the heat hits different at night, it doesn’t cool down, it just changes texture.
becomes something thicker, more personal, like the city is breathing directly on you. up here on the private vip area of the estadio metropolitano it’s slightly better, the altitude pulling a faint suggestion of a breeze off the stage rigging, but only slightly.
the area has just a low iron railing between you and the drop to the levels below, the stage sprawling enormous and luminous ahead. benito small blazing figure at the center of it all, voice massive, production even more so.
gold and red and deep violet light sweeps in long arcs across the crowd.
tens of thousands of bodies.
the bass rolls up through the concrete and into your feet and doesn’t stop.
you are, in theory, having a great time.
you’re all together near the railing where the view is best.
you, alexia, clara, kika, misa, laia and victoria.
it’s been good.
it’s been genuinely, properly good.
the first few songs were joyful chaos, all of you screaming at each other over the music, laia nearly losing her drink, misa dancing with the kind of full-bodied commitment that makes everyone around her better. victoria filmed everything. clara kept grabbing kika’s arm every time she recognized a song, which was often, meaning kika’s arm had been grabbed approximately forty times.
alexia has been right beside you for all of it.
alexia, who is wearing white.
not soft white.
dangerous white.
the halter top wraps cleanly around her throat, all sharp lines and bare shoulders, elegant in the way expensive things are elegant without trying very hard. her hair is pinned up, though madrid’s humidity has already started winning the argument, loose strands falling against her cheeks.
she’s been happy all evening.
real, unguarded, vacation mode, happy.
the version of her that takes a while to surface, the one that belongs to people she actually trusts.
but.
she has also been…something else.
something she hasn’t said.
it started when you came downstairs earlier, before the car, before any of it.
you’d walked downstairs and found alexia waiting by the door.
she looked up.
and stopped.
just for a second.
her eyes dropped from your face to the skirt.
then to the heels.
then back up again.
a complete assessment.
silent.
thorough.
gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
your outfit had been a calculated decision.
the black top fits like it was made specifically to cause problems.
the skirt is worse.
all black sequins and unapologetically little fabric, catching light every time you move.
it was short, you knew it.
the heels push everything a few inches higher.
you’d stood in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary and decided, very deliberately, that the answer was yes.
absolutely yes.
“lista?” she’d asked.
the word sounded perfectly normal.
everything else about her did not.
you’d assumed it was a compliment.
you were only partly right.
by the time you reached the stadium, her hand had settled at your waist and never really left.
you filed it away.
your heels were high enough to bring you exactly to her eye level, enough that when she would lean to speak in your ear she didn’t have to bend at all.
her hand had been at your waist like it belonged there.
the night was good and neither of you wanted to be the first to ruin it.
that lasted until clara got her phone out.
it started the way it always starts, harmless.
she was filming the stage, the crowd, the lights, then the group.
kika started to make faces, misa was stealing the frame.
normal.
then the camera landed on alexia, who grinned and finally gave in to the music.
the stadium lights flashed across the clean white line of her top, caught briefly on the sunglasses still perched on her nose for reasons known only to her.
she laughed at something clara shouted through the camera, head tipping back.
her hips found the beat with that easy, natural rhythm she has.
nothing crazy.
nothing performed.
which somehow made it worse.
alexia never looked like she was trying.
she just looked good.
kika slid in behind alexia with a grin, hands finding alexia’s arm, and they fell into it together: performing shamelessly for clara’s camera.
the stage lights, kika’s hands, alexia tipping her head back laughing that laugh, and clara hollering something encouraging.
and that’s when you turned back to the stage.
the railing was cold under your palms. cold in the specific way metal gets in the middle of a hot night. you’re pressing into a little harder than necessary.
below, the crowd moves in long slow waves. the song has shifted into something heavier, more deliberate.
you stare at the crowd.
you are a rational adult. kika is one of your favorite people. this is a video. it means nothing.
“estás bien.”
not a question.
alexia’s voice, low and close, right at your ear.
you didn’t hear her come back. you never do.
“fine,” you say. english. clipped.
a small pause.
“mentira,” she says. quiet. exact.
you don’t answer.
she steps in behind you closing the distance and settles there, warm and immediate.
one hand comes to your hip.
her chin drops to your shoulder, her mouth near your temple.
the fabric of her pants brushes against your bare legs. she’s close enough that you can feel the heat of her through the layers between you.
you can feel the weight of her restraint.
the skirt.
the top.
the attention they draw.
all the things she’d spent the evening pretending didn’t bother her.
you feel the breath she takes.
slow.
measured.
the kind that means she is being very patient with herself and with you.
her thumb moves once against your hip.
traces the hem of your skirt where it sits.
doesn’t say anything about it.
still hasn’t said anything about it.
“mírame,” she says.
“I am watching the show.”
“no estás.” her thumb traces a slow arc against your hip. “llevas cinco minutos mirando la barandilla.”
“I like the railing.”
a low exhale against your hair. not quite a laugh.
“era kika,” she says. low. careful. “para la cámara. nada más.”
“I know that.”
“lo sé. y aun así.”
you say nothing.
because she’s right and she knows she’s right and you know she’s right and none of that is actually the point. the point is her hands are on you and the point is the tight thing in your chest, small, unformed, not quite a thought yet.
“oye.” her nose presses to the back of your neck. slow. “estoy aquí.”
something in your chest loosens against your will.
“your sunglasses,” you say, because you have to say something. “it’s already night.”
a warm sound against your ear.
“¿te molestan mis gafas?”
“they’re ridiculous.”
“dramática,” she says softly. like it’s a love language. because for her it is.
“she had her hands on you.” you say smaller than you meant it. less armored.
“lo sé,” she says.
“I know it’s nothing. I know—”
“lo sé,” she says again. same words. entirely different weight.
her arms wind all the way around you then, both of them, crossing at your stomach and pulling you properly back against her, just holding.
her lips press to your temple and the tight thing in your chest opens a little more.
“eres la única que me importa,” she murmurs into your hair. “¿me escuchas? la única.”
you close your eyes for one second.
when you open them the stage is gold and enormous.
laia materializes beside you, grabs your arm, shouts something about the next song, then vanishes. clara is laughing at something with kika, phone nowhere in sight, already moved on entirely.
alexia’s arms stay around you. then quiet, almost underneath the music, almost like she’s saying it to herself—
“y tú.”
a pause.
“tú también podrías haber dicho algo. antes de salir.”
you go still.
there it is.
“about what?” you ask. carefully.
her hands shift at your waist.
deliberate.
the movement is brief.
pointed anyway.
“ya sabes sobre qué,” she says. not angry. not quite. something more complicated than angry.
“you didn’t say anything,” you say.
“no,” she agrees. “no dije nada.”
“so—”
“porque no quería arruinarlo.” her voice is still low, still even, but there’s something underneath it now, something real and unguarded and a little raw. “querías ir así, y no quería que la noche empezara con eso. así que no dije nada.”
you turn in her arms.
she lets you.
she is a lot. the gold light hitting the planes of her face, jaw set, eyes very dark, looking at you with an expression that means she has been managing something privately for several hours.
“alexia,”
“la falda,” she says quietly. “el top. la forma en que todo el mundo miraba.”
she exhales through her nose.
that says enough.
the crowd roars below for something. gold light floods stadium. neither of you moves.
“you could have told me,” you say, softer now.
“carinõ,”
“i would have chan—”
“no habrías cambiado,” she says, and the corner of her mouth moves, not quite a smile but also quite not one. “y no te lo pido. no es eso.”
“then what is it?”
she looks at you for a long moment. the lights move across her face: red, gold, red again. something in her expression shifts, settles, becomes something quieter and more honest.
“que me vuelves loca,” she says simply. “eso es lo que es. desde el momento en que bajaste las escaleras.”
something warm unfurls in your chest.
“yeah?” you say.
“sí.”
the answer comes immediately.
“con esa falda y esos tacones.”
she shakes her head once.
“y yo intentando comportarme como una persona normal.”
the corner of her mouth twitches.
“sin éxito.”
you look at her.
really look at her.
she looks back.
the music shifts below, something slow, heavy rolling up through the concrete, the crowd swaying with it.
then her eyes drop, slow, deliberate, taking in the skirt, the top, all of it, before coming back up to your face. “la falda“ a pause that has weight in it. “eso lo hablamos después.”
the way she says después.
low. certain. a door closing on something that hasn’t happened yet.
“promise?” you say.
her jaw shifts. her hands tighten at your hips. just slightly. just enough to tell you everything.
“gira,” she says softly.
you turn back to the railing.
her arms come around you, her lips at your temple. the song that’s been building below finally crests, not louder, just deeper, the kind of track that doesn’t ask anything of you except to feel it.
slow. heavy. deliberate.
moving through the floor, through your heels, through everything.
alexia starts to move.
it’s barely anything at first. just a slow sway, her body against yours. her hands resting at your hips, not guiding, just present.
and then you start to move with her.
and something changes.
her hands spread wider at your hips. her fingers press in, not hard, just firm, just certain.
you can feel the exhale she releases against the side of your neck.
slow.
unsteady in a way she’d never let happen anywhere else.
you roll your hips back into hers, following the low pulse of the music, her grip tightens immediately.
“dios,” she breathes. barely sound. more just air.
you do it again. slower this time. more deliberate.
her fingers dig into the fabric over your hips, the hem of your skirt rising just slightly with the movement, her thighs press in against yours from behind, corning you, stilling the movement just enough to control it.
to make it hers.
“para,” she murmurs against your ear. not a real instruction. not even close.
“you started it,” you say.
“tú empezaste esto hace horas,” she says, low and rough. “with this ridiculous skirt.”
her hands slide, from your hips down over the front of your thighs, just to the hem.
just to the edge of it.
her palms are warm against your bare skin, she stops there, holding, the tips of her fingers resting at the point where fabric ends and nothing begins.
she doesn’t go further.
she just holds.
the restraint in it is somehow more devastating than anything else would be.
you tilt your head back against her shoulder and look up at her.
her eyes are very dark as she looks at you like you are something she has made a decision about and is now in the process of executing with great patience and zero mercy.
“alexia,” you say.
“sí” she says. she already knows. she always knows.
her nose brushes your temple. her lips follow barely there, just the heat of them, dragging slowly along the line of your jaw. not a kiss. a quiet, unhurried threat.
“there’s people,” you breathe.
“I can see,” she says.
her hands slide back up to your waist.
“por eso me estoy portando bien.”
the way she says portando bien.
like it is costing her something significant.
like the bill is going to come due later and you are both very aware of it.
you look to the side, laia has her arms around victorias’s shoulders and the rest of girls are watching the stage, present.
you lean back into alexia and feel her exhale against your hair and the whole world narrows down to the size of this.
the heat of her, the press of her thighs behind you, the press of her hands flat against your stomach holding you against her. the music rolling up through the floor. the city enormous and gold and alive below.
new fic anyone? lmk if you're interested! (+help me choose a header)
summary: Alexia Putellas had always been forbidden fruit. She was your father’s closest friend, and the woman who once made it clear she could never see you the way you saw her. You left Barcelona hoping distance would dull your feelings, your craving. But now you’re back and quickly realizing that the desire is still there. Only this time, it feels less like something you’re meant to resist and more like something that’s been waiting to be bitten into.
contains/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, explicit content, older!dadsBFF!Alexia, younger!reader, cunnilingus A!receiving, fingering A!receiving, making out, foul and inappropriate language, age gap, shared history, inebriation, implied consent given, longterm pining and yearning, usage of yn and petnames (princess, princesa)
disclaimer: this fic contains an age gap of 8 years (present time reader is 24, Alexia is 32) and explores a dad's best friend relationship dynamic that not everyone is comfy with.
with that said, comment or reblog if u're interested and if there are enough of u, i'll post it <3
words: 4.4k
warnings: 18+. MINORS DNI. pitfighter!abby, catalina island au, reader & abby broke up, vi cameo teehee, blood, violence, self-destructive behaviours, one mention of ow*n, probably out of character idk i'm rusty, typos i'm sleepy
She pretends not to feel it at first. Goes about her usual routine at the Catalina Island Firefly base. Doesn’t sleep, barely eats, but acknowledges neither the exhaustion nor the hunger. Focuses on training, patrols, resources. Looks away when your paths cross. Brushes Lev off when he asks what happened. It’s not a wall she’s built. More an iron cage without a door, nobody allowed in or out.
But the ache of missing you still seeps through the cracks.
Then she overhears rumblings of secret fights held in a warehouse just off base. She’s seen more bruises than usual recently, but chalked it up to training injuries until now. And when she asks about it, her fists ball like she’s already in the pit. Only recently has she gotten all of her old muscle back, and she likes the sound of living, breathing punching bags. It’s reckless, and she’ll have to be careful not to harm her opponents so much that the Firefly leaders begin to notice the injuries, but the idea of fighting, letting all of her anger out, sounds a hell of a lot better than staring at her ceiling, trying to forget the sound of your voice, all the while knowing your shirt is still under her bed because giving it back would mean it’s really over. She’s in purgatory. Shut down.
Maybe this will wake her up.
By the second week, she’s the reigning champion. She fights every night. Nobody beats her, but they do batter her. She likes it — the physical pain builds, builds, builds, until there’s no room left in her broken bones for missing you. Lev notices the bruises. She is a bad liar, but good at shutting down. She knows she’s cruel to make him worry, but he’s getting older now. She convinces herself he doesn’t need her the way he used to.
You notice, too. You have to bite your tongue to keep from asking what happened, knowing it’s not your place.
She fights again. Again. Again.
By week four, she’s accepting the drinks offered to her by those winning money in her favour. She goes to sleep and wakes up drunk, or at least foggy. It helps with the pain, so she doesn’t stop.
You can’t bear it. You barely recognise her. It’s Lev who convinces you to break the radio silence between you, eyes big and round and pleading. “I’m worried about her. Please. I can’t get through to her, but you can. I know you can.”
“If she wanted to talk to me, she would,” you insist.
His fingers curl around your forearm tight. “Please.” His chin wobbles. “She’s going to get hurt.”
Your chest lurches with the sincerity of it, and the fear.
More than that, the guilt, even though she’s the one who ended things. Maybe you should have fought harder, but you weren’t in the habit of chasing people when they cast you aside. You needed her to love you, let you love her, and she couldn’t. Always so stoic, always so focused on her duties. She could shut you out for weeks, and, fuck, it hurt. You wanted to be patient, but in the end, you found yourself begging for a speck of attention, a second of her time.
“Maybe this is as far as we go."
“What are you saying?”
Her expression had shuttered, features made of impenetrable steel. “I can’t give you what you need.”
A lump filled your throat. It took eons to clear it for long enough to choke out, “Then why take it this far? Why string me along this long?”
She had the good sense to dip her chin with guilt, turning away from you in increments: one foot twisting, then the other, until you’re staring at the slabs of muscle on her back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
You’d been falling in love with her. Her lack of care, of emotion, of anything, shattered you to a million pieces.
But like her, you’re a soldier, so you didn’t let it show, instead grabbing your belongings from her room as hastily as you can. Pants and shirts and gun all shoved into your backpack. “No. No, you shouldn't have.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, but her voice was flat. She’d checked out at the first opportunity, and you were a fool for not seeing it sooner. “It isn’t anything you did—”
You scoffed. “Spare the cliches, Abby. I don’t need to fucking hear them. You don’t want me, I’m gone. I’m just sorry we both wasted so much time.”
She hadn’t argued, hadn’t given you the reassurance you’d needed so badly to hear. She’d let you go, and you hadn’t spoken to her since.
“Do you know what, exactly, is going on with her?” you ask Lev.
He shakes his head. “Just that she’s gone every night, and she comes back a mess.”
It’s likely nothing to do with you at all. She's tormented by far worse things than you and your brief flame. Still, it’s Lev. It’s Abby. You nod and placate him: “I’ll try. No promises.”
His grateful "thank you" dislodges something inside you.
That evening, you catch her heading down the corridor where both of your rooms are stationed. Since she looks right through you, don’t beat it around the bush, grabbing her arm with rough abandon. Her eyes are glassy and glacial as they meets yours, but there are cracks. Under them, you see a question shimmer.
“Lev is worried about you. Whatever you’ve got going on, whatever hole you’re digging yourself into, stop it. Now.”
Her lip curls with something akin to a sneer, and as she yanks away, the stench of vodka wafts over you. She’s already drunk. Up close, you see purple smatterings over her jaw, her cheek. She rubs the place your hand had clamped over, revealing split knuckles. She’s been fighting. You’d bet anything that it’s connected to Simon’s two missing teeth, which you noticed the day before, and Leo’s broken arm the day before that.
“Did he ask you to say that?” she responds tersely.
“Yes,” you hiss. “For whatever reason, he thinks it might make a difference, and I wasn’t about to break his heart. Are you?”
Her lips purse as she looks you over like she would a stranger. The braid she usually keeps so neat is falling apart at the seams, just like the rest of her. “He doesn’t need to worry.”
“No?” You cock your head. “So the split knuckles and sour breath… All normal, right?”
“It’s none of your business,” she grinds out.
“This isn’t you,” you protest with an equal amount of vehemence. You hate that your emotions crack through, hate that you’re practically pleading, but the shadows in the hollows of her cheeks and under her eyes scare you. She’s never, not once, succumbed to her demons before. Never touched a drink, never been reckless, knowing that she has to be responsible for Lev if not herself. All of this is new. Was there something else, something you missed, when you were dating?
When she says nothing, you sigh and try another tactic, softening as you inch closer. Your fingers ghost over the raw skin on her hand. “Maybe it makes me an idiot, but I’m worried about you.”
The barrier seems to gain another layer of reinforced metal as she jolts away, all but glowering at you through hooded slits. “Don’t be.”
She walks away, leaving you alone and no closer to fixing this.
Only when her figure has retreated completely do you let a jagged breath gutter from you, stomach tying itself in knots.
You still love her, despite your better judgement, despite your pride, despite your heartbreak — and this is an abandonment far worse than the one previous, because it isn’t you she’s left behind. It’s herself.
The next night, you go to a fight. You hadn’t believed the rumours to be true, believing that surely your peers had better survival instincts than to bet on each other’s aggression for sport. But depravity rears its ugly head in every community you’ve ever been a part of, so of course the opportunity was taken.
You just never thought Abby would be the first to raise her fists.
The warehouse is dank, the pit a square in the middle of the rotting third floor marked out by masking tape and lit by floodlights powered by a generator. Rations are traded for beer and moonshine, bets are placed in the currency of rota duties and rare supplies. You’re surprised at just how many of your own friends come down to watch the bloodshed. If they kept it a secret, it was likely because they knew their star fighter was a sore subject for you.
It makes you angry to think of them all drunkenly cheering her on every night, enabling this.
You worm your way to the front of the crowd, Simon muttering an, “Oh, shit,” beside you.
“What?” You raise a brow. “Surprised I didn’t want to miss out on the fun?”
“Don’t even think of reporting this,” he warns. “It’s the only fucking excitement we get.”
You mock zipping up your lips, turning your attention back to the ring with folded arms. A patroller named Vince quietens the roaring audience to announce the first fighter: Violet, a tattooed fisherwoman you know only because she brings home enough salmon and cod to feed the entire base. She’s lean, tall, almost as strong as Abby, and twice as fierce as she warms up with swift jabs into the air. The cheers make it known that she has people rooting for her.
And then the reigning champion is introduced. Abby Anderson. She enters the pit with far less flamboyance, that same steely gaze you bore the brunt of yesterday dragging over the crowd as she secures the blood-stained wraps around her knuckles. Acid builds in your throat. Why is she doing this?
And why is she swaying like she doesn’t even care about winning enough to stay sober?
It only hits you then how bad this is. Lev had every reason to be terrified for the woman who has dragged him through hell. With hunched shoulders, she already looks defeated, and you find it hard to believe that her raw strength was enough to get her here. There is no will there, no determination. Just a withering shell letting her body speak for her, and even that might not be enough. She’s lost muscle recently.
You can’t let her do this — but by the time you step into the pit to go to her in the opposite corner, a countdown has begun and Simon is dragging you back. “She’s fine. She's never lost a fight.”
You rear back. “She’s drunk.”
“Never stopped her before.”
Suddenly, you hate everyone in this room, her included. After everything these people have survived – everything she has survived – they’re willing to ruin their bodies over a sadistic little sport?
The fight begins before you have time to process it, blows thrown on both sides. You wince when Violet’s fists collide with Abby’s jaw in an audible thump, leaving blood to trickle down the corner of her mouth. Abby snarls as she wipes it away, a new scorn rising in her all at once. She hits back twice: once to Violet’s cheek, the other to her chin. When Violet stumbles back, nose already busted, Abby drives a boot into her toned stomach.
You’re relieved: it’ll be over quickly. Except Violet snaps to attention, throwing daggers as she rights herself. The women are all primal fury as they hit and parry. After moments of catching their breaths with light jabs, Violet swings, sending Abby tumbling across the pit, towards you. She spits blood, unaware it’s your shoes it lands right next to. Her freckles are crimson now, too.
You can’t do this. You can’t watch this. She’s destroying herself. The worst part is the slimy grin she gives whenever she’s hit, like she enjoys the pain.
Soon, blood is staining her teeth. Violet is in worse shape, but it doesn’t make you feel better. Part of you wants to leave, find a way to claw the love you have for her out of your chest so you never have to feel this nauseating devastation again.
Another part of you — the strongest part — wants to stop this. Now.
That part of you wins out.
You elbow Simon in the gut as he tries to stop you, marching into the pit and just barely missing Violet’s swings. You ignore her, wedging yourself between the fighters and catching Abby’s wrist before she pummels into you instead of her opponent.
“Stop it. Now. Please,” you beg.
At first, her expression is blank, like she doesn’t recognise you at all.
“Get out of the fucking ring!” Violet orders from behind, shoving you towards the edge. The referee joins, all of them grappling to usher you away, but you latch onto Abby, cupping her jaw.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt. I need you to stop. I’m begging you, Abby.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers, breath all heady whisky and sourness.
“Get the fuck out of my way!” Violet is screaming, and then you’re thrust aside like you’re nothing more than a featherlight obstacle. The crowd catches you as you stagger into them, and you whip to wreak vengeance —
But Abby gets there first, knocking Violet to the ground with more carnal fury than you’ve ever seen in her before.
There are cheers and boos, complaints it wasn’t a fair fight, but your ears ring loudly enough to drown them all out, because you don’t know who this woman is. Her chest heaves ferociously, fists balled tight as knots, teeth bared like a wild animal.
She looks at you, and it wavers. All of her wavers, right down to her powerful stance.
Without waiting for the ref’s verdict, she storms away, disappearing behind a smog of angered onlookers.
There is nothing you can do but follow.
Abby marches out of the warehouse still brimming with rage, your crumbling expression imprinted on the back of her eyelids. As soon as she hits the weed-infested concrete, she doubles over, vomiting bile mixed with the blood she can still taste. She likes it, that metallic tang that drives thoughts of you away — but not tonight. Tonight, she can’t escape you.
Why are you here?
“Abby—”
She flinches from your touch like she would barbed wire, thrusting you back, though she just knocked a woman unconscious for doing the same. She had no idea that sort of strength lived in her. She’d hurt people before, but she’d never wanted to rip them apart, not until she saw the other fighter lay their hands on you.
Your eyes are shimmering, the same way they did when she sent you away. It winds her more than the strongest of fists, causing her to bend over and cough up another splattering of foul acid. Her stomach hurts, and she doesn’t know if it’s from the retching or the punches she was dealt.
Or from you, for being here, seeing her like this. She isn’t proud of who she’s become in your absence. She just didn’t know where else to put all of the feelings she didn’t want to feel. The grief that came with knowing she’d never be able to open up and give you the love you deserve. She is not whole, and you were supposed to realise that and walk away before she had to make it known.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demands.
“I’m trying to stop you from destroying yourself!” you scream back. Never, not once, have you raised your voice before: not at her, not at anyone else. It pierces through her with a razor-sharp edge, and she knows this is the fight she won’t survive.
“It’s none of your fucking business what I do—”
“Fuck you, Abby!” You shake your head, tears rolling down your cheeks. “You don’t get to do this! You have no idea how lucky you are to have people who love you, people who want to keep you here! Why are you trying to ruin it?” And then, in nothing more than a fragile rasp: “Why do you push us away?”
She bites down on her swollen lip, turning to unravel the wrap around her knuckles before the blood soaks all the way though. She barely feels the sting, adrenaline and liquor still pumping through her and casting her beneath an overwhelming, contradictory veil of confusion and clarity.
“I’m not doing this with you,” she spits out, because she can’t, and why can’t you just see that? Why don’t you understand that she can’t give you the power to ruin her?
“No. No, I’m not letting you pull this shit anymore. Whatever’s wrong, whatever has you acting like this, you tell me. Or you tell Lev. You tell someone and you figure out a way to live with it without burying yourself in the process.”
It amazes her that you can still care about her after the way she treated you. Her braid slips into disarray as she scrapes back her hair, spending extra time digging her palm into her forehead, where a steady pulse has been roaring for weeks.
There is nothing that she wants to tell you, or anyone else, so she throws down the bloodied bandages and begins to walk away.
You don’t let her, pushing her back into the wall and pinning her there. “You aren’t like this,” you say, voice hoarse and desperate. “You don’t hurt people for fun. You don’t fall apart.”
“I’m not falling apart—” Her spine cracks against the wall as you prevent her from leaving again, forcing a thick gulp from her.
“Bullshit.”
“I’m warning you,” she says lowly. “Get your hands off me. Now.”
“Or what? You want to punch me instead? Will that make you feel better?”
Just the thought causes disgust to contort her features. She looks away to avoid your gaze, but she can’t pretend the warmth of your digging palms isn’t burning into her like the first shred of hope she’s had in a lifetime. They also maim, their razor edge reminding her of how little she deserves you. How terrible she is for putting you through this, all because she can’t bear to let someone in after all the loss and tragedy and trauma she’s faced.
“Go ahead,” you’re saying. “Do it. You wanna destroy something, destroy me.”
“Stop it,” she hisses.
“No, Abby. I promised Lev I would get you back, and I’m not going back on it.”
The muscle in her jaw feathers as regret, guilt, self-loathing all surface. She remembers why she fell for you. You’re stubborn as fuck, more of a fighter than she’ll ever be. A force of nature, but with a heart so golden it almost blinded her.
“What do I have to do,” she utters cruelly, “to get you away from me for good?”
The blow lands the way she hoped, your strength wavering for just long enough for her to free herself.
“What is wrong with you?” you whisper. “What happened to you?”
She doesn’t have an answer. Not really. She realised she was falling for you one minute, and images of Owen lying in a pool of his own blood flickered through her mind the next. She caused that. She was the reason her friends died, the reason Lev lost his sister, the reason they were imprisoned in Santa Barbara for three months, surviving things that neither of them could put words to even now.
All of it came down on her at once, bricks of exhaustion and terror and self-hatred erecting a wall between you. If she let you love her, she would disappoint you. And you? You walked away so easily.
She wished that were still true, because this was harder. This was torture.
Your tears gleam in the moonlight, every emotion on full display now.
“You broke my heart,” you say. “You’re breaking Lev’s heart. I understand that I don’t matter to you, but doesn’t he?”
Abby’s long upheld resolve is almost in ribbons. She’s so close to buckling. “I’m just blowing off steam—”
“You’re killing yourself,” you say. “And you’re killing me. And the worst part is, you don’t seem to care. About anything. Was all of it a lie before? Were you just pretending? Because I don’t recognise you. I don't know who this is.”
When she says nothing, you thump your fists against her puffed out chest again. “Fucking say something, Abby! Did you ever care about me? About anything?”
Her fingers shackle your wrists as she sways under your heavy fury. You deserve to feel every bit of it.
“I hate you,” you mutter. “I hate you for doing this to us. I hate you for doing this to yourself.”
She closes her eyes, but the tears still come. She’s powerless in the face of them — the face of you.
You yield immediately, arms going slack in her grip.
“Abby,” you breathe. She knows it’s her last chance to keep you, and fuck if she wants to. She can’t quite remember why she was ever stupid enough to let you go.
Her tears are wiped from her eyes, only for more to take their place.
You edge closer, stomachs pressing together: yours soft, hers hard. You cup her jaw like before, only this time, she lets you, trembling and broken as she is. Because of you. Because it was only ever a matter of time before you ruined her with that big bleeding heart. She knows how lucky she is that she gets to see it. Most people don’t.
You let her in, and she couldn’t return the courtesy, but now, you’re tearing through the bars and she thinks maybe it’s inevitable that you climb into this cage and rearrange the furniture.
“I know this isn’t how you want things to be,” you’re saying gently. “I know. So stop. Look at me. Talk to me. Don’t keep making me beg. Don’t keep pretending you’re someone else.”
“You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t want to fix something that I broke.”
“I’m not going to sit here and watch you suffer. I love you, Abby. I don’t want to, but I do.”
Resigned, she presses her forehead against yours. “I don’t want you to, either.”
“Tough shit.”
“I… I don’t think I can love another person.”
“I’m not asking you to. This isn't about me anymore. I’m just asking you to go home to the boy who needs you.”
“I mean…” She’s stammering, tongue heavy, mouth cotton. “I mean… I lost so much.” Her voice cracks. “And it was my fault. And so is this. This is my fault.”
“So make it right.”
Her hands knot into your hair, drawing a gasp of surprise from you. “I thought letting you go was the right thing. You made me weak and I can’t be weak. Not ever again.”
“Abby, you’re not making sense. Please, just let me take you home.”
“I lied,” she blurts. “I lied to you. I pushed you away. I’m a mess. And I’m angry. I’m so, so angry. About what happened to me, to Lev, to my friends, my dad. I didn’t want you to see that side of me. I wasn’t ready.”
Only then does she see your mouth part with understanding. She is telling you that she loves you, in her own fucked up way.
You are listening, despite the fact she deserves nothing but hatred from you.
“You walked away so easily,” she continues. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“I needed to protect myself,” you admit. “You hurt me.”
“I’m sorry.” Her gaze bores into you all at once. “There are things I couldn’t tell you. I wanted to run from them.” Her fingers knot tighter in your hair. “I’m so angry.”
“Abby,” you say. “Let me take you home.”
She nods slowly. Mutters, “I’m sorry,” one last time.
This time, you say, “I know,” snaking your arm behind her back to keep her upright as you trudge back towards base.
When you get into her room, you force her to sit, quick to grab a damp cloth from the bathroom to clean her up. She’s a mess. Worse under the dim, bare lightbulb. She’s shuddering, too. You think maybe you’d rather her be a cold-hearted fighter again than whatever this is.
You promise yourself this is all it will be. You’ll clean her up and go, and tomorrow, she’ll fix things with Lev and all will go back to the way it was — before you fell in love with her, that is.
Only it doesn’t go quite like that. Her hand curls around yours midway through dabbing at the congealed blood under her nostrils, stopping you from continuing. “Stay tonight.”
You almost snort. Like hell will you put yourself in the position to be crushed by her again. She’s drunk and beaten, likely won’t remember or care about this in the morning.
“No.”
“Please. I know I have no right to ask, but I want you to stay.”
“I can’t.” You work to keep your expression aloof with the same ice she’s shown you over the past few weeks. “I’ll clean you up and I’ll get you back on your feet, but I’m not going to put myself in this position again.”
You want to believe that what she said before is true: that she’s sorry, that she pushed you away to avoid letting you in, that none of her behaviour was about her feelings for you, but you can’t stop waiting for her to harden again.
You move to her knuckles, tutting at the ruined skin there. “Pitfighting. Jesus, Abby. What were you thinking?”
“That I deserved to hurt,” she confesses quietly.
You hum, brushing the stray strands of hair from her face. “Go to sleep.”
She leans back, head hitting her pillow, but her fingers still lace through yours. You can’t summon the strength to pull away, not when her touch is as gentle as it used to be. There she is. Your Abby, not this new monster you met.
For her, you go back on your word. You stay. Not in her bed, not even close to her, but she’s long asleep before your hands untangle. The last words she utters as her lids close, a patchwork of yellows and blues and purples on her face, are, “‘M sorry.”
“I know,” you say in reply, pressing your lips to her torn skin. Maybe there’s no way to fix what she broke, but you’re willing to try if you can just keep her here with you — because you still love her. You would even if she continued to fight you for days, weeks, months.
[𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭] [☘︎ = personal favourite, ✶ = most popular]
: ̗̀➛ requests are open!
✦ 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥!𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐲
☘︎ [8 fics] Abby Anderson's been falling for you since the day you moved to town—soft curves, sunshine smile, whiskey-warm eyes that see right through her. But she's spent her whole life learning she doesn't get to have nice things, and you're the nicest thing she's ever wanted. Every glance you throw her way, every accidental touch, every time you bite your lip and look at her like you've got a secret... it's getting harder to remember why she's supposed to keep her distance. One of these days, she's gonna snap. And when she does, she's gonna ruin you—just a little, just enough to mark you the way you've marked her.
✦ 𝐅𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲
✶ [porn with plot] [4.4k] Isaac’s golden rule: Loyalty above all. Abby’s spent years obeying it—until you, all sharp edges and I dare you eyes, make her question everything.
✦ 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐞
[hurt/comfort & smut] [2.4k] Abby has spent years perfecting the art of emotional detachment. Feelings? Overrated. Vulnerability? A weakness. But when an unexpected connection forces her to confront what she’s been avoiding, she realises some walls were meant to be broken.
✦ 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝
[porn with slight plot] [2.8k] Learning new things about the woman you love is always interesting, but this one in particular makes you wanna be a little shit about it.
✦ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠
[angst] [1.5k] She loves you, and that, in itself, has always been a death sentence.
✦ 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲
✶ [smut] [3.3k] You get some new piercings, and they're really testing Abby's patience.
✦ 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩
[fluff] [4.9k] Abby Anderson doesn't get flustered. She doesn't avoid eye contact, and she never, ever stumbles over her words. Until she does. And it's all your fault, even if you don't know it yet. A story about the terrifying, fragile hope of wanting something soft in a hard world, and the courage it takes to reach for it.
✦ 𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐆𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭
☘︎ [angst] [3.1k] A blank line on a mission report is all it takes for Abby Anderson to break. Defying a direct order, she races into the ruined city to find the one person she can't live without. But the rescue mission becomes a nightmare when she discovers that some wounds are a death sentence all their own.
✦ 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐤
✶ [smut] [2.3k] Hate fucking
: ̗̀➛ return to navigation / return to the last of us masterlist
last year, i made a list of (most of) the fics i had read on tumblr, and i decided i would take the time to do it again this year, so here we go. you'll mainly find there mcu!women x reader angst/comfort fic's! and maybe a bit of smut.
this list is a tribute to all the writers whose works made me laugh, cry, and sometimes both, but that never failed to comfort me when i needed it the most. and because it is thanks to them fandoms can stay alive, please, do not forget to reblog the fic' you read and to leave a comment alongside the like, to show your favourites writers that you are grateful for all their hard work.
obviously, do not hesitate to share your favorite fic' in the comment, my dms, or by leaving an ask in inbox. we do not gatekeep here!
happy new year to everyone, hope you never stop sharing your silly fanfictions with the world, because it definitely makes it sweeter <3
⋆ 2024'S LIST ⋆ 2025'S LIST ⋆
( ✿ ) fluff/comfort — ( ❆ ) angst — ( ☣ ) dark — ( ❦ ) adults only
the adults only tag does not only mean smut. it also includes minors dni accounts. please respect that and do not click on these fic's if you are a minor.
| Agatha Harkness x Reader;
✧ She's got away, by @stayevildarling. ( ❆ )
| Ava Starr x Reader;
✧ Untethered, by @unholyhelbig. ( ✿ ❆ ❦ )
“Years ago, you were tasked with making sure a SHIELD asset was protected. Now, with no organization left to serve, you and Ava must face some hard truths.”
| BishOva x Reader;
✧ Hot Coco for Your Pain?, by @yelenasdiary. ( ✿ )
“You got hurt in a fight and turn to Kate & Yelena for help.”
| Cordelia x Wilhemina x Billie x Reader;
✧ Let Down, by @stayevildarling. ( ❆ ✿ )
“Something like R has been acting strange, distant and or just not her usual self, sarah character notices and begins to worry so snoops through Rs things, and r catches her gf in the act, and it starts a big argument. R may cause the argument and make it a bigger deal then it already is as like I said, she's not been herself. Hurtful words get said and r and gf don't speak for a good few days.”
⤳ it may still not be my fandom, i haven't watched the show yet and may never do it, but i can never pass on this author's writing, especially when the angst and the comfort are so good that it just hits perfectly. it is probably the only fic' in that list that is not from the marvel fandom.
✧ Shadows of Fame, by @stayevildarling. ( ❆ ✿ )
“could you write a cordelia, wihemina, billie and reader fic with reader who is also a celebrity just like billie, but Rs fame keeps on growing, to the point that it overwhelms her and she struggles with it a little. Maybe she keeps getting harassed by paparazzi, who then eventually harass her girls. So reader thinks it's best to break up with them to keep them safe or something, and starts ghosting their messages and calls. But one day billie has an event to go to, and she invites Delia and mina and they see reader there as well, so they try to talk it out, and eventually fix things between them”
✧ Threatening Secrets, by @stayevildarling. ( ❆ ✿ )
“I'm requesting an angst /hurt/comfort wilhelmina, billie, cordelia and reader fic, with reader who let's say is getting threatened by someone, like a warlock, another witch etc. But the threats are really really bad, that could put her girlfriends in danger. So reader makes the decision to leave them, and the academy and her friends behind in order to keep them all safe, but her girlfriends have absolutely no clue why reader is trying to get away from them, and because she can't tell the truth, she has to say some really hurtful things to them in order for them to stop pushing and finally leave her alone. After a while, maybe one of her girls find out why reader did what she did, and they track her down to talk this all out and to help put a stop to whoever is sending the threats”
| Cordelia Goode x Reader;
✧ Soulmate, by @stayevildarling. ( ❆ ✿ )
| Maria Hill x Reader;
✧ Horses At Night, by @anomalyhill. ( ❆ ✿ )
⤳ maria hill appreciation time, because my girl is so underrated that i have to treat every fic' that includes her as if it were precious gems. because that is what they are to me. so go read this one, and support this author so they continue writing.
✧ Sick, by @sharkwidow. ( ✿ )
“Maria Hill cares for a teenage Avenger with telekinetic powers who is fighting a fever after an exhausting training session.”
| Natasha Romanoff x Reader;
✧ 2:03 am, by @wolfbluebird. ( ❆ ❦ )
“You come home drunk again, but this time Natasha knows something’s different — you’re quiet, fragile, and distant in a way that feels final. When you finally speak, your words shatter her: “I wish I wanted to live.” In the silence that follows, Natasha realises just how close she is to losing you, and she’ll do anything — everything — to make you stay.”
⤳ this one was really relatable. and i really liked how the topic was treated, the choice of words hit in a way i had not expected when first reading it.
✧ Academic Affair, by @natsstar. ( ❦ ❆ ✿ )
“you're a college student struggling to get through your senior year- and your ice cold thesis professor isn't helping.”
⤳ i did not read the whole series, only the epilogue, because i do not read much smut anymore, but it was so good that can only imagine the other chapters are too. their relationship at the end is so soft and adorable that i might melt.
✧ Caving Heart, by @laviathansmistress. ( ❆ ✿ )
⤳ the account is deactivated so the og posts do not exist anymore.
✧ Cite Me Later, by @bleulikedaylight. ( ❦ )
“you’ve always been top of your class—sharp, confident, and unbeatable. in your world, there’s no such thing as a worthy rival. that is, until natasha romanoff strides into your class with a smirk and a sharper argument that throws your entire carefully controlled world into chaos.”
✧ Code Red, by @natsaffection. ( ❦ ❆ ✿ )
✧ Come Home, by @kawasakiromanoff.
“You finally come home from a long mission with Yelena to free another widow from the Red Room's control, littered with bruises from a drawn-out fight. After tending to your wounds, you and Natasha share a soft moment in the silence.”
✧ Detecting Love, by @just-aake. ( ✿ )
“A person with the power to detect lies meets the spy who has been trained to lie her entire life.”
✧ Ghosted by You, by @natsaffection. ( ❦ )
✧ Happy House, by @natashaslesbian. ( ❆ ✿ )
“Natasha suspects something is seriously wrong when you suddenly hand in your notice as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent.”
✧ Hot and Cold, by @traveler-at-heart. ( ✿ )
“Natasha's playing with fire when a new resident joins the Compound.”
✧ Hostile Devotion, by @natsaffection. ( ❆ ☣ )
⤳ you could give me anything that was written by this author, and i would become feral. there is not much to say to describe how much i love her works. the themes, the dynamics, and how everything is developed, it is always so perfect that she must put some dark magic in her writing, i do not see any other explanation.
✧ i am broken and bruised, by @softlymaximoff. ( ✿ ❆ ❦ )
“it was supposed to be just an intern job to get you through the summer until college started up again. turns out fate (and natasha) had a different plan. secrets become broken confessions and confessions become natasha's reasons to protect you.”
⤳ this one might be my favourite, and i am saying that for real it this time. i know none english word that would be strong enough to describe how feral this series makes me. i have read every part countless of times, holding onto them for dear life. it is not only that it is beautifully written, as every of that author's works, but it also their dynamic that i love so much. an overly independent reader paired with a protective natasha who are both equally stubborn. it is reader being careless, because she has always been and that is all she knows, except she now has natasha, and the problem is that the later cares for her, for real. and the whole thing is just so soft that i might actually die.
✧ I Like Your Cockiness, Fuck Being Confident, by @luciferdidwhat. ( ❦ )
✧ Imposter, by @marvelselfinserts. ( ❆ )
“Natasha struggles to bond with your new born daughter”
⤳ it is very rare that i read fic's that involves kids, mainly because motherhood repulses me, but this one was an exception. it is really nicely written, and i really loved the angst because it deals with interesting themes and a version of natasha that i really likes. she feels human in this one. it was also nice to read something a bit different for once.
✧ in my nature, by @corpscs. ( ❦ ✿ )
⤳ i just love soft dom natasha so much. she possesses my whole heart.
✧ In Your Arms, by @just-aake. ( ✿ )
“You have always been a touchy-feely person. Natasha on the other hand is not. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want your attention.”
⤳ because the world deserves more of soft natasha fictions.
✧ Innocence, by @natsaffection. ( ✿ ❆ ❦ )
“You thought the mission would make you a hero. A young soldier, eager to prove yourself, you were thrown into a world nothing like the ideals you believed in. Instead of honor, you found chaos, rubble, and a silence louder than gunfire. As the lines between right and wrong blurred, a hardened Sargent became your anchor in the storm. But war doesn’t wait for you to find your footing and the battlefield has its own way of leaving scars.”
✧ Medic Bay, by @blackwidowbabe. ( ✿ )
“Natasha learns to trust you with her injuries, and decides to pay you a visit on purpose.”
✧ Mother's Love, by @marvelselfinserts. ( ❆ )
“Got a very very angsty request, teen reader who's mom or adopted mom Natasha is neglecting reader a lot, and reader tries to get some attention back or some bonding time but just isn't working because natasha is focused on another young person on the team”
⤳ i truly have a soft spot for nat' x teen!reader angst/comfort fic's. except there is not much comfort in this one, and the ending is truly hearbreaking.
✧ Nightmares, by @sharkwidow.
“She always knew Ultron would use her daughter against her, but Natasha would never let him win.”
✧ Not like the stories, by @natsaffection. ( ❦ ✿ )
“Everyone says Natasha Romanoff is a heartbreaker, cold, careless, and dangerous. A player who leaves a trail of broken girls behind her and never looks back. But when she catches your eye across a crowded place and starts to unravel everything you thought you knew, you realize the stories might not be the full truth. Because beneath the reputation and the swagger is someone quieter. Softer. Someone who sees you in a way no one else ever has, and doesn’t ask for anything in return.”
⤳ remember loving this one because of soft their chemistry was, and how much comfort this fic' brought me.
✧ of stetoscopes & smiles, by @natalianovnas. ( ✿ )
“natasha romanoff’s two-year-old daughter, nova, is just like her—guarded and slow to trust— but when nova's longtime pediatrician is replaced by the younger, warm-hearted dr. Y/N L/N, gaining nova's trust quicker than any other stranger did, something shifts.”
⤳ another exception to my no-kids rule, and i realise there were many of them this year, but this fic' was so soft that i could not resist. and mom nat' does have a special place in my heart, a tiny one, but still one.
✧ Only You'd Answer, by @wolfbluebird. ( ❆ ❦ )
“Maybe could we get a Natasha x reader where the team doesn’t know you are together (you are not on the team but know them) and you come home late one middle of night and call her asking if you can come over to hers because don’t want to be alone even though you know she just got back from a mission that afternoon. - gn reader would be great”
✧ red lights, by @thesvnandthemooon. ( ❦ ✿ ❆ )
“stripper!Y/N, customer!nat; nat keeps coming back for more, lust turns into something deeper; Y/N kinda has a double life; your stage name here is ruby so don’t let that confuse you lol, you’re still y/n privately”
⤳ another exception to my no-kids rule, but sometimes the writing is so good, and the storyline so addictive, that you have to make an exception or two. and i honestly have no regret. especially because i find this fic' to be slighly different from the others ones with the same trope, in the way that things are taken slow and we can clearly see that, despite their obsession, both characters are really conflicted about the relationship they share.
✧ Redline (bonus 5.2), by @natsaffection. ( ❆ ✿ )
⤳ this is one of my favourite series ever. the amount of tears I shed while reading this is insane. i still can't know how it is possible to be so good at writing. the way the characters are developed is so insanely perfect.
✧ Sharing a safehouse, by @writerslittlelibrary. ( ✿ )
“after a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha are forced to lay low in a small safehouse somewhere in the countryside of England. It’s small, uncomfortable, and you’ve never been able to really connect with Natasha during your time on the team. what happens when you and Natasha are basically forced to connect?”
✧ teacher's pet, by @gayerthanevertbh. ( ❦ ☣ )
“you never meant to stand out — not in a program full of overachievers and literary prodigies. but professor romanoff notices you anyway. she teaches Russian literature with a cold elegance, her lectures sharp, her praise rare. so when she offers you one-on-one feedback, you say yes. when she asks you to stay late, you don’t question it. you tell yourself it’s academic. professional. necessary.”
⤳ i do not reach much fic's with that trope anymore, but i really liked this one because of how their relation is developed in the early chapters. please, give me more of cold professor natasha romanoff and overachiever reader who is craving for her approval. bonus point for the writing that was really good and captivated me up from the very first lines.
✧ The fire in her eyes, by @emsromanoff. ( ❆ ✿ ❦ )
“She was Hydra’s secret weapon—firebound, nameless, and controlled. When the Avengers storm the last hidden base, Natasha Romanoff comes face to face with the girl behind the flame. A mission becomes a rescue. And maybe… something more”
⤳ really love how this series is written, it feels soft.
✧ The Great I Am, by @dontknowwhatyouheard. ( ❦ ☣ )
“After another episode, you end up in the hospital, catching the eyes of Natasha.”
⤳ i did not get to read the next chapters of this one, and i am not even sure if they were ever posted, but i sure know i was hooked by the first part, especially with the way it ends.
✧ The Limits We Reach, by @makeitmakesomesense.
✧ The Weight of you, by @natsaffection. ( ❦ ✿ )
✧ Underneath the stars she whispered, by @billsdollie.
✧ where you left me, by @of-apollo. ( ❆ )
“One night, you’re cuddled up to Natasha in bed, the world feeling just right. The next morning, Natasha is gone without so much as a note or a text. Months later, she comes back, heart aching with regret.”
⤳ this one was beautifully written, and it only made the angst more painful to read. i can only say that tears were streaming down when i read it.
✧ You're still mine, by @natsaffection. ( ❦ ❆ )
“You're last post got me thinking....what would happen if somehow someway another vampire got to Reader and turned her. I know Nat watches her obsessively but like shit happens. Like what would Nats reaction to something like that happening be?”
✧ Zayka, by @trulysapphic. ( ✿ )
“Both your girlfriend Natasha and her sister Yelena are protective of you. When you come down with a cold, they both make their mission to take care of you.”
| Wanda Maximoff x Reader;
✧ All Of Your Pieces, by @ginnsbaker. ( ❆ ✿ ❦ )
⤳ i have only read one part (this one) but considering how hard it broke my heart, i can only guess the rest is as good, just didn't have time to read it yet.
✧ clueless intern, by @natalianovnas. ( ✿ )
“Was thinking about how she would be with a new young intern. Cause yn would totally be the sweet supervisor and wanda I mean is just wanda, the ceo, she won’t go soft on the intern. And it would be a moment when the intern finally figures out that yn is Wanda’s wife.”
⤳ just a short fic' that i have found really adorable, and i think it is the perfect incarnation of the gumpy x sunshine trope i love so much.
| WandaNat x Reader;
✧ A Room of Your Own, by @mommyslittlebird. ( ❦ ✿ ❆ )
“After getting kicked out of your college dorm, you find yourself living with two older strangers. It was never meant to be anything more than a temporary arrangement born out of necessity, but as the semester continues, something new starts to grow.”
✧ A Shot in the Dark, by @beekneelsformommy. ( ❦ ☣ )
“You have been missing for a whole week now. Wanda Maximoff is tearing the city apart to find you. Natasha is there too, but she’s hiding something…only something you, her and Steve Roger’s know the full extent of. Until now.”
⤳ i wanted to add the 'comfort' tag, but it is just because i have a thing for overprotective dark natasha. which probably why i am so obsessed with this series even though only the first chapter is online.
✧ Excerpt 1: Toska [Russian], by @softlymaximoff. ( ❦ ✿ ❆ )
“When your girlfriends become too overbearing and protective, you take matters into your own hands. Accidents happen, some people learn from them, others repeat them.”
⤳ this one has a special place in my heart, and i am not sure i will ever recover from how perfect the angst was there. in general, you can read whatever this author post, because it is always so nicely written. i have been there for a moment and never once i was disappointed; she gives the perfect angst and comfort fic's.
✧ like soft water holds the sky, by @introverted-author. ( ❦ ✿ ❆ )
“small inconveniences pile up until you're having the worst day possible. luckily, your girlfriends are there to help put you back together again.”
⤳ the fic' i read again, and again, because it is just the perfect one to read when you have a bad day. it is comforting, like a soft blanket, and puts words on big feelings i can't always name. it is the kind of fic' that makes me wish wandanat were real people, just so they could hold me close.
✧ like soft water holds the sky, by @introverted-author. ( ❦ ✿ ❆ )
“small inconveniences pile up until you're having the worst day possible. luckily, your girlfriends are there to help put you back together again.”
⤳ the fic' i read again, and again, because it is just the perfect one to read when you have a bad day. it is comforting, like a soft blanket, and puts words on big feelings i can't always name. it is the kind of fic' that makes me wish wandanat were real people, just so they could hold me close.
✧ lose your power, by @widowmaxff.
“i was wondering if you could write something w them and a reader that has wandas powers and r is on a mission with someone else (maybe kate or yelena or both) and r has to use their her powers to save them but she winds up passing out from overexerting her powers”
✧ Loving You Was Never Hard, by @wandamaximoffsbadgirl. ( ✿ ❆ ❦ )
“after you get kicked out of your apartment by your emotionally abusive ex your neighbor helps you by calling his sister who happily takes you in with her wife.”
✧ Masking, by @wandamaximoffsbadgirl. ( ❦ ✿ )
“You exude confidence when running the tight ship at the Avengers compound, but it's all just a mask.”
✧ Mea Culpa, by @whisperofaflame. ( ❆ ✿ ☣ )
“Things have been building up for a while, draining your energy and capacity tocope with the demands of life. When reality finally comes crashing down, you seek help despite knowing a certain dark spiral may ensue. But through it all, they are there: Wanda and Natasha, ready to catch you whenever and however you fall.”
⤳ i do not think i have found the time yet to read more than the prologue, but i remember i really liked it because it deals with themes that i can relate with. it is the kind of fic' who is comforting because i can somwhat relate with what reader experiences. and i really like this author's author writing style.
✧ Obsession, by @marvelselfinserts. ( ❦ )
“Do you do yandere? For wandanat? With a female secretary reader of tony stark?”
⤳ they are insane in this one, and that is exactly what i am here for (please, give me more or i might become as insane as them).
✧ Overworked, by @gaymersapho. ( ❦ )
“When your collage proffesors notice you're starting to become burnt out, they take matters into their own hands.”
✧ Sans Voler, by @scarletnhoney. ( ❆ ❦ )
⤳ i am really impatient for the next chapters of this series, being really curious about seeing wadanat and reader interacting. i love that kind of fic' where they are taking care of a completely broken reader who needs to learn how to trust others again. a classic dynamic that never fails to please me.
✧ The Best You've Made of Me, by @unholyhelbig. ( ❦ ✿ ❆ ☣ )
“When reader wakes up in her own grave, she's suddenly aware of a past that spans lifetimes, but she's not the only one. Two Avengers are tasked with keeping readers past a secret, or at the very least, controlled.”
⤳ i really love this series, and i am waiting very (im)patiently for every update that is made. it is the kind of work that is so beautifully written that it is beyond my english level and i need to read it multiple times to catch everything. i really can't accept that one's writing can be at this level, this author's works are pure litterature so do not hesitate to check the rest.
✧ The Mafia's Princess, by @widowofchaosx. ( ❦ ✿ ❆ )
“You were supposed to meet your friends for drinks. Instead, you were sent the wrong bar, dim lights, cold stares, and two women behind it who own far more than just the liquor license. Wanda and Natasha take one look at you, soft, upset, dressed too pretty for a place like this, and decide you’re theirs.”
⤳ another series i am obsessed with. and beside loving how wandanat are written, i just love the care that is put up on developing every side character. from yelena, to maria, without forgetting carol, every one of them just feels so perfect, the way they, and their relations to reader, are written just makes so much sense to me. this series sure has a special place in my heart.
✧ The Party, by @beekneelsformommy. ( ❆ ✿ ❦ )
“At a high-profile party, you find yourself the target of cruel judgment for being autistic — but you’re not alone. With love, courage, and quiet power, you stand tall in the face of ableism and walk out stronger than ever.”
⤳ because this author writes a lot of autistic!reader fic', and it means a lot to me. as someone who grew up not knowing what was wrong with me, and who is struggling to accept myself, that kind of fic's means a lot. it gives me a representation i never got growing up, a comfort i am craving but can't get yet.
✧ You Make Such Pretty Sounds When You're Sorry, by @bishovapls. ( ❦ )
“A strange day in class and a cryptic text from Natasha have you dreading what’s next. At home, Wanda’s waiting, and together, they’re about to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”
| Yelena Belova x Reader;
✧ A Kindness in The Dark, by @yelenasdiary. ( ❆ ✿ ☣ ❦ )
“As your two year clean from self harm anniversary approaches, the overwhelming stress & anxiety from work push you to relapse.”
⤳ the blog is no longer active, but i still wish to pay tribute to all the works that have been posted by this author. because i truly love her writing, and i can't help but read it again sometimes.
✧ Caught In The Flames, by @riveramorylunar. ( ❆ ✿ )
✧ Deserving, by @emsromanoff. ( ❆ ✿ ❦ )
“Not wanting to disappoint your girlfriend, you take the next step in your relationship.”
✧ Do What You Have To Do, by @yelenasdiary. ( ❆ ❦ )
“Months after you made the final decision to leave your girlfriend’s illegal lifestyle, she finds you and she wants answers.”
✧ Emotions Are Hard, by @wandamaximoffsbadgirl. ( ❆ ❦ )
“Mother's Day is approaching and it's affecting you more than you realize.”
✧ In The Darkness Together, by @unholyhelbig. ( ❆ ✿ ❦ )
“Can I request a yelena x fem!reader fic where they are in a relationship but they’re in a rough patch and aren’t talking about what they are doing that much. They both work for Valentina and end up in the vault together and have different targets. But basically they start trying to defend each other (because they obviously still love each other) and the reader gets hurt. After all that they end up slowly mending their relationship and start communicating more and basically I want some angst with fluff because I’m a total sucker for that.”
✧ Misunderstanding Messages, by @yelenasdiary. ( ❆ ✿ )
“When Yelena’s phone buzzes, it leads you to think the blonde has been unfaith.”
✧ Zayka, by @trulysapphic. ( ✿ )
“Both your girlfriend Natasha and her sister Yelena are protective of you. When you come down with a cold, they both make their mission to take care of you.”
summary: For the past ten years, you’ve played it safe: same small town, same predictable routines, same long-term boyfriend. But when your boyfriend asks for a break, calling your relationship “too boring,” something inside you snaps. Determined to prove him wrong, you book a spontaneous flight to Spain, flood your socials with thirst traps, and kiss a stranger you just met at a club in Ibiza.
But that stranger? It turned out to be Alexia Putellas — global football star, your brother’s best friend, and the last person you should be kissing. She’s stunning, confident, and completely off-limits. Suddenly, your plans of revenge and proving a point start to unravel as you find yourself slowly falling for her.
chapters:
⋆˙⟡♡ one (wc: 27k)
⋆˙⟡♡ two
comment or reply on part 1 to get added to the taglist for part 2!
(mood board does NOT depict readers’ appearance !!)
SUMMARY: in which a night at the ballon d’or awards changes everything between leah williamson and barcelona’s finest. inspired by ‘i can see you’ — taylor swift.
based on this ask !! i hope it’s what you wanted my lovely, i kinda took my own turn with this as i already started a ballon d’or fic :) also i’ve written leah in as the arsenal captain, sorry kim ily <3
(check out my leah williamson master list here !!)
WARNINGS: kissing, secret romance, cursing, sexual innuendo, slightly suggestive, ft. alexia putellas being the best wingwoman ever, my terrible attempts at writing spanish, sorry😝, I also tried to keep alexia’s dialogue accurate to how she speaks in English. (lmk if i missed anything !!)
WORD COUNT: 7.3k (already had a bit of this written, so this request was perfectly timed !!)
THIRD PERSON +
The flash of cameras flickered against the glossy black car as it pulled to a stop along the red carpet. Through the tinted window, Leah Williamson exhaled a quiet sigh, part anticipation, part restraint. Her hands rested against the fabric of her tailored black trousers, smoothing over the crease that had already been perfected by her stylist hours ago. She'd spent enough evenings at these kinds of events to know the rhythm; the posing, the smiles, the small talk. But tonight felt... different. Electric in a way she couldn't quite name.
Or maybe she could. Maybe it had everything to do with who else would be here.
Steph leaned over from the other seat, nudging her gently. "You ready, Captain?" she teased, her Australian drawl soft but playful.
Leah gave her a small smile. "Always ready."
Behind them, Chloe was adjusting her gold hoops in the reflection of her phone camera, while Emily laughed at something Daphne had said, Alessia and Mariona sat across from each other, quietly chatting. Renée, ever composed, was already waiting for them to step out, the picture of calm professionalism.
As the door opened, a wave of sound and light greeted them—the whirring clicks of photographers, the muffled music from nearby speakers, the buzz of celebrities calling out to one another. Leah stepped out first, adjusting her black blazer. It was cut sharp, the line of her shoulders softened only slightly by the delicate lace of her shirt beneath. Black on black, restrained elegance. Her blonde hair fell naturally, loose waves that framed her face without trying too hard.
"Arsenal's ladies have arrived!" someone called from the press pit, and the cameras snapped wildly.
Leah's teammates fanned out beside her, their outfits a collective display of understated glamour. She smiled easily, posing where she needed to, one arm resting loosely behind Mariona, the other slipped into her pocket. She tilted her chin just slightly, her practiced red carpet composure in full force.
But then, a murmur rippled down the carpet. A subtle shift in attention, like the collective inhale of a crowd that had just seen something—someone—impossible to ignore.
Leah turned her head.
And there she was.
Y/N Y/L/N.
Barcelona's fiery forward, in a red dress that seemed made to make hearts stop. It hugged her in all the right places. The off-the-shoulder corset accentuating her posture, the silk fabric catching the light as she moved. Red, unmistakably Arsenal red, though she'd never played a minute for the Gunners. It was the kind of choice that felt deliberate. Dangerous. Almost taunting.
Leah swore, for a heartbeat, that her lungs forgot how to work.
Y/N stepped out of the car with her Barcelona teammates, Alexia leading the way in a sleek black low-back gown, Aitana poised and understated in bronze sequins, Patri laughing at something Vicky said. They were a vision of confidence and control. But Y/N, she was something else entirely. Magnetic.
Every head seemed to turn as she reached the carpet.
"Holy shit," Chloe muttered under her breath beside Leah. "Is that Y/N?"
"Arsenal red?" Emily Fox grinned. "Yeah, she knows what she's doing. And she looks good doing it.”
Leah tried to force a small laugh, but it came out weak. She was still staring, watching the way Y/N's lips curved into an easy smile as Alexia linked arms with her for the cameras. Watching how she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, gold earrings catching the light. The way she stood; self-assured but soft, every gesture a quiet rebellion against how much space the world told her to take up.
She’d seem Y/N countless times before. Matches between Arsenal and Barça had made sure of that. But she’d also seen her during pre-season tours, mutual sponsorship events, even one unforgettable summer evening at a London charity gala where they’d shared a laugh over terrible hors d’oeuvres. There had always been something electric in those brief encounters, some unspoken current that sparked and retreated before either of them dared to name it.
But tonight, under the Parisian lights, Y/N looked…different. Like she’d stepped out of a dream Leah didn’t realise she’d been having all year.
Her hair was pulled back to reveal a diamond necklace that glinted whenever she turned her head to laugh at something Alexia said beside her. The movement was effortless, natural, but Leah couldn’t look away.
Leah didn't notice that she was still staring until Steph elbowed her. "You're not being very subtle, you know."
"I'm not staring," Leah said quickly, eyes flicking away. Too quickly.
Chloe smirked. "You totally are. I think I just saw your pupils dilate."
Leah rolled her eyes, though her cheeks were betraying her with colour. "Oh, shut up."
"Don't act like we haven't all noticed the little looks," Alessia teased, stepping beside her. "You and Y/N at that UEFA gala? You two looked run off together and get eloped."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Leah said, her voice far too level for anyone to believe her.
Steph chuckled. "Sure you don't. Just...maybe keep your cool, yeah? The cameras love a bit of speculation."
Leah huffed out a laugh, but it came with a touch of nerves. She turned back toward the crowd, and found herself locking eyes with Y/N.
It lasted only a second, but it was enough to unravel her.
Y/N had just turned slightly away from Alexia, mid-laugh, her expression softening when she spotted Leah across the carpet. For a moment, the noise, the cameras, the chaos; it all blurred. Just her and Y/N, connected by a glance that said everything they couldn't.
Leah's pulse quickened. She caught the faintest twitch of a smile on Y/N's lips—small, knowing, devastating. And then Alexia leaned in to whisper something to her, and the spell broke.
"Dios mío," Y/N murmured under her breath, trying to compose herself as she stepped further onto the carpet with Alexia. "She looks... incredible."
Alexia shot her a side glance, grin tugging at her mouth. "Who does?"
Y/N didn't even bother pretending. "Leah."
"Ah," Alexia drawled knowingly. "The English one you 'don't have feelings for,' right?"
Y/N groaned. "Ale, please."
"What?" Alexia teased. "You've been staring at her since we got out of the car. I was waiting for you to trip over your own dress."
Y/N exhaled, forcing a smile as more cameras flashed. "She just...looks really good. That's all."
Alexia laughed softly, looping her arm through Y/N's again as they posed together. "Mhm. Sure. The woman wears one black suit and suddenly you forget how to breathe."
"I hate you," Y/N muttered, and Alexia only laughed harder.
They reached the middle of the carpet, pausing as photographers called their names. Y/N smiled on cue, her arm around Alexia's waist, turning her head just enough for her hair to catch the light. She'd done this countless times, but tonight, every time she smiled, her mind wandered to Leah. To the memory of her sharp jawline under the flashing lights, the lace of her shirt barely visible under her blazer. That quiet confidence, the way she carried herself like she knew every eye would follow her, and still seemed surprised by it.
"Maybe you'll get the chance to talk to her tonight," Alexia murmured beside her as they turned slightly for another round of photos.
"Maybe," Y/N said, her voice low. "If she doesn't run off the moment I say hi."
"She won't," Alexia assured. "She look at you like…like she already say yes."
Y/N tried not to smile, but failed. "You think?"
"I know."
A few minutes later, the Arsenal squad moved toward the interview section of the carpet. Leah was halfway through answering a question about the team's upcoming season when her attention drifted again. She could see Y/N in her peripheral vision—the red of her dress impossible to ignore—as she stood chatting animatedly with Cata Coll and Ewa Pajor, her laughter carrying faintly over the crowd.
The journalist noticed Leah's distracted glance and smiled. "Spot someone interesting, Leah?"
Leah blinked, straightening up. "Just, uh—no, sorry, got a bit distracted by the noise."
Steph smirked off to the side. "Sure, that's what it was."
The journalist grinned, clearly sensing something. "Well, you all look fantastic tonight. Arsenal's really turning heads."
Leah forced another professional smile. "Thank you. It's nice to see women's football getting this kind of stage, we're proud to represent it."
Her voice was steady, but her mind was miles away.
When the interview wrapped, the team started to move toward the main entrance of the venue. Leah lingered a moment behind, pretending to adjust her cufflinks, just long enough to steal one last glance toward the Barcelona group.
Y/N was posing for solo shots now, one hand on her hip, her shoulders back, confidence radiating like it was second nature. She looked like a painting, something timeless and dangerous all at once. When she turned slightly, her eyes caught Leah's again.
This time, Y/N didn't look away.
A heartbeat passed. Then another. Then the faintest curve of a smile ghosted over her lips; small, deliberate, like a secret offered just for her.
Leah's breath caught. She had no words for what was happening. The silent conversation stretched across a sea of flashing lights, their expressions saying everything they couldn't in front of the world.
Steph's voice finally cut through the noise. "Leah! You coming?"
Leah blinked, breaking the stare, her heart hammering. "Yeah. Coming."
As she walked up toward the entrance, she could still feel Y/N's gaze on her back, like heat she couldn't shake.
—
The moment Y/N slipped away from the glaring eyes of the cameras, her first breath felt like freedom. Her fingers brushed a loose strand of hair back as she turned down a quieter hallway, heels clicking lightly against the marble floor. The muffled hum of the crowd faded behind her. For the first time that night, she could actually hear herself think.
And she really wished she couldn't.
Because her thoughts were all over the place, or more accurately, all over her. Leah Williamson.
"Necesito una copa," Y/N muttered under her breath. (I need a drink.)
Alexia laughed softly beside her, looping an arm through hers. "You and me both, cariño. Let's go find champagne before we melt from the heat."
The two of them approached the bar tucked along the edge of the lobby. A waiter in a crisp suit handed them flutes of champagne with a polite smile, and Y/N took hers gratefully, taking a long sip. The bubbles fizzed on her tongue, the cool taste calming the racing in her chest, but only slightly.
Alexia leaned casually against the bar, eyes narrowing just slightly in amusement. "So," she started in English, her accent smooth but deliberate, "I saw that little moment on the red carpet."
Y/N frowned, feigning confusion. "What moment?"
"Oh, don't play estúpida," Alexia said, taking a slow sip of her drink. "When you were staring at Leah like she was your next meal, and she was staring at you like she wanted to be."
Y/N choked on her champagne. "Ale!"
"What?" Alexia's grin widened. "You think no one noticed? Please. Even the camera men look like they need a fan."
Y/N groaned, covering her face with one hand. "You're exaggerating. We just... looked at each other. That's all."
Alexia's smirk deepened. "Mhm. Sure. 'Just looked.' You been doing that for a year, Y/N. I seen it at matches, at events, in the stupid tunnels before kick-off. It's not new."
Y/N lowered her hand, glaring lightly. "You make it sound like I've been in love with her or something."
Alexia shrugged. "Well..."
"Don't even start."
"She your type, no?"
Y/N looked away, pretending to examine the bubbles rising in her glass. "I don't have a type."
Alexia chuckled, turning to face the room. "You so have a type. Blonde, confident, a little too smart for her own good."
Y/N tried not to smile but failed. "You're insufrible."
"I'm right," Alexia said cheerfully. "And I think you should talk to her tonight."
"Talk to her?" Y/N repeated. "In what world would I do that?"
"In this one, cariño," Alexia replied simply. "You look amazing, she's been looking at you all night, and you're both clearly want to say something. So say it."
Before Y/N could protest, movement across the room caught Alexia's eye. "Oh," she murmured, nodding subtly toward the entrance. "Speaking of Leah..."
Y/N's head turned instinctively. The Arsenal girls were walking past; all elegance and camaraderie, the kind of team that looked effortlessly cohesive even off the pitch. Leah walked among them, her hands tucked loosely into the pockets of her black trousers, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she listened to something Steph said beside her.
Y/N's breath hitched.
The black suit looked even better up close, tailored perfectly to her frame, with the lace shirt underneath adding just the right amount of edge. Her hair fell in loose waves around her face, and when she laughed, the sound low and warm, seemed to ripple through the air straight to Y/N's chest.
"Dios mío..." Y/N muttered before she could stop herself.
Alexia grinned, turning her head slightly. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Y/N said quickly, eyes flicking away. "Nada."
Alexia's grin turned sly. "Podemos cambiar al español si quieres ocultar lo mucho que te gusta." (We can switch to Spanish if you want to hide how much you like her.)
Y/N shot her a warning look. "Don't you dare."
But Alexia was already switching languages. "Vamos, Y/N. Dime la verdad." (Come on, tell me the truth.)
Y/N exhaled, trying to act indifferent — though her heart was pounding. "No hay verdad que decir." (There's no truth to tell.)
Y/N took another sip of champagne, eyes still on Leah. "Vale..." she admitted quietly, voice dropping. "Está... demasiado guapa esta noche." (She's... too gorgeous tonight.)
Alexia's brows lifted, a teasing smile forming. "Solo esta noche?" (Only tonight?)
Y/N groaned. "Ay, Ale..."
Alexia laughed, clinking her glass against Y/N's. "At least you finally say it."
Y/N tried to ignore her, but Leah's group was getting closer—and her pulse was betraying her.
"Cambiar al español," Y/N hissed under her breath. "Ahora. No necesito que ella escuche esto." (Switch to Spanish. Now. I don’t need her hearing this.)
"Ya lo estoy," Alexia whispered, grin widening. (I already am.)
Leah and her teammates passed by just a few feet away, laughter trailing in their wake. Y/N tried to look casual, leaning back against the bar. Her gaze flickered up only for a second, but Leah's found hers immediately, as if drawn by a magnet neither could resist.
"Joder," Y/N breathed softly. (Fuck.)
Alexia tilted her head, feigning innocence. "¿Qué fue eso?" (What was that?)
Y/N's voice dropped to a whisper. "Dios, está tan jodidamente buena en ese traje... parece ilegal." (God, she looks so fucking good in that outfit... it should be illegal.)
Alexia nearly spat out her drink. "¡Por favor!" she laughed, clutching her stomach. "Y/N!"
"Shh!" Y/N hissed, mortified. "Keep your voice down!"
Too late.
From a few meters away, Mariona, who'd been walking alongside Daphne, caught the last part of Y/N's sentence. Her eyebrows shot up as understanding hit, and she stifled a laugh behind her hand.
"What?" Daphne asked, noticing her expression.
"Nothing," Mariona said, still grinning. "Just... something funny."
Chloe looked between them curiously. "What's funny?"
Mariona's smirk only deepened. "Oh, nothing you need to know."
"Mario..." Steph prodded.
The Spaniard finally looked toward Leah, who was glancing back over her shoulder at the bar. "Let's just say," Mariona murmured, "our captain's feelings are very much... mutual."
The Arsenal girls exchanged puzzled glances. "Mutual?" Alessia echoed. "Wait, what do you—"
But before they could get another word out, Alexia's voice called across the room. "¡Mariona! Ven aquí!" (Come here!)
All eyes turned toward the sound.
Y/N froze. Oh, shit.
Mariona's grin widened as she looked between Leah and the bar. "Excuse me, girls," she said sweetly, before sauntering toward Alexia and Y/N.
Y/N looked like she wanted the marble floor to open up and swallow her whole. Alexia just raised her eyebrows, the picture of calm mischief.
"Alexia Putellas," Y/N whispered harshly, "I swear to God—"
Alexia sipped her champagne innocently. "What?"
"You're enjoying this too much."
"Sí," Alexia said brightly. "Muchísimo."
Y/N groaned again, finishing her glass in one long swallow. Without hesitation, she grabbed another from a passing waiter. "I need this."
"Don't drink too fast," Alexia warned with a teasing smile. "You'll need steady hands for when you finally touch her."
"Ale!"
But it was too late, the Arsenal girls were already heading their way, following after Mariona.
Leah walked just a step behind the others, hands still in her pockets. When her gaze met Y/N's again, that same spark flared; hot, immediate, and impossible to disguise.
Alexia greeted them all easily. "Hola, chicas! You all look beautiful tonight!"
Steph grinned. "Thanks, Alexia. You too."
The small group exchanged hugs and pleasantries, familiar faces from shared tournaments, rivalries, and brand events.
And then Leah stepped forward.
Y/N turned, smile softening instinctively. The moment Leah reached her, they both hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before leaning in for a brief hug.
It was supposed to be friendly. It was anything but.
The contact was electric.
Leah's hand rested lightly against Y/N's bare back, and the warmth of her skin under the red satin made her head spin. Y/N's perfume, something floral with a darker undertone, hit Leah's senses like a drug. When Y/N's lips brushed her cheek in the briefest, most innocent greeting, Leah nearly forgot how to breathe.
"You look incredible," Leah said quietly, her voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.
Y/N smiled, her pulse hammering. "You too, cariño."
When they pulled back, both of them looked a little dazed.
Alexia, of course, noticed immediately, as did the others.
The conversation turned casual again. Talk of the ceremony, of recent matches, of the ridiculous travel schedules. But the tension between Leah and Y/N hung thick in the air, visible to anyone paying attention.
As the others chatted, Y/N took a slow sip of her champagne, eyes drifting toward Leah. Over the rim of the glass, their gazes met again. The look Y/N gave her was languid, deliberate—a silent challenge dressed up as flirtation.
Leah felt her breath catch.
It was the kind of look that said: I know what I'm doing to you.
Leah’s lips quirked upward, raising one brow slightly in return, the unspoken do you? hanging in the air between them.
Y/N's smirk widened, and then she turned her attention back to Alexia, pretending nothing had happened.
Leah exhaled slowly. She was in trouble.
The rest of the group remained blissfully unaware, or pretended to be. The air around them felt almost charged, as if everyone could sense the pull between the two women even if no one dared to name it.
Soon, ushers began moving through the room, calling for guests to start taking their seats for the ceremony.
"Here we go," Steph said, adjusting her clutch. "Time to smile for another three hours."
"Good luck," Alexia laughed. "See you after."
The groups began to separate, exchanging goodbyes and promises to catch up later. Y/N's heart was still racing, though she managed a calm smile as she turned toward Leah.
"Good luck tonight," she said softly.
"You too," Leah replied, voice just as quiet.
Y/N started to walk past, but before she could, Leah's fingers gently brushed against her wrist. The touch was feather-light, yet it stopped Y/N in her tracks. She turned, eyes wide, and found Leah looking at her—steady, unreadable, but with something burning deep beneath the surface.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Leah's hand slipped into her own, just long enough to press something small into her palm.
She didn't look away as she murmured, "See you later."
And then she was gone, following her teammates toward the theatre doors.
Y/N stood frozen, her pulse thundering in her ears.
She looked down at her hand, at the neatly folded piece of napkin now resting in her palm. Unfolding it carefully, her breath caught when she saw the words written in Leah's tidy handwriting:
“Meet me tonight."
Y/N's lips parted slightly, a quiet, breathless laugh escaping before she could stop it.
Y/N folded the note again, slipping it into her clutch, her cheeks flushed. "Nada," she said, though the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away.
Alexia leaned closer, smirking. "Ah... not 'nada.' Leah?"
Y/N only bit her lip, her gaze flicking toward the theatre doors where Leah had disappeared. The champagne fizzed warmly in her veins, but it wasn't the alcohol making her dizzy.
"Oh," Alexia whispered under her breath, unable to fight the grin spreading across her face. "This is going to be interesting."
—
The theatre was a masterpiece of polished grandeur. Chandeliers glittered like constellations overhead, and rows upon rows of deep velvet seats fanned out beneath the golden lights. The hum of excitement filled the air, rising and falling like waves as guests settled in for the evening.
Y/N sat front row, the fabric of her scarlet gown spilling around her like poured silk. Alexia was on her left, Aitana on her right, and the rest of the Barcelona team filled the row beside them. A small placard at her feet bore her name in gold—Y/N Y/L/N, FC Barcelona.
She smiled politely at the photographers still lingering near the stage, but her pulse was anything but calm. Her fingers toyed with the edge of the clutch in her lap, feeling the folded napkin still hidden inside.
Meet me tonight.
Leah's handwriting. Neat. Intentional. Those three words had taken root in her mind, and no amount of polite applause or polite conversation could dislodge them.
Alexia leaned closer, whispering in Spanish, "You're fidgeting."
Y/N blinked and stilled her hand. "I am not."
"You are," Alexia teased, her smile sly. "You've been doing it for ten minutes. Thinking about someone?"
Y/N shot her a look, but her friend only raised a knowing brow. "It's fine," Alexia murmured. "Just don't look like you're planning heist. You'll ruin your photos."
Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"Always," Alexia said with a grin, then turned her attention forward as the host's voice echoed through the theatre.
Across the aisle, directly opposite their row, sat the Arsenal contingent. Leah, of course, at the center of them. Even from this distance, Y/N could pick her out instantly: the sharp lines of her black suit against the soft glow of the lights, the casual yet composed posture that made her stand out without trying. She was angled slightly toward Steph, engaged in quiet conversation, but every so often, her eyes drifted. And every time they did, they found Y/N.
They'd glance at each other briefly, never for long, never enough to draw attention, but the connection was unmistakable. A glance that lasted a second too long. A half-smile quickly hidden. A quiet acknowledgement that there was something dangerous between them, something that both of them were pretending didn't exist in this glittering room.
Y/N turned back toward the stage, the corners of her mouth curving as if she could still feel Leah's gaze brushing against her skin.
The ceremony began, and the air filled with applause and laughter as the first categories were announced—the usual mixture of polite clapping and the occasional whoop from the more excitable guests. The first awards came and went, brief speeches echoing through the space, but it was clear the energy lifted each time the women's awards were mentioned. The impact they’d had in the sport this year was incredible, and it was clear how highly anticipated the awards were.
Barcelona had taken this stage too many times to count in recent years. They were used to the bright lights and the microphones, but it never dulled the pride that buzzed in their chests when one of their own was called. When their collective name appeared on the big screen —FC Barcelona Femení— the theatre erupted in cheerful clapping, champagne glasses lifted in a toast in their row.
Y/N smiled and clapped along, but Alexia nudged her gently. "I swear, if we lose Club of the Year to Arsenal," she said, half-joking, "it's your fault."
Y/N blinked, laughing. "My fault?"
"You wore their colour," Alexia said, gesturing at her gown. "Arsenal red. That's bad luck. You curse us."
Y/N rolled her eyes, a soft chuckle escaping. "Barça wears red too, you know."
"Not that shade," Alexia argued. "That's English danger red. You betray us."
Y/N smirked. "Maybe I just look good in it."
Aitana snorted quietly beside them. "You do look good in it, but she right, if we lose, I blame you too."
"Wow," Y/N said dryly. "My own teammates turning on me. Good to know where I stand."
Alexia winked. "With very good lighting and very bad intenciones, I think." (intentions.)
Y/N shook her head, laughing under her breath, but her pulse spiked again as she caught movement from the opposite row. Leah had turned, clearly overhearing something, and was smiling faintly in their direction. Y/N's laugh faltered for a second. It wasn't a full smile from Leah, more like a secret one, the kind that hinted she knew exactly what Y/N was thinking.
The host's voice echoed again. "And now... the award for Women's Club of the Year."
The room hushed. A faint drum of tension pulsed through both front rows, Arsenal and Barcelona side by side in silent rivalry.
Y/N felt Alexia tense beside her, muttering, "If they call Arsenal, I walk out."
Y/N smirked. "You'd never. You love the spotlight too much."
"Not if it mean losing to your bad luck dress," Alexia whispered.
The presenter opened the envelope. "And the winner is... Arsenal Women!"
The theatre erupted. Cheers, applause, laughter—the Arsenal girls jumped to their feet, hugging, clapping, their joy contagious. Steph threw her arms around Alessia; Chloe let out a triumphant whoop; even Renée Slegers cracked a proud smile as she led them up toward the stage.
Barcelona's row joined in the applause—gracious and genuinely happy, if a little wounded by pride. Alexia leaned toward Y/N, muttering through her grin, "I told you. You curse us."
Y/N laughed, shaking her head. "It's not my fault they had a good season."
Leah was on stage now, taking her place behind the microphone alongside Renée. The cameras zoomed in, and Y/N found herself watching every second. The way Leah's confidence filled the space without even needing to raise her voice. The quiet gratitude in her tone. The way she acknowledged her teammates, the fans, the women who'd come before her.
When the applause broke out again, Y/N clapped with everyone else, but her chest felt oddly tight. There was something about seeing Leah in her element like this, framed in gold light, that made her stomach twist.
And then, as Leah stepped back from the mic, glancing down from the stage, their eyes met across the crowd again.
That look. Slow, unhurried, entirely intentional. It burned through the noise.
Y/N held her gaze for just a moment before breaking it, turning back toward Alexia, who was watching her with a suspiciously smug smile.
"You two need an award," Alexia muttered. "Most obvious secret."
"Shut up," Y/N whispered, but her cheeks were burning.
The next few awards came and went, but Y/N barely registered them. Her mind kept drifting, to Leah's quiet smirk, to the note still folded in her clutch, to the promise hanging unspoken between them. Her heartbeat was a constant rhythm beneath the polite laughter and applause.
When the time finally came for the main award, the Women's Ballon d'Or Féminin, the energy in the room changed. The murmurs quieted. The cameras angled in on the front row. Y/N felt Alexia's hand squeeze her arm lightly.
"Whatever happen," Alexia said in English, smiling, "you already win, sí?"
Y/N smiled back. "Coming from you, that means a lot."
The presenter stepped up, the iconic golden envelope in hand. "And the 2025 Ballon d'Or Féminin goes to..."
A pause that seemed to stretch for eternity.
"...Y/N Y/L/N!"
The room exploded. Cheers, applause, the Barcelona girls on their feet in an instant, Alexia practically jumped up first, hugging her tight. "¡Lo hiciste, cariño! Fifth in a row for us!"
Y/N laughed breathlessly, her heart hammering. The cameras flashed, her name echoing through the hall, and for a moment she stood frozen, barely believing it. Then she stood, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she made her way toward the stage.
Each step up the golden-lit stairs felt surreal. The dress shimmered under the lights, the deep red almost glowing. When she reached the podium, the weight of the trophy was placed in her hands, solid, gleaming, heavy with everything it meant.
She turned toward the microphone, her lips parting in a soft, genuine smile. "Wow," she began, her voice carrying easily through the room. "This is... unbelievable."
The applause died down, replaced by attentive silence.
"I don't even know where to start," Y/N continued. "The women standing here tonight, the ones nominated with me, you're some of the best footballers this game has ever seen. Every single one of you deserves this just as much as I do."
She glanced toward the front row, where Leah sat, still in her black suit, eyes fixed on her. The smallest, most mischievous glint sparked in Y/N's eyes as she added, "And it's an honour to share the pitch with such incredible women, some of them...very inspiring."
She punctuated it with a subtle wink, the kind that would seem harmless to most. But Leah knew. She knew.
A small smile curved at Leah's lips, her eyes never leaving Y/N as the audience erupted in applause again.
Y/N continued, her words sincere but light, graceful. She thanked her teammates, her coaches, her family, the fans. "And to the next generation of girls watching, keep believing, keep playing, and don't ever let anyone tell you what you can't do."
Her smile softened, her voice lowering slightly. "Because we're proof of what happens when women refuse to stop."
Another round of applause thundered through the theatre. Y/N took one last look at the crowd, her gaze inevitably finding Leah again. The two women exchanged a look that lasted less than a second, but it was enough to send a spark racing down Y/N's spine.
Then she stepped down from the stage, trophy in hand, met by the embrace of her teammates.
Alexia was the first to throw an arm around her shoulders. "A wink? Really?" she teased, laughing. "You couldn't help yourself?"
Y/N grinned, breathless. "What wink?"
"You know exactly what wink," Alexia said, shaking her head. "You lucky the camera didn't zoom in on her face."
"Who says it was directed at her?" Y/N said, feigning innocence.
Alexia laughed. "You're a terrible liar, cariño."
As Y/N returned to her seat, she caught Leah watching her again. This time, Leah didn't even pretend otherwise. Their eyes locked for a moment too long, and then Leah raised her glass slightly in a quiet toast.
Y/N smiled, small, secret, and mirrored the gesture.
The ceremony rolled on, but the mood was buoyant now. The Arsenal girls, still riding the high of their Club of the Year win, clinked glasses and teased each other about who got to hold the trophy next. Across from them, Barcelona was in full celebration mode, hugging Y/N every other minute, their laughter bubbling over the hum of speeches.
But beneath all the noise, there was something else pulsing in the air.
Every time Y/N looked up, Leah was already looking at her. Every time Leah turned away, Y/N found herself following her with her eyes.
Neither of them said a word, but the message was clear in every look.
Alexia leaned closer, her voice low. "You're thinking about her, no?"
Y/N didn't deny it. "Maybe."
Alexia smirked. "She think about you too."
Y/N glanced up again, and sure enough, Leah's eyes were already on her, unreadable under the low golden light.
The applause swelled again as another award was announced. Y/N clapped automatically, her mind elsewhere. The note in her clutch suddenly felt heavier.
She could still hear Leah's voice, soft and confident from earlier. “See you later.”
Her fingers brushed the hidden paper again, and a slow smile curved her lips.
Maybe she would.
—
The night had started to blur around the edges.
The ceremony was officially over, the applause had faded, the speeches were done, and the crowd had dissolved into a hum of laughter, chatter, and the soft clinking of glasses. The ballroom glittered under the chandeliers, the tables scattered with half-empty champagne flutes and folded napkins. The air carried that mix of celebration and relief, the kind that comes when the cameras finally stop flashing.
Y/N stood among her teammates, the golden Ballon d'Or still in her hand. The weight of it was strange, both grounding and dizzying. People were moving everywhere: players greeting old rivals, coaches shaking hands, journalists trying to grab quotes. Somewhere in the background, a soft instrumental track played, something classical and elegant that didn't quite match the low, restless thrum in her chest.
Her smile never faltered, not when she took another photo with Alexia and Aitana, not when a reporter stopped her for a quick comment, not when teammates toasted to "five in a row"—but her focus kept slipping.
Her eyes kept scanning the crowd.
She found Leah easily. She was standing with Steph and Renée, a glass of champagne in one hand, her jacket open just enough to reveal the lace shirt underneath, her other hand tucked into the pocket of her trousers. Her hair caught the light, that unmistakable pale gold. Even from across the room, Y/N could tell Leah was in the middle of laughing at something Steph said, her head tilted slightly, her lips curling in that infuriatingly easy smile.
And then, as if she'd felt it, Leah's eyes found hers.
The laughter in her expression softened, replaced by something quieter. Sharper. She didn't look away. For a few beats, the chaos around them seemed to fade. Leah lifted her glass slightly, the faintest, teasing acknowledgement, before setting it down and murmuring something to Steph. Then, with one last glance at Y/N, she excused herself, straightening her jacket, and slipping out through a side door near the stage.
Y/N froze.
That look, that raised brow and half-smile, wasn't just a goodbye. It was an invitation.
Beside her, Alexia followed Y/N's gaze, then let out a soft, knowing hum. "Well?"
Y/N blinked, caught. "What?"
Alexia gave her a look that could only be described as exasperated amusement. "Don't play dumb. Go."
Alexia rolled her eyes. "After her, obviously. You've been staring all night. I am tired of pretending not to notice."
"I have not been—"
Alexia just arched a brow, cutting her off. "Cariño, you gave her a wink in your speech."
Y/N groaned softly, pressing her free hand to her forehead. "Oh my God."
Alexia smirked. "You're welcome. Now, go. Before she think you change your mind."
Y/N glanced down at the golden trophy in her hand, biting the inside of her cheek. "What about this?"
"I'll take it," Alexia said instantly, extending her arms like a child demanding candy.
Y/N hesitated, cradling it protectively. "Alexia—"
"I'll look after it," Alexia interrupted, grinning. "Pretend it's my third one. Finally complete the collection."
Y/N gave her a deadpan look. "You're insufferable."
"I'm serious," Alexia said, mock-solemn. "I'll pose for photo with it and everything. Go find your English girlfriend."
"She's not my—"
"Yet," Alexia said, smirking.
Y/N sighed, shaking her head, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. She handed over the Ballon d'Or. "If you lose it, I'm blaming you for the rest of your career."
Alexia clutched it dramatically to her chest. "I'll guard it with my life. Now go."
Y/N hesitated for just a second longer, her heart racing, and then she did.
The noise of the theatre faded behind her as she slipped out through the side door. The corridor beyond was quiet, lit by soft golden wall mounted lights. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, echoing faintly in the stillness.
"Leah?" she called softly, her voice almost swallowed by the silence.
No answer.
She frowned, scanning the long hallway lined with framed photographs and open doors. The lingering buzz of champagne was still in her blood, but underneath it was something sharper—anticipation, uncertainty, something she didn't dare name.
Her steps quickened slightly, the skirt of her gown whispering around her legs. "Leah?" she tried again, a touch louder.
And then, before she could take another step, a hand shot out of the shadows.
Y/N gasped as fingers curled around her waist, tugging her sharply into a side corridor. Her back hit the wall, and she let out a startled yelp. "¡Dios mío!" she hissed, half-ready to swing.
A low laugh stopped her mid-motion. "Easy, killer."
Y/N blinked up, and there she was. Leah.
Her face was half-lit by the soft hallway glow, the other half shadowed. The black suit clung perfectly, her tie loosened, her hair falling slightly out of place. There was a faint grin tugging at her lips, amused, unbothered, maddeningly confident.
"You scared me," Y/N said, swatting her arm lightly. "You can't just—just grab people in the dark hallways of Paris!"
Leah laughed again, a low, warm sound. "You were wandering around calling my name. Thought I'd save you the trouble."
"You're ridiculous," Y/N muttered, trying to compose herself, though her pulse hadn't quite settled.
It was then she noticed Leah's hand still resting at her waist, right where her corset met the skirt, on that sliver of bare skin the gown left exposed. Her thumb brushed in slow, idle circles, like she hadn't realised she was doing it. Or maybe she had.
Y/N felt heat rise up her spine. "Are you going to move your hand," she asked quietly, "or just keep testing my patience?"
Leah tilted her head, smiling faintly. "You don’t seem to mind."
"I'm reconsidering," Y/N said, though her voice lacked conviction.
Leah's grin widened, slow, lazy, knowing. "You always this jumpy when someone grabs you?"
"Only when they appear out of nowhere like a horror movie villain," Y/N shot back.
Leah's shoulders lifted in a mock shrug. "Could be worse ways to bump into me."
Y/N folded her arms, though her composure was slipping by the second. "What do you want, Leah?"
Leah didn't answer immediately. She took a slow step forward instead. Y/N instinctively stepped back, until her spine met the wall again. Leah stopped just short of touching, close enough that Y/N could smell the faint trace of her perfume, sandalwood, something clean and expensive.
Leah's voice dropped, low and careful. "Tell me I'm not crazy."
Y/N blinked. "What?"
Leah's eyes flicked down briefly, to Y/N's mouth, then back up again. "Tell me you don't feel it. Whatever this is."
For a beat, silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with everything unsaid. Y/N's heart hammered against her ribs.
Then, with a smirk tugging at her lips, she said softly, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Leah raised a brow. "No?"
"None at all."
Leah hummed, tilting her head, that sinful grin returning. "Funny. You've been looking at me like you do."
"I have not," Y/N started, but Leah stepped closer again, so close their breath mingled.
"Liar."
The word was barely a whisper, but it landed like a spark.
Y/N's bravado faltered. She felt her pulse race under Leah's hand as the blonde's thumb traced another slow circle against her skin. Leah's eyes were locked on hers, sharp, searching, but soft around the edges in a way that made her knees feel unsteady.
"You look good in red," Leah murmured after a moment, her voice almost reverent. "Like you were made to ruin people with it."
Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, her lips curving. "You practiced that line?"
Leah's smirk deepened. "Would it work if I did?"
Y/N was going to reply, some witty retort, some deflection, but she didn't get the chance. The tension between them snapped like a live wire.
She moved before she could think. Her hands shot up, grabbing the lapels of Leah's blazer, and she pulled her in.
The kiss was instant—rougher than either had intended, a collision of pent-up nerves and weeks of something unspoken. Leah made a quiet, startled sound against her mouth before responding, her hand tightening instinctively at Y/N's waist.
It wasn't a delicate kiss. Not at all. It was deliberate, hungry, the kind that came from two people who'd been pretending for too long. Leah angled her head slightly, deepening it, her other hand braced against the wall beside Y/N's head. The faint scrape of fabric and the soft thud of their breathing filled the quiet hallway.
When they finally broke apart, Y/N was breathless, a feeling of heat creeping up her neck, her lipstick smudged. Leah stayed close, her forehead nearly touching Y/N's, a crooked grin spreading slowly across her face.
"Was that part of your acceptance speech?" Leah asked, her tone teasing.
Y/N laughed, still a little dazed. "Not exactly."
Leah brushed her thumb along Y/N's jawline, her eyes flicking between Y/N's eyes and lips. "Then let me be the first to say, congratulations, Ballon d'Or winner."
Y/N smiled, voice low. "You already were."
Leah chuckled, thumb tracing the corner of Y/N's mouth, fixing her lipstick. "Guess I was."
For a moment, they just stood there, breathing each other in, the world still spinning somewhere beyond the corridor.
Then Leah leaned back slightly, her grin turning mischievous. "So," she said quietly, "what do you say we get out of here?"
Y/N arched a brow. "And go where, exactly?"
Leah's smile was slow, dangerous. "Anywhere that isn't full of cameras."
Y/N pretended to consider it, though her pulse had already made the decision for her. "Tempting," she murmured. "But..."
"But?"
Y/N's smirk returned, playful. "I should probably grab my Ballon d'Or first. Ale’s probably already declared it hers."
Leah laughed, a low, genuine sound. "Of course she has."
Y/N pushed lightly against Leah's chest, slipping past her. "Give me five minutes."
Leah caught her wrist as she walked by, stopping her just long enough to murmur, "Don't keep me waiting, yeah?"
Y/N turned, her smile soft but sure. "Wouldn't dream of it."
And with that, she walked back down the hallway, her heart still pounding, her lips still tingling.
Oh Leah, I can see you. She thought to herself.
—
leahwilliamsonn posted to their story!
(photo does NOT depict readers’ appearance !!)
betty’s notes ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
i hope you all like this !! this was so much fun to write, and i love the concept of leah x barca reader😫 plus getting to include alexia in my leah fics is amazing as always !!
please comment your thoughts, feedback is always appreciated :) my requests will be open until the end of the week, so send them in !! then i’ll only be going through these requests and then focusing on my leah christmas fic !! will be posting a teaser for it soon, so stay tuned😝
synopsis: you turn up outside the WLF base after you and Abby haven’t seen each other for years, injured and still mad as hell at her for leaving… but wait, when did she get so hot? [2.4K]
contents: butch!abby, plot divergence, mention of injury and blood, alice is r's dog, past love, abby is whipped, r pretends she isn't
part one of two +*:ꔫ
You can’t feel any part of your body, or remember at what point of trudging through the endless woods you had lost the sensation of pain completely. You can hardly focus on putting one foot in front of the other as you reach the clearing, the warm sun of unencumbered sunlight a respite from the sticky, searing drops running down your back. Alice whines at your side, the softness of her fur on your calf being the only sensation that grounds you to reality as the harsh lighting causes your vision to further dance with darkness.
As looming concrete walls begin to come into focus, your toe catches on something you had paid no attention to— and you’re on the ground faster than your brain can catch up. The only sensation you register is a wet nose nudging your face as fireworks go off behind your skull. You raise a shaky hand to calm Alice, wondering if this is the last time you can care for her. Before your fingers brush her face, something grabs her attention and you feel her presence over you.
Her barking only sounds muffled to your fading consciousness, and your body only has the strength to dig your fingers into the dirt. There’s no telling how much time goes by as you hear continued barking and commotion from behind your head, all you can hope for is that they don’t hurt her. You’re paralyzed from exhaustion as it goes quiet, tears cooling your heated cheeks as they become dewdrops on the blades of grass.
Your heart doubles its speed as you feel a familiar nudge on your shoulder, your ears ringing. A pair of boots runs up to your near lifeless body, and you power through the blurry brushstrokes that paint the picture before you. Her face moves fast towards yours as you can only focus on one detail at a time, echoes of tenderness as her hands cradle your face. Freckled cheeks, evergreen eyes, permanently pinched eyebrows— you let your strength exhale like a breath and all goes black.
— 4 years earlier
Your moments with Abby haunt you in vignettes of scraped knees, crunching snow, and bashful smirks that left the sound of reprimands far-away.
You two had been close for as long as you could remember, constantly getting in trouble and sneaking around to the chagrin of every firefly assigned to watch you. Alice had been her idea, a gift celebrating two years after you’d shown up in Salt Lake City, afraid and without family. Abby had heard wind of a puppy too aggressive and uncooperative with men to be trained for patrol, and never told you what she had bartered to scoop Alice up then and there. She also took the primary role in training her— after your demonstrated difficulty in withholding any treats— and you raised her together. After countless days of running around, every time you’d all three end up in one pile on Abby’s bunk— yours remaining untouched.
As you grew, so did the awkwardness of realizing that no other best friends acted the way you and Abby did. At some point, you knew that your feelings for her were beyond platonic— dreading the day she’d stop holding your hand and keeping extra blankets for you at the foot of her bed. You struggled to fit in, and spent most of your time helping Jerry in the hospital as an excuse to escape the pressure of socialising. Alice helped with keeping the boys away (apart from Jerry, who she tolerated), and part of you waited and waited for the other shoe to finally drop and for your closeness to dwindle.
Even through the confusing haze of hormones and teenage social hierarchies, she stuck to you like glue. When rumors and judgements flitted between the thin walls, she held on tighter where you shied away. She felt proud of her biting words and harsh repercussions if it meant she was protecting the little bubble you had built for yourselves. Even as friendly affection became blistering sparks too exciting to ignite, every night ended the same. Under the veil of silent halls, she found herself sneaking onto her floor while you perched on the bed, silent as your hands gently weaved strands of her hair into a pattern nobody else knew you’d left.
Spring brings you face-to-face with the culmination of your feelings. When Abby asked you to sneak out with her like a confession, you were helpless but to follow. The clearing was beautiful: bugs hurried about under the necessary shade of bright green grass, running water tickled your ears, and the combined heat of the sun and Abby’s gaze left a pleasant hum under your skin. Alice was huffing and failing to chase butterflies, while the weight of your laughter swayed you into Abby’s side. Without the burden of curious stares, you gravitated into her like a magnet.
Her arm felt solid and sure as it wrapped around you, pulling you closer into her orbit. You share a wondrous look, like you’re both shocked at the movements of your own body. The color of her eyes is constantly shifting in the light, green leaves floating in pools of amber. A new, almost white tank top is stretched across her chest; a distracting new development in her sense of wardrobe that leaves freckles and slight scars— from Alice’s short lived but mighty teething period— unobscured from your watchful eye. You had carefully braided her hair this morning “for good luck” and you’re sick with affection, mapping all of the small imprints of you she wears with pride, down to letting your dog use her as a chew toy.
Her hand raised in trepidation, pausing in its flight path toward your face. You both glance at her trembling digits, and you’re near bursting with it as you grab her heated cheeks and press your mouth to hers. It’s clumsy, you’re both too excited to worry about technique, and it's also perfect.
And then, the heat of the day broke.
Someone had come, yelling, screaming Abby’s name— they ushered her back to base faster than you could keep up, and you knew that something was wrong. Carnage greeted your every step, your stomach lurching at the endless walls of white stained with red. The sirens numb your ears, and you’re pulled into a safe room by faces you don’t recognize, fighting them off in defense of something you only just got.
Later, in between endless worrying and safety protocols, she steps back into her room— and you’re waiting to catch her. You hold her hands to stop them from shaking, wanting so badly to fix it for her when you know yourself that nothing can. The dawn breaks and your knees ache, but you hold onto her tighter— worried at the meaning of the faraway look in her eyes. The sun shines in on her dorm, and she continues to stare past the horizon.
The next few days are marked with pleading. You had found her backpack, under her bed, filled to the brim. You knew deep inside that nothing— and nobody— could stop her. No matter how hard you tried, every day she slipped further from your grasp until she was gone.
You’d been stirred by quiet movement, rustling breaking the silence that only fell over the hospital in the dead of night— and you knew. She slipped like water through your desperate grip, and you only made her promise one thing: that she’d come back to you. No matter how long it took.
More and more fireflies moved on from Salt Lake City, unable to rebuild what was broken. You stayed until even your hope felt like it rose out of your chest and left.
—
The first sensation that comes back to you is the nauseating smell of antiseptic. You try to fight the fog in your brain, and attempt to twitch your fingers, a familiar softness under them: Alice. It all starts coming back to you, if Alice is here then— you rip your eyes open. There she is, your Abby—openly staring at you. She sits unmoving in her seemingly uncomfortable chair, like any movement will make the moment disappear.
She’d changed a lot in your years apart. Stringy and clumsy 19-year-old arms had been replaced by tense corded muscle, and your eye follows the stream of a vein down to her weathered hands squeezing the hard plastic armrest. There’s something rust colored stuck under her nails, like she hadn’t had time to properly wash them. Something traitorous flutters in your belly as you notice the way her legs spread, so much new muscle there that you doubt she could cross them even if she wanted. You tear your gaze away before any other dangerous thoughts can take root, and follow a path of unfamiliar freckles back to her vulnerable eyes.
Her hair is longer now, but still in a singular braid that flows over her firmed shoulder. Has someone else done it for her? Something hot burns in your stomach, and you can’t help the fire that claws its way up your throat.
“Just my luck,” you mutter. Your voice is hoarse, throat dry like a punishment for your biting tone.
Alice’s ears perk up at the broken silence, and she shuffles up to lick your face. It’s hard to keep up your stern facade as she does, salty tears mixed with her slobber. You’d been so worried about her.
Abby’s stolen breath is further taken from her. You’re a complete image even in your battered state, delicate hands carding their way through coarse fur. She’s convinced she’s dreaming as the toothiness of your smile matches the twinkling of your tears, even more dazzling than she remembers. She wants your sweet gaze on her so bad her ribs vibrate with it.
Your melodic giggles dwindle, and she realizes the only thing she’s done is stare at you— silent and unmoving— like a creep. Your watery gaze meets hers again, unsure, and any words she was scrambling to think up blow away like sand in the wind.
You begin to move from your side to your back, needing an excuse to get away from the magnetism of her eyes on yours. At the small shift, she bounds out of her chair like it's on fire and grips your shoulder with her strong hand, her thumb caressing your skin— an unconscious apology for her worried harshness.
Up this close, you’ve failed spectacularly at your mission of creating distance. She smells like pine and her warm palm leaves goosebumps all down your arms.
“You shouldn’t lay on it. Doctor’s orders.” She speaks so softly it takes you a second to process her words.
“Doctor’s orders or your orders?”
“Well, considering the huge wound, I don’t think many would recommend it.” She gets snarky at the end, but her eyebrows reveal her worry. She removes her hand, but drags it down your arm like it hurts to let go.
“Oh right, that.” Flashes of glass, blood, and running come back to you. Your lips quirk into a frown as you look away.
She whispers like your pain hurts her too, “Yea, that.”
“Is it bad?”
“Yea… yea it’s pretty bad.” She crosses her arms and they bulge in a way that is very distracting. Your face heats— this is so not the time.
“Where am I?” you ask.
She splutters and the worry finally leaves her expression, “Y-you weren’t looking for me?”
Your eyebrows furrow and her chest squeezes again. “No?... I thought we agreed you were the one who was going to come back and find me.”
Her body winces like you’ve hit her, her expression confused for a minute before bleeding into anger. “You just waltzed up to a huge, heavily armed base? Are you crazy? You could’ve been killed!”
“Well, I was doing a just fine job of that myself.”
Alice whines in protest of your raised voices, and the fight leaves Abby’s body immediately at your words. She lays a hand easily on Alice’s head, and Alice— the complete traitor— leans in so much she nearly falls off the makeshift hospital bed. You huff, and silence falls over the room again.
“She bit the heck out of a guy I go on patrols with, Owen— he needed stitches. Never got her to be nicer to guys, did you?” She asks.
Alice lolls her tongue out like she’s proud of herself. You smile at her and Abby can’t tear her eyes away.
“Never saw a reason for that. She’s a good girl.”
She melts like ice cream in the sun. “She is. The best.”
Another tense silence follows, and she jumps a bit, “Oh! Um.. this is the WLF base, meaning Washington Liberation Front– of course…” She awkwardly gestures to the bare room. “This is medical… Nora, our doctor, she patched you up pretty well.”
You hum. “When am I good to leave?”
“L-leave? Your back is basically hanging open and you’re just ready to leave?”
Your eyes narrow, remembering your anger, “Well, I just figured you wouldn’t want me hanging around when you’re so busy with your new life.”
That one hurt her. Her hand recedes and Alice protests. You’re tense all over, ready for a fight that never comes. She looks behind her, outside the observation window there’s a woman standing with her arms crossed.
“Nora’s going to check you out then you’re coming with me, okay?” she speaks softly, it only makes you angrier.
You bristle, “With you? And where would that be?”
Her thumb finds the vexed crease between your eyebrows, smoothing it like you’re putty for her to mold. She leaves a tender kiss on your forehead, stunning you with her proximity and tenderness.
“My house. My place— whatever you want to call it. You’re staying there, I’m taking care of you— end of discussion.”
She turns to open the door, and you’re still left bewildered. Her movement shocks you back into action.
“W-where’s my say?” you ask.
She opens the heavy metal door and it clicks shut with a finality. Abby crosses her arms and approaches the woman— Nora.
“Hey!” you yell, but neither of their heads turn.
+*:ꔫ
a/n: i hope you enjoyed this part and the second one is coming soon!
i just have a soft spot for butch abby and sabrina carpenter ok...
A controversial transfer brings a former rival star to Barça Femení.
A flashy, extroverted player who thrives on showmanship.
Alexia, calm, private, and fiercely loyal to Barca, sees you as a threat.
What starts as outright hostility slowly shifts into undeniable chemistry.
Part 6
Masterlist
The next morning feels heavier than the last night, you barely slept, just drifted in and out of a restless half consciousness, Alexia’s voice replaying in your head every time you closed your eyes. By the time morning came, you felt hollow, scraped raw from the inside out.
Now, as you pull into the Ciutat Esportiva car park, the sky is still a dull grey, the air thick with that early morning chill that always hits just before sunrise. You sit in your car for an extra beat, fingers flexing on the steering wheel, willing yourself to keep it together.
You finally climb out, gym bag slung over your shoulder, hood up not to hide, but to keep the world at just enough distance that you can function.
Inside, the corridors buzz with the routine murmur of staff and players arriving, a few quiet greetings exchanged around you. You answer with polite nods, nothing more. No one pushes; they can clearly see you’re not in a talkative mood.
Your steps echo faintly as you enter the locker room, it’s half full already, you head straight to your locker, eyes on the floor until absolutely necessary.
Mapi is sitting two lockers over tying her laces, and when she spots you, her expression flickers, concern, guilt, awkwardness, but she doesn’t call out, she just gives a small, subtle nod.
You drop your bag onto the bench, open your locker, pull out your training kit. Your hands move mechanically, shirt, shorts, tape, boots, but your mind feels distant, floating somewhere above your body.
You’re halfway through lacing your boots when you feel it, eyes on you, not just everyone's from the team, hers.
You don’t lift your head at first, pretending to focus on threading lace through eyelet, but the weight of her stare is heavy, tense, filled with something you can’t decipher from across the room.
Eventually, inevitably, you glance up, Alexia is on the other side of the locker room, standing beside her locker with her training top halfway pulled on. Her hair is still damp from her shower at home, her expression unreadable, her shoulders held a little too tight.
She is looking directly at you, not cold or blank, something conflicted and tense and strangely unsteady. The second your eyes meet, she looks away, abruptly, like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. She turns toward Patri, who had been talking to her, and answers her too fast, too casually, as if rushing to appear normal.
You exhale through your nose, turning your attention back to your boots the tension hangs low and quiet, almost suffocating.
The minute boots hit grass, you make a decision, if Alexia wants to act like you don't exist, fine. If she wants to be cold, contained, captain mode perfect, fine. If she wants to pretend you’re nothing but an annoyance to her, also fine, because two can play that game and you’re not in the mood to make anything easy for her.
Training begins with a simple rondo, and the tension is thick enough to chew on. You stay sharp, quick on your feet, maybe too sharp. The kind of quick that looks like you’re showing off, or more accurately, like you want someone to see that you’re fine without them.
Alexia steps into your circle after a rotation, her eyes flicking to you once before she focuses on the ball. Patri passes to you, you flick it back with a no look heel touch, clean, controlled, entirely unnecessary.
Alexia’s voice cuts in immediately. “Simple touches, Y/N.”
You don’t even look at her, “Maybe you should try it first,” you mutter, loud enough for the circle to hear. "Practice what you preach and all"
A couple players choke on their laughter, Alexia’s jaw flexes, which shuts them up, but the moment the actual tactical work starts, the moment the team splits into smaller teams and Alexia inevitably floats closer to your side of the pitch, the tension curls around your spine like a live wire.
You feel her before you hear her.
“Y/N,” she says during a build-out passing drill, voice firm, strictly professional. “When you step out, make sure you’re checking both shoulders. You missed the runner twice.”
There’s a beat where you almost give a normal answer, almost. Instead, without looking at her, you drag in a slow breath and mumble “Wow. Thanks, capitana. Wouldn’t have known how football works without that.”
Alexia blinks, clearly not expecting that tone, Patri, beside you, lets out a faint oh boy under her breath. Alexia tries again, jaw tight. “I’m not. I’m just saying, tactically”
“Right,” you cut in, finally glancing her way. “Tactically, because I’ve never played before today. Got it.”
“You’re drifting too wide,” she says evenly. “Stay connected to the line.”
You turn your head just enough to meet her eyes, “Oh, am I?” Your tone is polite, insufferably polite.
She blinks at you, brows tightening just slightly. “Yes. That’s what I just said.”
You shrug. “Must’ve missed it. Didn’t think you were talking to me.”
Patri coughs, Mapi mutters under her breath, “Madre de Dios…”
Alexia inhales slowly, like she’s counting to ten. “Y/N,” she says through a controlled exhale, “just listen.”
You tilt your head, expression borderline angelic, “Then say something worth listening to.”
Her mouth opens a little, like she’s about to argue, like she’s deciding between professionalism and throttling you, but Jonathan blows the whistle, and she swallows whatever she was about to say.
Next drill small sided possession, you’re placed on the same team of course you are, because the universe thinks it’s hilarious.
Alexia tries to be professional, she really tries, but every time she gives you instruction, you have an answer before she finishes.
“Shift left”
“Already doing it.”
“Drop”
“You drop.”
“Press now”
“I am pressing.”
She stops dead for half a second, hands on hips, staring at you like she’s trying to decide whether to throttle you or bench you herself.
The ball comes to your feet, you dribble past two players with crisp touches, spin off a third, then lay off a perfect pass not to Alexia to Patri instead.
Alexia’s head snaps toward you. “That pass was supposed to go to me,” she says, breathless from the play.
You grin, bright and sharp. “Was it? Sorry. Thought Patri was the better option”
Your team loses the ball, and Alexia immediately points at you. “Y/N, don’t sit so deep. You’re closing the lane to Patri”
You smile blandly and shrug, “Guess I’m just hopeless, maybe I should of given it a second thought”
Her nostrils flare, Mapi looks like she’s fighting laughter, Irene mutters, “Here we go again”
The drill continues, tense, messy, sharp around the edges.
Alexia tries again, of course she does, she can’t not win the battle with you, “Drop faster on transition,” she tells you after you intercept a pass. “You’re hesitating.”
You flick the ball up with your foot, catch it between your hands, and level her with a deadpan expression, "I'm not, I'm just not doing all the work"
Alexia’s eyes widen, the world seems to pause, you turn away, roll the ball back into play, pretending like nothing happened.
The next time she approaches you is during a rondo, he stays a full two meters away, voice controlled, clipped, “You’re drifting too central.”
You look at her fully this time, eyes half lidded, tone dripping sweet annoyance, “Would you like me to breathe differently too? Or blink on your count? Just want to make sure I’m following all the rules.”
Alexia’s jaw flexes so sharply you think it might crack, “Estoy intentando ayudarte,” she mutters tightly.
“I don’t need your help,” you shoot back. “Or your commentary.”
Her eyes flash, “You clearly do.”
“Oh? Because you I can't make decisions?”
“Because you’re not focused.”
“And you care why, exactly?”
That gets her, she stares at you, actually stares and for the first time all morning, she looks rattled. Her voice lowers, barely audible, “Can you stop being a brat”
“A brat?” you mimic her. “No. Not today.”
Her nostrils flare, Jonathan blows the whistle, calling everyone in, mercifully cutting the moment short, but Alexia still looks at you, annoyance burning hot beneath the restrained professionalism.
You turn away with a smile she can’t see, to kick the ball to one of the assistant coaches, because acting like you weren’t gutted last night is easier when she’s the one losing her composure.
As she walks away you smirk, it’s petty, it’s childish and it’s absolutely on purpose, because if she wants to throw daggers, you’ll bring knives.
Mapi jogs past, slapping the back of your head gently, “You,” she whispers behind her hand, “are such a fucking brat today, she's right.”
You shrug, kicking the ball at her calves, “Better a brat,” you mutter, “than whatever the hell she wants to make me.”
Mapi whistles low, “Dios mío… you two are going to give this team an aneurysm."
Everyone filters into the locker room in loose little clusters, chatter rising and falling around you. You head straight for your locker, dropping onto the bench with a long exhale, grabbing your water bottle to take a drink.
You don’t hear her at first, you just feel her, a shift in air pressure, a sudden hush in the voices nearby, that unmistakable, charged presence, you look up.
Alexia stands in front of you, damp hair tied back, training bib still in her hand, jaw tight enough to crack, her eyes burn, not angry exactly, but fed up, frayed at the edges, hanging by a thread. “Una palabra,” she says, but it’s not a request.
A few players exchange glances, you push to your feet slowly, rolling your shoulders as if this is going to be an argument you can warm up for.
Alexia steps closer, low enough that only you can hear, “What the hell was that?” she snaps, voice quiet but razor sharp.
You blink, innocent, “Training?”
“Don’t play dumb,” she hisses. “All morning you’ve been dismissive, rude, disrespectful”
“Oh, now you care about disrespect?” you cut in, eyebrows raised. “Is that the theme of the day?”
Her nostrils flare, you hit something, good, “I’m trying to do my job,” she says. “And you’re making it impossible.”
You scoff, crossing your arms with a dramatic sigh. “Sorry to be such an inconvenience, capitana. Maybe next time I’ll be more grateful when you decide to grace me with your tactical brilliance."
“That’s not what I” She cuts herself off, visibly struggling to stay calm. “You’re twisting everything.”
“No,” you say, stepping closer, “I’m reacting to you assuming everything I do is somehow about you.”
Her glare sharpens, “You were deliberately provoking me.”
You laugh under your breath. “Trust me, Alexia, if I wanted to provoke you, you’d know.”
Her eyes flash so fast it nearly stops your breath, there it is again the thing she tries so hard to bury, the thing that should’ve stayed buried before that kiss, Alexia inhales sharply, regaining control by sheer force of will, “You need to get it together,” she says tightly. “Whatever’s going on with you”
“Oh no,” you cut in, heat rising up your throat, “we’re not doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like this is all on me”
Alexia’s jaw works, like she’s searching for a response and discarding every single one. Then, she steps closer, close enough that your arms almost brush. “You can hate me," she says quietly, "but you don’t get to talk to me the way you did today.”
“Oh?” you ask, tipping your head. “You going to bench me as punishment?”
Her eyes flare, offended, insulted, and somehow wounded, “You think that’s what this is?” she bites out. “Some power move? Some ego trip?”
“Oh, I know it is.”
“Then you don’t know me at all.”
You laugh, but it’s brittle, defensive, tired, “No, I don’t. You didn't give me the grace to get to know you, but I know enough to know that when you’re hurt, you get cruel.”
“And you?” she whispers back. “What do you do when you’re hurt?”
You hold her stare, then you say, soft but sharp, “I don't give things a second thought”
Alexia’s mouth opens but before she can speak, Jonathan’s voice rings down the hall, Alexia’s eyes flicker at the interruption. She steps back, walls slamming up again. “We’re not done,” she says.
“We never are,” you mutter.
She leaves without another word and you sink onto the bench, pulse racing, chest tight.
🤍
You pad barefoot down the hall, still rubbing the towel through your damp hair, your dressing gown hanging loosely off one shoulder. Your skin is warm from the shower, your head still foggy, your body still tired from training and from spending the entire day pretending Alexia didn’t exist.
The knock comes, firm, too unfamiliar in its impatience, you freeze, no one knocks like that.
You swallow, tighten the belt around your waist, and exhale once before opening the door and Alexia stands there.
Still in her training gear, hair down around her face, cheeks flushed like she came straight from the pitch. Her hands rest on her hips, but her chest rises and falls a little too quickly, like she’d rushed here. Like she didn’t give herself time to calm down.
Her eyes drag over you for a split second before she snaps them to your face again. “Can we talk?” she asks.
No greeting, no apology, just more tension raw and coiled filling the space where air should be.
You lean against the doorframe, towel still in hand, “No,” you say simply.
She blinks, jaw flexing, “Please.” The word comes out clipped, like she hates having to say it. “I’m not leaving until we talk.”
You sigh dramatically, stepping aside just enough to gesture inside with a half hearted sweep of your hand. “Fine. But whatever speech you’ve practised, make it quick. I’ve got better things to do.”
Alexia steps inside, she doesn’t look around, she doesn’t take off her jacket, she just turns toward you with that tight, unreadable expression. “Are you done acting like a brat?” she asks quietly.
You smile sweetly. “Are you done acting like a twat?"
Alexia’s jaw tightens at your answer, just a flicker, barely there, but enough to show she came here hoping for something other than this, well too bad.
You cross your arms over your chest, leaning your shoulder against the wall. “So? You came all this way to scold me? Or just check if I’d fucked any more of or mutual friends?”
Her nostrils flare, “Don’t start.”
“No, you don’t start,” you snap, the words sharper than you intended. “You showed up at my door like I owe you something me and misa have been fucking a lot longer than I've known you Alexia, you don't get to be pissed about it"
Alexia flinches, actually flinches like the words hit her before she could brace. “You’ve been..” She stops, jaw clenching hard. “That's great. Perfect. Thanks for that mental image.”
“Oh please,” you scoff. “You act like you walked in on us. You didn’t even know until Mapi opened her big mouth.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” she snaps.
“Why? Because suddenly you care?” you challenge, stepping forward now. “Because now that you’ve kissed me you think you get a say in what I do with my body?”
Her eyes flash, “Don’t twist this.”
“No, seriously, help me understand,” you push, heat rising in your chest. “You kissed me, then ignored me, then insulted me, and now you’re at my door acting like I betrayed you.”
“I didn’t ignore you,” she fires back. “I freaked out! I” She cuts herself off, shaking her head in frustration. “And I didn’t insult you.”
You laugh sharp and ugly. “Right. Because implying I sleep with married women for fun was just… what? Constructive criticism?”
Alexia winces. “I apologised for that”
“You didn’t actually,” you interrupt. “Not once.”
She opens her mouth, then shuts it, breathing through her nose like she’s trying very hard not to lose her temper, “You being with Misa isn’t the problem,” she finally says through clenched teeth.
“Oh really? Because it sure sounds like the problem, you seem fixated on the fact.”
“It’s the timeline!” she snaps. “It happened after we”
“We what, Alexia?” You tilt your head, “We kissed? Once? In a moment of madness” Her throat bobs and you take another step closer, your voice lower, rawer. “Misa and I were casual. No strings. No promises. No games.” You let your eyes drag over her face, “You wound me up, I needed a release and she was here, I'm a grown fucking women I can do whatever and in this case whoever I want”
“That’s not” Her voice cracks before she steadies it. “That’s not fair.”
“And neither are you,” you shoot back.
Silence crashes between you, Alexia looks at you like she wants to throttle you and kiss you and run away from you all at the same time, “You make everything so fucking complicated,” she says, her breathing faltering.
You should shut up, you know you should, but you don’t, “You don’t get to turn up at my door, dripping with jealousy, to try and clear your own conscious because you know its fucked up how you've treated me”
“You are absolutely insufferable,” Alexia bites out, voice shaking with emotion more than anger. “All I’ve done is try to help you.”
“And like I keep saying,” you snap back, matching her volume, matching her heat, “I don’t need your help.”
“Fine,” she spits, you don’t realise until your back touches the wall that she stepped forward in that moment, one step, then another, crowding your space with the kind of tension that feels like gravity.
“Fine,” you echo, but it comes out weaker, softer, your fire folding into something breathless the moment her height steals your air. She’s not even that much taller, just a couple of inches, but right now it feels like she’s towering over you, eclipsing you.
Your dressing gown has loosened slightly from all the arguing, gaping just enough at the chest for her eyes to flick down.
You see it, she sees you seeing it and neither of you move, her gaze drags slowly back up, landing on your mouth before locking onto your eyes, and the look she gives you is nothing short of devastating.
“Do you have any idea,” she says, voice low and unsteady, “how hard it is to pretend I don’t want you?” Your breath stutters in your throat, Alexia steps even closer, her hand bracing against the wall beside your head, caging you in. “I look at you,” she continues, every word a confession she’s clearly been trying to bury, “and I can’t breathe.”
The world goes silent, her chest rises and falls too fast, your pulse thrashes under your skin and the space between you shrinks to a trembling filament of electricity.
She wants you, she actually said it and now you’re not sure you can breathe either.
