it's a football world and we are just living init

[solongmylove818]

masterlist of fics

Last Seen - Alexia x OC Jude Jones is not where she thought she’d be. At twenty-something, she’s stuck in a London pub kitchen that smells like fryer oil and bad decisions, living in a shoebox flat with her overweight dachshund, Taco, and pretending everything is fine. It isn’t. At some point, through a mix of boredom, poor life choices, and convenience, Jude starts using Alexia Putellas’ Instagram DMs as a personal notes app. It’s not like Alexia Putellas is going to see it. Except she does.

Don't cry for me Argentina - Alexia x Reader 🇦🇷 4 times you almost got Alexia's shirt and 1 time you got something else instead. ; mañana ; un verano sin vos ;

[xiii-ap]

Beyond the Badge | Alexia Putellas x reader - Part 12

Part 12

Summary : You're Real Madrid Femenino personified, the captain, the one who joined the day the club was born. A 15-2 agreggate against Barça makes you wonder if loyalty is enough, and the Spanish camp that follows only make it worse. You've known Alexia Putellas for years but have never been close. This camp has other ideas for you both.

Pairing : Alexia Putellas x Real Madrid! Reader

Word count : 9.8k

Warnings : 18+

A/n : Happy to have managed to get this one out ! Some scenes I'm not fully satisfied with, some I love, so it is what it is. We get a lot of resolutions in this one, hope you will all enjoy it !

Masterlist

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After the long day out on the boat followed by team dinner, you somehow end up marooned in Ona and Vicky’s room. Both Alexia and Vicky had insisted you had to come, and considering you’re already incapable of saying no to either of them individually, going up against both was a lost cause from the start. Naturally, more than half the team has crammed into the room, as it’s apparently become the official gathering spot for the evening.

You’re comfortably propped against the headboard, bored to death as conversations happen all around you. Alexia is sitting at a respectable distance so as not to look suspect, even though the only thing you want to do after a day like that is snuggle against her. Vicky had kept you company for a brief two minutes before Clara asked her a question about the book sitting on the nightstand (a book you’re 100% certain Vicky hasn’t actually touched), and now you’ve lost them both as they huddle over Vicky’s phone, lost on TikTok.

Every few minutes, Alexia’s eyes flick across the crowded room to meet yours. She gives you a series of pointed looks, urging you to get up, move over, and stop being so aloof. But your energy is spent, and you just can’t bring yourself to make the first move, leaving you firmly planted right where you are.

You’re lazily flicking through your phone just to give yourself something to do, when the mattress dips beside you.

“You look like you were brought here at gunpoint,” Jana notes dryly.

“I was,” you reply, making a gesture with your chin toward Vicky across the room.

Still, you can’t quite hide the fond expression taking over your face as you notice the faint flush rising on Clara’s cheeks when Vicky leans in close to point out something on her screen.

“They’re cute,” Jana says softly.

“Yeah. It’s only a matter of time before they figure it out.”

Jana hums in agreement, though her eyes stay fixed on your face, clearly searching for an answer she can’t quite read. “Why are you playing the asocial tonight ? You always chat with us when we’re hanging out with the girls.”

“It’s not the youngsters,” you reply, giving a small shrug.

Your eyes drift over the main crowd. Sure, Ona and Salma are there, and you’ve built a decent rapport with them recently. But it also features Alexia, Mariona, Irene, Misa, Laia, Mapi, Patri, and, of course, Jenni. You’re infinitely less comfortable around the older core of the team. Well, except for two of them, for very obvious reasons.

A million unspoken questions flash through Jana’s eyes in the silence that follows. You’ve always sensed that she was deeply curious about your side of everything that happened back then, but the two of you are simply never alone together. At least Vicky is usually in the mix, and thankfully Vicky seems to have zero interest in prying into the past.

“You’ve known them for years, and you all talk often enough during team events,” Jana points out.

You give another noncommittal shrug. You’re fairly certain Jana is just playing candid here, she knows the real answer, or at least a big piece of it. It’s one thing to hang out with them in a forced, official setting where small talk is expected. It’s a different story to sit in a bedroom late at night and feel comfortable enough to open up about personal things.

More than anything, though, it’s Jenni’s presence that keeps your guard up. You don’t trust your own mouth around her. The fear of snapping, making a scene, and convincing everyone in that room that you really are the jerk they think you are, and disappointing Alexia in the process, is enough to keep you glued to this bed. You’ve let Alexia down enough times recently, you aren’t going to do it again tonight.

“I don’t really—” you begin, but the rest of your sentence is drowned out by a pierced squeal from Vicky.

“Oh my god, look at this !”

She turns her phone screen toward the group huddled on Ona’s bed. Driven by sheer curiosity over what could prompt such a noise, you and Jana shift over to see what’s on the display.

Vicky hits play on the TikTok. Alexia’s face fills the screen first, and out of the corner of your eye, you catch her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. The edit quickly cuts to Kika Nazareth with the sound “la nueva”, immediately followed by Olga (who you’re slightly embarrassed you can identify easily thanks to a few private internet deep-dives), labeled as “la ex”.

Alexia buries her face, letting out an utterly mortified “Dios…” that is swallowed up by the rest of the room bursting out into absolute hysterics.

“Vicky, send that one to the Barça group chat immediately !” Patri exclaims, clutching her stomach.

“No, wait ! You haven’t even seen the best part yet !”

“There’s more ?” comes out strangled from Alexia.

Vicky turns the screen toward herself, taps it once to reveal the comment section, and turns it right back around for the room to see. Right at the top is a comment from Violeta Mangriñán : “La ex ❤️‍🔥”. The name doesn’t mean a single thing to you, but the collective gasps echoing around the room tell you it’s a huge deal.

“No she didn’t,” Mariona says, her jaw dropping open.

Your eyes catch Misa’s, and you give her a quick look to convey your cluelessness. Reading the room, she glides over and drops down beside you.

“Okay, so the 'ex' in this video is Alexia’s ex, Olga,” Misa explains casually. You’re pretty sure she knows you already know that, but she’s putting on a convincing façade for the rest of the room. “And the person who commented is Olga’s friend.”

“Right... and so, Alexia is dating Kika Nazareth ?” you ask, maintaining the most innocent expression you can muster.

That sets off another booming round of laughter across the room, while Alexia turns practically neon red.

“God, no,” she mutters into her hands. “The fans just made up this entire narrative out of thin air for some reason.”

“I mean... maybe she’s the mysterious girl you’ve been sneaking around with,” Mapi chimed in.

Alexia just lets out a strained groan, prompting Patri to pile on. “Look, it’s fine if you’ve developed a taste for younger girls now, Ale. We’d support you, you know.”

“Wait, Kika is younger than me,” Jana interjects, wrinkling her nose. “Yeah, that would actually be kind of weird.”

“I am not seeing anyone,” Alexia states firmly, somehow managing the miracle of not letting her eyes drift anywhere near you. Instead, her gaze locks onto Irene instead, the one person in the room she can rely on for back-up in this kind of subject.

“Honestly, considering how long you’ve all been convinced Alexia’s seeing someone, there’s no way she would’ve kept it a secret for this many months,” the defender chimes in smoothly. It’s a great argument, logical, sensible, and completely wrong.

Alexia stays bright red, thankful for the cover so no one grows suspicious. Beside you, Misa bites her lower lip, eyeing the screen. “We should leave a comment, shouldn’t we ? Just to make her realize how pathetic she’s being.”

In your mind, engaging with it is completely counterintuitive, but you know better than to speak up and draw attention to yourself. The girls feed off each other’s energy, talking themselves into a circle until they’ve all decided it’s a brilliant idea.

Alexia stays largely silent, but her lack of a lecture is telling enough. Everyone takes her silence as implicit permission. Your girlfriend has a petty side too, apparently.

You wait for a wave of jealousy to hit, but the feeling never arrives. You know enough history regarding Olga not to feel threatened. As for Kika, Alexia brings her up all the time in the same tone she uses for Vicky or Jana : like an affectionate older sister talking about a kid.

If there’s any discomfort lingering, it’s the quiet frustration of hiding. Knowing you can’t publicly claim her, watching people guess and ship Alexia with random teammates while no one ever suspects the two of you… it stings in a subtle way. Every past relationship of yours had been open and easy. Now, with the person who matters most, every date has to be hidden away behind closed doors.

You don’t dwell too much on Vicky and Misa drafting their petty replies to the TikTok. Slowly, the rest of the night dissolves into shared laughter, messy anecdotes, and bad ex-partners stories. You just listen and laugh along, content to stay quiet in the background.

The following day brings the travel to Iceland, starting early with a video analysis session before heading to the airport. You get a brief window of time to settle into your hotel room after landing in Reykjavík before heading straight back out for a light training session.

Half the team spends the practice complaining about the chill weather, while the other half insists it’s a relief to train in more tolerable temperatures again. As you watch Alexia visibly shiver on the pitch, her teeth practically chattering, you don’t have to guess which side of the debate your girlfriend falls on.

Recovery takes place right after in the hotel room gym. You go through the motions, listening to the trainers' instructions while your thoughts spin out of control. You know what you promised Alexia yesterday, that you’d finally have that long-overdue conversation with Jenni that didn’t entirely consisted of snide remarks. You have a feeling that the more time you let pass, the less likely you are to actually keep your word.

So, when the recovery wraps up, you force your legs to move and catch up to Jenni before she can slip away.

“Hey... do you think we could have a quick chat ?”

Jenni looks confused, but she nods and agrees. The two of you discreetly hang back, waiting for the gym to fully clear out so you don't draw any unwanted attention to the two of you talking alone.

“So, what’s this about ?” Jenni asks, tilting her head as the heavy double doors click shut, leaving the gym empty.

“Alexia. And the fact that the two of us can’t keep going on like this.”

“That’s funny, considering you’re responsible for most of our arguments,” she retorts, crossing her arms.

“Jenni... please,” you sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “Is there anything I can do to make things better between us ?”

To her credit, she actually takes a moment to consider it, her expression hardening. “Not really. Nothing is going to make up for your silence all those years.”

“Nothing at all ?” You shake your head in frustration. “There has to be a way forward.”

“You genuinely apologizing for everything.”

“I don’t see how that’s going to make things progress anywhere,” you reply flatly.

“See ? You can’t even say the words !”

“Because I don’t believe just saying the words magically fixes the past ! What do you want from me, Jenni ? To say ‘I’m sorry’ ? There. I’m sorry, okay.”

Jenni just shakes her head, letting out a bitter laugh. “Those words don’t mean a single thing coming from you.”

You throw your hands up. “You just demanded an apology ! What else do you want from me ? Me on my knees ? Begging for your forgiveness ?”

“I want you to actually feel remorse, I want to see you genuinely feel bad abandoning everyone.”

“But I do !”

“Oh yeah ? Since when ?”

“I always did !” you yell back, the dam finally bursting. “Do you really think I thought the federation was in the right ? Do you think I walked away unscathed and got treated right through all that hell ?”

Jenni scoffs. “Considering you’re only putting on this little repentant act to slide into Ale’s pants ? Yeah, I do.

You tilt your head back, staring up at the gym ceiling keep your composure from shattering. “I always knew I was taking the easy way out,” you force out, your voice dangerously quiet. “I just... I didn’t see how a stupid apology could ever make up for what I was doing.”

“It would’ve meant something ! Anything is better than your fucking mutism !” Jenni’s eyes flash with pure fury. “You were our captain, for God’s sake ! And you didn’t even represent us when it mattered most !”

“Alexia was the captain—”

“Stop playing the fucking idiot, even if it suits you.” she cuts you off. “Alexia wasn’t there for the Euros! And during the World Cup, she was barely holding together, played limited minutes ! You were supposed to step up, and you were a fucking pathetic excuse for a leader. How did it feel, being their perfect little puppet while the rest of us burned ?”

“It was either that or sacrificing so much of my career, and I wasn’t willing to do that !” you snap back, your chest heaving. “Look at someone like Misa... and at least she’s back on the team, unlike others. I just wanted to protect my future! The cost was too damn high!”

“I PAID IT !” The scream shatters the silence of the empty room, echoing loudly off the walls. Jenni stops, taking a long, shuddering breath as she desperately tries to regain control. She’s trembling so intensely you feel a sudden pang of concern despite the venom between you. “And I didn’t even have a fucking choice !”

Your throat tightens, the anger draining out of you, leaving only guilt. “Jenni—”

“I had to sit back and watch people like you keep your heads down and get rewarded for it,” she sneers, tears of rage glistening in her eyes. “You’re the Golden Girl, aren’t you ? Their perfect poster child. You get the global ad campaigns, the millions of followers, the bloated contract with Madrid… You never had to lose a damn thing.”

“The whole team hates me,” you whisper defensively.

“I got the fucking hate of the entire world !” Tears are finally spilling over. “People telling me I was overblowing it, sending death threats to me and to my family every single day !”

“I think you’re expecting something from me that I just can’t give you,” you say quietly, the fight draining out of your posture. “I don’t have a good reason, Jenni. I don’t have an equivalent loss to offer you, or some dramatic backstory to justify it. Like I said, the only thing I lost was the team, and let’s be real, I was never truly a part of it to begin with.”

“Except you’re getting that now, aren’t you ?” she spits out, her hands clenched into fists. “The kids adore you. Misa’s on your side. Alexia is in your bed. And I’m still drowning in death threats and hate speech for something inflicted on me three years ago. My entire career will always be tied to it. You can’t even type my name into Google without that being the very first thing that pops up.”

“What do you want from me, then ?”

“Nothing you’re capable of giving,” Jenni says, stepping directly into your space. “I’m going to be civil. I’ll play nice for Ale, because she begged me to, and I actually care about her. But remember this: no matter how much time passes, I fucking hate you, and I am never going to forgive you. And when the day comes that she realizes what a massive mistake she’s making with you, I’ll be right there to pick up the pieces.”

She turns and exits the room, leaving the gym doors to click shut behind her. You let out a massive sigh, feeling as if all the tension in your body has suddenly given out.

There’s a small, defensive part of you that bristles at those parting words, but a much bigger part can’t even muster the energy to feel angry anymore. You get her. Honestly, if you were standing in her shoes, carrying all that weight while watching someone else walk away untouched, you wouldn’t forgive yourself either.

Stepping out into the hotel corridor, you accept that this is the best outcome you’re ever going to get with her. There won't be a happy ending or a genuine friendship, but cordiality, even if it's fake and forced for Alexia's sake, is still a hell of a lot better than the toxic war you had going on before.

With your mind drained, you head straight for the only place you actually want to be : Alexia’s room.

Alexia pulls open the door, her hair still damp from the shower she clearly just finished. You adore seeing her like this, soft and unrefined, her hair soft, bare-faced, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing her Spain sweatshirt and standard training shorts. It’s this exact version of her that makes you want to wrap your arms around her and never let go.

So, the second you step inside and close the door behind you, that’s exactly what you do. You reach out, gathering the back of her sweatshirt into your hands and pulling her against you. Buried in the crook of her neck, you breathe in the familiar scent of her perfume.

“Someone’s in a cuddly mood,” she teases fondly, though her arms wrap around your shoulders, drawing you even tighter into her space.

“Missed you,” you mumble against her warm skin.

“Are you in a romantic mood, cari ?”

“No, just happy we’re finally getting some time, just the two of us.” To emphasize the point, you press a kiss on her neck.

“The boat trip was what ?” she asks, amused.

“A perfect dream,” you answer without missing a beat.

“God, you are definitely in a sappy mood tonight,” Alexia chuckles, shaking her head.

You reluctantly detangle yourself from her warm embrace, stepping back just enough to look at her. “I mean, obviously, have you seen how you look right now ?”

Alexia glances down at her simple clothes, then looks back up at you with a raised eyebrow. “My... generic national team-issued clothes ?”

You nod without hesitation. “You look... I don’t know, domestic ? It’s my favorite version of you. The one I just want to wrap up and hold forever.”

“Is everything alright ?” Alexia asks, her brow furrowing with concern as she tilts her head.

You briefly consider making a joke about how a girl can’t even call her girlfriend beautiful anymore without getting interrogated, but instead, a long sigh escapes your lips and your shoulders drop.

“I talked to Jenni.”

“Oh.” Her expression softens. She steps forward, lacing her fingers through yours and walking backward toward the bed. She drops onto the mattress, lying back and stretching her arms open for you. “Come here, cari.”

You snuggle against her without a second thought, burying your face into her warmth and letting out a soft sigh of satisfaction as her fingers find their way into your hair, gently massaging your scalp.

“It seems like it didn’t go that bad ?” she asks tentatively, testing the waters.

“It didn’t go too bad, no. I think it cleared up a few things between us. You shouldn’t have to deal with us constantly trying to throttle each other anymore.”

“So you two actually made peace ?”

“Hey, don’t sound so shocked,” you grumble playfully, poking her side. “But yeah. I think so.”

“You still seem tense, though,” Alexia notes, her fingers continuing their soothing motion through your hair. “What did she actually say to you ?”

You know that you could easily lie to smooth things over, but you don’t owe Jenni a cover story, and you owe Alexia the truth.

“She said she’d be cordial, for you, but that I ought to know she’s never going to forgive me.”

Alexia hums thoughtfully against your temple. You have a feeling Jenni has probably told her the exact same thing in private.

“Thank you,” Alexia whispers after a beat, her grip on you tightening just a fraction. “For talking it out with her.”

“I think it was long overdue anyway,” you murmur back, settling deeper into her hold. “Regardless of us.”

“Do you want to talk about it more ?” Her hand slips under your shirt, sending a sudden shiver through you. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that she’s ready to move on from the topic and focus on something else entirely. Her palm is warm against your waist, her fingertips absently trailing up your spine to the claps of your bra, teasing it.

You know you could easily give in, let yourself sink into her touch and forget every heavy thought lingering in the back of your head. Alexia’s body has this magic ability to strip away the rest of the world, making it impossible to focus on anything else when she’s pressed naked against you.

But you made a promise to yourself that this relationship would be built on honesty, that you’d actually talk through problems before they turned into something unmanageable. You feel like you’ve already let that standard slip more than enough since you started seeing each other.

There’s still a dull ache lingering in your chest, something raw that Jenni’s words managed to crack wide open. “Have you truly forgiven me ?”

Your words bring her movements to a dead stop. Alexia doesn’t bother playing coy or asking what you mean by that. You feel her chest rise as she takes a quiet breath, weighing her response before giving you the simplest truth she has.

“Yes.” Her voice is assured, carrying no hesitation.

“I just... I don’t see how you could have,” you whisper, staring at the fabric of her sweatshirt.

She shrugs gently beneath you, the movement shifting your head so that you have to readjust, settling yourself comfortably back against her chest. “Humans are imperfect, cari. You weren’t in an easy position. I can’t even imagine how much harder everything would have been if Barça had put that same kind of pressure on us, too.”

“You would have still gone through with the protest,” you argue, looking up to meet her gaze.

“Yes. We would have,” she says, offering no convenient lie, a quiet honesty you deeply appreciate. “You are you, and I am me. Do I wish you had done things differently ? Yes, of course. But I wouldn't have gotten into a relationship with you if that was still something I held against you.”

The bitter thought sits right on the tip of your tongue. The fact that, from everything Alexia has let slip, her track record with relationships over the last few years hasn’t exactly been the healthiest. You wonder if your relationship is nothing more than the result of Alexia trying to hurt herself.

“I just don’t get why you’d forgive me. I haven’t done a single thing to deserve it.”

That earns a pause from her, a long, heavy silence that presses against your ribcage like a physical weight.

“Forgiveness isn’t about being deserving,” she says softly. “I just realized one day that I had stopped resenting you for it. I never consciously sat down and decided to forgive you, cari. It just happened.”

“Would you have forgiven me if the sex was terrible ?”

A sound of protest escapes Alexia’s throat. Before you can react, she shifts your weight, rolling you over slightly until you’re forced to look her directly in the eye. Her brows are furrowed as her eyes search yours, as if trying to pull every hidden thought straight out of your head.

“Do you seriously think I’m with you just for the sex ?” she asks, genuine disbelief in her voice. “We’ve slept together less than ten times since we started seeing each other two months ago. But we’ve talked every single day.”

“I’m—,” you start, burring your face straight back into the crook of her neck, terrified of what your face might betray if she keeps staring into your eyes.

You can’t tell her the whole truth. You can’t tell her that, on paper, you are the single worst choice of a partner she could ever make. You can’t say out loud that you feel like Alexia is unconsciously setting off a slow-motion bomb inside her own life by choosing you. Because Alexia is the kind of person who believes that anything good in life has to be earned through suffering.

Football is her life’s blood, her ultimate passion, but it demands total sacrifice in return.

That’s what football really is, isn’t it ? Training until your lungs bleed and your muscles burn from the inside out, endless travel that tears you away from the people you love, a life meticulously engineered around fixture lists, and a retirement that leaves you hollow, broken, and bruised.

To you, football is just a job, a trade-off for financial security. But Alexia loves it with an obsessive, burning devotion, a passion you buried years ago when the sport threatened to break you entirely.

Maybe deep down, in some dark, untouchable corner of her mind, she believes losing her father was the ultimate price she had to pay to reach the top. It gave her something to fight for, turning him into a godly figure she silently worships after every single win. A painful offering to earn her place in the Pantheon of women’s football.

Yes, you’re sure about it. She believes, to her very core, that peace is only earned after agony.

And you know, with absolute certainty, that you will bring her agony, no matter how hard you try not to. You’re going to drive a wedge between her and the people who love her. Jenni was just the first piece of collateral damage.

Maybe that’s the real reason she asked you to be her girlfriend right after you warned her you were a walking red flag. Maybe she’s looking for someone to destroy her, someone to make her bleed, and—

“Cari,” she whispers, the word slicing through the heavy silence of the room like a scream. “Talk to me. Please.”

Her voice is practically begging, her arms wrapping tighter around you as if she’s terrified you’ll slip through her fingers and run away. And maybe you should. Maybe running is the only good thing you could ever do for her. Alexia could easily find someone better, someone whole, but you’re not convinced she’d ever allow herself to have someone good.

You remember Alexia telling you that you were the first person in a long time who made her feel something . You know she meant it as a compliment, but deep down, you’re convinced you make her feel things for all the wrong reasons too.

You couldn't dream of saying even half of this out loud to her. It would feel like weaponizing her own vulnerable confession, turning her heart right back against her. But you also know from bitter experience that ignoring poison doesn't make it disappear, it just lets it rot you from the inside out.

You pick the one truth you can actually manage to speak.

“I’m terrified I’m going to ruin things between you and your friends.”

Alexia lets out a heavy exhale. She was clearly expecting something far worse to spill out of your mouth, something like we need to break up. The thought is right there, burning in your throat, but you refuse to let it out. You’re too selfish for that. You only ever stand up when it benefits you, never to save someone else from yourself. And Alexia feels too warm, too safe, to let go. So you stay.

“Hey, look at me,” Alexia murmurs. “Don’t take what happened with Jenni and apply it to everyone else. I’m not claiming they’re all going to throw us a parade, but this isn’t going to tear my whole world apart.”

“I’ve seen this happen before,” you mutter, staring at the wall. “When a partner and a friend group don’t get along, it never ends well.”

Alexia lets out a quiet, tired sigh, and a cold wave of realization hits you : you’re starting to exhaust her with your endless insecurities. “I promise you, it’s not going to ruin everything, cari.”

“Right.” You try to settle back down, but she suddenly feels suffocatingly hot, and the weight of her arm over your shoulder feels too heavy. You try to force down the tight lump forming in your throat, but it refuses to budge. There is no way in hell you are going to let yourself cry in front of her over your own self-inflicted drama.

Without another word, you pull away from her. She reaches out, her hand landing lightly on your hip, assuming you’re just turning around. But you react on instinct, slapping her hand off you because the contact feels like burning metal burning straight through your skin.

When you glance back, her face is a mix of confusion and wounded pride.

You quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet her eyes. “I need to go. I promised Aitana we’d spend some time together, and I’ve been slacking.” It’s a complete lie. In fact, you’re pretty sure Aitana already has plans of her own, but you just need to run.

Her hands brush your hips, pulling back almost instantly as the memory of your reaction stings between you. “Cari, please.” It’s far too gentle. You don’t deserve gentle. You want her to lose her temper, to scream at you, to tell you how much of an idiot you are, to tear down all your stupid defenses. You want her to fuck you, to drown you out until you forget everything and only remember Alexia.

She carefully places her palm against your cheek, moving slowly enough to give you time to pull back if you want to. Her eyes lock onto yours. “Talk to me. We won’t solve anything if you don’t.”

I told you, everything is fine, Alexia.” She flinches slightly at the distance in her full name.

“Obviously, it’s not.”

“Just let me go to my room, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking on the final word.

Alexia searches every inch of your face, looking for something to hold onto, before her expression slowly closes off.

“Okay.” She makes no attempt to hide her disappointment.

When you lean in to kiss her, she immediately deepens it, her hands framing your face while her tongue tangles with yours. She pours everything into it, a fierce, desperate warmth, as if she’s terrified this might be the last kiss she ever gets from you.

“See you later,” you whisper against her lips, before pulling away and stepping out into the corridor.

If you felt lighter right after talking to Jenni, you now feel like the weight of the world is crushing down on your shoulders. It’s a miracle you even manage to navigate the hallways back to your room. Aitana isn’t there, and the space feels cold and quiet. The moment you fall onto the bed, the floodgates collapse, and you let out the heavy, ragged sobs you had refused to release in Alexia’s arms.

you lose track of time, spiraling in the dark, until the sharp sound of the door latch catching snaps you back to reality. You try to force your breathing to even out, but your lungs betray you. There are a few voices hushed in the hallway, though you’re too far gone to care who Aitana brought back with her. She clearly shooes them off, because the door shuts quietly, and moments later, she’s settling onto the bed beside you.

Aitana doesn’t say a word at first, nor does she reach out to touch you. She just lies there, giving you the space to decide what you need. It’s the way the two of you have always functioned. When things went off the rails with Elena, you packed your bags for Barcelona and hid out at her place. She did the exact same thing after her own breakup, and she’d been in and out of your apartment earlier this year while recovering from her injury. You’ve always been each other’s escape hatch when life got too heavy to carry alone.

“Jenni ?” she asks softly after a long pause. You offer a weak shake of your head. “Okay. Alexia, then.” You don’t have it in you to answer, and she doesn’t need you to.

Noticing that your breathing is still out of control, Aitana reaches out to pull you into a hug, but you instinctively shove her hand off, the phantom touch of Alexia burning too fresh in your mind.

“Sorry, sorry,” she murmurs quickly, throwing her hands up in defense.

“I’m... I’m too hot,” you choke out through your ragged breathing.

A sudden breeze of cool night air washes over you as Aitana slides out of bed and cracks the window open. When it does nothing to stop your spiraling, Aitana sits on the edge of the mattress and firmly places her hand over your sternum.

“Breathe in... and out. Yeah, just like that.” You follow her rhythm, counting the exhales until you no longer feel like you’re seconds away from needing a coffin.

She waits patiently until your chest settles, making sure you’re actually grounded before breaking the heavy silence. “Alright. Now you tell me what happened with Alexia, and whether or not I need to two-foot her in training tomorrow.”

A weak chuckle escapes your lips. “Alexia didn’t do anything.”

“Alexia pretty clearly did something,” Aitana counters.

“I’m the problem.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“I can’t tell you the details.”

“What do you mean ?” Aitana’s eyes narrow, already piecing together her own theories. You’ve never kept secrets from her, so watching you pull back now is immediately raising red flags.

“It’s private stuff about Alexia,” you clarify quietly. “I just feel like it’s not my story to tell, and it’d be disrespectful to broadcast it to you.”

Aitana lets out a slow sigh. “Okay.” You know her well enough to practically see the gears turning as she recalibrates how to approach the situation. “Then what can you tell me about how you ended up like this ?”

You drag a deep breath into your lungs. “I talked things out with Jenni... and it basically ended with her saying she’ll be cordial for Alexia’s sake, but that she’s always going to hate me. No matter what.”

Aitana nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough.”

You nod back. Because honestly ? Yeah. Fair enough.

“I guess it just kind of opened up a whole can of worms for me. Like... why did Alexia even forgive me in the first place ?”

Aitana tilts her head, studying you. “Where is this coming from ? That feels pretty new. Is this all just because of what Jenni said ?”

You bite down on your lip, trying to figure out how to frame your answer without breaking Alexia’s privacy.

“We had a talk right after that whole blow-up about her sleeping with Jenni.” Aitana nods along, she remembers that conversation, the one where you told her it all ended in make-up sex just to get her off your back, and that the sex was so good it convinced Alexia to finally come clean to Jenni and Misa. Just a harmless little white lie to keep things simple.

“And... Alexia told me some pretty heavy stuff,” you admit, your voice hesitating on every word. “It just made me worried that she might be with me for all the wrong reasons.”

Aitana’s face twists into an expression of utter confusion, making it painfully clear that you are explaining this whole situation terribly.

“She admitted that she has a history of dating people where it’s doomed from the start. She claims it’s different with me, but what if she’s just in denial?”

You can practically see the gears grinding in Aitana’s head as she tries to piece together what Alexia actually confessed to you. Aitana was born insatiably curious, she loathes being kept in the dark. That’s half the reason she likes having you around. Normally, you spill every secret without a fight, making bad decisions she can dissect and psychoanalyze for hours.

“Alright... is that what you two just fought about ?”

“Not exactly.” You cover your face with both hands, groaning softly. “I kind of started by asking why she forgave me, then I brought sex into it, and then I told her she shouldn’t ruin her friendships over me.”

“And did you actually listen to a single word she said in response ?” Aitana’s tone is suspiciously gentle. The exact soft, measured voice she uses right before dropping a harsh truth on you.

You ponder her question for a beat. “Not really ? I just feel like she was either trying to reassure me at best, or lying to herself at worst.”

Aitana lets out a groan of frustration. “So you’re just assuming she’s lying to herself, consciously or not ? Like it’s impossible for her to just be... telling the truth ? Alexia is a pretty straightforward person, you know.”

“I really don’t feel like she is.”

“You can’t build a relationship with someone whose words you don’t even believe.” The sentence stings worse than if she’d physically slapped you across the face. “You’re executing the exact same self-destruction sequence you used with Elena, just on fast-forward. Congratulations.”

“Aita, it’s not like—”

“No, let me finish,” she cuts you off cleanly. “Alexia apparently told you some really heavy things because she actually trusts you. And now you’re panicking and trying to run away, just like you’ve done for the last two years every single time a girl gets anywhere near you. And you know what ? I’ve told you this a million times, haven’t I ? We all have. We all worry about you.”

You swallow hard, the truth hitting home. You know your friends do. You know that buried beneath all the relentless banter about your nonexistent love life are genuine, concerned warnings.

“And when you were pulling this with random girls, fine, we let it slides because the stakes were low. But then you decide to try something with Alexia Putellas, of all people. And honestly? At first, I thought you were the biggest idiot in the entire universe.”

You wince, able to picture Aitana stressing out back home during the last national team camp.

“But then you proved me wrong. You looked genuinely happy. You met her family, you stop living week-to-week, you actually look toward a future. We were literally talking before camp about how relieved we were that you’d finally let someone in.”

“Alexia is amazing,” you murmur weakly.

“Then fucking fight for her !” Aitana snaps. “You’re taking whatever vulnerable thing she told you, spun it inside out, and built a whole narrative just to justify fleeing. Poor girl is probably sitting in her room right now, crying and tearing herself apart wondering what she said wrong. Meanwhile, she could have done every single thing perfectly, and you still would have run.”

Aitana has essentially just handed you your own head on a platter, laying out all the ways you’re being a terrible partner. You’re used to her tough love, but this cuts to the bone. You don’t even have any tears left to cry.

“I think I should just let her go,” you whisper staring blankly at the floor. “It’ll hurt her less if I do it now, rather than when I inevitably ruin everything later.”

You can’t even bring yourself to look at Aitana, you can’t face the disappointment in her eyes.

“Quit playing the martyr. You deserve to be loved, you just have to put the effort into it. No matter how low your opinion of yourself is right now, you are a good person. You listen. You don’t do big, fake speeches, you just show up. After my breakup last year, who faked an injury to come straight to Barcelona? You did. You stayed for a whole week and cooked every meal. I tried to Bizum you for the flight and the food, and you refunded me every single time until I stopped trying.”

She reaches out, gently nudging your shoulder until you're forced to listen. “You’re the first person anyone in our group runs to when they need to cry, because you actually get what people need. You’re smart, you’re self-aware, I haven’t said a single thing m that you didn’t already know, you just needed someone to throw it right back in your face. And you know what ? Maybe you put yourself first during the federation fight, and yeah, some people are always going to hold that against you. But I know you. And the person I know is an incredible friend who just keeps self-sabotaging her own personal life, and it fucking hurts to watch you do it.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat, trying to break the heavy mood. “Careful, my ego is gonna get way too big if you keep talking like that.”

“You and your stupid jokes, I swear,” she groans, rolling her eyes. But as she lets out a helpless laugh, you both break down into light giggles, feeling the suffocating tension in the room drop a notch at last.

“What do I do now ?”

“You go to Alexia, you apologize, and you actually try to explain to her why you’ve been acting like this,” Aitana says firmly. “I’m not saying you have to dissect every single one of your deep-seated flaws for her, but just make sure she knows she’s not the one causing all the problems.” She pauses for a beat, a wicked smirk playing on her lips. “And then you have makeup sex.”

A surprised burst of laughter explodes out of you, it’s such an un-Aitana thing to say. She looks utterly delighted with herself for catching you off guard.

Aitana checks her watch. “Look, we have about twenty minutes until team dinner, so save the dramatic reunion for after, okay ? Right now, go take a shower. You look like you just got dumped.”

“I honestly have no idea how you understand me so well,” you mutter, pushing yourself off the bed with a grateful breath.

“Ten years of practice,” she shoots back with a grin. “And like I said, you’re self-aware. You usually know exactly where you’re fucking up and tell me about it, you just need me to repeat it back to you for whatever weird reason. Now go shower.”

Alexia’s table is already full by the time you walk into the cafeteria, making it impossible to sit next to her. You have to resort to pulling out your phone and shooting her a quick text : talk after dinner ?

The subtle, hopeful look that washes over her face the second she glances down at her screen breaks your heart just a little, driving home how terribly you’d acted earlier.

Later on, as dinner wraps up, you’re on the verge of slipping out of the cafeteria when someone suddenly tries to tackle-jump onto your back. There is only one person on this team chaotic enough to do that.

“What do you want, Vic ?” you grumble, trying to keep your balance.

“I convinced Clara to play a game of Brändi Dog with me, but I’m looking for two more people. Are you in ?”

“I’ve got plans, kid. Go harass literally anyone else on the team.”

“Yeah, but I need you for... you know! Just one game, pretty please ?”

You’re about to invent another excuse to shut her down, because you desperately need to have that talk with Alexia, when a familiar voice cuts in from right behind you.

“What are you badgering her about ?”

You turn to see the woman who occupies most of your thoughts standing behind you.

“I’m convincing her to play Brändi Dog,” Vicky explains eagerly, her eyes lighting up. “Are you in, Alexia ? We need a fourth !”

Alexia glance over at you, her eyebrow raised as if silently asking how you managed to get roped into this mess.

“I haven’t accepted anything yet !” you say quickly, raising your hands in self-defense.

“Please,” Vicky whines again, pulling out her best puppy-dog eyes.

Both you and Alexia let out a synchronized sigh. You both share the exact same weakness when it comes to the kid.

“Just one game, Vicky. I have to go to bed after this” Alexia relents gently.

You’re almost ninety percent sure you hear Vicky mumble grandma under her breath as she happily turns and leads the two of you down the hall toward the room near the hotel lounge where the team hangs out to relax and play games.

Clara is already in the lounge, setting up the game board. She looks a little intimidated by the duo Vicky just dragged into the room, but wisely decides not to make a comment about it.

“So, what are the teams ?” you ask, settling into a chair.

You attempt to pair Vicky and Clara together, but Alexia shuts that idea down immediately, convinced the kids will just cheat. It ends up being a classic rivalry match : Madrid-born versus Catalunya-born. The disappointment from both Vicky and Clara is terribly hidden, though it flies completely over Alexia’s head, your girlfriend is already in full, hyper-focused game mode.

The game ends up being wildly entertaining, though not because of the actual gameplay. Alexia spends half the time complaining, declaring the entire setup rigged every single time a move doesn’t go her way. Meanwhile, Vicky and Clara seem entirely unbothered by the score. They whisper, joke, and throw banter back and forth, seemingly incapable of tearing their eyes away from each other for more than a few seconds at a time. Both of them grow progressively more flushed as the match goes on, while Alexia’s neck vein looks ready to pop whenever she draws a bad hand. The sarcastic voice in the back of your head can’t help but laugh, this is officially the weirdest double date you’ve ever been on.

When it becomes clear that the Madrid team is going to take the win, Vicky smirks. ““Looks like the underDOGS are taking the crown, huh ?”

Clara giggles like it’s the funniest joke she’s ever heard, completely ignoring the fact that she’s on the losing side, while Alexia gives them a look that could kill. One turn later, you effectively wrap up the game and claim victory.

Alexia stands up from the table instantly, announcing that she’s going to sleep. She shoots one last glance in your direction, and you catch the quiet message plea to join her soon.

You excuse yourself a moment later, pretty sure the two of them are dying to be alone anyway, and make your way down the hallway toward Alexia’s room. Your hands are trembling as you walk, aware that taking this step is a massive leap forward for both you and Alexia.

You knock softly on the door, and she opens it just seconds later. As you step further into the room, she looks guarded and surprisingly timid, and a fresh wave of self-loathing hits you.

A heavy silence fills the space as you scramble to find the right words to open yourself up. But Alexia beats you to it.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” she begins softly, her eyes searching yours. “You voiced very valid worries, and I answered terribly. And—”

“No, Ale… stop,” you cut her off, wincing. She blinks, looking confused. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m the idiot here.”

“No, you’re not !” Her voice spikes with defensive emotion before she quickly catches herself and softens. “Cari, stop. I brushed off things that clearly mattered to you.”

“I don’t even care about the answers to what I asked,” you retort, taking a step closer.

She furrows her brows, her confusion deepening. “Then... what is this about ?”

You search desperately for the right words, internally cursing yourself. God, you fucking hate the talking part of relationships.

“I just... I got scared of us,” you admit softly.

Her forehead creases even further. “What is that supposed to mean?”

You stand at a crossroads between taking the easy way out and laying down the hard truth. You look up and meet Alexia’s eyes, that deep, familiar green you’ve grown to love so much, and decide that, for once in your life, you’re actually going to stay and fight.

“What you dropped on me a few days ago ? It terrified me, honestly.” A shadow of immediate regret washes over her features, and you quickly step in to soothe it. “I’m glad you told me, Ale. It was necessary, and it helped me understand so much about you. But watching you carry that pain breaks my heart.”

She nods slowly, keeping quiet to let you continue.

“And after everything with Jenni… this dark, twisted thought took root. I couldn’t stop asking myself : what if being with me is just another way for you to inflict pain on yourself ?”

Alexia recoils, reacting instantly. “What ? No ! Cari, I—”

“Let me finish, amor.”

She snaps her mouth shut, though you can see the tenseness in her jaw in the effort to hold back.

“On paper, I’m the absolute perfect person to blow up your life and burn bridges with the people around you. I know you care about me, you’ve shown me that a hundred different ways. I think... I think it was just an irrational fear I cooked up because I was desperately trying to convince myself that I’m bad for you.”

Alexia takes a slow step forward, her hand tentatively resting on your hip. “You do know you’re great for me, right, cari ? I’m so much happier since we started seeing each other. Literally everyone has told me that, whether they know I’m with you or not.”

“You’ve made my life so much better, too, amor,” you whisper, sliding your arms over her shoulders and pulling her closer to you. “I’m just terrified of hurting you. You’re amazing, and the thought of being the cause of your pain breaks my heart.”

A tender smile tugs at her lips. “I think we both have some big improvements to make when it comes to communication. But thank you for telling me the truth.” Her other hand settles gently onto your hip, putting your body against hers.

Her face is inches from yours now, her warm breath fanning against your skin. “As for what you asked earlier, I forgave you because I believe people deserve second chances. You were asked to jeopardize your career, and given how it turned out for so many players, I completely understand why you were terrified to take that leap. Did you handle everything perfectly ? No. But you don’t deserve to be ostracized for it, and it certainly doesn’t justify a permanent grudge.”

She closes the remaining distance, her mouth lightly brushing against yours as she speaks. “And as for my friends... yes, I think you’ll need to apologize for certain things in time, and they’re going to need space to process it all. But you are worth the hazard, cari. You’re worth everything.”

The final three words fall almost silently into the space between you, and the only answer you can possibly give is to eliminate the fraction of space left between you. The moment your lips touch Alexia’s, it feels like stepping into heaven, her hands anchoring firmly around your hips as she drags you close.

She slowly pushes you backward until the edge of her desk catches the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up so you’re seated on the wood. Her palms slide tenderly along the outside of your thighs, her mouth never releasing yours, deepening the kiss with a quiet, steady reverence.

You completely lose track of time. It could be a fleeting second or an entire eternity. You let yourself drown in the feel of her, losing track of where you end and she begins, unable to tell whose gasps belong to whom. Neither of you tries to push further, your hands are content just holding on, unwilling to disrupt the rhythmic spell of your mouths meeting.

You murmur her name against her mouth countless times, and she echoes yours right back like a promise. There’s no rush, no fight for control, no desperate need to prove anything to each other. It’s just a gentle, lingering dance between two people finally finding their way back to the same frequency, until the rest of the world fades completely, leaving only the two of you anchored in this quiet, suspended moment.

You could easily lose the rest of your life right here, erasing football, obligations, and the noise of everything else. But an insistent, aching need is beginning to pulse steadily between your thighs. You gently break the kiss, keeping your face as close to hers as possible, just so you can murmur the words directly against her mouth.

“I need you, amor.”

Alexia doesn’t need more to understand. Her mouth seals over yours once more as her hands gather you up, carrying you across the small space and lowering you onto the bed with deliberate care. She breaks away for barely a second, just long enough for both of you to kick off your shoes and scramble into the middle of the mattress. Then her weight is over yours again, her mouth claiming yours while your fingers bury themselves deep in her hair.

You know that for most couples, makeup sex is usually a hurried, desperate mess where you tear at each other's clothes just to rush straight over the edge. But with Alexia, it somehow turns into the most profoundly gentle experience you’ve ever had.

There’s a quiet worship in the way you re-learn each other’s bodies. Your hands trace every line of ink in her tattoos, every hard contour of muscle you can find under her skin. Her fingers map every curve of your body in return, her lips leaving no patch of skin unkissed.

Neither of you speaks a word, because tonight, the silence carries far more weight than anything you could say. Neither of you tries to rush the other, simply letting every sensation be savored, letting control be effortlessly given and taken without the slightest hint of a fight.

Then, when neither of you can take the edging anymore, she aligns her hips with yours. You wonder if the mere feeling of her wetness against yours could push you over the edge. Alexia comes close to doing just that, it takes only a few rhythmic, rolling rolls of your hips before her head falls forward, her cries muffled directly into the pillow.

You follow shortly after, her mouth pressed hard against the pulse point in your throat as your body trembles. The moment you break, she moves up, capturing your lips and swallowing your breathless moans whole.

The entire night remains this languid, hypnotic dance. No rushing, no cruel teasing, no heavy words, just two feverish, slick bodies moving together in the quiet. You lose track of the orgasms entirely, and frankly, the numbers don't even matter. Nothing compares to the way Alexia looks at you when her mouth finds your heat, a high that outshines everything else tonight, matched only by the dizzying feeling of your fingers sliding inside her with effortless ease because of how completely she wants you.

At last, you collapse together in a quiet, shared surrender after you’ve drank her in, thoroughly convinced that nothing else could ever taste that good. You lie stretched out on top of her, your chest rising and falling against hers as one.

The air is thick with the scent of what you’ve shared, the sheets tangled and damp, your skin flushed and slick. Alexia lazily runs her fingertip up and down your spine, while your thumb softly strokes the Ad Maiora inked into her side.

“Wow,” Alexia breathes, her voice the first thing to shatter the quiet.

A tired chuckle escapes your lips. “Yeah. Wow.”

“I’m declaring Iceland my favorite place in the entire world.”

“Amor, you literally hate the cold.”

“I would brave the arctic cold every single day if it meant sex like that with you,” she says, her hand sliding down your waist to give your ass an appreciative squeeze. “I mean, I’m not with you for the sex, but if I was, nobody could judge me.”

You pinch her side in retaliation, and she lets out a bright laugh. “You are ridiculous,” you whisper fondly. She shivers as the breeze of your breath brushes against her flushed skin.

Ultimately, the two of you summon just enough energy to haul yourselves off the damp sheets and into the bathroom. The steamy hot water washes over your sore, aching muscles like a dream. You both know logically that a ice-cold shower would be far better for athletic recovery, but neither of you could summon the willpower to endure that tonight.

Neither of you makes an effort to dress, content to just curl up in the dark. Alexia is in her usual position, half against you, half on top of you, her head tucked into your neck.

“I have no idea how we’re supposed to train tomorrow,” she mumbles sleepily into your skin.

You chuckle, resting your lips against her hair. “I’m still trying to figure out how we’re going to walk to the cafeteria.”

She lets out a low, heavy groan of agreement, then tilts her chin up to look at you through the dark. “I think... we still need to have that big talk, you know. Everything out in the open. Not right now, not even necessarily this camp, just… eventually.”

You hum softly, rubbing a thumb against her shoulder. “Yeah. We do. But what we desperately need right now is sleep, or we’re going to completely sleep through the morning alarm. Goodnight, amor.”

She nuzzles right back into the crook of your neck. “Goodnight, cari.”

Just before you let Morpheus pull you under into a deep sleep, you remember one last thing and reach for your phone to shoot a quick text to Aitana.

You : I’m not coming back to ours tn. Just so you know, you’re the best bf I could have ever asked for ❤️

-----------

A/n : Is that... character development? Poor r is trying, even if she needed a slap in the face at some point.

Tried something different with the smut there, and I really like how it turned out.

Aitana to save the day ! Hope it didn't feel too much like a deus ex machina, or that there wasn't too much exposition in this chapter as a whole.

No new chapter this Friday, you'll have to wait until the week after !

[luciasona]

hardest of hearts: chapter 13 | lucy x ona

✧ chapter 13/14: masterlist, chapter 12, epilogue (soon)

✧ chapter wc: 4.2k

✧ chapter tags: fluff, L-bombs, we've done it boys

✧ fic blurb: There is no reason why they should work; Ona likes spontaneity, Lucy likes certainty. Ona is fiercely indepedent, Lucy has never been alone.

Oh, and Ona is a dominatrix, who can't part with control. Even when she wants to.

Perhaps they could both teach the other a thing or two about trust, and taming the urge to run from fear.

ao3 link or read below

tied to chapter 12 :)

L.B

pt.2

Their parting had been short and sweet, a kiss to Ona’s knuckles before letting her go. They had both lingered, as though waiting for the other to be bold enough to suggest staying together. But time apart was needed—for both of them to think this through and be sure of what to say tomorrow.

Lucy sends her away with one bit of homework.

Tell me what you want

From Lucy and from every aspect of life. They could do with some realigning, and admittedly, Lucy does want to be sure Ona wants the same things after all. It came about after Ona confessed to not knowing what I want and that was one of the reasons she hesitated. But Lucy disagrees—Ona very much seems like a girl who knows what she wants. She just needs to feel safe enough to remove the mental block of admitting it.

She heads back onto the motorway towards her parents’, almost missing the junction because the Fleetwood Mac song playing paints the most ethereal vision of Ona in her mind's eye. Too beautiful not to be art, in every way.

Later in the evening, after returning to her parents’ place, her mum is retelling a Gen Z conversation from last night’s Gogglebox, more than accustomed to the fact that Lucy is usually multitasking on her phone or laptop while watching TV. Still listening of course.

She finds Ella’s Instagram.

The sun was setting, well past dinner, when she bit the bullet. She’d gone back and forth on it for long enough that she drove herself mad with indecision, and eventually fired off the message without overthinking it.

Hey, you wouldn’t possibly know where Ona is staying tonight would you?

“Who’s making you smile, poppet?” Her mum asks, pretending to peer over from the armchair.

“No one.” Lucy keeps her gaze lowered.

“Spanish lady? Planning your next escapade?” Her mum smirks.

“Escapade.” Lucy scoffs. “But no, I’m not.” She grins, led back on the couch and bringing her knees up higher, aware that the more embarrassing fact is that she’s in her thirties, still shy about admitting who she’s talking to. Her mum knows about Ona though, of course she does.

Well hello Lucy! Why, can’t you ask her? 🤣

Lucy rolls her eyes.

Because I want to surprise her

Attached one Maps link I had a free stay that I let her use But I hold no liability if she flips out on you 😳

Do you seriously think I shouldn’t?

I’m only joking!! Do it!!! Shock some love into our girl ❤️

“I think I’m gonna go see her.” Lucy says a few minutes later, shutting off her phone. Since the moment she’d left Ona she’d been afflicted with restless desperation, and sure it was one night, but one night too long.

“What? Now?” Her mum questions with a lightly-intended scowl.

“Yeah,” Lucy answers, swinging her legs around and sitting up. “Sorry.”

She can’t say much more than that. She doesn’t wish to really, especially when her mum is definitely presuming this is sexually motivated, which couldn’t be further from the truth, but it was all a bit too tentative to go into detail just yet. Too personal.

“Lovely to have dinner with you then. Say goodbye to your dad first.”

“I will.” Lucy leans down for her mum to hug her tightly.

“Make sure you come back in one piece.” “What?” Lucy exclaims, pulling back mildly horrified.

Her mother's face flattens. “I mean don’t let her break your heart!”

Lucy turns away before her mum can see the embarrassment. “As if.”

The drive feels longer than it is, back towards the city with the hotel as her final destination, her things rammed into her duffle once more. The sky is a gradient from indigo to black, chasing the final sliver of day as she drums her fingers at every red light and wets her lips with the fervid anticipation. She truly can’t remember a time before that she was this lovesick, lovemad, and somehow, it only feels like the beginning.

The hotel lobby is empty, though lavish and far from a typical three-star overnighter.

A quiet classical instrumental foregrounds the realisation that she hadn’t quite planned how she’ll make it to her room.

She could call Ona now…but in that case she may as well have given her the warning an hour ago.

“Is everything okay ma’am?” The stout, dark-haired lady at the front desk calls out from a distance.

“Yeah,” Lucy says, apprehensively approaching her. “I’m here to see—a friend. I’m not sure of her room number though.”

The lady glares up slowly, sussing out her intentions. “Can you not contact her?”

Lucy stammers a bit. “I can’t get through to her. I think her phone’s dead or something.”

She fully expects to be turned away, her phone held low and thumb hovering over Ona’s contact.

Somehow, the woman must have had a slow enough night to take pity on her. “I can call the room if you know her name?”

Her face instantly lights up. “Ona Battle—” Before spelling out the letters of her surname. “She checked in today.”

Lucy mentally admonishes the very lacklustre security provisions while the lady dials the room, and she takes a polite step back. Still, when she hears the receptionist thank Ona and reach into a drawer, her breath hitches.

“This is a temporary key, floor 8 ma’am, thank you.”

God, she feels really fucking stupid now, standing in the elevator with enough nerves to fill at least ten Lucys. Maybe twenty.

The door pings open, and she taps the keycard through to the regally carpeted hallway. Room 219…220…221…

The door swings open. There’s a short second where her vision flickers, Ona is still, until the moment cascades into action and without realising it, she’s lurching at Ona and arms are being flung desperately around each other.

For Lucy, she experiences a full-body release of tremouring tenderness. Explosive emotion flooding her system. Ona lets out a sound when she is embraced—something of a sigh, of a gasp, of a stifled sob. Like her body couldn’t process the relief. Like she had been lost, adrift at sea and subject to the world’s unyielding currents for so long, until finally, someone pulled her out. Shaking, cold, gasping for air, but that didn’t scare the tenacious.

Lucy clings tighter, pushing them forward so the door latches shut behind them. Ona’s hands snake up to her neck, one to her jaw, drawing her into a purposeful kiss. Lucy cradles the back of her head, mouth to mouth, nothing more.

“I love you.” Lucy says with a staggering breath when they part, scooping Ona up from beneath her thighs before she can second-guess it. Ona gasps inward, and releases it with short laughter, wrapping her legs around Lucy’s hips, hiding her face still.

And when Lucy gets no response, she freezes, senses sobering, until she hears Ona sniffle. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise-”, On impulse she pulls her head back to see Ona’s teary eyes. “Oh my love,” she coos, dropping a lingering kiss to Ona’s warm cheek and pulling her closer again. “S’okay.” She whispers, trembling from her thumping pulse.

“I needed you so badly.” Ona’s voice devastates, and Lucy could cry herself from the mere thought of it. “I’m not—sad, I promise. I’m so happy.” It’s fully muffled by Lucy’s shoulder now, the heat of her breath sending intimate shivers down her spine.

“You’ve got me now. No matter the case.” She tries to soothe, calmer than she feels, proceeding to carefully let Ona down.

Time softens again when she breathes. She glances at the dim room, hardly meddled by Ona’s presence, before approaching her face again with gentle hands. In Ona’s misty eyes she sees something unshakeable.

Ona curls her fingers around Lucy’s wrists. “Thank you.” She mouths more than she says, yet a longing smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “I was gonna ask, but then I felt bad–”

“I knew. Anything in the world for you.”

And she truly means it. Their foreheads press together, Lucy’s tilting slightly down and Ona’s tilting slightly up, her steady hands atop Ona’s hips.

“Sleep with me tonight.” Ona murmurs, brushing their noses.

“Only because it’s five-star.” Lucy grins cheekily, and Ona squeezes with scoffing laughter.

“Four actually."

Ona’s arms reach up to loop around her neck again, and Lucy hugs her close. Across Ona’s shoulder, her attention drifts to the wooden desk beneath the TV, a scrawled-on sheet of the complimentary notepad catching her eye.

Ona pulls away. “No, no,” She scrambles to turn it over, how she knew Lucy was looking at it, she’ll never know.

“What’you hiding?” Lucy smirks, though privately she had discerned the title.

Dear Lucy, this is what I want

“Nothing.” She blushes, and Lucy makes her face scrunch up with a pinch of her cheeks.

“Tell.”

“No!” Ona playfully bats at her hands. “Hey,” She says, cupping Lucy’s face, like she caught something in her eye, her lips softening. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Lucy answers sincerely. “Better now I’m with you.”

In truth, she’s tired, but it’s mostly morphing into a floaty feeling in her limbs, nothing mattering very much aside from being close to Ona. “What’ve you been up to since dinner? Did you stay out long?”

“No,” Ona shakes her head, brushing her thumbs over Lucy’s knuckles. “I went on a little walk in central, walked back here…hoped you would come back.”

“You were in my mind.”

“No, you’re predictable.” Ona smirks against her lips before stepping up quickly to smack another kiss.

“Did you know there’s a pool on the top floor? I was gonna check it out before I slept. I didn’t realise, I still had my bikini in my bag.” She says, with a little suggestive grin that Lucy naturally finds irresistible. Ona softens though. “Unless you’d rather sleep.”

Lucy muses on it. Stripping off into her pyjamas and snuggling up sounds like a far more enticing and practical option, definitely what her body was asking for, but Ona wants to see the pool.

So…“Let’s have a look, I don’t have any swim stuff though—of course.”

“Eh, if there’s no one, just go in your underwear.”

Lucy’s expression twists. “Ona that’s not very…” She can’t find the word, but it definitely doesn’t sound like a good idea, even if Ona is looking devious from it.

“Don’t be a prude.” Ona narrows her eyes accusingly.

Lucy snorts. “The hell did you learn that word?”

The pool is something beyond their expectations—a gorgeous infinity one, backlit by electric blue lights, the humble Manchester skyline sprawling out ahead of them. The terrace is empty, nothing but the night’s cool breeze and the faint rush of cars far beneath them. Still, it feels exotic, liminal even, so it hadn’t taken them much convincing to seize the opportunity.

Lucy watches from a few steps back, framed like a slowed romantic film-reel, Ona’s divine silhouette dropping the towel and tossing it atop her bag, before slowly descending the steps.

Lucy had taken Ona’s bikini after all, with Ona being comfortable enough in her deep purple bralette and underwear. It’s not like anyone would see much, even if they weren't alone.

A mellow warmth spreads beneath Lucy’s ribs, her own steps feeling light and inconsequential in contrast to this girl whose perfection surely belonged in a painting rather than this cold air they’re sharing. Her skin fractures beautifully into shadow and bright streaks of blue, every curve deepened, every freckle brought to life.

The water is warm, thank goodness it's warm, but Ona’s face is even warmer as she turns to take Lucy’s hands. They wade over to the ledge which overlooks the city, Ona kneeling first to quietly take in the view.

Lucy’s jaw tightens suddenly, a nervous edge to the way her hand rests protectively on Ona’s back. She feels Ona chuckle, before turning back to nestle into Lucy’s arms, cheeks suitably rosy and cold. “Have you ever gone to New York?” She asks.

“Once, long time ago though.”

“Hm. It’s nice. But very busy.” She says, shifting weightlessly into straddling Lucy’s lap, even locking her ankles around Lucy’s calves in a bid for closeness. The light comes from behind her now, the intricacies of her beauty a sight only for Lucy. “But the view at night, it’s amazing.”

“I’d love to go with you.” Lucy says with glimmering eyes, looping a damp stray lock of hair back around Ona’s bun.

Ona’s thumb passes over the bottom swell of Lucy’s lip, looking at her like something really had changed. “Yeah?” She smiles.

Lucy forgets what she’d even said.

Ona takes her lips over and over again. No hurry to it, no demand, just a slow and endless back and forth. The fire burns bright between them, hearts ablaze, every touch a familiar gift.

Lucy opens her mouth wider, welcoming a gentle slide of their tongues, yet never spiting it with too much passion. Her hands drift over Ona’s skin, obsessive devotion, the water a pleasant sensory enhancer as she brushes them down Ona’s ribs, bone by bone, across her stomach, down her thighs, and up her back with a broader hand. Memorising. She was small, but not weak. Never weak.

She realises her lips have drifted to Ona’s jaw, or maybe Ona guided her there, and she drops more pointed kisses down the expanse of her neck, a hand coming to steady her lover amid the worship. “My beautiful girl.” Lucy murmurs into her responsive skin, wishing she were a poet who could at least verbalise what this enormous feeling is. “Never in my life have I wanted someone more.”

She says it with vital innocence, and it seems to strike something in Ona. “Lucy…” She whispers wistfully.

I love the way you say my name, Lucy thinks, but she’s too distracted in pulling a sweet hum from Ona’s throat when she sucks and nips in perfect tandem at a sensitive spot.

“You’re mi vida. I want nothing more, too.” Ona says quietly, a scratch to her voice from the pleasant affection being doted onto her.

Her hands come up from the water to cup Lucy’s face, making firm eye contact. “T’estimo. I love you. So much.”

With every word, her fingers grip tighter, making the words inescapable and hit with bone-deep reverence.

Lucy finds herself smiling in a way that might split her face in two. A slightly delayed reaction, but Ona will understand. “I love you too.” She says, and they both find that grinning and making out don’t quite

“You know,” Ona pulls away gently, pulling her lips in and suddenly looking very serious. It takes her a moment to find the words, but Lucy is patient, brushing her thumb over the freckled cheekbone she’d come to adore so much. “What I wanted to say earlier was that I finally…accepted my family, you know? I think I was able to because I knew I needed to come back to you. Like, this is—it’s what I need. If you’ll let me in.”

Lucy blinks, choking up just a bit at first. “Darling, I think us letting each other in is the whole fucking point.” She smiles adoringly, hoping it came across as a sweet tease, not sardonic.

Ona answers with a small nod, though clearly holding something back. Something they’d been building up to for far too long. “So…” Her breath pulls in slowly, her dark eyes going a bit vacant as though she was standing on a precipice, moments from falling.

Seconds pass, nothing comes.

“So?” Lucy can’t help herself, holding back an enormous grin.

Ona’s mouth moves before the sound actually manages to form. She’s blushing hard, and it’s not just the cool air. “I—want you to be my girlfriend. Will you?”

She says it quickly, like it was one word. One gargantuan, earth-shattering word.

Or maybe it just sounds a blur to Lucy’s ears, because she’d never expected they’d make it to this point. Not really. For so long Ona had been this elusive, mercurial part of her life that never quite felt real, like a dream that wouldn’t let her rest. Now it's real. Fucking hell is it real.

It’s her turn for language to fail her, apart from a slew of words jumbled together because her mind is flying in every direction and if Ona weren’t on her lap, she’d be drowning in the water. “Fuck- yes, hundred times yes.”

Ona hardly computes the response, her face tight before speaking in a raw, sudden, emotion-inflicted way. “And I’m gonna love you. No matter what. I’m gonna be scared, I’m gonna want to run sometimes, but I swear, I won’t ever hurt you.”

As Ona’s heart rushes out, Lucy feels her throat tighten again, tears glistening in her eyes. It may be the most profoundly romantic vow anyone has ever made to her—and she can see the way it tears Ona apart to show herself raw and ragged, but beneath it all, she’s a girl who has, for quite some time, needed someone to see her. Like really, really see her.

“My love,” Lucy speaks far softer, taking Ona’s trembling hand beneath the water, pulling her closer, skin to skin in every place. She’d caught an edge of something in Ona’s voice, and before she can bombard her with sweet-nothings, she has to let this out. “No more guilt. You’ve done nothing wrong, and anything I do for you–or say to you–it’s because I want to. It’s because it makes me happy. I don’t want you perfect, fuck, I love you because you showed me everything that hurts, and you know I can’t make it all better. But you trusted me, and I trust you, and I love who I am around you. You are my person.”

She impresses herself with how articulately it manifests. Ona wraps her arms around Lucy’s neck, dropping a kiss when she buries her face, the heavy thump of her heart feeling more like an extension of Lucy’s own. “I don’t know what to say to that.” She mumbles eventually, and really, Lucy doesn’t need her to say anything more. “But I will try to be better at accepting small things. And your love, in general.” Lucy can feel her smiling by the end, and she laughs affectionately against her dampening hair.

“Try very hard. Because you deserve the world.”

After everything Ona had been through, inside and out, Lucy can’t help but feel incredibly proud of her. The girlfriend thing will take some time to adjust to—even if she’s belonged to Ona for longer than she’d like to admit.

“I don’t want the world. I only want you.” Ona hums with a theatric petulance, though as with most things, she makes sure Lucy knows the sincerity behind it. Well, she’d rather Ona be shy than in floods of tears. Lucy kisses her temple, feeling her exposed shoulders getting a chill from the wind. Her hand rubs them warm.

“You are my world. And I’ll help you figure out every next step of your life, if you’ll let me.” Lucy returns, keeping her other hand firm on Ona’s thigh.

“I will let you.” Ona affirms.

Lucy kisses her again, for an inarticulate amount of time—almost lazy but not quite, because everything they’re doing is very intentional. Ripples of soulful pleasure cloud her mind, her chest, lower down in her body, and all she knows is the wet heat of Ona’s mouth, and that something much deeper inside of her has finally found its place.

Ona breaks the kiss with another question on her precious face. “You asked me what I want. And I thought about it, but what about you? I would like to know how to love you, in the way that…completes you most.”

Lucy is thoroughly softened by seeing her search for the right words. For someone to ask how they can complete her, well that was new.

What does she want? She didn’t like to think about herself too much, in fact she’d like to believe she’s one of the most easily pleased in friendships and love.

“I don’t need anything crazy.” She establishes, though a few vague wishes come to mind. “Just for you to learn me well enough to help me when I’m weak, or I need to be told I’m wrong. Which, I know you will, and that’s one of my favourite things about you.”

Ona grins.

“And, what do I want? I mean, I think my life is pretty good as it is. I want to take Narla on adventures. I want to be in a city, where I can be off doing different things on the weekend. Pursuing different passions and aspirations. And from you, I just want something to share all that with.”

“Okay.” Ona nods, arms draped laxly around her neck. “I can do that.”

Lucy kisses her cheek again, the wet lace brushing against her own chest. “My lovely girlfriend.” She hums smittenly, and feels Ona’s smile widen.

“One more thing,” Ona murmurs.

“Give it to me.” Lucy begins to scratch her back gently, preening at the way Ona stretches slightly and settles against her like a purring cat.

Her voice speaks closer to her ear. “In the bedroom…well first, do you like being in control?”

Lucy’s instinct is to laugh softly at the immense mood switch, but she’ll happily entertain as many thoughts as Ona needs to get out. “Sure I do.”

“I would like to try it sometime.”

Lucy hums in agreement, hoping she wasn’t wrong in assuming this was merely a conversation and not a suggestion for them to get to it right now. “I’m more than happy with trying something new. Why, has it been on your mind?”

Ona doesn’t lift her cheek from Lucy’s shoulder. “We sort of—got close, from having sex, so I thought I should say it.” She admits, a half-truth. “I want to be more honest with myself. And for a long time, I was really scared to give up control.”

Lucy squeezes her shoulder sympathetically. She’d gathered as much from even their first meeting, and it wasn’t like they hadn’t dipped their toes into switching the roles a bit, but Lucy gathers that Ona wants to experience a much more comprehensive power exchange at her hand. “Bad experiences in the past?” She hears herself say.

Ona gives a small nod, understandably not elaborating, but not needing to say a word more for the gravity of it to settle heavy on Lucy’s heart.

“I’m sorry sweets. But we can work towards it for sure. Maybe not—tonight-”

“No,” Ona replies automatically. “Nothing tonight. I just want to be with you, like this.”

Lucy presses her cheek to Ona’s temple, kissing the top of her head, absently thumbing at skin and pressing deeper into the tight muscle beneath her shoulder. “Agreed.”

Later, both clad in pyjamas and fresh out of a warm shower to wash off the chlorine, Ona slips out of bed to pad toward the desk. Though tired, something about the night keeps dragging them forward, too viscerally alive to let themselves rest. Ona is golden now, the soft bedside lamp and light waves to her drying hair all making her look quite the angel to Lucy’s vaguely lucid mind.

She had forgotten about the notepad altogether, all until Ona settles back in her arms with the paper at her lap.

“I thought. A lot. After you left. And I started writing this. It’s not finished, it’s kind of…everywhere, but…”

Dear Lucy, this is what I want

Soon / Now

Cuddle from Lucy シ

Kiss Lucy until I can’t breathe

Some nice pasta!

More clothes that feel like me

Someone to watch Três Graças with

Try therapy again

Go to Spain with Lucy (if she wants)

More hobbies

Learn to make paella like Joan

Go to a concert (bad bunny o karol g?)

Take more risks in life

Prioritise friendships

Trust myself more

Dance more

Lucy flips the page.

In the future

Two kids (prefer girls)

Lots of dogs シ

More tattoos

Traditions for my family

Houses in different countries

Big kitchen

Travel more of the world

Money so I can afford the houses and travel!

A pretty garden with lots of plants

Never stop learning new things

Be brave

Always try to be safe and happy, and make others feel that way

Be able to take care of my parents

Live with no regrets

Lucy reads it over, twice or three times, realising she had never seen Ona’s handwriting before. It’s surprisingly lovely, and she can overlook any spelling errors because its contents were making her head swim in ways she didn’t think possible. “Didn’t know you liked Bad Bunny.”

Ona snorts, ripping the paper from Lucy’s hands. Lucy counters by grabbing her face and kissing hard enough to have Ona squirming with muffled laughter.

Lucy breaks the kiss with the most endeared of looks. “No, that’s so, so lovely. You are amazing. Amazing amazing amazing.”

She’s quite devoid of coherent thought by this point, but will happily take a photo of the now creased paper and make it her screensaver if it means never forgetting some of the things her lover wants. “I’ll do the same for you. At some point.” She murmurs tiredly, sinking lower until Ona takes the duty of setting the pillows down and flicking off the light.

An elbow lands in Ona's face in an effort to flip her over to be spooned, and they’re both laughing, until it finally settles and Lucy has Ona's warm body flush to her own, pressing endless kisses into the crown of her hair.

“Thanks for waiting for me. All this time.” Ona hums, kissing the wrist that's locked over her chest.

“You better be.” Lucy purrs, incited by the playful buzz still persistent in her chest.

“Hm?”

“A lifetime is pretty fucking long to wait for someone.”

It really does feel that way. Like everything she had ever done had led her to this point. Well that’s sort of how life works, but really this time, Ona was a world waiting to happen. God she adores her. It’s been arduous, this wait, for a lover like her, she’d do it all again though, over and over, you’ll always find her here—

“Sleep, porfa, before I cringe any more.”

epilogue (soon)

guys. we made it to the end. how in gods name did i write almost 90k words?! i cannot believe it. i can believe even less than people have actually read every word of that, so if thats you, thank you so so much, your comments and anons keep my creativity alive!! i love these girls so much and i cannot believe the fic is over </3 never fear, i will write one-shots for them in the future to give you snippets of what their life grows into!

and yes, an epilogue will be coming, and i will deliver the smut!

[solongmylove818]

this is so so cute i have no words, this fic pulled me in and didn’t let me go 😮‍💨 you’re so talented, thank you so much (also Três Graças mentioned no way hahah)

[solongmylove818]

i feel a little bit like a liar because I keep saying that i don't know if i'm going to finish the 'don't cry for me argentina' saga but something happens and I'm like 'oh new idea' 🫠🫠 well brace yourselves i guess

[solongmylove818]

‘the years before and the years after’ anon here - so grateful you dropped that new chapter after my ask, that was such a delightful surprise!

AND this was such a fun one! i love a good sick fic and it was so satisfying to see Rio and Alexia have a healthy reconciliation after that fight. i felt like this was such a perfect example of how their flaws can cause conflicts in their relationship. but it was also so nice to see Alexia being a good girlfriend and crashing out over Rio’s silence. amazing balance of fluff and drama!

it was also so fun to see what Rio’s support system is like in London! I imagine that meeting between her friends and Ale being chaotic yet wholesome haha

Hii anon 💖💖 Glad you read it, these asks are always a good motivation to get the doc out and start typing, honestly never know what will spark inspiration

I’ve been told I can’t write proper fluff without reaching for drama as well but I thought it was cute to see Rio being loved by her friends 🥹 It can be lonely on another country and a long distance relationship is tricky even without all the stakes they have ( and they are so complicated hahahah). But yeah!

Really want to write a Halloween fic with Ale and Rio being very out to their friends lets see what comes out, quite on a slump right now

thank u again 🫶🏻

[alex1a-ps]

🫶🏻

[wosospacegirl]

Intimacy - part 7

☆ Summary: Being Barça's newest signing is the easy part. The real challenge is letting someone get close. With Alexia, things quickly turn physical, and while you have no problem taking control, letting yourself be seen is a different story. But Alexia isn't used to being kept at a distance.

☆ Word Count: 6.6k

☆ Warnings: Ale's very babygirl • reader is grumpy • golden retriever and black cat vibes • Ale's on her period • literally just vibes no plot.

☆ A/n: Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!! <3333 This is, once again, a direct continuation from where we left off.

Part 6 here

The day had been horrible. 

Mostly because it had begun so well and unravelled so badly, and even though it was only five in the afternoon, you were certain it wouldn't get any better from here.

Cuddling with Alexia in the morning had been wonderful, even if it had terrified you a little bit. Having sex with her was amazing; that part wasn't the problem at all, even if it had made you both late to breakfast. Watching Alexia shower afterwards had been honestly a divine experience, even if you were in a rush and couldn't fully enjoy the view. 

But then came the soreness, the ibuprofen, and that rather cryptic phrase she had said in the hotel room, the one you still hadn't quite worked out what to do with.

"You have to decide, torito. Your rules. If they still apply or not."

You sighed, shifting against the brick wall of the stadium park. You hadn't known how to process her words then, and you certainly didn't now. Instead, you had done what you always did and disappeared into your own head. 

The air was cold around you, while the setting sun washed the Sevilla sky in shades of pink and orange. You took a deep breath, but Alexia filled your thoughts the same way the ocean filled the lungs of unsuspecting swimmers – burning from the inside out, starving every cell of oxygen before leaving them to die an agonising death. 

The asphyxiating overthinking was precisely why you had needed thirty minutes to change after the final whistle. You had needed space away from the mistake you had made on the pitch, away from Alexia snapping at you, away from Patri and Kika's gentleness, away from the dangerous voice screaming in your head that Alexia detested you now.

And look where that logic had got you... Getting called out for letting Kika hug you, watching Alexia admit her jealousy with trembling lips before she kissed the top of your head and walked away, leaving you alone.

You wondered if she had done that to process everything that had happened.

"I do notice," her voice echoed in your brain. "When you're not there."

You closed your eyes, but instead of seeing Alexia, you saw the same image behind your eyelids for what felt like the sixteenth or seventeenth time since the final whistle.

The stupid (tiny!) gap you left right in front of the box. The Sevilla girl running. The goal that sealed the defeat.

Now, as you stood in the stadium car park watching a mechanic inspect the underside of the team bus, the scoreboard that no longer existed anywhere except the back of your mind still glowed one-nil. The old voice that you had spent months gradually learning to argue with had found its footing again after the match, and it showed no sign of leaving. 

You don't belong at a club like this. The voice was so calm and certain and fucking annoying. Today just reminded everyone.

You knew it wasn't true. You knew the voice in your head wasn't always right, that you shouldn't trust it, but it didn't matter. The thought had already dug its roots in deep, and it was going to require an exhausting amount of mental energy to pull it back out, perhaps days.

A loud and metallic sound snapped you back to the reality of the car park. You looked up just in time to see the mechanic lift an important-looking piece of metal that you were pretty sure wasn't meant to come out of the engine… but not that you were an expert in buses or anything.

The bus back to Barcelona had broken down right outside of the stadium after everyone had already climbed aboard. The plan had been to head back home right after the game; that was why everyone had packed their bags, but it seemed like a change of plans would be necessary. 

Marta, sitting near the front of the bus, had overheard the driver complaining about something and passed the news to Caro, who leaned across the aisle to tell Esmee. Within about thirty seconds, the information had spread through the entire bus in a broken-telephone manner. Which meant everyone had to haul their (heavy!) belongings back off the bus and out into the cool evening despite having spent ninety minutes running and fighting on the pitch. Unsurprisingly, everyone was tired and not particularly pleased with the situation.

"We broke down?" Ona asked, a childlike pout forming on her face. 

"We broke down," Marta confirmed.

"Yeah, of course we did,"  you muttered under your breath. This occurrence was so fitting for a day like today, almost poetic.

Pere appeared from the front of the bus, phone pressed to his ear, wearing the expression of a man who had already mentally checked out for the day hours ago and was operating on nothing but professional obligation. He held up a hand for quiet, finished his call, and looked over at the team.

"The bus is staying here tonight," he said. "And so are we. They can't fix it until tomorrow morning, so we have to go back to the hotel."

A beat of silence fell over the team.

"So… the hotel here in Sevilla," Vicky asked slowly, processing the news. "The one we just checked out of?"

"Yes."

"And we're staying another night…?" She continued 

"Yes."

"That's good, actually," Cata chimed in. "I forgot my good shoes in the hotel gym..."

"This whole trip is so horrible," Syd sighed. Her headphones were resting around her neck, spilling out a song far too melancholy for this situation.

"Maybe it's your fault," Clara said in a bored voice, her arms crossed over her chest. "Your horoscope was predicting all kinds of bad things, and we still agreed to let you come with us."

"Agree to let me come?!" Sydney shot back, exasperated. "It's not like I can just skip a match because my sun sign happens to be in a terrible position!"

"Yeah, yeah, but–"

"Enough," Alexia's voice cut through the air. "Both of you. Quiet."

They fell instantly quiet, and so did everyone else.

"Oh," Vicky said in a hushed whisper, nudging Kika's side. "Capi's mad.

And so… they waited. And waited.

The mechanic was still beneath the broken-down bus, poking and prodding while everyone waited for ubers. Needless to say, the whole squad was scattered in various forms of shared misery.

Cata was sitting on her travel bag with her headphones in, looking like she very much did not want to be bothered. The younger girls, meanwhile, had clustered around Alexia, the way they always did when something went wrong on a game day.

It was almost endearing from a distance. 

Alexia was visibly grumpy, yet as though drawn by some collective gravitational pull, the kids had gathered around her anyway. Aicha was perched on the low wall beside her, Vicky on her other side, Clara nearby, and Syd hovered just behind.

All of them were talking nonstop and overlapping each other, clearly discussing anything and everything unrelated to football just to distract themselves, or maybe distract Alexia. They didn't like it when she was in one of her so-called moods. 

At one point, Alexia muttered something short and dry, and the girls immediately laughed. Alexia looked faintly pained by how easily she had made them laugh when she was trying so hard to be unavailable and intimidating. 

You watched as she pressed her face briefly into her hands before looking up again. She was, you realised, trying very hard to project the image of a captain who was perfectly fine, the untouchable leader who certainly wasn't eating herself alive over the defeat.

Patri was right; Alexia was extremely competitive, far too hard on herself. 

A few meters away, Kika, Patri and Esmee were leaning against the side of the bus, sharing a bag of salty snacks.

"Look at her," Kika whispered, putting a chip into her mouth and motioning toward Alexia with her chin. "Ale looks like a stressed-out mother duck whose ducklings won't stop misbehaving."

"Do not let her hear you say that," Patri said teasingly. "She's five seconds away from making them run drills around the car park just to get some peace of mind."

Esmee shrugged. "That's totally on her, though. I bet she can't sleep until she's convinced every new blaugrana kid feels welcome… and then they grow attached to her."

"Like leeches," Kika said, watching Vicky shove a phone right in Alexia's face while Clara rested her head on Alexia's shoulder, eating a bag of biscuits and letting crumbs fall all over the captain's shirt.

"Like leeches," Patri agreed. "Very annoying leeches."

"She's miserable," Esmee added as Syd set up her phone to film a tiktok, making sure Alexia was unmistakably right in the middle of the frame. The catalan rolled her eyes, shushing Syd and shooing the phone away.

"Nah," Kika countered. "She's right where she wants to be."

Then their attention shifted to you instead.

Patri held up a hand to wave you over. Urgh, more socialisation, but you went over anyway. 

"Hi," you said drily, though you didn't hesitate to accept the chips Patri offered.

"Still upset?" Esmee asked nonchalantly.

"No," you lied.

Patri chuckled. "Yeah, right. You look like a puppy that's just been kicked out of its home, but of course you aren't upset."

"We'll recover from the loss, amiga!" Kika said cheerfully. "Don't worry about it–"

"I'm not upset about the game," you interrupted. It was a half-truth.

"What are you upset about, then?" Esmee pressed.

"Nothing," you said quickly, instantly regretting opening your mouth.

Patri and Kika shared a smirk "Let me guess," Patri began. "Problems in paradise?"

You glared at her. "There is no problem."

"Oh, but there is a paradise?" Patri teased back.

"This is exactly why I don't talk to you people," you grumbled, taking another chip.

"You are awfully private," Kika said dramatically, rolling her eyes. "That's soo rude! I literally tell people everything."

"That's kind of a problem on its own," Esmee murmured.

"Don't try to defend her," Kika shot back. "You two are way too alike. Why did we only find out you were dating on your three-month anniversary?!"

"Because I wasn't dating any of you," Esmee deadpanned.

Kika nudged Patri. "Can you help me out here?"

Patri chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Chica, you won't get any information out of Y/n or Esmee by asking. You have to observe."

You stood there stone-faced as they continued to analyse your supposed love life as if you weren't standing right in front of them. You took that as a clue to step back from their circle.

Your eyes drifted across the car park back to Alexia. You looked away before she could catch you staring, though deep down, a part of you wanted her to see you. You were used to hiding; it felt safe, but with Alexia, you wanted to be perceived. 

Yet she didn't look up; she turned to her phone instead. 

It is a joy to be hidden and a disaster not to be found.

Her uber notification must have come through, because she checked her phone and tapped the screen (rather aggressively) before looking around the car park. Her warm, honey-coloured eyes found yours.

She stepped away from her ducklings, who were practically breathing down her neck and walked the small distance between you.

"Hey," Alexia murmured, keeping her voice down so only you could hear as she held up her phone to show the app. "You're coming with me, right?"

You looked at the screen, then glanced past her. The kids were already lingering a few steps behind her, pretending they didn't care while obviously waiting for her to decide who was getting in her uber.

They were praying for a spot in the car. Cute. They really did admire Alexia like an older sister. 

"I don't think there's space," you said, gesturing to the situation with a tilt of your chin.

Alexia glanced over her shoulder quickly, assessed the kids, and turned back to you. 

"We'll meet at the hotel then," she said simply.

And that was it.

She turned, and without a single word, the girls simply followed, falling into step behind her in a loose cluster, their voices already rising in volume around her. Aicha said something that made two of them laugh, and even Alexia smiled a bit. She could pretend to be grumpy, but those girls were her ultimate weakness; she could never keep it up for long. 

You looked down at your own phone; your uber was four minutes away.

Another night in the hotel room, you thought. Another night with Alexia… maybe? 

You shook your head, trying to clear your mind. You shouldn't be thinking about this right now.

She seemed alright with you again – she had just told you she would meet you at the hotel, right? But what exactly does "meeting at the hotel" mean? Sharing a room again? Or going to separate rooms? Had the plumbing issue been fixed? Should you be asking to stay with Kika instead? No, better not; Alexia would have an aneurysm… So, maybe Esmee?

Patri couldn't fit in your uber ride, so she stayed behind to catch the next one with Cata and Pina. That left you sandwiched between Kika and Esmee in the backseat for the entire twenty-three-minute drive, during which Kika could not, for the life of her, shut the hell up.

By the time the car finally pulled up outside of the hotel, Kika had told so, soo many terrible jokes, and Esmee had rolled her eyes at every single one of them.

When you walked into the hotel, the first thing you noticed was how much quieter the lobby was compared to that morning. A few of your teammates were visible through the restaurant window: Clara and Aicha at a table near the back, Aitana sitting with Pajor right beside them, having an early dinner from the look of it. 

You continued to walk until you saw her.  

Alexia was sitting in one of the leather armchairs near the check-in desk; her travel bag was at her feet and her phone in her hand. Her eyebrows were furrowed, and her pink lips were set in a pout. She looked composed, but tired. You wanted to cover her face in soft kisses, to smooth out the exhaustion on her brow.

Alexia looked up the moment you stepped through the doors. Without saying a word, she stood, picked up her bag, and crossed the lobby toward you.

"Vamos?" she said simply. [let's go]

"I have to check in again," you said, looking at the front desk.

"I've already done it for both of us," she said casually. "Come on."

"Oh, alright… yeah," you said, caught slightly off guard by how seamlessly she had handled it.  "Thank you."

You followed her to the lift, and neither of you acknowledged the fact that she had been sitting in the lobby waiting for you when she could have already been upstairs beneath a scalding shower.

She had waited for you, you thought. 

The lift was empty when it arrived at the lobby. You stepped inside, and Alexia pressed the button. You watched the doors close and stood beside her. The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable; it was just filled with exhaustion. The complete "emotional rollercoaster" of the day had drained you both. 

The floor numbers climbed and seemingly did not stop doing so. You were tired. You wanted to sleep, but your brain was already spiralling, waiting for the conversation about the room assignments to come.

Were you sharing again? Well, it was kind of obvious you were…. Unless she had only checked you both in because it was easier? Should you ask for a key to a separate room? Something in your gut told you Alexia would be upset if you did so. 

Before your thoughts could settle, her hand brushed against yours. She didn't take it; her fingertips simply rested against your knuckles for a second.

You loved her warmth, loved how soft her skin felt against you. An ache settled in your bones; it said you didn't deserve to touch her today; you didn't deserve her softness. Still, you didn't pull away.

When the doors opened on your floor. Alexia withdrew her hand and stepped out first. She walked down the hallway with familiarity, stopping in front of the exact same door from this morning. Alexia didn't make a big deal out of it; she just held the door open for you as if sharing space again was the most natural thing in the world.

You dropped your bag beside the bed and sat on the edge of the soft, queen-size mattress. And then, before your rational mind could even register the room, the walls, the mattress beneath you, or Alexia's proximity, the match began again.

It replayed behind your eyelids over and over. You saw every angle of it, every bad decision you made.

Alexia was standing in the middle of the room. She was never one to sit when she was thinking too much about something, so instead, she began moving around the room back and forth, moving from one wall to the other like a broken pendulum. 

"We were too passive after halftime," she said, her voice tight with frustration. "Don't you think?"

"I was out of position," you said to the floor.

"We just weren't pressing them enough in the second half… we weren't coordinated. Everyone was doing their own thing… I should have stepped up sooner and reorganised us."

"I read the run wrong," you muttered, ignoring her analysis to focus on your flaw. "I saw the forward making her move, and I waited a second too long… I never wait too long; I don't know what happened!"

Alexia kept pacing, making you dizzy. "We gave them too much space; they had their whole wings to themselves! What was I thinking when I told Esmee to focus on the centre?"

You ignored Alexia right back, locked in your own mind loop… Neither of you was listening to the other. Alexia kept pacing and pacing while you hadn't even taken your shoes off yet. 

"Honestly, it's all my fault," you said bitterly  "If I had been better positioned, a bit further to the left, that ball might never have reached Cata."

That finally made Alexia stop pacing. She turned to look down at you. "You can't blame yourself for–"

"I watched it back during the drive here," you said. "I was the only one between her and Cata–"

"Which means nine other players on that pitch – myself included – failed before she ever got that close to the goal." Alexia countered.

"But I am the full-back, Ale." Your voice came out flat. "If they score, that's on me. That's my job. That's what I'm here to do, you know? To defend, or well, try to. The game is on me."

Something softened in Alexia's expression, and suddenly she didn't look like a captain trying to comfort a teammate. She looked like… You weren't quite ready to name what she looked like.

"Tori, I was too hard on you," she said, her voice gentle. "I'm sorry."

"No, Ale, it was a fair point, okay?" you said, deflecting immediately. "You don't have to be sorry for–"

"Don't say I was just doing my job," she interrupted. "My job doesn't mean being rude to you."

You tilted your head, analysing her. "You correct other players too," you pointed out. "You don't tell them you are sorry."

She seemed almost confused by her own actions. "I-I, well, I always corrected them, yes, but I'm not half as harsh with them as I was with you…I'm not apologising for the note," she said slowly. "I'm apologising for how I said it. There's a difference."

You opened your mouth, but then closed it. The room felt awfully quiet. You wanted to scream into its void just to break the tension.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"I know," you muttered. "Me too."

She looked at the ceiling, then looked at the floor, rubbing her neck.

"I'm the defending midfielder," she said, beginning to vent, "If we don't score, if the press falls apart, if we can't hold possession… that's on me. The whole game is on me," she added, parroting your exact words back.

"Great," you deadpanned. "So we were both terrible at our job, huh?"

"Apparently."

"Wonderful," you said. "Really brilliant. Excellent day's work from both of us."

"Remarkable."

You got up from the mattress and walked past her, going to the window and pulling it open. You breathed in the evening air; it was such lovely weather for such a disaster of a day.  When you turned around a few moments later, Alexia still hadn't sat down. Her arms were crossed.

"I had it," she muttered, pacing again. "We could have the game under control; we knew their pattern… I knew their-"

"You can't track every run perfectly for ninety minutes-" you tried to reason.

"I almost always do," she rolled her eyes. 

"Almost is the word of the day," you said. "Honestly, we were all rubbish today. Stop putting it all on yourself."

"Stop being reasonable," she grumbled. "I just want to be annoyed."

"Then be annoyed."

"I am."

She let herself fall to the bed with a sigh. You wandered over and dropped down beside her, both of you staring up at the cream ceiling. 

"So, we both played badly, we're stuck in this hotel for another night because the bus decided to break down, and it has been a genuinely horrible day."

"Yes," you said simply.

"Good," she said, her side pressing slightly against yours. "So glad we agree on one thing."

"...Were we really just arguing about who failed more?" she continued.

"Yes."

Alexia was about to respond when a knock interrupted her.

Before either of you could even process it, the latch clicked, and the door swung open. In mere seconds, the two of you scrambled up, and by the time the door swung open, you were standing very stiffly near the foot of the bed while Alexia had somehow ended up leaning against the small wooden desk as if she had been there all along doing God knows what.

Vicky stood in the doorway, taking in the room with her sharp, brown eyes. 

"Irene sent me," Vicky announced, completely unfazed by the sudden intrusion she just made, "She said if you don't come down to get something to eat now, Capi, the dining room is going to close,e and you'll have to survive on the vending machine–"

Vicky cut herself off as her eyes shifted from Alexia over to you. She blinked once, her face shining with mischief. 

"--and apparently you too, Y/n," Vicky added, her tone dripping with amusement. "I didn't realise you two were sharing a room again. I thought the plumbing issue got fixed?"

You could feel your face burning under her gaze, your defensive instinct coming up all at once. 

Alexia stared at her, her captain's face locked in place. "Does Irene sending you mean you can just walk into people's rooms, Vicky?"

"Well… I knocked," she said innocently. "So that's not on me."

"Oh, you knocked," Alexia said sarcastically. "Does that mean you can just open the door unannounced?" 

"It wasn't locked!" Vicky argued, as if not really understanding what she did was wrong.

"Next time it will be. You can't just walk in."

Vicky's eyes moved around the room again with (very exaggerated) innocence. She took everything in more slowly this time.

She noticed the slightly rumpled duvet and the way both your bags were scattered around. Vicky looked at you, then Alexia, before locking eyes with you, her absolute favourite target. 

"Right," Vicky said, "Sorry. Well, I'm also here because I'm genuinely upset about the match. I need emotional support. I need my captain… por favor…? Or are you too busy with Y/n? Am I interrupting something crucial? Oh! Maybe Y/n need emotional support as well?"

"Go find Patri," Alexia cut in, pointing a finger toward the corridor before you could snap at Vicky. Now."

"Patri's not–"

"Patri is exactly as much a captain as I am right now. I'm off duty," Alexia interrupted. "Go down to have some dinner. Eat real food. Talk to Patri. Close the door behind you."

"What about your dinner?" Vicky pressed, taking one last look between the two of you. "Aren't you guys coming down?"

Alexia held the bridge of her nose. "Go."

Vicky lingered, just long enough to make it clear she was leaving on her own terms before pulling the door shut behind her. Her footsteps retreated down the corridor. 

Then, a moment later, her voice came bright and happy, echoing through the corridor. "Hey Serra, guess who Capi's in her room with–"

You sat very still, already dreading tomorrow morning's breakfast, when the kids would (undoubtedly) ask whether Vicky had really caught the two of you sharing a room again.

"Vicky knows," you said flatly.

"She doesn't know anything," Alexia replied.

You looked at her. "Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you are trying to make me feel better?"

"I want to make you feel better," Alexia deadpanned. 

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. "Ugh."

"It's okay," Alexia said, trying to offer you a smile. "She won't tell anyone."

You gave her a side eye. "She literally just shouted down the hallway about us to Clara."

"Yeah, but Clara won't say anything."

You groaned again. "Honestly… whatever. Patri knows. Esmee knows. Kika knows. Now Vicky and Serra know…"

"It's not that bad," Alexia countered.

"Do you want them to know about us? Knowing how they are going to tease us?"

Alexia shrugged. "You just have to glare at them, and then they stop. Problem solved."

"I can't glare at people! I get flustered and embarrassed! I'm not half as intimidating as you are." 

"I'll intimidate them for you," she smiled as if life was all unicorns and rainbows.

"Oh, you're so kind," you said, rolling your eyes. 

When Alexia spoke again, her voice had dropped all of its captain's authority.

"You know what… we should cuddle," she said seriously, which did not match her proposition. "It's been way too long of a day for us."

You studied her up and down. She looked soft and tired, and you needed her to want to touch you.

"Mhmm… okay," you agreed. "Come here."

Alexia shifted a little closer until her shoulder brushed yours. She was testing the waters, seeing if it was really okay. Physical intimacy between you was a rare currency when sex wasn't involved, after all.

After a brief moment, Alexia finally curled into your side, tucking her face against your collarbone as though she had been wanting to do it all day. You stayed very still, adjusting to her weight and her warmth. 

"I really didn't mean to snap at you," she said, her voice muffled

"I know," you said, "I'm serious, Ale. You can stop apologising; it's alright."

"It's not, though," she propped herself up on one elbow so she could look at you. "I won't do it again, vale?"

You chuckled. She was cute. "I hope you don't… you sounded a bit intimidating."

Alexia blushed, which was not the response you had expected from a two-time Ballon d'Or winner. You looked up at her, your mind slipping back into its familiar habit of picking every little thing apart. 

You found yourself thinking about the part of you that had been waiting, somewhere deep and private, for her to finally see you fail.

About how the correction on the pitch had landed like something you had been half-expecting ever since you had arrived in Barcelona, ever since you met Alexia. Somewhere in a tired, masochistic corner of your brain, there had almost been a sense of relief. 

Finally, there it is. Here is the flaw that was always bound to surface.

There was something oddly bittersweet when people were mad or upset at you.  Something strangely comforting about disappointing people. How fucked up have you chilhood been for you to feel comfort in that?

It felt safe to know you had made a mistake, because it meant people would stop expecting things from you. They would know you were incompetent, bad and imperfect... except Alexia wasn't looking at you as if you were any of those things right now. She wasn't looking at you like that at all. 

Weird. 

You didn't want to talk to her about it, though.

You kept those messy thoughts to yourself.  Instead, you let yourself stay with her, cuddling, sharing very sweet, absent-minded kisses that barely lasted longer than half a second. But right as you were beginning to melt into her body, to relax, Alexia made a strange face and pulled away.

"Hey, what–" Before you could ask what was wrong, she disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door, murmuring about how she was going to be right back.

You frowned and sat on the bed, listening to the sound of running water. Should you go up and knock on the door? What had happened? You chose to stay put and let Alexia do her thing.

While you waited, your thoughts drifted back to the book you had been reading earlier that week – Madonna in a fur coat – when the water stopped, and the bathroom door opened.

Alexia stepped out, looking, somehow, even more grumpy than when she had gone in. She stood in the doorway and looked at you miserably.

"I got my period," she announced flatly. "I wasn't due for three days. This day needs to end. I'm serious."

You blinked up at her, sitting up a little as you abandoned Sabahattin Ali's universe. "Oh… your peri–"

"I think you're messing with my hormones," she added, crossing her arms. "I haven't been this early in years!"

You pressed your lips together.

"...I'm sorry? I didn't mean to mess with your menstrual cycle."

She pouted at you. "You don't sound sincere at all."

"I'm sorry I don't sound sincere," you said. You couldn't help but think she was rather adorable like this, all pouty. "Do you need anything? Want me to get your bag or–"

"I don't have anything with me, tori. Nada " She gestured helplessly at herself, as if to illustrate the full extent of the situation. "I don't have pads, tampons, nothing! We were supposed to be back in Barcelona by now. I didn't plan for this to happen!"

"Okay, baby, hold on," you said, walking to your own bag. "I'm supposed to have stuff here somewhere, just–" You unzipped your bag and started rummaging through it, searching for a pad, and while on it, you found medicine, one of your little notebooks, the good pen you had been looking for ages, and then, finally, you pulled out the pad. It was a bit creased, but it would do its job.

You walked over and held it out to her.

"I've got a few more if you need them," you said. "They are in the internal left pocket of my bag… and sorry, I don't have any tampons. I can go out for them if you want?"

"No, this is good enough, thank you," she muttered, the pout still holding strong.  "I'm just frustrated! I'm literally thirty-two, I should know by now to always carry tampons with me wherever I go…"

"Ah, come on, don't do that, Ale", you said gently. "It came three days early; you are allowed to be caught off guard, don't stress over it, yeah? Just get whatever you need from my bag. I'm sure the girls can help you out, too."

She nodded. "Thank you, torito." Then she walked back into the bathroom. 

When she came back out, you closed the distance between you without thinking. Your hands settled on her waist, and you felt her go less rigid beneath your touch, the tension in her shoulders releasing one layer at a time. She pressed herself back into you, her head on your shoulder. 

"Feeling a little better?" you asked.

"No, I'm devastated," She pouted into your neck. "And it's all your fault, tori."

"Devastated?" You teased her "That's a big word."

"You are not helping."

"Sorry… let me try again. How is it my fault you got your period?" you said, your voice sweet. "That doesn't make sense, sweetheart."

"You make my body go all wrong," she said.

"I do?"

"Uhum."

Your thumb traced slow circles against her waist as you gently guided the two of you back onto the bed. "You make my mind go all wrong. Guess we're even, then?"

Alexia was quiet for a moment, but then she spoke.  "So… I forgive you, and you forgive me?" she murmured. "For messing each other up?"

"Yes, bebé," you whispered, kissing her cheek.  "I forgive you, and you forgive me. You are such a good martyr," you said fondly. "Has anyone told you that?"

"Only when I'm on my period," she mumbled.

"Hm," you chuckled.

Alexia's breathing had slowed against your shoulder. You were waiting for the request, almost certain she was about to send you out for an emergency trip to buy her whatever she might need. 

"...I'm waiting," you said finally.

"Mhmm… for what?" she murmured.

"For you to send me out for a heat pad. Or ibuprofen. Chocolate. That's usually how this goes. Isn't it?"

She lifted her head enough to look at you; she was a bit tired, her eyelids were heavy. "I don't eat chocolate on weekdays. And I don't usually need heating pads."

You looked at her. "Ah, you don't get cramps?"

"I do sometimes, but they are very, very mild," she said. "I barely feel anything most of the time."

"Oh. That's great."

"Yeah, but I do get light headaches sometimes," she continued. "Barça's doctor told me it's because of low iron, so sometimes I have to take some tablets."

"Poor baby," you murmured, pressing another kiss to her temple.

"I'm waiting too," Alexia said after a moment, nosing at your skin. 

"For what?"

"For you to tell me about your period." She said, then she moved like a clingy cat and pressed her cheek against yours. "I just told you about mine; it's only fair, sí?"

"You think it's that easy to get information out of me, capi?" You smirked, teasingly. 

"No," she said, her hand drifting lazily up and down your side before coming to rest against your hipbone, and then she tucked her face against your chest. "That's why I'm asking nicely. Please. Be nice to me. I'm bleeding. I'm in pain."

"You just told me you're barely cramping."

"Yes," she said with great dignity, "but you said I was a good martyr. So this is me being a good martyr… Por favor? Tell me?"

You exhaled and looked at the ceiling, giving what she wanted. "Fine, Putellas. I get bad periods.

… Crickets. 

"Okay, and…? That's all you're giving me?" 

"Well, yes. That's it. I bleed a lot and have bad cramps. The absolute worst mood you've ever seen, too… I'm not exactly a joy to be around."

"Hmm," she sounded a bit suspicious. "Really? I've never noticed any of it, and we've known each other for what? A year?"

"I think I'm just very good at hiding it," you said proudly, but alexia didn't match your energy. 

Alexia looked up at you and didn't smile. "You say that like it's a good thing."

You blushed. "I thought it was."

"I don't think it is."

"Oh." You didn't really expect that answer.

Was there one thing you did in life right?

"I mean… I've never noticed you getting more sensitive around that time, or more emotional." She tilted her head slightly against your shoulder. 

"I would have thought I'd notice. I should've, shouldn't I?" She furrowed. "I pay attention to you… I even know when Vicky is on hers because she cries at literally everything, and she doesn't even have to tell me."

"Well, I don't get sensitive," you explained. "So that must be the reason why you never noticed. I don't really cry much."

"No?"

"No, I just get a bit angry, impatient. That kind of stuff."

"Angry how?" She asked.

Alexia had apparently decided that tonight was the night she was going to ask every single question she had been collecting for months. 

"Just… well, just angry." You said with a small shrug, searching for the right scientific term and coming up with nothing. "Everything irritates me, and tiny things suddenly feel much more urgent than they actually are. That kind of anger."

Alexia didn't say anything immediately, which meant she was thinking about it properly, turning it over in her head.

"So right now," she said slowly. "With the game, and the broken bus, and all of it… You aren't–"

"I'm not on my period," you clarified with a smile. "Unfortunately, this is just me on my good day."

She hummed. "So if you were on your period–"

"Today would have been exponentially worse," you confirmed. "Yes."

"Hmmm… " She narrowed her eyes slightly. "I'll make a note."

"Please don't."

"I'm your captain," she said teasingly. "I have to know these things for scheduling purposes."

"You don't schedule anything. Ever. That is literally not your job."

"As captain, I have a great deal of influence when it comes to scheduling," she replied proudly.

"Oh," you said flatly. "What do you do? Glare at people until they move training?"

"Do you always have to be this sarcastic?"

"Sorry."

"Anyway… tell me next time when you are due," she said matter-of-factly. "Actually… I have a better idea! We should share a period tracking app!"

"Absolutely not." You shook your head immediately. "Nope."

"But-"

"I will leave this bed right now," you threatened. "At once."

In response, she tightened her arm around your waist, pulling you closer to her. Alexia's breathing was even out against your shoulder again, before her voice cut through the silence. 

"You know what? Since we're in a talking mood…"

"You're in a talking mood," you interrupted her. "I'm definitely not."

"...you haven't talked about your ex since that night," she continued, ignoring you. 

Your stomach turned at that. "You're awfully curious tonight."

"I like getting to know people."

"Funny of you to say that," you said. "I'm pretty sure everyone on the team would tell me they don't remember the last time you played personal quiz with them."

"Okay," she said, without missing a beat. "Maybe I like getting to know you."

You smiled despite yourself, which she definitely felt against your shoulder.

"Oh, are you into me or something?" You teased. "That's so gay of you."

"You're changing the subject," she rolled her eyes, blushing. "Again."

"I'm trying to," you admitted. 

"Don't try." She moved, settling more firmly against your body, as if to make clear she wasn't going anywhere. "Let me propose an exercise, torito. One where you don't overthink every single word before it leaves your mouth."

You pouted. "I don't think my brain works like that."

"You can try."

You sighed in defeat. "I'll tell you about my ex if you tell me about yours."

Alexia chuckled. "That's not how it works. I always talk to you about myself, sí? I've already done my part. You're the one who drops a bomb in my lap every two weeks and then goes completely silent."

You rolled your eyes.

She won.

A/n: Hiii!! I hope you guys liked this chapter! I had lots of fun writing it hehehe; they are just so endearing and fucked up in the head!! I personally love how Ale goes all captain with the kids, and then she melts with Tori.

Come talk with me about it!! Talking about fic really helps me with motivation and ideas, hehe

Tag list: @neutraiise | @milkveed | @browercc | @ace-of-baked | @ikzzzya | @sky-the-trans-guy00 | @knight-16 | @papimapileon | @unpoppablebubbles | @whiskeredshrimp-blog | @goodloe-e | @s0ciety-cxv | @dfwspky | @karmajam | @awosofavs | @riyaexee | @miaereen | | @valuyhh | @flashreader2021 | @sxekhaos | @layalisthings | @jupitermoonbaby | @hakandnsjoqmsn | @sapphicdarlingx | @helen-with-an-a | @bellaputellas | @aimeeswift | @nombreuxx @vbueckers @tayrausi @bonrussso

[solongmylove818]

me this whole chapter 🥺🥺🥺

[solongmylove818]

Loved the new chapter! I would love to see a chapter that delves more into Alexia and Aitana's resentment and Rio finding out that it is partially bc of her.

The way you write angst and complex relationships is phenomenal 💗

hii thank you so much ☺️ maybe if i get around to write about alexia leaving barça arc i would maybe talk about it a bit, it would probably kill Rio to know though 😩 thank you so much, i don't think i do really well at anything but angst really, Last Seen was a total blip lol

[solongmylove818]

thank you soooo fucking much for the new chapter it was so great so amazing probs the closest to tooth-rotting fluff we’ll ever get with these two 🙃 which is a shame but nevertheless it is an amazing work again by you vamos keep up the good work i enjoyed everything

and also can we take a minute to appriciate the emotional maturity of alexia in this chapter??? i was truly shocked when she texted and called i thought they were going to cold-shock each other for a while more

i really like to write friends being friends even if my instinct is to throw angst at it 😂 you will get more sweet moments don't worry !! did you see alexia being so PRESENT and UNDERSTANDING it's a brand new ale i tell you she was so worried but so cute about it as always, thank you for reading and taking the time to comment 💗truly appreciate it

[solongmylove818]

just popping in to say I’ve loved the years before and the years after! these snapshots of Rio and Alexia’s relationship are everything. the novias chapter was TOO cute!! and I appreciated the closure with Leah (and Rio being emotionally mature) in supercut. but, I’m a sucker for an Ale POV, and was obsessed with getting her internal thoughts during the fight with Jenni. the ring from Rio was such a nice touch. also found it sooo interesting to see Irene finally come around on their relationship. i’d be super curious to get more insight into what ale’s family and Rio’s Brazil teammates think about them being together throughout their relationship. anyway, sorry for the rambling, just wanted to say I love those two so much <3

Awwwn, the 'years before and the years after' is my pet project as well, it's nice to write those little insights on them but without keeping the hold of a timeline of events, it' easier this way hahaha I'm too a sucker for Ale POV, especially in this fic and I was itching to do it with the Jenni's chapter. Hm, I guess we will see more of the family maybe after the World Cup but I'll see what I can manage before -- also, putting up a new chapter today just because you are so sweet and pleaseee keep popping and keep rambling, I love it, really 💗

[xiii-ap]

team bottom ale! I need a tag and a link list, they’re so rare 👀

please write that one shot!!!

Some of my favorite bottom Alexia fics, off the top of my head :

- Un verano sin vos : part of a bigger serie, but in this part we have very bottom Ale, by @solongmylove818

- Intimacy : multi-part story, by @wosospacegirl

- Terms of engagement and its sequel Damage control, by @fruno

- Taking your Crown, by @muffinpink02

- Crawling back to you, by @maeshoneyles

I'm sure I'm forgetting some, especially if I read them a lot time ago.

I'm definitely writing that one shot at one point, and some in Beyond the Badge.

[solongmylove818]

un verano sin vos

Author's Note: One more for the 'Don't cry for me Argentina' verse. Word Count: 11k Warnings: smut, again.

@alexiaputellas: when can I see you again?

That's all the message says. No preamble, no emoji, no if you want.

You are sitting on your balcony in San Sebastián with a beer you have barely drunk, cracking your neck to get a glimpse of the water shinning today under the sun. The phone buzzes on the small metal table. You read it.

When. Not can. Not would you. When.

You put the beer down.

It has been four weeks. Four weeks since the AC Hotel, since the blaugrana you left on the floor and Argentina-cabezona-ed your way through a morning DM exchange that ended with her saying casual back to you with the kind of patient kindness that should have, frankly, scared you off the entire enterprise.

It hasn't scared her off. That's the problem.

Alexia has not gone silent. She has done the opposite of silent — she has stayed in the small periphery of your phone for a month, watching your stories within ten minutes of you posting them, reacting sparingly to things in a way that you have come to recognize as deliberately calibrated. A fire emoji on a video of you nutmegging Lavogez in training. A single red heart on a picture of you on your couch with a glass of wine and your feet up. 

She is, you have realized over the last few weeks, interested. And not even in a quiet, private way. It’s open and in your face. She asks questions, she follows it up with more questions, she offers things about herself with no prompting. 

Alexia is, and it pains you to take notice for reasons you shall not investigate, sweet. Caring and kind.

You have not reacted to anything she has posted. You have watched every story she has put up within the first hour and you know she knows. Kills you a little to know that you may react to something and she would take forever to notice because there are other thousands of people claiming her attention too. And now this. When can I see you again?

You stare at the message. You stare at the beer, sweating slow rings onto your table. Your mother would tell you to be civilized and use coasters. It is a small act of rebellion to not do it.

You think — and it is the kind of thinking that you do not have to organize — that the safe answer is I don't know. Or maybe the safe answer is to not answer at all and then, in three days, pretend you have only just seen the message.

You type:

I'll be in Barcelona next week. That work?

You hit send before you can overthink it.

You see the Read indicator land. The three dots appear immediately.

@alexiaputellas: yes. weekend?

You exhale, insecurity pressing hard inside your chest.

Friday through Tuesday. Girls trip with Lu and some friends from home. We'll be around.

You add, because something in you has to have an out:

if you're around

@alexiaputellas: I’ll be around.

A second message follows.

@alexiaputellas: text me when you get in. She sends you her phone number. Alexia Putellas phone number. You could probably sell that to your clubmates for thousands. It’s a thrill that it is just yours though.

You set the phone down face up on the table and drink the rest of it in one long swallow.

Text me when you get in. The flat assumption that of course you are going to text her when you get in, that the entire reason you mentioned the trip was so that this could be arranged, that the casual frame the two of you have agreed to the last time you talked about it is just that — a frame.

You do not text back.

You let the yes sit there and do its work.

* * *

You take the morning train to Barcelona.

Lucía is already on it when you board — she has been visiting her cousin in Vitoria and got on at the previous stop — and she waves at you from a seat by the window with three cans of beer already lined up on her tray table.

"¡Argentina! ¡Vamos!"

"It is nine in the morning."

"It is vacation."

"It is — Lu —" You sit down across from her. She slides one of the beers across to you. You stare at it.

"You drink the beer, che. We are on a trip. The trip starts when you drink the beer."

She has a point so you chug.

Lucía's three friends from her hometown are meeting you in Barcelona. You have met them before, at one of Lucía's birthday things last year — three women in their mid-twenties who all knew each other from school, all of them fun in the specific way Lucía is fun, and it’s summer so why not?

Off season for you and Lucía, rare time to have and let go.

You arrive at Sants at one in the afternoon. The other three are waiting outside the station. Lucía screams when she sees them. They scream back. There is hugging, there is kissing, there is a full minute of overlapping Spanish where you stand off to the side with your duffel bag and let the reunion happen without you. One of them — Sara, you think? Pilar? — turns to you and pulls you into a hug as if she has known you forever, which you suppose she has, by association.

"La argentina," she says, beaming. "We've missed you."

“It’’s been a minute."

"She told me you scored on Barça this year."

"That is true, actually."

"¡Ja!"

Lucía is grinning. The five of you walk to the metro.

The Airbnb in Gràcia is small, top floor, four bedrooms with one double and three singles, a tiny terrace with plants on it, the smell of someone else's laundry still in the air. You drop your bag in the single room with the smallest window because you enjoy your privacy and Lucía has already claimed the double "in case I get lucky." The other three — Sara or Pilar, and her two friends Nuria and Marta — are unpacking and mixing drinks.

"What's the plan tonight?"

"Cenamos. Then we go out. Sara found a place."

"¿Qué tipo de lugar?"

"Un sitio bueno."

You shrug because anything goes.

You shower and change. Then you find yourself sitting on the small terrace with another beer and Lucía sits down beside you with a glass of wine and you both watch the sky over Gràcia turn the kind of orange that only happens in Spanish summer.

"Che."

"Hm."

"How long has it been?”

"How long has what been what?”

She wiggles her eyebrows in that silly way that always makes you laugh and you snort into your beer. You roll your eyes, face flushing with embarassement. 

"Lu."

"I am not going to ask. I am just saying. I know it has been a while. And we are in Barcelona, che, in July, and I am very prepared to leave the key under the doormat for you if needed. That is all I am saying."

“Please stop talking.”

“This is good for your performance, che. Trust me. Do not confirm or deny. I am simply — making logistical arrangements. As your friend."

You laugh. You can't help it.

"Como amiga?”

"Sí."

"You are gross."

"I know."

She reaches over and pats your knee, twice, brisk and matter-of-fact. Then she gets up and goes back inside to find her shoes.

You sit on the terrace for another minute, alone.

You do not text Alexia yet.

* * *

Dinner is in the Born. You eat too much. Sara has theories about every restaurant in the neighborhood and explains them at length, Marta and Nuria join her. Lucía is in her element — she is louder in this group than she is at the club, looser, less professional if you can ever describe her as such. You like to watch her. You are quietly fond of all of them.

After dinner you walk to a wine bar. After the wine bar you walk to the place Sara has been advertising all night, which turns out to be a club in the Eixample with a line out the door but it’s warm outside so it’s not a big deal.

Inside it is loud and crowded and dark in the specific Spanish-club way. The music is bad. The drinks are too expensive. Lucía is delighted. Sara and her friends disappear into the crowd within ten minutes, all three of them on the prowl in different directions. Lucía and you find a small high-top table near the bar.

You order a gin tonic. Then another. You pace yourself because you don’t actually want to be drunk if you…when you —

It is around eleven-thirty when you stop being able to ignore the message you have not sent.

You glance at the clock on your phone. Ten-thirty. Alexia is a professional athlete in mid-July off-season; she is probably in her apartment doing something slow and human, watching something, reading something, not on her phone.

You think about her saying text me when you get in in a voice you remember. A little raspy, accent underneath.

You could have texted her earlier, you should have. The small semblance of control of having the decision was a little high. You are ready to let go of it for a moment.

You go to the bathroom — the kind of nightclub bathroom that is too dark and smells like old piss and has someone crying in one of the stalls. You look at yourself in the mirror. Gin tonic glaze, a small smudge of mascara, your hair behaving better than it has any right to in this humidity. You look like a woman in a bar in who is about to do something she has been pretending not to want for six weeks.

You type.

hey. in barcelona. you up

You stare at it and shudder internally. That’s just horrible

You try again.

hey. in barcelona if you are around

You hit send.

The three dots appear quicker than they have any right to appear.

Alexia: yes

Alexia: where are you?

You type name of the club which is two blocks from the Diagonal. You add, but I can come over, and you hit send before you can think about it.

Alexia: yes. come over.

Alexia: I'll send the address.

She does just like that. God, Alexia’s phone number and address. You wonder, briefly, if you wandered into some kind of parellel universe. 

You wash your hands and leave the bathroom. Need to find your friends and ditch them clear.

Lucía is at the bar with two new drinks ordered and a girl with a septum piercing leaning on the stool next to hers, mid-conversation. You touch Lucía's elbow. She turns her head and sees your face — she does not need to ask.

"¿Te vas?"

"Yeah."

She nods, very slightly. Then grins wild, like you just handed her some prize.

"Key's under the doormat," she says. Mild. "Take your time."

"Lu."

"Andá, che."

You leave a kiss on her cheek. You weave back through the crowd toward the door. Sara catches your eye across the room, mid-laugh with someone, and waves. You wave back and keep moving. You do not see Marta or Nuria. You hope they are having a good time.

You step out into the Eixample night.

The air is cooler than inside the club but still summer-warm, the kind of night where the city has decided not to go to bed yet. People are smoking on every corner. A scooter passes too close. You order an Uber and do not have to wait more then 5 minutes to climb up into a random black car.

You watch Barcelona slide past the window. The mid-summer crowds, the orange streetlamps, the open doors of bars with people spilling onto the sidewalks.

You arrive at her building in eleven minutes. It is, as expected, a fancy building in a fancy neighboorhood with a doorman who looks you up and down.

There is a private landing and a single door, and the fact of that — that she has a whole floor, a whole hush, a whole life up here above the city that watches her — sits in your chest for a second and does not sit comfortably.

You knock anyway. You are already here. What is one more reality check.

Alexia opens the door in shorts and a soft old Barcelona training top, barefoot, hair loose, and there is the smell of something warm drifting out from behind her — a candle, incense, something. Her face is bare. Her hazel eyes are exactly as you remember them, which is the problem. She is smiling.

"Hi."

"Hi."

You walk past her. The apartment is— probably belongs in a magazine of some kind. The heavy one, that sits on waiting rooms in offices you could never get in. Open plan, a kitchen out of a showroom, a long low couch. Alexia closes the door behind you and the lock clics as you turn around.

She is leaning against the door, hands in her pockets, watching you take in the space. There is no tension in her face. There is no expectancy. She looks, somehow, like she has had no one over in a long time and is glad to have someone over now — not specifically you, just someone — and it is one of the most disarming things you have ever seen on her face.

"You want a drink?"

"Sure."

Alexia moves past you into the kitchen. You follow. There are already two glasses on the marble counter, you notice, and an open bottle of red breathing beside them. She has already poured one of the glasses. 

She picks up the bottle and glances at you. "Wine?"

"Yeah."

You look around the kitchen while she pours. There's a small bowl of olives on the counter. A board with cheese on it, a couple of slices of bread, cut. Small plates stacked. The whole arrangement says I was going to eat something, you arrived, let me share. 

But you have an inkling at the bottom of your stomach that this isn’t the case at all. That she set this up for you both. 

You take the wine glass.

"Salud," she says. Quiet.

“Salud." You clink your glass with hers and take a sip.

She is watching you over the rim of her glass. The candle smell is from somewhere else in the apartment — not the kitchen, maybe the living room, maybe further back — and the kitchen light is low, and she  is gorgeous like this. Just like this, comfortable and soft. "How's the trip?"

"Good."

"Where are you staying?"

"Gràcia. Lucía rented an Airbnb."

"Mm." Small smile. "You with her tonight?"

"Her and some friends."

"Sounds fun."

"It is."

A beat. Alexia is not pushing, you are not sure she is someone who ever does it. She is asking the way someone asks when they want to know, when the asking itself is the point, when the answer is less important than the small fact of having been told.

You drink more wine.

"You eat?"

"Yeah, we ate. Big dinner."

She nods. She looks down at the cheese on the board — maybe her dinner, you realize, that you have just told her you don't need it — and she does not move it.

"How was the day off?" you ask, because something has to be said. "Did you train?"

"Light. Just gym."

"Mm."

"How's Sociedad?”

"Pre-season's still far out. Everyone's bored."

"You bored?"

"A little."

She tips her head. "What do you do when you're bored?”

You don’t think Alexia means it to be flirty, even if sounds like it is. It’s worse because you think she is interested — truly. In you, in what you actually do when you are bored and that she would file that information away. Refer to it if needed. 

You don’t know what to do with that so you do the other thing instead.

You set your wine glass down on the counter and step toward her.

She watches you do it. Her eyebrow doesn't lift, exactly, but something moves through her face — ah. here, then — and she sets her own glass down beside yours, slow, and does not look away from you while she does it.

You put a hand on her hip.

"Come here."

You kiss her, and it is faster than the last time, and you let it be. Her mouth is warm and tastes of the wine. You push up into her and she meets you exactly where you are, no faster, and you walk her two steps back into the counter until the edge of it catches her hips. You kiss her harder than you meant to. Her hand slides up into your hair.

She breaks first, for breath.

"Hola." Soft. Half a laugh in it.

"Hi."

"You don't want to—"

"No."

"Okay." She doesn't push. Her hand smooths the hair back behind your ear like she is putting something away. "Bedroom?"

"Yeah."

She walks you down the short hall and the warm smell gets stronger — it is the bedroom, of course it is — and she pushes the door with her shoulder and you follow her in and stop.

Two candles on the dresser, already burning. The light low. The bed turned down — the corner of the duvet folded back the way they do in hotels, except this is her own bed in her own apartment and she has done it with her own hands. A glass of water on the nightstand. A clean towel folded over the chair.

She did all of this in the time between yes, come over and the buzzer. Between you typing can I come now from a club bathroom that smelled of piss and her opening the door to you barefoot.

You do not let your face do anything. You are good at that, at least.

She catches it anyway — glances back over her shoulder, a little unsure, her eyes already gone dark but a faint color rising in her cheeks. "Too much?"

"It's nice."

She watches your face half a second longer.

"Ven." She says, smile soft. 

Her hand finds the hem of your shirt and tugs. A question.

You step into her.

You kiss her again, slower this time — you cannot help it — and her hands come up to your waist and lift your shirt off over your head, and you let her. You strip hers off in return.

No bra. Again.

You have thought about her chest more than you would admit to a living person. In the four weeks of watching her stories you have thought about it in training, on the train, in the shower sometimes with your hand between your legs and your jaw set against making noise. And here it is, better than the memory — small, high, perfect, the candlelight pooling under the curve of each breast and catching her nipples already tight in the warm air. Her stomach below is flat and cut, a footballer's stomach, the muscle just visible, a line of shadow down the center of it. She is stupidly, unreasonably beautiful, and she is standing in her own bedroom letting you look, and you want to put your teeth in her.

You push her back onto the bed. She goes — falls into the pillows, blonde hair spilling loose around her face, thighs parting under you without being asked — and looks up and waits.

You climb over her.

You had a plan. Quick, efficient, get your mouth on her and take her apart, stay in the half of the night where you are the one doing and nothing is being asked of you.

Her mouth is right there. You go slow anyway.

You kiss her deep and unhurried and she opens under it, and she is patient with you — even now, after you turned down her questions and walked her in here — one hand coming up to hold your jaw, kissing you back like she is hungry still. It undoes something. You break it before it can undo more.

You bite along her jaw. Down her throat, to the hollow where her pulse is slamming, and you suck there, hard enough to feel her breath catch, hard enough to mark her if you stayed — and the thought of Alexia Putellas walking into pre-season with your mouth printed on her neck makes you clench around nothing. You drag your teeth down instead. Her collarbone. The soft skin under it.

You take one perfect pink nipple into your mouth and suck, and Alexia makes a sound too close to a whine to be anything else, and her spine bows up off the pillows to push more of herself into your mouth. You give her teeth, careful, and she gasps. "Ay — joder —" You flatten your tongue over it to soothe and she shudders under you, and her hand is in your hair now, gripping, nails dragging. You move to the other one. Draw it deep into the wet heat of your mouth and work it with your tongue and she keens, actually keens, the composed woman who gives nothing away in the mixed zone falling apart under your mouth over her own tits.

You pull off with a wet sound. Her nipple is stiff and shining in the candlelight where your mouth was.

"You're loud," you tell her, mouthing at the soft curve of her breast, pampering the skin there.

"Cállate." No heat in it. Her chest is heaving. "Sigue —"

You go lower before the tenderness climbing your throat can get its hands on you. Down over her sternum, over the flat of her stomach, and you drag your open mouth across the muscle there just to feel it flex under your tongue — she is all lean hard lines under the softest skin, and you take your time with the contrast, licking a slow path down the center of her because you can, because she is letting you, because no one else gets to. You press your mouth to her hipbone and bite it, gently, and she inhales.

The line of muscle cuts down into the waistband of her shorts. You hook your fingers into it and look up the length of her — past that flat stomach, past her heaving chest — and her eyes are already black, her bottom lip caught white between her teeth.

"Por favor," she says.

Alexia Putellas is saying please to you, and you have not even taken her shorts off yet.

You take them down slow, the underwear with them, drag them off those long legs and drop them off the side of the bed, and she is bare, thighs already fallen open for you, and she is soaked. Slick shines on the inside of both thighs. She has been like this since the door — since before the door, since the kitchen, standing there mild and pouring your wine with her thighs pressed together and all of this going on underneath the calm. The understanding lands hot and low in you.

You settle between her legs. You do not put your mouth where she wants it.

You kiss the inside of one thigh instead, high up, where the skin is hot and damp and tastes of her, and you drag your tongue through the slick smeared there and she makes a low frustrated sound and her hips tilt up, chasing, trying to put herself against your mouth.

"Argentina." Strained. "Don't — don't tease.”

"I'm not doing anything," you tell her, lips still against her thigh, kissing and nipping.

"Sí, lo estás haciendo —“

You lick another slow stripe up the crease of her, close, not close enough, and her hand comes down and lands in your hair and pushes — Alexia reaching for control the way she always will, the way she leads on the pitch, trying to steer your mouth where she needs it.

You let her move you exactly one inch. Then you resist, and you look up her body, and you wait until she looks back.

"Ask properly.”

Her jaw works. You watch her fight it — the pride, the composure — and you watch her lose, because she is too wet and too far gone to win it, and it is the single hottest thing you have ever done to anyone.

"Por favor." It comes out cracked. Her fingers tighten in your hair. "Put your mouth on me. Por favor, cariño — please —“

You reward her.

You put your mouth on cunt, flat and full, one long stroke of your tongue up through her, and the taste of her floods your mouth — tangy and sharp and, the taste you have not stopped thinking about for a month — and she moans loud, almost a mewel, no dignity left, nothing held back at all.

"Dios — ay, sí —“

You find her clit and you circle it, slow, and you stay. You meant to be messy and you have gone reverent instead and you cannot make yourself stop. Her hips chase up off the bed and you press her back down with a forearm across her stomach and hold her there, take her at the pace you set, and she groans at being pinned. She tastes like more the wetter she gets. You lap at her, suck her clit soft between your lips, let it go, and every change pulls a different sound out of her — a moan, a whimper, a high cracked thing when you suck — and you are cataloguing them, greedy, wanting the whole set for yourself.

"Más — more, right there, más —" She is directing again, hips straining under your arm. "Inside, put — cariño, por favor —“

She asked nicely enough.

You bring a hand up and press two fingers to her entrance, and you sink them in, and she is hot and gripping and slick to the knuckle, opening around you like she has been waiting. You curl up into the soft front of her and her stomach goes rigid under your forearm and she cries out, sharp and high.

"Ahí — there, ahí, ahí, no pares —“

You don't. You give her exactly that — the same curl, the same rhythm, your mouth steady on her clit — and you feel her start to come apart under you. Her thighs shake at your ears. Her whole stomach draws tight. Her hand leaves your hair and skids down blind across her own belly until it finds your other hand where it pins her, and she covers it and laces her fingers through yours and presses down, hard, like she needs somewhere to put all of it.

She comes with a long cracked cry that climbs and breaks in the middle, and then the language goes — the Spanish gone with it, and what spills out of her is Catalan, fast and soft and useless to translate and you do not need a single word. Her thighs seize around your head. Her hips buck up into your mouth. Around your fingers you feel her clench and pulse, hard, again, again, riding it out on your hand.

You stay with her through all of it. Then you gentle — your tongue going soft and slow, working her down and not off, licking through her and drawing another shiver up, carefully avoiding her clit now where she has gone too sensitive to take it. You keep going a little longer than you need to just because she lets you clean her up. Her sounds go small and whiny. Her hips sink back into the bed.

You ease your fingers out — slow, one last shudder out of her — and you bring them to your mouth and taste her off your own hand, unhurried, while she watches you do it through half-lidded eyes, and something flickers across her wrecked face at the sight of it.

You press one kiss to the inside of her thigh. It is too soft and you do not let yourself look too long at what that means.

You settle half over her, your face at her throat, and her arm comes up on its own and folds around the back of your neck, holding you there. Her heart is going hard and fast against your cheek, and you lie in the wreck of her breathing and feel it, slowly, begin to come down.

Here’s the part you can’t stand. The insecurity of it being all too much, too real.

You can do the sex. You can put your mouth on her and your fingers in her and bring her to a climax that has her going loud. You cannot do this. You cannot lie against her after and be there. You do what you know how to do instead. You lift your head off her and you want her again — harder this time, and you the one doing, back in the half of this where nothing is being asked of you.

"Ale."

"Sí." Rough. Wrecked. She drags her eyes half-open.

"You have a strap?"

Something moves through her face — interest, heat, and under it a flicker of something that is almost a question but stops. She lets it go.

"Sí." Her hand smooths down your spine. "You want me to—"

"No. I'll wear it."

She holds your eyes a second. Then she tips her chin toward the nightstand. "Drawer. Top one."

You roll off her and sit up on the edge of the bed and you open it.

It is right there. The harness and the strap folded clean on top of a bottle of lube, all of it set at the very front of the drawer — where a person lying in this bed could reach it without having to lean, without having to break from whoever they were reaching for. She keeps it where she can get to it in the dark. The heat that goes through you at that has nothing to do with what is about to happen, and you shut the drawer on it.

You stand and step out of your jeans — still on, you never got them off, too fast for that — push them down, and you are in your underwear at the side of her bed with Alexia watching you. 

You turn around with the harness in your hands.

Alexia is up on her elbows, hair a wreck of blonde across the pillow, cheeks still flushed from coming, thighs loose and open, watching you with a small private smile at the corner of her mouth that lands somewhere between I'm enjoying this and I'm not going to do you the favor of being shy about it. Naked and gold in the candlelight. The most composed woman you know, spread across her own bed like she has nowhere to be.

"Come here," she says, gesturing with her hand.

You climb on. She sits up and takes the harness out of your hands and works it onto you herself — both hands at your hips, quick and sure, the small efficiency of someone who has done this, and you make yourself not think about the someone. She pulls the last strap tight. Then she runs her palm once over the front of you, the shape of you in it, considering, and leans in and presses a kiss just below your navel that makes you clench tight against nothing.

She picks up the lube.

"Let me."

She slicks you slow — the warm drag of her palm down the length of the strap, her eyes coming up to yours while she does it — and you feel it mostly secondhand, the base of it pressing against your clit each time her hand moves, and it is enough to make your breath go short. She is doing it to watch your face. You know she is.

She sets the bottle on the nightstand and rises up on her knees and kisses you, and this one is deep and slow, her tongue in your mouth, and she catches your bottom lip between hers and sucks, filthy, until your hands tighten hard on her waist.

She breaks it. Her forehead drops against yours.

"How do you want me?"

Christ. Her, of all people, handing you that.

You cannot say it out loud. You put your hands on her hips instead and turn her, firm, until her back is to you.

"Like this." Low. "That okay?"

"Sí."

She goes down without making you ask twice — onto her elbows, then lower, chest to the duvet, hips tipped up to you, that long back a single line from her shoulders to where her hips meet her thighs, littered with tattoos you know nothing about. Her hair spills forward off her shoulders and pools on the bed in front of her face. Her thighs fall open. Her ass is round and perfectly lit in the candlelight and she is presenting it to you, Alexia Putellas face-down and lifted for you to take, and the sight of it lands hot and greedy.

You put a flat hand on the small of her back. Just to feel her under your palm. She makes a small needy sound at the touch alone and you clench again around nothing.

You bring your other hand down between her thighs. Still slick, still hot, wet smeared on the inside of her thighs. You drag two fingers up through her and circle her clit, slow, and watch her shoulders flex and roll. She groans into the duvet.

"You want it?" you ask.

"Sí — por favor —"

You sink two fingers into her instead, just to feel her take them, just to make her wait one more second, and she gasps and her hips press back into your hand.

"Cariño —" muffled, strained — "basta, no juegues — give it to me—"

You ease your fingers out. You line the strap up and press the head against her.

"Breathe."

You push in — just the head, the first inch — and she is tight, tight even like this, even soft and prepped, and you go slow because she is taking her time opening around you. Her breath stutters. You hold there and watch her back.

"Okay?"

"Más." She rocks back to take more of you.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"No — dame más —"

You give her more. You sink another inch, slow, and feel her stretch to take it — feel it through the base dragging against your own clit as you press, both sensations at once, her opening around you and the dull good pressure against you — and it drags a low groan up out of your chest before you can stop it.

You push the rest of the way in.

She makes a long broken sound into the duvet and her hips press back flush against yours and stay there, and you hold still, both hands gripping her hips, and you look at where you meet — the base of the strap flush to her, the whole length of you buried in her. 

Alexia Putellas bottomed out on your cock on her hands and knees — and the heat of it is not secondhand at all. It is hard and full and mean and yours.

"Joder." It comes out of you low. "Look at you."

She whines.

"Taking all of it." You drag your palm up the line of her back. "You good?"

"Sí — sí, muévete — move, por favor —"

You pull back slow, almost all the way out — the drag of it a high of its own — and push back in, and the sound she makes is wet and shapeless.

You set a rhythm. Slow at first. You watch the way she takes you — the way her back arches, the way her ass gives against your hips each time you bottom out, the way her thighs shake when you go deep. The strap is shining with lube and her, the slick of it obscene and audible in the quiet, the wet catch of every stroke when it disappears inside her. Her hair is everywhere and her shoulder blades cut and shift in the low light.

You speed up. The bed gives a faint creak under it. She is moaning steadily into the duvet now, rough groans, the sound pouring out of her without shape, and you watch the muscle work in her back and the small jump of her ass every time you drive home and your own breath is going ragged, your stomach tight, the base grinding a dull ache into your clit with every thrust — good, not enough, never going to be enough from this and you don't chase it. You pour it into her instead.

"Más fuerte —" she gets out. "Harder — cariño, harder—"

You give it to her harder. You lean forward, brace one hand flat on the bed beside her, change the angle so you are driving down into her from above, and she sobs — sharp, surprised, the sound of a woman who did not know that angle was coming — and her hand shoots back blind and grabs your thigh and holds on.

"Ahí — right there, right there, no pares —"

You don't stop. Same depth, same rhythm, and you feel her start to come apart under you, her language starting to slip — the Catalan bleeding back in, fast and raw, and she is not translating it and you are not asking her to. You watch the damp curl of hair at the back of her neck. Her shoulders start to shake.

You bring your free hand up and push two fingers into her mouth.

She takes them. Takes them — sucks immediately, hot and wet, her tongue working the pads of them, moaning around your hand, and you feel yourself get drenched at the filthy obscene fact of it, her mouth full of your fingers and her cunt full of your cock and both of them yours at once.

"That's it," you breathe. "Dios, look at you."

She moans around your fingers. You pump them slow against her tongue, in time with your hips, and she is completely gone now, wrecked at both ends, and you could keep her exactly like this for the rest of the night.

But you want to see her.

You ease your fingers out of her mouth — she makes a small lost sound at the loss — and you pull back and slip out of her, slow, and she groans, and before she can grieve it you get a hand on her hip and turn her.

"Come here. On your back."

She rolls. Boneless, easy, letting you move her — hair fanning across the pillow, chest flushed pink from her collarbones down, mouth swollen, eyes gone black and glassy and finding yours. She is obscene like this, wrecked and open and looking up at you, and for one second the looking snags at something in your chest — her face, right there, no way to avoid it now — and you shove it down and hook a hand under her thigh instead.

You lift her leg, open her up, and press back into her in one long slow stroke, and you both groan.

Face to face is deeper. She feels it — her back arches off the bed, her hands come up and grip your forearms, nails biting in.

"Ay — joder, cariño —"

"Yeah?" You start to move, driving down into her, watching her whole body take it. "That deep enough?"

"Sí — sí, sí —"

You brace one hand on her thigh, keeping her open, and bring the other down between you and find her clit, swollen and hard, and circle it in time with your hips, and she keens — high and helpless, nothing composed left in it — and her hips buck up to meet you.

Then you stop. Buried deep, hips flush to her, everything held still.

She makes a wrecked sound of protest and tries to grind up against you, and you press your hand flat to her stomach, where she is full, and hold her down.

"Tell me you want it."

"Cariño —"

"Say it." You give her one slow stroke, all the way out and all the way back in, and then still again, and watch her fall apart at the loss of the rhythm. "I want to hear you."

"I want it." Cracked. Her hands scrabble at your forearms. "Te quiero — I want it, please, no pares —"

Not enough. You start moving again, shallow and unhurried, watching her chase it, keeping it just under what she needs.

"Want what?" Low. Mean. You do not know where this version of your voice comes from — only that having her under you, made to answer, is the closest thing to control you have felt all night. "Use your words, Alexia."

Her face does something — the pride, the pitch composure, the woman who gives nothing away — and you watch it break, watch her decide she wants this more than she wants to keep it.

"I want you to fill me." It spills out of her, wrecked, all the polish stripped off, her hands clawing at your hips, digging in. "Quiero estar — I want to be full, cariño, por favor — full, like this, dame —"

The captain saying the filthy thing out loud, for you, because you made her — it goes through you like a current, and something in your chest snaps its leash.

"Puta madre." You give it to her. Hard, deep, the way she asked — and the answer punches out of you now too, your own mouth gone as filthy as hers. "That what you wanted? That full enough — Alexia Putellas begging to get stuffed—"

"Yes — sí, sí —"

"Look at you take it." You are driving into her, watching where you split her open, watching her tits jump with every thrust. "Whole city thinks they know you. Nobody gets you like this. Wide open, dripping on my cock, begging for it—"

She sobs. Her nails rake down your forearms.

"—that's mine." It leaves you before you can stop it, rawer than the rest, truer than you meant. "Tonight that's mine."

"Tuya—" she gasps, "sí, tuya, cariño —"

You cannot hold what it does to you. You bury it in her — in the drive of your hips, in your fingers circling harder at her clit — and she is climbing fast now, faster.

It builds in her thighs first — you feel them start to shake around you — then her stomach draws rigid, then she clenches hard around the strap and the base grinds sharp against you, almost, almost, and you breathe through it and keep your rhythm and do not chase it because this is hers.

"Cariño — I'm — me voy a —"

"I know. Look at me." And she does, she drags her eyes to yours, black and wet and wide open, and you hold them. "Come on, Alexia. Give it to me."

She breaks.

She comes with her eyes on yours and then losing them, head driving back into the pillow, a long cracked cry breaking into Catalan halfway through — si us plau, si us plau spilling out of her, please, please, the last word she has left — her thighs seizing around your hips, her clenching around you in hard fast pulses under your fingers, and you fuck her through every one of them, slow now, gentling your hand, watching her come apart on your cock with her surrender in Catalan and nothing at all held back.

You ride her down. You slow your hips, slow your fingers, ease her through the aftershocks until she is twitching and oversensitive and pushing weakly at your wrist.

You still. You are still buried in her, both of you breathing hard, her chest heaving, sweat at her hairline, her eyes half-shut and glassy and finding yours again.

The base of the strap is a dull unfinished ache against you. You leave it there. 

You should pull out. Find your clothes. This is the part where you go.

Instead you remember — unbidden, clear — the first time, in that hotel room: how she'd made a small unhappy sound when you'd slipped out of her too soon after, how she'd said no, wait, quédate un momento, wanting to keep you inside a little while longer, wanting to stay joined. 

You had filed it away without meaning to. You have carried it four weeks without looking at it.

You lower yourself down onto her instead of pulling back — carefully, keeping the strap seated inside her, easing your weight down until you are chest to chest, her breasts soft against yours, her heartbeat slamming through both your ribs. She exhales like something in her has been waiting for it. Her arms come up around your back, pulling you in. Her thighs stay loose around your hips.

"You want me to stay in a bit?" Your mouth is at her ear. Quiet. A kiss to the side of her head. "I remember you liked it. Before."

She goes still under you. Just for a second. Something catches in her breath that is not from the sex.

"Sí." Barely there. Her arms tighten across your back, her own lips trace your cheek, not quite a kiss. "Quédate."

Stay.

The word echoes inside your ribs, that one soft word, and you press your face into the pillow beside her head so she cannot see what it does to you. You stay. You hold still, full weight down on her now, her hands stroking slow up and down your spine, and you let her keep you there — joined, close, the tender thing you can just barely stand to give because it is still, technically, you giving it.

You bring your face into her hair. Just for a second. Just because she cannot see you doing it. You breathe her in and you do not let yourself think about how much you remembered.

* * *

You stay like that for a long minute. Long enough that her breathing goes even under you and your own follows it without asking permission.

Then she moves — slow, unhurried — easing you up off her chest, and you let her slip the strap free and you both breathe at the loss of it. She reaches down and works the harness loose at your hips, and you lift up so she can get it off you, and she sets it aside on the floor without making anything of it.

She rolls you gently onto your back.

You go before you fully understand what it means — and then she is kissing down your throat, your sternum, her blonde hair dragging warm over your ribs, her mouth headed somewhere with clear intent, and everything in you locks.

You catch her jaw.

Both hands, gentle, clumsy with how fast you moved. You lift her face up off your stomach and bring her back up the length of you until she is level with you on the pillow, and your thumb lands on her cheekbone, and you have no plan at all for what to say now that you have stopped her.

Alexia blinks at you. Her face goes uncertain in a way you have never seen on it.

"Did I —" She stops. Starts again, quieter. "Is this not — did I do something wrong?"

"No." It comes out of you fast, too fast. "God. No. Ale, no."

"Because if you don't want —"

"That's not it." You are still holding her jaw. You make your hands soften. "That's really not it."

She looks at you a moment. Then her hand comes up and covers one of yours where it's cradling her face, and she turns her mouth into your palm and kisses it, and she does not let it go.

"Then let me." Low. Simple. "I want to make you feel good too. You did — cariño, you did all that. Let me."

And there it is: the thing that scares you worse than her body. She is not being polite. She wants it — wants to be allowed to give you something — and you can hear underneath it the fact that this matters to her, that it is not an even trade she is proposing, it is a feeling she is trying to hand you.

You cannot take it. Not tonight. Not sure you could ever.

"It was enough." You brush your thumb across her cheek, because it is easier than saying anything else. "Tonight. Just — that." You tip your chin down at her, the flush still on her chest, the mess of her hair. "I like watching you like this. Getting you like this. That was the whole thing I wanted."

She searches your face. She is not convinced. But something in her decides not to make you defend it, and instead a slow crooked smile arrives.

"You just want to hear me like that," she says, shy but with a teasing to it. It makes you shiver, the lit on her voice, the pride under it.

”Maybe." You feel your face go hot. "Is that allowed?”

"Mm." She settles her cheek back into your palm, considering you. "Very selfless of you, Argentina."

"I'm a giver."

"Claramente." She's fully grinning now, that private thing at the corner of her mouth, and she leans in and kisses you — soft, nothing behind it — and it is so easy to kiss her back that you forget, for a moment, to be careful.

She tucks herself into your side.

Her head goes to your shoulder. Her arm settles across your stomach. One bare leg slides over yours, and she goes loose and heavy against your side, and your arm has come up around her back without your permission at all. Her fingers move idle on your ribs, tracing little shapes. Yours have found the ends of her hair and you are combing through them slowly, over and over, without having decided to.

Neither of you says anything for a while.

Her thumb passes back and forth over your sternum. You feel the drag of her leg settling heavier across yours. She turns her face and presses her mouth to your shoulder, absent, not a kiss so much as a resting place, and her breath goes warm against your skin. Your hand moves down her back and follows the line of her spine, up and down, learning it. The candles tick.

It is so easy. That is the whole problem. Your body has gone unguarded and it is fitting itself to hers like it has been waiting the entire night to be given permission, and the stray thought arrives, horrifying in its simplicity: you could just stay.

You go rigid.

You feel it happen from the outside — the shoulder under her cheek turning to stone, the hand on her back stopping mid-stroke — and you cannot get it back.

"Maybe I should —" It's out before you've built the rest of it. Your voice sounds wrong. "I should probably —"

She lifts her head off your shoulder.

Alexia looks at you for a second, hazel eyes clear now. Whatever she finds there, whatever passes through her football brain, she does not chase it, and she does not let you finish the sentence either.

"Hey." Quiet. Her hand flattens warm on your chest, steadying. "Shower first. With me. Before you go."

Before you go. She hands it to you exactly like that — the exit folded right into the invitation, so you don't have to be the one to reach for it. You could kiss her for that. You don't.

"Yeah." It comes out rougher than you mean. "Yeah, okay."

* * *

You sit on the bed for one more second after she crosses to the bathroom.

Your hands are tacky with lube and her. There is sweat at the back of your neck and a small ache between your hips from the harness.

The candles are still burning on the dresser and you think you should put them out, but it feels too much like a ending so you don’t.

You get up and go to the bathroom instead.

The water is already running and you stop in the bathroom doorway. Through the fogging glass you can see her — back to you, head tipped into the spray, water sheeting down her shoulders, her hair still up in its loose knot. Steam climbs the mirror and makes everything hazy like the edges of a dream — which maybe this whole night is.

She turns. Through the glass and the steam, Alexia looks at you — water on her face, lashes clumped dark, one hand flat to the tile — and she smiles, inviting.

She lifts a hand. Come.

You step in.

The spray is heavy without stinging and the heat closes over you all at once, and your shoulders drop before you can think to stop them. She takes your wrist, gentle, and draws you further under, and then she turns you — both hands at your shoulders, not asking, just moving you — until your back is to her chest and the water runs down your front. Wet skin against wet skin, a closeness that makes you gasp. Her chin comes to rest on your shoulder.

She kisses the top of it. Once. Then her hands lift away.

You hear the small click of a bottle. The squeeze of it. And then her hands are in your hair.

You go still.

Her fingers are working at your scalp, slow circles at your temples, at the base of your skull, at the crown. She does it like she has done it before — finds a tangle and works it out without pulling. Her thumb traces small careful circles behind your ears.

You stand under the water with your eyes closed and you bring a hand up, blind, behind you. You find her hip and let your palm settle there. 

Her hands keep moving in your hair. "Tilt back."

You tilt your head back. She tips it gently the rest of the way, her hand cradling the base of your skull, and she rinses your hair under the spray. The water runs white and then clear. Her fingers comb through. You feel her thumb pass once over the soft place behind your ear.

She does it deliberately. You know she does.

"Conditioner now."

“Mm." You try to remember a time when you were this relaxed and come up empty.

The click again. She works it through the lengths, lifts the weight of your hair off your neck, combs it down with her fingers all the way to the ends. Her knuckles graze the top of your spine.

"Other way," she says softly.

You turn. Now the spray hits your shoulders, and Alexia is in front of you, close, her hands coming up into your hair from the front to work the conditioner to the roots. Your hand finds her ribs without being told to. Just there. Resting.

She is concentrating — brow faintly furrowed, lower lip caught between her teeth, wholly given over to the small task of washing another person's hair. Alexia is…too much. Too good for you. 

You close your eyes so you don't have to hold that.

You hear her shift closer. Then her voice, low, right against the wet at the side of your face:

"You're so beautiful like this."

Your eyes open.

She isn't looking at you. She's looking at her own hand in your hair, like the line came out of her without permission — like she'd been thinking it and her mouth said it before she could catch it back.

There’s a small pink tint to her cheeks and it’s not from the shower. Your throat shuts as you search for words that are as honest as what she just gave you and find yourself lacking — as usual.

So you you kiss her instead.

She makes a small startled sound against your mouth. Her hands go still in your hair. Then she kisses you back — open and unhurried — and one of her hands stays cradled at your nape, conditioner-slick, fingers spreading wide. The water runs down between your bodies. Your hand stays on her ribs the whole time and does not ask for anything more.

She breaks it first. Breathes out against your mouth — half a laugh, caught off guard, the little shy sound she makes sometimes. 

“Cariño."She exhales against your mouth.

She kisses the corner of your mouth once more. Then she steps back just enough to look at you, and her palm comes up to cup the side of your face, her thumb passing once across your cheekbone, and you let her.

She turns you again — gently, both hands — and rinses the conditioner out. Combs through one more time, which is not remotely necessary and you both know it and neither of you says so.

"There."

You open your eyes. She's smiling. Her own hair is still knotted up dry at the back of her head — she has done all of you and none of herself.

You lift your hand. You bring it to the wet hair at her temple, where a few strands have come loose from the tie and stuck to her skin, and you tuck them back, clumsy, your knuckles brushing her cheek. It is the only thing you can manage. It is nowhere near enough for what she has just done to you.

She turns her face into your hand for half a second. Then she reaches past you for the soap, easy, letting you off the hook.

"Turn around. Let me get your back.” Her hand finds your hip easily.

You let her.

You realize, standing there with her palms moving warm over your shoulders and the whole day rinsing off you, that you would let this woman do almost anything to you.

Almost. Not the last thing. Not reach your heart.

When she gets to your ass, she pauses. You don’t need to turn to know she is smiling, smug and satisfied.

"You did a lot of work tonight," she comments, fingers digging in.

"Yeah?"

"Sí." She pinches your side, a tease. “Strong core."

You snort, before you can help it.

She washes you the rest of the way down. Then she turns you again, slow, and she rinses you under the spray.

Then she steps back and she finally — finally — takes her hair out of its tie and steps under the water herself. She does her own hair fast. Methodical. Like she is making up for time she did not spend on it.

You think about asking if she wants you to do hers. The thought is its own decision.

She finishes. The bathroom is full of steam and quiet. She steps out, reaches for a towel, hands you one without looking. You wrap it around yourself.

Her eyes catch yours in the mirror. You smile without meaning to and Alexia smiles back.

You think you have been played, somewhat, and that maybe the sex would have been less intimate than this.

* * *

You find your clothes on the bedroom floor and dress fast, before the candles still burning on the dresser can say anything else to you.

She comes out to the living room after you, pours two glasses of water, hands you one. You drink half of it standing up.

She folds herself onto the long low couch with her own glass, one knee bent up, hair damp and dark on her shoulders, an old t-shirt on now and nothing you can see under it. She isn't looking at you. She's scrolling something on her phone with her thumb, easy, unbothered — too casual not to be performative, but you let it be.

You sit down beside her, thighs touching, catching her attention. She puts the phone to the side.

You lean over and kiss her once more, because Alexia is that addictive.

She kisses you back, once. Then a smaller one, a peck, and she tips her forehead against yours, arms wrapping over your shoulders.

"Stay," she says. Quieter. Not asking.

You close your eyes.

"I can't."

"Argentina."

"Lu's expecting me." Technically a lie. Nobody is expecting anyone anymore. "I told her I'd—"

"It's okay." Her thumb brushes along your jaw. She breathes out against your mouth, and you feel the sigh she doesn't voice. "Hey." She lifts her forehead away. "Podés irte."

The disappointment goes across her face so fast you almost miss it. Almost.

Then she smiles, small and real, and lets you off the hook for the second time tonight.

"Okay," you say.

You both stand.

You walk to the door together and she leans a shoulder against the frame beside it, arms loose, close enough that you can still feel the warmth coming off her. She waits. She is very good at waiting. It has been the whole problem from the beginning.

And you should say thank you, or goodnight, or I'll text you, or anything honest. Instead you hear your own voice come out light and easy and awful:

"This is — this is casual, right? We're on the same page?"

Her head tips.

Alexia looks at you for a long second. And you watch it happen — you watch her face close, the warmth going out of it, everything folding back behind the composed mild nothing she wears in public after a loss, or even a bad game. You have never had that face turned on you. You did that.

Then she pushes off the frame and steps away without a word. She walks down the hall to the bedroom and you hear a drawer slide open, and then she comes back into the hallway holding the blaugrana.

The same shirt. From the hotel. Washed and folded into a neat square.

She presses it gently against your chest.

You catch it on instinct, both hands.

"Sí." Steady. Her eyes on yours and nothing moving in her face at all. "Casual, Argentina."

"Right." Your voice comes out wrong. "Okay. Cool."

"Buen viaje."

You leave.

You don't quite notice how long the Uber takes to drive you back, just that it does.

You sit in the back with the blaugrana folded on your lap and your hand flat on top of it. You watch Barcelona pass the window and you almost convince yourself that you came out of it unscathed.

When the driver pulls up to the Airbnb, the key is under the doormat, as promised. The apartment is dark and silent when you let yourself in.

You pad to your single room with the blaugrana and sit down on the bed, putting it on the pillow beside you.

You bend over and put your face in your hands for a second. You get up because you can't stand yourself right now: your skin, cleaned by her, touched by her so tenderly, so carefully. You did not deserve it.

You cross the hallway and peek into Lucía's double, and she is alone in it. You slip in without a sound and curl up at her side. She opens her eyes slowly, bleary.

"Back from your little adventure, che?" she whispers, voice rough, pulling your arm over her side until you are spooning. "Didn't want to sleep over?"

"Hm, missed you too much." You let her pull you, teasing in your voice. It's easy with Lu; it's easy with lots of girls, because they don't matter as much as Alexia. "Didn't get lucky, Lu?"

"What do you mean?" she mumbles, already drifting off. "I've got a pretty thing in my bed right now."

And you let her soft snores lull you to sleep. * * *

You wake up in Lucía's bed with the light already high and the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen, and you lie there a while, and you already know how the rest of it goes. 

You will hook up with Alexia three of the four nights you have left in the city. You will fuck her. She will fuck you. You will not sleep over on any of those nights either.

The last night you will be at the club, drinking more than usual because it is the last night and everyone will be looser for it, and Sara — or Nuria, you won't even remember which — will tease you about your mystery Barcelona girlfriend, and something in you will come loose. Your chest will go tighter and tighter until you can't breathe around it. You will drink too much. You will kiss a random girl who looks nothing like Alexia, which is exactly entire point. You will wake up the next day with the worst taste in your mouth, still smelling of club and smoke and the cheap perfume of the girl you pressed into a bathroom stall.

Alexia will have texted.

you're not coming over tonight, cariño?

And then, later, smaller:

are you ok?

It will make you feel like shit, which, to be fair, matches the hangover. You will have earned every part of it.

You will text back and apologize. drank too much, lost track of time, you know how it goes.

She will answer that it's fine. That she was just worried.

Worried about you. Imagine that. Alexia Putellas, awake at two in the morning, worried about mediocre little you.

You will leave Barcelona telling yourself you are going to make it right. This season you are going to make all of it right with her.

Then Manchester City will come calling, and they will want you.

You. The insanity of it. The best moment of your career — and no Champions League, no group stage, no chance of ever drawing Barcelona — and you will think about Alexia. Briefly. Stupidly. While you are already saying yes, while you are already going.

You need it on the record that you thought about her.

You won't let yourself think about how unfair all of it is.

[readfc]

Wow this was kinda heartbreaking to read. Between the food board, the shower, and the final late night text, Alexia was fighting for her life trying to get what little intimacy she could from R. What makes it worse is that R clearly knows this and battles with herself over whether or not to give into it.

Kudos to you for writing a hot situationship from hell! I’d be curious to see what happens if there’s a long period of no contact or Alexia finds someone else. Regardless, I’d just love for R to address her insecurities and for Alexia to end up happy (with or without R) 🫶🏻

[solongmylove818]

it’s satisfying to see people caught up with the little food board detail it wrecked me to write it 🥹 in the current timeline they are just really bad for each other but maybe in the future who knows?

not making any promises because it took me forever to write this down haha but we will see

[xiii-ap]

team bottom ale! I need a tag and a link list, they’re so rare 👀

please write that one shot!!!

Some of my favorite bottom Alexia fics, off the top of my head :

- Un verano sin vos : part of a bigger serie, but in this part we have very bottom Ale, by @solongmylove818

- Intimacy : multi-part story, by @wosospacegirl

- Terms of engagement and its sequel Damage control, by @fruno

- Taking your Crown, by @muffinpink02

- Crawling back to you, by @maeshoneyles

I'm sure I'm forgetting some, especially if I read them a lot time ago.

I'm definitely writing that one shot at one point, and some in Beyond the Badge.

[solongmylove818]

oh my god please we need more of argentina and alexia

DO WE THOUGH

[solongmylove818]

i kind of feel bad for alexia in the argentina r series😭😭 she wants intimacy with r sooooo bad

yeah i kinda did my baby bad with this one ☝️ Argentina is the ultimate commitmentphobe and Alexia can't do casual to save her life it's mostly doomed

or is it?

[hachenege]

What in the actual FUCK 🥵

the biting and the🤨 eyebrows and the pose....my crush forever I am so blessed this morning 🫠🫠

[solongmylove818]

Wow is all I have to say

🫶🏻 wows back 🫶🏻