- submissive bottom who’d like to be fucked by a beautiful dominant woman/man
Open (and i love) for horny dms/asks by lesbians or pervy men, would love to sext and maybe I could also send some photos of my body, pussy especially🤭🤭
my kinks: dykebreaking, breeding, enc, free use, strap on, rough, dirty language, praise, degradation, anal, oral, puppy play, seen as a toy, mommy kink, orgasm denial, overstimulation, spankies, bondage
☆ 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: 6.2k
☆Warnings: (+18) SMUT · thigh riding (A doing it) · mentions of oral and fingering (r giving) · awkward (and sweet!) after-sex conversations · reader running from vulnerability
☆ A/n: As I said, no slow burn hehehe I'm loving writing R and Ale so much. R is less shy than before, but I think I've kept her personality!
It started a few weeks ago.
Three, or maybe four, though truthfully, you couldn't quite pinpoint when the friendship ended and this had begun.
At first, you and Alexia had simply been teammates who shared a very instinctive understanding on the pitch. The kind of chemistry that didn't need words, you knew where she was without even having to look for her.
She had been the first person to really see you after you joined the club.
She was the one who helped you settle, who made space for you, who guided you through the hidden corners of Barcelona until you felt less like a tourist and more like a local, as if a hundred generations of your own blood had already walked the cobblestones of the Barri Gòtic.
Naturally, you became the kind of friends who grabbed dinner after training.
The kind who spent Sundays afternoons stretched out on opposite ends of the same sofa, too exhausted to leave the house, to do anything else but watch matches from other leagues just for the thrill of it.
You slowly began to realise that she always kept a personal item on the seat next to her on the bus, silently saving the space for you.
She never said anything about it, so neither did you.
Time moved, and some days were faster than others.
Losses happened, wins did, too.
A full season had passed, too many leaves fell, and then suddenly, the clock struck one in the morning.
You were in her house, her hands tangled in your hair, your mouth tracing the skin on her neck, her chest, mapping out every hidden corner of her body.
There had been no explanation for how you ended in her bed or how she ended up in your arms, and neither of you looked for one. You preferred it that way: no label, no expectation, nothing but the two of you, sharing the same breath a few nights a week.
You knew rationally that this wasn't a very ideal relationship. No secret arrangement with the Captain would ever be. But it felt right.
She felt good, soft beneath your hands, she tasted sweet, and the small, broken noises she made were the softest thing you had ever heard, and it felt right for you to keep pulling those from her over and over.
The, quote on quote, relationship worked, or at least, you told yourself it did.
You thought the unspoken dynamics you had built were functional: she got her fill, you got to taste her.
For a while, that felt like enough, more than you could ever expect after that kiss months ago. You found yourself tangled in her sheets once or two times a week, depending on the match schedules.
Sometimes it was after a night out with the team, when everything felt a little looser and easier.
Other times, it was after a particularly long and demanding training session, when the adrenaline set under your skin, pushing you forward, making you more possessive and sharper, more eager to take what you thought was yours, and Alexia kept providing time after time that indeed belonged to you.
Being with Alexia was easy. She was pretty, funny, intelligent, thoughtful, and the sex was incredible. Best you ever had, no doubts about that.
Every single time you were with her, you made it your mission to ensure she fell apart beneath your hands or your mouth.
You quickly learned what she liked. Where to kiss, where to touch, how much pressure to apply, and exactly how much teasing she could endure before she broke down, whiny and wet.
You paid attention to every sound she made, every subconscious shift of her hips, the way her long fingers tightened in your hair when she was begging for more.
Her telltale signs had become a language you were fluent in. She had let you in, she had shown you, little by little, how her mind and body worked, and you never took that for granted,
Tonight was no different.
Alexia was sprawled on her back, her chest rising and falling heavily as she fought to steady her breath, which had been frenetic after you made her come with your mouth, or maybe your fingers… You didn't remember anymore.
You watched her carefully, analysing every sharp line on her face.
You preferred her like this, eyes closed and expression completely unguarded. It made it easier to look at her when you didn't have to meet her gaze and didn't have to feel the full weight of her attention turned to you.
Her skin was flushed pink, warm and damp with sweat and the translucent slickness of herself.
You had drawn your lips along her hip bones as you pulled two orgasms from her in the span of thirty minutes. It was no brainer why she was so out of herself.
She looked beautifully destroyed.
Her thighs were still trembling faintly; you could see her quads tensing up before releasing again in slow waves. When she bit down on her lips too hard, to the point where the flesh turned a dangerous crimson, you reached out, tapping your thumb gently against her lips.
"Don't," you said in the shell of her eyes. "You're gonna draw blood, don't hurt yourself."
She didn't answer, but she did listen; her mouth parted, and her bottom lip jutted out before she soothed the wound with her tongue.
The unmistakable scent of sex lingered in the air, intoxicating.
You kissed her briefly, but there wasn't a rush; your lips stayed on her skin long enough for her to feel you, just enough to remind her you were still there.
You knew Alexia could take more – maybe one, maybe two – but you were content to let her heart settle for a moment, to let her rest. But something about her silence was worrying you; it lingered longer than usual.
You found yourself waiting for her to speak soon. Her voice was your favourite sound.
You propped up on one elbow, your gaze flickering over your own body before returning to her. You hadn't paid much attention to yourself; you rarely did. But the light breeze that hit your body forced you to acknowledge your own skin.
You were wearing an old, comfortable shirt and underwear; your shorts had been discarded somewhere on the floor at the moment your mouth had found the sensitive skin of her inner right. You hadn't bothered to find them.
Alexia let out a small noise, and your attention was back to her once again.
You had been focusing on her since you two left the training session together hours ago. She had been pushing herself too much; she deserved a night like this.
"Mhm, torito," Alexia breathed, throwing an arm over her eyes as if the dim light was too much for her poor eyes, "You're going to kill me one of these days. Have I told you that already?"
You smiled shyly, tracing lazy patterns on her belly, half hiding your face on her neck, half studying her expression. "Once or twice."
"Once or twice?" She echoed, a soft laugh slipping through her voice. "That's not nearly enough."
"You are very dramatic."
"I really am not," she countered, as she always did. " I just say things as they are… La petite mort. Isn't that what the French call an orgasm?" She shifted her arm, her hazel eyes finding yours. They were dark and blown out with pleasure.
You thought for a moment, holding her gaze.
"I don't think I want you to feel like you are dying when I make you come," you pouted. "It's not very sexy,"
"Call it resurrection, then," she said, offering a tired, almost sleepy wink.
"Resurrection isn't very sexy either."
"You are very opinionated tonight," she teased.
Alexia's hair was a mess against the pillow, strands sticking to her neck, her temples, and her cheek.
There was something softer in her expression now, a vulnerability that came so easily to her that made your chest feel tight in a way you didn't want to examine too closely, something you wished would behave like a cloud, just pass right through you, but you knew it wouldn't.
The feeling felt like… domesticity and love. Among other things, you weren't supposed to name in a no-labels arrangement. Things you had silently agreed not to touch and not to mention.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
The only sound that could be heard was her breathing evening out against your own composed exhales and the cars outside.
But then she moved abruptly and broke the soft atmosphere that had settled, like a needle bursting a bubble.
Alexia turned onto her side, facing you fully. Her eyes found yours, and this time, you bravely didn't look away. You held it, focusing on the way the dim light caught the edge of her jaw, her chin and the sweat pooling on her collarbone.
Her hand came up to rest on your hip, her thumb brushed the bare skin where your shirt had ridden up, her touch was gentle and perhaps a bit too careful.
You still weren't sure how that kind of touch made you feel. It felt foreign, like it didn't belong to you, like you weren't supposed to be touched with such softness and tenderness.
Alexia was quiet, and you felt tension coming. It was that type of silence that happened before an important conversation, the type of silence you always ran away from.
You didn't want to talk; you never did. You wanted to lean down and kiss Alexia, taste her lips, figure out more about her body, which part of her neck or thighs made her back arch the highest.
Yet, she kept the rhythm of her thumb, lowering her hand just enough to hook under the elastic band of your underwear, and that's when you went rigid, knowing what was coming next.
"Can I ask you something?" she said quietly, her voice was softer than before, almost a whisper.
You didn't know why she bothered to ask; you could never say no to her. Not even when you wanted to.
"Sure," you replied, the word coming out tighter than you intended, even as you tried to keep your tone light.
"Are you one of those people who only likes to give?" she said straightforwardly, her eyebrows creasing. "Like you are the only one who does stuff? The only one who gets to be in control?"
You blinked, completely caught off guard, hitting you harder than any striker ever could. "Mhmm.… sorry? What?"
"You know." She gestured vaguely between the two of you as if the meanings of her words would materialise in the space.
"Some people just prefer to be the one doing it. And that's fine, I just-" She paused, watching your face carefully. "You've never let me touch you properly. And I realised we have been doing this for a few months and I have never seen you naked…"
There was another pause.
"So are you a giver?" She finished. "A stone top? Call it whatever you want."
Your face went hot, and your breathing caught, sticking in your throat.
You looked away, desperately focusing on a spot on the wall behind her, but there wasn't any picture of anything that could help your eyes to fix it.
"G-Giver?" you repeated, your voice filled with faux confusion. "I-I don't know what you're talking about."
Alexia's eyes narrowed. You were never one to not answer questions, especially her questions. You were never one to not look at somebody's eyes when you were spoken to, especially her eyes.
She knew your tells; she knew that when you were cornered, you ran, you didn't hold anybody's gaze.
But Alexia was very stubborn and would not let this go unless she got her answer.
"Yes, you do," she said with a final tone, the same one she used in the locker room and rarely used on the bed. "You know perfectly well what I mean."
You sighed. She wasn't wrong.
Every time things started to shift in other directions in the bed, every time her hands wandered with a clear and hungry intent, you redirected her.
Every time she tried to flip positions, you would kiss her harder to drown out her thoughts, move her hand somewhere else, or distract her with your mouth until she was too lost in her own pleasure to remember what she had been searching for.
You were a defender, after all, you knew how to shut down an attack before it even started, you knew how to protect yourself.
"I just..." You trailed off, searching for a lie that didn't sound completely pathetic, until you found one, a half-truth. "I like making you feel good. Alexia. That's all."
"I know you do." Her hand squeezed your hip gently. "But I want to make you feel good, too."
"You do?" you asked quickly. Too quickly. The question just jumped out of your mouth before you could catch it, and you knew by her face she didn't like your reply.
Alexia's eyebrow arched, a flash of genuine surprise crossing her face. "Mmm, yeah? Of course? Why wouldn't I?"
You tried to sit up, needing to put some distance between your body and that question, but the weight of her hand on your hip kept you anchored. It wasn't forceful, but it was a clear command: stay.
You weren't one for following orders, but you realised that you were very obedient when it came to Alexia, so for the first time, you stayed.
"We don't have to talk about this," you said, your voice tight. "Let's… not, okay?"
You waited for her response, but she didn't say anything.
Her face didn't move; it was settled in that stubborn determination that you always admired on the pitch, but that you soon realised you hated when it was aimed at you.
"Mh…" you tried again, looking down at the wrinkled sheets. "I don't think I want to talk about this."
"Hey." Her tone softened instantly, noticing your vulnerability.
She ducked her head, trying to force your eyes to meet hers. "You can talk to me.. This doesn't have to be weird or anything. It's okay if-"
"It's not weird, I just–" You exhaled roughly, feeling the familiar sting of embarrassment tightening in your throat. "Can we just drop it? Please?"
She looked at you for a moment. Then her tongue pressed against her front teeth in a stubborn, bratty click before she pronounced the word perfectly: "No."
You finally looked at her. Her expression wasn't pitying, and it wasn't pushy. It was just ... curious.
She looked like she had been holding this question in her mouth since you two started having sex two months ago, waiting for the right moment to let it out.
You couldn't find the courage to speak, so she took the silence as a sign to start.
"Why?" she asked simply.
"Why what?"
"Why don't you let me touch you?"
You bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted iron, debating whether to lie.
Whether to make up some excuse about being tired or not in the mood, or that you were just like this, or any other excuse that would get you out of this bed and away from those eyes.
But this was Alexia. And for some reason, lying to her felt far worse than just admitting the truth.
"I just don't think I… can," you said finally.
She frowned, her thumb pausing on your hip. "What do you mean? Can what?"
"I can't finish…With someone else." You forced yourself to keep your eyes on her, even though every instinct you had was screaming at you to bury your face in the pillow.
The whole truth spilt freely from your lips under Alexia's gaze.
"It's never happened before. In my last relationship, we tried, and I just... couldn't. And after a while, it became awkward and frustrating, and eventually, I just started avoiding it altogether, you know? It was just easier to shut that part of me off and focus on her instead."
Alexia was quiet for a moment, her brain clearly processing your words.
"...Okay," she said slowly. "So you have never… orgasmed with another person? Is that what you are trying to say?"
"Uhum," you nodded, wishing to be anywhere in the world but here.
"But you can by yourself?" She went out. "You can cum if you are alone? It's not something… physiological?"
Your face burned hotter. "Ale… can we not-"
"I'm just trying to understand," she said, her voice a mix of softness and focus. "I'm not judging you, but I want to know you, to understand you."
You pulled the blanket up higher, suddenly feeling too exposed even though you were still mostly dressed.
"I don't want to be understood," you groaned.
"Oh no, poor you," she said stoically. "Spill it. I've got all night."
You rolled your eyes, answering her dryly.
"Yes, Alexia. By myself, it's fine, I feel good. But with someone else, it's like my brain just... won't let me. I get too caught up in my head about it, and I can't relax, okay? Can we drop it–"
"In your head? How?" She pressed. "Why can't you relax?"
You hesitated, taking a deep breath before forcing the words out; it felt like you had just run kilometres on end.
"I-I don't like my body that much," You started slowly, dreading every single syllable that left your mouth, but knowing it was best to just end this conversation sooner rather than later. "I don't like the idea of someone staring at it, or paying too much attention to it, or... I don't know. It just makes me uncomfortable knowing I'm the main focus. I-I don't like it. I feel… weird…receiving affection.
Alexia's expression shifted into something that looked almost like understanding. She didn't look shocked; she didn't make you sound dramatic, which brought a surge of relief so strong it made you feel a little dizzy.
But she didn't look a hundred per cent okay with it, either; there was a flicker of something in her eyes, she was troubled. Yet her thumb continues tracing slow circles against your hip.
"So you would rather just focus on me," she said finally. "Because if you are busy with me, you don't have to think about it, about yourself. About your body?"
"Yeah, I think so." You felt pathetic admitting it out loud. "I know that's probably not what you signed up for and-"
"Hey." She cut you off, her voice firm. "I didn't 'sign up' for anything. This isn't a transaction of any kind."
"I know, but-"
"But nothing, cariño," She shifted closer, her forehead almost touching yours. "Thank you for telling me "
You searched her face, looking for signs of disappointment, and you surprisingly didn't find it.
"You're not... annoyed?" you asked carefully.
"Why would I be annoyed?"
"Because this is supposed to be, like, mutual. And I'm making it one-sided."
Alexia let out a short, dry laugh that quite reached her eyes. "You just made me come twice. I'm not exactly suffering here."
"Well… still."
"Still nothing." She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you properly. "Look, I'm not going to lie to you and say this doesn't bother me at all. Not because I'm unsatisfied but because it feels like you are keeping a part of yourself locked up from me and–"
"It's not that I don't want you to touch me," you interrupted her."I just don't know if I can. And I don't want you to feel like you're failing when it doesn't work. I don't want it to be a chore for you."
Alexia pulled back slightly, looking at you as if you had grown a second head.
"A chore?" she repeated, her voice flat with disbelief at what she had just heard. " What on earth makes you think you could ever be a chore to me?"
"I-I don't know? I'm sorry, I–"
"You wouldn't. Never. Sex or no sex," she said simply before sighing. Her hand slid from your hip to catch your chin, forcing you to look at her.
"I won't push you to do anything you don't want to, of course. We'll do whatever we're both comfortable with. But… if you ever feel like you are ready for something more, you tell me, vale? I'll be super patient and considerate. I swear."
"Okay…" You blinked. "Easy like that?"
And now she was looking at you with pity. "Yes, Torito. Things aren't as complicated as you make them up here," she tapped your temples. "Easy like that."
"But what if you want to-"
"If I want something, I will tell you," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Communication, sí? And if you want to try something, you'll tell me. Easy-peasy."
You felt something dissolve in your chest, a deep, uncomfortable feeling you had been carrying ever since you started dating your ex-girlfriend.
"Yeah… communication, of course," you breathed. "Thank you." And you meant it with everything you had,
Alexia's hand moved from your chin to your cheek, her thumb brushing across your cheekbone gently.
She shifted, pulling you into her space until you were tucked against her chest, your head resting in the hollow of her shoulder.
You let yourself go limp, relaxing into her warmth. "You don't have to thank me," she said.
Her fingers found the nape of your neck, stroking the short hairs there in a slow, soothing rhythm.
"Also, for what it's worth," she murmured, her breath warm against your forehead. "I think your body is perfect… You are hot."
"Ale," you groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. This is exactly the kind of vulnerability you had been trying to outrun. "You don't have to say stuff like that to me because you feel bad. I didn't say that because I was after compliments."
"I'm not saying that because I feel bad, or to make you uncomfortable," she said. "I'm saying it because it's true. You don't have to believe me right now. You don't even have to like it. But I'm going to say it anyway, because it's what I feel."
You didn't know what to say to that.
Your brain, usually so quick to find a counterargument or a logical exit, was finally quiet.
You just pressed your face deeper into her shoulder, hiding from the intensity of her words.
Even though she sounded honest and harmless, there was a raw sincerity in her voice that hurt, a sharpness that poked a bruise you hadn't realised was there.
"I think I have to go now," you whispered, voice soft.
Immediately, Alexia's hand tightened against your waist. "I don't think you do."
"You know I don't sleep over, Ale."
"I know you don't," she said, and suddenly, your whole face was being showered in her kisses, your cheeks, temples, and chin. "But I don't know why. Stay with me. Please."
You felt your throat constrict. You never stayed over, not with Alexia, or well, anyone.
Among your list of fucked up traits was and absolut inability to sleep beside another person. The idea of being unconscious, completely undefended next to someone else, brought a weary dread to your chest.
She could feel the change in you, the way your muscles tensed, the way your brain started to spin. She didn't want to let you retreat.
"You can't do that," she murmured, her voice taking on a soft, whiny edge that made your stomach flit.
Her kisses turned messier, wetter, tracing the corner of your mouth before her tongue slipped past your lips to catch you before you could even think of a protest.
She tasted so sweet, her tongue massaged yours, so delicious. You felt a sudden surge of wetness between your thighs and pressed them together, trying to shove the sensation down. It was easy now, you had spent years learning how to suppress your own desire while focusing entirely on someone else.
"I can't do… what?" you breathed, your hand moving to find Alexia's waist as she shifted to straddle you.
Alexia's mouth moved to your ear, her breathing hitching. "You can't make a woman come like that just to leave her for the night," she whispered, her teeth catching the soft flesh of your cheek in a sharp, possessive bite. "It's rude, tori."
"I'm sorry," you gasped, a frustrated moan escaping your throat.
Evil woman.
"No, you aren't," she countered.
She moved to dip her head toward your neck, but your hand came up to cup her jaw, locking her gaze right in front of yours.
You were breathing hard now, your fingers gripping her, your other hand sliding down to cup the curve of her ass, clutching the soft meat of her.
"You are distracting me with sex," you accused her, voice raspy and needy. "So I won't leave."
"I'm distracting you with sex," she corrected, "so you don't run away from our conversation."
"I'm not trying to run," you said, your eyes rolling when she shifted her position, her wet cunt pressing firmly against your thighs.
"You were," she said, her hips moving, rutting herself along your body, the wet sounds of her friction filling the room. "You are the most avoidant person I know. You've got the whole combo."
"Combo?" Your hand tightened on her hip, helping her find the rhythm she wanted.
"Sí," she whispered, her words beginning to blur as she started to move faster against you. "You avoid non-sexual intimacy like you are a vampire running from a cross. You literally get skin allergies when you get stressed out about any sort of relationship. You have a hard time accepting affection, being vulnerable–"
"Have you been psychoanalysing me this whole time?" You rasped, your finger digging into her hips
"Un poquito," she breathed against your skin. She exhaled deeply as she rubbed herself faster. "You play your game… I play mine."
A dark, competitive heat flared in your chest, the same one that fueled you during a game.
Alexia knew what she was doing, teasing you, playing with fire. If she wanted to play, you were more than happy to show her what you could do.
"Rub your cunt against me then, capitana," you said, voice dropping to a possessive edge.
You shifted your leg, pinning her better, creating a firm surface for her to work against. You weren't just letting her move now; you were directing her.
"Make yourself come again," you commanded, your hand sliding up to grip the back of her neck, pulling her face until your noses brushed. "And maybe I'll pamper you to sleep just like you want so much."
Alexia's eyes went wide for a few seconds, the challenge landing exactly where you intended. She didn't hesitate.
She let out a needy sound and pressed herself harder against your thigh, her movements becoming frantic, her body was now desperately seeking its next peak against yours.
Then, it happened. For the first time, she didn't just come; her whole body went rigid before suddenly going completely limp.
"Oh fuck," she moaned against your mouth. "Tori… I–"
She let out a sound so small and soft it barely reached your ears, and then, she was squeezing you, her arms wrapping around your shoulder as she pressed her cunt against you to rise out of the lats of the fraction.
Something unlocked inside of you at that moment. Something you weren't ready for.
You had always cared for Alexia, despite your issues with relationships. You had tried to be the perfect friend with benefits.
But right now? A wave of something possessive and deeply caring washed over you.
"Shh, it's okay," you whispered, your hand moving in slow circles on her back. "You were so good for me, ale. You came so pretty all over me." You pressed a lingering, tender kiss to her flushed cheek. "You must be tired now, huh?"
Alexia didn't say a word for a long time.
"Are you still with me?" you asked, half joking, half worried that the orgasms were indeed too much and that she would need another type of aftercare.
"No," she mumbled into your neck. "I just died."
You smiled, trying to pull her slightly closer. "Oh no! That's so unfortunate… I'll miss you."
"No, you won't," she grumbled dramatically. "You wanted to leave, remember?"
A pang of guilt hit your chest. "And what was your strategy to make me stay? Squirting all over me? You really outdid yourself this time, Capi."
Alexia let out a weak chuckle, but you could still hear the faint edge of embarrassment in her voice.
"I've never squirted before," she said in a small voice, hiding her face in the crook of your neck. "Sorry about the mess."
"Oh yeah," you teased. "Are you going to apologise next time you score a goal, too? I don't care about the mess. I loved it."
You stayed in silence for a few minutes, letting her heartbeat slow and her breath even out, using that time to contain how proud you were to be the one to first make Alexia come undone like that.
"Have you ever squirted?" She questioned, completely groggy. "I know you said you've never come with anyone else, but what about alone?"
"Baby," you said, using the nickname you only ever whispered when she was far too sleepy to remember it the next morning. "I don't want to talk about me right now."
"You owe me an answer," she muttered, her eyes closed. "You just broke my body, I can't feel my arms… somehow."
You chuckled, but felt the heat rising up your neck. You sighed, giving in to her honesty with a bit of your own. "No, I've never squirted."
Alexia turned her head, her lips landing softly on your cheeks. "If you ever allowed me, I'm sure I would be able to make you… just so you know"
"Yeah?" you smiled. She was cute, cute and soft when she was tired.
"Uhum", she nodded. "I've got good fingers."
You took her hand in yours, lifting it so you could see her palm in the dim light. You began playing with her fingers, tracing the length of them. "They are long."
"And skilled," she added in a whispered.
"I bet," you agreed softly, your fingers mindlessly scratching her scalp, trying to soothe her to sleep.
"What about your body don't you like?" she pushed, fighting to keep her eyes open. "I don't like my shoulders much. I think they make me look too square."
"Your shoulders are beautiful, Ale", you said, moving just enough to press a kiss to her shoulder blade to prove it. "They are strong."
"You didn't answer my question."
"That's because you are fighting sleep," you murmured. "At this point, you won't remember a single thing we've said,"
"I'm not fighting sleep…"
"You are."
"Mhmm," she mumbled, holding onto your shirt. "I'm just talking because I know once I fall asleep, you'll leave."
You gulped, the guilt hitting you harder this second time. "I'm sorry, baby."
You watched her then, stayed perfectly still until her grip loosened and her breathing finally evened out into a deep sleep.
You were supposed to get up. That was the rule. You were supposed to be dressed and gone before the sun, or else you would feel trapped.
But you didn't, you stayed.
You weren't the only one terrified of vulnerability.
When Alexia was actually awake– when she wasn't flooded with the oxytocin and dopamine of a double or triple climax – she was a rock. Especially around the team, the younger girls.
She rarely shared her feelings when she was hurt, upset about a game or about a small injury she had picked up. She rarely shared when the weight of being the provider for her mother and sister felt like too much. You had only pried that out of her on a night like this when she was whiny and talkative from your touch.
The only real difference between you was that she could let go during sex, and you couldn't.
You stayed for an hour and a half in her arms, your eyes blown wide, watching the ceiling. You thought about what she said, how she wanted to be the one you opened up to. The one you would finally allow to see you.
You were scared, scared about how it would make you feel, about how it would make her feel.
You had a very strange, disconnected relationship with your body.
Blame it on football or not, you had grown up treating your body as an organic machine, just a collective of signals and pathways and muscle fibres.
It was something that made you run really fast when you needed to, something that made you tackle, something that performed the task your mind demanded.
Your body has never been a source of wellness. You had never looked at yourself and seen beauty, not in your limbs, not in your face, not in any of it.
The terror was quite simple: if someone looked too long, if they kissed you too deeply, or touched you too intimately, they would finally see what you saw. They would see the machine, find it lacking, and feel disgust.
Those were the thoughts that had haunted your last relationship.
Every time your ex-girlfriend had touched you, the ghost of that disgust made it impossible to come. And it made her stressed, then annoyed and finally resentful of how long she had to "work" on you only to reach a dead end. To her, you were a broken machine.
And you weren't sure you could take seeing the same look of frustration on Alexia's face.
You didn't think you would ever truly change the way you viewed yourself; perhaps the damage was already done. But maybe… maybe you could allow yourself to experience sex differently. Maybe you could let Alexia look at you the same way you looked at her.
She said she wanted to. Alexia wouldn't lie, right?
You took a deep breath and looked down at her.
She was deep in sleep, her mouth pulled into a slight pout, a soft, private trait you were sure she didn't even know she had.
Her hand was heavy on your waist, her cheek buried deep into the pillow. You reached, putting a strray lock of her hair behind her ear. No, she wouldn't lie.
You used all your strength to extract yourself from the bed, very slowly, not to wake her up. You found your discarded shorts on the floor and went to the bathroom, locking the door behind you.
Without glancing at the mirror, you undressed and stepped into the shower.
You took a quick shower, just enough to wash the sweat and the lingering slickness of the night off your skin.
As the water rinsed away the remnants of her kisses, you felt a strange sense of mourning settle in your chest, watching the intimacy of the last few hours slip down the drain.
Once you were clean and dressed, you stepped back into the bedroom. You couldn't bring yourself to strip the bed and wake her up, but the thought of Alexia waking up alone to damp, tangled sheets felt wrong and cold.
You opened the closet where she kept the fresh beddings and left a neat stack on the edge of the mattress, a peace offering so she knew you hadn't just vanished without a thought.
As you reached for the door handle, a sleepy voice stopped you in your tracks.
"I'm going to change your nickname," Alexia mumbled, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. Her words were messy, sleepy.
You smiled, your hand falling from the handle. "Is it going to be something offensive?"
"Sí," she said, her voice in a low hum. "Come here."
She stretched out a hand, and like a well-behaved puppy, you walked back to her side of the bed.
"I'm gonna call you gateta," she said, squinting at you. "Little cat. Because you escape my house in the middle of the night like a stray alley cat."
"But I like torito quite a lot," you pouted teasingly, leaning into the space between you one last time.
Alexia rolled her eyes, but her expression was soft. "You don't take me seriously enough. I'm the captain, in case you forgot."
"I didn't forget, capi," you said. "That's exactly why I'm leaving. We have to travel for an away game tomorrow, and I need to be rested."
"You could be well rested here," she countered with a faint, knowing smirk. She rolled onto her back, tucking both palms under her head. "My bed is warm. It's a very cosy place to sleep… if you ever want to."
You paused and tilted your head. "If I ever sleep in someone else's bed, Alexia..," you said. "It's going to be yours."
"I'm counting on it," she said, her eyes açready fluttering shut again. "Don't forget to lock the door. And drive safely."
"Don't worry, Capi," you called softly from the hallway. "I will."
A/n: I hope you guys liked this one or else I'll pretende I don't have part 2 and 3 written hehe. If you want to see something specific in this story let me know. I have a big part of it planned out but let's see what happens hehe
okay if youre seeing my posts and liking the ones about me talking about my cuntgirl i should make one thing absolutely clear; im not limited to one cunt. im sure some of you are all pouty cause “oh no another tgirl taken by a cunt :(“ which, lets be honest, is probably one of your stupider thoughts. or a baseline? anyway, youre a cunt, you serve me. i own one particular cunt, yes, but all cunts are mine. all cunts belong to tgirls, dummy. drop a follow and a reblog and let mama teach you how to be a girl again <3
A controversial transfer brings a former rival star to Barça Femení.
A flashy, extroverted player who thrives on showmanship.
Alexia, calm, private, and fiercely loyal to Barca, sees you as a threat.
What starts as outright hostility slowly shifts into undeniable chemistry.
Masterlist: The Alchemy - Alexia Putellas x fem!reader
When you meet Alexia again, ten years after you break up, she is still the girl on a football team, but now she is Barcelona’s Captain and you are wiser than you were at fifteen. The tension between you two is palpable, and honestly? If her heart is still reserved for you, then you're coming back to where you belong.
pairings ━ misa rodriguez x reader, barca femeni x teammate!reader
word count ━ 5.5k
summary ━ you go back to the day you first met real madrid’s goalkeeper
notes ━ this is circa 2016/2017 so a throwback! THIS IS 18+
read more masterlist series masterlist
collab with @maeshoneyles!
You watch as the water in the small pond ripples upon the impact of the rock you skip, relishing in the soft plip-plap echo that reverberates in your ear. It skips once, twice, three times before sinking, and you track each ripple until it disappears completely.
You crouch a little lower at the edge, selecting another stone carefully from the dirt. This one is smoother, making your lips twitch up briefly.
You run your thumb over its rough surface six times. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. You pause for a moment. Seven. Eight.
Your shoulders loosen as you skip it across the water with ease. You watch as it dances longer than the last.
“Oye, nena,” a familiar voice draws you out of your trance.
You blink, startled, turning your head just slightly instead of your whole body.
Jenni stands a few feet away, hands on her hips, a crooked grin on her face. Beside her, a few steps back, Alexia finishes a serious-sounding phone call, her brows knitted tight.
“Las rocas van a contraatacar algún día si sigues lanzándolas,” Jenni teases with grin. [The rocks are going to fight back one day if you keep throwing them.]
You glance back at the pond. “They don’t have arms.”
Jenni snorts. “That’s not the point.”
Alexia ends her call and strides forward, slipping her phone into her pocket. “¿Dónde estabas?” she demands, worry bleeding into irritation. “We’ve been looking for you. This isn’t Barcelona.”
You flinch at her tone, shoulders instinctively tightening. You stand up too quickly and brush invisible dirt off your palms.
“Sorry,” you say, quieter than you meant to.
Alexia exhales sharply. “You can’t just disappear.”
“Ale,” Jenni cuts in gently, stepping closer to you, “she’s an adult.”
“She just turned eighteen!”
“Exactly. An adult.” Jenni rolls her eyes before turning to you and offering her hand. “Come on. It’s almost time to get ready. And if you’re late, Ale will actually combust.”
“I will not combust,” Alexia mutters, though she doesn’t deny it fully.
You take Jenni’s hand and let her pull you up the rest of the way, dusting your jeans off in precise strokes. You glance once more at the water before following them.
The three of you walk in silence for a moment, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You keep your eyes on the ground, counting your steps without meaning to. Eight per breath—inhale, exhale.
“Where did you even find this place?” Jenni asks, bumping her shoulder lightly into yours.
You shrug. “I asked the front desk lady.”
Jenni falters, her smile dropping. “You asked the—” She turns to Alexia. “We could have asked her if she had seen you.”
Alexia’s lips press into a thin line. “We were too busy worrying.”
“She was,” Jenni corrects, nudging you playfully. “I was calm. Completely relaxed. Zen, even.”
“You were not,” Alexia deadpans.
You hum mindlessly at their bickering, the sound low in your throat as you slip into the backseat of the rental car. You sit directly in the middle, despite how uncomfortable it feels. It feels symmetrical that way.
Jenni slides into the driver’s seat. Alexia gets in beside her, twisting slightly to look back at you.
“What’s wrong?” Alexia asks quietly now, her voice softened, stripped of its earlier edge.
You look down at your interlinked fingers. You wiggle them slowly, feeling the familiar stretch between your knuckles. You avoid her eyes at first, focusing instead on the seam of the seat in front of you.
“I guess I’m nervous,” you say. You pause, recalibrating. “I think.”
“You think?” Jenni echoes gently as she starts the car.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “My stomach feels tight. And my head keeps replaying training. I missed two shots yesterday. One should’ve been near post.”
Alexia sighs, turning fully in her seat now. “You scored four.”
You brush it off. “That’s not the point.”
Jenni glances at you in the rearview mirror. “You are going to do great,” she says softly. “You are one of the best forwards I’ve seen developing at this pace.”
You shake your head almost immediately. Your thumb begins tracing the outline of your opposite fingernail. “But it’s not enough.”
“Not enough for who?” Alexia asks.
“For… for this,” you gesture vaguely. “For the expectations.”
Alexia’s jaw tightens. “It is more than enough, nena.”
You swallow. It doesn’t feel like it, you can’t help but think.
Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and the vibration makes you jump slightly. You pull it out to see notifications from the England group chat, but you lock the screen without reading it fully.
Jenni notices, hearing the custom group chat buzz. “They’re excited for you.”
“They expect things,” you reply.
“They expect you to be good,” Jenni corrects. “Because you are.”
You look out the window as the hotel comes into view, the building looming taller than you remembered.
“I don’t want to mess it up,” you say, barely audible.
Alexia’s expression softens in a way she rarely allows others to see. “You will mess up,” she says simply. “Everyone does.”
You blink at her.
“And then,” she continues, “you will fix it. That’s what makes you different.”
Jenni nods. “You train like the world is ending every day. That’s why you’re here.”
The car jolts as Jenni pulls into the parking lot, parking quite awfully across the line. She doesn’t notice but you stare at the crooked angle.
Jenni turns and pats your knee, pulling you out of your trance. “Mira,” she says firmly, making you lift your shiny eyes to meet hers, even though it feels overwhelming. You hold eye contact for three seconds, almost four before you look at her chin instead.
“You are a generational talent,” she continues. “I know that. Ale knows that. The team knows that. Even the media knows that. Only person that doubts you is you.”
Your throat tightens instantly. Bile rises up your esophagus, leaving a burning trail and a harsh taste in your mouth. Compliments feel like pressure, like a god awful weight you can’t shake. You reach for the door handle, ready to escape.
“Hey,” Alexia calls gently. You pause but don’t look back. “Breathe,” she says.
You inhale for eight counts then exhale for eght counts.
“I am breathing,” you reply quietly.
Jenni sighs as you step out of the car a little too quickly, adjusting your hoodie sleeves over your hands. You smooth your shirt down twice then an extra time when your hands twitched.
Alexia watches you walk toward the hotel entrance, posture straight, shoulders tight.“She’ll understand one day,” Alexia murmurs, resting her hand briefly on Jenni’s arm.
Jenni keeps staring at the space you’d occupied in the backseat, at the perfectly aligned imprint you left behind. “I’m not too sure about that,” she says softly.
Misa sits in her cubby, music booming through the locker room speakers. Someone had connected their phone to the Bluetooth the moment they walked in, and now the bass rattles faintly through the metal benches. Laughter echoes off the wall as boots scrape against tile and tape tears somewhere across the room. But somehow it all fades into the background.
She plays mindlessly with the wraps around her wrists, tightening them, loosening them, smoothing the fabric down with slow, practiced movements. Her fingers are quick, methodical with years of repetition.
Across the room someone shouts about shin guards. Another player complains about the referee from their last match. Someone else starts arguing about whether Barcelona’s midfield is overrated, but noise blends together for Misa.
“Barcelona today,” Ivana, her captain, speaks up from the cubby beside her. Her voice cuts through the rest of the room easily. “Are you nervous?”
Misa snorts softly, not even looking up. “Never,” she replies without a thought.
Ivana glances at her. “You didn’t even hesitate.”
“Why would I?” Misa shrugs, still focused on the tape around her wrist. “They’re eleven players. We’re eleven players.”
Ivana hums like she’s not entirely convinced but doesn’t push.
Across the room, someone speaks up. “Have you seen their number eight?”
Several heads lift.
“La niña?” Ivana clarifies, raising an eyebrow. “The English one?”
“That’s the one,” a defender says from the far bench, tying her boots aggressively. “She’s a beast.”
Another player scoffs immediately. “Please. She’s easy to read,” she claims. “She’s not as talented as Barça and England want her to be.”
“Exactly,” someone else chimes in. “Media loves a prodigy story. Especially a foreign one.”
“I know, right?” another voice adds, leaning back against the lockers. “I was watching film the other day and she’s an open book. Makes the same runs. Same body shape before she shoots.”
Misa’s hands pause for a second on the tape. Across the room the conversation keeps rolling.
“And she’s weird,” the defender continues, lowering her voice like she’s sharing something confidential. “Never celebrates her goals.”
A few girls laugh.
“Maybe she thinks she’s above it,” someone says. “Like scoring is just expected.”
“Or maybe she’s trying to look cool,” another teammate shrugs. “You know… mysterious superstar energy.”
Ivana smirks faintly. “You all sound jealous.”
“Jealous?” the defender scoffs. “Of her?”
Ivana just shrugs.
Misa finally lifts her head slightly, her gaze drifting down to the tiled floor between her boots.
Number eight. The English golden girl. She’s seen the clips of all the goals. All the slow-motion analysis on sports shows and commentators talking about “vision” and “instinct” and “generational potential.” You are just another privileged, manufactured forward who thinks they run the game. Exactly the type of player Misa despises.
“Oye,” Ivana says suddenly, leaning slightly toward her. “What are you thinking about?”
Misa’s fingers tighten the tape one last time around her wrist before she presses it flat.
“Number eight,” she replies simply.
Ivana waits for Misa to continue.
Misa finally looks up, her dark eyes sharp now.
“I want to break her down,” she says calmly. “I will break her down.”
Ivana blinks, momentarily rendered speechless by the quiet certainty in the younger goalkeeper’s voice.
Across the room someone overhears. “Ahí! ¡Ese es el espíritu!” a teammate laughs, walking past and clapping Misa hard on the back. [That’s it! That’s the spirit!]
Another girl whistles. “Careful, Misa. Sounds personal.”
“It’s not personal,” Misa mutters. “I don’t knwi the girl.”
But she doesn’t look away from the floor. In her mind she’s already building the game.
The angle of your runs, your body positioning, your foot preference. Where you look before you shoot, where you don’t look.
She wants to win. And if that means crushing you—some system-made, Barça-built prodigy who the football world keeps crowning before she’s earned it—so be it.
Her jaw tightens slightly as across the room - staff member calls for them to start warming up.
Boots slam into lockers and jerseys are pulled on, spiking the energy in the room.
Misa pushes herself to her feet slowly, rolling her shoulders once.
“Hey,” Ivana says quietly as she stands too. “Don’t underestimate her.”
Misa smirks faintly. “I don’t underestimate anyone,” she replies.
Then she grabs her gloves. “But I do enjoy proving people wrong.”
You have an odd pregame routine. It has been the same since you were a kid, with only minimal tweaks over the years.
You sit quietly at your cubby, the stadium noise filtering faintly through the concrete walls. The locker room hums around you—teammates talking, boots knocking against tile, someone laughing too loudly at a joke you didn’t quite catch.But you focus on your process.
First, your hair. You pull it back slowly, carefully collecting it into a tight bun before securing it into a slick back. Not a single flyaway is allowed. You smooth the sides with gel again… and again… then once more for good measure then it’s perfect.
Next come your boots. You place your right boot on first and then your left. But you tie the left boot before the right. You always have. You tried reversing it once when you were thirteen and played terribly that match. Since then, the order has never changed. You tighten the laces firmly, tugging twice on each knot.
After that comes the granola bar, your favorite one. You break it exactly in half. No crumbs scattered and no uneven break. If it is, you have back up ones and Ona usually eats the defects. Half of the bar goes into your mouth while the other half stays wrapped in the foil. You chew slowly, counting each bite without realizing it.
Then you wash it down with orange juice—pulp, no added sugar. The texture settles your stomach in a way nothing else does.
A few lockers down, Jenni watches you with a fond sort of amusement.
“You’re eating half again?” she asks.
“Yes,” you reply simply.
“You know you could just eat the whole thing.”
You glance at her. “That would be incorrect.”
Jenni laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Fair enough, nena.”
Next comes the book. You pull it from your bag carefully, sliding the bookmark back one page. One chapter. No more, no less. Your eyes move steadily across the page, absorbing the words even though your brain keeps drifting back to the film you’ve watched. When the chapter ends, you close the book immediately.
Finally, you slip your headphones on and scroll to the same song you have listened to before every game since you were eight. Get’cha Head in the Game from High School Musical. You know it is strange, but also know it is necessary.
Your teammates never questioned it. At least not seriously. They cared about one thing: your performance on the field.
And when the whistle blows, routine complete, nerves buzzing under your skin, you jog onto the pitch.
The stadium is loud, bright, and alive. But once the ball starts moving, the world narrows.
You receive the ball just outside the box. For a moment, you have a clear view of the goal.
You swing your leg back and propel it forward, striking the ball cleanly. The instant it leaves your foot, something feels wrong.
You know it. The angle paired with the timing was far too rushed. You just didn’t expect it to go straight into Madrid’s goalkeeper’s hands.
Across the box, Misa catches it easily, the ball settling securely into her gloves.
Her eyes snap onto your figure immediately. The intensity of her stare is sharp enough that you feel it before you fully process it.
You look up and for a brief moment your eyes meet. Her gaze is unwavering while yours falters almost instantly, dropping to the grass.
“Better luck next time, superestrella,” Misa says, her voice dripping with condescension, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.
You don’t seem to hear her. Or at least, you don’t react. You reset your position slowly as your thoughts begin spiraling. I should have angled it. Or waited half a second. Or gone near post. Or—
“Hey.” Alexia appears beside you, her voice calm and steady. “It was just one shot,” she says quietly.
You nod, though the words pass through you more than they settle. “I will get the next one.”
Alexia studies your face for a second longer before jogging back into position.
And then, lo and behold, your next opportunity arrives.
From across the field, Leila sends a long pass slicing through the air. The ball drops perfectly at your feet and you don’t waste a second, taking off.
Your defender reacts a beat too late as you accelerate forward, boots digging into the grass as you close the distance to goal.
The world narrows again and you glance up once. Only once this time, then you strike. It was a soft, controlled this time, only striving for accuracy and precision.
You tap the ball into the net, rolling it cleanly past an unprepared Misa who dives a split second too late in an attempt to save it.
The net waves at you just as the Barça crowd explodes. Chants erupt from the stands as your name mixed with the club’s anthem being chanted.
You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You turn away from the goal immediately.
Behind you, Misa remains on the ground, propped up on one elbow, staring at you with burning intensity.
Your teammates swarm you before you make it three steps. Jenni sweeps you up into her arms with a loud laugh.
“¡Vamos!” she shouts, squeezing you tight. “That’s how you do it!”
You let a small smile grow on your face, brief and shy.
“You see?” Alexia says as she pats your head once. “Next one.”
Meanwhile, Misa pushes herself up slowly, jaw clenched. She stays there longer than she needs to just watching you.
You aren’t some lucky, goody two-shoes player. You can actually play. And for some reason, that realization makes her blood boil.
Later, when you score a second time—another precise finish that slips just beyond her reach—Misa feels like her skin is on fire, burning with fury.
How could someone like you score on her twice? And then again, like the superstar everyone claims you are, you don’t celebrate.
You just let your teammates clamber around you, laughing and shouting as they drag you into another group hug.
She hates it.
You single-handedly break through Madrid’s defensive line again and again throughout the match, forcing Misa to throw herself into risky saves just to keep the score from climbing higher.
By the final whistle, her gloves are slick with sweat and grass stains.
Misa rips them off the moment the whistle blows, tossing them down beside the goalpost before turning away.
She’s sweaty, irritated, and, though she’d never admit it out loud—honestly intrigued. You are supposed to be an arrogant pain in the ass. The kind of golden girl she loves knocking down a few pegs. But you are the exact opposite. And somehow, that bothers her even more.
“Just go without me,” you insist, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling like if you stay still enough the night will pass without you.
“Not an option,” Patri, your roommate for the weekend, replies from across the room, already half dressed and fixing her earrings in the mirror. “Everyone is meeting downstairs in twenty minutes. If I don’t come down with you, there are already talks of Jenni coming up here herself and dragging you out.”
You groan loudly, dragging your hands over your face before throwing the duvet off of you.
“She wouldn’t actually do that,” you mutter.
Patri turns, raising an eyebrow. “You want to test that theory?”
You sit up immediately. “…No.”
“There we go!” Patri cheers, clapping once as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and shuffle toward your suitcase.
You unzip it carefully, pulling out something simple and familiar, jeans and a nice top.
Patri watches you for a second. “You know this is a club, right?”
“Yes.”
“You’re dressing like we’re going to dinner with Alexia’s family.”
You pause, looking down at your outfit. “This is appropriate.”
Patri snorts. “You’re unbelievable. Don’t worry, we bought you something early and you will be wearing it, or else.”
The next hour or so is a blur with numerous taxis to fit all of you and voices overlapping, including Jenni yelling something from one car to another through an open window.
You sit pressed against the door, counting streetlights as they pass by. Eight… sixteen… twenty-four.
By the time you arrive, the music is already thumping through the walls of the club. You often forget that you are technically celebrities, so it catches you off guard when the bouncer immediately recognizes the team and waves everyone through with a grin.
“Buenas noches, chicas.”
The owner practically beams at the sight of you all, greeting the team like honored guests and ushering you toward a reserved section.
Purple and red lights flash as the bass resonates in your core You sit awkwardly on the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, with Ona and Laia next to you, both deep in an intense debate.
“Stracciatella is objectively the best,” Laia insists.
“No, pistachio,” Ona counters. “And it’s not even close.”
“It tastes like grass.”
“It does not taste like grass!”
You blink between them. “I like mango,” you offer quietly.
They both turn to you, incredulous looks on their faces.
“That’s not even in the conversation,” Laia says as Ona pats your shoulder.
You nod. “Okay.”
“Drink?” a bottle girl asks, leaning close so she can hear your order over the music. You visibly gulp at the proximity, shoulders tensing as you lean back slightly.
“Uh, just a Shirley Temple for me, please,” you say. “Sin alcohol.”
The woman smiles warmly. “Claro,” before turning away.
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, shoulders dropping.
“Aww,” Jenni smirks from the side, leaning forward with a teasing glint in her eyes. “El primer pánico gay del bebé.” [Baby’s first gay panic.]
You glare at her. “Quit it.”
Jenni raises her hands in surrender, laughing as she grabs another shot from the table. “I’m just saying, you looked like you were about to combust.”
“I was not.”
“You were,” Ona mutters under her breath.
“I was not,” you repeat, more quietly this time.
“Welcome to the party!” Patri suddenly shouts over the music.
Your head—along with several others—whips toward the source of the commotion. Numerous Real Madrid players filter into the club.
Some of the Barça girls cheer, greeting familiar faces. National team overlaps blur the rivalry just enough for nights like this.
You stay seated, your eyes drift across the group until you accidentally meet hazel eyes that are already on you.
Misa’s gaze is steady and intent, holding something reminiscent of amusement.
You flinch instinctively, looking away too quickly, focusing instead on the condensation forming on the table.
Misa smirks to herself before turning her attention to Patri, slipping into easy conversation like nothing happened.
Later in the night, you realize, with a sinking feeling, that you are going to be babysitting your extremely drunk teammates as you watch Jenni drunkenly sing along to the song playing that didn’t have any lyrics. That alone makes you crave another Shirley Temple.
You slide off the couch and make your way to the bar, weaving through people carefully, avoiding unnecessary contact.
You stand there, hands clasped in front of you, staring at the bottles lined up behind the counter.
The lights are too bright and music is too loud. There’s much too many voices and movements to allow you to feel calm. You focus on your breathing, trying to ground yourself.
“You’re quieter in person, you know.”
The voice from beside you makes you flinch for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.
Your head snaps toward her—towards those same hazel eyes, studying you up close now.
“My name is Misa,” she says, extending her hand casually.
You hesitate for half a second before taking it, your grip polite but brief. “Misa?” you repeat, eyebrows furrowing slightly.
After all your years in Spain, nicknames still confuse you. Hell, your own nickname confuses you.
“María Isabel,” she clarifies. “But everyone calls me Misa.”
You nod once. “Nice to meet you, María Isabel.”
“Misa,” she corrects immediately.
You cringe slightly. “No.”
Misa’s eyebrows lift in surprise, a slow grin spreading across her face.
“Alright,” she says. “Keke.”
You squirm almost instantly at the nickname. It’s what the fans chant sometimes—pulling from the first sounds of your middle and last name.
You don’t like it and immediately Misa notices, though she pretends not to.
“You don’t celebrate,” she says instead.
Your face scrunches. “You mean drinking? I don’t drink. I’ve taken the job of making sure everyone gets back safely.”
Misa huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
“No, no es de eso de lo que estoy hablando,” she says. “Tus goles. No celebras.” [No that’s not what I am talking about. Your goals. You don’t celebrate.]
You accept your drink from the bartender with a quiet, “Gracias,” before turning back to her.
You shrug, taking a small sip. “Es mi trabajo anotar.” [It’s my job to score.]
Misa hums, watching you carefully. “Parecías bastante decepcionada cuando anotaste,” she says. “¿Sabes?” [You looked rather disappointed when you actually scored, you know.]
Your jaw tightens immediately. “Because I missed the first shot,” you reply, like it’s obvious.
Misa tilts her head slightly, like she’s trying to solve something. Or rather like you’re something to figure out.
“Well,” she says casually, leaning a little closer, “instead of staying here, drinking your very red drink and taking care of your teammates… why don’t you come with me to mine?”
You blink. “It’s called a Shirley Temple,” you say automatically. “This one is ginger ale instead of Sprite, which I don’t mind but—”
You stop yourself. “…Wait. Like your house?”
Misa smirks. “Where else?”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Um—I don’t think—”
“It’s fine,” she interrupts, already straightening up, nodding toward the exit like it’s already decided. “Let’s go.”
You hesitate, glancing back toward your teammates. No one is looking at you, all too distracted in the moment.
You look back at Misa and she’s already walking. For some reason beyond you—you follow.
The drive back is a void, filled with a charge you can’t quite name. Misa is silent, her focus on the road absolute, leaving you to drown in the echo of your own heartbeat. You don’t remember her parking. You don’t remember the walk up to her loft. You don’t remember your dress slipping off, a silky pool on the floor.
All you remember is the weight of Misa on you on the sofa, the heat of her body pinning you into the cushions, and the taste of her her lips was a cooling mint, clashing with your bright, citrus lip gloss. Her hands, rough from years of goalkeeping, find your waist, pulling you flush against her until your hips align, until you could feel the hard line of her thigh pressing into your core.
Misa’s mouth is relentless. It moves from your lips, down your jaw, tracing the frantic pulse in your neck, then lower, across the slope of your breast, her teeth grazing your nipple in a sharp shock. You gasp, your hands fumbling at her shoulders, unsure whether to push or pull. She doesn’t give you time to decide.
Her lips travel down your stomach on a slow, devastating conquest. You are trembling and your mind a blank screen of sensation. And then Misa’s there, between your legs, her breath hot against your damp skin.
She looks up at you, from that intimate vantage, her usual bemused smile replaced by something focused, almost reverent. Then she lowered her head.
The first touch is a soft, open mouthed kiss against your inner thigh, teasing you. Then her tongue finds you with a slow, deliberate stroke, from bottom to top, a flat, wet pressure that makes your entire body jolt. Your back arches off the sofa. Her hands tighten on your hips, holding you down for her.
Misa works with a methodical intensity that steals your breath. Long, languid licks that coat you in her saliva, followed by focused, circling attention on your clit. Misa’s very thorough, intently learning the shape and response of you with each movement. Her tongue flicks, presses, rubs in tiny, devastating circles. The pleasure built in a steady, mounting wave, a tension coiling deep inside your belly.
You are panting, your fingers now tangled in her long, dark hair as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world. Your eyes are shut tight, the dim light of her loft a distant concept to you. All that existed was the wet, slick sound of her, the smell of your own arousal mixed with her perfume, the overwhelming rightness of her mouth on you.
Misa shifted, one hand left your hip and you instantly feel the blunt pressure of a finger, probing, testing your entrance before it slid in without resistance, a smooth, full intrusion that made you cry out.
She doesn’t stop her tongue, and keeps working your clit while her finger pushes deeper, then curls, sending a sharp spark of sensation that ripped a moan from your throat. She curls her finger again, pressing up into that spot, and her tongue presses down on your clit simultaneously.
The duality is unbearable to you. The internal fullness, the external friction. The pleasure wasn’t a wave anymore, but rather a crackling current of electricity inside circling within you. She maintains the rhythm, finger curling, tongue circling, her breath coming hard against your skin.
“Misa—” You manage to choke out something in between a warning and a plea.
She hears it, as her movements became more urgent and more insistent.
You are hit with a white hot burst of release floods out from that curled finger, washing over every nerve. You shudder, your legs clamping around her head, your hips bucking against Misa’s hold as her tongue softening to gentle, soothing strokes as you come down, trembling and spent.
Misa slowly withdraws her finger before rising from her position. Her face glistening, looking utterly satisfied, her cocky smile back on her lips as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Superestrella,” Misa murmurs, her voice rough. “You taste like victory.”
You are still dazed, floating in the aftermath. She airs back on the sofa, legs spread, an open invitation in her posture. The look in her eyes was a challenge. Your turn.
A spike of pure anxiety pierced the haze. You move clumsy, sliding off the sofa to kneel on the floor between her legs. The reality of the moment crashes into you. The musky scent of her arousal, the confident way she watches you.
“I’ve… I’ve never done this before,” You whisper, looking at the floor between her knees.
There’s a beat of silence. Then Misa’s hand comes down, right to the back of your head. Her fingers threads through your curls, a firm, grounding grip. “I know,” she says, simple, direct. “Just follow my lead.”
You press your face against the inside of her thigh first, a mimic of Misa’s own start. Then you look up to meet her heavy, imploring gaze. You find her center, starting tentatively, with a closed mouth kiss. Then you open your lips, let your tongue extend to taste her.
You copy what Misa did to you: a long, slow lick from base to tip. She exhales sharply, a hissed “Fuck.” Her fingers tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding.
You repeat the lick, then focused on her clit, tracing the firm little bud with the tip of your tongue. Misa groans, her hips shifting. You find a rhythm, alternating broad strokes with tight circles, listening to the sounds she makes, feeling the way her thighs tensed.
Her guidance becomes more active. She pushes your head slightly when she wants more pressure, or tilt it to change the angle. “Right there,” she grunts, and you obey, locking onto that spot.
You lose your nervousness in the mechanics of it, in the feedback of her body. You experiment, sucking lightly, then flicking faster. Her breath becomes ragged, her grip in your hair almost painful.
You double your efforts, tongue and lips working in concert, driven by a sudden, fierce desire to win this, to make her fall apart. Her thighs began to shake. A series of short, sharp gasps escape her.
Then she freezes, her whole body locking for a second before a deep, guttural cry tore from her throat. Her back arches off the sofa, her hand still clenched in your hair, holding you firmly against her as she convulses. You feel the pulse of her climax against your mouth, the hot rush of it, and keep gentle, lapping motions until her shuddering subsided.
She collapsed back, breathing heavily. Her hand fell from your hair, sliding down to cup you cheek. You look up, lips wet, and your heart pounding.
She stared at the ceiling, a faint, stunned look on her face. “Estoy corregido,” she breathed. “You are a prodigy.” [I stand corrected.]
You crawl back onto the sofa, lying down beside her. You don’t touch, just breathed in the quiet, dark room. You stare at the ceiling, the textured plaster blur in your vision.
summary: 4 times you and Alexia fail to be exes and 1 time you fail even harder
wc: 7.5k
notes: sorry this took me years i lost track of it but now it's here so woohoo. also this will make sense later on but when is say syrup i mean specifically lyle's golden syrup BUT high quality maple syrup is also officially described as amber. the more you know ig
oh and the title is from baila me by the gipsy kings bc i love that song
1:
“Why were you at your ex’s house this morning?”
Alexia's ears twitch, shoulders tensing as her good mood is instantly ruined. Bombardment in the changing room – what a way to start the day. She turns her head slowly to the offending teammate, generational rotation really obvious now as Vicky’s prying supplants what once would have been Mapi, and while the girls beside Vicky shrink back in fear, the teenager is defiant in her smirk.
“I was not,” comes Alexia’s defence, voice cool as if she hasn’t been caught out.
“Que sí,” Vicky insists. “I have your location.”
“Why do you have my location?”
The younger player shrugs. “From when we went out.” That Alexia does remember, specifically upon noticing a line of empty glasses on a sticky table at a bar and thinking, I hope she makes it home okay. In that moment of responsibility, Alexia shared her location with the younger girls so that they could always find her if they were in need of help, asking for theirs in return to ensure they ended their night free from risks of murder or abduction. And apparently she has forgotten to turn it off. Big mistake.
“Why were you checking it?” Alexia pries, hoping the interrogation will distract Vicky from getting the answers to her own questions. “That’s creepy.”
“I was going to ask for a lift.” She bats her eyelashes. Fair enough.
Vicky waits patiently. Alexia is still hovering in the doorway because she never really got a chance to settle and prepare herself for the day at training before being attacked by nosiness. The captain wants to drop down into her cubby but that would involve turning her back on the group of teenagers and, right now, she feels hunted. She’s already vulnerable.
A few other teammates filter in, mostly unbothered by the tension across the room, used to witnessing teasing. Clara and Aïcha, who flank Vicky, get up and slink off to the toilet. It’s a standoff now. Vicky knows things, too many things; Vicky knows that you’ve been in LA for months and that Alexia has moped for the same amount of time. It’s captain-destroying information and it is just the drama she needs and wants in life.
She strikes. “Are you back together?”
Her grin is wide but this excitement twangs a certain thread of annoyance in Alexia that reminds her exactly why she hates people knowing things about her. She’s a closed book and she likes it. Otherwise she gets people asking her stupid questions like this.
It is this frustration that makes Alexia’s cheeks turn red. Definitely. Not at all embarrassment – she will not allow Vicky to have that effect on her.
Vicky’s grin widens. She leans forwards, elbows propped on her knees, chin in her hands like she’s watching reality TV and some idiot has made a very bad decision. The comparison (although made in her own mind) makes Alexia’s eye twitch.
“No,” Alexia bites out. “We are not back together.”
“Then why were you at her house?”
Ah. It’s a reasonable question that unfortunately has no reasonable answer. How does she explain that she received a message last night about a new home gym? Hardly cause to visit, and arguably a pathetic excuse for you to even reach out. But the gym had nice LED lighting and you’d goaded her into it, really, because you claimed it was better than her own and that was bold. Alexia, only human after all, decided that for research purposes the best thing to do would be to visit. Because she is an idiot. Because she has no self-control.
You know how to push her buttons. And you were glad to be back in the city and see her again after licking your wounds in the people-filled isolation of LA.
“She wanted to show me something,” Alexia summarises, voice flat.
Vicky’s eyebrows climb towards her hairline. “Show you something. At seven in the morning.”
“It was not–” Alexia stops. Rewinds. Realises her mistake. The defensive heat crawling up her neck betrays her before she can formulate a recovery and win back her dignity.
Last night. Last night you showed Alexia your new gym. And then you suggested a bottle of wine to celebrate, and Alexia didn’t drink that because she wouldn’t with training the next day, but she did discover it was a very nice pinot grigio after tasting it on your tongue not long after.
Vicky gasps, pieces falling into place. “You stayed over.”
“I did not stay over.”
“But you were there this morning.” The implied date and time of the invitation to be shown something hangs in the air after Vicky’s statement. Yes, whatever, you’ve worked it out.
Alexia’s jaw clenches. The trap is closing in on her, and Vicky’s delighted face will be the last thing she will see before the world swallows her whole. Maybe disappearing would be a good thing.
“She had a new home gym installed and she wanted to show me.” It’s almost admirable how determined she is in sticking to her story.
“She wanted to show you her gym.”
“Yes.”
“At night?”
Early evening but Alexia won’t admit to spending that much time with the culprit for the messiest breakup of her life. (And that classification has been awarded even with Olga in the mix.)
“She said it was nice.”
“Alexia, you have your own gym. You have a state-of-the-art gym.”
“She said it was better than mine,” Alexia replies weakly. Maybe she will elicit some athlete camaraderie for the struggles of a competitive nature.
Of course not – it’s Vicky. “You fell for that?” She’s laughing. Alexia is spending her morning being laughed at by a teenager.
Vicky’s eyes drop to the exposed skin of Alexia’s neck. There’s nothing there but her captain’s visceral reaction is to slap her hand to cover an imaginary hickey. Vicky’s proud of that tactic. And mystery solved, she guesses.
“We didn’t–”
“You didn’t what?” Vicky asks sweetly, hammering nails into her captain’s coffin.
“This is inappropriate to even be discussing.”
“I thought nothing happened.”
Alexia takes a deep breath. Fucking facetious kids. “You should be focused on training.”
“I am. Just briefly distracted by my favourite couple getting back together. You’re the one getting all defensive.”
This is what Alexia gets for being responsible. This is what she gets for caring about whether teenagers get abducted. This is what she gets for ever letting her guard down around anyone under the age of twenty-five.
“We are not back together,” she repeats slowly, deciding Vicky finds it difficult to comprehend simple statements and needs it to be spelled out to her. “We will not be back together. The gym is nice. I looked at it; I left. End of story.”
“You left this morning.”
“End of story.”
Vicky’s smile softens into something almost fond. It’s worse than her being smug. “I really liked her, you know.”
It stings to be reminded. Alexia doesn’t need this. Not here, not now, not from a nineteen-year-old who doesn’t understand that some things break and stay broken, regardless of healing being non-linear. Not that there’s much healing going on.
“Good for you,” Alexia manages, throat tight. “You can have her.”
“She doesn’t want me.” Vicky shrugs. “She wants the woman she can ensnare by sending a picture of dumbbells.” The most Alexia-catered booty call ever.
The laugh that escapes her is startled out, unexpected and unwilling. It does break some of the tension, just a little. A pebble thrown onto a sheet of ice and soon after just a small crack appears. Alexia rolls her eyes.
“So is it nice? Her gym?” This is genuine. Vicky wants to know because she likes you and she thinks you’re really fucking cool. She has no doubts that your gym is amazing but she wants to hear Alexia say it, wants to force it out of her because this is easier than making her captain confront what truly lingers beneath the surface.
Alexia hesitates. The memory surfaces unbidden: the sound of your breathing as she inspected the room, catching a glimpse of you in the mirror and that glimpse being mutual confirmation of what she knew she was getting herself involved in. And then the sofa and the wine and then the bedroom. And the softness of your skin. Of your legs tangled with hers under your duvet this morning. Of a chef bustling in the kitchen while she fought with the complicated coffee machine to wake herself up before going to training.
It was all domestic and natural, from last night to this morning, and that has been the worst part of this series of unfortunate events. But Alexia won’t tell Vicky that. This is something she’ll save for her therapist, who drains her money because of her own stubbornness to not get over her fucking ex.
“Of course it was.”
Vicky leans back, satisfied. Fine. She’s picked up the tinge of sadness in Alexia’s tone and she does agree that she’s used up all her luck for today.
Except, she can’t help herself. “You should take some pictures next time. I want to see it too.”
2:
The premiere is full of people. Naturally. Everyone loves a bit of sun and a new, exotic location like Barcelona, swapping out Californian palms for Catalan and commenting endlessly on the aesthetic similarity.
It’s showing off, having this here, because it proves that someone higher up has backed you, has invested in you, and has let you have your whims. Alexia feels a sense of pride at that. After she learns what it means.
Alba’s with her, and that’s slightly comforting, because Alba never takes anything seriously. Her dress is too tight and Alba says that it makes her look fuckable, and that distracts her for a moment because she self-consciously doesn’t want to appear that way, doesn’t like the idea of parading herself around at her ex’s premiere as if she is on the hunt for someone else. She isn’t on the hunt for someone else. No one else will do.
She walks down the red carpet, stopping and posing when required, smiling awkwardly at cameras that are too scrutinising, too hungry. Her heels are already hurting her feet. She wants to go home but knows that it would feel worse if she did.
It’s almost like fomo. She was invited by you, invited by other companies too, but your message was the most important, and now she can’t miss out, can’t let others claw at you and compete for ownership – not when she still feels that it belongs to her. Protective, perhaps. Or, if one were to be less forgiving, jealous.
Green tints her vision anyway when she sees you, for however subtle the monster was before she got a glimpse. There’s a woman on your arm, talons wrapped around your wrist like a cursed bangle, laughing at whatever you’re saying. Your frown tells her that you haven’t intended to be funny. You’re nervous.
Despite the glitz and glamour, your look of discontentment is obvious to anyone who actually thought to care. You’re scanning the crowd, looking for someone, and Alexia knows it’s her even before your eyes find hers across the sea of people. The woman on your arm grazes your collarbone, settling at the neckline of your dress in a possessive linger, but your reaction doesn’t come. You’re too busy holding Alexia’s gaze.
Then someone steps into her line of sight and the moment is gone.
Alba gasps softly beside her, which only makes him preen more, suit pristine and gaudy, teeth blindingly white as he smiles. Your father. Alba’s never met him but he’s famous and, well, everyone knows who he is. Everyone heard his songs on the radio back then, back when he wasn’t a fading star, back when Mami and Papi would clean together on Sundays, chasing her and her sister about the house with feather dusters.
“Fancy seeing you here,” your father says with a deep laugh, beaming at Alexia as though he has come to save her. She now understands the tension in your shoulders. You have a tricky relationship with your parents.
Alexia forces a smile. This is one she gives to journalists she doesn’t like, never letting it reach her eyes. No, instead her eyes say, “fuck you.”
“It’s lovely to see you,” she says aloud, masking the hatred poorly. She can’t stand the man. He’s fake, phony, and he doesn’t care. Self-interested. She feels a breeze by her side and realises Alba has drifted off. “I didn’t know you were coming. I thought you lived in Miami?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He spreads his arms wide, taking up an obnoxious amount of space as awestruck people clamber to get out of his way. A star in this city, regardless of the fact that he left it behind and left his family with it. “My daughter’s big night. I suppose that’s worth the trip across the Atlantic.”
Of course, he cannot bring himself to be proud of you. It’s a duty that he feels, must keep up appearances and give his offspring enough attention to keep her begging for more. Alexia’s face sours and she quickly schools it into something more neutral.
“She’s done well.” Someone has to say it.
“She’s done fine.” He waves a hand, dismissive, can’t picture you doing anything because he’s never witnessed much past the occasional dinner. He can’t fathom the nights of work, endless calls, tears and dry eyes from staring at a screen, and Alexia’s hand rubbing at your back even if staying up with you ate into her sleep. “What a faff to have it here, though. But of course she demanded to have it in Barcelona.”
“It’s home.”
“Her mother’s home.” His lip curls slightly at the term. Mother. His biggest regret past not using a condom, she supposes. “She can be so picky. I’m sure you know that – you know how she is.”
Alexia does know. Alexia knows that you are dedicated and passionate and all you have ever wanted is rolled into this red carpet – your biggest film yet! And Alexia knows that you will never feel that you are good enough. She knows who has told you that, too.
“She’s talented,” Alexia says carefully.
He takes a sip from the champagne flute in his hand. His fingers bulge out of rings. A new ring sits proudly, too, which hadn’t been there the last time she had spoken to him. “I think it’s more that she is lucky. Someone saw potential and she had the right connections. It all comes down to that. You’d know, wouldn’t you, with football! Lucky to be scouted, eh?”
Rage bubbles up in her, jaw clenching, fists itching by her sides. She has self-control and she wouldn’t, but, oh, if she could just punch him right now…
The thing about Alexia is that she doesn’t believe in luck. She believes in hard work, determination, making things happen. She believes that she wins because she trains. You are successful because you sacrifice everything else to be. The project is the most important thing in your life and it has to be, just as football is in hers. Like when she let the weight of the relationship fall on her shoulders because you had a different priority. Like when you repaid the debt when she prepared for the Champions League. None of that is luck.
“Amor.” His wife appears beside him. A new stepmother. Younger, naturally. She cups his cheek and smiles softly, with genuine adoration that Alexia can’t understand. “They’re asking for some photos of the family.”
You catch her eye again. There’s panic in your expression and Alexia isn’t surprised. Your mother is already in your ear, telling you something that you don’t want to hear.
“Of course.” He hands his wife his drink – she will not be in this photo. “Alexia, it was so great to see you again. Enjoy your evening.”
She once asked you about having children and you were deeply rooted in your refusal.
“I wouldn’t know how to do it,” you had said. You were afraid. Terrified.
3:
It’s a text message that does it. Not unusual on your busy phone but it makes your throat dry and distracts you enough to make your assistant producer clear his throat over the Atlantic. You hold one finger up, pausing the Zoom meeting. Weird to have so much power but the chatter stops. The nervous screenwriter, a new one trying to sell a new script, is staring dead-eyed at the screen. He thinks he has blown his chances now that you’re looking at your phone.
“Everything alright?” another voice asks, this one with equal weight. A certain level of impatience comes in her tone. Hollywood doesn’t rest.
You nod. “Hm. Yeah. Something’s just… come up.”
“At 7pm on a Sunday?” The afternoon sunlight of LA pours through the small windows of globalisation on your screen and you briefly wonder how they have calculated the time difference so quickly. But whatever. “You off?”
The message is a blob of panicked words. Alexia is in a pinch and she’s spiralling (you can tell from the way this has clearly been typed out under a table).
In a meeting. Dinner at my mother’s tonight. Will be late but told her I’d bring you. And forgot to mention. Sorry. Coming???
Three question marks. Three. Alexia Putellas does not use punctuation lightly. She definitely doesn’t use three question marks unless she’s panicking.
You should say no. You’re busy, you’re working, you’re supposed to be sorting out your next project and capitalising on your new release’s box office success and the momentum it brings to your career.
Your fingers type: When?
The response is instant.
Now. Hour’s drive to Mollet right? Will meet you there.
Mollet. With Alexia’s mother and what seems to be a family dinner. You understand Eli’s reason for the invitation, ignoring ulterior motives and taking the face-value innocence of her wanting to thank you for asking them to your premiere. And it was her birthday recently and you sent her flowers. And you hired a pilates instructor to help her strengthen her back. Just a few sessions.
Your eyes go back to the writer. He’s biting his lip; his fate is in your hands and your hands are too focused on what’s being relayed through a mobile phone. A mercy: “if you resend me the script I’ll look over it tomorrow. I have to go – family emergency – but we can pick this back up another time? I’ll have my assistant get in contact to rearrange.”
The script is about love. Two people on a plane, about to break up, and then the plane crashes. A disaster film in a sense but more emotional than anything else. You don’t particularly care for it. You have your own catastrophes to worry about.
An hour and a bit later, you’re knocking on Eli’s door with a bottle of wine in your hand as if it will settle the impending sense of doom thrumming in your chest.
She’s delighted to see you again. She pulls you into a motherly hug that your own mother has never quite afforded you and she takes the wine and thanks you and then thanks you for coming. And for the birthday gifts.
“Ale is late,” she tells you once you’ve been ushered inside. And what Alexia neglected to mention was that ‘dinner at her mother’s’ included her aunt and her uncle and her cousins and her younger sister. And no Alexia as of yet.
Eight pairs of eyes blink at you.
Eli’s hand rubs your shoulder, rough, working hands smoothing down the cashmere of your jumper. “Who would like a glass of wine?” she announces in question to the room, throwing a stone to break the ice that has frozen everyone. Someone gasps. Hands rise into the air. You take a step back, almost running away, about to turn and escape, but Alba launches herself at you, flanked by cousins, and now you’re really trapped.
“Hello, hermana,” Alba says slyly, shit-eating grin plastered wide on glossy lips. “Nice to see you.”
“I hate your sister,” you groan into her ear as she wraps you into a tight hug. It seems as though Alexia has thrown you to the wolves. Her reasoning isn’t hard to deduce – you guess that she is sick of being the victim of endless interrogation. And maybe her family missed you just as much as you missed them.
Alba laughs, something loud and genuine, pulling back just enough to look at you. “She misses you too, you know. That’s why she did this.”
“Did what? Trick me?”
“Strategically position you,” she corrects. “She’s not stupid. She knows if she shows up with you everyone will be too busy interrogating you to interrogate her about why you’re not together anymore. You’re a sacrificial lamb.”
“I’m a lamb,” you repeat. You had already known this.
“A very pretty lamb.” She pats your cheek. “Come on. La tia has been asking about you for months. You can’t hide.”
She drags you into the living room by your wrist and suddenly you’re surrounded.
For however quiet a person Alexia may be, her family is the opposite, always causing a cacophony of love and fussing and slightly invasive questions. Tonight seems to spur them on even further. There have always been two aspects that have hooked them: your career and your relationship with Alexia. Both are unfortunately topics you hate to discuss but you make an exception.
Alexia’s aunt squeezes the breath out of you as she hugs you – firm and smothering, just as you remember. She calls you beautiful but too skinny. Tired-looking, too, but that could be from a lack of sleep and – oh? Is that from heartbreak? Because she is happy to give you her opinions on your breakup, interspersing that with gratitude for the pilates instructor which she declares is hers by relation. Her knee problems have been cured, apparently.
It ripples and expands until everyone is also involved in the conversation about the pilates instructor. And the flowers which you sent Eli. A room full of adoration that you feel you are not entitled to. Not anymore. But then someone makes a joke and you’re laughing, a proper laugh that crunches in your ribs, and you’re wedged between Alba and Miriam on the sofa and it feels natural again.
The conversation splinters. Alba goes on her phone, checking where her sister is, and this gives Miriam and Paula the opportunity to ask about your premiere. Or, more accurately, to relay what Alexia told them and see if the stories match up.
“Who did you go with?” Paula asks with a raised eyebrow. “Alex mentioned you weren’t alone. You’re not single?”
“I’m single,” you reply, dispelling that. You’re not sure why you feel the need to. It probably just encourages them even more.
“You’re single but you had a date to your premiere?”
“It wasn’t a date.”
“If you wanted a date,” Miriam says, “you should’ve asked Alex. She would’ve jumped at the opportunity.”
“She had that opportunity.” Never took it. Alexia never wanted to be that public.
Paula giggles and shares a look that you’re not supposed to be privy to. “Weird thing to do, inviting your ex-girlfriend to your premiere, eh?”
An intervention from Alba: “I was also invited.”
“Yeah, but Alba you were just an excuse to make it look like Alexia wasn’t on her own. And suspiciously present.”
You shift in the little space you have. Alba’s legs twitch and then fall into your lap and it’s a nice move, one that says she’s on your side. She usually is the instigator of shit-housery but maybe this is too far, even for her.
“Què hi insinueu, tafaneres?” Your eyes narrow.
They burst into laughter. You handled that well.
“Nothing, nothing,” says Miriam. “Alex has been pathetic since you left, you know. It’s getting very boring. And she’s been avoiding us because we ask her about things she doesn’t want to discuss.”
You see your way out.
“That would have been a very good idea,” you joke, but before they can latch on for further information, you’re standing up and walking away. “I think I heard Eli calling my name.”
You slip into the kitchen, engulfed by the smell of onions simmering in paprika. It will stick to your clothes but that doesn’t matter because you have sought refuge and you have found it. You grip the edge of the worktop and exhale deeply.
Eli turns around, aware of your presence. She’s smiling. Self-satisfied, you think.
“Avoiding them all?” she teases gently, quickly assessing your state before turning back to the stove and stirring the onions. The worst part of dinner is the fact that dinner is never ready. The dinners are designed for conversation, with dinner being too light on its own, and this means that Eli has a hiding place. What’s the catch? Eli is just as dangerous as the others. More so, perhaps.
You nod. “I’m hearing things I don’t want to hear.”
“About themselves?”
“About Alexia.” Her full name is so rarely spoken in this house. Eli’s hand stills and the dull thud of her tapping off the excess from the spatula resonates as she waits for you to continue. You check over your shoulder – no one is coming. “It’s not fair of them to tell me. Not when she’s not here to defend herself.”
Her hum is pensive. “What have they been saying?” She knows her daughter and her nieces very well; she can imagine but imagination isn’t everything.
“I just don’t need them to tell me how bad this whole thing has been.”
It’s a bit ironic to be having this conversation with Alexia’s mother in her family home surrounded by her relatives. If there were a prize for the most effective way of getting over someone, you would not be a recipient. But, that being said, Eli has been part of your life for two and a half years and she has managed to make herself essential. She has enveloped you in her care and that is always a hard feeling to detach yourself from.
“How are you?” she asks, suddenly very serious. Very genuine. It’s a simple question but it has no simple answer and you blink, briefly stunned, because many people forget to ask you that. “Really.”
You take a moment, knuckles paling as your grip tightens on the worktop. As if to provide the illusion of privacy, she goes back to stirring, heat sizzling in the pan. Your confession sizzles with it, sitting right on the tip of your tongue. Your mouth goes dry as you refuse to swallow. Out pours your heart.
“I miss her so much.”
The truth. So obviously the truth and not something you have made an effort to hide. You invited her to your house. You invited her to your premiere. And you haven’t fucked since she toured your gym months ago but that has taken a lot of self-control.
Eli doesn’t seem surprised which only affirms your lack of subtlety. Her sympathy comes with trepidation, as if she is worried you are going to explode and run away. She’s accustomed to dealing with fragile individuals, after all. She isn’t sure that what she is going to say will be the right thing, but she can’t help herself. She has to make this known. “I never quite understood why you broke up. You were both so happy. You were perfect – exactly what a mother wants to see. It came as quite a shock. Alexia never seemed to be able to explain it.”
“It was my fault,” you confess, voice drenched in regret. Maybe a lie, maybe a bit of self-sacrifice. “I left.”
“No one ever leaves without a reason,” Eli replies. The words crack you open. You press your thumb into your cheek, stopping the journey of a tear as it rolls down flushed flesh. Eli’s lips curve into a sympathetic smile; “I know that Ale is my daughter but I also know that no one is perfect.”
“She is perfect.”
“She’s not.”
“It wasn’t her. It was… it was the idea of it. You say that it was a surprise and that’s because we were fine, we were more than fine, but it wasn’t the present that was the issue. It was the future. Our future. My future.”
And it all resurfaces once more. That hopeless feeling of inadequacy, of not being enough and failing everyone who has made the mistake of trying to love you.
It was pressure from Alexia. She hadn’t meant to but her hypothetical ‘someday’ with a lost look of awe at a passing baby in a pram or the news of yet another friend getting engaged had clamped down on your throat and made you think about things. After a lot of thought, you realised that a future would not be breaking the cycle you sought to escape from. A future with kids and marriage when you had never had good examples of either? With limitations of when and where you could work? It didn’t seem right.
But it was right. Right for Alexia because she had wanted that – had wanted to be married if she already knew who’d be joining her at the altar, had wanted to have a baby and the baby remember what it was like to see her play.
You look at Eli and you are consumed by her love for her daughter. You understand why Alexia craves these things. You understand how different experiences influence different approaches. But for all the understanding you have compelled yourself to learn, it doesn’t seem to hurt any less.
4:
Your mother’s dogs are akin to rats. They’re insufferably tiny and whiny and they wiggle about as you attempt to clip their leashes onto the pink harnesses they have been fitted with.
She had been very sceptical when you had appeared this afternoon and asked to walk them. You hate dogs. You hate speaking to your mother. You hate going to your family home and experiencing the unsettling experience of being partially roped into your mother's book club with her gossiping friends.
“Marc was going to take them around the gardens,” she had emphasised as you picked up one fluffy rodent from her lap. This one, Rex, squirmed out of your grip immediately. “They like Marc.”
Marc, the dog walker, was certainly confused to see you carting off the animals in the backseat of your Porsche. You had waved as you passed him but he was too shocked to reciprocate.
And now you’re here, at a particular beach in Barcelona, known for being exceptionally quiet and private and beautiful at sunset. It’s a little windy but the dogs don’t mind, yapping as they trot along beside you, fur matting with sand already.
You’re walking your mother’s dogs. It’s a terrible idea. You hate dogs. You hate sand! You go to the beach and stay in a cabana ( you only go to beaches with cabanas after all) because the feeling of sand makes your skin crawl. And you hate that you’ve been walking for twenty minutes and there’s no sign of her and you’re starting to feel like an idiot.
Then you round a bend in the shoreline and there she is.
Jogging. Of course. In shorts and a long-sleeved shirt that clings to the contour of her stomach that you can see even at a distance, headphones firmly on her head, ponytail swinging behind her. She’s completely unaware that you’ve orchestrated this entire miserable experience just to accidentally-on-purpose cross her path.
The dogs spot her before she spots you. They yap. They pull. They’re terrible at everything including this, because instead of running towards her like normal dogs, they just sort of tangle themselves in your legs and each other and you nearly faceplant into the sand. Which is a nightmare in itself.
What makes it worse is that now Alexia has seen you, not as windswept and chic as you had intended to appear, but she is definitely looking over. She trips, a shell crunching under foot as she stutters – which is classed as ‘tripping’ in Alexia’s mind – in her stride. She pushes her headphones down to rest on her neck and you find that you’re staring at the juncture of tanned skin and sharp collarbones as the profile gradually increases in size.
“You,” she says. She’s standing a metre away.
“Me,” you agree.
She looks at the dogs, then at you, then at the dogs again. She recognises them. You can tell because her lips quirk up in a smirk. “Those are not your dogs.”
“They’re not.”
“You hate dogs.” Alexia will never forget the day you met Alba’s dog and screamed when it jumped up and pawed at your knee. You insist you’re not scared but simply irritated by the animals. You prefer cats; more demure, more attuned to your way of life.
“And I loathe these specific dogs.” One of them – Rex, or possibly Coco, you can never remember – is trying to climb Alexia’s leg. She’s so close that there is still slack in the leash. Despite the sand being smeared on her shin, Alexia reaches down to scratch his head. “They’re rats. Tiny, hairy, annoying rats.”
She’s fighting a smile. She has always been amused by this and you hate it, hate that she can’t take you seriously. “So you’re walking rats. For fun.”
“For exercise.” You pause. “The rats need exercise.”
“Doesn’t your mother have a full body of staff?” It’s not really a question. More of a point for her to make. About the uselessness of your dog-walking attempt.
“Marc wasn't available.”
“Oh?”
“Something about the flu.” You shrug. Alexia shakes her head in disbelief but she’ll entertain it, of course she will, because there is nothing that makes her day better than seeing you. However unorganically random it may be.
“So you’re walking them. At this beach. At this time.”
You roll your eyes at the way she’s dragging out your humiliation. Well done, Alexia, for receiving information and processing it. “It’s a nice beach.”
Alexia looks at you for a long moment. The other dog is at her other leg and you’d forgotten how much these dogs loved Alexia. Briefly, you relate to them.
“It’s my beach.”
Your eyebrows raise. “Your beach?”
“I run here every evening when I’m home.”
You know that. You’ve spent the last six months carefully not thinking about how much you know that – how much you know about her routines – and how intertwined that became to your own life. Two busy people with two schedules memorised. That was how it was, back when it was.
“Small world,” you say.
She snorts. It’s an undignified sound from someone so stoic. You love it.
The dogs, bored of your conversation and over the novelty of seeing Alexia, have started digging. Sand is flying everywhere, covering your shoes and Alexia’s Nike trainers, and flecks fly onto her thighs which you notice when you glance down at them as subtly as you can. Alexia’s gaze follows. There is sand on your cheek, too, and she wants to wipe it off. She could reach out to touch you but she doesn’t.
“How long have you been walking them?”
“Too long.”
“I’m surprised your mother let you leave with them.” Your mother believes you to be a gallivanting good-for-nothing. Her dogs are her most beloved creatures. “You must have done something extra responsible.”
“I’ve changed,” you say, and it must be the wind that dampens it, making it sound more quiet and vulnerable than you had intended. You don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. It’s not a lie.
Alexia holds what she wants to answer on her tongue and swallows, gulping back that sentence although it claws down her throat as it goes.
“They’re filthy,” she says instead, gesturing vaguely at Coco and Rex.
“I know.”
“You can’t return them to her like that.”
“I know.” The dogs have their own bottle of cologne. They are not allowed to get dirty.
It’s only a matter of time. You look at Alexia, she looks at you. You can hear her running playlist faintly through her headphones. Her watch beeps as if to hurry up her decision. But you already know that she has made her choice.
“I think I have dog shampoo left over from when I looked after Viruta.” The invitation is implied.
And then you’re at Alexia’s house. It’s a nice house, a good house; lived-in much more than the mansion you call home. It’s not as overwhelmingly big as your own, which is good because even though you were once in a relationship, Alexia is just as alone as you are. Well, maybe not. She has her family and her teammates and her friends. What do you have? A life scattered across continents? Friends with ulterior motives? An ex who you can’t seem to shake despite needing to be free being the reason for your loneliness?
“I don’t think your gym is better than mine,” Alexia says when the dogs are clean, shaking out the wetness on her patio. It’s warm enough to leave them out there until they dry.
“Really?” you tease, because it’s funny that she’s still hung up on this.
Alexia nods. It’s final. She’s behind the kitchen island, chopping tomatoes. Dinner comes included with the dog grooming.
You tell her about your plans. You’re travelling in Southeast Asia for three months this summer. You lack inspiration and you think you’ll find it there, and at the very least, it’s far away and new and different.
She points out that you’ve been to Bali before but you counter that a five-star hotel while working on a film was hardly experiencing the culture in the way you intend.
“I was considering moving away,” you say quietly, following a long silence in which dinner was served and the dogs passed out on the patio. Alexia’s fork scrapes against her plate, pasta half-disappeared, as she forces herself not to look up and react like she has a right to. It makes your skin itch and you regret telling her.
“Why?” It’s an oversimplified response.
You take a sip of the lemonade she has poured out for you, sour on your tongue but not as sharp as the daggers of words you’re trying to form. Alexia’s opinion shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. But it does.
“It’s easier to be in LA. For work.”
“Do you not like Barcelona anymore?” She’s accustomed to the excuse. Work. As if they don’t make films in Barcelona. But fine, allowing you Hollywood, it’s not as if you are unable to split your time and return home when you can, just like you are doing now. You have an empty house that needs the dust blowing off the surfaces every once in a while. And she likes seeing you. Likes knowing that you are nearby.
“I was considering – I’m not going to.” Stupid to dredge up the past but alas here you are, sitting opposite Alexia eating dinner, so maybe you’re already too far gone. “I think I just wanted to run away.”
“From what?”
“Who,” you correct.
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t understand.”
“You do.”
A moment. She takes a deep breath and you take another sip of lemonade, and you both let your eyes find the other, locking in place. It hurts to see your soul reflected in someone else. Not yours anymore but always will be, in a sense. Should still be, if it weren’t for other factors.
“Why are you here?” Alexia breathes out.
“You asked me.”
“You were at the beach.”
You think about it. You choose honesty. “Wanted to see you.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
The kitchen goes very quiet. You can hear the dogs shifting on the patio. The hum of the fridge. Your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, thumping away with instant regret.
Alexia hasn’t moved. She’s still holding her fork but it’s suspended halfway to her mouth, forgotten. Her eyes haven’t left yours.
“You know why,” you repeat, softer.
She sets the fork down. Her arm flexed slightly with the movement and there’s tension there, held where she controls herself. Alexia loves control and feeling in control and that had always been something you’d clashed about, because being restrained and reined in is a nightmare for you. The fork doesn’t even make a sound with the precision that she places it. A cushioned landing. Perfection.
“We can’t keep doing this,” she says, but she’s already out of her seat, already pulling at your wrist and gently manipulating your body so that you’re now pressed lightly against the table. The ledge is a hard line beneath your flesh but Alexia is soft on the other side, impossibly close all of a sudden. “We broke up for a reason.”
“We did,” you agree, although the words leave you breathlessly.
“We broke up,” she repeats. It seems to be aimed at herself, like some reminder that exes are not supposed to find themselves in each others’ company like this. Not willingly. You don’t have to orbit Alexia and she doesn’t have to orbit you, yet here you both are.
You’re not going to tell her that you regret it. You don’t. You do in some respects but it was the right thing to do at the end of the day. Surely.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting this.” A finger traces the line of your jaw, gentle and curious. It curves and follows your silhouette and Alexia is looking at you with desperation, looking to be anchored. You could swim in it. You could drag her down but that was the exact reason you left.
A dog scratches at the door. Alexia’s head turns slightly and the moment shatters. You push her away.
+1
Darkness in Alexia’s kitchen. You hadn’t meant to be here but this is where you are, late at night. Or maybe it is morning. Not committed enough to show the day, to show the pink of the sunrise, but it’s not yesterday.
Yesterday was a good day. Victory for Barça as always, painting a large smile on Alexia’s face. Elation surged through her body and it stayed because you were watching, upon her invitation. An odd thing to do, invite your ex to your first match back in the stadium of your dreams, but can you even call each other that anymore? The label doesn’t stick as clearly as it once did.
And now you’re here, Alexia’s warm hands on your waist, sneaking under the pathetic barrier of a baggy t-shirt, grounding you into her floor. Like the branches that billow in the wind, you sway, connected more than sex could let you be. Engineers ensure all structures to gracefully accommodate some level of movement. Flexibility; ready for the environment to change. Alexia’s holding you still but you are not still and that is fine.
You’re humming. She rests her chin on your shoulder.
“I didn’t know what to do when I lost you,” she says. It’s hard for her to admit things like this. She is so mapped-out, so cautious when it comes to that, and disorientation had not been a failure she had accounted for. “I thought that I could move on.” She doesn’t need to tell you she can’t.
“I wanted you to move on,” you confess, and she seizes up for a brief second as though the thought is unbearable before she exhales in a release of the tension. She shouldn’t be surprised. It would have made sense to plough through; find someone new and get married and have children and live in comfortable contentment. Even if this leads to a spark in a dying fire, you will always feel the embers of guilt. To whatever extent you have derailed that part of Alexia’s plan. Maybe she has convinced herself that that is what she would like. Or maybe she is just at peace with it.
Maybe it’s not for you to decide.
She huffs. It’s a laugh. The low sound of it echoes in her empty kitchen – too big for one person anyway. You find yourself responding in kind, leaning into her as you shake with unprecedented giggles, all the emotions coiled in your chest contracting and spilling out of you in this way.
It doesn’t subside for a while, but when it does, when the fit is over, Alexia separates just for a moment. The air rushes in between you and it chills you. It’s colder without her so close. Her eyes catch the glow of the orange lights of appliances on standby, burning amber like syrup in your hands
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Here is a tool that can be used to poison your current and future AO3 fics if you would like to reduce the chances that your work will be useful to scrapers in the future. You can thank the lovely @all-hail-trash-prince for writing the code and for making it more accessible to those who don't know how to run code.
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G!P Natasha Romanoff, unprotected sex, p in v, subtle fingering, dirty talking, spitting. Tension, kind of angst, pining. Age gap (N is 37, r is 20)
Word count: 9K words
Part 2
Being the presidents daughter isn't as glamorous and fantastic as people make it to be. In fact, it was beyond horrible. You were expected to be a lady who was poised, perfect, untouchable and well, the president's daughter. You have to hold the reputation that your mother unfortunately placed onto you. And let me tell you, it was more than exhausting.
For years it's been like this. You don't even remember having a childhood at all. No friends, no sleepovers, no parties, no drunken mistakes, no kisses and all of that. Well, maybe all of that was a stretch. You'd done all of that in secret without your mother knowing. Which is probably the reason why you have Romanoff following you around now and watching you like a hawk.
In retrospect, you were still young and naive. You were seventeen at the time so it was pretty much inevitable for something like that to happen. For you to get into trouble. You didn't think you kissing some pastors daughter would land up all over newspapers, gossip columns, magazines and pretty much all of social media. And you sure as hell didn't think a picture of you dancing on a table with a dress that was short and quite revealing would land up on the media too.
Okay, maybe you did expect it and maybe you did it because you wanted to rebel against this unwanted persona you were given. But clearly that didn't work well because two weeks after the unforgettable incident, you had some weird emails and letters from potential stalkers coming in. You thought it was funny but your mother didn't think that, in fact she was far from amused. And at that time she was still running for president, so pretty much everything and anything could have jeopardize her career, which unsurprisingly didn't happen.
But the letters, the emails and the stalker behavior became consistent and disgusting, graphic even and your mother worried about your safety. She worried that one day, you'd end up in some trouble and she wouldn't be able to get you back. So one evening, she spent all night trying to find the best bodyguard for you. Someone firm, strict and who stuck to protocol. Someone who could relate to you and would protect you. Someone trustworthy and someone who would manage to put you in place when you stepped out of line. Someone who wasn't a potential danger to you but would literally kill to keep you safe.
And in comes Natasha Romanoff. Or Agent killjoy as you called her. You remember the first day you met her. Black suit, Valentino sunglasses, red hair tied up in a bun and the straightest posture you'd ever seen in your life. She stood next to your mother, conversating about something important until her head turned upwards to look at you. Your mother's attention followed suite.
"Oh, perfect. Y/n, I want you to meet your new bodyguard. Natasha Romanoff."
"Bodyguard?" It came out harsher than you'd intended but honest to god, what was your mother thinking.
"Yes. She will be with you all day, every day."
"I don't think that's necessary, really I-"
"If you want to speak to me, you'll come closer to me." She commands leaving no room for disagreements and you mumble something incoherent while walking down the rest of the stairs.
"Now, what were you saying?"
"I was trying to tell you that I don't need a babysitter mother."
"I'm not a babysitter y/n. I've been hired for your safety." Natasha explains, and her voice is so enticing. You want to hear it again.
"Same thing." You cut her off and the woman simply arches a brow before taking her sunglasses off.
Your stomach does a summersalt when you get a proper look at her. She was beyond good looking.
"Y/n, there are people out there who see you as bait, stalkers who want to harm you. In fact, they see you as something that not even I want to address."
"A whore?" You tilt your head and you see the corner of Natasha’s lips twitch.
"Please, excuse my daughter's language. She gets very vulgar sometimes, but we're still working on it." The glare you get afterwards has you rolling your eyes.
"No need for apologies ma'am." Natasha explains with a simple hand gesture.
"So what I'm gathering from this is, I now have a new bodyguard who will follow me around and basically my entire social life is over? Great. Thanks mom, you win the best mother of the year award once again." You turn on your heels before walking up the stairs of this ridiculously large house.
Downstairs, Natasha’s eyebrows are still arched. She found you to be quite amusing actually, almost like a feisty kitten.
"Well, that was an introduction." Your mother huffs out before stepping into the house.
"Do follow me so I can give you a tour." That's the last thing Natasha hears before following your mother.
___
Now you wouldn't say you hated Natasha or anything like that. In fact, you liked her. A bit too much. Sure, she was annoying as hell in the beginning. Like whenever she was everywhere you went, or when she would meddle in your business or when she pulled you away from people who so happened to bat an eye at you because she was worried about your safety. Her presence made you feel caged, watched even. So you basically hated her for doing her job.
But then you grew up. Two and a half years later and you finally got over your supposed hatred for the woman. Instead, that hatred boiled over into a crush. Yes, you harbored feelings for the woman who was your so called "protector". But really it was inevitable. Having Natasha around you at all times was like leaving food around a hungry kitten. You're gonna want to eat it at some point.
Maybe that analogy was a bad one but god the woman was so good looking. Everything about her drew you in. Her attitude, that stoic yet dominant attitude of hers that always managed to put you in your place. How she would whisper "behave" in public whenever you were about to act out, her voice coaxing you into something you didn't want to name at that time.
Her appearance. Well, there was no need to even say anything about that because her appearance spoke for itself. You were certain the woman was sculpted by Greek gods themselves. And you, nineteen, and still very much rebellious just so happened to be crushing on the redhead.
___
The ballroom glittered the way it always did on nights your mother wanted the country to believe everything was perfect. Crystal chandeliers bled gold over polished floors, senators laughed way too loudly, and the string quartet in the corner never missed a beat. You had spent the last hour practicing your best presidential-daughter smile which was polite, warm, and exactly the right amount of approachable.
Somewhere on the edge of the crowd stood Natasha. You could feel her before you saw her, a steady orbit just outside your own. She never wore the same dress uniform twice, never drank the champagne waiters kept offering, never let her hand stray far from the comm in her ear. You used to hate that constant shadow. But now, at nineteen, you told yourself you’d gotten used to it.
But the truth was you noticed everything about her. Everything.
How she scanned the room in slow, economical sweeps. How the light caught the faint red in her hair. How she never seemed to breathe wrong, even in heels and a tailored suit.
And when her gaze swept across you from the other side of the ballroom, you looked away quickly, pretending to admire the floral arrangements on the table. Even though the thump of your heart was louder than the awful classical music playing in the background. You continued to play the role of the dutiful presidents daughter, nodding politely at people you didn't care about, until one sharp sound rang across the ballroom, a metallic pop, sharp and wrong. Your ears caught it just as the second sound cracked, louder and closer. Gasps swept through the room. Before you could react, a hand pressed firmly against your back, guiding you off the floor.
"Move." Natasha ordered, her voice low and commanding. Your stomach dropped as you realized that she wasn’t joking at all. You stumbled forward, heels clacking against the polished marble, one hand trying to lift your dress higher so you could walk faster while her body just ahead, angled to shield you from view. The hall erupted into chaos behind you. Shouts, alarms, screams. Cameras flashed, and waiters scattered like frightened birds.
Her pace was clipped and controlled. You had to jog to keep up, every step you took sending adrenaline through your veins. She didn’t look back, didn't even need to slow down, her presence was a shield, her movement a promise that she would get you out of here alive.
The main exit was blocked. Natasha’s eyes scanned the room, taking in every pillar, every table, every cluster of frightened guests. She yanked you toward a narrow service corridor that you hadn’t noticed before.
"This way!" she snapped, and you almost tripped over your own feet as she propelled you through the door.
Inside, the corridor was dimly lit and narrow. Shadows stretched along the walls, distorted and menacing. Natasha’s hand stayed on your back, firm but not harsh, guiding you past janitorial carts and maintenance doors. The alarm’s blaring was muffled here, but every footstep and every muffled shout from the ballroom, kept your senses taut. Your ragged breaths didn't seem to make the situation any better. Fuck, you really needed to work out more.
"What, what’s happening?" you asked breathlessly.
"Unknown threat." she replied, voice rid of any emotion.
"Unbeknownst threat? What the hell is an unbeknownst threat, I deserve to know what's happening if it involves me dying and-" Natasha covered your mouth with her palm.
"I said, unbeknownst threat. That means I don't know but you'll listen to me and do as I say. Stay close." Furiously and a little (really) turned on, you bit her palm with your teeth and she retracted it with a glare.
"Did you just bite me?"
"Where's my mother?! She could still be in the ballroom and-"
"Listen y/n, your mother is safe wherever she is. But my job is you. I am here for you. Not her but you. And the last thing I'll let happen is for you to be carried out of here, in a body bag. So I'll say this one last time, you do what I say, when I say it if you want to make it out alive. Now stay close. "
Natasha’s tone left no room for any argument. You kept your shoulder pressed against hers, feeling her body move in precise and controlled steps. Your pulse thundered in your chest. The air smelled faintly of polished floors and something metallic, fear or maybe even adrenaline.
A sudden shout echoed down the hall. Natasha pivoted, pressing you against the wall in one fluid motion, gun raised. You pressed your back to the cool plaster, heart hammering. Her hand lingered near your shoulder, steadying you, and you realized how close you were, her body almost brushing yours, the warmth of her side grounding you against your fear.
Seconds stretched like hours. Every shadow seemed to come alive. You could hear her breathing now, slow, controlled, and practiced, yet kind of steady. It was almost comforting you in this moment of panic. But the faint tremor in your own hands reminded you that you were far less composed.
The footsteps passed. Natasha didn’t move until she was sure the threat had moved on. Then she exhaled softly, lowering the weapon, though her gaze never wavered from the hallway.
"Stay here for a moment. "she said, voice low, almost gentle.
"Y-you can't be serious. You can't leave me here." Natasha gave you a pointed look that shut you up. She left you alone but came back minutes later. You could barely think, your chest still racing.
"Why do you always look so calm?" you asked, voice trembling.
She glanced at you, her eyes briefly softened in the dim light.
"Experience." she said.
"And focus. Very vital in this line of work." The silence after that was heavy, thick with unspoken words. You realized, with a shock, how much you were beginning to notice her. The tension in her shoulders, the glint of her eyes in the shadows, the way her breath barely shifted as she moved. You had never seen her like this, in danger, and the thought made something coil tight in your chest.
"Ready?" she asked finally, taking a careful step back. You nodded although the hesitation could be seen on your face.
"Yeah, ready." She led the way back to another service exit, moving with the same lethal precision. The closer you got to the safe zone, the more chaos bled through the suffocating walls. Alarms, shouts, the sharp edge of panic in everyone’s voice. Yet with Natasha, you felt… something like calm. Controlled calm. Like she would never let anything happen to you. And indeed, she wouldn't.
When you finally stepped into the stairwell leading outside, her hand dropped from your back, but the electricity of proximity lingered. Your chest still raced, but your thoughts weren’t just about fear anymore. They were about her. How easily she had moved, how certain she was, how impossible it was to stop noticing her. Her eyes, her hand on your back, her voice.
By the time you were ushered into the armored vehicle waiting in the rain-slick driveway, you couldn’t deny it. You had felt it in the press of her hand, the closeness, the calm in the storm. Something inside you had shifted. The walls you’d built against her had crumbled, almost imperceptibly, leaving behind… curiosity. Infatuation. Something that scared you as much as the gala had.
She took her seat next to the driver, eyes forward, expression unreadable. But you caught the way she glanced at you once, sharp, assessing, like she knew you’d felt it too. And for the first time, you weren’t sure whether that was comforting or borderline dangerous.
___
That same night you didn’t sleep. In fact, you couldn't really sleep. You lay there for an hour, replaying the nights events in your head. The alarm, the sound of her voice cutting through the chaos, the solid weight of her hand between your shoulder blades when the world spun sideways. The AC in your room hummed softly, and beyond the balcony doors, Washington dripped furiously with midnight rain. You turned on your side, buried your face in the pillow, and told yourself you were imagining the way her voice still echoed under your skin. That maybe you were being delusional.
Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock. It was quiet, polite, but a firm three taps, the way only Natasha would knock on your door. You sat up fast, your heartbeat already kicking.
"Yeah?"
"I'm just checking in." she said through the door.
"Protocol after a breach." You hesitated but grabbed to put your silk robe back on, then crossed the room to open it.
Natasha stood there, still in her black tactical suit, rain-damp at the shoulders with hair pulled back in a rough twist like she'd done in just to keep her hair out of her face. She looked like she hadn’t left the perimeter once. Her eyes swept over you automatically, not in the way older men at the galas did, not appraising, just scanning. Making sure you were real. Safe. And still breathing.
"You okay?" She asked and you nodded.
"I’m fine." It wasn't a lie but neither was it the exact truth.
"You sure? Your hands are still shaking." You looked down and she was right. Your fingers trembled slightly, the adrenaline refusing to fade.
"Guess I’m not used to all the excitement." you said, trying to joke although the chuckle you let out was dry. For a second she almost smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
"It wasn’t supposed to get that close." There was something in her tone, frustration, maybe even guilt and that tugged at you. You leaned against the doorframe before crossing your arms.
"You can’t control everything, Romanoff."
"Doesn’t mean I don’t try." You didn’t know what made you say it. Could've been the exhaustion, the leftover fear, the way her voice dropped when she was serious, but the words slipped out before you could stop them.
You saved me tonight Nat." Her eyes flicked up to yours. The corridor lights behind her were dim, washing everything around you two in amber.
“That’s my job, to keep you safe.”
“I know. But still.” For the first time since you’d met her which was almost three years ago, she looked unsure what to do with that kind of gratitude. She shifted her weight, one hand flexing at her side like she didn’t trust herself to keep it still.
“Try to get some sleep,” she finally mumbled, but it was softer now. You could’ve ended it there, probably should have just thanked her, closed the door and taken your ass back to bed. But something about the way she lingered, the faint shadow under her eyes, made you stop.
“You haven’t slept either, have you?” She didn’t answer and quite frankly you didn't need one because it was already obvious. You stepped back, opening the door a little wider.
“Five minutes.” you said.
“You can at least sit down right?”
She looked like she wanted to refuse on instinct, but after a beat, she finally stepped inside. Her presence filled the space immediately which was quiet, composed, but comfortable. She didn’t remove the holster or the earpiece, just crossed the room to stand near the window.
“It's still raining,” she murmured, glancing outside.
“Yeah well, Washington’s dramatic like that.” You murmured while shrugging and it earned a small chuckle, low and genuine, the kind you’d never heard from her before. It caught you off guard, and you smiled before you could hide it.
For a moment, everything stilled. The hum of the city below, the faint rumble of thunder far off, the muted light against her silhouette, it all folded into the kind of silence that feels alive. And it made you feel alive too.
She turned back toward you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.
“You handled yourself well tonight."Natasha murmured. She turned back toward you, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them before.
“I handled myself because you told me what to do.”
“That’s still handling yourself.”
"Yeah well I guess I work better when I'm told what to do." The words tumble out of your mouth before you could think about them. Your mouth parts in attempt to take your words back but what would you even say. Why the fuck did I even say that?
"Sorry, that came out wrong." Natasha hums but her expression is unreadable. You held her gaze. It should’ve been easy to look away, but you didn’t. The air between you felt different now, less like command and obedience, instead more like recognition.
“Thank you though.” you said quietly. She gave a small nod, but something flickered behind her calm expression, something like hesitation, or maybe the same awareness that you felt. The comm in her ear buzzed, a faint reminder of duty. She reached up, turned the volume down.
“I should-”
“Go?”
“Yeah.” But she didn’t move. Not right away. Instead, she looked at you, really looked, and for one dizzy second you thought she might say something more. Instead, she sucked in a slow breath, steadied herself, and stood up.
“Goodnight, kid.”
That word, kid, hit differently now. You smiled faintly.
“I told you not to call me that Nat.”
“I remember.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?” She met your eyes again, her expression still unreadable.
“Maybe it reminds me that I’m supposed to keep my distance.”
The honesty in it made your chest ache. You wanted to say something, anything, to keep her there a little longer. But she turned before you could even build up the courage to respond. She walked back to the door, pausing just long enough to glance over her shoulder.
“You need to get some sleep. Rest your body. ” she said again, softer this time and then she was gone. Out of your sight but still in your mind.
The room felt heavier without her.
You stood by the window, watching the faint reflection of the city lights shimmer through the rain, and realized there was no use pretending anymore. Whatever you’d thought was resentment, irritation, rebellion, it had all shifted into something else entirely.
Something that made your pulse quicken every time she looked at you.
Something that felt dangerous in all the right and wrong ways. You pressed your palm to the cool glass and whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.
“Yeah… this is going to be a fucking problem.”
__
A knock came just as the sky outside your window slipped from orange hues to a pitch black sky. You almost didn’t hear it at first, too lost in the quiet of your room. The world had calmed after the chaos of the gala, but your mind hadn’t. You still saw flashes of light, heard the echo of the alarm, felt the steady pressure of Natasha’s hand guiding you through it all. And her words... Maybe it reminds me that I need to keep my distance.
“Come in.” you called, pretending as if you weren’t just a little bit startled. The door opened, and there stood Natasha. Her hair was tied back tonight, a loose braid that brushed against her shoulder. The fitted black shirt she wore rolled neatly to her elbows, revealing the strong line of her forearms, and you were able to catch a glimpse of her tattoo that you only got to see once in a blue moon. Her movements were effortless, quiet, controlled, like someone who never needed to announce her presence to be noticed.
She didn’t speak right away. Just stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.
“You busy?” she asked.
“No, not really. ” you said, sitting up a little straighter.
“What’s up?” Her gaze flicked over the room once before landing on you. Then she reached into her jacket and pulled something small and rectangular from an inside pocket. A dark case, smooth and compact, with no label. She set it on your desk with a soft click.
“I wanted to give you something.” she said and you blinked.
“You… got me a gift?” Her lips curved just slightly, but the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Something like that.” You crossed the room, curiosity tugging at you, and opened the case. Nestled inside the foam was a folding knife, black and sleek, simple but precise. It was the kind of object that demanded respect. You finally looked up at her.
“You’re giving me a weapon?”
“It’s not a weapon if you use it right.” she replied.
“It’s protection.” You laughed under your breath, unsure what else to do. “You really think I’m the kind of girl who needs to carry a knife around?” Her gaze held yours, unflinching.
“I need to know that you'll have something to protect yourself with whenever I'm not near."
"But you're always there."
"Yes, but not always near. So I need to know that you'll be able to defend yourself."
Something in her tone made your chest tighten. There was no trace of mockery there, no patronizing calm. Just quiet sincerity. You turned the knife over in your hand, studying the weight of it.
“It’s heavier than I thought.”
“Good.” she said.
“It should feel like something that matters.” You watched her as she spoke, the faint scar near her temple catching the lamplight, the sharpness of her expression softened only by the way she seemed to hold herself back. Always composed. Always in control.
“Show me?” you asked after a moment. Her brow lifted.
“Show you what?”
“How to use it.” Natasha hesitated, and for a second, you could see the debate flicker across her face. Then she nodded and stepped closer.
“All right. Give me your hand.” So you did. Her palm brushed yours as she adjusted your grip around the handle.
Her skin was warm, her touch firm but careful, like she was always aware of exactly how much pressure to use.
“Keep your thumb here.” she murmured, sliding her hand over yours to guide your movements.
“You want control, not power. Because the goal is to get away, not to fight.” Your breath hitched slightly as she continued to guide you. You swallowed hard, trying to focus on her words, but the closeness made it impossible to think. Her breath touched your shoulder as she leaned in, her voice low and even which made you shiver.
“Don’t let anyone take it from you. Always keep your center steady.”
She reached around you to correct your stance, her hand resting lightly against your side. The warmth of it bled through your shirt. For a second, your breath caught.
“Like this?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. She nodded slowly. “Better. Now, if you have to strike-”
Her words faltered, just barely. You both noticed it. The air between you changed, heavier now, charged with something that didn’t belong to lessons about safety. You turned your head slightly, enough to meet her eyes. Her expression didn’t shift, but her voice softened.
“You’re trembling.” You laughed weakly.
“Maybe because you’re standing right behind me like you’re about to teach me how to kill someone.” That earned a small smile.
“That’s not what I’m teaching you.”
“Then what are you teaching me?” Her silence said everything that she couldn’t.
When she finally stepped back, the loss of her warmth felt too sharp, too sudden. She folded the knife closed and placed it gently in your hand. “Keep it close.” she said. You looked down at the small object resting in your palm, the metal cool against your skin.
“You didn’t have to do this.” You whispered softly.
“I know.” You lifted your eyes to her.
“So why did you?” Her gaze flicked away, just for a moment.
“Because I don’t like the idea of anyone getting close enough to hurt you.”
The words hit deeper than they should have. You didn’t know how to respond, so you didn’t. You just stood there, heart in your throat, while she adjusted her jacket and turned toward the door.
“Try not to lose it.” she said quietly. You smiled faintly.
“You’re really giving me a knife and expecting me not to.” For the first time all night, her composure cracked into something almost human.
“Then I’ll have to come find you.” she said. And with that, she left, leaving only silence and the faint scent of her cologne lingering in the air accompanied with the sound of your heart beating rapidly.
You stared down at the knife again, your reflection rippling across the dark surface. It was supposed to be a tool. A precaution. But all you could think about was the way her hand had guided yours, the way her voice had sounded when she said she didn’t like the thought of someone hurting you. Maybe it wasn’t just protection anymore. Maybe it was infatuation.
___
"It's just some party dude. You can't let that nanny of yours stop you from having fun." Your friend, Layla, had spent almost ten minutes on the phone with you trying to convince you to come to her college party.
"I can't Lay."
"For fucks sake, you're nineteen and you're taking online classes for college, the least you can do is have some fun by sneaking out." You huffed and your friend only wiggled her brow.
"I know that look, you're considering it. And it's gonna be great." You're still uncertain about going but she gives you a pleading look.
"Okay okay okay fine. I'll see what I can do."
"Yay! Okay, wear something hot. And I'll handle the rest."
"The rest?"
"Booze, weed, duh."
"Right." You continue to talk with her for a while until she eventually has to end the call. Then you're left to cultivate a good plan.
It's not like sneaking out was difficult. Your mother barely batted an eyelash at your whereabouts especially after Natasha came into your life because at the end of the day, wherever you went, Natasha was there. That's the problem though, Natasha was everywhere. Hell she may have even been listening to your conversation and you wouldn't even know. But that was a risk you'd just have to take. Because for once in your life, you just wanted to have fun. Especially before your mother's rallies began. Then you'd be touring almost the entire country with her, just to hear her talk and talk and talk. Going out just once with drunk kids who weren't aware of their surroundings wouldn't hurt anyone.
So that's how you found yourself late at night at some frat house dressed in a white corset accompanied with a white miniskirt, thigh high socks, heels and of course the angel wings. Your collarbone practically sparkled from glitter, your makeup was left minimal and you topped the look off with your favorite scent. As per usual, you looked good.
Getting out was relatively easy. Especially when Natasha had taught you how to decode and hack systems at seventeen so that was pretty much child's play. The only problem was when she'd catch on to it because the woman was smart and alert. You figured you'd at least have two hours of unsupervised fun before she dragged you back home.
Your friend tugged onto your wrists, pulling you further in the house before you reached the makeshift bar area.
"Okay, what are we drinking?"
"I don't wanna drink." She scoffed and poured you whatever concoction was made in the bowl.
"Drink. Now." You took a slow sip then another before putting g the cup down.
"I'd rather we do something else." She gave you a look of excitement before pulling you outside, where you spotted a crowd gathered on couches. There were different things laying in front of them on the table, some which you didn't even want to name but what caught your attention was the already rolled up joints.
"Here." Layla hands you one before pulling out her pink lighter. And let's just say after a few drags, everything becomes so much better.
On the other side, Natasha knew within ten minutes that you were gone. She’d been at the residence, reading a report, when one of the other agents mentioned casually that you hadn’t checked in since dinner. That you weren’t in your room.
Her pen stilled.The moment she finally realized that the house had been oddly quiet, her jaw tightens. A quick glance at the monitors confirms it, your room was in fact empty. Your phone hasn’t pinged in a while and you had obviously managed to hack into the tracking system to not be traced.
"Chertov ad." She mumbles, already pulling out her device to find you.
"Run the trackers." She barks almost immediately. Agents follow her command without another word.
And although Natasha is livid that you snuck out, she is kind of impressed that you mastered it. But as they say, you can never outdo the master. It takes her ten minutes tops to track you. And the moment she does find your location she grabs her jacket and keys before leaving the house.
She doesn't say anything on the drive to the frat house. Instead her knuckles turn white from how hard she's gripping the steering wheel while her mind runs wild with many curse words she'd rather keep in. When she arrives, sits in the car for a few minutes to calm herself down, then she grabs her shades, slips them on and walks into the packed house.
By now the party is in full blast. Bodies swing and grind into one another and it's quite a hassle to get through but Natasha manages to push a few people aside. She scoffs as a few girls willingly throw themselves at her. One even tries to grab her arm, ready to throw some flirtatious comment her way but she pulls her hand away before walking. The smell of alcohol, sweat and cheap perfume invades her nostrils and it annoys her even further but her main focus is on finding you before you get killed, so that she can definitely kill you herself. Natasha finally spots you and though your back is turned she knows it's you.
You're dancing with a girl, one hand carrying a red cup while the other waves carelessly in the air. Natasha watches the scene, her insides boiling with anger and something she doesn't want to name just yet. She moves forward, ready to drag you out of this party.
You're still oblivious though. Your mind is quiet for once and for the first time in a while, you're relaxed. No pressure, no press, no pictures, just fun. So when you turn around after taking a drag from your friends vape, the last thing you expect to see is Natasha. You cough once, which sends the strawberry vapor her way. She doesn't do anything neither does she say anything and that's when you've registered the fact that you're fucked.
Finally she takes off her jacket and wraps it around you before pulling your arm.
"Outside. Now."
"But-" She gives you one of her looks and you drop your shoulders before walking out of the party. No one really cares about what's happening, instead they're focused on their own spontaneous activities. Assholes.
When you step outside, the cold hits you full force, and it's literally like taking a breath of fresh air. Nothing has been said yet, and you don't want to say anything because Natasha is still mumbling incoherent curse words in Russian. She opens the door for you, you get in and then she's on her side starting the ignition but she isn't driving yet. Five minutes go by until you finally talk.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"Really?" She laughs.
"It was just a party Nat."
"One that you didn't tell me about."
"I don't have to tell you about my whereabouts all the time."
"I'm your bodyguard, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Jesus y/n how could you be so stupid?!
"I'm not drunk."
"But you're high."
"Still not drunk." She shakes her head in frustration before grabbing the almost empty red cup in your hand and throwing it out the car window.
"Chertovski glupo."
The next ten minutes are spent in silence, her jaw is clenched and you could see the vein under her eye bulging. Yeah she was definitely keeping a lot of words in. When you finally get home, she switches off the ignition and then exhales. Neither of you speaks yet, it's just the sound of rain tapping against the car and your breathing.
"I'm sorry." You mumble softly, pulling the jacket, her jacket, around you. The scent wrapping around you like a warm blanket.
"I just wanted to have fun."
"Fun can get you killed y/n. Do you know how badly things could've went?"
"I know, and I'm sorry I almost cost you your job and-"
"My job!? This isn't about my job y/n it's about your safety. Do you understand what could have happened to you? Fuck y/n you could've gotten kidnapped, killed, drugged, assaulted?! Then what?" Her words finally sink in and the guilt gnaws at you.
"You tell me when you want to go somewhere. You tell me not for the sake of my job but because I care about you. You don't just disappear without telling me."
"I know." She let's out a sigh. You finally turn to look at her, chest still glistening, but heaving slightly, and Natasha looks away because she cannot trust herself to look where she shouldn't be looking in the first place.
"I just wanted space. Besides it's not like I was falling over."
"Yes but the president's daughter drinking underage is a good caption no?"
"Twenty, twenty-one, it's the same thing to me." She shakes her head but there's a small smile tugging her lips.
"I'm sorry though, and if it makes things better I did have my pocket knife." She sighs.
"I probably will sneak out again.
"I know." You smile before opening the car door.
"And y/n..." You turn around to look to her.
"Yeah?"
"Maybe leave the hacking to professionals." She teases and you flip her off before walking away with a subtle sway of your hips that she definitely does notice.
And that the moment where the redhead realizes that she was ready to risk it all.
___
Los Angeles had its own kind of heat, the kind that stuck to your skin no matter how high the AC hummed. Your mother was halfway across the city, shaking hands, giving speeches, being everything the cameras needed her to be. You were just the background, the president’s daughter tucked into a hotel suite with gold fixtures and no real privacy. The suite next door belonged to Natasha...
"For security reasons" your mother said, although you suspected it was more about control than safety.
"See to it that my daughter is dressed appropriately and shows up on time please. I'll be visiting a few other facilities today, so I'll just meet the both of you at the gala."
"No problem ma'am." Natasha gave a curt nod before your mother left her suite to attend some meeting.
A knock came just as you were scrolling through your phone, half-draped across the couch in your silk pajama set, pink, soft and expensive. You didn’t bother to fix the loose strap when you opened the door.
Natasha stood there, posture perfect, one hand holding a tablet while the other was tucked behind her, and as usual, she was dressed in all black. The hallway light caught the sharp line of her jaw and the faint glint in her green eyes. She didn’t say anything for a beat. Her gaze flickered once, down, then back up. Controlled. Professional. Barely. Because you could see the way her eyes shone with something else.
"Your mother asked me to remind you to dress appropriately for tonight’s gala." she said finally, voice even, clipped, a faint trace of her accent threading through.
“You’re expected downstairs at six. Don’t be late.” You leaned against the doorframe, studying her.
"That all?" Her eyes didn’t move.
"Yes, that’s all."
But she hesitated, just half a second too long. And in that silence, you felt something shift, subtle but real. The kind of tension that wasn’t supposed to exist between a bodyguard and the girl she was hired to protect. Natasha cleared her throat then left you alone. This game between the two of you was getting heated and it seemed like you weren't the only one enjoying it.
___
The gala was well a gala. Sleek, expensive, polished in gold and silver accents. Rich white men boasting about anything and everything while some even tried to get your attention by touching your shoulder. You played your role well though. You pose for the cameras, nod at small talk about universities and policies you don’t care about. Smile and laugh if need be.
Natasha is never far, she's like a shadow at the edge of the crowd, black suit, hair tied back, eyes scanning every single movement. You catch her gaze once, across the room, and for a heartbeat, it anchors you. But then someone laughs too loudly, another hand tugs you into another conversation, and she disappears behind a line of photographers.
You last thirty minutes before slipping outside to get some air. Your moment alone doesn't last long though because soon someone else walks out. You don't look at them but they move closer.
"Not your scene huh?" You finally look up to see a girl your age, maybe a little older than you.
"Nope."
"Me neither." She takes a sip from the flute before setting it aside.
"Never really liked feeling so caged." She murmurs softly.
"I feel that."
"It must be worse for you, being the president's daughter and all." You hum softly.
"It does. Especially when the whole world is watching you, waiting for you to make a mistake." She tilts her head, studying you further.
"I like you."
"Bold thing to say to someone you've just met." You mumble with a small grin and she chuckles before moving closer to you. You spend almost thirty minutes talking to her about anything. Music, movies, books even about university degrees. Somewhere along the line she gets even closer, so close you can see the freckles on her skin or feel the way her shoulder brushes along your own.
It sends a shiver down your spine. Not because you like her or anything but because you have a feeling that you were being watched. And you were. You turn your head to find Natasha standing not so far from the two of you. And when you look closely, you see the way her jaw clenches while her fingers twitch slightly. It makes you grin in triumph.
"Problem Nat?"
"No. I've been requested to come look for you. Take you back to the suite."
"There's no need to, I don't mind staying here with my new friend." The girl looks between the two of you before clearing her throat.
"Call me." She says before slipping away from the two of you. You're still leaning against the balcony, the straps of your dress falling from your shoulder. You don't rush to fix them.
Natasha’s face is void of any emotion. She cocks her head to the side and you laugh slightly before walking towards the door with a sway of your hips.
___
The water clings to your skin as you emerge from the shower. You wrap yourself in a towel while tending to your face. Natasha is still inside your suite. She could have retreated to her own but something tells you that she wasn't in the rush to.
You've now replaced the towel with a silk robe, and you glance at yourself in the mirror one last time. Good. Once you leave the room you find Natasha staring out at the window.
"You're still here." She doesn't say anything after that so you place yourself on the couch, just a few feet away from her.
"Tell me Nat, what game are we playing here?" You're direct and it takes her by surprise.
"What game?"
"You tell me."
"I don't know what you're talking about." She finally turns around.
"Really? But we've been at this for a while now. To me, it seems like you want me." Natasha scoffs but it's far from convincing.
"Stay in your lane y/n."
"Or what Natty? Tell me, does your job include watching me shower?" You push further. She clenches both of her fists.
"It's my job to protect you."
"Protect me from what exactly? The suds of soap dripping down my body? Or slipping in that big shower?" The smirk on your face is cruel and she wants nothing more than to wipe it off of you.
This cannot be happening. She tries to tell herself that. That she cannot be thinking about you the way she was. That she shouldn't be entertaining the idea of you. At all. Not only because she was your bodyguard and older than you but because your mother, the president, would kill her. Even though that was impossible given her status but that's a risk she didn't want to take.
"I'm warning you. Stay in your lane." You stand up before reaching for your robe. She watches you intently but her hands stop you from tugging it off, the warmth of her palm on your skin makes you dizzy.
"I don't feel that way about you." She retorts and you laugh.
"Oh? So if I called that girl from earlier on and told her to fuck me, you'd let me?" Her jaw clenches.
"I don't care what you do in your own time."
"Really? Huh." Deciding to push Natasha further, you grab your phone before punching in her number.
Natasha freezes, and for a moment, you see it. The green flash in her eyes, the flush that tugs at her neck, the rigid line of her shoulders. She grabs your phone before you can move, holding it tight in one hand.
"Ne smey." She says sharply, simple words that are clipped, dangerous. Don’t.
She steps closer, every movement taut with unspoken warning. Her body is tight, coiled, like she wants to say more but won’t.
"Don’t push me." she says, voice low, clipped, the edges of it shaking slightly. Not her usual calm. Not this time. The jealousy is there. Barely contained but it's there and you can feel it. You fucking love it.
"If you don't want me then why are you still holding my phone?"
The silence between the two of you is deafening. And just when you think she'll give up and hand you the phone, she takes another step closer. Her unoccupied hand moves to your chin.
"You don't know how much restraint is keeping me away from you. Holding me back." The phone is carelessly thrown onto the couch, your hand bringing her own back to your robe.
"Then stop fighting it." You can see the gears running in her head, like she's still contemplating whether she should bolt or stay. You want her to stay.
"Take me. I promise, I won't tell a soul Natty." You whisper, your hand still guiding hers to pull the robe off. You feel her lips brush against your own before she finally, finally kisses you. Your heart practically soars as her lips move with yours, her hands untying the robe. Natasha sucks in a breath once you guide her hand to place it on a soft mound.
The sigh that you let out afterwards makes her squeeze the mound, to feel it against her palm. You slip your robe off almost immediately and now you're bare in front of Natasha. She swallows, cock already hardening underneath her slacks. She wasn't expecting that at all.
"O bozhe." The uncertainty finally leaves her mind and Natasha has to restrain herself from pouncing on you.
Rough calloused hands pick you up, and you squeal in surprise. She guides you to the bed, just a few feet from where the couch was. She throws you onto the bed, a soft squeal escaping your lips. Her hands move down your calves to spread your legs apart. You're completely bare, at her mercy too, and it sends a thrill down her spine. You may have been her boss out there but now in here, she would be taking all the control.
Natasha’s hands move back up to your face, and thighs quiver from her absence.
"You want this?" She asks and you nod.
"Tell me."
"I want you." You confirm with another nod of your head. Natasha’s lips are on yours once again, her knee pressing against your core which makes you gasp.
"A-again, do that again." You plead and she smirks before pulling away.
Natasha throws her jacket onto the side table. Your gaze falls down, watching her fingers unbutton the white button up. Once it falls down, you're left to ogle at her covered chest. The tattoo you'd once seen in passing now on full display, toned abs that you can't help but touch and-
Natasha’s finger presses against your clit which makes you let out an unexpected moan.
"So distracted." Her thumb rolls around the sensitive nub, testing to see what you like. You drag her hand closer to your core, moaning when her finger slides around your slit.
"Jesus detka, so fucking wet." Her finger slips into your hole and you let out a choked gasp.
"Fuck, another."
"Another? Fucking greedy." But she adds another finger inside of you, your walls hugging both fingers.
Your lips part, a breathless wine escaping your lips while she fingers your pussy. Her thump swipes over your clit again and you moan even louder.
"Look at me." She commands and you're met with blown green eyes looking down at you. So fucking beautiful. Natasha thinks to herself while she watches your eyes flutter or when her eyes trail down to where you're connected.
Natasha becomes obsessed with the way your pussy sucks her in. How your wetness oozes out of your pussy, or how her fingers shine with your arousal as she pulls them in and out. Your hips slowly begin to move on their own accord but she presses down onto your hips.
Natasha pulls her fingers out just as you're about to peak and you whine.
"Why?"
"If you're gonna cum, you're gonna do it on my cock." She rasps, hands fumbling with the belt of her slacks. You wait impatiently, pussy clenching around nothing, nipples hardening at the thought of being filled up by her.
She slips out of her pants and underwear, cock slapping against her stomach, red, flushed, dripping with pre-cum. She was big. Length and girth. Your hand strokes her shaft and she hisses, head thrown back in ecstasy. You want to wrap your lips around your tip, but you can't because she pushes you down then lines herself up with your entrance.
"You sure no condom?"
"N-no, I want you in me, raw." She groans, cock throbbing. You're wet and needy so it's easy for her to slide right in.
Your breath stutters, legs wrapping around her waist to pull her closer. She thrusts inside of you a couple of times, her cock rubbing against your velvety walls. Her strokes start of fast and shallow before they slow down. Deep, hard strokes that make you lose breath, that make you choke.
"C'mon baby, breath for me huh, you're not breathing." She teases, pulling out before slamming back inside of you. That makes you moan out loud.
Your hands fist the sheets, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Natashas brows furrow, her hand placing your own on your pussy.
"Play with yourself." The command makes you clench around her. Your fingers rub your clit eagerly while she fucks you, you lift your head slightly, to watch the way her cock glides in and out of you. You throw your head back again, eyes closing in pure bliss, especially after a particularly hard thrust.
"Fuck!" You cry out, lips forming into a small pout.
"Open your eyes and look at me." Your eyes open, staring directly at the redhead, mouth hung open. Face to face. It's too intimate for Natasha's liking so she trails her eyes down to where you two are connected.
"So fucking wet, so warm and tight." You'd stopped rubbing your clit a while ago, once she'd lifted your leg and placed it above her shoulder.
With the new angle, you felt her digging your pussy, everywhere.
"Y-you're so big." You mumbled incoherently, it made her smirk.
"Yeah, can you feel me?" You nod your head vigorously.
"Say it."
"I c-can feel you." She spits directly onto your pussy, thumb rubbing your clit in fast circles. Your orgasm comes unexpectedly, crashing over you.
You have to bite your palm to keep yourself quiet. Your pussy gushes, a wetness coming out of you that you'd never felt before. Your eyes widen in shock, the redhead pulls out, more wetness just gushing out of your pussy. She'd just make you squirt for the first time.
"Fucking hell." She murmurs, sliding right back into you.
"Didn't think you had that in you. Is my dick that good baby?" Had she not have been fucking you into oblivion, you'd probably retort something back. Something sarcastic, something snarky .
All you do is nod, god you just nod. Her pace fastens, she's chasing her own orgasm, and you're chasing your second one. After one final thrust the both of you cum together, her seed filling your pussy up. Minutes later, she pulls out of you. Her cum mixed with yours just oozing out of you. She fucks it back in and you whimper.
Your leg is placed back down onto the bed. Your thighs ache in the best way possible. Your body hums from the pleasure, pussy still aching around nothing. You're content.
However the redhead isn't. Post nut clarity hits her.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
What the fuck was she thinking? Why the fuck wasn't she thinking?
"Iisus Khristos." She mumbles quietly, to herself. She gets off of you, and gets dressed almsot immediately. Why the fuck did she just fuck you? Is what runs through her head while she makes herself presentable. You sit up with shaky hands.
"Nat what are you-"
"This was a mistake." She murmurs, fixing the collar of her shirt.
She turns around, and avoids your gaze like she wasn't inside of you minutes ago. Like her cum isn't still dripping onto your thigh.
"Jesus, no one finds out about this." There's no room left to argue. She leaves immediately, but you don't hear the door to her own suite shut.
You lay back down, staring at the ceiling with tears already forming in your eyes.
"Fuck."
After months of convincing from my friend and reading so many books, I finally had the courage to post my first fic. So with that said, hi!? I got inspired by the amazing writers on here and I said fuck it, why not post my own. I hope this fic meets the standard of Tumblr lmao. I hope you lovelies enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing this. Can't wait to write more. Feedback is appreciated 🫶
