zara . 8teen . she/her . barcelona . nostalgia . letterboxd . billie eilish . love deluxe . baile inolvidable . crashouts . hibiscus . paige bueckers . greenie . losing you . reading . ultraviolence . daniel caeser . cuba libre . lesbians . wattpad . pottery . malcolm todd . spotify . gemstones . mint chip . crying . frank ocean .
༄ memento mori- “remember that you must die,” used to remind people of the certainty of death and the importance of living meaningfully.
༄ main blog : @tayrausi
༄ general warnings: english isn’t my first language; don’t condone violent, prejudiced, homophobic or racial behaviour; all my works are fem!reader based x character; updates may be slow because of school, work, curriculars
༄ all my little thoughts from my closeted corner of the world
༄ synopsis - what begins as an innocent conversation between two strangers on a flight to chicago quickly becomes impossible to ignore, proving that sometimes the best connections happen thirty thousand feet in the air.
༄ word count - 3.4k
༄ notes - kinda had no plan for this but i wanted to post it anyways; not proof read
༄ warnings - fingering, mentions of alcohol, airplane sex, public sex
༄ read more - masterlist
the seat beside yours stays empty until the last boarding call.
you don’t look up at first.
there’s another line in the quarterly report that doesn’t quite add up. the acquisition numbers look optimistic to the point of fiction, and you’re halfway through highlighting a paragraph when someone slides into 4b.
a soft thud.
a carry-on tucked away.
the faint smell of expensive perfume and something clean.
“hi.”
you glance over automatically.
she smiles.
it’s unfair, really.
the sort of smile that belongs on magazine covers rather than overnight flights across the atlantic.
“hi.”
she settles in, buckling her seatbelt with practiced ease. a baseball cap disappears into the seat pocket, revealing blonde hair that’s slightly flattened from wearing it through the airport.
you return to your report.
you make it exactly three sentences.
“business or pleasure?”
you look up. “…pardon?”
she nods towards the stack of printed reports balanced across your lap. “are you reading for business or pleasure?”
you blink once. “unless we’re suddenly counting stocks as pleasure…” she laughs. “…then no. it’s all business.”
“some people do count investments as pleasure.”
you snort despite yourself. “do they?”
“absolutely.”
“those people need hobbies.”
she grins. “to each their own.”
there’s a pause, and you study her for a second. “what about you?”
“what about me?”
“why are you going to chicago?”
she leans back comfortably. “i’ve got a modelling thing.”
you nod slowly. “so you’re a model.”
she smiles wider. “i’m a footballer.”
“…oh.”
“but thank you for complimenting my looks.”
your cheeks warm just enough to annoy you. “that wasn’t-”
“it absolutely was.”
“i made an assumption.”
“based on my face.”
“based on the modelling.”
she hums, pretending to consider it. “i’ll allow it.”
the aircraft begins to taxi.
the conversation should end there.
it doesn’t.
“and you?” she asks. “what do you do when you’re not insulting footballers?”
“I work in finance.”
“that explains the reports.”
“i’m glad we’ve solved that mystery.”
“high-powered?”
“reasonably.”
“boring?”
“only to people who don’t enjoy spreadsheets.”
“ah.”
she nods thoughtfully. “so definitely boring.”
you smile despite yourself. “you asked.”
“i did.”
she offers her hand. “alexia.”
you take it. her grip is warm, firm, her hands slightly calloused from years of training and competing.
“y/n.”
“nice to meet you, y/n.”
the seatbelt sign stays on for another twenty minutes.
by the time it switches off, you’ve somehow learnt that she’s flying over for a campaign with a sportswear brand after preseason training.
she learns that you’re presenting to a board on monday morning.
“that’s why you’re reading reports on a plane?”
“i like being prepared.”
“you’re reading printed financial statements.”
“yes.”
“on holiday.”
“i’m not on holiday.”
“exactly.”
she shakes her head dramatically. “tragic.”
the flight attendant appears with drinks. “can i get you anything?”
alexia glances at you. “wine?”
you hesitate for perhaps half a second. “…why not.”
“two reds, please.”
the first glass disappears surprisingly quickly.
the second follows not long after dinner.
your reports are abandoned somewhere between discussing football stadium atmospheres and the merits of deep-dish pizza.
she tells stories well.
animated hands.
bright eyes.
every sentence somehow ending with you laughing.
you tell fewer stories.
she notices.
“you’re one of those people.”
“what people?”
“the quiet ones.”
“i talk.”
“when spoken to.”
“that’s generally how conversations work.”
“mm.”
she tips her glass slightly. “but when you do talk…”
she studies you over the rim. “…it’s usually worth listening.”
the compliment lands heavier than expected, causing you look away.
outside the window, there’s nothing except darkness broken occasionally by wing lights.
the cabin dims.
most people around you begin settling in.
blankets.
headphones.
sleep masks.
business class becomes strangely intimate in the low lighting.
voices lower.
movements slower.
alexia slips off her shoes, folding one leg beneath herself. “you’re thinking again.”
“am i?”
“finance face.”
“finance face?”
“very serious.”
“i don’t have a finance face.”
“you absolutely do.”
she reaches over before you can react. two fingers gently press the space between your eyebrows.
“right…”
another light push.
“…there.”
you stare at her. “…what?”
“your frown disappeared.”
she withdraws her hand like nothing happened. “much better.”
you should probably be irritated.
instead-
“you’re very confident.”
“only when i drink.”
“often?”
“maybe once a month.”
you laugh quietly. “i can imagine.”
she watches you for a moment. “there it is.”
“what?”
“you smile more than you think.”
you hold her gaze. “you’re very observant.”
“occupational hazard.”
“football?”
“captain.” she shrugs. “always watching people.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward.
it’s… comfortable.
dangerously so.
she looks good in the dim cabin lighting.
you notice details now.
the strength in her forearms.
the watch on her wrist.
the tiny scar near her thumb.
she catches you looking. “what?”
“nothing.”
“liar.”
“i wasn’t-”
“checking me out?”
“…”
she smiles slowly.
“it’s okay.”
you clear your throat. “you’re very sure of yourself.”
“would it help if i admitted i’ve been trying not to look at you for the last hour?”
your heart does something deeply inconvenient. “…really?”
“really.”
another pause.
“those reading glasses aren’t helping.”
you glance down. “my reading glasses?”
“you put them on to read.”
“…yes.”
“terrible decision.”
you laugh under your breath. “because?”
“because every time you adjust them…” her eyes flick briefly to your mouth before returning. “…i forget what i was saying.”
the air feels warmer.
or maybe it’s just the wine.
you remove your glasses. “better?”
she exhales once. “significantly worse.”
your laugh comes quieter this time.
closer.
neither of you has noticed when the armrest stopped being enough space between you.
your shoulders brush now whenever either of you moves.
she doesn’t move away.
neither do you.
“can i ask you something?”
“depends.”
“are you always this…” she searches for the word.
“…careful?”
“careful?”
“like you’re calculating twelve different outcomes before you say anything.”
you think about denying it.
instead-
“usually.”
“and right now?”
your eyes meet hers, and your voice becomes softer. “right now… i’m trying very hard not to make a bad decision.”
she smiles. “interesting.”
“why?”
“because i was thinking exactly the same thing.”
another beat.
the hum of the engines fills the silence.
she tilts her head slightly. “i’m going to ask you something.”
“okay.”
“you can absolutely say no.”
“okay.”
“but if i don’t kiss you before this plane lands…”
her smile turns almost shy for the first time all evening.
“…i think i’m going to regret it.”
your eyes flick briefly to her mouth then back. “…that’s funny.”
“why?”
“because i was wondering how much longer you’d wait before asking.”
she laughs.
quiet enough not to disturb anyone sleeping nearby.
“so…”
“so.”
“…may i?”
instead of answering-
you lean the remaining inch between you.
her lips meet yours gently. just once- soft, testing even.
when you pull back, neither of you says anything for a few seconds.
alexia’s forehead rests lightly against yours.
“…well,” she murmurs.
“well.”
“that didn’t exactly help.”
“no.”
“made it considerably worse.”
you smile.
“i noticed.”
her thumb brushes absentmindedly against your wrist. “walk with me?”
“where?”
she glances meaningfully towards the rear of the aircraft.
“just…” another smile. “…to stretch our legs.”
you look at her.
at the sleepy cabin around you.
at the knowing expression she’s trying (and failing) to hide.
then you quietly unbuckle your seatbelt.
“lead the way.”
the aisle lights are dimmed to a faint amber glow. most passengers are asleep, blankets pulled high, headphones in.
the hum of the engines swallows almost every sound.
alexia walks just ahead of you, one hand lightly brushing the seat backs. you follow close enough that when the plane shifts in a bit of turbulence your fingers graze her lower back.
she doesn’t pull away. if anything she leans into the touch.
the galley at the rear is empty. the flight attendants have retreated to their jump seats.
alexia glances once over her shoulder at you, that small conspiratorial smirk playing on her lips, then pushes open the door to the accessible lavatory.
the second the door clicks shut behind you the tiny space feels electric.
she turns and kisses you like she’s been waiting hours to do it. not gentle this time. her hands slide up your neck, fingers threading into your hair as she backs you against the counter.
you taste the red wine on her tongue, feel the solid warmth of her body pressing flush against yours.
you kiss her back harder, nipping at her bottom lip, and she makes this soft surprised sound that shoots straight between your legs.
“fuck,” she breathes against your mouth, half laughing. “you’ve been holding out on me.”
“you’ve been talking too much.”
she grins, bright and wicked, then ducks her head to mouth at your neck, sucking lightly just below your ear.
your head falls back against the mirror with a quiet thud.
her hands move with purpose. one slips under your blouse, palm sliding up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bra. the other grips your hip, pulling you even closer.
you tug at the hem of her shirt, fingers finding warm skin and the firm lines of muscle along her abdomen.
when you scratch lightly down her sides she shivers and presses her thigh between yours.
the pressure is immediate. perfect. not enough.
“alexia-” you whisper.
she answers by rolling her hips, slow and deliberate, grinding against you until your breath catches. her mouth finds yours again, deeper, messier.
you can feel how turned on she is. the heat of her through her joggers. the way her breathing is already getting ragged.
her fingers work open the button of your trousers, sliding the zipper down just enough to slip her hand inside.
when she feels how wet you are she groans quietly against your lips. “dios mio… you’re soaked.”
you don’t answer with words. instead you push your own hand down the front of her joggers, past the waistband of her underwear, and find her just as drenched. the sound she makes when your fingers slide through her folds is low and filthy.
for a moment you just touch each other like that. slow, exploratory strokes. learning what makes the other gasp.
her forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard in the tiny space.
she curls two fingers and presses them inside you without warning. your knees nearly buckle.
you bite down on her shoulder to stay quiet, and she hisses in pleasure at the sting.
“that’s it,” she murmurs, voice wrecked. “just like that.”
you match her rhythm, sliding two fingers into her at the same time. she’s tight and so fucking wet it makes your head spin.
you crook your fingers and she clenches around you with a broken moan she tries to muffle against your neck.
the plane hums beneath you. someone coughs a few rows away. the risk of it all only makes everything sharper.
alexia’s thumb finds your clit and starts circling and your hips jerk forward involuntarily. you’re both trembling now, trying to stay quiet, hands moving faster, breaths mingling hot and desperate.
she kisses you again, messy and urgent, like she can’t get enough.
you’re right on the edge already.
alexia can feel it. she curls her fingers deeper, stroking that spot inside you with devastating precision while her thumb keeps perfect pressure on your clit.
her mouth is on your neck again, sucking, biting, whispering filthy little things against your skin.
“come on amor… let go for me.” the words combined with the steady rhythm of her fingers push you over.
you come hard, clenching around her, thighs shaking as the orgasm crashes through you.
you bury your face in her shoulder to muffle the sound, nails digging into her back through her shirt.
she doesn’t stop. she keeps fucking you through it, slower now, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive.
when you finally catch your breath you kiss her hard, tasting desperation. your fingers are still buried inside her, and you start moving again with renewed purpose.
you match the pace she used on you, curling, stroking, thumb circling her swollen clit.
alexia’s hips stutter. her breathing turns broken and shallow.
“fuck… just like that,” she gasps.
you can feel her getting close. her walls flutter around your fingers, slick and hot. you add a third finger and she moans louder than she should, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half shut.
her hand is still between your legs, lazily stroking you even as she starts falling apart.
the overstimulation makes you whimper but you don’t want her to stop.
“i’m gonna-” she chokes out.
“come for me,” you whisper against her mouth.
she does. hard. her whole body tenses, thighs clamping around your hand as she rides out the waves.
you keep moving through it, gentler now, until she’s shaking and panting into your neck.
for a long moment the only sounds are both of you breathing heavily and the low drone of the plane engines.
alexia pulls back just enough to look at you. her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, hair completely messed up.
she looks wrecked in the best possible way. she brings her fingers to her mouth and slowly licks them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
you nearly short-circuit all over again, and she grins at your expression, soft and satisfied.
you both start fixing your clothes with shaky hands, stealing little kisses between adjustments.
when you’re decent again she leans in and presses a gentler kiss to your forehead.
then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, she murmurs, “so i’ll pick you up friday at eight.”
you blink, still a little dazed. “sorry?”
she smiles, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “unless you only wanted this to be a one time thing.”
“no- no i’d love to see you again,” you say quickly, heart doing something ridiculous in your chest. “but i don’t even have your number?”
alexia’s smile widens, warm and a little cocky. “well amor, we better fix that then, shouldn’t we?”
༄ synopsis - while a routine friday training session leads leah to vent about her infuriating new neighbour during a physio appointment, winonah realises- (with growing amusement) that the woman driving one of her closest friends mad is none other than christopher’s younger sister, leaving her and christopher to quietly wonder whether their worlds are about to collide in ways neither woman could possibly expect.
༄ word count - 4.0k
༄ notes - i have like hundreds of millions of ideas; not proof read
༄ read more - masterlist
friday mornings belonged to football.
they always had.
long before headlines and interviews. before captain’s armbands and sold-out stadiums. before children wore shirts with williamson stitched across the back in white block lettering.
they’d belonged to frost-covered pitches in milton keynes.
to muddy boots left abandoned by the front door.
to a mother who would insist on another slice of toast before she left the house, and a father who’d grumble that no arsenal supporter should be allowed under his roof while secretly driving her to training anyway.
they belonged to jacob shouting that she’d never score from there.
to david insisting spurs were still the better club.
to amanda rolling her eyes because she’d heard the same argument every saturday morning for the better part of twenty years.
some things never really changed.
thank god for that.
⸻
london colney was already alive by the time leah pulled into the car park.
the familiar hum settled over the training ground before she’d even stepped out of her car.
groundskeepers chatting over the distant whine of a mower.
members of staff carrying crates between buildings.
the occasional burst of laughter floating across from somewhere near reception.
routine.
predictable.
comfortable.
she liked predictable.
football was one of the few places where everything made sense.
if you worked hard enough, you got better.
if you looked after your body, it usually looked after you.
if beth mead disappeared for more than five minutes…
she was almost certainly winding someone up.
leah smiled to herself as she slung her kit bag over one shoulder and headed inside.
she hadn’t even made it through the changing room door before-
“there she is!”
beth.
obviously.
beth was balancing on one foot while attempting to tie her boot, somehow still possessing enough energy to greet every person who walked through the door.
“morning.”
“you’re late.”
leah glanced automatically towards the clock.
“i’m three minutes early.”
“exactly.”
“…”
“…”
“that’s not how being late works.”
beth shrugged.
“depends who you ask.”
“i’m asking reality.”
“boring.”
“accurate.”
from the opposite bench, lotte looked up from wrapping tape around her wrist. “don’t bother arguing.”
“i wasn’t planning to.”
“good.”
“she’d only move the goalposts anyway.”
beth looked offended. “i absolutely would not.”
three pairs of eyes landed on her.
she sighed dramatically. “…alright, maybe a little.”
“shocking,” leah deadpanned.
“i know.”
by the time everyone made their way out onto the pitches, the sun had finally pushed through the morning cloud.
training passed the way it usually did.
fast.
renee’s voice carried across the grass, stopping drills, correcting positioning, praising movement.
balls flew between boots in sharp, crisp rhythms.
someone celebrated far too enthusiastically after finishing a shooting drill.
someone else immediately reminded them it had only been training.
chloe spent most of the morning talking.
katie spent the rest replying.
leah found herself laughing more than once.
it was a good session.
hard.
competitive.
exactly how she liked it.
by the time they finally headed back inside, sweat clung to the back of her neck and one calf felt just tight enough to be worth checking before it became annoying.
nothing serious.
just… tight.
she peeled herself away from the group as they drifted towards the gym and recovery room.
“where you off?” steph called after her.
“physio.”
steph nodded knowingly. “tell win i said hello.”
“tell her yourself.”
“too much walking.”
“it’s twenty metres.”
“exactly.”
leah shook her head, smiling despite herself “lazy.”
“efficient.”
“debatable.”
she continued down the corridor.
the physio room door was already half open.
she knocked lightly against the frame before pushing it wider.
“please tell me you’ve got coffee.”
without looking up from the notes spread across the desk, winonah smiled. “good morning to you too.”
“i’m taking that as a no.”
“correct.”
“heartbreaking.”
“you’ll survive.”
“debatable.”
only then did winnie lift her head. “you’re three minutes late.”
leah frowned. “i’m not.”
“you were supposed to be here straight after training.”
“steph started talking to me.”
“that sounds like a steph problem.”
“it very quickly became a leah problem.”
a laugh escaped winnie before she gestured towards the treatment table. “up.”
“bossy.”
“occupational hazard.”
leah dropped herself onto the edge of the table with an exaggerated sigh. “how bad is it?”
“depends.”
“on?”
“whether you actually stretched afterwards.”
“…”
winnie folded her arms.
“…”
“…define stretched.”
“leah.”
“i jogged.”
“that’s not stretching.”
“close enough.”
“not even remotely.”
leah grinned. “worth a try.”
winnie only shook her head, reaching for the massage oil. “one day you’ll listen to me.”
“unlikely.”
“I know.”
there wasn’t a trace of annoyance in her voice.
there never was.
they’d known each other too long for that.
winnie had patched leah up through knocks, bruises, tight muscles and the occasional injury scare.
she knew exactly when leah was genuinely hurting.
and exactly when she was being dramatic.
today…
was definitely the second one.
“left leg?”
“mm.”
winnie rested a hand against her calf, testing the muscle. “tight.”
“that’s what i said.”
“i like confirming things myself.”
“control issues?”
“professionalism.”
“same thing.”
winnie smiled to herself. “keep talking.”
“about?”
“anything.”
leah leaned back onto her elbows, staring absently at the ceiling. “not much to report.”
“family?”
“good.”
“your mum?”
“still pretending dad will eventually support arsenal.”
“she’s optimistic.”
“she’s delusional, that’s what she is.”
“jacob?”
“still winding everyone up.”
“good.”
“he’d lose his identity otherwise.”
winnie laughed softly.
“fair.”
the room settled into an easy silence, broken only by the quiet sounds of treatment and the muffled chatter drifting in from somewhere further down the corridor.
it had always been easy with winnie.
no effort.
no performance.
just conversation.
winnie worked quietly for another minute, her hands practiced and steady.
“how’s christopher?” leah asked.
the corners of winnie’s mouth lifted immediately. “good.”
“wedding planning still sane?”
“define sane.”
leah laughed. “fair enough.”
“we’re making progress,” winnie said. “slowly.”
“that’s usually the best way.”
“i keep telling him that.”
“and?”
“he keeps asking if we can just elope.”
“can you?”
“absolutely not.”
“thought as much.”
winnie smiled to herself. “he’d have us married by next tuesday if i let him.”
“romantic.”
“impatient.”
“same difference.”
“not remotely.”
leah chuckled. “he’s a lucky bloke.”
winnie glanced up briefly.
“i know.”
the answer came so simply that it made leah smile. “he knows it too?”
“he’d tell you he does.”
“confidence.”
“lovingly.”
“dangerous combination.”
“very.”
another comfortable silence settled between them and winnie shifted lower down her calf. “tell me if that’s sore.”
“…that’s sore.”
“good.”
“good?”
“means i’ve found it.”
“i preferred not finding it.”
“i’m aware.”
leah let out a theatrical sigh. “you’re a sadist.”
“occupational requirement.”
“i knew it.”
“we actually cover it in university.”
“how to make footballers complain?”
“week one.”
leah laughed, shaking her head. “i’ve always suspected.”
“most of you are very dramatic.”
“i’m not.”
winnie simply looked at her.
“…”
“…”
“…don’t answer that.”
“wasn’t planning to.”
leah folded her arms behind her head. “how’s work?”
winnie raised an eyebrow. “we’re currently at work.”
“you know what i mean.”
“i do.”
she thought for a moment. “good.”
“everyone behaving themselves?”
“mostly.”
“mostly?”
“kyra attempted to convince one of the academy girls that ice baths are optional.”
“they’re not.”
“i’m aware.”
“did she believe her?”
“thankfully not.”
“excellent.”
“i’ve also confiscated approximately four packets of sweets this week.”
“only four?”
“it’s only friday.”
“there’s still time.”
“don’t remind me.”
they both laughed.
outside, someone called for another football.
a burst of applause echoed briefly from one of the indoor pitches.
the training ground carried on around them.
familiar, busy, but alive.
winnie eased the pressure from leah’s calf. “that should settle down.”
“you’re a magician.”
“i’ll take physiotherapist.”
“less exciting.”
“considerably.”
she reached for a clean towel. “anything exciting happening outside football?”
leah’s answer came automatically. “not really.”
winnie hummed quietly. “nothing?”
“no.”
she paused. “…well.”
winnie looked up.
there it was.
the tiny hesitation.
the sort that usually meant there was something.
“…well?” she prompted.
leah rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, almost laughing at herself before she’d even begun. “i’ve… acquired a neighbour.”
winnie’s eyebrows lifted. “acquired?”
“don’t.”
“i wasn’t going to say anything.”
“you were thinking it.”
“perhaps.”
leah shook her head. “she moved in next door about a week ago.”
“new to london?”
“don’t think so.”
“you’ve spoken then?”
leah let out a short laugh. “unfortunately.”
“unfortunately?”
“she’s…” she searched for the word before settling on, “…completely insane.”
winnie bit the inside of her cheek.
“that’s a strong opening.”
“it’s an accurate one.”
“what happened?”
leah leaned back again, smiling despite herself
“i walked outside one morning…” she laughed once under her breath “…and she was halfway up the side of her own townhouse.”
winnie’s eyebrows rose. “…halfway up?”
“third floor.”
“you’re joking.”
“i genuinely wish i was.” leah laughed to herself at the memory “apparently she’d locked herself out.”
“oh.”
“exactly.”
“so, naturally…”
“she decided climbing the outside of the house was the most sensible solution.”
winnie smiled, shaking her head. “did she make it?”
“eventually.”
“eventually?”
“there were… complications.”
“complications?”
“her coat got caught.”
winnie let out a surprised laugh. “you’re awful.”
“i didn’t do anything.”
“you laughed.”
“a little.”
“a lot?”
“…possibly.”
winnie rolled her eyes fondly. “poor woman.”
“she survived.”
“how reassuring.”
“she also called me unintelligent within about thirty seconds of meeting me.”
“did you deserve it?”
leah considered the question. “…debatable.”
“which means yes.”
“i’m choosing not to answer.”
winnie smiled to herself, continuing to work “and that was the end of it?”
“i thought so.”
“but?”
“next morning she was in the café around the corner.”
“same one you always go to?”
“mm.”
“and i accidentally walked straight into her.”
winnie looked up. “accidentally?”
“completely.”
“leah.”
“it was.”
“if you say so.”
“i wasn’t even looking where i was going.”
“i believe that part.”
“thanks.”
“you’re welcome.”
leah rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “i ended up wearing about half my coffee.”
“and the other half?”
“…landed on what turned out to be an extraordinarily expensive coat.”
“oh dear.”
“that was more or less her reaction.”
winnie laughed softly. “she wasn’t pleased.”
“that’s putting it mildly.”
“did you apologise?”
“of course i apologised.”
“good.”
“she called me an imbecile.”
“…less good.”
“then informed me it was sable.”
winnie’s hands paused for the smallest fraction of a second before continuing again. “sable? like the animal?”
“apparently.”
“did you know the difference?”
“not until i was educated against my will.”
“i see.”
“i also discovered people apparently still call mobile phones ‘cellulars’.”
that made winnie laugh properly. “she called it a cellular?”
“with complete confidence.”
“how wonderfully specific.”
“i’ve never heard anyone under the age of eighty say it.”
“perhaps she’s bringing it back.”
“i sincerely hope not.”
there was another comfortable silence and leah smiled to herself, almost absent-mindedly. “then i saw her again at the farmers’ market.”
winnie didn’t miss the smile. “again?”
“we reached for the same punnet of cherries.”
“of course you did.”
“naturally.”
“let me guess.”
“she insisted they were hers.”
“immediately.”
“and you?”
“pointed out my hand had technically been there first.”
winnie smiled. “i imagine that went down well.”
“she told me manners feared me.”
“…that’s actually quite funny.”
leah huffed a laugh. “don’t encourage it.”
“i’m not.”
“she’s impossible.”
“mm.”
“completely.”
“mm.”
leah frowned playfully. “you’re agreeing with me very easily.”
“i’m listening.”
“i don’t think you are.”
“i promise i am.”
she was.
perhaps a little too closely.
leah finishes adjusting her position on the treatment table, rolling her ankle once like she’s testing it.
“so yeah,” she says finally, exhaling through her nose. “that’s her.”
winnie hums softly, still focused on her hands “sounds… memorable.”
“that’s one word for it.”
“and you’ve only spoken a few times?”
“unfortunately, yes.”
leah stretches her arms above her head. “i don’t know what it is. she just shows up and starts arguing like it’s a personality trait.”
a small smile tugs at winnie’s mouth. “maybe it is.”
“hers, maybe.”
winnie lets out a quiet laugh, stepping back from the treatment table and reaching for a towel like nothing unusual has just been said. “how’s the calf?”
“better.”
“good.”
leah sits up slowly, swinging her legs over the side. “you’re distracted.”
there’s a beat where leah just watches her, then shrugs like she’s decided not to push it.
“anyway,” she says, hopping off the table. “i’m telling you, if you ever meet her, you’ll understand exactly what i mean.”
winnie’s hands still for the smallest fraction of a second as she folds the towel.
just enough.
barely anything at all.
then she continues. “i’m sure i will.”
leah heads for the door, already half distracted by the next thing on her schedule. “see you later, win.”
“see you.”
the door clicks shut behind her.
the room goes quiet in a way that feels heavier than it should.
winnie stands still for a moment, looking down at the treatment notes she hasn’t actually been reading.
then, very slowly, she exhales.
a small laugh slips out before she can stop it.
of course.
of course it’s her.
she leans back against the counter, presses a hand briefly to her forehead, and lets the realization settle properly this time.
next door.
leah williamson.
and y/n lovett.
no idea.
she shakes her head, still smiling, already imagining how this is going to unfold.
then she reaches for her phone.
not rushed, not dramatic.
just inevitable.
a new message starts forming at the top of the screen.
christopher
she pauses for half a second.
then types:
you are not going to believe this.
and sends it.
⸻
for winonah carrington, friday evenings belonged to home.
not in quite the same unwavering way thursdays belonged to the lovetts.
these were quieter.
smaller.
less ceremonial.
just two people, one enthusiastic dog, and whichever meal christopher had decided to attempt that evening.
winnie had grown rather fond of them.
⸻
by the time she turned onto their street, the evening rush had begun to thin.
the sun sat lower over london now, washing the rows of victorian terraces in warm gold.
she parked outside the house, gathered her bag from the passenger seat and climbed out, already able to picture exactly what she’d find inside.
music.
something simmering.
christopher pretending he wasn’t waiting for her.
she smiled to herself.
some things became wonderfully predictable.
the front gate clicked softly behind her.
before she’d even reached the front door-
thud. paws… lots of them.
“i’m coming,” she laughed.
the scratching intensified.
she’d barely managed to get the key into the lock before the door flew inward.
honey launched herself forward immediately.
all golden curls, wagging tail and complete absence of personal boundaries.
“hello, sweetheart.”
the two-and-a-half-year-old golden doodle stretched up onto her back legs, front paws landing gently against winnie’s shoulders as she enthusiastically attempted to lick her face.
“yes, hello to you too.”
another wag.
and another attempted kiss.
“have you missed me?”
honey answered by leaning all thirty-odd kilograms of herself against winnie with complete confidence.
“i’ll take that as a yes.”
from somewhere deeper inside the house-
“she’s been sat by the window since half five.”
christopher.
winnie looked up from where she was rubbing behind honey’s ears. “has she really?”
“wouldn’t leave.”
“poor thing.”
“don’t encourage her.”
“i wasn’t talking about honey.”
a beat. “…rude.”
winnie laughed, slipping off her shoes before honey proudly picked one up and began trotting triumphantly towards the living room with it. “absolutely not.”
honey paused.
looked back.
continued walking.
“christopher.”
“don’t look at me.”
“your dog.”
“our dog.”
“currently stealing my shoe.”
he appeared around the corner carrying a wooden spoon, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, an apron tied loosely around his waist that read kiss the cook despite the fact he’d insisted buying it had been ‘entirely ironic.’
he watched honey disappear into the lounge.
“…she’ll bring it back.”
“will she?”
“…eventually.”
winnie folded her arms.
“…”
“…”
“…after negotiations.”
“that’s what i thought.”
christopher grinned. “welcome home.” he stepped forward, leaning down to kiss her softly.
brief.
easy.
the sort of kiss exchanged by two people who’d stopped trying to impress each other a long time ago.
“missed you.”
“missed you too.”
he studied her face for perhaps half a second longer than usual. “…long day?”
“not particularly.”
“interesting day?”
“…”
“…”
“…possibly.”
one eyebrow lifted.
“interesting enough to text me, ‘you are not going to believe this’?”
winnie sighed.
“…perhaps.”
“i’ve been thinking about that message all afternoon.”
“i know.”
“i was in a meeting with my father and his mates when you sent that and i proceeded to develop seventeen different theories.”
“seventeen?”
“roughly.”
“any of them correct?”
“i’m hoping one involves dinosaurs.”
“…it does not.”
“shame.”
she laughed quietly as she wandered into the kitchen.
it smelt of garlic, rosemary and something roasting in the oven.
comfort.
home.
christopher turned back towards the stove, giving whatever was simmering in the pan another stir. “right.”
winnie recognised that tone immediately. “…christopher.”
“from the beginning.”
“i’ve not even put my bag down.”
“you can put it down while talking.”
“i’d quite like a glass of water.”
“you may absolutely have one.”
he pointed the wooden spoon towards her. “…while talking.”
she looked at him.
“…”
“…”
“…you’ve been thinking about this all day.”
“since approximately eleven forty-three.”
“that’s oddly specific.”
“that’s when your text arrived.”
“of course you know the exact minute.”
“i checked twice.”
winnie laughed, shaking her head as she crossed to the fridge.
behind her, honey finally reappeared.
still carrying the shoe.
tail wagging proudly.
“look.” christopher gestured towards the dog. “she’s returning it.”
honey dropped the shoe directly into the middle of the kitchen.
then looked impossibly pleased with herself.
“thank you,” winnie said solemnly.
honey barked once.
“i think she wants paying.”
“she gets dinner in twenty minutes.”
“she’s negotiating for bonuses.”
“takes after you.”
“excuse me?”
“you negotiate everything.”
“professionally.”
“selectively.”
“successfully.”
“…can’t argue with that.”
winnie slipped onto one of the stools at the island, twisting the cap off her water bottle before taking a long drink.
christopher plated up a handful of chopped vegetables without looking away from the stove.
he waited.
patiently.
for almost five entire seconds.
then- “so?”
winnie laughed into her water. “you’re impossible.”
“i’ve heard.”
“multiple times.”
“usually by you.”
“for good reason.”
he finally looked over at her. “…well?”
she rested both elbows on the island “alright.”
he nodded once. “good.”
“first…” she smiled despite herself. “…you need to remember y/n telling us about her neighbour last night.”
christopher didn’t even hesitate. “the woman she called an imbecile.”
“yes.”
“the one who spilled coffee on mum’s sable coat.”
“lovey’s sable coat.”
“close enough.”
“the one she climbed a townhouse in front of.”
“using ivy.”
“yes.”
he pointed the spoon towards her. “i’m with you.”
winnie took another sip of water, then looked up. “…today leah came in for a physio session.”
christopher blinked once. “…leah?”
“mm.”
“as in leah.”
“yes.”
“arsenal leah.”
“how many leahs we you know?”
“…fair point.”
she smiled. “we were chatting.”
“normal chatting.”
“very normal chatting.”
“until…”
“until she casually tells me she’s got a new neighbour.”
christopher frowned slightly. “…go on.”
“she starts telling me about this woman.”
“a woman who apparently climbed the outside of her own townhouse.”
his eyes widened a fraction. “…no.”
winnie nodded once. “yes.”
he slowly set the wooden spoon down on the worktop. “…no.”
“yes.”
“…”
“…”
“…you’re joking.”
“i genuinely wish i was.”
christopher doesn’t speak for a moment.
the only sound in the kitchen is the soft simmer of the pan and the distant click of honey’s nails as she circles the hallway, presumably still supervising the shoe situation like it’s a full-time job.
he slowly leans one hand against the counter.
“…leah.”
winnie nods once.
“leah williamson.”
that lands differently.
his expression shifts immediately- not shock, not confusion.
recognition.
“i know her.”
“i know you do.”
he looks at winnie properly now. “…you’re friends with her.”
“yes.”
“proper friends.”
“yes.”
“…not just ‘we say hello at physio and move on’ friends.”
winnie gives him a look. “we’ve known each other for years, chris. you know that.”
he exhales through his nose, almost laughing at himself. “right.”
a pause.
he turns back to the stove, stirring again, but slower now. “…and she’s next door to y/n.”
“apparently.”
“…that’s insane.”
“i agree.”
he nods once, like he’s accepting a difficult business merger. “that’s actually insane.”
winnie leans her elbows back on the island, watching him carefully now. “you’re not worried.”
it’s not a question.
he smiles faintly. “no.”
“why not?”
he thinks about it properly this time.
lovey at sixteen- boarding school in switzerland, sitting alone with books while everyone else went out.
lovey at nineteen- arguing that friendships were “logistically inefficient.”
lovey at twenty-three- calling home from another airport, insisting she preferred it that way.
lovey now- thirty seconds of chaotic interaction with the same woman on repeat.
he shrugs. “because she’s talking to someone.”
winnie softens slightly at that.
he continues, quieter now. “she doesn’t do that much.”
a beat.
then, lightly again:
“also she called someone an imbecile and climbed a house. which has to be the most athletic thing she’s ever done in her life.”
winnie laughs under her breath. “fair.”
he points the spoon slightly. “and she hates footballers.”
winnie tilts her head. “she doesn’t know leah is a footballer.”
“no.”
“and leah doesn’t know who she is either.”
“good.” he says it immediately.
winnie raises an eyebrow. “good?”
christopher shrugs again, more relaxed now. “less chance of assumptions.”
“from either side.”
“exactly.”
he goes back to the pan, but there’s a small smile lingering now. “…leah’s actually a good person.”
“i know.”
“lovey will hate that though. she hates being wrong.”
winnie laughs. “she already does.”
“of course she does.”
he shakes his head slightly, amused. “she’s spent her entire life saying footballers are arrogant.”
“has she?”
“since switzerland and she had a crush on that girl- mandy. and then mandy kicked a football into her head. i only remember it because i remember her going home to mum and dad with this massive purple bruise on her head- it was ghastly.”
winnie hums in recognition. “that tracks.”
christopher gestures loosely with the spoon. “and now she’s living next to one and arguing about cherries.”
“it’s a good start.”
he pauses. then, more softly:
“it’s more than a start.”
winnie looks at him properly now.
he doesn’t elaborate.
he doesn’t need to.
there’s a quiet understanding there between them- one that doesn’t need pushing or naming.
he just adds, almost offhand:
“as long as she’s not miserable, i’m happy.”
winnie smiles to herself. “you’re very soft about her.”
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“i’m realistic.”
“same thing.”
he scoffs lightly, but there’s no bite to it.
then, after a second:
“…leah’s going to be very confused by her.”
winnie nods. “i think she already is.”
christopher smiles properly now. “good.”
a pause.
then, quieter again:
“lovey could use someone who doesn’t back down.”
winnie watches him for a moment. “you think leah won’t?”
he glances at her, and there’s a hint of something amused there now. “ have you met leah?”
winnie laughs.
“fair.”
he turns the heat down slightly, finishing the dish. “…just don’t tell lovey too much.”
winnie nods. “i wasn’t planning to.”
he glances at her. “you will.”
“probably.”
they share a look.
then both laugh under their breath as honey finally trots back in, victorious, having clearly won some unseen negotiation over footwear.
pulled my hair back with barrettes - paige bueckers
༄ lose my cool - kali uchis
༄ pairing - paige bueckers x curlyhairedfem!reader
༄ synopsis - in which paige discovers just how much she loves seeing your curls fall apart beneath her hands, turning your once-perfect hair into a beautiful, chaotic mess with every tug.
༄ word count - 0.5k
༄ notes - my smut writing is actually improving? (i think or maybe it's all in my head); not proof read
༄ warnings - porn with no plot (?), strap sucking, hair pulling, dom!paige/sub!reader
༄ read more - masterlist
paige is sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, the thick black strap jutting up from her harness. her hand is already tangled in your hair before you even lean in.
“come here, pretty girl” she murmurs, voice husky with want. she doesn’t wait. she tightens her grip and pulls you forward by the hair, guiding your mouth straight to the tip.
your curls immediately go wild. the moment she tugs you down, thick coils bounce and spill everywhere- falling into your face, brushing against her toned thighs, some strands already sticking to your glossy lips. you open your mouth and take her in, lips stretching around the girth. paige groans low, eyes locked on the sight.
“fuck… look at that messy hair, my messy girl” she breathes.
she pulls harder, using your curls like reins to push you further down the strap. your head bobs, and with every movement your curls fly in every direction- springing up, frizzing out, sticking to your forehead and cheeks from the effort. a few loose coils even wrap around her fingers as she fists them tighter, refusing to let go.
you moan around the strap, the vibration making paige’s hips twitch. she yanks your head back just enough for you to catch a breath, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the glistening toy. your curls are a complete wreck now- half of them plastered to your face with sweat and spit, the rest bouncing chaotically every time she pulls you back down.
“that’s it angel,” paige praises, voice rough. “choke on it for me.”
she pushes you down again, deeper this time, holding you there with a firm grip on your hair. your curls are everywhere- tangled around her wrist, brushing her stomach, one thick strand even stuck to the corner of your mouth as you work her strap with wet, messy sounds. every time she tugs up or pushes down, more of your definition disappears, turning into a wild, puffy, fucked-out mess.
paige can’t get enough of it.
“god, your curls look so pretty when they’re all ruined like this,” she groans, biting her lip as she watches you. she starts guiding you faster, fucking your throat with the strap while keeping a death grip on your hair. your eyes water, spit drips down your chin, and your curls just keep getting messier- bouncing, frizzing, sticking to every damp surface.
she pulls you off suddenly, yanking your head back by the roots so she can see your face. you’re gasping, lips shiny and swollen, curls exploding in every direction like a halo of chaos.
“so fucking pretty, baby” she whispers, almost in awe, before she shoves you right back down, burying the strap deep again with a satisfied moan.
༄ synopsis - in which what starts as a few stolen glances at lucy’s strength turns into a harmless obsession she quickly catches onto, and once she realises exactly what has you flustered, she can’t resist making you admit just how much you love her arms.
༄ word count - 1.3k
༄ notes - someone said no to me writing this but i dont actually give a fuck because i wanna read it; i got inspo from this fic; not proof read
༄ warnings - smut, dom!lucy/sub!reader, fingering, bicep riding, reader gets called a slut like once
༄ read more - masterlist
lucy bronze had always been strong. it came with the territory- years of professional football, weights, sprints, and that relentless drive that turned her arms into something carved from marble and steel. but she’d never really noticed how much you noticed until lately.
it started small.
you were in the kitchen of your shared flat after training, lucy still in her compression top, sleeves pushed up to her shoulders. she reached up to grab a heavy cast-iron pan from the top shelf without thinking, biceps flexing hard as she lifted it one-handed. the vein along the peak stood out, the muscle bunching and shifting under her skin.
you’d gone quiet mid-sentence. she caught you staring in the reflection of the window, lips slightly parted, eyes locked on her arm like it was the only thing in the room. when she turned around, you blinked fast and looked away, cheeks warm.
“everything alright, love?” she asked, voice low and teasing.
“yeah. just… admiring the view,” you muttered, busying yourself with chopping vegetables. but your gaze kept flicking back.
lucy filed it away.
⸻
a few days later it happened again in the gym.
you’d come to pick her up after her session, something you did often enough that the staff didn’t blink. lucy was finishing up pull-ups, each rep slow and controlled. her back and shoulders worked hard, but it was her arms that stole the show- biceps peaking on every pull, thick and defined, veins popping from the pump. sweat glistened down her skin.
you were sitting on a bench nearby, phone in hand, pretending to scroll. except the camera was open. she caught the tiny click of a photo just as she hung from the bar for a moment, arms fully flexed.
lucy dropped down, wiping her face with the hem of her shirt, flashing a quick grin. “taking photos of the equipment now?”
your face went scarlet as you grinned. “just… documenting your form. for science, you know.”
“science, huh?” She flexed her right arm playfully in the mirror, watching your reaction in the reflection. your thighs pressed together as you bit your lip.
interesting.
⸻
the real moment came that night.
you were tangled in bed, lucy on top, strong thighs bracketing your hips as she kissed down your neck. she’d just carried you from the couch to the bedroom like you weighed nothing- hands under your thighs, biceps straining beautifully against your weight. you’d whimpered into her mouth the second she’d lifted you.
now her forearm was braced beside your head, the muscle taut as she held herself up, slowly rolling her hips against you. every thrust made her arm flex harder. you couldn’t stop touching it- fingers tracing the curve, squeezing the solid peak, nails digging in when she hit that perfect spot inside you.
“fuck, luce…” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut but immediately opening again to watch the way her bicep tensed and released with every movement.
she noticed. of course she noticed.
lucy slowed deliberately, shifting her weight onto one arm so the other was free. she flexed it right next to your face- slow, intentional, the muscle swelling under your gaze.
“like what you see?” her voice was rough, amused, and a little turned on.
you moaned, clenching around her fingers, cheeks burning. your hand wrapped around her bicep like you couldn’t help it, thumb stroking over the hard curve.
“so perfect, they’re so perfect, luce.” you babbled, eyes rolling back.
lucy’s smirk grew as she flexed harder, holding the position while she curled her fingers deeper. “you’ve been staring at my arms all week, baby. taking sneaky photos, getting all flustered when i lift shit. thought i wouldn’t notice?”
you whined, hiding your face against her shoulder, but your hand stayed on her arm, squeezing, worshipping.
lucy chuckled darkly, kissing your temple. “don’t hide. tell me how much you love them.”
she flexed again, slower this time, letting you feel every ridge and vein. your hips bucked up desperately.
“i love them,” you admitted breathlessly. “love how they look when you pick me up, when you’re in the gym, when you’re… fuck… when you’re fucking me like this. they get so big and hard and-”
lucy groaned, cutting you off with a deep kiss, pride and heat flooding her chest.
she’d figured it out.
and she was absolutely going to use it against you.
⸻
lucy didn’t let you hide for long.
she rolled you both so she was sitting up against the headboard, pulling you into her lap. her hands- strong, calloused from years of gripping footballs and weights gripped your hips, holding you steady.
“since you love them so much,” she murmured against your ear, voice low and teasing, “you’re going to ride one.”
your breath caught and heat flooded between your legs at the sheer filth of it. “luce…”
“don’t act shy now, baby. I saw how wet you got just watching me flex.” she lifted her right arm, slowly curling it into a full bicep flex. the muscle swelled, round and hard, the peak sharp under her skin. “you want this, i know you do, love. i can feel how soaked you are against my thigh.”
you whimpered, nodding desperately. you did want it. badly.
lucy’s smirk was wicked. she flexed harder, then relaxed, then flexed again, making the muscle vibrate gently. “then be a good girl and fuck my bicep.”
she guided you forward, positioning you so your dripping pussy pressed right against the thickest part of her flexed arm. the muscle was warm, firm, still slightly slick with sweat from earlier. you gasped at the contact- hard, unyielding, perfect.
“ride it,” lucy ordered softly, her free hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. “grind on it like you’ve been dreaming about.”
you started slow, rolling your hips experimentally. the ridge of her bicep rubbed perfectly against your swollen clit, and you moaned loud. lucy kept her arm flexed tight, tensing it even more underneath you so the muscle bulged and hardened further with every movement.
“fuck… lucy,” you breathed, bracing your hands on her shoulders as you picked up the pace. your slick coated her skin, making the glide filthy and smooth. every time you rocked forward, her bicep tensed harder under your pussy, the peak pressing right where you needed it.
lucy watched you with dark, hungry eyes, flexing in rhythm with your hips. “that’s it. look at you, getting yourself off on my arm. so fucking desperate for it.”
she tensed again- harderthis time, and you cried out, grinding down with more pressure. the muscle tensed and flexed beneath your clit, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through you.
she leaned in, biting gently at your neck. “you’re making such a mess, baby. dripping all over my bicep like a good little slut.”
the dirty praise combined with the relentless tensing of her arm pushed you right to the edge. your thighs started shaking, hips moving faster, chasing that perfect friction. lucy kept flexing- slow, powerful pulses that made her bicep swell and harden rhythmically under your soaked folds.
“come on,” she growled, voice rough. “finish on my arm. i want to feel you lose it.”
you broke hard.
your orgasm crashed over you with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around her arm as you rode it through the waves. the pleasure was so intense your vision whited out. you came hard, warmth gushing over her bicep and dripping down her forearm in messy pulses. lucy groaned deeply, holding her arm rock-steady and flexed the entire time so you could grind through every last spasm.
you slumped against her chest afterward, panting, trembling. lucy’s arm was glistening with your release, the muscle still subtly flexing as she admired the sight.
“fuck, that was hot,” she murmured, kissing your temple. she flexed one more time, making you twitch against her. “we’re doing that again. maybe next time i’ll make you cum on both arms.”
but you could only whimper in agreement, already throbbing at the thought.
nothin' you can sing that can't be sung - leah williamson
༄ all you need is love - the beatles
༄ pairing - leah williamson x fem!reader
༄ series - part one ; part two ; part three
༄ synopsis - after settling into her new life back in london, your weekly family dinner takes an unexpected turn when an innocent story about your infuriating next-door neighbour quietly makes one person at the table realise exactly who she is.
༄ word count - 4.2k
༄ notes - this is just a filler chapter but i have another coming in about two hours so please bare with me, i’ve never ever written a fanfic like this before; not proof read
༄ read more - masterlist
thursday has always belonged to home.
it doesn’t matter how old you are.
it doesn’t matter how busy work becomes, how many countries you’ve lived in, or how many airports you’ve wandered through with a suitcase that feels heavier than it did the week before.
thursday is home.
when you were twenty-two and reporting from buenos aires, you called in from a hotel lobby because the wi-fi in your room had given up halfway through the day.
when you were twenty-four in hanoi, you balanced your laptop on the windowsill of your apartment, eating takeaway pho while your family tucked into roast chicken three continents away.
when you spent six weeks following elections across eastern europe, your father simply moved dinner back an hour because your train had been delayed crossing into austria.
nobody complained.
they just waited.
your mother always says traditions only survive if everyone treats them as non-negotiable.
the lovetts have always been remarkably good at not negotiating.
—
by quarter to six you’ve finished everything your editor asked of you.
your notebook closes with a satisfying snap.
three emails sent.
two interviews confirmed.
one article filed.
your desk is left exactly as you found it that morning.
you’ve never understood people who abandon mugs, loose papers and charging cables everywhere.
work is easier when your surroundings aren’t arguing with you.
“heading off, lovett?”
you glance up to see your editor is leaning against the doorway with his own coat already slung over one shoulder.
“yes.”
“first week still treating you alright?”
“very much so.”
“good.”
he smiles. “don’t work too hard.”
you consider that. “…i’ll try.”
he laughs. “that’s the least convincing thing i’ve heard all day.”
you offer him a polite smile before slipping your satchel over your shoulder.
outside, london feels different to how it does in the mornings.
less expectant, but more content.
people drift home instead of hurrying towards somewhere.
the air smells faintly of rain despite the sky remaining stubbornly blue.
you’ve always preferred london in the evenings.
the city exhales.
you decide to walk part of the journey before catching the underground.
there’s no rush.
there never is on thursdays.
you stop briefly at the florist you’d noticed earlier in the week.
your mother insists flowers are an unnecessary expense.
she also smiles every single time somebody buys them.
“good evening,” says the florist.
“evening.”
you study the buckets lining the pavement.
hydrangeas.
sweet peas.
peonies almost past their season.
then you see them.
white lilies.
your mother’s favourite.
“those, please.”
the florist wraps them carefully in brown paper. “special occasion?”
“thursday.”
he looks mildly confused and you simply smile.
“it’s family dinner.”
“ah.”
somehow, that seems explanation enough.
—
your parents’ house hasn’t changed.
the black railings still need repainting.
the climbing roses still threaten to take over the front of the house every summer.
the brass knocker is still slightly crooked after christopher somehow managed to loosen it with a football when he was eleven.
your father insisted he’d repair it.
he never has.
you secretly hope he never will.
home isn’t perfect.
it’s familiar.
before you’ve even reached the front steps, the front door swings open.
“…mum.”
vivienne lovett stands there with a tea towel thrown over one shoulder. “you’re early.”
“by four minutes.”
“exactly.”
she kisses both your cheeks before immediately taking the lilies from your hands “you didn’t need to bring flowers.”
“i know.”
“they’re beautiful.”
“i know.”
she rolls her eyes.
“still impossible.”
“genetics.”
“your father’s fault.”
“i’m standing right here.”
sebastian lovett’s voice drifts through the hallway.
he appears a moment later, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, reading glasses perched lower on his nose than they’re supposed to be “good evening, lovey.”
“evening, dad.”
he kisses your forehead once.
brief, uncomplicated, but entirely him.
“journey alright?”
“fine.”
“work?”
“good.”
“good?”
“productive.”
he nods once. “splendid.”
coming from your father, it’s practically an emotional speech.
your mother disappears into the kitchen with the flowers. “don’t just stand there, sebastian.”
“i’m greeting my daughter.”
“you’ve greeted her.”
“twice, technically.”
“exactly.”
you smile to yourself as your father quietly hangs your trench coat beside his.
he still does it every time you come home.
he’s done it since you were fourteen.
you’ve offered countless times.
he’s never once accepted.
voices spill from the kitchen.
lefa.
obviously.
“…i’m just saying, if harry hadn’t panicked-”
“he reversed into a stationary bollard,” christopher says.
“because it came out of nowhere.”
“the bollard?”
“yes.”
“the one concreted into the ground?”
“they’re unpredictable.”
you step into the kitchen just in time to watch your younger sister steal a roasted carrot straight from the baking tray.
“leona-faye.”
your mother doesn’t even turn around.
“i’m tasting.”
“you’re stealing.”
“same difference.”
“not in this kitchen.”
lefa sighs dramatically before looking up.
her face brightens immediately.
“lovey!” before you can say anything she’s wrapped you in a hug that almost knocks the breath from your lungs.
“hello to you too.”
“i’ve missed you.”
“i saw you five days ago.”
“exactly.”
“that’s hardly a lifetime.”
“It felt like one.”
you laugh softly. “dramatic.”
“says the journalist.”
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
“you lot make weather sound like warfare.”
“only when it’s interesting.”
lefa grins. “see? dramatic.”
christopher appears beside her carrying a stack of plates.
“lovey.” he leans down, presses a quick kiss to the top of your head and immediately notices your expression.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“you’re analysing something.”
“…your plates aren’t stacked evenly.”
he looks down. “…they’re not.”
without another word he adjusts them.
winnie watches the exchange from the other side of the island before laughing. “you’re impossible.”
“which one?” christopher asks.
“yes.” she responds, avoiding the question.
you and christopher glance at one another. “…fair.”
“i knew i liked this family,” winnie says.
your mother looks over her shoulder. “you’ve been part of it for years, darling.”
winnie’s smile softens. “still nice hearing it.” she walks over and hugs you. “hello, stranger.”
“hello, winnie.”
“first week survived?”
“surprisingly.”
“told you you’d love it.”
“you did.”
“and?”
“…you were right.”
she beams. “i’m framing that.”
“don’t.”
“too late.”
from somewhere behind you-
“i heard that!” your father appears in the doorway. “if anyone is framing anything tonight, it’s the fact our eldest daughter admitted someone else was right.”
“dad.”
“remarkable scenes.”
“you’re all insufferable.”
“runs in the family,” lefa says brightly.
“except mum.”
your mother snorts. “oh, sweetheart.”
“what?”
“i’m worse than all of you.”
the room falls quiet for exactly two seconds.
then everyone starts laughing, even sebastian. especially sebastian. you hadn’t realised how much you’d missed this.
not just seeing them, but hearing them.
the familiar overlap of conversations.
your mother’s wooden spoon tapping lightly against a saucepan.
christopher quietly correcting where the serving spoons sit on the table without even noticing he’s doing it.
lefa talking enough for three people.
your father pretending not to smile while absolutely smiling.
winnie moving around the kitchen as though she’d grown up inside it.
for the first time in years…
home doesn’t feel borrowed.
it feels yours again.
the kitchen has always been the heart of the house.
not the drawing room.
not your father’s study.
not even the dining room where every thursday eventually ends.
the kitchen.
it’s where birthdays began before anyone else is awake.
it’s where christmas mornings smelt like cinnamon before presents had even been opened.
it’s where your mother insists every meaningful conversation somehow belongs.
the room hasn’t changed nearly enough for the number of years that have passed.
the aga still gives off its familiar warmth.
the old clock above the dresser still runs three minutes fast because your father once claimed it encouraged punctuality.
your mother never corrected it.
she simply started living by it.
your cherry bourbon pie sits neatly in the centre of the island, still tucked inside its pie carrier.
mother notices it immediately. “lovey.”
“yes?”
“you brought dessert.”
“i did.”
“you didn’t have to.”
“i wanted to.”
she walks over, unclipping the lid with surprising excitement. the smell of butter and cherries escapes almost instantly. for a brief second, nobody says anything. then-
“…good lord,” christopher mutters.
lefa leans across the island. “is that-”
“don’t.” your mother’s voice is gentle but firm.
she doesn’t even look up from lifting the pie free.
“i wasn’t going to touch it.”
“you absolutely were.”
“…alright, i was thinking about touching it.”
“thinking leads to doing.”
“that’s a dangerous philosophy.”
“it’s worked for twenty-something years.”
lefa sighs dramatically.
“this family has no faith in me.”
sebastian looks up from pouring everyone a glass of water. “earned, sweetheart.”
“whose side are you on?”
“your mother’s.”
she gasps theatrically. “traitor.”
he smiles into his glass. “i’ve been happily married for thirty years.”
“twenty-nine,” your mother corrects automatically.
“see?” your father gestures towards her with quiet satisfaction. “proof.”
winnie laughs softly from beside the oven, where she’s checking on something simmering in a saucepan. “he’s got a point.”
“thank you, win.”
“don’t encourage him.”
“too late.”
vivienne cuts a look towards her husband that somehow manages to be both exasperated and impossibly fond.
you’ve spent your entire life watching them communicate like this.
half sentences, shared looks, corrections that aren’t really corrections. love, translated into routine.
your mother turns back to the pie. “it’s beautiful.”
“thank you.”
she studies the lattice for a moment longer. “your edges are neater than mine.”
“mum.”
“they are.”
“you taught me.”
“i know.” she smiles to herself. “still unfair.”
christopher wanders over, hands tucked comfortably into his pockets. he studies the pie with the concentration of someone assessing an engineering project. “…it’s symmetrical.”
“of course it is,” lefa says. “it’s y/n.”
he nods once. “good point.”
you look between them. “…what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
christopher shrugs. “if one side had more cherries than the other, i’d assume someone else made it.”
“that’s ridiculous.”
“is it?”
“…”
“…”
“…no.”
“thought so.”
lefa grins triumphantly. “she admitted it.”
“i admitted nothing.”
“you absolutely admitted something.”
“i chose not to continue the conversation.”
“same thing.”
“not remotely.”
“lovey.”
you turn towards your younger sister. “yes?”
“hypothetically.”
“…i don’t like that word.”
“hypothetically,” she continues anyway, “if i accidentally dropped this pie…”
“you wouldn’t.”
“but if i did.”
“you won’t.”
“…”
“…”
“you’d cry, wouldn’t you?”
christopher answers before you can.
“yes.”
“i would not.”
“lovey.”
“christopher.”
“you alphabetise your bookshelf.”
“by author.”
“then genre.”
“yes.”
“then publication date.”
“…”
“…”
“…that’s beside the point.”
lefa folds her arms. “you iron tea towels.”
“only the linen ones.”
there’s a beat of silence.
winnie blinks. “…you iron tea towels?”
“only if they’re linen.”
“bit deranged if you ask me…”
“it prevents creasing.”
“they’re tea towels.”
“exactly.”
“they’re designed to get dirty.”
“that doesn’t mean they should begin dirty.”
winnie looks helplessly towards christopher. “is she serious?”
“completely.”
“terrifying.”
“occasionally.”
“i heard that.”
“you were supposed to.”
your mother reaches across the island, squeezing your hand once. “there’s nothing wrong with taking pride in your things.”
you smile.
“thank you.”
“however…”
“…”
“…you do iron tea towels.”
“…only the linen ones.”
your father clears his throat. “i think we’ve established that.”
everyone laughs. including you unfortunately.
it comes easier here than it does anywhere else- without effort or thinking.
lefa steals another roast potato.
this time your mother catches her immediately “leona-faye.”
“i’ve committed now.”
“put the next one back.”
“that’s fair.”
she actually does.
which somehow surprises everyone more than if she hadn’t.
sebastian watches her for a second before quietly sliding the bowl two inches closer in her direction.
nobody misses it.
least of all your mother. “sebastian.”
“what?”
“don’t encourage her.”
“i’m not.”
“you just moved the potatoes.”
“did i?”
“you did.”
he glances down. “…must’ve slipped.”
lefa bites the inside of her cheek so hard she’s practically vibrating with suppressed laughter.
your mother looks from one to the other, then simply sighs. “honestly.”
“what?” father and lefa ask together.
christopher shakes his head. “you’re impossible.”
“runs in the family,” lefa says.
“except lovey.”
you look up. “pardon?”
“you’re impossible in… a completely different way.”
“thank you?”
“it wasn’t a compliment.”
“i gathered.”
“she means,” winnie says warmly, rescuing the conversation before it can spiral, “you’re all impossible for completely different reasons.”
“exactly.”
lefa points at her. “see? she speaks lefa.”
“i speak youngest sibling because i too, am the youngest sibling.”
“there’s a difference?”
“a significant one.”
“i’m learning.”
“quickly.”
you watch the three of them together for a moment- christopher leaning lazily against the worktop, winnie absent-mindedly straightening the stack of napkins he’d left slightly crooked, lefa perched on a stool swinging one foot as she plots whichever joke she’ll make next.
it strikes you then, quietly, that despite spending years chasing stories across the world…
you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to know every person in a room by heart.
“right,” your mother says, clapping her hands together once. “before someone subtly offends someone else…” she looks directly at lefa. “…everyone to the table.”
almost instinctively, chairs scraped against the wooden floor.
christopher pulls winnie’s chair out before sitting himself.
your father reaches automatically for your mother’s hand as they walk the few steps into the dining room.
and of course, lefa nudges your shoulder. “race you.”
“to the table?”
“yes.”
“it’s six feet away.”
“…coward.”
before you could answer, she’d already darted past you, laughing to herself.
you watched her go with an involuntary smile.
some things, you thought, never really changed.
but thank god for that.
everyone falls into the same seats they’ve occupied for years.
not because anyone ever assigned them.
because they never needed to.
your father sits at the head of the table nearest the window.
your mother opposite him.
christopher to your father’s left, winnie beside him.
you opposite the pair of them.
and lefa, despite repeatedly insisting she’s a grown adult with a medical degree and a mortgage, sits beside you exactly where she’s sat since she was old enough to graduate from a highchair.
some habits simply outlive childhood.
the room settles into a comfortable hum.
plates are passed.
serving spoons exchanged.
your mother insists everyone takes vegetables before potatoes.
lefa immediately reaches for the potatoes.
“leona-faye.”
she pauses, spoon halfway to her plate. “…yes?”
“vegetables.”
“i’ve had vegetables.”
“when?”
“earlier.”
“while stealing them doesn’t count.”
“i wasn’t stealing.”
“borrowing?”
“sampling.”
your father nods thoughtfully. “quality control.”
“thank you,” lefa says.
“you’re welcome.”
your mother doesn’t even look at either of them. “both of you.”
they exchange identical expressions of innocence.
christopher watches them for a moment before quietly serving himself broccoli.
“i’m staying out of this.”
“smart,” winnie murmurs.
“survival instinct.”
“years of practice.”
your mother finally slides the bowl of potatoes across. “now.”
you shake your head, reaching for the carrots. “how you’ve managed to become a doctor remains one of life’s great mysteries.”
“neurosurgeon,” lefa corrects.
“which somehow makes it worse.”
“my patients adore me.”
“your colleagues don’t.”
“they’ll tolerate me either way.”
“that’s optimistic.”
“i’m choosing confidence.”
“you’re choosing delusion.”
“same difference.”
“they are quite literally opposites.”
winnie laughs into her napkin. “i’ve missed thursdays.”
“you were here last thursday,” christopher reminds her.
“exactly.”
“that isn’t long enough to miss something.”
“i disagree.”
“of course you do.”
she smiles at him. “i missed you too while i was at work today.”
he tries very hard not to smile.
fails completely.
your father notices. “you’re getting soft.”
christopher looks up. “i’ve always been soft.”
“that’s true,” lefa says.
“rugby ruined the illusion though. because then you got strong and started deciding you could attack us- even when we were children and i was a head taller than you.” you add.
“i’ll have you know i’m terrifying.”
“to who?”
“outside people.”
“certainly not to us.”
“that’s because you lot have known me too long.”
“unfortunately,” you say.
“you wound me.”
“you’ll recover.”
“eventually.”
he points his fork towards you. “that sounded familiar.”
“must run in the family.”
“unfortunately.”
“fortunately,” your mother corrects gently “there’s a difference.”
“debatable.”
your father tops up everyone’s water glasses as the conversation drifts comfortably from one thing to another.
nobody asks him to.
he simply notices they’re empty.
he’s always been quietly observant like that.
doing things before anyone thinks to ask.
your mother catches him reaching for her glass before she’s even touched it. “thank you.”
he nods once. “of course.”
it’s such a small exchange that it almost disappears beneath the rest of the conversation.
you notice anyway, you always have.
love, in your family, has never been particularly loud.
it lives in filled water glasses.
chairs pulled out.
flowers placed in vases.
coats hung without asking.
the little things.
always the little things.
“alright,” you rmother says after everyone has finally begun eating properly.
she rests her knife against the edge of her plate and looks around the table. “i’ve heard enough discussion about potatoes.”
“have you?” lefa asks.
“yes.”
“because i still have opinions.”
“keep them until dessert.”
“that’s censorship.”
“that’s motherhood.”
lefa sighs dramatically. “fine.”
your mother smiles. “good.”
she glances around the table once more “how was everyone’s week?”
it’s never a formal tradition.
no one announces that they’re taking turns.
it simply… happens.
every thursday.
without fail.
sebastian goes first, as he usually does.
“a client finally agreed to stop trying to outsmart the market.”
“did they?”
“no.”
christopher nods knowingly. “thought as much.”
“they merely accepted i was right.”
“which is close enough.”
“close enough.”
your mother smiles into her wine. “you’ve been saying the same sentence for thirty years.”
“because people continue proving me correct.”
“modest, as always.”
“painfully.”
lefa groans. “i’ve inherited his confidence.”
“unfortunately,” you murmur.
“genetically unavoidable.”
“i blame dad.”
“i’ll accept responsibility,” your father replies.
“thank you.”
“provided i also receive credit for your intelligence.”
“absolutely not.”
“worth asking.”
your mother shakes her head fondly before looking towards winnie. “and arsenal?”
winnie swallows before answering. “busy.”
“good busy?”
“mostly.”
she smiles softly. “everyone’s healthy.”
“which makes my job considerably easier.”
“you’ve settled in beautifully there,” your mother says.
“i’ve been very lucky.”
christopher nudges her knee gently beneath the table. “don’t be so modest, luck had nothing to do with it.”
she smiles at him. “thank you.”
“just stating facts.”
your mother turns to you then. “and you, lovey?”
you set your fork down. “it’s been good.”
“just good?” lefa asks.
“very good.”
“better.”
you smile. “i really do like it.”
“the bbc?”
“mm.”
“already?”
“it feels…” you pause, searching for the right word.
“…steady.”
your father nods once “a good agency.”
you laugh softly.
“yes, dad.”
“good editors?”
“very.”
“colleagues?”
“lovely.”
“office?”
“surprisingly quiet.”
lefa raises an eyebrow. “you like quiet?”
“i’ve spent years filing stories from airports.”
“…fair.”
“it’s nice having a desk.”
“a permanent one?”
“yes.”
your expression softens almost without thinking. “it’s strange.”
“in what way?” vivienne asks.
“unpacking.”
they all look at you, and you smile to yourself. “for years everything i owned fitted into two suitcases.”
“now?”
“now i’m deciding where plants should go.”
lefa laughs. “that’s oddly wholesome.”
“isn’t it?”
“very.”
you nod. “i’ve got a favourite cafe, a routine, a butcher who recognises me. i even know which floorboards cream and which ones don’t.”
your mother smiles in that quiet way mothers do when they hear exactly what they’d hoped to hear. “you’re home then.”
you look at her. “…i suppose i am.”
for a second, nobody says anything.
the silence isn’t awkward, it never is here.
it’s simply… full.
then lefa clears her throat dramatically. “so.”
you don’t even look at her. “…no.”
“you know what i’m going to ask.”
“i do.”
“and?”
“no.”
“lovey.”
“lefa.”
“the townhouse?”
you sigh.
“it’s lovely.”
“but…”
“…”
“…”
“there it is,” christopher says. “there’s always a but.”
you glance between them. “…there is one downside.”
lefa grins immediately. “the neighbour?”
you point your fork at her. “don’t look so pleased.”
“i’m invested.”
“you shouldn’t be.”
“too late.”
you sigh the sort of sigh reserved for people who have accepted they’re about to be thoroughly outnumbered.
“she’s… unusual.”
“that’s kinder than what you called her on tuesday when we were on the phone,” lefa says.
you look at her. “…i don’t recall.”
“i do.”
“of course you do.”
“i wrote some of them down.”
christopher nearly chokes on his water. “you what?”
“only the particularly good ones.”
“leona-faye.”
“for posterity.”
“delete them.”
“absolutely not.”
your father looks faintly amused. “i’d quite like to hear them.”
“sebastian,” your mother warns.
“what?”
“don’t encourage her.”
“i’m merely curious.”
“that’s how she gets you.”
“it works every time,” lefa says cheerfully.
“i’m aware.”
you set your knife down.
“she isn’t unusual in a concerning way.”
“that’s reassuring,” vivienne says.
“just…” you search for the right word, “…persistent.”
“persistent?”
“she keeps appearing.”
“she does live next door,” christopher points out.
“i’m aware.”
“that tends to increase the likelihood.”
“thank you for that groundbreaking observation.”
“happy to help.”
lefa leans onto one elbow. “how many times have you actually spoken?”
“…twice.”
“twice?”
“once while i was climbing into my own bedroom.”
there’s a beat.
your father blinks.
“i’m sorry?” your mother slowly lowers her fork “…you were doing what?”
you close your eyes briefly. “i left my keys inside.”
“y/n.”
“i know.”
“you climbed the outside of a three-storey townhouse?”
“yes.”
“using the ivy.”
“yes.”
“and the balcony.”
“…yes.”
christopher lets out a low whistle. “i’d pay money to see that.”
“i’m glad you didn’t.”
“did you make it?”
“eventually.”
“without injury?”
“…mostly.”
your mother stares at you for a long moment. “i’ve raised three children.”
“you have.”
“and this whole ttime genuinely believed you were the sensible one.”
“i am.”
“you climbed a building.”
“it seemed logical.”
“did it?”
“at the time.”
lefa grins. “i’m obsessed with this.”
“don’t be.”
“i’ve never been prouder.”
“that’s unfortunate because it only goes downhill from here.” you say with a fake grin before continuing to cut into your food.
“did this neighbour help?” winnie asks gently.
you shake your head. “not particularly.”
“she mostly stood there making comments.”
“what sort of comments?” christopher asks.
“‘need some help there, darling?’”
lefa snorts.
“and that her bicep was available.”
she bursts into laughter. “she offered you her bicep?”
“amongst other things.”
“that’s brilliant.”
“it wasn’t.”
“it absolutely was.”
you point your fork at your younger sister “you’re enjoying this far too much.”
“because it’s objectively funny.”
“it wasn’t funny.”
“lovey.”
“what?”
“you were scaling a victorian townhouse before breakfast.”
“…”
“…”
“…when you put it like that.”
“there isn’t another way to put it.”
even your father smiles into his wine- small, brief, but unmistakable.
you notice. of course you notice.
traitor.
“and then?” lefa asks eagerly.
“then i went to the café the following morning.”
“mm?”
“and she walked straight into me.”
“accident?”
“yes.”
“coffee?”
“…yes.”
“everywhere?”
you look down at your plate.
“…my coat.”
your mother looks up immediately. “which coat?”
“…the sable one.”
her expression drops. “the one i gave you?”
“it came out.”
“thank heavens.”
“after dry cleaning.”
your mother visibly relaxes. “good.”
lefa blinks between the pair of you. “hold on.”
“what?”
“you’re both more upset about the coat than the person.”
you and your mother look at her simultaneously.
“…yes.”
“that feels unhealthy.”
“it was sable,” you both say together.
christopher laughs.
“apple.”
“tree.”
your father nods. “expensive tree.”
“very expensive tree,” christopher agrees as your mother swats his hand.
winnie smiles quietly into her glass. “and after the coffee?”
you shrug. “that was mostly it.”
“mostly?”
“i saw her yesterday.”
“doing?”
“arguing over cherries.”
lefa drops her cutlery onto her plate. “i’m sorry?”
“cherries.”
“you argued over fruit?”
“she took the best punnet.”
“technically,” christopher says, “did she?”
“don’t start.”
“i’m simply asking.”
“she had her hand on it first,” you admit.
“aha.”
“but i wanted that one.”
“and did you tell her?”
“…yes.”
“politely?”
“…”
“…”
“…mostly.”
lefa laughs so hard she has to put her glass down. “i adore this woman.”
“you don’t know her.”
“i know enough.”
“she sounds hilarious.”
“she sounds irritating.”
“same thing.”
“not remotely.”
winnie smiles softly. “i’m just trying to imagine this woman.”
lefa laughs. “good luck.”
“what?” you ask.
“i can’t quite picture her.”
“there isn’t much to picture.”
“humour me.”
you shrug, spearing another carrot with your fork.
“blonde. athletic. talks far too much.”
“and her name?”
“…leah.”
winnie’s hand pauses for the briefest fraction of a second around her glass.
barely long enough for anyone to notice.
except christopher.
he catches her eye across the table.
one eyebrow lifts. what?
she gives the tiniest shrug. maybe.
he studies her for another moment. really?
another almost imperceptible nod. don’t.
she understands immediately. of course not.
the conversation never stops.
lefa is already talking again. “…did you at least get the cherries?”
you nod. “eventually.”
“she gave them to you?”
“…yes.”
“see?” lefa says triumphantly. “she likes you.”
you nearly laugh. “she absolutely does not.”
winnie lowers her eyes to her plate, hiding the small smile threatening to appear.
there’s nothin' you can do that can't be done - leah williamson
༄ all you need is love - the beatles
༄ pairing - leah williamson x fem!reader
༄ series - part one ; part two ; part three
༄ synopsis - after returning to london for a carefully controlled new life as a travelling journalist, your perfectly ordered world begins to unravel when a chance meeting with the infuriating woman next door sparks a series of increasingly chaotic encounters that neither of you can seem to avoid.
༄ word count - 3.5k
༄ notes - currently writing my report on my lai 4 when i thought of watching ‘love actually’ and boom here we are; not proof read
༄ read more - masterlist
you wake before your alarm.
not because you have to.
because you always do.
the room is still blue with early morning, the london skyline only beginning to stir beyond the tall sash windows. somewhere below, a bin lorry rattles along the street. a pigeon lands briefly on the balcony outside your bedroom before thinking better of it and flying away again.
you lie still for another minute.
today is your first day.
there’s excitement somewhere beneath the surface, though anyone watching would struggle to find it. excitement, in your experience, has never been loud. it exists in the small things: laying tomorrow’s clothes out the night before. sharpening pencils that don’t need sharpening. checking a train timetable you’ve already memorised.
routine has always been the closest thing you’ve had to luck.
you sit up, smooth the duvet flat with the palm of your hand, and step onto the wooden floor.
your mother used to say a tidy room made for a tidy mind.
your father insisted it was simply good discipline.
between the two of them, there had never been much room for disorder.
you never minded.
because to you, there’s comfort in knowing exactly where everything belongs.
the kettle goes on before you’ve even opened the curtains.
earl grey.
and a bagel split in half.
one half is spread with the strawberry marmalade you’d bought on arrival- the same kind you’ve been eating since childhood. the other is topped with cottage cheese, honey, and blueberries.
to the uninitiated, the combination might be off-putting. but to those with a broader palette, there’s something quietly refreshing about mixing things that are never meant to go together.
the radio hums softly in the background, low enough to sit inside the silence rather than disturb it. a familiar song drifts through- the beatles’ all you need is love. something you once played on repeat at ten years old, long past the point of your mother developing a headache for it.
you’ve eaten the same breakfast for nearly twelve years.
there was a period in buenos aires where you couldn’t find decent bread.
another in hanoi where you gave up looking entirely.
you still found a way.
habits travel surprisingly well.
the newspaper sits folded beside your mug.
old instinct.
you read it cover to cover, annotating almost absent-mindedly with a pencil balanced behind your ear.
journalists never really stop being journalists.
they simply get paid to ask questions, or not at all.
by half seven you’ve showered, dressed and packed your bag.
your navy trousers have been pressed twice.
your white shirt doesn’t possess so much as a wrinkle.
your trench coat hangs neatly over one arm.
the overpriced, leather satchel your father bought you when you graduated from university still looks almost new, despite following you across four continents.
you’ve always taken care of your things.
they’ve taken care of you.
on the hall table sits your notebook.
three fountain pens.
your wallet.
phone.
train pass.
everything accounted for.
you’ve lived in enough cities to know that forgetting something before work isn’t an inconvenience.
it’s a choice.
you simply choose not to.
the move back to london had surprised everyone except you.
your older brother had expected new york.
your grand-parents had put money on paris.
your mother suggested geneva.
your father had merely nodded once and said,
“good papers.”
which, coming from him, bordered on overwhelming enthusiasm.
you loved travelling.
you loved sleeping in hotel rooms that overlooked cities whose names you still pronounced incorrectly.
you loved filing stories from airports.
you loved waking somewhere new every few weeks.
until one morning you realised you could no longer remember what it felt like to have neighbours.
or a favourite café.
or somewhere that felt like yours.
london had never really stopped being home.
it had simply waited.
your new editor had described you as ‘exactly the sort of journalist we’ve been missing’.
you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
but you’d accepted anyway.
today was the beginning of something steadier.
a desk with your name on it.
colleagues you’d eventually learn.
plants you might accidentally keep alive.
a life measured in months instead of assignments.
it felt…
nice.
a little strange, slightly terrifying, but overall… mostly nice.
you check your watch.
8:02.
perfect.
your train leaves in twenty-three minutes.
exactly enough time.
you slip your book into your coat and pull your trench coat over your shoulders.
the front door clicks shut behind you.
you descend three steps before instinctively patting your coat pocket.
left pocket… empty.
right pocket…. empty.
your satchel.
wallet.
phone.
pens.
notebook.
you stop, very slowly.
“…”
the key.
you picture it immediately.
hall table.
next to the bowl.
exactly where you’d placed it while tying your shoelaces.
still inside.
you close your eyes.
once.
you’ve been called many things in your life.
driven.
careful.
meticulous.
some editor in washington once described you as pathologically prepared.
and yet on the first morning of your new job, you have locked yourself out of your own house.
you look up.
third floor.
your bedroom window.
still open.
…well.
that’s unfortunate.
⸻
you hook one polished shoe onto the narrow iron railing and immediately regret wearing work trousers to attempt what is, objectively, a terrible idea.
your front door key is sitting exactly where you left it.
inside.
on the hallway table.
the bedroom window, however, is still open.
third floor.
which had seemed wonderfully convenient ten minutes ago.
now it just feels mocking.
still…
you’ve committed.
one hand grips the ivy. the other finds a crack in the brickwork. your foot searches for the tiny lip of the neighbouring balcony.
“right,” you mutter to yourself.
“don’t look down.”
your trench coat shifts against your shoulders.
something slides free.
you don’t even have time to catch it.
thud.
your book lands face-down on the pavement.
you squeeze your eyes shut.
“for christ’s sake.”
if anyone hadn’t noticed you before-
“bit ambitious for a tuesday, innit?”
you certainly have their attention now.
you twist carefully enough to avoid plummeting to your death.
a woman stands on the pavement outside the neighbouring house, dressed for a run. black running shorts, some red hoodie with the label ‘emirates’, ankle socks, and trainers. she’d clearly only just stepped outside.
she bends to retrieve your book.
you wince.
please don’t bend the cover.
she turns it over in her hands.
“my lai 4?”
her eyebrows lift as she flicks through a couple of pages before looking back up at you.
“business or pleasure?”
you don’t stop climbing.
“pleasure.”
she blinks.
“…pleasure?”
“last time i read it i was about nine.”
there’s a pause… a proper one.
“you read about the my lai massacre when you were nine?”
you glance down at her.
“you didn’t?”
there’s just enough sarcasm behind it that the corner of her mouth twitches.
“darling,” she says, lifting the book towards you, “just because i look intelligent doesn’t mean i am that intelligent.”
you reach down just enough to take it back, inspecting the corners before sliding it carefully beneath your arm again.
“you don’t even look intelligent.”
she places a hand against her chest.
“i beg your pardon?”
“so i’ve no clue what you’re trying to say.”
she lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“what a lovely first impression.”
you ignore her, stretching towards the next handhold.
almost…
almost-
“need some help there, darling?”
“…”
“a hand?”
“…”
“my exceptionally toned bicep?”
“…”
“perhaps the fire brigade?”
“shut it.”
you haul yourself higher.
“i’ve almost got it.”
“those are famous last words.”
“they’re present words.”
“debatable.”
you manage another foothold before calling over your shoulder,
“you talk funny.”
“excuse me?”
“your accent.”
“my accent?”
“you’re not from around here.”
she folds her arms, looking far too amused for someone watching a stranger attempt accidental self-destruction before breakfast.
“i live here.”
“not what i asked.”
“i’ve lived in central london since i was seventeen.”
“for work?”
“amongst other things.”
“where before?”
“milton keynes.”
you hum thoughtfully.
“explains the twang, i suppose.”
“‘i suppose?’”
you look down. “yes?”
“that choice of words.”
“what about it?”
“tells me everything.”
“does it?”
“belgravia?”
“close.”
she waits. “mayfair.” an expression of complete understanding crosses her face. “ah.”
“what’s ‘ah’ meant to mean?”
“means you sound like keira knightley.”
you frown. “pardon?”
“during her marvelous performance of ‘bend it like beckham’, specifically.”
“…”
“…”
“i’ve absolutely no idea what that means.”
“i’m not surprised.”
“is it an insult?”
“not exactly.”
“a compliment?”
“not entirely.”
“that’s incredibly unhelpful.”
“it’s observational.”
“you’re observational.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t praise.”
“i’ll take what i can get.”
despite yourself, you smile.
only for a second.
she notices.
of course she notices.
“there it is.”
“what?”
“proof you can smile.”
“don’t get used to it.”
“wasn’t planning on it.”
you shake your head and reach for the balcony above.
your fingers catch.
your foot follows.
success.
“ha.”
you swing one leg upwards-
and immediately feel your coat snag on an iron flourish beneath the railing.
you freeze.
“…”
“…”
slowly, you look down.
she’s already looking up.
“…fire brigade?” she offers.
“don’t.”
“the bicep’s still available.”
“don’t.”
“ladder?”
“…”
“darling?”
“…”
she presses her lips together.
you can actually see her fighting it.
“if you laugh-”
“i’m trying very hard not to.”
“harder.”
“it’s difficult.”
“harder.”
a tiny snort escapes her.
you point a warning finger.
“unbelievable.”
“you told me i didn’t look intelligent.”
“you still don’t.”
“that’s rather cruel.”
“it’s merely observational.”
she laughs then.
not loudly.
just enough that it echoes down the quiet street.
it’s annoyingly infectious.
you hate that it makes you smile again.
“i’m leah,” she says once she’s recovered.
you blink.
“that’s quite a leap.”
“well, if i’m going to witness this heroic ascent, i feel we ought to be on first-name terms.”
you consider that.
“…i’m y/n.”
“lovely to meet you.”
“i’d shake your hand.”
“but you’re halfway up a building.”
“exactly.”
another tug.
the coat refuses to budge.
leah glances from you…
to the third-floor window…
back to you.
“…you know,” she says carefully, “most people call a locksmith.”
you sigh.
“where’s the fun in that?”
⸻
the next morning, you leave five minutes earlier.
not because you’re hoping to avoid your neighbour.
certainly not because you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of yesterday wondering whether milton keynes really does produce accents like that.
pure coincidence.
obviously.
the little café on the corner is already busy.
exactly how you remember it.
you’ve missed london cafés.
the newspapers stacked neatly beside the till.
the hiss of steaming milk.
the low murmur of conversations before the city properly wakes.
it feels familiar, comfortable even.
you step forward when it’s your turn.
“a six-ounce flat white,” you say, almost absent-mindedly. “extra hot, with a double ristretto. no chocolate.”
the barista doesn’t even blink. “of course.”
you move to the end of the counter to wait, your satchel resting neatly against your leg as you glance over the morning headlines spread across a newspaper someone has left abandoned on a nearby table.
behind you, the café door opens.
someone laughs.
a chair scrapes against the wooden floor.
the usual soundtrack of a busy morning.
you pay none of it any attention.
until-
something solid collides with your shoulder.
there’s a sharp knock.
a gasp.
then warmth… far too much warmth.
coffee splashes across the front of your cream sable coat, soaking into the fabric with horrifying speed.
silence.
you look down, then very, very slowly back up.
your eyes travel from a pair of trainers…
to black sweatpants…
to a grey quarter zip…
before finally reaching a familiar face.
you give her a slow once-over.
register her.
the woman from yesterday.
of course it is.
“…you imbecile.”
leah blinks.
“…”
“…”
“we meet again.”
you don’t even acknowledge it.
instead, you lift one stained sleeve.
“this…”
you gesture towards yourself.
“…is a sable coat.”
leah squints at it. “you’re telling me they skinned a load of sables for that?”
“well, it’s not faux, is it, sherlock?”
“…”
“…”
“looks the same to me.”
you actually gasp. “that’s perhaps the most offensive thing you’ve said.”
“more offensive than being called an imbecile?”
“considerably.”
you inspect another stain and your expression falls. “oh, wonderful.”
leah shifts her weight. “sorry.”
“this is entirely your fault.”
“is it?”
“you’re like a bad omen.”
she places a hand dramatically against her chest. “i beg your pardon?”
“first you witness me attempting mount everest via victorian architecture.”
“fair.”
“now you’ve ruined my coat.”
“ruined feels dramatic.”
“it’s sable.”
“yes, you’ve mentioned for the umpteenth time.”
“i’m going to be late for work.”
“possibly.”
“my coat’s covered in coffee.”
“objectively.”
“and i’m coffee-less.”
“temporarily.”
“all because you’ve decided gluing your eyes to your cellular is more important than observing where you’re walking.”
leah pauses. “…cellular?”
“yes.”
“you called it a cellular.”
“i did.”
“who says cellular?”
“people with vocabularies.”
“people over eighty.”
you narrow your eyes. “i’m beginning to think you enjoy irritating me.”
“a little.” despite herself, leah smiles. “tell you what.”
you already dislike the sound of that.
“i’ll buy you another coffee.”
you blink. “it’s the twenty-first century.”
“…yes?”
“as a woman, i don’t require someone else to purchase my coffee.”
before she can answer, you turn back towards the counter. “another six-ounce flat white, extra hot, with a double ristretto. no chocolate, please.”
the barista nods sympathetically. “coming right up.”
you reach into your wallet, find your card, and hold it over the reader.
a hand appears beside yours.
beep.
approved.
you stare at the card machine.
then very slowly over your shoulder.
leah is already slipping her card back into her pocket.
“see?” she smiles, entirely too pleased with herself. “all better, darling.”
“…”
“…”
“you are unbelievable.”
“i’ve heard.”
“i said no.”
“you did.”
“quite clearly.”
“also true.”
“and yet.”
“and yet here we are.”
you sigh through your nose. “i don’t like you.”
leah nods thoughtfully. “i’ve noticed.”
“…”
“…”
“you’re buying my next coffee.”
one eyebrow lifts. “i thought you didn’t need someone else paying.”
“i don’t.”
“right.”
“i’m choosing to let you.”
“how generous.”
“don’t get used to it.”
you collect your replacement coffee as your name is called.
without another word, you turn and leave.
the little bell above the café door jingles softly behind you.
leah watches you disappear through the window, coffee forgotten in her hand.
only once you’re halfway down the street does she realise she’s smiling.
she hadn’t chosen this cafe by accident.
she’d simply wondered whether the woman next door might start her mornings here.
but if one thing is for certain, she definitely hadn’t expected to wear half her coffee instead.
⸻
you tell yourself you’re not thinking about her.
it’s an easy lie to maintain, in theory.
you’ve been in war zones, press rooms, airport terminals at 3:00am, where everything smells like instant coffee and panic. you’ve written entire features on people you never met and never thought about again.
so a woman next door who calls you “darling” like it’s punctuation shouldn’t be difficult to forget.
and yet.
she keeps appearing anyway.
not in any dramatic way.
just… in gaps.
between emails, while you’re brushing your hair, while you’re standing at the sink waiting for the kettle to boil.
you’re annoyed about it.
mostly.
it’s manageable annoyance.
the kind you can file away under irrelevant.
it’s wednesday when you decide you need cherries.
thursday dinners have never been optional in your family. not when you were travelling, not when you were in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, not when deadlines stacked up like collapsing shelves.
you show up.
or you call.
or you send something that tastes like home in a plastic container.
this week, you’ve decided on cherry pie.
your mother used to make it when you were younger, sleeves rolled up, flour on her cheek, insisting that pastry was “a test of character.”
you never failed it.
you just never admitted you liked it.
you leave your house mid-morning, coat already on, hair pinned neatly back, everything exactly where it should be.
you don’t rush.
you never rush.
there’s no reason to.
the farmers market is only a few streets away, tucked between a church and a row of older brick buildings that have survived long enough to become picturesque instead of derelict.
it’s busy in that soft, summer, london way- woven baskets, paper bags, the smell of bread and fruit and damp wood.
you move through it with quiet efficiency.
you don’t browse.
you select.
you already know what you want.
the cherry stall is near the centre.
bright red spilling out of wooden crates, the vendor calling prices to no one in particular.
you reach for a punnet at the same time as someone else.
your hand closes around it.
another hand lands just before yours.
warm.
firm.
you both pause.
you look up first.
of course you do.
it’s her.
you take your time with it- eyes lifting slowly, registering a pair of baggy blue jeans, a familiar coach leather jacket you had eye’d online a few months ago, that same faint expression of mild amusement like she’s perpetually one step ahead of a joke you haven’t heard yet.
you sigh. “christ’s sake.”
leah’s mouth curves immediately. “now i’d definitely classify this as a meet-cute if we hadn’t already met before.”
you stare at her hand still on yours.
then at the cherries.
then back at her.
“hello, leah.”
“hello, darling.”
a beat.
she tilts her head slightly. “fancy giving me my hand back? i’m going to need it if i want to carry this box out.”
you realise, belatedly, that your hand is still on top of hers.
you withdraw it quickly, like it’s suddenly too warm to exist. “you can’t have this box.”
leah raises an eyebrow. “why not?”
“because it’s the best box here.”
“debatable.”
“and i need it.”
“technically,” she says, far too calmly, “this is a free country, meaning i’m allowed to have whatever box i please.”
you narrow your eyes. “i had it first.”
“and technically,” she repeats, “you didn’t. your hand fell on top of mine. so if we’re being precise, you had me first.”
there’s a pause.
you look at her. “well... i don’t want you, so in return i get the box.”
“unfortunately, darling,” she says, completely unbothered, “that’s not how that works.”
you exhale through your nose. “it could be how it works. you shouldn’t fear change, you know.”
“i don’t fear anything.”
“maybe not fear,” you say, finally shifting your attention back to the cherries, “but manners certainly fear you.”
that lands.
leah huffs a laugh. “lovely. you’ve got jokes.”
you glance at her briefly. “i’m a real robin williams myself.”
“are you?”
“sure. now can you please give me the box?”
leah leans slightly closer to the stall, eyes flicking over the fruit. “what’s it for?”
you hesitate for half a second. “i’m making cherry pie.”
that gets her attention in a different way.
not obvious.
just a subtle shift.
“for what?”
“family dinner.”
“aren’t you the full package,” she says lightly. “vietnam historian, stand-up comedian, and baker.”
you make a face. “sod off.”
leah smiles. “ouch. i was just about to give them to you.”
you look at her immediately. “really?”
she pauses. “…no.” then with a grin continues, “but it was sweet that you believed me.”
you groan. “unbelievable.”
leah watches you turn slightly away, scanning the remaining punnets like you’re solving a problem in your head rather than choosing fruit.
“not to sound cocky,” she says after a moment.
you don’t look at her. “you’re doing a fabulous job at that.”
“do you have any idea who i am?”
that makes you pause.
you finally glance up.
“yes.”
leah’s expression shifts- just a flicker of something suprised. “really?”
“yes.”
“who?”
you look back at the cherries.
“the woman who spilled coffee all over me and bent my book.”
a beat.
leah blinks. “…i don’t think i bent your book.”
“you contributed.”
“i contributed?”
“you were there.”
leah exhales slowly through her nose. “so you don’t know who i am.”
you glance at her, genuinely puzzled. “am i meant to?”
that lands differently.
leah goes quiet for a second longer than before.
then she smiles, smaller this time. less teasing.
“no,” she says finally. “but let’s keep it that way.”
she reaches down, picks up the exact box you’d been eyeing, and holds it out toward you.
“goodbye, darling.”
you take it immediately.
“thank god.”
leah laughs under her breath, already turning away.
you don’t watch her leave.
you’re too busy checking the cherries like they might personally betray you if you don’t supervise them.
behind you, the stall keeps calling out prices.
the city keeps moving.
and somewhere in the crowd, leah walks off with no cherries, and a faint smile she doesn’t bother to hide.
with your heartbeat next to mine - alexia putellas
༄ like a virgin - madonna
༄ pairing - alexia putellas x fem!reader
༄ series - part one ; finale
༄ synopsis - after one impulsive night together, you and alexia try to figure out what comes next while your relentlessly nosy teammates become determined to uncover the identity of your mystery hookup.
༄ word count - 5.7k
༄ notes - based on this request; not proof read
༄ warnings - age gap, mentions of alcohol
༄ read more - masterlist
the first thing you become aware of is warmth.
not sunlight. not the soft hum of the city outside the windows. warmth.
it’s everywhere, wrapped around you in a way that feels unfamiliar enough to make your sleepy brain frown before your eyes have even opened.
the mattress isn’t yours, the duvet definitely isn’t yours., and whoever’s arm is draped securely around your waist…
definitely isn’t yours either.
your eyes flutter open and for one terrifying second, your heart leaps into your throat. then you remember.
the celebrations, the taxi, alexia. your heartbeat settles almost as quickly as it had spiked.
“…bon dia, carino.” the voice is low and rough with sleep, and it comes from much closer than you’d expected.
you turn your head and alexia is already awake. she’s propped up on one elbow, the other arm still loosely around your waist, watching you with the smallest smile you’ve ever seen on her face.
not the polite captain smile, not the proud smile she gives after lifting another trophy, just… soft.
like she’s forgotten she’s supposed to hide behind anything.
“…how long have you been awake?” you mumble.
she shrugs one shoulder. “a little while.”
“a little while?”
another shrug. “maybe longer.”
you squint at her. “…were you staring at me?”
“yes.” she says it so casually that you blink. there’s no embarrassment, no denial. just honesty.
“that’s a bit creepy.”
“probably.”
you wait for her to argue but she doesn’t. instead, the corners of her mouth lift another fraction. “you snore.”
your mouth falls open. “i do not.”
“you do.”
“alexia.”
“a little.”
you shove her shoulder with as much strength as you can manage while still half asleep. she barely moves. “liar.”
“i’m not lying.”
“prove it.”
“i wasn’t recording you.”
you gasp dramatically. “wow.”
“hm?”
“so there are standards.”
that earns you a laugh, an actual laugh. it’s quiet, but it fills the room so completely that you almost forget to breathe. you’ve heard alexia laugh before. at training, at team dinners- usually because mapi has done something ridiculous, or clara has tripped over her feet and alexia is taking the mick out of her.
but never like this. never because of you.
she notices you looking. “…what?”
you shake your head. “nothing.”
“that’s a lie.”
“i just…” you hesitate before smiling to yourself. “i don’t think i’ve ever heard you laugh like that.”
she looks away for the briefest second. old habit. then she looks back. “maybe you’ve never been this funny before.”
you groan. “mean.”
“you’ll survive.”
“i felt my heart palpate.”
“dramatic.”
“always.”
she nods once. “i’ve noticed.”
the silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s comfortable. you don’t think you’ve ever sat in silence with alexia before. normally she’d already have found a reason to leave. or you’d have convinced yourself she didn’t actually want to talk to you.
now…
she’s still looking at you. and for the first time since you’ve known her…
she isn’t looking away.
you study her properly. her hair is a mess- actually messy, there are faint pillow marks on one side of her face, and she’s wearing an old barça t-shirt that’s slightly too big, sleeves pushed up absentmindedly.
she doesn’t look like la reina. she just looks like…
alexia.
“…what?” she asks again.
“nothing.”
she narrows her eyes. “you’re staring now.”
“…probably.”
“that’s a bit creepy.”
“probably.”
she laughs again. “copycat.”
“learned from the best.”
she shakes her head fondly before glancing toward the bedside table. “what time is training?”
your stomach drops and you lunge for your phone.
7:42
“…we’re fine.”
“you looked more panicked than fine.”
“i thought i’d slept until midday.”
alexia smiles. “i wouldn’t let you.”
there’s something oddly reassuring about that. of course she wouldn’t. capitana through and through.
you stretch carefully before sitting up, the duvet slipping down your shoulder.
you immediately pull it back up again. alexia notices, and very deliberately looks at the ceiling.
“…thank you.”
“for?”
“pretending you didn’t see that.”
she snorts. “i’m trying to be respectful.”
“keep trying.”
“i am.”
you climb out of bed, immediately realising your clothes are scattered… everywhere.
“…this is embarrassing.”
alexia follows your gaze around the room. “…a little.”
“stop agreeing with me.”
“you told me honesty was important.”
“i’ve changed my mind.”
she watches with quiet amusement as you wander around collecting your things one by one. your shoes somehow ended up near the bedroom door, your shirt is hanging halfway off a chair.
you eventually stand there with an armful of clothes. “…i don’t suppose these magically folded themselves overnight.”
“no.”
“worth asking.”
alexia stands too. “wait.”
she disappears into her wardrobe and you hear hangers moving. then she comes back holding a grey hoodie.
“put this on.”
you blink. “…yours?”
she nods. “it’s cold outside.”
you hesitate. “isn’t this… obvious?”
“only if you where it and tell everyone it’s mine.”
“…you know if i wear it to training, vicky is absolutely going to ask where i got it.”
alexia considers that. “tell her you shoplifted.”
you grin. “that, she’d believe.”
“exactly.”
you pull it on and it’s far too big. the sleeves cover half your hands. it smells faintly like her.
you pretend not to notice, and alexia definitely notices you pretending not to notice.
she doesn’t say anything.
instead she heads toward the kitchen. “coffee?”
“please.”
“breakfast?”
“please.”
“you’re very polite today.”
“don’t ruin it.”
she smiles over her shoulder.
the kitchen is just as neat as you’d imagined- everything has its place.
you perch on one of the stools while alexia moves around with effortless familiarity. “do you always wake up this early?”
“usually.”
“even after celebrations?”
“usually.”
“that’s terrifying.”
“it’s called being an adult.”
“i’m an adult.”
she glances over, and you watch as one eyebrow lifts.
you point a warning finger at her. “don’t.”
“…i wasn’t going to say anything.”
“yes, you were.”
“maybe.”
you grin into your coffee.
the conversation never becomes serious, meaning you both avoid the obvious. what happened, what this means, what comes next. some adult she is.
instead you talk about training, about mapi and claudia definitely having headaches.
about how patri is somehow always louder after nights out instead of quieter.
it’s easy, alarmingly easy.
before long you’re standing by the front door, shoes finally back on.
“…i should go.”
alexia nods, but neither of you reaches for the handle. another few quiet seconds pass, then she steps forward.
close enough that your heart starts behaving stupidly again.
she reaches up and for one terrifying moment you think she’s about to fix your hair. instead she gently tugs the hood of her sweatshirt into place on your shoulders.
“there.”
“…thanks.”
she smiles. “text me when you get home.”
“i will.”
“promise?”
you nod. “i promise.”
she opens the door and you step out into the hallway. then pathetically, glance back.
she’s still standing there. still smiling, still looking at you. just as pathetically as you were.
“…bye, ale.”
“…bye, chiqui.”
the door closes softly behind you.
and you walk all the way to your car with the biggest smile you’ve ever worn.
and somewhere upstairs, alexia leans against her front door for a long moment before laughing quietly to herself.
because after months of trying not to look at you…
she finally doesn’t have to look away anymore.
⸻
the drive home feels shorter than it ever has before.
you spend half of it grinning to yourself like an idiot. the other half replaying every single conversation from that morning.
“you snore.”
“you stared at me.”
“text me when you get home?”
your smile somehow gets even bigger. “…unbelievable,” you mutter to yourself.
alexia putellas smiled at you. not the captain smile, not the polite smile, yoursmile.
you pull into your driveway, still wearing her hoodie. you should probably take it off before someone sees. but you don’t, because who the hell cares.
instead, you catch yourself pulling the sleeves over your hands as you unlock your front door.
it smells like her. that’s normal, you decide…completely normal.
…okay, maybe not completely.
you drop your keys into the bowl by the entrance before immediately heading for the shower.
your muscles ache from the match, your legs ache from dancing, and your entire body feels pleasantly exhausted.
the hot water only makes you feel sleepier.
you stand there far longer than you mean to, forehead resting against the cool tiles, replaying flashes of the previous night.
alexia laughing.
alexia making coffee.
alexia looking at you like you were the only person in the room.
alexia fucking you and making you feel better than you’ve ever felt before.
not that it was hard to do- because up until yesterday, you technically were a virgin.
you squeeze your eyes shut. “joder, stop smiling.”
you are, in fact, still smiling.
by the time you’re dressed again, your hair is only half dry.
you flop backwards onto your bed for what is supposed to be thirty seconds.
just enough time to close your eyes.
just enough time to-
⸻
your alarm goes off and your eyes fly wide open.
“…what?”
you grab your phone from beside the pillow.
4:26
your stomach drops. “no.”
there’s absolutely no way.
you’d fallen asleep. hard.
you shoot upright so quickly you nearly fall off the bed.
training.
training.
training.
you’ve got-
you squint at the time again. “…i’ve still got ages.”
you let out a long breath. dramatic, very dramatic.
still… you should probably get moving.
you wander into the kitchen, make yourself something resembling breakfast, then spend an embarrassing amount of time standing in front of your wardrobe.
your own hoodie.
or…
alexia’s.
your eyes drift towards the oversized grey hoodie hanging on your chair.
“…well…”
it’s comfortable… and she did tell you to wear it.
that’s practically permission.
decision made.
you pull it back on.
it fits just as ridiculously as it had earlier.
the sleeves still swallow your hands.
you smile pathetically, again.
you’re beginning to suspect your face might stay like this forever.
halfway through tying your shoes, you finally remember your phone. “…right.”
you’d promised to text alexia.
you reach for it and the screen lights up.
58 notifications.
“…what?”
most of them are from one place.
three idiots + chiqui 🐒
your group chat.
you tap it open.
immediately…
11:43PM (last night)
vicky: where are you??
vicky: hello?
kika: she died.
salma: don’t say that 😭
kika: okay fine…
kika: she got kidnapped
vicky: if you got kidnapped after making me catch an uber with a drunk claudia and cata im gonna be so pissed
salma: has anyone checked her room?
vicky: empty
kika: OH MY GOD
kika: SHE DEFINITELY WENT HOME WITH SOMEONE
salma: kika please 😭
salma: she’s too innocent for that
vicky: …
vicky: actually wait
vicky: she might have a good point
kika: when do i not?
you burst out laughing at how unbelievable they are.
you keep scrolling.
there are voice notes, memes, a picture of a missing person poster with your face has been badly edited onto it.
underneath, kika has written:
last seen refusing to buy another round
you snort.
another message.
4:08PM
vicky: if you’re alive just send a thumbs up
vicky: i’ll even send it so that you can just copy and paste it: 👍
salma: please do
kika: unlesss you’re still busy kissing someone
vicky: tia.
kika: WHAT
kika: I’M INVESTIGATING
your cheeks warm and to distract yourself, you glance around your completely empty kitchen.
“…you’re never finding out.”
you click into a new chat.
alexia
your fingers hover over the keyboard.
you’d promised. and she’d asked you to text. but what do you even say?
you: hey, got home safe.
too formal.
you: home :)
absolutely not.
you: made it.
that sounds like you’ve survived climbing everest.
you overthink it for a solid minute before finally typing.
you: got home safe ❤️
…a heart?
you stare at it.
“…oh my god.”
you didn’t mean to press that.
well…
maybe you did.
maybe you-
before you can think yourself into deleting it, you hit send. immediately- phone down, face in hands.
“…fucking idiot.”
your phone buzzes less than ten seconds later, and like some child, you peek through your fingers.
alexia: i’m glad
alexia: missing you chiqui ❤️
your heart does something spectacularly unhelpful. she sent one back.
you grin so hard your cheeks hurt. another buzz, the group chat.
vicky: HELLO?
kika: SHE’S IGNORING US.
salma: she’s definitely alive because she’s been online
“…joder.” right… you should answer them.
you open the chat and type…
you: sorry! fell asleep.
before you can hit send, your eyes flick to the time in the corner of the screen.
4:38PM
“…shit.”
training.
you lock your phone without sending anything. grab your keys, grab your bag, nearly leaving without your water bottle.
come back, grab your water bottle, leave again.
your phone vibrates three more times before you’ve even reversed out of the driveway.
you don’t dare look.
by the time you pull into the training ground car park, it’s still buzzing every few seconds.
you sigh dramatically. “…i’m so getting interrogated.”
you climb out of the car, tug the sleeves of alexia’s hoodie over your hands, and head inside.
completely unaware that, a few corridors away, vicky has just looked up from her own phone with narrowed eyes. “she read the messages.”
kika gasps. “and ignored us?”
salma blinks. “…that’s actually suspicious.”
vicky slowly smiles. “very suspicious.”
kika points dramatically towards the corridor. “operation: who did chiqui disappear with…”
she pauses for dramatic effect…
“…starts now.”
⸻
training should feel normal.
it doesn’t.
it starts the second you step into the dressing room and vicky looks up too quickly from her phone.
“…you’re early.”
you pause. “it’s training time.”
“yeah,” she says slowly, like that wasn’t the point.
kika looks over from the mirror. “you’re in a good mood.”
you shrug, heading to your locker. “i’m always in a good mood.”
clara hums like she doesn’t believe that for a second. “mm.”
you glance at her. “…what.”
“nothing.”
it’s not nothing. you can feel it in the air. like everyone is waiting for something to be confirmed.
you start changing, ignoring it, pulling on your kit like it can shield you from whatever this is.
then alexia walks in… and everything shifts. not loudly, just… subtly. conversation dips for half a second before restarting too fast.
you look up without meaning to, and she’s already looking at you. it lasts a beat too long, then she looks away first.
your stomach does something annoying.
vicky notices immediately. “…huh.”
kika’s head snaps up.
“what.”
“nothing.”
“no, you did the thing.”
“what thing.”
“the thinking thing.”
salma slowly closes her locker.
“…are you two okay?”
you answer too fast. “yes.”
alexia answers slower. “…yes.”
silence.
kika narrows her eyes like she’s assembling a puzzle. “that was weird.”
“it’s opinion-based,” you say immediately.
vicky points at you. “you said it too fast.”
“that means nothing.”
“it means everything,” she says.
alexia exhales quietly through her nose. “we’re going to training.”
which sounds like an escape route. news flash: it doesn’t work.
because on the pitch, it gets worse.
it’s all small things- too small. so small that if you took a microscope and examined it you still couldn’t point it out.
a hand on your shoulder during drills that lingers half a second longer than necessary, a correction that comes closer than it needs to, her voice saying your name softer than it does with anyone else.
you try not to notice… you fail. and then you notice them noticing.
kika keeps watching you instead of the ball.
vicky stops joking entirely.
clara starts quiet little “hm” sounds every time something happens.
even cata looks like she’s enjoying a private show.
at one point, vicky drifts close to kika mid-drill. “it’s not nothing.”
kika doesn’t even look surprised. “no.”
“it’s something.”
you don’t hear it, but alexia does. and when she looks over at them, it’s brief. controlled.
but her jaw tightens slightly before she looks away again- like she knows this is changing shape.
and she doesn’t know how fast.
⸻
by the end of training, something is definitely off.
not officially, not verbally, but everyone feels it.
in the locker room, you’re half-tied shoes when kika drops a bag onto the bench a little too loudly.
“okay.”
you freeze. “…no.”
“we’re not even talking yet,” she says.
“we are absolutely about to talk.”
vicky leans forward instantly. “you’ve been weird all day.”
“i have not.”
“you have,” salma adds gently.
you exhale. “define weird.”
kika points between you and alexia. “that.”
alexia doesn’t look up from taping her wrist. “…that is nothing.”
vicky tilts her head. “it is not nothing.”
you cut in quickly. “it’s training.”
mapi walks in with ona at that exact second. “why does it feel like we’ve missed the beginning of a very important argument.”
kika points again. “they’re acting weird.”
mapi looks between you both. “…you are acting weird.”
alexia closes her eyes briefly. “we are going to leave.”
you grab your bag too fast. “yes.”
“wait,” vicky says immediately.
“no,” you both answer at the same time.
silence.
then mapi claps once. “oh this is good.”
alexia opens her eyes slowly. “stop enjoying this.”
“i can’t,” mapi says cheerfully. “it’s my job.”
you step toward the door.
kika calls after you:
“we’re figuring it out, by the way.”
you pause. “…figuring what out.”
“you know,” vicky says.
“no, i don’t.”
salma shrugs slightly. “the pattern.”
alexia exhales again, more tired now. “…there is no pattern.”
kika smiles. “there is always a pattern.”
you and alexia leave together before this can get worse.
which somehow makes it worse.
⸻
outside, it’s quieter.
you walk side by side without speaking for a while.
then:
“…they’re onto something,” you mutter.
alexia glances at you. “they’re always onto something.”
“not like this.”
she doesn’t answer immediately, she just keeps walking.
then:
“…they’re loud.”
you snort. “that’s one way to put it.”
“it will calm down.”
you look at her. “will it?”
a pause. “…eventually.”
you laugh under your breath. “you sound unsure.”
she finally looks at you properly. “i am unsure.”
that’s new.
you slow slightly. “about them?”
another pause.
then softer:
“…about everything being everyone’s business.”
you nod slowly. “yeah.”
a beat, then you bump her shoulder lightly.“too late for that.”
a small exhale leaves her, almost a laugh. “…si.”
you keep walking, closer now than before.
not hiding it, but not announcing it either.
just existing in it.
and somewhere behind you, faintly from the building, you hear vicky shout:
“THEY’RE WALKING OFF TOGETHER AGAIN!”
alexia closes her eyes for half a second.
you laugh.
and this time, neither of you speeds up.
⸻
it starts with a whiteboard.
that’s your first mistake.
you stop dead in the cafeteria doorway. “…no.”
kika looks up immediately, way too pleased with herself. “yes.”
you slowly step inside. “what is that.”
vicky taps the board like it’s a tactical briefing.
THEORY BOARD
under it, in messy handwriting, is a list of names.
your stomach drops slightly when you see how many have already been crossed out.
“you didn’t,” you say flatly.
salma lifts her hands in mild defence. “we were bored.”
“you made a conspiracy chart because you were bored.”
“it’s structured thinking,” kika corrects.
patri walks in behind you, glances at it once, and immediately nods. “this is elite work.”
you turn on her. “don’t encourage them.”
“too late,” she says.
you scan the board again.
and there are categories, there are notes, and worst of all, there are drawings.
you point at one. “…why is there a stick figure labelled ‘emotionally unavailable but hot’.”
vicky beams. “criteria.”
“that’s not criteria.”
alexia arrives mid-chaos and stops just behind you.
you don’t turn around immediately, but you feel her presence shift the air.
kika notices first. “ah! capitana!,” she says sweetly.
alexia looks at the board, then at all of you “…what is this.”
silence.
vicky clears her throat. “research.”
“research into what.”
patri leans on the table. “well it’s pretty obvious, romantic compatibility.”
alexia closes her eyes for a second. “i’m going to regret asking this.”
you finally turn slightly. “you will.”
her eyes flick to you for half a second longer than necessary, then back to the board. “…this is about us.”
kika gasps. “we didn’t say that.”
alexia points at a crossed-out name. “why is half the team on here.”
salma answers carefully. “process of elimination.”
alexia stares. “…you eliminated the entire squad.”
vicky shrugs. “not everyone is suspicious.”
“define suspicious.”
kika flips the board. “emotional reaction patterns, physical proximity anomalies, and eye contact frequency.”
you bury your face in your hands. “i hate all of you.”
mapi walks in and claps once. “this is my love scandal at barca. behind lucy, keira, and ona of course.”
alexia exhales slowly. “you’re all insane.”
kika smiles. “correct.”
then vicky leans forward, voice dropping slightly. “…so it is someone.”
silence.
you feel it shift again.
alexia doesn’t answer immediately, and that’s enough.
kika straightens instantly.
“oh my god.”
salma looks between you both like she’s connecting dots she pretended not to see.
mapi is openly grinning now. “finally.”
you step forward quickly. “no.”
too fast. too sharp. and suddenly, everyone looks at you.
you freeze and alexia does too.
a beat.
kika tilts her head. “…it’s someone on the team. i mean no offence- you don’t really talk to too many people outside this team”
vicky adds slowly. “you’re just really bad at hiding it.”
you open your mouth-
then stop.
because alexia speaks first. calm, controlled, collected, as if she’s been through this before.
“…this is ridiculous.”
it should end it.
but it doesn’t.
because vicky’s eyes are already narrowing “it’s you.”
silence drops instantly.
vicky acts out a mic drop instantly as well.
and you feel your heartbeat go stupidly loud.
alexia doesn’t move, doesn’t react immediately. she just looks at her. “…what.”
kika points between you both. “it’s you two.”
salma exhales like she’s been waiting for this moment for days. “that actually makes a lot of sense.”
you snap. “no it doesn’t.”
mapi nods with a grin. “it absolutely does.”
alexia finally looks at you. just for a second.
and that second says too much.
vicky sees it, kika sees it, everyone sees it.
“…oh my god,” vicky whispers.
you shake your head immediately. “stop.”
alexia exhales through her nose.
not angry, not denying, just… caught.
and that’s kind of wworse.
kika slowly smiles. “…it’s her.”
silence.
then patri, far too pleased:
“i knew it.”
you cover your face again.
alexia looks like she’s considering leaving the country.
vicky laughs once. “this is insane.”
salma just nods. “it explains a lot though.”
alexia finally speaks, quieter now. “…are you done?”
kika thinks. “no.”
you groan. “please be done.”
mapi raises her coffee. “absolutely not.”
and that’s when it becomes real.
and somehow that’s worse then it never happening.
because now there’s no hiding behind “maybe”.
no avoiding glances.
no pretending the list didn’t lead exactly here.
alexia looks at you again, and you look back.
and for the first time since this whole mess started-
you don’t immediately look away.
somewhere behind you, vicky whispers:
“this is going to be so annoying.”
kika replies happily:
“this is going to be amazing.”
⸻
it takes longer than it should for everyone to leave.
not because anyone is physically stopping them.
just because nobody really knows how to walk away from this without turning it into something else first.
kika starts it.
“okay,” she says, like she’s wrapping up a meeting, “we’re being normal now.”
you don’t even look up from your bag. “you’ve never been normal.”
“rude,” she replies instantly.
vicky is still hovering, arms folded, watching you and alexia like she’s trying to solve a problem she already knows the answer to but refuses to accept.
salma is quieter, sitting on the bench with her water bottle, observing everything like she’s filing it away for later.
and mapi-
mapi is grinning like she’s just been handed the most entertaining storyline of the season.
“i want it on record,” she says, pointing between you and alexia, “that i always suspected.”
“you suspected nothing,” you say immediately.
“i suspected vibes,” she corrects.
alexia exhales through her nose. “mapi.”
“what?”
“leave.”
“fine,” she says, unbothered, already walking backwards. “but i expect updates. frequent ones. emotionally detailed.”
“you will get nothing,” you reply.
“liar,” she says cheerfully, and finally disappears down the corridor.
the room shifts after she leaves.
not quieter exactly… just emptier in a way that makes everything feel more exposed.
you sit down on the grass outside without really deciding to.
it just happens.
alexia follows a second later.
not close enough to touch, but close enough that she doesn’t feel like she’s somewhere else anymore.
for a while, neither of you speak.
there’s wind moving through the pitch. distant voices from inside the building. the sound of boots somewhere behind the stands being dragged across concrete.
normal things. just not normal for this.
you pick at a blade of grass. “…they’re never going to stop talking about it.”
alexia hums softly. “no.”
you glance at her and she looks calmer now.
still composed, but not as tight as earlier. like something has unclenched.
“are you okay?” you ask.
it comes out quieter than you expect.
she doesn’t answer immediately and that pause says more than words.
then:
“yes,” she says.
a beat.
then, more honest:
“…just different.”
you nod slowly. “yeah.”
silence settles again. not uncomfortable, never uncomfortable with her.
just full.
alexia shifts slightly, turning her upper body a little toward you.
not dramatic, but just enough that you notice.
“i didn’t think it would feel like this,” she says.
you tilt your head. “like what?”
she exhales through her nose, thinking. “like everyone already knows what we are.”
you let out a small laugh. “they didn’t already know. they just… guessed aggressively.”
that gets a faint smile from her.“same thing.”
“not really.”
“feels like it.”
you lean back on your hands, looking up briefly at the sky.
“they were going to find out eventually anyway,” you say. “it’s vicky and kika. they solve things they’re not supposed to care about.”
alexia watches you for a second.
“and mapi makes it worse.”
“mapi makes everything worse,” you correct.
a soft breath of amusement leaves her “true.”
another pause, this one longer.
then alexia’s voice drops slightly. “…i didn’t want it to feel like pressure.”
you look at her again.
that lands differently.
because it’s not about the team. not really.
you shake your head. “it doesn’t.”
she studies you carefully, like she’s checking for cracks in your answer.
you don’t look away.
so she nods once. “good.”
quiet again.
but it’s different now.
less uncertain and more settled.
you shift slightly, knees brushing the grass.
“you know,” you say, “for someone who captains everything, you’re very stressed about people knowing your business.”
she gives you a look. “i don’t like chaos.”
you snort. “you play for barça.”
“exactly.”
that gets you both.
a small laugh from her this time, realer than the earlier ones.
it hangs in the air for a second before fading.
alexia leans back slightly on her hands too.
her shoulder is closer now.
not touching.
but close enough that it could happen without effort.
“are you okay with it?” she asks.
you glance at her. “with what?”
“this,” she says simply.
no elaboration needed.
you don’t hesitate. “yeah.”
a pause.
you add, a little softer:
“are you?”
her answer comes just as quickly. “yes.”
but she doesn’t look away after saying it.
she stays looking at you.
like she wants you to see that she means it.
your chest feels weirdly light at that.
you bump her shoulder gently. “good.”
that earns a faint smile from her.
then, quieter:
“…it’s going to be loud.”
you laugh under your breath. “it’s already loud.”
“it will get worse.”
“it will absolutely get worse,” you agree.
alexia nods once like that’s a confirmed tactical issue.
“manageable,” she says.
you raise an eyebrow. “you think vicky is manageable?”
“no.”
“kika?”
“no.”
“mapi?”
“definitely no.”
you grin. “so what are we managing exactly?”
she looks at you properly then.
there’s a pause.
then, very simply:
“us.”
that quiets everything for a second.
not in a heavy way… just in a real way.
you nod slowly. “yeah.”
no performance, no joke… just agreement.
the wind picks up slightly across the pitch.
alexia shifts again, closer this time without hesitation.
her hand moves in the grass.
slow.
then she finds yours.
physical contact.
you glance at her hand, then at her.
she’s already looking at you.
not checking if it’s okay anymore.
just there.
“we’re okay,” she says quietly.
you squeeze her hand once. “yeah.”
and that’s it.
no dramatic conclusion. no big shift in the world, but just the quiet acceptance of something that was already happening long before anyone named it.
somewhere behind the building, you hear vicky shout:
“THEY’RE STILL SITTING TOGETHER!”
alexia closes her eyes briefly.
you laugh under your breath.
and neither of you lets go.
⸻
it doesn’t take long.
it never does.
you’re still sitting on the grass when you hear them coming back.
not quietly.
never quietly.
vicky’s voice hits first. “i’m just saying, it’s statistically interesting.”
kika follows immediately. “that’s like not how statistics work.”
“it is in my world.”
salma walks behind them with the tired expression of someone who has accepted her fate.
and mapi-
mapi arrives with aitana like she owns the pitch.
“okay,” she says, clapping once, “we’re resuming normal operations.”
you don’t even turn around. “there are no operations.”
Please can we have a pt2 for the most recent ale fic!!! Like the morning after with ale and r and perhaps the girls finding out that r left with someone and a couple of them suspect someone on the team??? Alexia gets all possessive and they realise it's her?? Something like that maybe :)
i initially did not plan on doing a part two, but ask and you shall receive !
i'll start working after i get off work, it should be up at some point tonight.
༄ synopsis - everyone assumes alexia putellas keeps her distance because you’re the youngest player in the squad. the truth is far more dangerous: she’s been trying not to fall for you from the moment you arrived.
༄ word count - 5.6k
༄ notes - 5000 words of rubbish; not proof read
༄ warnings - alcohol, age gap, virgin!reader x unaware!alexia, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), strap (r receiving), strap sucking, mentions of alcohol, public sex
༄ read more - masterlist
matches at barca always feel a bit like controlled chaos.
boots thudding against concrete, someone laughing too loudly from the physio room, music leaking out of a speaker that’s been passed around the dressing room so many times nobody remembers who it belongs to anymore.
you’re used to it now.
freshly eighteen, still somehow always “the youngest” even though you insist you’re not a child.
it doesn’t matter what you say though. to them, you’re still-
“chiquita!”
mapi’s voice cuts across the room before you’ve even finished tying your laces.
you groan immediately. “don’t start.”
she grins like she’s been waiting all morning just to annoy you.
“too late, chiqui.”
ona snorts from where she’s sitting on the floor, tugging on her socks. “leave her alone, mapi.”
“why?” mapi leans on the lockers, completely unbothered. “she likes it.”
“i don’t,” you shoot back instantly.
vicky doesn’t even look up from her phone. “you do a little bit.”
“i hate all of you.”
“liar,” kika calls from the mirror, fixing her ponytail. “you literally laughed yesterday.”
you flip her off without thinking, and she laughs harder.
this is your normal.
kika, salma, vicky, you- always tangled together in noise and chaos and half-finished arguments about absolutely nothing. always in trouble for something small. always the ones making training ten percent louder than it needs to be. you wouldn’t trade it.
even when irene starts counting down like she’s pere.
“if you three don’t stop talking, i’m telling pere to start making you run extra after matches.”
“we’re four,” vicky corrects.
“no,” irene says immediately, pointing at you. “chiqui’s still little, she doesn’t count.”
“i’m literally standing right here.”
“exactly,” irene says, completely serious.
kika laughs so hard she nearly drops her boot. it’s easy. familiar. messy in the best way.
and then there’s alexia.
you notice her the same way you always do. quiet, already dressed, hair tied back perfectly, tape around her wrist even though training hasn’t started yet. she’s talking to aitana about something on the schedule, nodding slightly, listening more than she speaks.
she always looks like that.
composed. steady. captain without needing to announce it.
and she always looks at everyone the same way.
except you think she doesn’t.
you’re not sure when you started noticing it. maybe it’s the distance she keeps. not obvious, most definitely not rude, but distant nonetheless.
as if there’s a line she never crosses with you, even when she crosses it with everyone else.
she’ll ruffle vicky’s hair when she walks past, she’ll tug kika gently by the sleeve to stop her running in the hallway, she’ll wrap an arm around clara after a drill and say something softly that makes her laugh. with you however, it’s different. it's always polite and it'd always careful.
“buen trabajo, chiquita.” that’s what she says after you score, and if you’re lucky she’ll even say it after drills from time to time.
never your name, and never anything that lingers. just plain and simple, chiquita.
you used to think it was normal. everyone calls you that anyway. but it doesn’t feel the same when she says it.
because she says it like she’s reminding herself of something. like she’s putting a label on you and keeping it there.
you tighten your laces harder than you need to.
“stop staring,” vicky murmurs beside you without looking up.
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“i’m literally just looking at the room.”
“uh-huh.”
you kick her lightly and she laughs, and across the room, alexia glances up for a second.
not at you exactly, just in your direction. and then she looks away again like she’s caught herself doing something wrong. you pretend you didn’t notice.
the game starts the way it always does- fast, loud, relentless.
you forget about everything except the ball, the space, the constant shouting of names as passes fly across the pitch. vicky is everywhere at once, claudia is trying something ridiculous again, cata is even smiling while she’s protecting the goal.
you fit into it perfectly.
it’s only when there’s a break that you notice her again. alexia is standing near the halfway line, talking to mapi and patri.
mapi says something that makes patri roll her eyes and alexia smiles… small, brief. then her eyes flick toward you again. and again, she looks away.
you frown slightly.
“what’s up with her today?” kika asks, following your gaze.
“who?”
“alexia.”
you shrug too fast. “no idea.”
salma finally looks up from the grass. “she’s always like that with you.”
“no she’s not.”
vicky raises an eyebrow. “she kind of is.”
you don’t like that answer, but you don’t say anything back.
instead, you jog back into position when the whistle goes again, pushing it out of your head like you always do when something doesn’t quite make sense.
by the time the match ends, you’re sweaty, tired, and back to normal. or mostly.
the dressing room is louder now.
music, laughter, someone complaining about a tackle, someone else stealing someone’s kit and getting chased for it.
you’re halfway through pulling off your boots when mapi leans over your bench.
“chiqui.”
you look up suspiciously. “what.”
she grins. “you coming tonight?”
“coming where.”
“don’t act innocent.”
you groan. “the celebration?”
“yes, the celebration, eres tonta?” she says like you’re slow. “we beat valencia.”
kika cheers from across the room. “we always beat valencia.”
“not like that,” mapi says. “this one was fun.”
you glance over instinctively.
alexia is already packing her bag.
calm. quiet. like she hasn’t just spent ninety minutes running the midfield into the ground. she catches your look for half a second. then looks away first. again.
your stomach does something you ignore immediately.
“yeah,” you say finally, turning back to mapi. “i’m coming.”
“good,” she says. “don’t disappear, chiquita.”
“i don’t disappear.”
“you literally hide behind vicky and kika all the time.”
“that’s called strategy.”
kika throws a sock at you. you catch it without looking.
the dressing room dissolves into more noise, more movement, more plans being made. and somewhere in the middle of it, alexia finishes zipping her bag.
she pauses, only for a second and her eyes land on you again.
this time you don’t look away immediately. you almost catch it. almost.
then vicky shoves you sideways and you laugh, losing it completely in the moment again.
when you look back up, alexia is gone. you don’t think much of it. not yet. it’s just another day. just another game. just another time she said your nickname like it meant nothing at all.
but later, when you’re getting ready for the night out, you’ll remember the way she looked at you in that one second.
like she was trying very hard not to.
⸻
the night feels like it’s been turned up too loud from the start.
music spilling out of the club, streetlights too bright, everyone still buzzing off the win like it’s something they can’t quite put down yet. shirts half tucked, hair messy, voices overlapping in a dozen different directions.
you stick close to vicky and kika at first, like always.
it’s easy that way.
safe in noise.
kika is already laughing about something mapi said earlier, vicky is arguing that she was clearly fouled at least seven times in training, and esmee is walking just ahead of you shaking her head like she’s the only sane one left in the world.
“you’re all insane,” esmee says.
“you love us,” vicky shoots back immediately.
“unfortunately.”
you grin, bumping into kika’s shoulder. “she means mostly me.”
“delusional,” kika says, but she’s laughing.
someone shouts your name from behind you- chiquita stretched out across the street like it’s a song- and you don’t even need to turn around to know it’s mapi.
you flip her off over your shoulder without looking. it earns you a cheer. somewhere in the mess of it all, you lose track of alexia.
you don’t notice when she stops being in your line of sight.
you only realise it later, when vicky is pulled away by aitana, clara gets dragged into a conversation with patri, and esmee wanders off with kika to get drinks.
suddenly it’s just you. standing slightly apart from the chaos. the noise feels louder without them buffering it.
you shift your weight, scanning the crowd without meaning to.
and then you see her.
alexia.
near the edge of the group, half in shadow under the club lights. hair looser than usual, not fully undone but not as controlled as it is at training. she’s laughing at something mapi says, head tilted back slightly, the kind of laugh you almost never see in daylight.
it catches you off guard.
you’ve seen her smile before. you’ve never really seen her like this. like she’s not holding herself together quite as tightly. her eyes flick across the crowd and land on you.
this time she doesn’t look away immediately.
she holds it. longer than she should.
your breath feels stuck somewhere it shouldn’t be.
then mapi bumps her shoulder, says something you can’t hear, and alexia blinks like she’s been pulled back into herself.
but she doesn’t fully let go of you. not yet.
you don’t move when she starts walking toward you. you probably should. you don’t.
she stops a step away, closer than she usually is. close enough that you can smell faint traces of perfume and alcohol and the night clinging to her skin.
“you’re quiet,” she says, her voice is softer than it is at training.
“i’m not.”
a small pause. then, almost like she’s deciding something mid-thought, she tilts her head slightly.
“you’re always with vicky and kika.”
you shrug. “they’re annoying. i keep them in check.”
that makes her smile properly. not the polite one from the game. something warmer.
“they keep you busy, then.”
“someone has to survive them.”
alexia hums like she’s considering that and there’s a beat where neither of you move. the music pulses behind you, distant but constant, like the world refusing to stop for this moment.
“are you enjoying tonight?” she asks. it’s such a simple question it almost throws you off.
“yeah,” you say. “are you?”
she hesitates just for a second too long, then nods. “si.”
but her eyes are still on you. like she’s not really answering the question she asked.
you swallow, suddenly aware of how close she is. how different she feels out here compared to training. less captain. more just… alexia. someone you’re not used to seeing without armour on.
“you’re not with them. it's bad to drink alone, you know.” she says quietly.
you glance past her shoulder. “they abandoned me.”
a soft breath leaves her like a laugh she doesn’t fully release. “tragic.”
“i know.”
that gets another smile out of her. and then, instead of stepping back like she normally would, she stays. your heart feels annoyingly loud in your chest.
“you’re eighteen now,” she says after a moment.
you frown slightly. “yeah. i was yesterday too. i have been for the past month now- hence the drink in hand.”
that makes her exhale through her nose, almost amused. “you know what i mean.”
there’s something in her tone that shifts the air between you. not heavy, just… different.
you don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t. instead, you just look at her. and she looks back. properly.
no looking away this time, no polite distance, just alexia. and for a second, it feels like the noise around you fades into something far away.
then someone shouts her name from across the club. she doesn’t move, not immediately. her eyes flick once toward the sound. then back to you- something in her expression tightens, like she’s arguing with herself.
you shouldn’t be here. that’s what it feels like she’s thinking. or maybe-
you shouldn’t be looking at her like that.
she finally steps back.just a little. enough to breathe again.
“they’re waiting for me,” she says.
“go then,” you reply, a bit too quickly.
she nods but doesn’t turn straight away. her gaze drops briefly to your face. then lifts again. like she’s memorising something she shouldn’t be memorising.
“you should go back to your friends,” she says.
“they’re not my parents.”
a small pause, then her mouth twitches.
“no,” she agrees softly. “they’re not.”
another beat, longer this time. and then she finally turns away. but not before you catch the way her hand curls slightly at her side, like she’s holding something in.
you watch her walk back into the crowd.
watched her disappear into the noise again like she never stepped out of it. only now, something has shifted.
and you can feel it sitting under your skin, quiet but undeniable. like the beginning of something neither of you have said out loud yet.
you don’t go back to vicky and kika immediately. you just stand there for a second longer than you should. thinking about the way she looked at you. and the way she didn’t look away.
⸻
a little while later you end up at the bar talking to a girl. she’s tall, easy smile, plays for another team. she leans in when she laughs, hand brushing your arm, complimenting the way you played against madrid two weeks ago, and your game tonight against valencia. it feels light. harmless. fun, even. you’re smiling at something she says when you feel it again- that heavy stare cutting through the crowd.
alexia.
she’s moving toward you now, jaw tight, eyes dark with alcohol and something sharper. she stops right beside you, shoulder brushing yours like she has every right.
“chiquita,” she says, voice low and edged. she doesn’t even glance at the other girl. “we need to talk.”
the girl raises an eyebrow. “everything okay?”
“it’s fine,” you start, but alexia’s hand is already wrapped around your wrist, grip warm and insistent.
“no. it’s not.”
she tugs you away from the bar, away from the girl who just shrugs and melts back into the crowd. the second you’re in the quieter hallway you yank your arm free, anger flashing hot.
“what the fuck, alexia? what was that?”
she pushes the bathroom door open, checks the stalls, then locks it behind you. the click sounds final. the music drops to a dull thump through the walls.
“you shouldn’t be talking to her, she looked about 6 years older than you,” she snaps, crowding you back against the sink counter.
“why? because you said so?” you laugh, sharp and bitter. “we barely talk. you keep your distance and call me chiquita like i’m a kid, and now you’re jealous? and trying to tell me who i can and can't talk to? who do you think you are?”
alexia exhales hard, hands landing on either side of you, caging you in. “i’m the person who can’t stop thinking about you. every single day. you’re bad for me, chiquita. too young. too close. and then i see her touching you like it’s nothing-”
“you don’t own me,” you fire back, but your voice wavers because she’s so close now, eyes blazing.
she kisses you instead.
it's hard, desperate, and slightly angry- but you arent sure if it's directed toward you or the girl.
her mouth crashes into yours, tongue sliding deep, one hand gripping your jaw while the other slides straight down into your jeans.
she pushes two fingers inside you without warning- slow but relentless, stretching you open deep and steady. you gasp into her mouth at the sudden burn, the fullness.
it hurts for a second, your body not used to it, but she doesn’t know. she’s too drunk, too jealous, too lost in the heat to notice how tight you are or how your breath catches.
“fuck,” she mutters against your neck, biting down as her fingers start moving. slow, deep thrusts, curling perfectly on every stroke. “you’re so wet already. so bad for me. making me lose control like this.”
you clutch her shoulders, legs trembling. the roughness of the stretch melts into heavy pleasure as her thumb finds your clit, circling slow and firm. every deep push drags against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
alexia keeps talking, voice low and rough between kisses and bites.
“you’re going to ruin me, chiquita. walking around looking like that. smiling at everyone. letting some girl flirt with you right in front of me. i shouldn’t want this. i shouldn’t want you.” she curls her fingers deeper, pressing hard, and you moan, hips rocking into her hand. “but i do. i fucking do. and it pisses me off.”
the pleasure builds thick and heavy, coiling low in your stomach. her free hand slides under your shirt, palming your breast, pinching your nipple while her fingers keep that devastating slow rhythm inside you. the bathroom mirror fogs slightly from your breathing. your thighs shake harder.
“alexia-” you gasp.
“that’s it, amor” she whispers, forehead against yours, eyes dark and hungry. “come on my fingers. show me how much you want this even though it’s wrong.”
you come hard, biting into her shoulder to muffle the cry, body pulsing around her fingers as the orgasm drags out. she doesn’t stop moving them right away- just keeps fucking you slow and deep through every aftershock until you’re whimpering, ovrsensitive and shaking.
only then does she ease her hand out, licking her fingers clean while staring at you.
“my place,” she says, voice still rough. “now.”
⸻
alexia doesn’t say much on the way to her place. the taxi ride is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside the windows and the occasional brush of her thigh against yours. her hand stays on your knee the whole time, thumb stroking slow circles like she’s still trying to convince herself this is real.
you don’t speak either. your body is still buzzing from the bathroom, legs a little shaky, and the reality of what’s about to happen sits heavy and exciting in your chest.
when you finally step inside her apartment the door barely clicks shut before she’s on you again.
she pushes you against the wall in the hallway, kissing you deep and messy, hands already tugging at your clothes. shirts hit the floor. jeans get kicked aside somewhere near the couch. by the time you reach her bedroom you’re both down to underwear, skin hot and flushed. alexia’s eyes are darker now, the alcohol still thick but the want burning sharper underneath.
she doesn’t give you time to think. she walks you backwards until your knees hit the edge of her big bed and pushes you down gently but firmly. you land on your back, heart hammering as she climbs over you, hair falling around her face like a curtain.
“been wanting to do this for so long,” she murmurs, voice low and rough. she kisses down your body slowly- collarbone, between your breasts, stomach, hips- like she’s savouring every inch.
when she reaches your thighs she spreads them wide, settling between them on her knees.
she looks up at you for a second, eyes locked on yours, something possessive flashing across her face. then her mouth is on you.
the first lick is slow and broad, dragging from your entrance up to your clit. you moan loudly, back arching off the bed. alexia groans against you like she’s the one being tasted, hands gripping your thighs tighter to hold you open. she licks into you again and again, slow and deep, tongue exploring every fold like she wants to memorise the way you taste.
“fuck, chiquita,” she mutters, voice vibrating against your sensitive skin. “you taste so good. so fucking sweet. been driving me crazy wondering what you’d feel like on my tongue.”
she seals her lips around your clit and sucks gently at first, then harder, alternating with slow, lazy circles of her tongue. your hands fly to her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands, hips rolling up into her mouth. every flick and suck sends sparks shooting up your spine. you’re still sensitive from the bathroom but she doesn’t care. she devours you like she’s starving.
alexia slides two fingers inside you without warning- slow, deep, curling perfectly on every thrust. the stretch is still intense but the way her mouth works your clit at the same time makes it feel incredible. wet sounds fill the room along with your broken moans and her low hums of approval.
“so tight,” she groans between licks, fingers pumping steadily. “you’re squeezing my fingers so good. bad for me, you know that? making me want to keep you like this. spread open on my bed. mine.”
she adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and you cry out, thighs trembling around her head. the fullness combined with her tongue on your clit is overwhelming.
she fucks you with her fingers in that same slow, deep rhythm she used in the bathroom- deliberate, like she wants you to feel every inch, every curl. her mouth never leaves your clit, sucking and licking in perfect sync.
“ale- dios mio.” your voice breaks.
she looks up at you again, eyes dark and hungry, lips shiny with your wetness. “that’s it. say my name. let me hear how much you need this. you were talking to that girl tonight and all i could think about was dragging you home and burying my face between your legs. no one else gets to have you like this. only me.”
her words hit hard, possessive and jealous and raw. she curls her fingers harder, pressing against that spot inside you while her tongue flicks fast over your clit. your hips jerk, a sob escaping your throat. the pleasure is building heavy and deep, coiling tight in your core.
alexia doesn’t let up. she fucks you with her fingers faster now but still deep, mouth working you relentlessly. one of her hands slides up your body to pinch your nipple, rolling it between her fingers while she sucks hard on your clit.
“come for me, chiquita,” she growls against you. “want to feel you come on my tongue. been thinking about this for months. you’re going to ruin me and i don’t even care anymore.”
you come hard, back bowing off the bed, a loud moan tearing from your throat. your walls clench around her fingers, pulsing as the orgasm crashes through you in waves. alexia moans into you, licking and fingering you through every second of it, drawing it out until you’re shaking and whimpering, oversensitive and breathless.
only when you start twitching away from her mouth does she ease her fingers out and crawl back up your body.
she kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on her tongue. her hand strokes your side gently, almost soothing, but her eyes are still dark with hunger.
“we’re not done,” she whispers against your lips, voice thick with promise. “not even close.”
⸻
alexia doesn’t give you much time to recover. she kisses you once more, slow and deep, then pulls back and sits up on her knees. her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with hunger.
she reaches over to the drawer and pulls out the harness. you watch, pulse racing, as she steps into it and tightens the straps around her hips. the thick silicone cock juts out heavy and intimidating between her legs.
she looks down at you, voice low and rough.
“is this okay?” she asks, brushing her thumb gently over your bottom lip. “we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”
you swallow hard, nerves and want twisting together in your stomach. you’ve come this far. you don’t want to stop now.
“i… i’ve never done this before,” you confess quietly, cheeks burning. “any of it. the bathroom was already my first time. i’m still a virgin.”
alexia freezes for a second, eyes widening. shock flickers across her face, quickly replaced by something deeper- a fierce wave of protectiveness, hunger, and raw possessiveness.
she leans down, cupping your face with both hands, kissing you slow and tender.
“fuck, y/n,” she breathes against your lips. “you should’ve told me earlier.”
“i wanted it,” you whisper. “i still want it. i want you.”
she searches your eyes carefully, thumb stroking your cheek.
“you’re sure?” she asks again, voice serious even through the alcohol haze. “this is a big deal. i need you to be completely sure.”
you nod, heart pounding. “i’m sure. please, alexia.”
she kisses you again, deeper this time, like she’s sealing a promise. when she pulls back her expression has shifted- determined, almost reverent.
“then i’m going to make this the best night of your life,” she murmurs, voice dropping into that low, filthy tone you’re starting to crave. “gonna take such good care of you. make sure you feel every single second.”
she guides you up gently until your face is level with the strap.
“get it ready for me, amor. nice and wet so i can fuck you properly.”
you lean forward and wrap your lips around the thick head, sucking slowly, tongue swirling around it. alexia groans deeply, fingers threading through your hair with gentle pressure.
“fuck, look at you,” she breathes, eyes locked on your mouth. “sucking my cock so pretty for your first time. no one else will ever see you like this. only me. you’re mine tonight, y/n. all fucking mine.”
you take more of it, bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks as you work it deeper, getting it slick with your saliva. alexia’s hips twitch forward slightly, but she keeps control, letting you set the pace while she praises you in that wrecked voice.
“good girl. just like that. so eager for me. been thinking about this for months. you have no idea what you do to me.”
the words send heat flooding through your body. you moan around the strap, the vibration pulling another deep groan from her.
after a few more moments she gently pulls you off, thumb wiping the corner of your mouth. “on your back, chiquita.”
you lie down, legs spreading for her instinctively. alexia settles between them, rubbing the thick, wet head of the strap against your soaked folds, teasing your clit until you’re whimpering and rolling your hips.
she leans over you, one arm braced beside your head, the other guiding the strap.
“last chance,” she whispers, forehead resting against yours. “you still want this? want me to be your first?”
“yes,” you breathe, desperate. “alexia, please.”
she kisses you softly, then lines herself up.
“i’ve got you,” she promises, voice thick with intent.
⸻
she pushes in slowly at first- careful, controlled, watching your face the entire time. the thick head stretches you open, inch by inch.
you gasp sharply at the intense burn and fullness, nails digging into her shoulders. it’s so much. alexia pauses, letting you adjust, pressing soft kisses along your jaw and neck.
“breathe, amor,” she murmurs. “you’re doing so good. taking me so well for your first time.”
once you relax a little she sinks deeper, bottoming out with a low groan. the feeling of being completely full is overwhelming- a perfect mix of pressure, stretch, and deep pleasure. alexia stays still for a moment, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch.
then she starts moving.
deep, powerful, rhythmic thrusts. not rushed, but intense. every stroke drags perfectly against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. she angles her hips just right, grinding deep on every thrust, making sure the base of the strap presses against your clit.
“joder, you feel incredible,” she groans, voice wrecked. “so tight and wet for me. this pussy was made to take my cock. your first time and you’re taking it so well, m’so fucking proud of you, mi amor.”
the praise mixed with the filthy possessiveness makes your head spin. alexia fucks you with purpose- long, deep strokes that build and build, never letting the pleasure drop. one hand slides between you, fingers circling your clit in perfect time with her thrusts.
your moans get louder, legs wrapping tighter around her waist, heels digging into her back. every thrust pushes you higher, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. alexia leans down, biting your neck, sucking marks into your skin while she railsyou.
“no one else will ever have you like this,” she growls against your ear. “your first time is mine. your moans are mine. this pretty pussy coming on my cock for the first time is all mine. say it.”
“yours,” you gasp, voice breaking. “alexia- fuck, i’m yours.”
she fucks you harder, deeper, hips snapping with precision. the strap hits that perfect spot over and over while her fingers work your clit relentlessly. the pleasure becomes almost too much, white-hot and overwhelming, building into something massive.
“that’s it, bebe,” she pants, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked on you. “let go for me. want to feel you come so hard on your first time. give it to me. come on my cock like a good girl.”
the orgasm hits you like a tidal wave.
your whole body seizes, back arching violently off the bed as the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt explodes through you. your walls clamp down hard around the thick strap, pulsing and fluttering as wave after wave crashes over you.
you cry out her name loud and broken, vision whiting out completely. it feels like it goes on forever- every muscle in your body shaking uncontrollably.
alexia keeps thrusting through it, deep and steady, drawing out every last pulse until you’re sobbing with overstimulation, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.
only when you start twitching and whimpering does she slow down, grinding deep instead of thrusting, helping you ride out the aftershocks.
she kisses you through it- soft, sweet kisses on your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids, whispering praise the whole time.
“such a good girl, came so beautifully for me. you did so perfect for me, mi amor.”
you’re shaking, completely wrecked, clinging to her like she’s the only thing keeping you on earth. alexia stays buried deep inside you, holding you close as you come down, stroking your hair and murmuring soft words against your skin.
“you alright, bebe?” she whispers eventually, voice full of awe and affection.
you can barely speak. you just nod weakly, a dazed, blissed-out smile on your face.
alexia kisses your forehead, staying inside you, holding you like she never wants to let go.
⸻
alexia stays buried deep inside you for a long moment, holding you close as the last tremors run through your body.
you’re shaking, full-body, uncontrollable little tremors that won’t stop. your breathing is ragged, heart hammering against your ribs, legs still twitching around her waist.
she finally eases the strap out slowly, carefully, murmuring soft apologies when you whimper at the emptiness.
she quickly removes the harness and tosses it aside, then pulls you into her arms, skin against skin.
“i’ve got you,” she whispers, voice hoarse but gentle. “just breathe, chiqui.”
you’re still trembling against her, overwhelmed and exhausted. alexia reaches for the warm cloth she prepared earlier and gently wipes you down between your legs, movements slow and tender.
every touch is careful, like she’s handling something delicate. she cleans the mess from your thighs, your stomach, your folds, all while holding you close with her free arm.
“you okay?” she asks quietly, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.
“yeah…” you mumble, voice barely there. “just… shaking. can’t stop.”
“that’s normal, especially for your first time,” she says softly, continuing to wipe you down. “you came really hard. let it happen. i’m right here.”
the room is quiet except for your uneven breathing and the soft sounds of the cloth. alexia finishes cleaning you and sets the cloth aside, pulling the blanket over both of you. she tucks you against her chest, one hand stroking slow, lazy circles on your back.
you stay pressed to her, still trembling lightly, face buried in her neck. after a while you manage a tired whisper.
“that was… a lot.”
alexia lets out a small, exhausted huff of laughter.
“yeah. it was.” she kisses the top of your head. “you were incredible though. took everything so well.”
you hum weakly, too drained to say much more. your body feels heavy, boneless, completely spent.
“didn’t know it could feel that good, i knew people said it was nice, but fuck,” you murmur after a long pause, words slurring a little from tiredness.
alexia’s hand keeps moving on your back, soothing.
“me neither… not like that,” she admits quietly. “not with anyone else.”
another long, comfortable silence stretches between you. both of you are exhausted- you especially, eyelids heavy, limbs shaky and weak. alexia reaches over blindly for the glass of water on the bedside table and helps you take a few small sips, holding your head up gently.
“good girl,” she praises softly when you drink.
you settle back against her with a content little sigh, still trembling faintly. alexia wraps both arms around you tighter, one leg thrown over yours, cocooning you completely.
“rest now,” she whispers against your hair. “i’ve got you.”
you nod sleepily, already drifting.
“stay…” you mumble.
“not going anywhere,” she promises, voice low and warm.
the two of you lie there tangled together, too tired for anything more than soft breathing and the occasional lazy stroke of her hand on your back. no big conversations.
no rushing to define anything. just the quiet, exhausted comfort of skin on skin and the steady beat of her heart under your cheek.
leave me with some kind of proof it's not a dream - alexia putellas
༄ the only exception - paramore (nrk. live studio recording)
༄ pairing - alexia putellas x fem!reader
༄ series - part one ; part two ; part three ; finale
༄ synopsis - when the fake relationship finally ends, both you and alexia are forced to confront how deeply you’ve become woven into each other’s lives, and after weeks of heartbreak, distance, and misunderstandings, the truth finally comes to light: neither of you was ever mourning the end of something fake- you were mourning the possibility of losing something real.
༄ word count - 6.9k
༄ notes - final part, kinda hate it but kinda love it; not proof read
༄ warnings - fake dating, kinda angsty, smut towards the end (i know you freaks were looking forward to this)
༄ read more - masterlist
the last interview is at eleven.
you know this because you’ve checked the schedule four times.
not because you care about the interview.
because after eleven, there are no more obligations. no more sponsor appearances. no more staged photos. no more pretending.
the fake break-up happens at eleven. meaning officially ends at eleven.
which means you spend the entire morning feeling like you’re walking toward an execution.
⸻
alexia arrives five minutes early.
of course she does.
you’ve always liked that about her. the reliability. the way she treats other people’s time like it matters.
you wonder if you’ll still notice things like that after today. you hope not. it would probably hurt less.
“hey.”
you look up and there she is, standing in the doorway.
holding a coffee. your coffee. your stomach twists.
“hey.”
alexia hesitates for a second, then walks over and places it in front of you.
“thanks.”
“habit.”
the word lands somewhere deep in your chest. habit.
like that’s all this was. like months of mornings can be reduced to muscle memory.
you force a smile. “right.”
alexia studies you for a moment. like she’s trying to say something else. before she can, a producer calls your names.
the moment disappears.
⸻
the interview is torture.
not because the questions are difficult. they’re easy. too easy.
“looking back, what was your favourite part of your relationship?”
alexia answers first, and as always, you let her. you don’t trust yourself.
“the person,” she says. “y/n made it fun.”
safe answer. professional answer. you cling to that.
then the interviewer turns to you. “and you?”
you look at alexia. big mistake. she’s already looking at you. waiting.
your throat tightens. “same,” you say eventually. “alexia.”
another lie. the interview ends with smiles and handshakes. the cameras stop rolling.
someone says, “that’s a wrap.”
and just like that, it’s over. no dramatic announcement. no final countdown. just a sentence from a producer checking something off a clipboard. that’s a wrap.
you want to laugh. or scream. or throw up.
instead you stand there while people start packing up around you.
alexia is beside you. close enough that your shoulders almost touch. not quite. for a moment neither of you moves.
then she says quietly, “i guess that’s it.”
your heart breaks so cleanly it almost feels neat.“yeah.”
that’s all you can manage.
alexia nods once. small. controlled. “see you at training tomorrow.”
tomorrow.
as teammates. just teammates.
you force another smile. “see you.”
she walks away. you watch her go. then immediately hate yourself for watching. because that’s what people do when someone is leaving.
and alexia isn’t leaving. not really.
except she is.
the version of her you’ve had for months is leaving. the version that texted you goodnight. the version that saved you a seat. the version that reached for your hand without thinking. that version is gone.
⸻
training the next day is unbearable.
you arrive early. mostly because you couldn’t sleep. the pitch is quiet. for a few minutes you let yourself pretend nothing has changed. then alexia walks in.
your body reacts before your brain does. you start toward her automatically. one step. then stop. because you don’t know if you’re supposed to anymore.
the hesitation lasts less than a second. it feels like a year.
alexia notices, because when does she not?.
something flickers across her face. gone before you can identify it.
“morning.”
“morning.”
the conversation dies immediately. you’ve had longer interactions with strangers.
around you, the team is trying very hard not to stare. which means they’re definitely staring. mapi looks like she’s witnessing a natural disaster.
honestly, fair.
⸻
the worst part is the seat. the stupid, ridiculous seat. at lunch, you walk into the cafeteria and automatically look toward your usual table. alexia is already there.
the chair beside her is empty. your chair. or it used to be.
you stop walking and alexia looks up. and for one terrible second, it feels exactly like every other day. then reality returns.
you choose a different table. the silence that follows is loud enough to hear.
you sit down. pick up your fork. stare at your food. across the room, you can feel alexia looking at you.
you don’t look back. if you do, you’ll move. and if you move, you’ll end up in that seat. and if you end up in that seat, you’ll forget this is over.
you can’t afford that anymore.
⸻
the day stretches.
meeting, recovery, gym. normal things.
except none of them feel normal. every room seems wrong.
too quiet. too empty. too far away from her.
you hate how obvious that sounds even inside your own head.
by the time you get home, you’re exhausted from pretending not to care.
your phone sits beside you on the couch. silent. you keep glancing at it anyway. pathetic.
normally by now there’d be at least three messages.
a complaint about training. a random observation. a photo of something that reminded her of you.
nothing comes.
because she doesn’t have a reason to text anymore. and neither do you. that’s what hurts- not the silence itself.
the lack of an excuse to break it.
across the city, alexia stares at her phone for almost five minutes before putting it back down.
she’d typed your name twice already. both times she’d deleted the message. the first had been simple.
did you get home okay?
the second had been worse.
i miss you.
she’d deleted that one immediately.
because what exactly was she supposed to mean by it now?
the arrangement was over. the pretending was over. and you’d spent the entire day acting like there was a wall between you.
alexia leaned back against her couch and closed her eyes.
she kept replaying the cafeteria. the empty seat beside her. the way you’d looked at it. the way you’d chosen somewhere else.
something tight twisted in her chest.
because for months, that seat had been yours. not officially. not by assignment. it had just become yours.
the same way mornings had become yours. and bus rides. and late-night conversations. and a hundred other things she hadn’t realised she depended on until they disappeared.
her phone remained dark.
no message from you.
alexia swallowed hard.
for the first time since this whole ridiculous fake relationship had begun, she allowed herself to admit something she’d been avoiding for weeks.
she didn’t know how to go back. not to before. not to being just teammates. not to pretending that losing all of this didn’t matter.
because somehow, somewhere between the cameras and the coffee and the late-night texts, you’d become part of her life in a way that no contract could explain.
and now the silence felt wrong.
⸻
you stare at your phone until midnight, waiting for a message that never comes.
then you lock the screen and set it face-down.
because if you keep looking, you’ll text her.
and if you text her, you’ll forget that this was supposed to end.
the apartment is painfully quiet, leading you to think about mornings. and coffee. the seat beside her. her hand finding yours automatically. all the little things that felt ordinary until they disappeared.
your chest aches.
for a long time you lie there staring into the dark, trying to convince yourself that this is what you wanted.
that distance is safer. that losing her slowly is better than losing her all at once.
the lie doesn’t get any more convincing.
and somewhere across the city, alexia is lying awake with her phone in her hand, wondering why the first day without pretending feels so much like heartbreak.
⸻
the worst part is that nothing and everything changes all at once. and you of all people, have never dealt with change well.
alexia is still there.
still at training. still in meetings. still laughing at kika’s terrible jokes. still existing exactly where she’s always existed.
the difference is that now there are rules. invisible rules. stupid rules. rules neither of you ever discussed.
yet somehow both of you follow them.
you stop sitting beside her. alexia stops saving you a seat.
you stop texting first. alexia stops texting at all.
it’s horrible.
⸻
three days pass. then five. tthen seven.
you hate every single one of them.
“this is painful.”
you don’t look up. “go away, mapi.”
“no.”
“please.”
“also no.”
you sigh dramatically.
mapi remains unmoved. as usual. “you’re making everyone uncomfortable.”
that gets your attention. you glance up. “everyone?”
“everyone. even me- and that’s pretty hard to do.”
“dramatic.”
“you’re both wandering around like divorced parents.”
you nearly choke on your water. “what?”
“it’s true.”
“it’s absolutely not.”
mapi points across the pitch towards alexia. and of course you immediately look. which proves nothing.
unfortunately.
alexia is talking with aitana. or at least pretending to. every few seconds her eyes drift elsewhere. towards you. then away again.
your stomach twists. familiar. unwelcome.
“see?”
you hate that mapi has a point. mostly because when it matters, she always does.
⸻
that evening, you spend twenty minutes writing a text.
then delete it.
write another.
delete that too.
eventually you throw your phone across the couch. because apparently you’ve become incapable of functioning.
the message wasn’t even important. just something funny you’d seen. something that would’ve gone straight to alexia two weeks ago.
without thinking. without hesitation. now it feels impossible.
because what if she doesn’t answer?
worse. what if she does?
you close your eyes. this is embarrassing. you’re embarrassing.
everything is embarrassing.
⸻
across the city, alexia is having exactly the same problem.
she stares at her phone. then at the empty seat beside her couch. then back at her phone.
annoyed. frustrated. miserable.
which is becoming a pattern.
for weeks she’d convinced herself that giving you space was the right thing. that you wanted distance. that the ending of the arrangement had simply accelerated something that was already happening.
you’d been pulling away long before the campaign ended. long before. so she’d let you.
because caring about someone means respecting what they want. even when it hurts. except-
the hurting part doesn’t seem to be getting better.
if anything, it’s worse.
every morning she still reaches for her phone. every afternoon she still turns to look for you. every evening she still finds herself wondering what you’re doing. and every single time, reality crashes back in.
the arrangement is over. you’re gone.
or at least that’s what it feels like.
⸻
“okay.”
alexia immediately groans. because she recognises that tone. mapi tone. which is rarely good.
“no.”
“yes.”
“mapi.”
“alexia.”
the exchange has happened hundreds of times before. usually it’s funny. except today it isn’t.
mapi drops into the seat opposite her. looking unusually serious. which is somehow more alarming than the teasing.
mapi sighs slowly. like she’s speaking to a child.“y/n.”
alexia’s heart immediately stumbles because just hearing your name does that now. which is embarrassing. “what about her?”
“she’s miserable.”
alexia frowns, confused. “because the campaign ended?”
“no.”
“then why?”
mapi laughs. once. short. disbelieving.
“you’re both unbelievable.”
alexia’s chest tightens. because suddenly something feels wrong. very wrong.
“mapi.” for once, she sounds genuinely nervous.“what are you talking about?”
mapi stares at her then shakes her head. “for as intelligent as you both are, i thought one of you would’ve figured it out by now.”
“figured what out?”
silence. a long one. then:
“she loves you. and if you had half a brain you’d know that.”
the world stops. alexia doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. doesn’t think. for one second, everything simply ceases to exist.
then: “what?”
the word barely comes out. mapi just watches her. apparently waiting for the realisation to catch up. it doesn’t. not immediately. because that’s impossible.
isn’t it?
“no.”
except the denial sounds weak. even to her. mapi raises an eyebrow.
“really?”
alexia opens her mouth. closes it again. because suddenly memories are appearing. one after another.
the distance. the sadness. the way you’d looked at the empty seat. the way you’d stopped meeting her eyes. the way you’d seemed heartbroken every time someone mentioned the campaign ending.
her stomach drops. hard.
“oh.”
mapi sighs, relieved. “finally.”
alexia barely hears her. because everything is rearranging itself. every moment. every conversation. every strange reaction she’d never understood.
you weren’t pulling away because you wanted freedom.
you were pulling away because you were hurting.
because you’d been preparing yourself. for her.
the realisation crashes into her all at once. so powerful it nearly knocks the air from her lungs.
“oh my god.”
mapi points at her. “there she is.”
alexia stands so quickly her chair almost falls over. “how long?”
“long enough.”
“how long, mapi?”
“months.”
months. the word echoes. months.
and suddenly another realisation arrives. one even more terrifying than the first.
because if you’ve loved her for months-
then what exactly does that say about her?
about the fact she still checks her phone every five minutes? about the empty seat that makes her chest ache? about the fact she misses you so much she can barely stand it?
alexia closes her eyes. just briefly. because the answer is obvious. painfully obvious. it always has been. she’d just been too afraid to look directly at it. the same way you were.
“oh, you’re kidding me.”
mapi blinks. “what?”
alexia laughs. slightly hysterical. slightly heartbroken. because suddenly this whole situation becomes absurd.
months. the two of you have wasted months suffering. misunderstanding each other. being complete idiots. all because neither of you said anything.
“alexia?”
she looks up. already reaching for her phone. already moving. already knowing exactly where she needs to be. because for the first time in weeks, something inside her feels clear. certain. steady.
she loves you.
you love her.
and if that doesn’t count as proof, she doesn’t know what does.
the screen lights up in her hand. your name appearing instantly. familiar. important. hers.
alexia smiles. small. disbelieving. hopeful.
then starts typing.
⸻
your phone buzzes at 8:17 p.m.
for a moment you just stare at it.
because after a week of silence, you’ve almost trained yourself not to hope. almost. then you see the name.
alexia.
your heart immediately betrays you.
can we talk?
three words. that’s all.
and somehow they’re enough to make your stomach twist.
⸻
you find her at the training pitch.
the same one where this whole mess somehow seemed simpler. before the feelings. before the heartbreak. before losing her became something you thought about every day.
alexia is already there.
hands shoved into her jacket pockets. looking nervous. which is unsettling. alexia never looks nervous. in your 6 years of knowing her, you’ve nevrr seen her this nervous. not like this. not with you of all people.
“hey.” her voice is softer than usual.
you swallow. “hey.”
silence settles immediately. thick. awkward. nothing like the comfortable silences you used to share. the ones you miss more than you’d ever admit.
alexia looks down for a moment. then back at you. “mapi talked to me.”
your stomach drops. hard. of course she did. of course mapi eventually got involved. “right.”
alexia lets out a breath. “she told me why you’ve been upset.”
you laugh softly. not because anything is funny. because if you don’t laugh, you might throw up.
“well this just got embarrassing.”
“y/n.”
you look away. immediately. because hearing your name in that voice feels dangerous.
“why didn’t you tell me?”
there it is. the question. the one you’ve been avoiding for months. you stare out across the empty pitch. at the lights. the grass. anything except her.
“because it wasn’t real for you.”
the words come out before you can stop them. alexia freezes. completely. “what?”
you laugh again. humourless. small. “the relationship.” your throat feels tight. “it was always temporary.”
silence. you finally force yourself to look at her. alexia is staring. completely confused.
“you thought that’s why i was upset?”
“wasn’t it?”
“no.” the answer comes immediately. without hesitation. without doubt.
your chest tightens as alexia takes a step closer.
“i was upset because you stopped talking to me.”
you blink. once. twice. certain you’ve misheard.
“what?”
“you pulled away.” alexia shakes her head. frustration slipping into her voice. “weeks before everything ended.”
because you loved her. because every day felt like a countdown. because every smile hurt. because every touch felt temporary.
you know exactly why. apparently she doesn’t. or didn’t.
until now.
“i thought you wanted it to be over.”
your head snaps up. “what?”
alexia points at you. accusing. offended. “exactly.”
you stare. she stares back. and suddenly both of you realize just how stupid this entire situation has been.
“you’re joking.”
“i’m not.”
“alexia.”
“y/n.”
“why would i want it to end?”
the question leaves before you can stop it. raw. honest. real.
alexia goes still. you do too. because suddenly the implication is hanging there.
obvious. inescapable. the truth neither of you has managed to say. not yet.
alexia’s voice is quiet when she finally speaks. “because i thought you didn’t love me.”
the world stops. completely. your breath catches. your pulse pounds. for a second all you can do is stare at her.
because surely she didn’t just-
“what?”
alexia laughs once, slightly hysterical. “that’s what i said when mapi told me about you.”
you blink. the pieces don’t just click into place. they crash. all at once.
every misunderstanding. every awful conversation. every missed opportunity. every painful week. months. all because neither of you said a word.
“dios mio.”
alexia immediately points at you. “that’s exactly what i said.”
despite everything, you laugh. a real laugh. the first one in weeks. alexia laughs too. relief breaking through the tension. for a moment neither of you can stop smiling.
just standing there. looking at each other. looking at the thing you’ve both spent months wanting. and months avoiding.
eventually the laughter fades. but neither of you looks away. alexia’s smile softens. becomes something quieter. something that makes your pulse skip.
“i love you.”
the words are simple. certain. completely unguarded.
your heart nearly gives out.
because you’ve imagined this moment so many times but never like this. never with alexia looking at you like she’s terrified and hopeful all at once.
“i love you too.”
her eyes close briefly. relief washing across her face. real relief. like she’s been carrying this weight for just as long.
when she looks at you again, everything feels different- lighter, warmer, like the entire world has shifted slightly. finally settling into place.
“come here.”
the words are quiet, almost shy. which is ridiculous. alexia putellas does not get shy. except apparently she does now.
you move before your brain catches up, closing the distance between you, alexia exhalingshakily the second you’re close. like she’s been holding her breath.
her hands find yours, fingers threading together naturally. familiar, easy, like they remember.
for a moment neither of you speaks. you just stand there. holding on. looking at each other. trying to wrap your head around the fact that she’s here.
that she stayed. that she loves you.
alexia’s thumb brushes across your knuckles absentmindedly.
the small gesture nearly destroys you.
because it’s so her. so familiar. so real.
“still feels impossible.” her voice is soft.
you smile. “which part?”
alexia looks at you. really looks at you. and suddenly all the warmth in her expression makes it difficult to breathe.
“the part where i get to do this.”
your heart stumbles completely as alexia steps closer. close enough that the space between you disappears. close enough that the rest of the world begins fading into the background.
the pitch. the lights. the city.
gone.
there is only her.
only the way she’s looking at you. only the way her fingers tighten around yours. only the way neither of you seems willing to let go.
months. all those months. and now she’s here. standing impossibly close. looking at you like you’re the answer to a question she’s been asking herself for a very long time.
alexia smiles. small, private, beautiful.
“come home with me.”
the invitation hangs between you. gentle, intimidating and hopeful all at once.
and for the first time all night, neither of you looks away.
⸻
you lean in first.
closing the small distance between you. when your lips meet hers it is soft at first. just a brush. a confirmation that this is allowed now. that you can do this without pretending anymore.
but alexia makes a quiet sound in the back of her throat. she deepens the kiss. her hands slide down to your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies press together fully.
you taste the faint hint of mint from her toothpaste. you feel the way her breath catches when your fingers thread into her hair at the nape of her neck.
the kiss grows slower, more intentional. like you both want to savor every second after so much time apart. the way her tongue brushes your sends heat spiraling through your veins, making your knees feel a little weak.
she pulls back just enough to rest her forehead against yours. breathing the same air.
"i love you" she says again.like she needs to hear it out loud to believe it. "i can’t belive it took us this long. deep down, i think i’ve always loved you, you know?”
you whisper it back, your voice barely above a breath. because saying it feels like releasing something heavy you had been carrying alone for months.
"i love you too alexia. i have for so long. i’m sorry i didnt say it sooner- i thought i was protecting myself but it only made everything worse."
"we were both protecting ourselves" she replies softly. "but no more. i want to hear you say it again."
her hands move to the hem of your shirt.
tugging it up slowly. you lift your arms helping her peel it off, the cool air of the apartment hitting your skin.
but then her palms are there. warm and exploring. tracing the lines of your ribs. your waist. the curve of your back. like she is memorising you all over again. the pads of her fingers press lightly into the small of your back pulling you flush against her.
"you feel so good" she whispers against your lips. “so good under me. so good for me. i missed you so much, amor. does this feel okay? tell me whatever you need.
"yes it feels perfect" you breathe. “keep touching me like that alexia- want your hands all over me.”
you do the same. sliding your hands under her shirt. feeling the smooth muscle of her abdomen. the way it tenses under your touch. the subtle ridges from years of training that make your mouth water with want. she is so strong, yet so soft in these moments.
you take your time pushing the fabric up and over her head letting it drop to the floor forgotten. her sports bra follows soon after.
when you see her bare in front of you your breath catches. because she is beautiful in a way that could only be described as undescribable.
the subtle definition of her shoulders. the way her skin glows under the low light. the small freckles scattered across her chest that you have only glimpsed before in passing. now yours to touch and kiss freely.
"god you are stunning" you breathe out.
“if i’m so stunning then touch me.” she responds with a small smile.
witha roll of your eyes, you lean in pressing open mouthed kisses along her collarbone. down to the swell of her breast. alexia sighs your name, her fingers tighten in your hair guiding you but never demanding.
the sound of her voice low and breathy makes warmth flood between your legs.
"just like that, amor” she murmurs.
you oblige, sucking gently on her nipple as she moans softly in response.
"that is good. you know exactly what i like."
you move together toward the bedroom, shedding clothes along the way until there is nothing left between you.
the trail of fabric marks your path like breadcrumbs leading to this inevitable moment.
⸻
the sheets are cool when you tumble onto the bed.
but her body is warm as she covers you.
pressing you down gently, her weight a comforting presence that grounds you in the here and now. her hips settle between your thighs in a way that already has you aching for more contact.
her mouth finds yours again in a deeper kiss.
while her hand trails down your side. over your hip. and then between your legs.
she touches you like you are something precious. slow circles with her fingers that make your hips lift off the bed seeking more. the slick sound of her fingers gliding through your wetness fills the quiet room and makes your cheeks heat up.
the pads of her fingertips are slightly calloused from years of playing and training. but they glide so smoothly against your growing arousal.
you moan softly into her mouth. she swallows the sound. her own breathing growing ragged as she feels how ready you already are for her.
"so wet for me already" she murmurs against your lips, her tone filled with wonder and affection. not teasing. just pure observation that makes your cheeks flush warmer. "talk to me, amor. tell me how my fingers feel."
"they feel so good alexia" you gasp. "deeper please i need you inside me."
you nod, unable to form more words at first as she slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right. hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
your walls clench around her in instinctive need.
her thumb presses against your clit in time with her thrusts. you feel yourself spiraling closer and closer. the tension coiling tight in your core like a spring wound for months. finally ready to release. the pleasure builds in layers. each stroke adding more detail to the sensation.
the stretch. the friction. the heat radiating from her body into yours.
"tell me how it feels" she whispers hotly. "i want to hear every sound you make for me. are you close already?"
you moan pathetically, nodding your head as you shut your eyes. “s’good right there, please don’t stop.”
but alexia has other plans tonight. she wants to take her time. to worship you properly after all the distance.
she kisses down your body slowly, savoring every inch.
the way her lips brush over your collarbone.
your breasts, pausing to suck lightly on one nipple then the other until they are tight and sensitive under her tongue.
the wet heat of her mouth sends jolts straight to your core. you arch into her touch, your hands threading through her hair holding on as she continues lower.
kissing the soft skin of your stomach. the dip of your navel. the crease of your hip where your thigh meets your body. every kiss leaves a trail of fire on your skin. making you tremble with anticipation. the overload of sensation already overwhelming in the best way. your breath comes in short gasps as she settles between your spread thighs.
"let me taste you" she whispers, looking up at you with those dark eyes full of love and desire, her breath warm against your most sensitive skin. "i have wanted this for months. i need to feel you on my tongue. is that okay? can i?"
you can only nod at first. your voice lost. “si ale, i need your mouth on me."
as she leans in and presses a soft kiss right to your center. the gentle pressure making your hips twitch.
then her tongue is there. flat and warm. dragging slowly from your entrance up to your clit. the texture rough and perfect sending sparks through your entire body. she takes her time exploring every fold. every dip.
the way your wetness coats her tongue. the taste of you that makes her hum in satisfaction. the vibration adding another layer to the pleasure.
you moan her name, your fingers tightening in her hair as she licks deeper. circling your clit with the tip of her tongue before sucking it gently into her mouth, the suction perfect and rhythmic.
alexia knows exactly how to build it.
the way she alternates between broad strokes of her tongue and focused attention on your clit. the way she slides two fingers back inside you, curling them to press against that sensitive spot inside while her mouth works you higher.
the combination is devastating. the fullness from her fingers. the wet heat of her mouth. the way she watches your face between licks to gauge what you need.
the details overwhelming your senses. the slick sounds. the scent of arousal in the air. the feel of her strong shoulders under your thighs as you drape them over her back.
"alexia please" you gasp, your voice breaking as the pleasure coils tighter. “i’m so close, please don’t stop.”
she does not rush. instead she slows slightly.
drawing it out. savoring the way your thighs tremble around her head.
the way your walls flutter around her fingers. the way your moans grow higher and more desperate.
her free hand strokes your thigh, soothing and grounding you even as she pushes you closer to the edge. "i have you" she murmurs between licks. "let go for me, i want to feel you come on my tongue. tell me when you’re ready.”
"now alexia, now.” you cry out. the contrast of tenderness and intensity making everything feel deeper, more connected if that was even possible.
when you finally tip over the edge the orgasm crashes through you in powerful waves.
your back arching off the bed, your cry of her name echoing in the room.
alexia stays with you through every pulse. licking and sucking gently. guiding you through the peak and the long slow descent.
her fingers still moving inside you. drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you are shaking and whimpering softly.
the overload of detail stays with you. the way her tongue gentles to soft laps. the way her fingers curl one last time before slowing. the way she presses kisses to your inner thighs as you come down, your skin hypersensitive and glowing.
"that was perfect. if i died now, i’d die a happy woman.” she says softly, pausing before continuing. “how do you feel? was it good?"
"it was incredible" you reply between breaths. "i can’t even think straight right now.”
she crawls back up your body kissing every inch along the way until she reaches your lips, sharing the taste of you in a deep slow kiss that makes your heart swell with love.
you pull her close, your arms wrapping around her shoulders holding her tight as your breathing evens out, the aftershocks still rippling through you faintly.
but the night is far from over in terms of closeness.
she continues to touch you softly. her hands roaming your sides. your back. your hips. memorising the feel of your skin. the way your body responds even in the afterglow.
you talk in low voices about everything and nothing. the misunderstandings. the silly rules you both followed. the way mapi finally knocked sense into you both. alexia laughs softly when you recount how embarrassed you felt in the cafeteria avoiding her eyes.
you smile against her skin because her laugh is one of your favorite sounds in the world.
the way it vibrates through her chest into yours,
the warmth of it chasing away any lingering doubts.
"we are never doing that again, never not speaking ever again.” she says quietly.
her fingers tracing patterns on your stomach.
light and soothing. "no more hiding, no more pretending, i want you every day from now on. promise me."
“i promise" you say. "no more silence between us. i missed you so much alexia. so much it’s embarassing. “
"i feel the same" alexia replies. "every training session without your smile hurt. i kept wondering what i did wrong why you pulled away. tell me more about those nights. i want to know everything i missed."
"i would lie in bed thinking about you" you confess. "replaying every conversation, every touch. i couldn’t stand it.”
"i sat in my car once" she confesses. "keys in hand, ready to come to you… but i talked myself out of it thinking you needed space. dios mio, i’m so fucking stupid.”
"we both were" you say with a small laugh. "but we are here now and that is what matters. what matters is everything we do moving forward.”
“i wanna do everything" she answers. "dates without hiding, mornings like this, nights like this, i want you… all of you.”
⸻
the closeness builds again, her touches turning from soothing to arousing but still gentle, leading to more soft exploration.
your hands on her body. her mouth on your neck. your breasts. but the focus remains on drawing out your pleasure in waves.
she brings you to the edge again with her fingers. this time kissing you through it. then lower once more. her mouth returning to your center because she cannot get enough of tasting you.
the way you respond. the sounds you make. the way your body opens for her.
"you taste so good" she murmurs against your folds. "i just can’t get enough of you like this. does this feel good right here?"
"yes right there" you moan. "your tongue is perfect alexia. keep going."
each time the pleasure is slower. more detailed. her tongue mapping every sensitive spot.
learning what makes you gasp. what makes you moan louder. the overload continuing. the wet heat. the pressure. the perfect rhythm she finds that has you coming apart for her again and again.
your hands in her hair, your thighs around her shoulders, your voice hoarse from calling her name.
"right there alexia" you moan loudly. “please don’t stop- i’m gonna come again.”
“i’m not complaining.” she says, her licks becoming more encouraging.
hours pass like this in a haze of soft touches and whispered confessions, bodies moving together in rhythms that feel instinctive. like you were always meant to fit this way.
the slide of skin, the heat building between you, the way her breath hitches when she feels you clench around her tongue.
at some point you both need a break, the intensity leaving you both breathless and glowing.
she pads to the kitchen naked and unselfconscious, bringing back two glasses of water. the cool liquid a relief against your parched throat as you sip slowly, trading small kisses between sips- her free hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking idly.
you cover it with your own, interlacing fingers again. because touching her feels necessary now. like breathing.
you tell her more about the nights you stared at your phone wanting to message her but stopping yourself. she admits the same. her voice quiet with regret for all the lost time. the way her chest ached every evening wondering if you were okay. the specific moments she almost drove to your place but held back.
"what would you have done if you came over that night?" you ask.
"i would have kissed you right at the door" she says. "no more waiting. i would have told you everything."
"i wish you had" you reply. "but this is better. right now. us talking like this."
the conversation deepens. the emotional intimacy matching the physical. the way she looks at you with so much love it makes tears prick at your eyes. but they are happy ones.
the kind that come from finally having what you both wanted.
“for the first and only time ever, i’m so glad mapi pushed us" you say. "otherwise who knows how long we would have kept to ourelves.”
"me too" alexia agrees. “except for the satisfaction she’ll get knowing she fixed this.”
⸻
finally, exhaustion begins to settle in.
the good kind that comes from being thoroughly loved.
alexia shifts to full aftercare mode- she slips out of bed for a moment, returning with a soft warm cloth and amsmall bowl of fruit.
"here drink this" she says gently, holding the fruit to your lips. helping you take slow bites. her other hand brushing hair from your face.
the fruit is cool and refreshing, easing the dryness in your throat from all the moans and gasps.
then she carefully wipes you clean between your legs, the cloth warm and gentle against your sensitive skin, removing any traces of sweat and release with tender strokes that make you sigh in contentment. no rush. no pressure. just pure care.
"you are so good to me" you whisper, watching her focused expression, the way her brows furrow slightly in concentration making sure she does not miss any spot, the attention to detail mirroring how she loved you earlier. “too good for me, always taking care of me.”
"always.” she replies.
her voice full of promise as she gathers you into her arms. "i will always take care of you like this because you deserve it. how are you feeling now? any pain?”
"just perfectly tired" you say. "and happy. so happy."
you settle against her chest, your head on her shoulder. your bodies fitting perfectly together. legs tangled, skin still warm and flushed.
in the quiet afterglow you trace her tattoos with your fingertip. starting from the ones on her arm.
the intricate lines and shapes that tell parts of her story. the ones you have admired from afar. now yours to explore up close.
your touch is light. following the curves. the shading. the small details in the ink that shift with the movement of her muscles. the way her skin reacts with faint goosebumps under your gentle exploration.
she hums softly enjoying the sensation, her hand stroking up and down your back in long soothing lines that relax you further into her embrace.
you trace each tattoo slowly, memorising the feel.
the stories she shares in whispers when your finger lingers on certain ones. the overload of detail in this moment. the texture of her skin. the steady beat of her heart under your cheek. the way her breath ruffles your hair. the scent of her surrounding you completely. the cuddling feels like coming home. her arms wrapped securely around you, holding you close like she never wants to let go. one leg draped over yours keeping you anchored.
"i love you" you murmur against her skin.
your finger still tracing lazy patterns on her tattoos, the words sinking in deeper now in the soft aftercare. “tell me about them, your tattoos.”
"this one is from my first big win with the first team” she explains softly. “i remember feeling so happy because i wanted nothing more than to make my papa proud. and a few months after i got it for him.” she echoes it back,pressing kisses to the top of your head.
your temple, your lips whenever you tilt your face up. the tenderness endless and healing.
"i love you more than i can say" alexia whispers. “he would’ve loved you too, you know.”
you stay like that for a long time. talking quietly. laughing softly at the absurdity of the past months. sharing more little details about your feelings. the specific ways you missed her. the hopes you have for the future now that it is real.
the night ends wrapped in each others arms, the blanket cocooning you both, the city outside quiet and distant. while inside it is only warmth, connection and love.
your tracing slows as sleep tugs at you, but you keep one hand on her arm even as your eyes grow heavy. her steady breathing lulling you. the safety of her hold perfect and complete.
alexia holds you tighter as you drift off. whispering sweet nothings as she soothes you to sleep, her own eyes closing in contentment.
the two of you finally together in every way that matters after all the waiting. the pain. the pretending.
⸻
later when you wake briefly in the night her arm is still around you, holding firm even in sleep. you shift slightly and she murmurs your name without waking, pulling you closer.
"stay close" she mumbles sleepily. "don’t go anywhere."
“i’m right here, ale” you whisper back. “i’m not going anywhere."
the morning light will come eventually. but for these hours it is only this.
you sink deeper into her embrace, content in the knowledge that this is real. this is yours.
this is the start of something that feels like forever after all the missteps.
the story of you and alexia finally written in the present. no more past regrets.
only this. only now. only the two of you tangled together, hearts aligned after the long separation. the details endless. the love infinite.
the night sealing everything in warmth and closeness that words can barely capture but your body remembers fully.
because through it all, one thing is for certain.
she is all you need.
and besides every boundary she’s ever set herself,
i know you’re leaving in the morning when you wake up - alexia putellas
༄ the only exception - paramore (nrk. live studio recording)
༄ pairing - alexia putellas x fem!reader
༄ series - part one ; part two ; part three ; finale
༄ synopsis - after finally admitting that you're in love with alexia, you becomes trapped between wanting more and knowing your fake relationship has an expiration date, and as the countdown to the end grows smaller, every shared moment begins to feel like something you're already grieving- until your fear of being left behind pushes you to pull away from the very person you can’t bear to lose.
༄ word count - 4.0k
༄ notes - be appreciative because it's 12:46am and i have school tomorrow (or today ?); not proof read
༄ warnings - fake dating, kinda angsty ?
༄ read more - masterlist
falling in love with alexia putellas turns out to be the worst thing that has ever happened to you. which feels unfair- because she hasn’t actually done anything wrong.
if anything, she’s the exact same person she’s always been.
that’s the problem. nothing changes. except now you know.
and suddenly everything feels different.
⸻
you make it exactly twenty-four hours before embarrassing yourself.
alexia finds you before training. like always.
coffee in one hand. your coffee.
obviously.
“morning.”
you take it automatically. “morning.”
alexia smiles.
and immediately your heart does something deeply irritating.
you hate that. you used to be normal. you used to be able to look at her without your entire nervous system malfunctioning.
those were good times. simpler times. before your brain decided this was a fantastic idea.
“you look tired.”
you nearly choke. “what?”
“you look tired.”
alexia studies you carefully.
“didn’t sleep?”
you slept terribly. mostly because you’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling after realising you were in love with her.
which feels like relevant information. unfortunately.
“i slept.”
“liar.”
rude. accurate. rude.
you look away. pretending to check your phone.
alexia doesn’t seem convinced. which isn’t surprising. she notices everything. always has. and that’s becoming increasingly inconvenient.
⸻
the problem with being in love is that suddenly everything means something.
before, alexia touching your arm was just alexia touching your arm.
now?
now your brain writes entire novels about it. which is exhausting. you don’t recommend it. not that anyone asked.
during training, alexia brushes past you. nothing unusual, just reaching for a ball.
her shoulder bumps yours lightly. normal. completely normal.
yet your heart immediately starts behaving like it’s being hunted for sport. ridiculous. absolutely ridiculous.
you spend the next ten minutes angry at yourself.
which unfortunately doesn’t help.
⸻
by lunch, you’ve developed a new strategy.
avoidance. it’s a terrible strategy. but it’s all you’ve got.
you sit further down the table. not obviously. just enough. you answer messages slower. you don’t seek her out after meetings.
you tell yourself it’s temporary. necessary. smart.
you need distance. distance is healthy. distance is good.
the plan lasts approximately forty-three minutes.
“why are you over here?”
you look up and alexia is standing beside your chair. holding her tray. confused.
you freeze. “what?”
“you’re sitting over here.” she sounds genuinely puzzled. like you’ve violated some unspoken law. which somehow makes this worse.
“and?”
“and usually you’re over there.” she points toward your usual seats.
you stare.
alexia stares.
around you, several teammates have suddenly become very interested in their food.
cowards. every single one of them.
“i wanted a different seat.”
“why?”
“because.”
alexia narrows her eyes. suspicious. you refuse to elaborate. eventually she sits beside you anyway. which defeats the entire purpose.
“problem solved.”
you hate her...
except you don’t.
that’s the issue. you like her too much. far too much.
and now every moment feels dangerous. because now you know what’s at stake. you know this isn’t sustainable. you know eventually the fake relationship ends. you know alexia never signed up for this. never asked for this. never chose this. never wanted this.
she agreed to play a role. and somewhere along the way, you forgot that. or maybe you didn’t. maybe you’ve just been pretending not to remember.
⸻
a few days later, you’re halfway through a sponsor shoot when disaster strikes.
not an actual disaster, just emotional devastation. which is arguably worse.
you and alexia are sitting together waiting for the next setup.
she’s scrolling through her phone. you pretend not to watch her. poorly.
a member of the marketing team approaches with a smile. already suspicious. “good news.”
nobody has ever said those words before delivering terrible news. you’ve noticed that.
“what?”
“the campaign’s been incredibly successful.”
alexia smiles politely. you nod. everyone seems pleased. great. wonderful.
then: “hard to believe it’s almost finished.”
your stomach drops. instantly. violently. almost finished. the words echo. because of course. of course it is.
there was always an end date. there was always a deadline. there was always an expiration date hanging over all of this.
you’ve known that from the beginning. yet somehow hearing it out loud feels different.
real.
alexia doesn’t seem affected. why would she be?
she already knew. everyone already knew. you’re the only idiot surprised by it.
“another month or so, right?” the staff member asks.
alexia nods. “something like that.”
another month. four weeks. roughly thirty days, thirty one if you get lucky enough and it’s a good month.
your chest feels tight. suddenly the room seems smaller. louder. you force a smile. nobody notices.
except-
alexia glances toward you.
frowning slightly.
“you okay?”
immediately. of course. always immediately. you hate how much she notices. “fine.”
“you sure?”
“yes.”
mentira.
alexia doesn’t look convinced.
but before she can push further, someone calls her name.
the moment passes.
thank god.
because you’re not sure what would’ve happened if she’d asked again.
⸻
that night is worse.
because now there’s a number attached to it.
a deadline, a countdown. one month- roughly. give or take. and suddenly every interaction feels different. temporary.
you hate that word. temporary.
it sounds harmless. it isn’t.
temporary things leave, temporary things end, temporary things disappear.
which is exactly the problem.
because the idea of alexia disappearing from your life makes you feel physically ill. not completely. not forever.
you’ll still be teammates. friends. probably. hopefully. but it won’t be this.
there won’t be breakfast every morning. there won’t be late-night texts. there won’t be hands finding each other automatically in crowded rooms. there won’t be excuses. that’s what terrifies you. the lack of excuses.
because when the arrangement ends, alexia won’t have a reason to choose you anymore.
and why would she?
why would she choose someone who’s spent years insisting love isn’t real? someone who only figured out her feelings when it was already too late?
you laugh bitterly. and the sound isn’t particularly pleasant.
⸻
your phone buzzes. you don’t even need to look.
alexia. obviously.
alexia: you disappeared.
you stare at the message.
then at the ceiling.
then back at the screen.
you: went home.
three dots appear instantly.
alexia: without saying goodbye?
something painful twists inside your chest.
because she noticed. of course she noticed. she always notices.
you: was tired.
a pause.
alexia: everything okay?
the question sits there. simple. innocent. dangerous. why?
because the truthful answer would ruin everything. everything is absolutely not okay.
you’re in love with your fake girlfriend. the fake relationship is ending. and every day feels like sand slipping through your fingers.
but you can’t exactly text that.
so instead:
you: yeah.
another lie. another easy one. alexia takes longer to answer this time. which makes you feel guilty immediately.
alexia: okay.
just one word. yet somehow it feels wrong.
distant.
you stare at it, uncomfortable. because alexia isn’t stupid. she knows something’s off. she just doesn’t know what. and the worst part?
you almost tell her. for one reckless second, you almost type it. almost throw the whole disaster into her lap and let the universe deal with it. your fingers hover over the keyboard. then stop.
because no. you can’t. you absolutely cannot.
not when she’s leaving. not when this was never real for her. not when there’s a very real chance she’d look at you with sympathy. and sympathy would kill you.
so instead you lock your phone. set it face-down. and stare into the darkness. and for the first time in your life, solitude feels strangely empty.
you think about alexia. about mornings, coffee, shared seats, inside jokes. all the tiny pieces of her that have become woven into your life.
and for the first time, the truth settles in completely. not just that you’re in love with her. you already knew that. the worse truth. the one that’s harder to face.
you are running out of time. and alexia has absolutely no idea.
⸻
you start measuring time differently.
that’s the first thing you notice.
not in days. or weeks. or matches.
in moments. alexia moments.
which is significantly more pathetic.
you don’t recommend it.
⸻
“you’re staring.”
you blink, looking away immediately. “i’m not.”
mapi doesn’t even bother pretending to believe you. “okay.”
“i wasn’t.”
“okay.”
“stop saying okay.”
“okay.”
you consider kicking her… hard. instead, you glance back toward the training pitch. just once. immediately spotting alexia. which unfortunately proves mapi’s point. again. alexia is laughing about something- head tilted back slightly, sunlight catching in her hair. completely unaware that you’ve apparently become incapable of functioning like a normal person.
“this is embarrassing.”
you look over and mapi is watching you with genuine pity. which is somehow worse than the teasing.
“what is?”
“you.”
offensive. accurate. offensive.
“mind your business.”
“tia, your business is standing in the middle of a football pitch.”
you hate everyone.
⸻
the countdown starts without permission.
thirty days becomes twenty-eight.
twenty-eight becomes twenty-six.
then twenty-three.
and suddenly you’re noticing everything. memorizing things. collecting them.
the way alexia always steals your chips but refuses to admit it. the way she taps her fingers when she’s thinking. the exact sound of her laugh when something genuinely surprises her.
you don’t mean to memorize these things, it just happens. the same way everything else happened. slowly. then all at once.
one afternoon you’re sitting together on the team bus. alexia asleep beside you. head resting against your shoulder. completely trusting. completely comfortable.
you stare out the window. trying not to move. trying not to think. because someday this won’t happen anymore. the thought arrives uninvited.
and stays.
you swallow hard, staring harder at the passing scenery. as if that helps.
it doesn’t.
⸻
alexia notices something is wrong.
of course she does. she always does. you just hoped it would take longer.
“okay.”
you immediately groan. because that’s her serious voice. the one she uses before conversations you’re trying to avoid.
“no.”
“yes.”
“alexia.”
“y/n.”
you glare. she glares back. capitana mode. terrifying.
“what?”
alexia crosses her arms. “what’s going on?”
your stomach drops. “nothing.”
“liar.”
everyone is so rude to you lately.
“i’m not lying.”
alexia just stares… waiting. you hate that look. patient. steady. impossible to escape.
“talk to me.”
the words are soft. which somehow makes them worse. because she sounds worried. actually worried. about you. and for one horrible second, you almost tell her.
almost.
the confession rises right to the surface.
i’m in love with you.
there. simple. easy. honest.
except it isn’t.
because the second you imagine saying it, you imagine the aftermath. the awkwardness. the sympathy. the disappointment. losing her.
you can’t risk that. not yet.
not while you still have this.
so instead: “i’m fine.”
alexia’s expression falls. just slightly. barely noticeable.
you notice anyway. always anyway.
“you’re not.”
“i am.”
“you’re not.”
you look away. coward.
the silence stretches. long. uncomfortable.
finally alexia sighs, a tired sound. defeated.
“okay.”
the word hurts. because she doesn’t believe you. because she’s giving up. because you’ve made her give up.
you hate yourself immediately.
⸻
the argument happens three days later.
if it can even be called an argument. it’s more like a crack. small. quiet. dangerous.
the team is eating dinner after training. conversation flowing around the table.
normal, easy, everyone laughing.
except you.
because you’ve spent the entire evening trapped inside your own head. again.
alexia says something. you miss it.
“what?”
she repeats herself, but you still don’t hear. because you’re busy wondering what life looks like when she’s gone. which is a terrible use of your time.
“earth to y/n.”
you blink. everyone’s looking at you.
great.
“sorry.”
alexia frowns. “you’re doing it again.”
immediate dread.
“doing what?”
“disappearing.”
silence.
the table suddenly becomes fascinated by their food. cowards. all of them.
you force a laugh. “dramatic.”
alexia doesn’t smile. that’s when you know you’re in trouble. “i’m serious.”
your chest tightens. “i’m right here.”
“not really.”
the words land harder than she intends. you know that instantly. because regret flashes across her face. but it’s too late. the damage is done.
you look down. staring at your plate. suddenly unable to breathe properly. because she’s right.
you haven’t been here. not really.
you’ve been mourning something that hasn’t even ended yet. living half a step away from every moment. waiting for the goodbye.
alexia shifts beside you. voice quieter now. “talk to me.”
there it is again. that request. that impossible request.
talk to me.
tell me what’s wrong.
let me help.
except she can’t help. because she is the problem. not intentionally. never intentionally. because someone as perfect as alexia putellas could never intentionally be the problem.
but still. how are you supposed to explain that?
how are you supposed to look at her and say: i’m terrified because i love you and i think i’m about to lose you.
you can’t. so you do the worst possible thing. you shake your head. “it’s nothing.”
alexia closes her eyes briefly. and when she opens them again, something has changed. not anger. worse.
hurt.
“right.”
your stomach drops immediately. almost violently. “ale-”
“forget it.” the words are quiet. calm. which somehow hurts more.
she stands, grabs her things, and leaves.
just like that.
the conversation around the table doesn’t resume immediately. nobody knows what to say. you don’t either.
because all you can think about is the look on her face. the disappointment. the hurt.
the way she looked at you like she’d reached the end of her patience.
you stare at the empty seat beside you. heart sinking.
“well.” mapi’s voice is unusually gentle.
which is terrifying, so you don’t look up.
“don’t.”
“you need to tell her.”
you laugh- short and humourless.
“that’s not happening.”
“why?”
finally you look over. mapi’s expression softens immediately. because she sees it. whatever is written all over your face. she sees it.
and suddenly you know. she knows. maybe she’s known for a while.
“because.” your voice cracks slightly. you clear your throat. try again. “because this ends in three weeks.”
silence. real silence.
mapi doesn’t joke. doesn’t tease. doesn’t smile. she just looks at you. and for the first time in months, you wish she would say something.
anything.
instead she sighs. slowly and sadly.
“idiot.”
you laugh again. this time it almost sounds like crying.
⸻
that night you lie awake replaying everything.
every second. every word. especially the look on alexia’s face when she walked away.
you hate it.
you hate yourself. you hate this entire situation. because she was trying. she was reaching for you. and you pushed her away. again.
but that’s not new for you, is it? you push everything away anyways.
your phone stays silent. for the first time in months.
no goodnight text. no stupid joke. no random conversation at one in the morning.
nothing.
the absence feels enormous. you stare at the empty screen. the silence. the distance. and finally understand something.
you thought losing her would happen all at once. a clean ending. a final goodbye.
instead it’s starting now. little by little. moment by moment. piece by piece. and somehow that’s worse.
because alexia is still here. still within reach. still part of your life. yet for the first time, she feels far away.
and the terrifying part?
you’re the one who put the distance there.
⸻
you spend the entire evening pretending.
which is fitting, really.
if there’s one thing you’ve become good at, it’s pretending. pretending you’re fine. pretending your chest doesn’t ache every time you look at alexia. pretending you’re not counting down the final days of whatever this is. pretending you aren’t completely in love with her.
easy, simple even. or in other words:
a complete disaster.
⸻
the event is beautiful. of course it is.
some sponsor gala. expensive venue. expensive food. expensive people.everyone dressed like they’re attending the royal wedding.
you hate it immediately.
“you clean up well.”
you look over. and immediately youforget whatever sarcastic response you’d prepared.
because alexia looks unfair. there’s really no better word for it. unfair. the dark suit. the soft makeup. the familiar smile.
“do i?” she’s smiling now. properly smiling. the kind of smile that’s been painfully rare these past few weeks.
something twists in your chest. because you miss this. you miss her.
which is ridiculous.
she’s standing right there. and somehow you still miss her.
⸻
the night gets worse.
not because anything goes wrong.
because everything goes right.
that’s the problem.
everybody loves the two of you. the sponsors. the journalists. the guests.
everyone.
every time you turn around someone is asking for photos. or interviews. or comments. all about the relationship. the perfect relationship. you almost laugh every time.
if only they knew.
if only they knew you’re standing beside the woman you love while preparing to lose her.
that would probably ruin the marketing campaign.
⸻
at one point, you’re pulled onto a small stage for a quick interview.
you and alexia side by side. like always.
the host grins, already dangerous. “you two are everyone’s favourite couple.”
those around laugh.
alexia smiles politely. you force yourself to do the same.
“how have you survived all the attention?”
alexia answers first. thank god for her. “i think we’ve been lucky.”
lucky.
the word lands strangely.
because lucky isn’t the word you’d use.
you’d use impossible. beautiful. terrifying. temporary.
mostly temporary.
the interview continues. questions, jokes, laughter.
until the host asks: “what’s your favourite thing about each other now?”
your stomach drops.
because you’ve already answered this once. months ago. back when it was easier. back when the truth wasn’t trying to claw its way out of your chest.
alexia goes first. she glances at you. and for a second something soft crosses her expression. something that makes it difficult to breathe.
“she makes people feel safe.”
the people listening go quiet. not entirely. just enough.
there it is. the question you’ve been avoiding for weeks. months. the question that always ruins everything. you look at her. really look at her. the woman you love. the woman who’s talking about the end like it’s inevitable.
like it’s practical. like it doesn’t hurt.
maybe because it doesn’t. maybe because she was always better at separating reality from pretending than you were. the thought feels unbearable. “i’m tired.”
alexia studies you, not convinced. never convinced. “right.”
you hate that word. you hate how disappointed it sounds. you hate yourself for putting it there.
⸻
the ride home is quiet. too quiet.
alexia keeps glancing at you. you keep looking away. coward.
the word follows you all the way back to the hotel. all the way to your room. all the way into bed.
because you’re a coward.
and because you know exactly what’s happening.
you’re leaving first. emotionally. pulling away before she can. creating distance before she chooses it. because if she leaves you, it’ll destroy you. but if you leave first-
maybe it’ll hurt less.
the logic is terrible. you know that.
but doesn’t stop you.
⸻
your phone buzzes just after midnight.
alexia. of course. for one awful second, you consider ignoring it. instead you open the message.
alexia: did i do something?
your breath catches. the words blur slightly. because that’s the problem.
she thinks this is her fault. she thinks she’s done something wrong. when really she’s done everything right.
that’s why this hurts.
because she was kind. because she cared. because she made you fall in love with her without ever meaning to.
you stare at the message for a long time. too long. eventually you type:
you: no.
the lie sits on your screen. ugly. obvious.
alexia: then what’s going on?
your chest aches. because there’s only one truthful answer.
you.
it’s you.
you’re what’s going on.
you’re the problem.
the feeling.
the heartbreak.
the countdown.
all of it.
you delete the words before they’re sent. start again.
you: just tired.
another lie. easier this time.
alexia takes longer to answer.
when the message finally arrives, it somehow hurts more than all the others.
alexia: okay.
just okay. nothing else. no heart. no joke. no goodnight.
just okay.
the conversation ends there. you stare at the screen. waiting. for another message. for anything. nothing comes. eventually the screen goes dark.
and for the first time since this whole disaster began, you allow yourself to imagine the future.
the real future. the one after the arrangement ends. no morning texts. no saved seats. no excuses. no pretending. just absence.
the thought settles heavily over your chest. suffocating.
because the worst part isn’t that the relationship is ending.
the worst part is that alexia still has no idea she’s taking your heart with her when she goes. and tomorrow, for the first time, you’re going to start letting her.
but i can’t let go of what’s infront of me here - alexia putellas
༄ the only exception - paramore (nrk. live studio recording)
༄ pairing - alexia putellas x fem!reader
༄ series - part one ; part two ; part three ; finale
༄ synopsis - what begins as comfort slowly becomes dependence as alexia settles herself into every part of your routine, and by the time jealousy, longing, and quiet moments of intimacy force you to confront the truth, you’re left with the devastating realisation that somewhere between pretending to love her and learning who she really is, you’ve fallen completely and irreversibly in love with alexia putellas.
༄ word count - 4.2k
༄ notes - halfway done (hopefully gonna finish before friday); not proof read
༄ warnings - fake dating, kinda angsty ?
༄ read more - masterlist
the first text arrives at 6:14 a.m.
which would be annoying if it came from literally anyone else.
your phone vibrates against your bedside table.
you groan.
ignore it.
then it vibrates again.
and again.
with a sigh, you reach over and grab it.
alexia.
of course.
alexia: you’re late.
you stare at the message.
then at the time.
6:14.
you: training starts in two hours.
the response arrives almost immediately.
alexia: i know.
you: then i’m not late.
alexia: you are to breakfast.
you blink.
you: since when do we have breakfast together?
three dots appear. disappear. appear again.
alexia: since every day for the last three weeks.
you sit up. frowning. because surely that’s exaggerated.
except-
you start thinking about it. and unfortunately she’s right.
every morning. same table. same routine. same stupid arguments about coffee.
you hate when she’s right.
you: that’s different.
alexia: how?
you stare at the screen, coming up completely blank.
you: because i said so.
alexia: very convincing.
you: thank you.
alexia: see you in thirty minutes.
before you can answer, another message appears.
alexia: don’t be late.
you roll your eyes.
already climbing out of bed.
which feels suspiciously like losing.
⸻
by the time you reach the cafeteria, alexia already has a coffee waiting for you.
you stop, staring at it. then at her.
then back at the coffee.
“what?” she looks genuinely confused.
you point. “that.”
“coffee?”
“yes.”
“okay.”
“why is it there?”
alexia blinks. “because it’s yours.”
you hate how normal she says it.
like obviously she knows your order. like obviously she bought it before you arrived. like obviously this is a thing now.
which apparently it is.
because nobody else seems surprised. especially not mapi.
who immediately notices where you’re looking.
“that’s adorable.”
you groan. “good morning to you too.”
“she bought your coffee.”
“and?”
“and nothing.” mapi’s grin says otherwise.
alexia continues eating her breakfast, completely unbothered.
traitor.
you sit beside her. because that’s where you always sit. and it takes a full ten seconds before you realize that.
“oh no.”
alexia looks over. “what?”
“nothing.” you refuse to elaborate.
because the realization is already uncomfortable enough. you don’t remember deciding this seat belonged to you. somehow it just happened.
the same way everything else has happened.
slowly, naturally, without permission.
⸻
the team bus is worse.
because now there are expectations.
you discover this when you climb aboard before an away match and head toward an empty seat.
a perfectly good seat. a quiet seat. a peaceful seat.
your favourite kind.
before you can sit down, aitana speaks. “wrong one.”
you stop. “what?”
she points further back.
toward alexia.
who is already sitting down.
apparently saving the seat beside her.
you stare. “that’s insane.”
“it’s literally your seat.”
“i don’t have a seat.”
“you do.”
“i don’t.”
“you do.”
you look around for support- news flash, there is none.
betrayal everywhere. alexia raises an eyebrow, trying not to smile.
“you can sit somewhere else if you want.”
the challenge is obvious.
you narrow your eyes.
then sit beside her immediately. because you’re not letting her win.
obviously.
“good choice.”
“don’t start.”
she laughs.
and somehow that feels like a victory.
which is probably concerning.
⸻
the problem is that spending time with alexia has become easy.
dangerously easy.
you don’t have to think about conversations anymore, they just happen. hours disappear without effort. sometimes you don’t even realize how much time has passed until someone points it out.
like now.
“serious question.”
you look up from your phone.
mapi is standing beside your table. which is never a positive development.
“what?”
“when was the last time you spent a day apart?”
you blink, alexia looks up too.
both of you seem equally confused.
“what kind of question is that?”
“an easy one.”
“i don’t know.”
“exactly.”
you exchange a glance with alexia.
still confused.
mapi looks delighted.
which means you’re missing something. again.
“we train together.”
alexia shrugs.
“obviously we see each other.”
“every day?” mapi asks.
you think about it.
then immediately regret thinking about it.
because, well.
yes.
every day.
training, meetings, travel, recovery, dinners, phone calls, texts, the list could go on and on.
somewhere along the way, seeing alexia became the most normal thing in your life.
the realization sits strangely in your chest.
not unpleasant. just… noticeable.
“you’re making that face again.”
you look up and alexia is watching you.
“what face?”
“the one where you’re thinking too hard.”
“i don’t think too hard.”
she laughs.
mapi nearly falls over.
you hate both of them.
⸻
later that week, a journalist asks a question that should be simple.
instead it ruins your afternoon.
the interview is routine.
football.
the season.
injuries.
expectations.
all manageable.
then:
“what’s your favourite thing about alexia?”
you don’t hesitate.
not even for a second.
“she remembers everything.”
the answer comes out immediately. effortlessly.
the journalist smiles as if she’s waiting for elaboration.
you continue before you can stop yourself.
“if you mention something once, she’ll remember it six months later.”
alexia glances toward you.
you don’t notice.
“she remembers birthdays. conversations. things people like. things people hate.”
the words keep coming. for some reason, you can’t stop them.
“she makes people feel important.”
silence. the journalist looks impressed.
you finally turn toward alexia… and freeze.
because she’s staring.
not smiling, not laughing, just looking at you.
something unreadable sitting behind her eyes. suddenly the room feels too warm.
“that’s your favourite thing?” the journalist asks.
you clear your throat. “one of them.”
one of them.
the phrase lingers.
because there are others.
too many others.
and you don’t particularly enjoy realizing that.
⸻
after the interview, alexia is quieter.
not upset.
just thoughtful.
you notice immediately.
which is another problem.
“okay.”
she looks up from her phone. “okay what?”
“you’re weird today.”
“i’m always weird.”
“true.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.” you respond, rolling your eyes.
she smiles.
small, familiar- still thoughtful.
you study her. “seriously.”
“seriously what?”
“what’s wrong?”
alexia stares for a moment. then shakes her head. “nothing.”
liar.
you know she’s lying.
which is ridiculous.
because when exactly did you become capable of reading alexia putellas? you don’t remember learning.
yet somehow you know.
the same way you know when she’s stressed. or tired, or worried, or amused. the knowledge has simply appeared over time. settling into place without permission.
and that’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
⸻
that night you’re lying in bed when your phone lights up- alexia. obviously.
alexia: can’t sleep? someone must be aging.
you reply, smiling despite yourself.
you: are you calling me old?
the response is immediate.
alexia: yes.
you: rude.
alexia: accurate.
you: blocked.
alexia: good luck.
you: with what?
alexia: remembering where your passport is.
you sit up slightly.
because.
right.
your passport.
which you’d spent twenty minutes searching for last month.
before alexia reminded you where you’d left it.
annoyingly.
you: that happened once.
alexia: twice.
you: propaganda.
alexia: twice.
you stare at the screen. smiling. again. always smiling.
when did that start?
the conversation continues. about nothing and everything all at once.
random thoughts, stories, complaints.
you lose track of time completely.
eventually you glance at the clock. 1:27 a.m.
you: shit.
another message appears.
alexia: what?
you: it’s one thirty.
a pause.
then:
alexia: whoops.
you laugh- quietly, alone, in the dark.
and for a second you just stare at the conversation.
at the hundreds of messages.
the ridiculous amount of time you’ve spent talking.
the fact that somewhere along the way, alexia became part of every single day.
morning.
afternoon.
night.
she’s just there. always there.
your phone buzzes again.
alexia: sleep.
you: you first.
alexia: stubborn.
you: correct.
another pause.
then:
alexia: goodnight.
simple, ordinary, the kind of text millions of people send every day. yet something about it makes your chest feel strangely tight.
you: goodnight, ale.
you send it before thinking.
then immediately freeze. because… ale.
you’ve called her that before- plenty of times.
but seeing it written down feels different, more intimate somehow.
you don’t know why and alexia certainly doesn’t mention it.
just reacts with a heart. a tiny red heart.
nothing dramatic, nothing meaningful, probably. or at least you tell yourself because you’re delusional and insane
your eyes stay on it longer than they should and with the strenght of whatever high power exsists, you eventually lock your phone, setting it down beside you.
the room falls quiet. dark, still even.
you should sleep.
instead you find yourself smiling at the ceiling like an idiot. thinking about coffee waiting for you in the mornings. saved seats. late-night conversations. inside jokes.
the way alexia always notices when something’s wrong. the way she somehow makes every room feel easier to be in.
and for the first time, a thought slips through before you can stop it.
what happens when this ends?
the question hits harder than expected.
because there is an end. there’s always been an end.
that was the entire point.
temporary, simple, safe.
except suddenly the idea of not having this feels strange, wrong even.
you don’t like that feeling. but you don’t understand it either.
so, as you do with all things, you push it away. burying it. ignoring it.
the same way you’ve ignored every other uncomfortable realisation recently.
because everything is still under control. at least you hope it is.
you close your eyes.
trying not to think about the fact that the last person you spoke to today was alexia.
or that she’ll probably be the first person you speak to tomorrow. or how much you’re looking forward to that.
because those thoughts feel dangerous.
and you’re not ready to ask yourself why.
⸻
you realise something is wrong when alexia laughs.
not because alexia laughing is unusual.
it isn’t.
you’ve heard it a thousand times. probably more.
the problem is who she’s laughing with- a sponsor representative.
someone you’ve never met before. someone standing far too close. someone who keeps touching alexia’s arm every five seconds.
you watch for exactly three seconds before deciding you don’t like her. which is ridiculous.
because you don’t know her. she might be lovely. she might rescue abandoned puppies on weekends. she might donate to charity.
you don’t care. you still don’t like her.
“wow.”
you look away immediately. too late.
mapi is standing beside you, looking absolutely delighted. which is unfortunate.
“don’t.”
“i haven’t said anything.”
“you’re about to.”
“you looked at her like she murdered your family.”
you scoff. “i did not.”
“you absolutely did.”
“i was just looking.”
“mm.”
you hate that sound. “what?”
“nothing.” mapi smiles. dangerous. knowing.
you immediately regret existing.
⸻
the thing is, alexia isn’t doing anything wrong. that’s what makes this so annoying.
she’s just talking, smiling, being polite. completely normal, civilised human behaviour. yet somehow every time you glance across the room, they’re still talking. still laughing. still standing together. and each time you notice, something twists unpleasantly in your stomach.
you decide it’s irritation. that seems reasonable. probably. mostly.
“you’re staring again.”
you nearly jump.
aitana drops into the seat beside you, and following your gaze immediate spots alexia. and the sponsor representative.
great.
now there are witnesses.
“i’m not staring.”
“you are.”
“i’m observing.”
“that’s worse.”
you groan.
aitana laughs. “just go over there.”
“why would i do that?”
“because you’ve looked at them seven times in ten minutes.”
“have you been counting?”
“yes.”
“that’s weird.”
“not as weird as whatever you’re doing.”
you cross your arms, refusing to answer. because unfortunately she has a point.
and you’d rather die than admit that.
⸻
later, alexia finds you near the refreshments table, which should improve your mood… right?
instead it somehow makes things worse.
“there you are.”
there you are. two stupid words. yet your entire brain immediately perks up.
pathetic.
“here i am.”
alexia smiles. then reaches for a bottle of water, completely unaware of the crisis she’s caused.
“what’s wrong?”
you freeze. “nothing.”
“liar.”
rude. accurate. rude.
she studies you, head tilted slightly. the way she always does when she’s trying to figure something out. “did something happen?”
“no.”
“are you sure?”
“yes.”
alexia pauses, narrowing her eyes. “okay.”
you blink. “okay?”
“okay.”
“that’s it?”
“should there be more?”
you stare, confused, slightly offended, all for reasons you don’t fully understand yet.
alexia laughs. then gets called away by someone else. and leaves.
which shouldn’t bother you. except it does. because now she’s gone again. and suddenly the room feels irritating.
you hate this.
⸻
that evening the team goes out for dinner. which would normally solve the problem. because dinners mean sitting beside alexia. talking to alexia. existing peacefully beside alexia. simple.
except when you arrive, someone is already sitting next to her.
the sponsor representative. again.
your body acts on autopilot, stopping your legs from moving and instead making you look like a creep with a staring issue.
“oh my god.”
mapi appears from nowhere. actually nowhere. you swear she materializes specifically to ruin your life. “what now?”
you point. mapi follows your gaze… then immediately starts laughing- loudly, horribly.
“stop.”
“you are unbelievable.”
“what?”
“you are jealous.”
you almost choke. “i’m not jealous.”
mapi’s expression doesn’t change.
“you’re standing in the doorway.”
you look down. realize she’s right. move immediately. “i’m not jealous.”
“okay.”
“i’m not.”
“okay.”
“stop saying okay like that.”
mapi grins. “okay.”
you contemplate violence.
⸻
the worst part is that you keep noticing things.
every little thing.
the way the woman leans closer, the way she smiles, the way she keeps finding reasons to continue conversations.
you know it’s irrational. you know it means nothing. yet every time you see it, your mood gets worse. which is concerning. because this isn’t normal. friends don’t react like this. fake girlfriends definitely don’t react like this. so what exactly is wrong with you?
you don’t have an answer.
and that’s becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
⸻
halfway through dinner, alexia finally escapes, dropping into the empty seat beside you.
the spare seat next to you. without hesitation.
like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
immediately your shoulders relax, and the realization horrifies you.
alexia notices. of course she notices. she notices everything. “better?”
you turn. “what?”
“your mood.”
you stare. she smiles- small, knowing, as if she has access to information your brain hasn’t fully figured out yet.
“you’ve been grumpy all evening.”
“i haven’t.”
“you have.”
“i haven’t.”
“you have.”
you sigh and alexia laughs softly. and somehow that stupid twisting feeling in your stomach disappears. just like that.
gone.
completely.
which is deeply alarming. because apparently all it takes to fix your mood is alexia sitting beside you. what kind of ridiculous power is that?
you don’t like the answer. but that’s mostly because you suspect there is one.
⸻
after dinner, the team lingers outside the restaurant- waiting for transport, talking, laughing.
the night air is cool. comfortable.
you stand beside alexia, not intentionally, it just happens.
like always.
at some point, vicky says something funny.
you laugh, alexia laughs too. and without looking, reaches for your hand. completely casually. like she’s done it a hundred times.
because she has. but never like this. your fingers intertwine automatically. because apparently you’ve done it a hundred times too.
the conversation continues. nobody reacts. nobody even notices.
except you.
because suddenly you’re very aware of her hand in yours. warm, familiar, comfortable. and worse-
the moment it happens, every bit of tension you’ve been carrying all day vanishes. instantly.
you freeze, but alexia doesn’t seem to notice. she’s still talking, still laughing, and through all, still holding your hand.
meanwhile you’re standing there trying to process what just happened. because that’s not normal. none of this is normal.
people don’t spend entire days irritated because someone else (aka their fake girlfriend) is talking to a stranger.
people don’t feel relieved just because one specific person sits beside them.
people don’t calm down the second someone takes their hand.
friends don’t. fake girlfriends definitely don’t. the realization follows you all the way back to the hotel. all the way into bed. all the way into the darkness.
you stare at the ceiling, unable to stop replaying everything. the jealousy, the irritation, the relief.
the way your entire mood seemed tied to alexia without your permission. and for the first time, a possibility begins creeping into your thoughts.
it’s small, it’s dangerous, and in every world, it’s impossible.
you reject it immediately. because no. absolutely not. that’s ridiculous. there are other explanations. better explanations. safer explanations. there just has to be.
still.
as sleep slowly begins pulling you under, one thought lingers stubbornly in the back of your mind. if this is all fake-
then why did it hurt so much?
⸻
the problem starts with mapi. which means it starts badly.
“absolutely not.”
you haven’t even reached the hotel desk yet. you don’t know what’s happening. but mapi is smiling. so you’re already against it.
“you don’t even know what it is.”
“i know enough.”
“rude.”
“accurate.”
the hotel lobby is crowded with players collecting room keys, staff members moving around, bags everywhere- normal away-trip chaos.
you’d been planning to grab your key and disappear. but unfortunately, the universe apparently has other ideas.
a staff member clears her throat. “small issue.”immediately concerning. “the hotel made a mistake with the room allocations.”
you close your eyes. because of course they did.
“we’re short a few rooms.”
mapi gasps dramatically. “oh no.”
you point at her. “whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“i haven’t said anything.”
“yet.”
the staff member continues. “we’ll need a few people to share.”
silence. then:
mapi starts laughing. full-body laughing. actual tears. which means she’s planned something. meaning you’re doomed. “no.”
“you don’t even know-”
“i know.”
“you don’t.”
“i do.”
mapi points across the lobby. towards alexia. who has just looked up from her phone. confused. completely unaware of the disaster unfolding.
“oh.” alexia glances between everyone. then immediately understands.
(the traitor) mapi starts smiling. “oh.”
you contemplate sleeping outside.
⸻
“it’s one night.” alexia says it for what feels like the fiftieth time.
you glare. “that’s not helping.”
“why?”
“because you’re calm.”
“should i be panicking?”
“yes.”
“why?”
you open your mouth. pause. close it again. because unfortunately you don’t actually have an answer.
sharing a room isn’t a big deal. you’ve shared rooms before. with teammates. friends. people. it’s normal.
except this feels different. and you’re trying very hard not to think about why.
alexia nudges your shoulder. “relax, amor.”
you look over. and all of things she could possibly be doing, she’s smiling. looking aboslutely comfortable. completely unbothered. completely at ease. which somehow makes everything worse.
⸻
the room itself is perfectly normal. clean, quiet, everything you’d want it to be.
except for one major (minor) problem.
one bed.
you stop walking. alexia stops walking. silence.
“oh.”
“yeah.”
another silence. then: “mapi planned this.”
alexia laughs. “probably.”
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.”
you drop your bag onto the floor, immediately regretting every decision that brought you here. “i hate everyone.”
“dramatic.”
“correct.”
alexia’s smile widens. and despite everything, you feel yourself smiling too. which is annoying.
because she’s becoming very difficult to be annoyed at.
⸻
the evening should be awkward. it isn’t. that’s the problem. whilist everyone else goes out, you order food, watch television, argue about movies, talk about football.
talk about nothing and everything. hours pass. somehow. easily. the way they always seem to when she’s around.
at one point you’re laughing so hard you nearly choke. alexia looks delighted.
“that’s embarrassing.”
“you’re embarrassing.”
“i’m hilarious.”
“debatable.”
you throw a pillow at her. she catches it, still smiling. and the moment settles comfortably, but dangerously familiar.
and suddenly you realize you’ve forgotten about the room entirely.
forgotten about the bed. forgotten about being nervous.
because when you’re with alexia, things always seem to become easy eventually. the thought lingers longer than it should.
⸻
later, the lights are off.
the television is gone. the room is dark. and suddenly you’re aware of everything again.
the bed. the silence. alexia beside you.
close. far too close.
you stare at the ceiling, determined to sleep. it doesn’t work. obviously.
after several minutes: “you awake?” alexia’s voice cuts through the darkness- soft, sleepy.
you smile before you can stop yourself. “yes.”
“good.”
“why?”
“i have a shower question.”
“that’s concerning.”
she laughs quietly. the sound seems louder in the dark. closer.
“what’s your biggest fear?”
you stare upward. “what?”
“answer.”
“why?”
“because i asked.”
“that’s not a reason.”
“it’s enough.”
you sigh dramatically and alexia waits. patiently. always patient. so eventually you cave.
“being forgotten.”
the answer surprises even you. the room goes quiet.
“forgotten?”
you shrug, then remember she can’t see that.
“i don’t know.” your voice is quieter now, more honest. “spending your whole life doing things and then just…”
you hesitate. “disappearing.”
the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, just thoughtful. when alexia finally speaks, her voice is softer than before. “i don’t think anyone could forget you.”
something twists unexpectedly inside your chest. you clear your throat. “your turn.”
alexia is quiet for a moment. then: “not being enough.”
you turn your head, even though it’s dark. even though you can barely see her. “what?”
she laughs softly, not amused. just embarrassed. “i know.”
“alexia.”
“i know.”
you stare. because that’s ridiculous.
she’s alexia putellas.
la reina.
arguably one of the greatest players to ever take the pitch.
the person everyone looks to.
the person who seems completely certain about everything.
yet somehow-
“you actually worry about that?”
“sometimes.” her honesty catches you off guard. because she doesn’t have to tell you this. she could’ve lied. made a joke. changed the subject.
but for some unknown reason, she’s instead telling you the truth.
and for some reason that feels important.
the conversation keeps going. one question becomes another. then another.
family, childhood, dreams, mistakes.
things neither of you usually talks about. hours seem to disappear. again. and at some point you realize something.
alexia knows more about you than almost anyone. and you know more about her too.
the realization settles heavily. because when exactly did that happen? when did she become this person? this important? this close?
you don’t remember.
all you know is that she is.
⸻
eventually the room falls quiet. for real this time. sleep finally beginning to win.
alexia’s voice comes one last time. barely above a whisper. “goodnight, amor.”
you smile into the darkness. “goodnight, ale.”
a small hum. content. sleepy.
then silence. real silence.
you close your eyes. try to sleep. fail.
because a few minutes later, something brushes against your hand.
you freeze. completely. alexia is asleep. or nearly asleep. you can hear it in her breathing.
slow, steady, unaware.
and somehow, during the night, her hand found yours. fingers loosely tangled with yours beneath the blankets. not intentional. not conscious. not for show. just-
natural.
you stare into the darkness, unable to move, unable to breathe properly. because suddenly every single thing crashes into you at once.
the coffee. the texts. the late-night conversations. the jealousy. the interviews. the way you always look for her first. the way every good thing seems better when she’s there. the way every bad thing feels easier. the way you’ve started measuring your days by her presence. the way losing her already feels unbearable.
and finally-
finally-
you stop lying to yourself. the answer has been there for weeks. months, even. maybe years.
you’ve just been refusing to look at it. because looking at it means admitting something terrifying.
something irreversible. something that changes everything. and your chest feels painfully tight.
alexia shifts slightly beside you. still asleep. still holding your hand. completely unaware that she’s destroying your entire life.
you stare at the ceiling, heart pounding. and for the first time, allow yourself to think the words.
the real words. the honest words. the ones you’ve spent months avoiding.
oh.
the realization isn’t dramatic. there are no fireworks, no butterflies, no lightning strikes.
no grand moment.
just devastating certainty. quiet. absolute. inescapable.
because suddenly everything makes sense.
every confusing feeling. every irrational reaction. every moment you couldn’t explain.
all of it.
you know exactly what this is now. and somehow that’s worse. because now you know what you’re going to lose.
your eyes burn. you swallow hard, staring into the darkness.
alexia’s hand remains wrapped loosely around yours. warm, familiar, temporary.
and that thought hurts most of all.
because this was always supposed to end.
it will end.
the arrangement.
the pretending.
the fake relationship.
all of it.
and you’re only realizing now that you don’t know how to let it.
i’ve got a tight grip on reality - alexia putellas
༄ the only exception - paramore (nrk. live studio recording)
༄ pairing - alexia putellas x fem!reader
༄ series - part one ; part two ; part three ; finale
༄ synopsis - convinced that love is nothing more than a distraction dressed up as destiny, you agree to a fake relationship with alexia putellas because it’s practical, temporary, and safe- only to discover that the most dangerous thing isn’t pretending to be her girlfriend, but how naturally she begins to slip into every corner of your life until the line between performance and genuine attachment becomes impossible to see.
༄ word count - 4.3k
༄ notes - please forgive me because i'm sorry this has taken so long. im currently undergoing my half yearly's so please be patient with me; not proof read
༄ warnings - fake dating
༄ read more - masterlist
love, as far as you’re concerned, is mostly an administrative error.
that’s what you tell mapi one afternoon after training when she’s halfway through describing a tiktok she saw about soulmates.
“that’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”
you shrug. “i’ve said sadder.”
“no, i don’t think you have.”
“i once told jonatan that pineapple belongs on pizza.”
“that’s not sad. that’s criminal.”
you grin and lean back in your chair.
around you, the cafeteria buzzes with conversation. players drift in and out, grabbing food, arguing over music, complaining about training. normal things.
comfortable things. things that make sense.
love doesn’t. at least not to you.
you’ve never understood why people willingly make themselves vulnerable like that.
why they hand another person the ability to ruin their week, their month, their entire life.
it sounds exhausting.
you’ve had relationships before, technically. a few. none of them lasted.
mostly because eventually the other person wanted something more and you couldn’t understand why.
why wasn’t having fun enough?
why did everything have to become serious?
why did everyone act like love was some unavoidable force of nature instead of a choice people kept making over and over again?
you never got it. still don’t.
which is why the entire team has decided you’re emotionally defective.
“one day,” aitana says as she drops into the chair beside you, “someone is going to make you eat all these words.”
“unlikely.”
“you said that last time.”
“because it’s still true.”
across the table, mapi points at you dramatically.
“see? this is what i’m talking about.”
“you’re always talking about me.”
“because you’re fascinating.”
“i’m not.”
“you treat relationships like tax forms.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
you open your mouth to respond when another voice cuts through the conversation.
“what’s happening now?”
you glance up.
and immediately regret it.
because alexia putellas is standing there.
which means everyone suddenly looks more interested.
more awake. more annoying.
alexia balances a coffee in one hand and studies the table suspiciously.
mapi lights up. “perfect. tell her she’s insane.”
alexia slides into the empty seat opposite you.
“that depends. what’s she done?”
“apparently love is fake.”
you groan. “that isn’t what i said.”
“it’s basically what you said.”
alexia raises an eyebrow.
then looks directly at you.
“love is fake?”
“love is dramatic.”
“same thing?”
“close enough.”
a laugh escapes her.
you hate that laugh.
not because it’s annoying.
because it isn’t.
because it’s warm.
because it always makes you want to hear it again.
which is a problem.
not a serious problem.
just a small one.
the kind you ignore.
alexia shakes her head.
“you’re impossible.”
“i hear that a lot.”
“for good reason.”
“yet here you are.”
“unfortunately.”
you grin.
she rolls her eyes.
and somehow everybody else at the table suddenly looks smug.
which immediately makes you suspicious.
“why are you all looking at us like that?”
“like what?” aitana asks.
“like you’re plotting something.”
“maybe we’re plotting something.”
“don’t.”
“too late.”
you point at alexia.
“control your children.”
“they don’t listen to me.”
“that’s true,” mapi says.
alexia sighs.
you laugh.
the conversation moves on.
eventually training gets discussed.
then travel schedules.
then a movie someone wants everyone to watch.
normal.
easy.
exactly the way you like things.
because reality makes sense.
people don’t.
especially not feelings.
feelings complicate everything.
you’ve spent years making sure your life stays uncomplicated.
and for the most part, it’s worked.
until three days later.
when the communications team asks you to come in after training.
you assume it’s routine.
a social media thing.
a sponsorship obligation.
something boring.
instead, when you walk into the meeting room, alexia is already there.
sitting at the table.
looking just as confused as you feel.
“that’s reassuring,” you say.
she glances up. “what is?”
“you look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
“i was thinking the same thing about you.”
“good.”
you drop into the chair beside her.
“any idea what’s happening?”
“none.”
“great.”
“great.”
the door opens. and immediately you know this meeting isn’t routine.
because there are too many people. communications. marketing. sponsorship representatives.
everybody looks tense.
which is never a good sign.
you exchange a look with alexia.
she looks equally concerned.
one of the staff members clears her throat.
“thank you both for coming.”
already terrible.
nobody starts good meetings like that.
the presentation begins.
and somehow it only gets worse.
there’s a recent sponsorship campaign.
public engagement numbers. social media trends. fan demographics. media attention.
you stop listening after five minutes.
mostly because none of this seems relevant to you.
until it suddenly is.
“we’ve noticed,” someone says carefully, “that fan engagement surrounding interactions between the two of you is significantly higher than average.”
you blink.
alexia blinks.
silence.
then:
“what?”
the staff member clicks to another slide.
your face appears on the screen.
alexia’s face appears beside it.
you immediately hate where this is going.
“there’s been a growing amount of speculation online.”
“about what?” alexia asks.
nobody answers immediately. which is answer enough.
you lean back in your chair. “absolutely not.”
the room somehow becomes even more uncomfortable.
“we’re not suggesting anything inappropriate- ”
“you absolutely are.”
“hear us out.”
“i don’t want to.”
alexia covers her mouth.
trying- and failing- not to laugh.
you point at her. “don’t encourage them.”
“i’m trying not to.”
“try harder.”
she looks away. still smiling.
traitor.
another person jumps in. “we believe there’s an opportunity here.”
those words are never followed by anything good. ever. you’ve learned that.
“an opportunity.”
“yes.”
“for what.”
nobody wants to say it. which makes it worse.
finally:
“a temporary public relationship.”
you stare.
alexia stares.
the room waits. then you laugh.
a full laugh.
because that’s ridiculous. completely ridiculous. nobody joins in.
your smile slowly disappears.
“oh, you’re serious.”
they are. unfortunately. very serious.
the explanation continues.
something about public perception. something about sponsorship visibility. something about positive media attention.
you tune most of it out. why? because the proposal itself is insane.
fake dating?
seriously?
you’re surrounded by professional athletes at a legendary club and somehow this is the best idea anyone produced to get ratings?
incredible.
eventually the room falls quiet. everyone waiting for a response.
alexia looks at you.
you look at alexia.
then back at the staff.
“this is stupid.”
“it would only be temporary.”
“still stupid.”
“there are benefits.”
“for who?”
“everyone.”
“that sounds fake.”
alexia snorts.
the staff member sighs. “we understand it’s unconventional.”
“that’s one word for it.”
“we’re simply asking you to consider it.”
you should say no. immediately. a normal person would. a smart person definitely would.
except the more they explain it, the more you realise something.
it’s actually… practical.
you don’t have to be in love. you don’t even have to change much. people already think whatever they want. all you’d really be doing is giving them a story. a controlled one.
temporary. simple.
you hate that it makes sense. because as much as it doesnt, it does.
alexia is still listening carefully. thinking.
which means she’s considering it too. which means the thought of the two of you dating doesnt completely repulse her.
finally someone asks the question. “would either of you be open to it?”
the room waits.
alexia looks thoughtful.
you don’t.
because you’ve already made your decision.
“okay.”
the word leaves your mouth before anybody expects it. including you. the entire room freezes.
alexia turns toward you.
“okay?”
you shrug. “why not?”
“that’s your response?”
“seems easy enough.”
alexia looks genuinely surprised. which offends you slightly.
“what?”
“i thought you’d say no.”
“why?”
she laughs, actually laughs. “have you met yourself?”
fair. still.
you lean back in your chair.
“it’s temporary.”
“yes.”
“it’s practical.”
“yes.”
“nobody actually has to catch feelings.”
the marketing team looks relieved. alexia just keeps staring at you. like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. eventually she shakes her head, a small smile appearing. “okay.”
now it’s your turn to be surprised.
“okay?”
“why not?”
you narrow your eyes.
“don’t copy me.”
“i’m not.”
“you literally are.”
“maybe.”
the meeting ends shortly afterwards.
details can wait. contracts can wait. everything can wait.
except apparently the fact that you’ve just agreed to fake date alexia putellas.
which feels absurd. your career is established, and neither of you have any desire to become anymore famous than you already are. but still.
you and her walk out together. the hallway is quiet.
for a few seconds neither of you says anything.
then:
“well.”
“well.”
she laughs again.
there it is. that stupid laugh.
“this is going to be interesting.”
“that’s one word for it.”
“having second thoughts?”
“no.” you answer too quickly.
her smile widens. “confident.”
“always.”
“liar.”
“rude.”
you reach the end of the corridor.
both slowing automatically.
neither seeming particularly eager to leave yet.
which is strange.
alexia glances at you.
“so we’re really doing this.”
“looks that way.”
“you know everyone is going to be unbearable.”
“mapi is going to make my life hell.”
“she’s going to make both our lives hell.”
“good point.”
another silence. comfortable somehow. easy.
then alexia extends her hand. “partners?”
you stare at it. then at her. “that sounds suspiciously romantic.”
“i meant professionally.”
“sure.”
“you’re impossible.”
“that’s what everyone says.”
she rolls her eyes.
still smiling.
and keeps her hand extended.
waiting. eventually you take it. just a handshake. nothing complicated. nothing important. the kind people do every day. except neither of you lets go immediately.
just a second longer than necessary. maybe two. long enough to notice. long enough for something strange to flicker through your chest.
gone before you can identify it.
alexia seems to notice too. because her expression shifts briefly. something unreadable. then she’s stepping back. the moment disappearing.
“see you tomorrow.”
“yeah.”
she starts walking away.
you watch her go. then immediately regret watching her go. because that’s weird.
and you’re not weird. you’re practical. logical. grounded.
you have a tight grip on reality. and reality says this is just an arrangement. temporary. simple.
nothing more.
you tell yourself that all the way home.
for some reason, it doesn’t sound quite as convincing as it used to.
⸻
the first problem is that nobody tells you how couples are supposed to act.
which becomes painfully obvious approximately twelve minutes into your first sponsorship photoshoot.
“closer.” the photographer barely looks up from his camera.
you and alexia exchange a glance. you’re already standing shoulder to shoulder.
“we are close.”
“closer.”
“any closer and i’ll be inside her skin.”
“perfect.”
“that was a joke.”
“closer.”
alexia bites back a laugh. traitor.
you sigh dramatically and shuffle a few inches toward her.
immediately the photographer shakes his head.
“still too stiff.”
“i’m literally standing here.”
“look like you want to be standing there.”
you stare. alexia stares. the photographer waits.
finally alexia leans toward you slightly.
“just pretend.”
you look at her.
“that’s what we’re doing.”
“pretend harder, amor.”
you hate that she’s funny.
you hate it even more because she’s trying not to smile.
the photographer brightens immediately.
“yes. exactly that.”
“what?”
“whatever you just did.”
you look away from alexia.
the camera flashes.
again.
again.
again.
for the next hour you’re forced into increasingly ridiculous situations.
sitting together. walking together. laughing together. looking at each other.
the last one is somehow the worst.
“eyes on each other.”
you and alexia obey.
the camera clicks.
except now you’re just staring at her.
which feels strange. not bad.
just strange.
because people don’t usually look at each other this long. not without a reason.
alexia’s eyes narrow slightly. “what?”
“nothing.”
“you’re staring.”
“you’re staring too.”
“because i’m supposed to.”
“same.”
another camera flash. the photographer looks delighted. you look away first. which annoys you. because you’re not entirely sure why.
⸻
the second problem appears a week later. interviews. you hate interviews. alexia tolerates them.
which means she gets to watch you suffer.
“you’re enjoying this.”
the interviewer is busy setting up equipment.
alexia doesn’t even try denying it. “a little.”
“rude.”
“you make funny faces.”
“those are my normal faces.”
“that’s concerning.”
you open your mouth to respond when the interviewer suddenly sits down. smiling. far too enthusiastically. “thank you both for being here.”
immediately suspicious. the interview starts normally. football, training, the season.
all safe. all boring.
then-
“and how is the relationship going?”
there it is. you knew it was coming. alexia knew it was coming.
still.
hearing it out loud feels weird. you glance at her. she glances at you.
for half a second neither answers.
then alexia speaks- smoothly, effortlessly.
“it’s good.”
liar. professional liar. the interviewer beams.
“what’s your favourite thing about her?”
you nearly choke. alexia nearly laughs. the interviewer waits. apparently serious. unbelievable.
alexia turns toward you. and now she’s definitely trying not to smile. “this should be interesting.”
“don’t.”
“i haven’t said anything.”
“yet.”
the interviewer gestures encouragingly. alexia thinks for a second. then shrugs.
“she’s honest.”
you blink.
that wasn’t what you expected.
“honest?”
“painfully.”
“that’s not a compliment.”
“i think it is.”
“you would.”
the interviewer looks thrilled.
like he’s witnessing something adorable. which is unfortunate. because the next question comes immediately. “and what about you?”
you point at yourself. “me?”
“yes.”
“why?”
alexia starts laughing. the interviewer looks confused. you groan. “fine.”
you glance sideways at her. expecting something sarcastic to come easily.
instead your mind goes completely blank. which is ridiculous. you know alexia. you’ve been knowing alexia.
everybody knows alexia. she’s one of the most recognizable athletes on the planet. why are you struggling?
“well?” the interviewer prompts.
you sigh. “she cares.”
alexia looks at you.
the room suddenly feels warmer.
“cares?” the interviewer asks.
“about everything.” you shrug, trying to sound casual.
“football. people. random things nobody else notices.”
silence. alexia is still looking at you. you immediately regret saying it. because it sounds genuine. which is dangerous. the interviewer practically glows.
“that’s sweet.”
you hate that word. “sweet is a strong description.”
“i thought it was nice.” alexia’s voice is quiet.
you glance at her. she’s smiling. a small one. different somehow. your stomach does something strange. you ignore it.
⸻
the third problem arrives through the team. specifically mapi. because of course it does.
“you held hands.”
you don’t even look up from your locker. “okay.”
“for seven minutes- your own personal seven minutes in heaven.”
“mentira.” you mutter under your breath.
“five.”
“still not true.”
“four and a half.”
“why are you timing us?”
“because i’m a scientist.”
“you’re many things.”
“thank you.”
you stare. she grins. insufferable. across the room, patri sighs.
“please stop encouraging her.”
“never.”
mapi immediately points toward the doorway.
“look.”
you don’t.
because that’s a trap.
“look.”
“no.”
“look.”
you finally give in.
and immediately regret it.
because alexia just walked in.
and mapi’s smile becomes dangerous. “there she is.”
“you’re weird.”
“you’re in love.”
“i’m literally not.”
alexia arrives beside the lockers, raising an eyebrow. “what happened?”
“nothing.” mapi responds with a grin.
“they’re bullying me.”
“we’re helping you.”
“by lying?”
“by opening your eyes.”
you close your locker. hard. “goodbye.”
mapi laughs. alexia looks confused. you keep walking.
⸻
the problem is that spending time being falsely romantically involved with alexia is supposed to feel like work.
that’s the entire point. it’s an arrangement. a role. a performance. instead it starts becoming normal. easy.
you don’t notice it happening at first. that’s probably why it’s dangerous. it starts with small things.
alexia learning your coffee order.
alexia saving you a seat before meetings.
alexia texting when flights get delayed.
nothing important. nothing unusual. except eventually you start doing it too. without thinking.
one afternoon you’re walking back from training when your phone buzzes.
alexia: where are you?
you stare at the message. confused.
you: walking.
alexia: obviously.
you: thank you.
alexia: come to physio.
you: why?
alexia: because i’m bored and i want company.
you laugh. actually laugh. alone. in public.
which is embarrassing.
you: that’s not my problem.
three dots appear immediately.
alexia: wow. heartless.
you: correct.
another pause.
then:
alexia: bring snacks.
you shake your head.
still smiling.
which is when you realize you’re already changing direction toward the cafeteria.
before you’ve even consciously decided to.
⸻
a few days later the team travels for an away match. nothing special, just routine.
except your flight gets delayed.
then delayed again.
then delayed again.
everybody’s annoyed, you included.
the airport lounge is crowded- half the team is asleep and the other half is complaining.
you sit alone scrolling through your phone. enjoying the peace. until someone drops into the seat beside you.
alexia. obviously. “you look miserable.”
“i am miserable.”
“dramatic.”
“we’ve been here for four hours.”
“three.”
“same thing.”
alexia laughs. then opens a packet of crisps, offering them to you automatically.
you take one automatically.
neither of you notices. because somehow this has become normal. she starts talking about something.
you only catch half of it.
mostly because you’re distracted. not by what she’s saying. by how comfortable this feels. when did that happen? when did being around alexia stop requiring effort? when did it become the easiest thing in the world?
the thought lingers longer than it should.
⸻
your first official public appearance happens two days later. a sponsor event- crowded, bright lights, too many cameras.
exactly your favourite environment.
which is to say not at all.
“you’ll survive.”
alexia adjusts her jacket, calm as ever.
“unlikely.”
“you’re very brave.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
“everyone keeps saying that.”
she smiles. you hate that smile too. there are too many things about alexia that have become familiar. you don’t like thinking about that. so you don’t. instead you focus on the event- the interviews, the photos, the endless conversations.
eventually someone calls you over for pictures.
you and alexia move automatically, standing side by side.
the photographer lifts her camera. “perfect.”
before you can react, alexia’s arm slides around your waist.
easy, natural, practiced.
you don’t think- you simply lean slightly toward her. the same way you’ve started doing during interviews. during flights. during team dinners.
the camera flashes.
again. again.again.
“great.”
you barely hear her.
because suddenly you’re aware of two things.
one: alexia’s hand is resting against your side.
two: neither of you consciously chose this position. it just happened.
the realization hits harder than it should. the photos end. people move on. the moment passes.
except the thought doesn’t.
because as you’re walking away, you catch a glimpse of one of the photos on a nearby monitor.
you and alexia. smiling. comfortable. happy. like a real couple. and for one brief, dangerous second- you wish it was. the thought vanishes immediately. buried before it can grow. before it can mean anything.
still, the damage is already done. because now you know the thought existed at all.
and that’s far more worrying.
⸻
at some point, alexia becomes a habit. you don’t notice it happening. that’s the problem. if you’d noticed, maybe you could’ve stopped it. instead it sneaks up on you slowly.
a seat left open beside you in meetings, a text after training, a shared look during team talks.
small things. harmless things. until suddenly they’re not.
“where’s alexia?” the question leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
silence. immediate silence. you look up. half the team is staring at you. mapi looks particularly delighted. which is never a good sign.
“what?” you ask in confusion.
“nothing,” mapi says.
lying- badly.
you narrow your eyes. “don’t.”
“don’t what?”
“whatever you’re about to do.”
“i wasn’t going to do anything.”
“that’s how i know you’re lying.”
aitana snorts into her water bottle. patri actually turns away to hide a smile. traitors, all of them.
you groan. “seriously. where is she?”
mapi clasps her hands dramatically. “look at that.”
“look at what?”
“she misses her girlfriend.”
“i don’t.”
“you literally just asked where she was.”
“because she usually sits there.” you point at the empty chair, immediately regretting it.
because now everyone’s smiling. great, fantastic, wonderful.
“you’ve become predictable,” patri says.
“that’s offensive.”
“it’s true.”
“i’ve never been predictable.”
“you look for her every day.”
you open your mouth. close it. open it again.
nothing comes out. why? because unfortunately she’s right. and that’s annoying. mostly because you hadn’t realized anyone else had noticed.
⸻
the thing is, alexia really is everywhere. not physically.
just- somehow.
you keep finding her in your routines. she’s there when you arrive at training. there after training. there during meetings. there during recovery sessions. there in your messages. there in your thoughts.
which feels unfair. one afternoon you’re halfway through physio when your phone buzzes.
alexia.
alexia: they put pineapple on my sandwich.
you stare at the message.
then laugh. immediately. without thinking.
the physio looks up. “good news?”
“no.”
you type back.
you: deserved.
alexia: wow.
alexia: you wound me amor.
alexia: more and more everyday.
you: that’s the goal. 🤷♀️
three dots appear.
alexia: breaking up with you.
you roll your eyes.
you: thank god.
another response arrives almost instantly.
alexia: mean.
for some reason, your smile lingers.
which is unfortunate.
because now your physio is looking at you strangely.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“you’re smiling.”
“people smile.”
“not like that.”
you immediately stop. the physio laughs.
you hate everyone.
⸻
the first genuinely bad training session happens on a thursday. nothing catastrophic, nobody gets injured, nobody screams.
you just can’t do anything right.
every pass is slightly off. every touch feels wrong. every decision comes a second too late.
one of those days. the kind athletes hate. the kind that sits under your skin.
training ends. everyone starts heading inside. you stay. because you don’t feel like talking. don’t feel like pretending you’re fine. the sun is beginning to disappear. the pitch is quieter now.
empty.
you drop onto the grass. staring out toward nothing. trying not to think. it doesn’t work.
obviously.
a few minutes pass.
then: “there you are.”
you don’t need to look up. you’d know that voice anywhere. which is somehow another problem.
alexia walks across the pitch. holding two water bottles.
she offers one. you take it automatically. “thanks.”
“bad day?”
you shrug.
which answers the question.
alexia sits beside you.
close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.
not quite.
just enough.
for a while neither of you says anything.
the silence isn’t awkward.
which is irritating.
because most silences are.
this one isn’t.
eventually alexia takes a drink.
“you’re overthinking.”
you scoff.
“that’s your diagnosis?”
“yes.”
“very scientific.”
“i’m serious.”
you glance at her.
she is.
annoyingly.
“everything looked difficult because you were trying to make it perfect.”
“i wasn’t.”
alexia raises an eyebrow.
you sigh.
“maybe a little.”
“exactly.”
you hate when she’s right. mostly because she’s right often.
“it’s one training session.”
you stare ahead. “i know.”
“then stop acting like the world ended.”
“i’m not.”
“you absolutely are.”
you laugh despite yourself.
alexia smiles- small, soft, but it’s a smile nonetheless.
the kind she doesn’t show reporters. or sponsors. or cameras.
just people she trusts. the thought lands somewhere uncomfortable. you ignore it.
badly.
“you stayed.”
the words leave before you think about them. alexia looks confused. “of course i did.”
of course. she says it like it’s obvious. like there was never another option. something tightens unexpectedly in your chest.
“you didn’t have to.”
“i wanted to.”
simple.
matter-of-fact.
completely genuine.
and suddenly you’re aware of the fact nobody is watching. there are no cameras. no interviews. no obligations.
no reason for her to be here. except she wants to be. the realisation settles heavily.
because that’s different. that’s very different.
you look away first.
the conversation drifts somewhere easier after that.
football, travel, mapi being annoying (justice for mapi)
normal things. safe things.
eventually the stadium lights flicker on overhead. alexia stands. “come on.”
you stay seated. “what?”
“you’re buying dinner.”
“why?”
“because i spent thirty minutes fixing your mood.”
“that’s not how that works.”
“it’s exactly how it works.”
you groan.she grins.
and somehow you’re already getting to your feet.
⸻
later that night you’re sprawled across your couch.
exhausted.
half watching television. half asleep.
your phone buzzes beside you.
a message from your brother. a photo.
apparently his dog managed to get stuck inside a laundry basket.
you immediately laugh. the dog looks furious. humiliated. personally offended by existence.
you open your messages. without thinking.
your thumb automatically moves toward alexia’s contact.
look at this. that’s what you’re about to type.
the words are practically there already.
look at this.
you stop. completely. the room suddenly feels very quiet. your screen glows in the darkness.
alexia’s conversation sits open. waiting.
you stare. then stare some more.
because what exactly are you doing?
it’s a stupid photo- a random photo.
nothing important. nothing urgent.
yet your first instinct was to send it to her. not mapi. not aitana. not your family.
her.
why?
the question lingers. uncomfortable.
you don’t have an answer. or maybe you do.
maybe that’s the problem.
slowly, you lock your phone. setting it face-down on the coffee table. the apartment feels strangely empty.
you don’t like that thought either. for a few moments you sit there. staring at nothing.
trying to convince yourself this means nothing.
people text their friends. people share things. people get close.
normal.
completely normal.
except something about this doesn’t feel normal.
because alexia isn’t becoming someone you spend time with. she’s becoming the person you want to spend time with. the first person you look for. the first person you think about telling things to. the first person you notice is missing.
and maybe that should worry you more than it does.
your phone buzzes again. you glance down. a new message.
from alexia.
did your mood survive?
a pause.
then another message.
or should i send emergency snacks?
despite everything, you smile.
immediately. helplessly. you hate that. you really do.
because pretending wasn’t supposed to feel this easy. and you’re starting to suspect that’s exactly why it’s dangerous.
i can love you (better than she can) - alexia putellas
༄ i can love you - mary j blige
༄ pairing - alexia putellas x fem!reader
༄ synopsis - after four years of silent longing as your closest friend and barca captain, alexia putellas watches your eight month relationship with lena slowly unravel under missed dinners and half hearted effort, until one painful breaking point finally brings the long simmering tension between you to the surface.
༄ word count - 1.7k
༄ notes - i hate this so much you guys wouldnt even get it ; sorry to anyone named lena ; not proof read
༄ warnings - cheating, crying (?), angst-ish (?)
༄ read more - masterlist
the sun hung low over joan gamper, casting long shadows across the pitch as the final whistle blew. you wiped sweat from your forehead, chest still heaving from the last set of drills. eight months with lena had settled into a strange rhythm- comforting on the good days, exhausting on most others. she lived outside this world of constant travel and pressure, and lately the space between seeing her had stretched wider than ever.
“buen trabajo, chicas,” good work, girls alexia called, voice steady under the captain’s armband. on the pitch she stayed precise and focused, corrections sharp but fair, pushing everyone without unnecessary softness. but when her eyes found you across the grass, something shifted. the edges softened.
you jogged over as she reviewed notes with the staff. “knee holding up after that last sequence?”
she looked up, offering the small smile reserved only for you. “si, estoy bien. just thinking about the next one.” her hand brushed your arm, lingering a second longer than necessary- a quiet anchor.
the two of you had been inseparable since you joined barca in 2021. best friends first, always. late night talks, shared rides home, her quietly taking you under her wing when your spanish was still shaky and everything felt overwhelming. the tension underneath it all had grown over the years, but neither of you ever named it.
the girls clustered near the tunnel, peeling off training vests. ingrid fell into step beside you, mapi on your other side. “plans tonight?” ingrid asked, casual but with that careful edge.
you checked your phone. another text from lena- short, delayed. sorry babe, work ran over again. we can always reschedule? third time this month. “lena’s stuck late again. so thats a no from me.”
mapi made a small noise. “shame. thought we were your first pick.”
“come with us instead,” ingrid added, rubbing your back. “proper meal after today. that assist in the small-sided game was nice.”
frido slung an arm around your shoulders from behind. “that little spot near the harbor. good patatas. and it’ll take your mind off of things. lena seems busy a lot lately, huh?”
you laughed it off, used to the gentle nudges. “big project at her job.”
alexia slowed until she matched your stride. “you should come,” she said quietly, just for you. “my place is closer anyway. you can stay after.”
the offer felt warm, familiar. most nights when lena canceled, you ended up at alexia’s. her couch had slowly become more yours than not.
“alright, i’m in.”
⸻
dinner with the team was loud and easy, the kind of night that reminded you why this squad felt like family. you sat between alexia and frido, knee occasionally brushing hers under the table. she didn’t pull away. her hand rested near yours on the bench, close enough for heat to radiate.
“you looked good today,” alexia murmured during a lull, voice low. “that pass that split the defense- classic.”
“thanks, capi.” you used the nickname lightly, knowing it made her roll her eyes in private but smile anyway.
around the others she stayed composed, but with you the walls dropped. the girls kept conversation light, but the undercurrent lingered. ingrid mentioned how relationships were hard with your schedule, how the right person showed up anyway. mapi hummed in agreement. no names. no direct shots at lena. just enough to plant the seed.
later, in alexia’s car, the city lights blurred past. “thanks for letting me tag along again,” you said, sliding into the passenger seat.
“you never have to thank me.” she started the engine, radio low. “you spend more time at mine than i do anyway.” a pause. “lena canceled again?”
“yeah.”
she didn’t push, but the silence felt heavier lately, charged with everything unsaid. she had waited since 2021, watching you date people who never quite saw you the way she did. holding you through breakups without crossing the line. it had worn on her quietly, especially these last eight months.
at her apartment you kicked off your shoes by the door. the familiar scent of lavender wrapped around you. you had your own drawer in the guest room now. alexia moved to the kitchen, pulling ingredients for your recovery shake without asking- heavy on strawberries, light on banana.
“you don’t have to do that every time,” you said, leaning on the counter.
“i want to. besides, it’s good recovery for your body.” her voice softened, captain mask gone. just alexia- attentive, warm, crumbling in the way she only did for you.
you took the glass, fingers lingering against hers. “what would i do without you, ale?”
her eyes held yours a beat too long. “you’d be fine. but i’m glad you’ll never have to find out.”
⸻
the next few days blurred between training and recovery. on the pitch alexia directed with quiet authority, voice carrying without shouting. “keep the press higher,” she called during set pieces. the squad responded instinctively.
off the pitch her glances toward you carried everything. she pulled you aside after one tough sequence, hand on your waist to steady you. “breathe, amor. we do it together, okay?”
the touch lingered. around the team she kept it professional, but everyone who paid attention noticed the way she softened for you.
evenings at her place became routine. shared meals, deep conversations, her arm around you on the couch while movies played mostly ignored. one night you vented lightly about lena’s latest cancellation.
“it’s fine. she’s got her thing.”
alexia listened, jaw set but voice gentle. “it doesn’t sound fine.” she passed you tea made exactly how you liked it. “you deserve someone who shows up, mi vida.”
you lifted your head from her shoulder. the spanish phrase made your stomach flip, even if you didn’t catch every word.
she pulled you closer, thumb tracing circles on your arm. the tension hummed stronger lately-years of almosts building between best friends who had always been more.
⸻
two days before the champions league fixture, you decided to surprise lena. flowers in hand, you let yourself into her place with the spare key. voices drifted from the bedroom, door slightly ajar. you pushed it open.
lena in bed with someone else. sheets tangled. laughter cutting off sharply.
“what the fuck?” the flowers slipped from your hand.
lena scrambled up, face flushing. “y/n, wait. this isn’t- she’s just a friend. things got carried away.”
“carried away?” anger flared hot. “i’ve been making excuses for you for eight months. missed games, rescheduled dinners- everything. and now this?”
the other woman grabbed clothes and slipped out. lena pulled on a shirt, tone shifting to accusation. “you’re never here anyway! always with the team, always with alexia. what am i supposed to do?”
“she’s my best friend,” you yelled. “you’re the one i was with. don’t turn this on me.”
the fight escalated- voices overlapping, blame flying. lena threw your closeness with alexia in your face, claiming it justified everything. you grabbed your things and slammed the door, chest tight with rage and betrayal. eight months ending in screams. strangely, relief mixed with the hurt.
you drove straight to alexia’s without thinking.
⸻
she opened the door in recovery clothes, face shifting from surprise to deep concern the second she saw you. “what happened?”
“lena cheated. i walked in on it.” the words broke. “we yelled. she blamed it on how much time i spend with you. said it justified everything.”
alexia pulled you inside immediately. “ven aqui.”
she wrapped you in strong arms, one hand stroking your back, the other cradling your head. you let the tears fall as she guided you to the couch, rocking you gently.
“breathe, mi vida. i’ve got you.” she kissed your temple, then your forehead, catching tears with soft lips. “lo siento.” i’m sorry.
every press was tender, focused only on you. you curled closer, the safety of her arms muting the sharpness of the breakup. minutes stretched while she whispered reassurances, fingers threading through your hair.
when you finally looked up, eyes red but clearer, she cupped your face. the kiss landed tentative at first- years of restraint breaking. then deeper, full of everything she’d held back. when you pulled away just enough to breathe, she rested her forehead against yours.
“te quiero,” she whispered, voice thick. “i have for so long.”
tears slipped again but you smiled. “i love you too, ale. i think i have for a while.”
she kissed you once more, slower, pouring in every quiet night, every protective glance, every time she waited. “stay. we’ll figure everything else later.”
⸻
the rest of the evening passed in quiet closeness. she made tea exactly how you liked it and listened as you vented more about the fight. no jealousy, just steady support. “she never saw you right. but i do.”
conversations flowed genuine and deep, the years of tension finally releasing into something real. kisses came easy between words- soft, reassuring. the girls sent casual texts in the group chat, keeping things light. frido asked about a playlist. mapi shared a meme that made you laugh despite everything. no prying. just family.
that night you slept in her bed, wrapped in alexia’s arms, her lips pressed to your hair. “te quiero,” she murmured again. the sadness lingered but felt manageable here.
⸻
the next morning training brought new lightness. jonatan gave you a knowing nod during warmups, keeping an extra eye but not hovering. on the pitch alexia directed with her usual quiet authority- cool and precise. “tighter on the left.” but her glances toward you carried soft promise.
water breaks brought small touches, her hand brushing yours behind the bottles. the girls kept conversation natural, chatting about match prep and silly stories. ingrid pulled you into talk about a new series. it felt right.
after training you ended up back at alexia’s, tangled on the couch exchanging more i love yous between kisses. the path ahead felt open, built on years of genuine care finally named.
and if alexia knew one thing for certain, it’s that she could love you better. better than any other woman ever could try.
maybe i’ll stay (heaven can wait) - alexia putellas
༄ heaven can wait - michael jackson
༄ pairing - alexia putellas x fem!reader
༄ synopsis - in the heart of barcelona, star teammates and secret lovers alexia putellas and you face alexia’s mounting offers from clubs around the world, but as the captain grapples with ambition, loyalty, and love, she realises that staying beside the woman who makes every day feel like heaven is the only choice worth making.
༄ word count - 2.3k
༄ notes - not proof read
༄ warnings - fingering but its really soft smut
༄ read more - masterlist
the camp nou floodlights always felt brighter after a win. tonight they burned gold against the dark barcelona sky as the team filtered back into the tunnel, adrenaline still crackling between shoulders and laughter echoing off the concrete. you jogged beside alexia, her captain’s arm slung loose around your waist like it belonged there. no one blinked anymore. not really. the squad had learned to read the space between you two the way they read the pitch- instinctivly, protectively.
“otra vez, eh?” she murmured, voice low enough for only you. her fingers pressed once against your ribs, a silent good game. you’d assisted her second goal. she’d celebrated like it was the only one that mattered.
“couldn’t let you do it all yourself, capi.”
her smile curved against the edge of your vision, tired and fond and something sharper underneath. lately that sharper thing had been showing up more. contracts. agents. whispers from spain and abroad. you tried not to think about it.
in the changing room the mood stayed high- mapi blasting reggaeton, ingrid attempting (and failing) to confiscate the speaker, esmee already half-asleep on the bench with her boots still on. alexia sat beside you, thigh warm against yours, untying her laces with the same focused precision she brought to free-kicks. when her knee brushed yours again, deliberate this time, heat climbed your neck.
later, in the quiet of her apartment overlooking the city, she pulled you down onto the couch without turning on the lights. barcelona glittered below like scattered stars. her mouth found yours slow and certain, the kind of kiss that said stay here, stay real. you tasted salt and victory on her tongue.
“you were incredible tonight, amor” she whispered between breaths, hands sliding under your shirt to map the bruises already blooming along your hips.
“so were you.” you nipped at her jaw. “two goals, one assist, and still managed to yell at the ref in three languages.”
she laughed softly, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. for a moment everything felt simple. teammates. lovers. home.
but the offers kept coming.
⸻
the first one had arrived quietly three weeks earlier. a polite email from a wsl club. then psg. then a record-breaking proposal from german club that made even alexia’s agent raise an eyebrow. she didn’t hide them from you. that wasn’t her way. instead she left her laptop open on the kitchen island one morning while you made coffee, the subject lines glowing like accusations.
you read them while she watched you, arms crossed, wearing nothing but one of your old training tops.
“big numbers,” you said, keeping your voice neutral.
“big pressure.” she came up behind you, chin on your shoulder. “they want an answer by the end of the month.”
your stomach twisted. “and what do you want, ale?”
she turned you in her arms, eyes searching. “i want to wake up next to you after home games. i want to fight for the same badge every weekend. i want… i want this. us. here.”
you kissed her then, fierce and a little desperate, because wanting wasn’t always enough in football. contracts had expiration dates. ambition had teeth.
⸻
training the next day was brutal. double sessions under the relentless sun. you watched alexia move through it all- captain voice sharp during drills, body language protective when younger players struggled. she still covered more ground than anyone, still demanded perfection, but there was a new tension in her shoulders. you caught her staring across the pitch at you more than once, expression unreadable.
after the final whistle she pulled you aside near the medical room.
“come to my place tonight. no team dinner. just us.”
you nodded as if you werent there 6 nights of your week. when you arrived she had cooked- simple grilled fish, salad, a bottle of rioja already breathing. candles, even. alexia wasn’t usually this intentional. it made your heart race in a way that wasn’t entirely pleasant.
halfway through dinner she set her fork down.
“i turned down psg today.”
you blinked. “ale-”
“they offered ridiculous money. champions league final guarantees. but i told them no.” she reached across the table, lacing your fingers. her thumb stroked over your knuckles like she was memorizing the feel. “i’m not finished here. not with this team. not with you.”
relief crashed through you so hard your eyes stung. you stood, rounded the table, and climbed into her lap. she welcomed you instantly, arms wrapping tight around your back.
“i’m scared of losing you,” you admitted against her neck.
“i know.” her hand rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades. “i’m scared too. every time another offer comes in i think… what if staying means i’m holding you back? or holding myself back?”
you pulled back to look at her. “you’re notholding me back. us isn’t holding anyone back. it’s the reason we keep pushing.”
she kissed you like she believed it. deep, searching, hands sliding under your thighs to lift you as she stood. you wrapped your legs around her waist, laughing breathlessly as she carried you toward the bedroom, lips never leaving yours.
in the soft glow of the bedside lamp she laid you down gently, eyes never leaving your face. her hands moved with reverence, peeling away your clothes like she was unwrapping something sacred. you did the same, fingers tracing the familiar lines of her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the faint scars that told stories of battles won.
“ale,” you whispered as she settled between your legs, skin warm and flushed against yours.
“shh, mi amor. let me love you.” her mouth found your collarbone, then lower, pressing open kisses along the path her hands had taken. every touch was slow, deliberate, like she wanted to memorize the way your breath hitched when she grazed a sensitive spot.
you arched into her when her fingers slipped between your thighs, gentle circles that built heat in waves. she watched you the whole time, eyes dark and full of adoration, murmuring soft praises in catalan and spanish that you couldnt understand but that made your chest ache. when you came undone the first time it was with her name on your lips, quiet and trembling.
she didn’t stop. instead she shifted, pulling you on top so you could move together, bodies rocking in a rhythm that felt like breathing. your hands explored her freely- cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over hardened nipples until she gasped. you kissed down her neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point that always made her hips stutter.
“i love you,” she breathed as your fingers found her center, slick and ready. you moved in sync, slow and deep, foreheads pressed together, sharing every moan and sigh. the world narrowed to just this: the slide of skin, the warmth of her breath on your lips, the way her thighs trembled around you when she finally fell over the edge, pulling you with her in a soft, shuddering release.
afterward you stayed tangled together, sweat cooling, hearts slowing. she held you close, one leg draped over yours, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.
“stay with me,” she murmured, half-asleep. “always.”
“i’m not going anywhere.”
⸻
the rumors intensified anyway.
tabloids loved a story: alexia putellas tempted by mega-offer. barcelona’s queen considering her throne. teammates started giving you both careful looks in the dressing room. mapi cornered you after gym one afternoon, blunt as ever.
“if she leaves, you tell her she’s an idiot. but if she stays for you and regrets it later…” mapi shrugged, eyes serious. “that’s worse.”
“whatever she does i know she wont regret it. she’s not the type to look back. you of all people should know that.”
mapi studied you for a long moment, then nodded. “good. because she looks at you like you hung the moon, and in my years of knowing her, i’ve never seen her look at anyone else like that. not even the game.”
the words lodged in your chest.
⸻
international break arrived like a pressure valve. most of the squad scatteredin spain however some scatted- norway, sweden, england. you and alexia stayed in barcelona. she had a minor strain in her calf that the physios wanted monitored, and you simply refused to leave her side.
you spent lazy mornings in bed, tangled sheets and soft kisses. afternoons walking the quiet streets of sarria, caps pulled low, fingers brushing but never fully holding. evenings on her balcony with music playing low, her head in your lap while you ran fingers through her hair.
one night she was quieter than usual. you’d cooked together- burnt the edges of the tortilla because she kept distracting you with hands on your hips and kisses to your neck. now you sat on the couch, her back against your chest, your arms around her.
“another one came today,” she said eventually. “from chelsea. they want me for the project. new era, all that.”
your arms tightened instinctively. “what did you say?”
“i haven’t answered.” she turned her head, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “but it’s… tempting. the football they want to play. it’s admirable. but something about playing against barca- i don’t know if i could bring myself to.”
you swallowed. “you should consider it. properly. not just… us.”
she sat up, facing you fully. the city hummed behind her. “that’s the thing. every time i sit down to consider it, i picture next season without you on the left wing. without your stupid celebrations when i score. without coming home with you after losses and knowing you get it. you get me.” her voice cracked slightly. “how do i walk away from that?”
tears pricked your eyes. “ale…”
“i love you,” she said simply. like it was the most obvious fact in the world. “not just as my teammate. not just as the person who makes the pitch feel like magic. i love you. the way you steal my hoodies. the way you argue with the coaches when they’re too hard on the kids. the way you look at me like i’m still just alexia, even when the whole world sees me as la reina.”
you pulled her in, kissing her hard. salt from tears mixed with the taste of her. when you broke apart you rested your forehead against hers.
“i love you too. so much it scares me. but i don’t want to be the reason you turn down something huge. i’d follow you. if you went to london or paris or wherever. we’d make it work.”
her hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing away tears. “i know you would. but this is our home. this club, this city, this team. i built something here. we built something here.” she smiled, small and fierce. “maybe i’ll stay.”
⸻
the weeks blurred after that. more offers. more conversations. more nights where you held each other like anchors. the team sensed the shift- extra hugs from ingrid, knowing smirks from mapi, quiet solidarity from everyone. barcelona kept winning. you and alexia kept finding each other on the pitch in perfect sync, like the universe itself approved.
one evening after a particularly grueling champions league match- 2-1 away against lyon- you both collapsed into her bed still half in kit, too exhausted to shower immediately. her head rested on your chest, listening to your heartbeat.
“i signed the new contract today,” she whispered.
you froze. “you… what?”
“two more years. with an option for longer.” she lifted her head, eyes bright even in the low light. “i told them i’m staying. the club, the fans, you… this is where i belong.”
joy exploded in your chest. you rolled her beneath you, kissing her until you were both laughing and breathless. “you’re sure?”
“i’ve never been more sure of anything.” her legs wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. “being here with you… it’s heaven. why would i ever leave heaven?”
you revelved in eachothers prescence, savoring every touch, every sigh, every whispered promise. no more uncertainty. just the two of you, teammates and lovers, choosing each other again and again.
⸻
the final match of the season arrived under perfect barcelona skies. the crowd sang louder than usual, banners waving for alexia, for the team, for the future. you found her in the tunnel before kickoff, nerves and excitement buzzing between you.
she caught your hand, squeezed once. “whatever happens today, we do it together.”
“always.”
you scored in the 28th minute. she scored the winner in the 67th. when the final whistle blew the entire squad piled on top of you both in celebration. cameras flashed. fans roared. in the chaos alexia found your eyes across the pile of bodies and smiled like the rest of the world disappeared.
later, on the pitch during the trophy lift, she pulled you aside for a quiet moment while confetti rained down. the noise was deafening but somehow it felt private.
“thank you,” she said, voice rough with emotion. “for reminding me what matters.”
you leaned in, foreheads touching. “we remind each other.”
she kissed you softly- quick, but full of everything unsaid. the cameras probably caught it. neither of you cared anymore.
as the night stretched long with celebrations, music thumping through the streets, alexia kept you close. her hand in yours, her laugh in your ear, her future woven with yours.
and when the fireworks painted the sky and the team sang old songs until their voices gave out, she leaned close one last time and murmured the words against your temple like a secret and a vow all at once.
amor fati - "love of fate," the philosophy of embracing everything that happens in your life, both good and bad, as a meaningful part of your journey.
༄ general warnings: english isn’t my first language; don’t condone/produce violent, prejudiced, homophobic or racial behaviours or stories; all my works are fem!reader based x character;
heaven can wait - michael jackson 🥐 ☕
wc: 2.3k+ | girlfriend!alexia x girlfriendfem!reader, teammates/lovers au, heaps of fluff, smut
i can love you - mary j blige 🫧 🥐
wc: 1.7k+ | bestfriend!alexia x bestfriendfem!reader, best friends/teammates/lovers au, cheating, angst ?, fluff
like a virgin - madonna
wc: 11.3k+ | olderteammate!alexia x youngervirginfem!reader, age gap/teammates au, smut, aftercare
— 01. touched for the very first time ☕ 💌
— 02. with your heartbeat next to mine 🥐 💌
sex on fire - kings of leon (live from itunes festival. london, 2013)
wc: 7.0k+ | rival!alexia x rivalfem!reader, enemies to lovers au, angst (?), smut
— 01. your sex is on fire 🫧 ☕
— 02. consumed (with what’s to transpire) 🫧 ☕ 💌
the only exception - paramore (nrk. live studio recording)
wc: 19.4k+ | teammate!alexia x teammatefem!reader, fake dating au, angst, fluff, smut
— 01. i've got a tight grip on reality 🥐 💌
— 02. but i can't let go of what's infront of me here 🫧 🥐
— 03. i know you're leaving in the morning when you wake up 🫧 🥐
— 04. leave me with some kind of proof it's not a dream 🥐 ☕ 💌
waiting room - phoebe bridgers
wc: 9.6k+ | slightlytoxic!alexia x slightlytoxicfem!reader, relationship/breakup au, angst
— 01. who am I to ask for more, more, more 🫧
— 02. know it’s for the better 🫧 🥐
୨ৎ leah williamson
all you need is love - the beatles
wc: 11.7k+ | neighbour!leah x journalistfem!reader, next door neighbour au, fluff, sarcasm, banter
— 01. there’s nothin' you can do that can't be done 🥐 💌
— 02. nothin' you can sing that can't be sung 💌
— 03. nothin' you can say 🥐 💌
