her.”

Mapi studied her for a moment, then finally nodded. “Alright. Let’s start again.”

Sofia smiled. “I’d like that.”

When they came back inside, Mila and Ingrid looked up, surprised to see both of them laughing. Mila gave her mama a what-is-going-on look.

Ingrid just shrugged.

“Oh,” Mapi said casually, “Sofia said she might let me tattoo her.”

Mila’s jaw dropped. “What?!”

Sofia wrapped her arm around Mila’s waist and whispered, “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

And it was.

The rest of the evening was filled with laughter and stories, and by the end of it, Mapi and Sofia were talking about tattoo styles like old friends. Ingrid leaned back, watching her daughter glow with happiness.

Mila had found someone special.

And Mapi, reluctantly but wholeheartedly, was starting to see that too.

[woso-story]

Through Thick And Thin - Part Two

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

You woke to chaos.

Blinding lights. Voices. Movement. Cold.

The world came at you all at once — too fast, too loud, too much. You groaned, the sound barely escaping your throat. It felt like someone had ripped your body apart and stitched it back together with fire. Everything hurt. Your legs, your ribs, your head — pain blooming in places you didn’t even know could hurt.

You tried to open your eyes.

White. Too white. The light stabbed into your skull like knives, forcing you to shut them tight again.

There were voices around you. Some yelling, others rushing through clipped medical terms. You couldn’t tell if they were talking to you or about you. Your mind swam, struggling to stay afloat. Nothing made sense. The words were muffled, like you were underwater. You didn’t know what they were saying. You didn’t even know where you were.

What happened?

Hospital. It had to be a hospital.

But… why?

You tried to think, tried to rewind the morning. You were on your way to training — that you remembered. But not with Alexia, no. She had left earlier, taking your training bag with her. You wanted to stop by the city center first, pick up a small gift for Patri’s birthday. Just something simple. You were riding your bike. The weather had been beautiful. Barcelona at its best — golden sunlight, warm breeze, the scent of bakeries filling the streets.

You’d been smiling to yourself, actually. Thinking about how lucky you were. How perfect life was.

And then…

You gasped, your body reacting before your brain could. A spike of pain shot through your side, making you writhe against the stretcher. Someone held your arm down gently. A voice tried to calm you.

Tires screeching. A horn. A sharp impact.

Then — nothing. Just blackness.

“Easy... it’s okay... you’re safe, you’re in the ER... we’re going to give you something for the pain now…”

The words blurred together again, the meaning slipping through your fingers like sand. And just as quickly as it came, the world began to fade again. Your grip on consciousness slipping.

You didn’t know yet that a car had run a red light. That you’d been thrown off your bike. That you’d landed hard — so hard they weren’t sure at first how bad the internal damage was. You didn’t know the injuries, the surgeries ahead, the hard conversations still to come.

---

But the pain — it told you enough.

Something was very, very wrong.

Meanwhile, at Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper, the Barca training grounds, there was a different kind of tension rising.

“Where is she?” Irene asked, tugging off her warm-up jacket. “Did she forget that we have training today?”

“She said she’d come on her own today,” Alexia replied, lacing up her boots. “She wanted to stop in the city first.”

“She’s never late,” Ingrid muttered, checking the clock. “It’s been almost forty minutes.”

Alexia tried to laugh it off, but her fingers paused on the laces. You were never late. You were usually the first one to arrive — warming up, checking your cleats, chatting with the coaches. You were that kind of player.

She pulled out her phone. Dialed. Straight to voicemail.

A cold wave crept through her chest.

Still, she shook it off and followed the others out to the pitch. Maybe you were helping someone. Maybe you lost track of time. It wasn’t like you… but things happened.

It wasn’t until midway through drills that she noticed something was wrong.

She caught sight of Pere, the team’s head coach, standing stiffly by the sidelines. Two of the club staff were speaking to him in hushed, frantic voices. He nodded sharply, then turned toward the pitch. His expression was tight. Focused. Grim.

“Everyone stop.”

The session froze. The air changed.

“Alexia,” Pere called. “Come here.”

No. No, no, no.

The rest of the team gathered silently, watching as Alexia walked toward him. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until he spoke.

“There’s been an accident,” he said. “It’s Y/N. The hospital just called.”

She didn’t hear the rest.

The world dropped out beneath her feet.

Her hands were shaking when she stormed into the locker room. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. You had kissed her goodbye just this morning. Told her you’d see her in an hour. Smiling. Safe.

And now you were in a hospital.

She dug through her bag frantically, searching for her car keys. Her vision was blurring, her breath ragged. Just when her fingers wrapped around the keys, a hand snatched them away.

“No way,” Mapi said, her voice firm but calm. “You can’t drive like this.”

“Give them to me,” Alexia snapped, trying to grab them back.

“Alexia, no.” Mapi held them out of reach, her eyes filled with concern. “You’re shaking. You’re in no condition to get behind a wheel.”

“I have to get to her!”

“I know. And we will. But not like this. You don’t even know what hospital she’s in—”

“In Sant Pau,” Ingrid interrupted from the doorway, already tossing her own keys to Mapi. Her voice was steady, but her jaw was tight, her eyes stormy. “You drive. I’ll sit with her.”

Mapi hesitated for a beat, then nodded. No more questions.

The three of them walked out together, still in their kits, football boots clacking against the asphalt. None of them cared. All that mattered was getting to you.

Alexia sat in the back, her knee bouncing, heart in her throat, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. She stared out the window but saw nothing.

Ingrid rested a hand on her shoulder, and for the first time since Pere had spoken, Alexia let the tears fall. Silent. Scared. Praying that the next time she saw you, you’d still be able to say her name.

Please be okay.

Please be okay.

Please, please be okay.

[woso-story]

Topless

Alexia Putellas x Reader x BarcaTeammates

You woke to the golden light of the Barcelona sun streaming through the bedroom window, spilling onto the sheets and painting lazy streaks across Alexia’s bare shoulder. She was still sleeping, her breathing soft and even, one arm slung around your waist. You took a second to just look at her, admiring the way the morning softened every sharp edge, how even the most intense captain in the world could look so at peace.

Today was rare—a full day off. No training. No meetings. No press. Just freedom. And better yet, beach plans with your favorite people.

You gently nudged her shoulder. “Lex…”

She groaned lightly, hiding her face in your collarbone. “Five more minutes.”

You laughed. “We’re gonna be late. And if we’re late, Mapi will steal our spot.”

“She can have it,” Alexia muttered, but she was already sitting up, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

---

The drive down the coast was easy. The playlist was on point—mostly Spanish pop, with a few of your favorite songs Alexia had added for you. The city slowly fell away behind you, replaced by cliffs and sparkling water to your right. Alexia drove barefoot, sunglasses on, her hand resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

When you finally pulled into the dusty parking lot by the hidden cove, you already recognized the other cars. Patri’s SUV, Mapi’s Jeep - everyone was already here. You stepped out and immediately felt the warmth of the sand beneath your sandals, the scent of salt and sunscreen carried on the wind.

You grabbed your bag, threw on your sunglasses, and followed the trail down to the beach.

The moment you stepped onto the sand, it felt like a different world. Pina and Jana were already tossing a frisbee, Ingrid and Kika were setting up towels, and Mapi was halfway through building some kind of elaborate sandcastle. Patri was just cracking open a cooler filled with cold drinks, and Esmee waved at you from beneath the shade of an umbrella.

Alexia squeezed your hand as you joined them, and for a moment, everything just felt right. Easy. Sunlight shimmered off the water, and laughter echoed across the cove.

After a quick snack and a lot of sunscreen, someone shouted the obvious: “Water?”

You all charged toward the waves like kids on summer break, splashing and diving into the Mediterranean. The water was crystal clear and just cool enough to be refreshing. Salma dunked Jana almost immediately. Alexia swam up behind you and wrapped her arms around your waist, spinning you gently in the water before pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

You felt so light. So free. For a while, there were no matches, no tactics, no cameras. Just you, the sun, the sea, and your friends.

Eventually, tired and wrinkled from the saltwater, you all stumbled back to the towels, laughing and dripping wet. That’s when something… unexpected happened.

Without much fanfare, Mapi unhooked her bikini top and tossed it onto her towel, laying back with a satisfied sigh. A second later, Patri did the same. Then Pina. Salma. Jana.

You blinked. Okay. That was… new.

You weren’t a stranger to nudity—being a footballer, you’d spent enough time in locker rooms to see it all. But this wasn’t like the locker room. This was casual. Public. Almost intimate.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw her—Alexia. Sitting up on the towel next to you, untying her bikini top like it was the most normal thing in the world. And for her, it was. For all of them, it seemed.

You weren’t sure what to do with your eyes. You stared back at the water, blinking, a little flushed.

A soft chuckle came from beside you.

“I can feel you overthinking,” Ingrid said, settling back on her towel to your left. She still had her top on.

You looked at her, sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”

She smiled. “You’re not the first. First time I was here, I thought I’d wandered into some nudist retreat.”

You laughed, grateful for her presence. “It’s just… I’m not used to it. At home, we don’t really—do this.”

“I know,” she said warmly. “You’ll get used to it. No one expects you to. It’s just a Spain thing. They sunbathe topless like it’s no big deal.”

You nodded, a bit more reassured. Ingrid laid back, still wearing her top, and you exhaled. At least you weren’t alone.

Still, you couldn’t quite relax. Your thoughts were doing somersaults. Why was this such a big deal? You’d seen all of them in every state of undress before. So why now, lying next to your topless teammates on a beach, was your brain acting like this was the most scandalous thing ever?

You felt a hand touch your shoulder.

Alexia.

She scooted closer, resting her chin on your shoulder. “Everything okay, carino?”

You gave a small nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“You never think this much at training.”

You rolled your eyes. “Because at training, I’m not surrounded by topless teammates.”

She laughed then, a full laugh that shook her shoulders. “Oh no,” she said between breaths. “You’re having a crisis about boobs, aren’t you?”

You slapped her arm gently. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not. Okay—maybe a little. But it’s cute. You’ve probably never had this many thoughts about Patri’s boobs before.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hand.

“Hey,” she said, her voice softer now. “You don’t have to do anything. No one’s expecting you to. You’re not Spanish. This isn’t normal for you, and that’s okay. Look—Ingrid’s still wearing hers. So is Esmee. And you can keep yours on too. There’s no rule here.”

You looked at her, grateful.

“Really. Just… relax. You’re allowed to feel out of place. But don’t let it ruin your day, okay?”

You nodded slowly. She kissed your shoulder blade, just over the strap of your bikini, and then lay back down beside you.

For the first time since returning from the water, you let yourself breathe deeply. The sea breeze was soft against your skin. The sound of laughter, waves, and Spanish chatter floated around you like a lullaby. And slowly, your thoughts quieted.

Maybe you didn’t quite understand all the customs here yet. Maybe there would be more moments like this—awkward, confusing, new. But you were learning. You were growing. You were finding your place in this beautiful, sun-drenched world.

And as you turned your head slightly to glance at Alexia, sun-kissed and smiling, you realized: as long as she was by your side, you’d get used to it all eventually.

One sunburn and bikini dilemma at a time.