Sophia's controversially young gf g!p reader x Sugar mommy Sophia
Warnings:Smut,
WC: 1376
a/n: requests open
request is here
The chandelier lights in the penthouse ballroom felt blinding, almost punishing. Crystal glasses clinked endlessly around you, fake laughter bounced off the marble walls, and the same group of silver-haired socialites circled the same tired topics. Yacht maintenance came up first, then which hedge-fund manager was divorcing this quarter, and finally whether the new chef at Le Bernardin deserved all the praise. You stood beside Sophia like the perfect accessory, black suit tailored sharp against your body, hair styled exactly how she preferred it, one hand hidden in your pocket to conceal the boredom-induced ache between your legs. “God, these people are insufferable,” you muttered under your breath, just loud enough for her to hear.
Sophia looked like pure temptation in her midnight-blue silk gown. The fabric clung to every curve she owned, the plunging neckline revealed the soft swell of her breasts, and the diamond choker glittered coldly against her throat. At 33 she could pass for 27, and she moved through the room like she already owned every soul in it. Most of them owed her money in some form or another, and she never let them forget it. “Patience, baby,” she whispered as she leaned close, her voice velvet over steel, “I see how restless you are, and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
You caught her eye across the circle while the retired banker droned on about interest rates again. She tilted her head the tiniest fraction, and that single spark in her gaze told you everything. She knew exactly how much you hated this, how the nine days apart had left you both starving. You had behaved perfectly, no snarky comments, no scandals, nothing to make the society pages whisper about her controversial twenty-four-year-old girlfriend with the loud mouth. “You’ve been so good tonight,” she murmured later when she excused you both, “telling them I have an early flight tomorrow, such a convincing little liar for me.”
The elevator doors slid shut, and Sophia wasted no time. Her hand slid down your back and squeezed your ass possessively, fingers digging in just enough to make you hiss. “You were flawless in there,” she said against your ear, lips brushing skin, “not one sarcastic remark, not one eye roll, I’m so proud of my girl.” You smirked despite yourself and replied, “Didn’t want to embarrass my sugar mommy in front of her boring friends, did I?” She laughed softly, low and dangerous, then pressed the button for the garage level while her other hand already tugged at your belt.
The limo waited curbside with tinted windows and the privacy partition already up. The driver never even glanced back as you climbed inside. The moment the door closed, Sophia locked it and pushed you down onto the leather seat. “Take your jacket off, baby,” she ordered in that soft, commanding tone that always made your pulse jump. You obeyed instantly, shrugging it free, and she straddled your lap without hesitation, silk dress riding high on her thighs as she cupped your face. “Nine days without this cock has been torture,” she confessed, kissing you deep and slow, tongue claiming every inch of your mouth like she was making up for lost time.
She slid down your body until she knelt between your spread thighs. The city lights streaked past outside while the limo purred along the FDR Drive. Sophia unzipped you slowly, eyes never leaving yours, watching every twitch of your expression. Your cock sprang free, thick and heavy, already leaking from days of pent-up need. “Look at this beautiful thing,” she breathed, almost reverent, “so hard and ready for Mommy after being such a good girl.” You groaned when she wrapped her hand around the base and replied hoarsely, “Missed your mouth more than you know, Soph.”
She didn’t tease for long. Sophia swallowed you down in one smooth glide, throat opening eagerly to take every inch until her nose pressed against your pelvis. The wet heat was overwhelming, her tongue flat and pressing along the underside while she hummed around you. You hissed, fingers threading into her perfectly styled hair, ruining it as you gripped tight.
“Fuck, just like that,” you gasped, hips twitching upward, “been dreaming about this throat every night you were gone.”
She pulled off with a wet gasp, spit stringing from her swollen lips to your glistening cock. “I missed the taste of you,” she said, licking a long stripe from base to tip, tongue flicking the sensitive slit, “missed how you leak when I talk filthy.” Her hands twisted around the shaft while she sucked the head hard, cheeks hollowing. “Nine days of conference calls, and all I could think about was locking my hotel door and fucking myself stupid with that toy you bought me,” she confessed between licks, “pretending it was this thick cock stretching me open.” You bucked involuntarily and groaned, “Keep talking like that and I won’t last.”
Sophia knew your body too well. She squeezed the base hard when you started throbbing, stopping the orgasm cold. “Not yet, baby,” she scolded gently, climbing back into your lap, “Mommy’s not finished rewarding you.” She hiked her dress to her waist, revealing she wore nothing underneath, pussy already slick and swollen.
“Feel how wet I am for you,” she whispered, guiding your cock to her entrance, “been dripping since the second I saw you behave so perfectly tonight.”
You gripped her hips and rasped, “Then take it, Soph, take every inch you missed.”
She sank down slowly, eyes rolling back as you stretched her wide. Inch by inch she took you until her ass met your thighs, a shaky moan escaping her lips. “God, yes, that’s my girl,” she panted, starting to roll her hips in deep, deliberate circles, “filling Mommy so perfectly.” You yanked the neckline of her dress down, mouth latching onto a hard nipple while she rode you harder. “Harder, baby,” she demanded breathlessly, “I want to feel you tomorrow, want to sit through meetings sore and full of your cum.”
You thrust up to meet her, the wet slap of skin echoing in the confined space. Her nails dug into your shoulders as she cried out, pussy clenching rhythmically around you. “I’m close,” you warned, voice rough, “been holding it for nine fucking days.” She reached down and rubbed her clit in frantic circles, moaning, “Cum with me, baby, fill Mommy up, give me everything you saved.” She shattered first, walls fluttering wildly, a hot gush soaking your balls as she squirted around your cock.
The squeeze of her orgasm dragged you over the edge. You buried yourself deep and came with a broken groan, thick pulses flooding her until it leaked out around your shaft. Sophia stayed seated, still impaled, kissing you slow and filthy while your cock twitched through the aftershocks. “We’re nowhere near done,” she whispered against your lips, rolling her hips to feel you harden again inside her already soaked heat. “Driver’s taking the long way home, baby, I want you in my ass next, then my mouth again, then you’re eating every drop of your cum out of me until I forget my own name.”
She leaned back slightly, eyes dark with promise. “Nine days of being good deserves a proper reward,” she said softly, tracing your jaw with one finger. “You followed every rule, kept your mouth shut, didn’t embarrass me once.” You smirked, still buried inside her, and replied, “Anything for you, Soph, you know that.” She kissed the corner of your mouth tenderly and murmured, “Good girl, now let’s get upstairs, because I have plans for this pretty cock until the sun comes up.”
By the time the limo eased into the private garage beneath the building, you were a mess of her lipstick, her spit, her cum, and your own. Sophia stepped out first, dress wrinkled beyond repair, hair wrecked, thighs shining with the evidence of how thoroughly she had used you. She took your hand as you followed, voice soft now, almost sweet. “Come on, baby,” she said, leading you toward the elevator,
“Mommy’s not finished spoiling her favorite girl tonight.” You squeezed her fingers and grinned, already hard again just from the promise in her eyes.
· · ─ · ᡣ𐭩 synopsis: you finally hop on that flight home, bringing you back to the place that reminds you of everything you’ve tried so hard to forget. Your emotions flourish, and your thoughts run wild, leaving a certain sense of vulnerability in their wake. Shes gotten hotter, and you think you love her again. ── .✦ [ current pov ]
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· · ─ · ᡣ𐭩 content warnings: 6k wc, current pov, no use of y/n that i can recall, s!her pronouns used for reader, lots of words that arent proofread, Callie and ocs! Hopeless romantic reader, very little interaction between Ellie and reader, reader romanticize’s everything, age gap (2-ish years) fluff, maybe a tad bit of angst, references, cussing, i thiiink thats all :)
If you’re seeing this little message, tell me your favourite romcom, I’m curious !! mines gotta be 13 going on 30 or 50 first dates :)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃. 〝Love is patient, love is kind, love means slowly losing your mind.〞—ִֶָ27 dresses 𓂃⊹
The phone call you made to your sibling a few days later was…chaotic, to say the least.
His jagged voice was barely audible through the speaker, lewd music blasting through the speaker and terrorizing whatever room he was in, you could tell he was drunk. You think about calling him out, but it would be in vain attempts to berate him, his ‘free spirited’ nature, as he called it, would be tamed by no one, not even his now redundant younger sibling. It was the final day of exams for fucks sake!
You shook your head, letting him have it. You had always been the more disciplined one out of the two of you, now, by no means did that make you methodical. It just made you…more disciplined than the other option. You weren’t about to bitch him out over his alcohol consumption when your mother was the exact same way. That would, to some degree, equate you to a hypocrite. And also, you had bigger issues to worry about.
“He—Hello?” He hiccuped into his device. You could hear his equally drunk and just as disastrous counterparts singing along to whatever crude, and in your words terrible song that was playing while a small and overly tame voice inquired about who was on the other line. My sister, you heard him reply, his voice blaring through to you, and probably just above a whisper to them. The voice only hummed, throwing back a small Oh, Alright, before retreating back into the forest of bodies.
“Have you heard from mom?” You ask, covering your vulnerable ear in hopes to somehow hear him better, the attempt is futile, but laughable. It's what anyone would do. A feasible doing in respect for your ear drum, and your roommate. He swallows, an unconsciously sloppy noise that makes you grimace away from the device.
“Uhhh—like—barely…about what?” The music boosts up an octave, you hear another drunken party goer stumble into him, likely spilling something on his shirt. Fuck, dude! Get outta here! He winces, pulling away for a second.
“She called me the other day, talking about…selling the house? Is that—do you know anything about that?” You try to lift your voice above a whisper, but considering your roommate was asleep just a foot away, you struggled for wiggle room.
“Uhh, yeah—she told me about that…we all gotta go back for the summer, sucks, but…could be good if we decide not to..” he burps in between words, you think in between breaths. You stick a fingernail in between chattering teeth, your anxiety causing you to stand.
“So you're going?”
“Well, yeah. Free flight for both of us, so might as well take the trip.” He huffs. You can tell he's calmed down now, maybe sat down on an empty chair, or shoved himself into a bathroom somewhere.
“Both of us?” You inquired, but you knew what the words implied. It was an act of protection really, waiting for him to confirm your greatest fears before your mind got ahead of itself.
“Yeah…Me’n Ellie, our flight’s on the 18th.” He affirms, taking a sip of whatever concoction he had with him.
It's the name that gets you. Ellie. The same Ellie that you had no bad blood with, yet the mere mention of her gives you debilitating, excruciating anxiety. Your cortisol levels have skyrocketed beyond help in the last ten seconds.
You cleared your throat, lifting your painted fingernails back to your mouth. “Mom—mom paid her ticket?” You stutter out, voice bouncing in hopes to ignore the surge of awkwardness that had taken over.
“Yeah, she did. She's gotta see Joel, too. We haven't been home in forever.” He clicks his tongue. You nod your head, even though he can't see it. Your bones feel like they're shaking inside of you, your skin suddenly feeling too tight, like a suit not quite meant for your body.
You swallow the lump that you didn't remember forming in your throat. Your decision has been made. You were flying home, whether you wanted to or not.
“Yeah, okay…mine too.” You confirm, and instead of the decision feeling like a weight was lifted off your shoulders, it seems like one was placed upon them. Funny how suddenly that came to be. You should be happy that you’re going home, but instead you’re petrified.
You bid him a soft goodbye with a hollow promise to keep in touch that the both of you will break and an awkward I love you. You sigh as the call ends, leisurely tossing your phone down onto your mattress with a weighted sigh.
You didn't talk to him after that, or your mother for that matter. You just let the days pass by as needed and worried more than you did not.
The airport is full and too loud for anyone to function. You've spent the last couple of hours on a flight to nowhere that felt like a complete waste of money while your brain tried (and failed) to dance around the fact that your ex—crush of almost two decades would be in attendance.
You tap your foot in practiced beats of nervousness, random spurts of frustration washing over you like really misplaced emotion. The fact that this trip was purely businesslike and not recreational already bullying your conscience into guilt covered embarrassment.
Your anger was undoubtedly justified and extremely painful to bear.
You run your hands over your face, letting all your inner turmoil play defense in the game of your emotions. So far, offense was winning. You glance back and forth between the washroom and the exit, deciding to play dangerous and leave all your belongings unattended while you b-lined for the bathroom to splash your face with water that you somehow thought would cure all of your issues.
You sigh into the empty room, your voice echoing back at you. You run your hands under the lukewarm water, letting whatever disease ran through the stream land in your palms. At this point, anything would be better than what’s to come.
“My god…” you whisper, letting the water settle into your pores. It's absolutely disgusting, but also somehow grounding. You groan into nothing, shaking your hands somewhat dry as your breaths turn your chaos into controlled chaos.
You can do this.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket while you're standing at the hand dryer. You pull it out with a smidge of confidence, leaving the washroom and hopefully your self consciousness behind.
It’s a message from Callie, or in other words, your Uber home.
Cals : welcome back to hell! Hope you're ready for boring dinners and weird awkward tension!
Cals : im outside
Cals : your chariot awaits!
Cals : omfg can u hurry
You giggle at the incoming messages, typing back something along the lines of coming that was really just ineligible as you sort your things with one hand. You drop the device as soon as the little ding comes through the speaker.
You squeeze through families, and shuffle past departing couples as your anxiety loudly shifts into excitement. You speed up your steps as your heart rate increases, part of you feels like you're trying to outrun your own emotions, the impending doom that you will eventually have to face your problems that weren’t really problems, and almost completely solvable. You will have to face Ellie eventually.
That wasn't right now, maybe it wasn't even later, but it was true. And deep down you didn't want it to be.
You spot Callie almost immediately once the automatic doors open, tall lean frame pressed up against the side of her car, her body positioned in such a way you’d think she was famous if she was anywhere but here.
Her eyes are stone cold as she looks down at her phone, sunglasses keeping her thick brown hair out of her view. Her fingers swiftly tap against the screen, your phone dinging in your grasp every couple of seconds.
You smile to yourself as you approach, your stomach twisting with excitement. You call out to her, voice cracking with pure joy. She look up quickly, she doesn't have to search for long to find you, running at her with arms full and a smile big enough to blind.
“No awareness, huh?” You comment benevolently, laughing as you pull her into a hug. She copies without word, tugging you into her a little bit harsher than she should’ve.
“Oh shut up!” She shrieks at the teasing, gently kicking your leg. You fall into her further, letting her squeal into your ear. “I’m so happy you're back… you’ve missed so much.” She begins, pulling away from you.
She grabs your suitcase for you, you don't protest. Knowing her, she would berate you for even suggesting to carry your own bags.
“I’ll bet. Texting and Live Photos don't compare to the real deal..” you coo, following her to the back of the car as she shoves your luggage into the already cluttered back seat.
You stop hot in your steps, raising an eyebrow at the back of her car. “Is that not obstructing your field of view?” You question, pointing into the messy boot. The brunette slams the trunk closed with a jagged groan.
“Don’t worry about it.” She sighs, slapping your ass before walking around her side of the car. You roll your eyes, taking a moment to think before following.
Your mind immediately shifts at the lack of distraction. You sigh, shaking your head and walking around the black suv before your thoughts can take over.
“Ugh! I’m so fucking tired of this place, you’re so lucky you’re doing school out of state…” she speaks, resting her elbow on the middle console. She balances her head on her fingers, hoping, praying to stay awake while she drives.
“Yeah.. I’m glad too, which I didn't think I would be.” You reply, glancing over at her momentarily. Her eyes are filled with chaos, frustration and joy all at the same time. She was a chronic complainer, sue her.
“And your brother too, and Ellie! Fuck, youre all lucky. I miss you guys.” She confesses, her fingers slowly starting to rake through her hair. She clicks her tongue as she drives, an incessant habit that you choose to ignore, even if it means sacrificing your sanity.
“I miss you too, yeah.” You twiddle with your fingers, your tone fizzling out into a hum of acknowledgment and a tight smile.
The mention of Ellie had your back straightening, your demeanour somehow shifting into that same repressed shyness that shows up when you’re uncomfortable. Or as Callie calls it “that weird awkward thing you do when you have too many emotions and not enough places to put them all.”
Callie blows a raspberry, slipping her sunglasses off of her head and onto her face. “It’s so fucking sunny, Jesus Christ—are you okay?” She interrupts herself, looking between you and the road in quick motions.
“Yes! Yeah, i’m just…tired, jet lagged, y’know..” you hum, slipping your slides off and pulling your sweat clad legs onto the seat and underneath your body. Callie hums back at you, not quite convinced, but too focused to pry.
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn't need reassurance or explanation. It wasn't a pause between sentences, or an awkward moment where neither of you know what to say, it's just—silent. Silent and comfortable.
Eventually, after what feels like hours of concrete roads and homes that are occupied by parents of people you’ve known since you were little, you turn down the most familiar street.
The tree—lined street almost moves you to tears, a flood of uncomfortable memories appearing on the open road before you. You choke on a breath, a weird sensation of contempt settling in your chest.
You begin to shift in your seat, your brain had been liquidizing for the majority of the drive, but now you were hyper aware. Hyper aware of everything, the tension in your shoulders, the uncomfortable knot in your back, the vehicle that was way too clean to not be a rental sitting in your driveway.
“Home sweet home!” The girl beside you cries, raising an arm in the air with a little too much passion. Your home comes into view slowly, and suddenly you feel like you’re grasping for every moment that was just behind you.
“You’re not getting cold feet, are you?” Callie parks, letting the air in the car turn somber. She turns to you, eyes searching yours for any clues pointing to regret. She places a hand on your leg, resting it softly.
“No, No I’m not. I'm just—nervous, haven't been home in a while, that's all.” You shake your head, swallowing a wad of nerves.
Callie raises an eyebrow, giving you the chance to change your answer, to tell the truth. You don’t. You were too frazzled to do that right now, too confused.
“I promise.” You stick your pinky out, she interlocks hers in return. She smiles at you, a true, genuine look. You’re grateful, it alleviates half the stress that was sitting on your shoulders, waiting to cause an avalanche.
“Alright, alright. You ready?” She squeezes your leg twice, a loving gesture. She slips the key out of the ignition after you give her a false confident nod of confirmation. You slip your shoes back onto your feet and let out one last sigh of desperate anticipation before getting out of the car.
The hot sun sends a certain type of stick to your body immediately. Maybe it was the nerves too, but your body was on fire.
“I’ll grab your suitcase—just, grab your carry on.” She grunts between movements. She's already pulling the hard plastic case out of her trunk with the kind of certainty that would not be questioned.
You chuckle, pulling your other bags out of the backseat. You can hear Callie struggling behind the car.
“Here, let me.” You squeeze in, but the container is already clattering to the ground.
“Got it!” She boasts, throwing her arms up in the air as she tries, and fails, to conceal her huffs. She pants like a dog, pushing the case in your direction as she pulls the trunk down.
“Thank you, Callie.” You coo, pulling the handle out of your suitcase as she pulls out her phone, checks it, and then slips it back into the back pocket of her jeans.
“Need me to walk you in? I can—I’ve got time.” She asks, a partial smile on her face.
“No, no. That's okay. I need to unpack and stuff anyway, y’know the boring part of vacation.” You make air quotes on the last words, pulling a chuckle from your friend. She nods, you can tell she’s wary of leaving you alone, but she follows orders anyways.
“Okay.” She confirms. She pulls you in for another hug, a tighter one. “I’ll call you, okay?” When Callie pulls away, she places two hands on each of your shoulders. Her touch is grounding, stabilizing.
“Please do, God—I’ll be so bored.” You joke. She laughs back at you, pulling her phone back out and checking it again.
“Alright, I’ll see you when I see you. Tonight? Got any plans?” She asks, you’re tempted to shake your head and give her a definite answer, but the right side of your brain chews at you.
“I’ll have to see…I’m not sure what’s going on with the house, and my brother—and…yeah.” You dance around the other name, you always do.
“Okay, okay! Makes sense. Family first.” She gives you an understanding expression, one that cannot be mistaken for anything else. Just purely Callie.
You follow her around the car, letting her stop when she gets to the driver side door. You walk past, lugging your carry-on on your back and pulling your suitcase behind you.
“I love you!” She calls after you, you smirk. You can hear her car door opening and shutting. You manage to turn around and blow her a kiss before she pulls out of the driveway.
She waves her hand out the window as she drives away, one last you got this before you're left completely alone. Minus your thoughts…and two other people.
You sigh, shifting your weight between very cold feet. You contemplate calling Callie, and forcing her to bring you back to the airport. You knew she would comply without question, she was always loyal.
The house was nostalgic and repulsing all in one. The once pastel yellow walls now so neglected that they're basically white. The wraparound porch was filled with memories that you didn't even know you had up until now, you and Callie running around in plastic high heels, Ellie and your brother being forced to stand outside and dry off after sneaking out into the rainy afternoon. The windows are dusty, like beholders of secrets that aren't quite secret, but more so unacknowledged. They saw everything—every fight, every inside joke, the time that your father almost flipped the table on Callie and Jesse during a heated game of monopoly. It was rugged, and it was far from perfect, but it was home.
You shake your head, muttering indecent strings of self deprecation under your breath. Despite your lack of motivation, you somehow manage to struggle through the doorway, all your bags in tow and seemingly unscathed.
The living room is empty when you walk in, although there's signs of human life, like the jacket hanging over the back of the couch, or the video game controllers that sit on the coffee table, ready to be used, you don't see anyone.
The deep exhale you let out shakes you. A quick flood of white hot relief washes over you like this was more than just a visit home—like there was something worth dreading behind the faded banana walls and deteriorating storm door.
The kitchen is vacant of any life, opposite the living space before it. It was dark and cold, and clearly hadn't been visited by your sibling yet. You snort at the emptiness, shaking your head as you start up the stairs. The pictures are still the same, a few family photos that screamed dysfunction, and high school graduation pictures of every kid in the friend group. Yours was no exception, your smile was proud and awkward all at the same time, your hair pulled up and out of your face because your mom said it made your collarbones pop. Your brothers was hung right beside, smack dab in the middle of the row, his photo as careless as could be. Beside his was Ellie’s, her flaming auburns locks pulled into a half up half down style, with a few stands hanging loose over her nature kissed eyes. Her lips are pulled into a small, modest smile—the kind she only pulled out for pictures she didn’t want to be in. Her freckles spread over her pale skin like the stubborn coarse sand that you can't quite pick out of your hair, or the starry night sky that reflects perfectly onto the water while you're swimming at night. You could fall into them, get lost in each and every speck like they’re their own planet. It reminds you of every time you’d caught yourself exploring them, the water being the only thing holding you up as your eyes counted every one of the blemishes on her face. If you could, you’d sink into her, letting the water swallow you whole.
You shake your head, internally cursing yourself for the random spurt of longing. You weren’t sure what came over you, it just…happened.
Your childhood room isn't the relic you’d wished it to become throughout your years in it. You had hoped for a place of comfort, a place to come home to in between the chaotic semesters, and midterms that sucked the colour out of your face. But instead, it grew into a cave of dust and boxes with a few leftover books and a doorknob that hadn't been twisted in years.
There were a few things piled up on your old dresser, boxes labeled with picture frames and old clothes. You sigh, dropping your backpack down onto the bed, made up tightly from the last time someone was in it. It was cold, and smelled faintly of dust, and fabric. There’s another box titled books sitting in front of your closet, it was supposed to be taped up and shipped to you, but it unfortunately never made it out of the house. Courtesy of your mother.
You shift some things around, pushing the heavier boxes over to the door, and stacking the smaller ones on top. A few posters come down, a few go up. Some are moved to where they’re less visible.
You’re pulling the stack of boxes out of your room when the back of your foot knocks against something harsh. You wince, quickly reaching for the back of your heel as you hobble around to observe your offender.
Another brown box, sitting right in between two bedrooms. You raise an eyebrow, the unfamiliar storage container was sitting there, open. You pull it towards you by the dust flaps. You peer inside, it was full of notebooks, some familiar, some not. You dig through them, grabbing one from the middle of the box. You quickly flip through the pages, all full of pink pen and overly girly stickers.
It was a box of your diary’s. All the old books that sat untouched and full of feelings in your closet. You didn't realize there were so many of them until they were sitting before you, discarded into semi-organized piles like old textbooks.
You sit in the hallway for a moment, picking through the books like they were ancient texts. You sit there reading through every word, and cringing at every shitting drawing for what felt like minutes, but ended up to be over an hour. Most of them were full of your queer realizations and pining for your brother's best friend like an idiot, but there were a few that had you chuckling—middle school drama was always too serious. You couldn’t blink in that place without getting tagged in someone’s Snapchat story the next morning.
By the time you’re complete, the sun has hit the highest point in the sky, and the front door is clicking shut, a loud explosion of laughs following the noise. You curse under your breath, scrambling to your feet. You quickly begin to shove all the books back into their designated space.
You hear a masculine voice call up for you, one you can only recognize as your brothers. You debate ignoring him completely, the idea of sneaking back into your room and hiding away until you knew his friends were gone had no flaws in your eyes.
He calls you again, this time his voice louder and definitely attracting the attention of his peers. You growl, pushing yourself off the hardwood floor. Your knees ache from the time spent kneeling over the box, and a sudden pang pulls in your back when you stand.
“Fuck—! Coming!” Your voice wavers as you yell back at him, the shakiness of your tone echoing against the walls of the stairs. You quickly shuffle into the bathroom, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. You take a deep breath, smoothing down your hair in the mirror, just in case.
You curse under your breath, the chances of Ellie being there were…high, and your first impression had to be at least somewhat good. You can’t remember exactly how long it’s been since you had an actual conversation with the girl, a year and a half? Two?
You hold onto the railing as your soft clad feet hustle down the stairs. Your body seems to be moving faster than you can keep up with, because before you know it, you’re standing in the living room with about 10 pairs of eyes on you.
Your brother steps forward from the group, a cup in hand. “There she is!” He laughs, pulling you into an overwhelmingly tight hug. You're aware of all the eyes on you, all of them belonging to people you have already met, most of those being people you grew up with.
“Hi…” you chuckle, your voice wary and awkward. A few people wave at you before reverting back to their conversations, Jesse even verbally acknowledges you with a smile and an enthusiastic hey.
You search the room for that familiar pair of green irises that you’ve been thinking about since you got off the plane. When you met them, it was like she was never gone. You raise your hand to wave, your body moving in slow motion as a grin slowly builds its way onto her face.
Hi Ellie.. you imagine yourself saying, in a tone sweet enough to pull her out of her chair and into your arms. You picture her whispering about how much she missed you, and her asking you about school. But unfortunately, it doesn't go like that. Instead, she just winks, and turns back to the person she was talking to.
You nod, turning back to your own counterpart. “So…how was first year?” He inquires, trailing back into the kitchen to refill his drink. You suspect you're supposed to follow him, but your feet keep you planted to the floor.
“It was—good, yeah good.” You rock back and forth on your heels, before finally stepping forward. You've now welcomed yourself into their space. One girl was sitting on the counter, chatting with Dina. There were two boys that you didn't recognize cramming into the corner of the modestly sized room, staring everyone else down, making the occasional sly comment.
“Bet it wasn't like those movies you're always watching, huh?” He chuckles, turning back to you. You give him an insincere half smile and a laugh that sounded too much like an inhale.
“What’re you studying again? Journalism?” He asks, tilting his cup in your direction. A drop of coloured liquid flies onto your shirt, tainting the fabric darker.
You open your mouth to respond but a sudden hand on his shoulder stops you. It’s Ellie.
“English.” She corrects him, turning to you for clarification. You nod, your eyes wide with a mix of amazement and shock. “And then it's education, right?” She asks, squinting at you with uncertainty. You nod again.
Your brother rolls his eyes at the girl, she only laughs. “Brother of the year award goes to this guy.” She adds sarcastically, shaking her head as she turns to fill her cup as well.
your brother smiles, a small apology spilling from his lips. You wave him off, you weren’t expecting him to know. But you weren’t expecting her to know even more. The realization swirls in your stomach, Ellie knew this small fact about you off the top of her head, and you hadn’t spoken to her in years. You were separated by entire states and an extended period of time and she still remembered.
“D’ya want a drink? Fruit punch cut with Smirnoff.” Your brother offers, holding his hand out in a sort of welcoming gesture.
Fruit punch and Smirnoff…yeah, you’ll pass.
“Uhh—no…I’m so good without—that.” You half joke, gesturing to the drink in his hand with an awkward chuckle. He nods in acceptance, waving at you before rejoining his people.
Now it's just you and Ellie by the drinks, the other friends aren't far by any means, they can probably hear how heavily you’re breathing just as well as she can. You, for a moment, think she’s going to acknowledge you again, maybe invite you to sit down. She doesn't.
You shout a goodbye to your brother, and a full-hearted Nice to see you guys again! To the other people in the room before you retreat back up the stairs.
When you hear the click of your bedroom door close, you practically jump for your diary. The book was already back on your nightstand, the spot that it belonged, where you belonged. But you would never say that out loud. There’s a lot of things you would never say out loud, like how you were ninety percent sure your puppy-love crush on Ellie was returning in full force.
You could sit here and pretend that you aren’t usually delusional, but you absolutely are.
It was a quirk that you could never quite kick, especially when it came to the green eyed beauty standing just underneath your bedroom.
You open the book and scrounge for a pen, a pencil, anything. You settle on a baby blue pen with a fluffy puff on the top that had mysteriously showed up in your bedside drawer. You smile at the object, reminiscing on how you used it in this exact circumstance just a couple years ago.
You settle in, your back against the side of your bed while your legs rest against the rug on your floor. The second your pen meets the paper, you focus. Your thoughts feel like they're running at you at a million miles per minute, while your hand can only write at about one. It seems that everytime you gain a thought, you have to chase it to keep it.
You write for hours, only breaking to regain your thoughts or switch the record spinning on your very busted up record player. Your brother knocked once, letting you know that he was ordering pizza and that his friends would be gone soon.
You let your hands move until they physically can’t, filling the pages with recollections of every moment you’ve ever shared with the girl, every time she looked at you, every time she spoke your name in that honeysuckle tone. Every moment up until now, some rewritten and others unwritten.
You write like you’re chasing something, like there's not enough time in the day to complete the biography of this love you have fostered for well over ten years. You write like you're running out of time…call you Hamilton!
Before you returned home, you swore that the crush had faded into nothing. You thought the particles of stardust had disintegrated into dust long before you returned home. You thought.
Well, it turns out they hadn't broken down at all. They remained, just tucked all the way back, in the farthest corner of your consciousness. So what you thought about her everyday? And stalked her social media every time you got drunk? That didn’t mean you still had a crush on her. That’s normal!
By the time you place your pen on the ground and close the book, the sun has gone down and the noise in the house has faded into the quiet hum of your music. You sigh, shaking out your now ink stained hand. The black pigment tarnishing you In a way that felt somewhat affirming.
You crack your back and then you stand. You needed to shower.
The late evening has now faded into the very early morning. The clock on your stove was glowing red, and the kitchen is humming with that late night buzz that you could never identify.
You’re dancing around the kitchen, your playlist shuffling through your headphones. Currently, you were on your third song, the voice of Malcom Todd inflicting to to groove while you dig into a container of Betty Corker's infamous cream cheese icing.
You clap as your hips sway. The kitchen is only illuminated by the light above the stove and the occasional opening of the fridge.
You lick your lips, the sugary goo taints your lips with the taste of sweetness, a sort of soft femininity, in your opinion. You almost pull up google to search for a lipgloss in the same flavour.
The song switches this time it’s Don't Delete The Kisses. A song that has comforted you an uncountable number of times. You grin at the sound of the intro playing, scooping another hefty spoonful of icing into your mouth.
You sing along to the first verse, swaying through the kitchen as endless scenarios dance through your mind.
You connect the song to Kat and Patrick, from 10 Things I Hate About You, and then Harry and Sally from When Harry Met Sally, and eventually, you and Ellie.
You sigh, and then you laugh. You turn to the clock, 2:55, it reads. You promise yourself you’ll go upstairs at three.
The light turns on.
You whip around, eyes wide and mouth almost to the floor. It’s Ellie. Standing in the entryway of your kitchen with an amused grin plastered on her face. You press a hand to your chest, you didn't even know she was still here.
“Jesus!” You whisper, “you scared me! I almost screamed! Scrumpt? Scream-pt?” You berate. She laughs, stepping farther into the room.
“Sorry! Sorry!” She chuckles, walking over to the fridge to commit the exact same sin as you have been for the past half an hour.
Africa by Toto begins to play in your headphones, you turn it down. Ellie’s hair is a sexy kind of messy, it had been chopped since the last time you saw her, into a shorter shag type cut. She was clad in a plain white tee and blue plaid sleep shorts. The tattoo that had been started on her arm just before she left was completed now, covering her entire forearm with that blue-black ink. It was hot, really hot.
“What’re you doing up, anyway? It's late.” You ask, pushing yourself up onto the counter closest to the fridge. Ellie turns to you, an eyebrow raised.
“It’s summer. And I could ask you the same.” She pulls away from the fridge, hands vacant of whatever snack she was searching for.
“Mmm…Gimme that.” She demands softly when she notices the sweetness in your grasp. She opens her mouth, waiting for you to bring the spoon to her lips. Your stomach sinks. Not only were you and Ellie alone in the same room, but she was basically asking you to kiss her. Indirectly, of course.
You roll your eyes, scooping a hefty portion of the white paste onto your spoon. You push it into her mouth with an insane amount of uncertainty. She licks it clean with a smack of the lips, throwing you a thumbs up as she works it down her through.
“Thanks.” She licks her lips, smiling at you as you nod in response. The scene wasn't vulgar, nor lustful, but it had your stomach flipping like Simone biles.
You could smell her body wash, and her cologne, and the light scent of cigarettes that lingered on her shirt, clearly something she had grabbed from Joel’s house that was still stuck in 1990.
“Well… g’night. See ya tomorrow” she tags your name on at the end of her sentence, and it has you imagining your wedding.
“Goodnight, els. Sorry—Ellie. Ellie.” You fumble, the nickname a reflex at this point, a second nature. It had been something you came up with in your younger days, in the midst of your hurricane of a crush. Your brother always teased the both of you for it.
She waves you off with a smirk. “It’s fine.” She says, before turning down the hallway and walking back upstairs. You sit on the counter and listen until you’re sure she's in her room.
It's 3:23 when you finally leave the kitchen, 15 minutes after the other kitchen lurker. You sigh as you hop off the counter and walk out of the room. You flick the light off and your thoughts follow you all the way up the stairs.
That night you dream of menthol, mint, and clandestine kisses from the one person you're sure you can’t have.
Content: established relationship, domestic content (because I love it), brief mention of Dick and Alfred. Initial angst, but everything gets resolved quickly.
Summary: After an especially rough patrol, Bruce returns to the manor and finds Reader waiting for him. Both of them are stubborn, but they try to find a middle ground.
Warning: In this timeline, Bruce is between 27 and 30 years old. Dick has already been adopted and is part of the daily routine at the manor. No one is overly traumatized… yet. It could work perfectly as a second part of You Never Have To Ask. I might turn it into a series. Anyway, it can be read on its own.
Words: +1k
Remember English isn’t my first language, so if there’s any mistake, feel free to tell me!
For some reason, you were restless tonight. You had a feeling.
A bad feeling that ran from your spine all the way down to your toes.
It was two in the morning, and you were pacing back and forth in the mansion’s living room, trying to keep yourself busy. You’d finished the week’s work ahead of time, tidied up Bruce’s study, and made some tea for Dick, who, tonight, was home.
And still, you couldn’t shake off the tightness in your chest. Your mind kept drifting back to your husband out on the streets, fighting crime and trying to make Gotham a better place. But you were very worried.
—You should try to rest —Alfred’s voice startled you—. I’m certain Master Wayne is perfectly fine.
His words echoed in your mind without truly convincing you. Absentmindedly, you tugged at the hem of your pajamas, an old T-shirt and pants of Bruce’s. Maybe it was silly, but on nights like this, it made you feel like he was a little closer.
—Something’s not right, Alfred. —you murmured under your breath.
And of course, he understood. His expression didn’t change, but his voice softened when he saw how distressed you were.
—The life of a vigilante is a harsh one —he said after a pause—. He knows how to take care of himself. He is fully capable.
You nodded, though not very convincingly.
—I know, Alfred. But he’s still my husband.
But he knew you. He knew you were almost as stubborn as Bruce and that you wouldn’t back down, so he simply offered you a cup of coffee, something you gratefully accepted.
More than an hour later, as you chewed on your nails, you heard heavy footsteps coming slowly down the stairs.
Your heart sped up. You jumped off the couch and walked toward the sound, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind. Your breathing finally steadied once you saw Bruce safe and sound.
Except for his face.
You winced.
—Did you fight a cat? —you asked without thinking.
It was common for him to come home with a cut here or a bruise there, his body practically a map of injuries, so seeing red lines across his face wasn’t unusual, but it never failed to shock you.
—Very funny. —he grumbled.
He looked back at you, exhausted, as he removed the mask and sank onto the couch, such a rare display of vulnerability that you were afraid he’d shut down again if you breathed too loudly.
You stepped closer, standing between his legs as you gently took his face in your hands and tilted it side to side, checking the damage.
—Well… —you sighed. You’ve seen better days.
The corners of his lips curved slightly, almost smiling, but he didn’t answer. You could tell he was so drained that the only thing keeping him awake was sheer willpower.
—You’re awake —he said suddenly, frowning.
Ah, there it was.
—I couldn’t sleep —you replied simply, without admitting that tonight you’d been convinced he wouldn’t make it back to the mansion.
Thank God you were wrong.
You slipped away to the bathroom, where you always kept a first-aid kit for nights like this, and quickly returned to your spot in front of him.
—I can do it myself. —he muttered, trying to reach for the kit.
—Let me do it.
—I don’t need help.
—Your face says otherwise. —you shot back without flinching.
He was always a little stubborn about accepting help. Even when you tended to him with all the love in the world, he remained the same. You never got angry, you just insisted until he gave in.
Just like now. And faced with your stubbornness, he decided not to argue further. He simply rested his hands on your hips while you worked on his face, cleaning, disinfecting, and patching him up.
When you finished, you pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
—Thank you —he sighed.
—Anytime, sweetheart —you said as you cupped the less-bruised side of his cheek—. Hang up the suit. I’ll warm your dinner.
Of course, he wasn’t going to accept that without arguing, and when he was just about to speak, you cut him off.
—Don’t.
You didn’t wait for a reply as you walked toward the kitchen and got to work. You paused for a moment, ready to scold him again, but relaxed when the minutes passed and everything was silent. When he finally returned, he was in a better mood. His hair was damp, and he wore the clean pajamas you’d left in the room.
—Dick? —he asked, sitting at one of the stools by the counter.
—Asleep. —you said as you set the plate in front of him with ease—. Ever since I’ve been on vacation, I became his personal nightmare. He has class tomorrow, so I made him go to bed early.
He gave a faint smile.
You didn’t wait for an invitation, you sat in the empty chair beside him to keep him company.
—I cleaned your study —you said casually.
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
—Careful, or Alfred will think you’re trying to take his job.
—Would you hire me?
—Absolutely not.
His dry reply made you smile, and you nudged him lightly with your shoulder.
—I was worried. —you admitted—. False alarm, I guess.
Your husband’s expression softened. He inched his hand closer to yours, just enough to comfort you.
—I’m fine.
—I know. It was just irrational worry. Alfred said you were fine. I should’ve believed him.
—He’ll forgive you —he said without much care.
He finished eating while listening to you talk about Dick, chiming in here and there. He was fighting the urge to sleep, you could tell by the way his shoulders sagged, and by almost four in the morning, you decided it was time to go to bed.
—Come on, big guy, bedtime. —you said as you stood up and took his empty plate to the sink.
He shook his head.
—I should go train.
Now it was your turn to frown—. You’re going to sleep, even if you try bribing me like Dick and I have to drag you there myself.
You hadn’t noticed he’d gotten up, and just as you turned the faucet on, you felt his hands slide over yours, stopping you. You looked at him, confused.
He looked right back.
—All right. Let’s go to bed then —he said quietly.
Over time, you’d learned his ways of showing worry and affection. You never tried to change him, you’d learned how to read him, and that was enough for you. He was giving in and because of that, you did too. You nodded and let him lead the way.
You both slipped into bed in silence, trying not to wake Dick, and once you were settled under the blankets, he pulled you against his chest and kissed the top of your head.
—Thank you. —he whispered again, his breathing growing slower.
You knew what he meant.
—Don’t get used to it —you murmured with a smile, knowing that you would do it thousands of times —. Sleep, Bruce.
You heard a sound between a sigh and a laugh, and you knew he was probably already half-asleep. That was your last thought before sleep finally took you as well. Tomorrow, you’d figure out how to apologize to Alfred.
Note: thank you so much for reading this far ❤️ I also want to thank you for the likes and reblogs on the previous post — I love you all very much. I don’t know if this is actually any good; it was sitting in my drafts and I’m barely surviving finals, but I didn’t want to stop posting.
synopsis: uconn paige bueckers and reader from usc have been dating for a while now their relationship has ups and downs. a time jump leaves them in different places everything changes when they are drafted. will they end up together?
warnings: fluff! angst! smut! oral!
(2.1k word count)
The secret had lasted almost a full year. Paige Bueckers at UConn, you at USC. Nobody knew. Not your teammates, not the media, not even your closest friends. Long distance was brutal enough without adding the world’s eyes to it. But lately the miles between you felt heavier than usual. Paige’s stories with the team, girls constantly in her comments, replies that came later and later. You kept questioning her loyalty even when she swore you were the only one.
This crossover tournament East Coast vs. West Coast was the first time you’d seen each other in three months. While other games ran in the arena, you slipped away with Paige to her dorm room.
The door shut behind you and the rest of the world disappeared. Paige pulled out a small plastic ball and a mini hoop she’d stuck to the back of her closet door.
“Alright,” she said, spinning the tiny ball on her finger with a smirk. “Horse. Same rules. Loser has to admit whether they’re still in love or we are done.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And if it’s a tie?”
Paige’s eyes dropped to your lips. “Then we stop pretending this isn’t killing us both.”
The game was ridiculous and intimate. You had to stand close, bodies brushing every time you took a shot. Paige sank a tricky bank shot off the tiny rim. You copied it. She hit a left-handed hook you answered. Every make came with teasing, every miss with laughter that faded into heated stares. The score stayed dead even until the final letter.
Paige missed on purpose. You both knew it.
She let the ball drop and walked you backward until your thighs hit her bed. “Guess we’re still too in the game for love,” she murmured, voice low.
You pulled her down on top of you. “Then love me right here.”
Clothes came off slowly. Paige took her time, kissing down your neck, your chest, your stomach, like she was memorizing you again. When she settled between your thighs, strong hands gripping your hips, you let out a shaky breath. She looked up at you once, eyes dark, then lowered her mouth to you.
The first slow drag of her tongue made your back arch. Paige hummed against your clit, two fingers sliding inside you easily, curling just right. She knew exactly how you liked it how to build you up and keep you there until you were trembling. You gripped her blonde hair, thighs tightening around her head as she sucked and licked with devastating focus.
“fuck, baby—” Your voice broke.
She didn’t stop. She worked you through it, steady and relentless, until your orgasm crashed over you hard. Your hips jerked against her mouth, a broken moan spilling out as pleasure pulsed through every nerve. Paige stayed between your legs, gentling you down with soft kisses and lazy strokes until you were boneless and panting.
She crawled back up, pressing her forehead to yours. “Still mine?” she whispered.
“Yeah,” you breathed, pulling her closer. “Still yours.”
- Game Night -
Game night was electric. UConn 105, USC 101. A four-point dogfight that came down to the final possession. You poured in 27 points and guarded Paige like your life depended on it. She still dropped 34 on you, but every time you hit a big shot you caught her small smile from the other bench. Every time she made a highlight play, pride bloomed in your chest anyway. You were still rooting for each other even while trying to beat each other.
After the final buzzer, the celebration was loud and chaotic. Paige found you in the tunnel, pulling you into a long hug that felt like everything you’d been missing. Later at the joint after-party, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other subtle touches, stolen kisses in corners, bodies pressed close while everyone else was too drunk to notice.
Until you went to grab drinks and came back to see a random girl pressed up against Paige on the dance floor. She was grinding back on her, laughing, hands all over her. Paige wasn’t pushing her away fast enough.
Your stomach twisted.
You left without a word.
Paige found you twenty minutes later on a quiet bench outside the venue.
“Why’d you dip?” she asked, sitting beside you.
“I saw her dancing on you.” Your voice was tight. “You let her.”
Paige sighed, running a hand through her hair. “It wasn’t like that. She was just drunk and—”
“And you weren’t stopping it.” You turned to face her, eyes stinging. “I’ve been scared for months, Paige. The distance, the girls around you, the way I’m always wondering if I’m enough while you’re here living your life. I love you. I’m so in love with you it hurts. But I’m tired of feeling like I’m competing for you.”
Paige’s eyes watered. “I love you too. You’re the only one I want. But I get lonely as hell. I flirt sometimes because it feels good to feel wanted when you’re three thousand miles away. I haven’t cheated, I swear, but I know how it looks.” She swallowed hard. “And I see your posts too. All the attention you get out there. It messes with my head.”
You both sat in silence for a while, the night air cool between you.
“Maybe we’re trying to force something that the timing won’t let work right now,” Paige said quietly. “The game already takes so much. This long-distance thing… it’s taking everything else.”
Tears slipped down your cheeks. Paige reached over and wiped them away with her thumb, then let her own fall.
“I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered.
“You won’t,” she said, voice cracking. “Just… not like this. Not half-in, always doubting. We focus on ball. We grow up. Maybe one day when the timing’s better…”
You kissed her one last time slow, deep, aching. When you pulled away, it felt final.
The next morning you flew back to USC. Paige stayed in Storrs. The secret stayed buried.
But whenever your teams played again after that, you still looked for each other. Still rooted quietly from opposite benches. Still a little too all in hoop for love.
For then.
- Two Years Later - Senior Season
The headlines had been screaming it for months: Paige Bueckers, projected No. 1 pick. USC’s star guard projected at No. 3. Your names stayed linked in mock drafts and “where will they land?” articles, even if the world still didn’t know you’d once been each other’s secret.
You were still at USC. Paige was finishing up at UConn. You had Maya now a sweet, funny graphic design major who had nothing to do with basketball. She made you laugh. She was stable. She was here. Paige, on the other hand, had stayed single and loud about it. Her Instagram stories were full of club nights, girls in her section, champagne showers after big wins. You tried not to look, but you always did.
- NYC Pre-Draft Party – Spring 2025
The rooftop venue in Manhattan glittered with future WNBA stars, agents, and influencers. You arrived with Maya’s hand in yours. She looked amazing in a black and red tailored suit, and you wore a sleek red dress that fit perfectly. You felt good. Settled.
Until you felt her eyes.
Paige was across the room in a black sparkly suit that fit her frame, blonde hair falling in effortless waves. Makeup was stunning. She was laughing with a group of other top prospects, but the second she spotted you, her smile faltered. Her gaze dropped to Maya’s hand in yours, then slowly dragged back up to your face. Something sharp flashed behind her eyes jealousy, plain and raw.
You swallowed hard, pulse kicking up. Maya leaned in to say something in your ear about the view, and you laughed a little too loudly, hyper-aware of Paige still watching. When you glanced back, Paige was sipping her drink, jaw tight, no longer smiling. She raised her glass in a mock toast when your eyes met. You nodded back, cheeks warm, a familiar heat curling low in your stomach.
Maya excused herself to grab fresh drinks. Paige didn’t waste the opening. She crossed the floor with that same confident stride you remembered from dorm-room Horse games.
“Looking good, No. 3,” she said, voice low enough for only you to hear. Her eyes flicked over you appreciatively.
You exhaled shakily. “Paige.”
She stepped a little closer, the scent of her familiar perfume hitting you. “Didn’t think you’d bring her here. Public and everything.”
“It’s not a secret anymore,” you replied, trying to sound steady. “We’ve been together six months.”
Paige’s jaw flexed. “Six months. Damn.” She let out a short laugh that didn’t reach her eyes. “Guess I really did lose you.”
The words landed heavy. You felt flustered, heat rising to your face. “You never tried to keep me.”
Before Paige could answer, Maya returned with two cocktails. Paige’s mask slid back into place instantly charming smile, easy congratulations for both of you. But when she walked away, she glanced back once. The look she gave you made your stomach flip.
You spent the rest of the night trying to focus on Maya while feeling Paige’s stare like a hand on your skin.
- WNBA Season – Mid July 2025
You were in Phoenix now, rocking Mercury orange and purple. Paige was in Dallas with the Wings. The distance was shorter only a couple-hour flight but life moved fast. Games, travel, media, recovery. You and Maya were still together, but cracks had started showing. She didn’t fully understand the grind. You still thought about Paige more than you should.
Then the text came.
Paige: Hey. I’m in Phoenix for a couple days. Dinner? Just us. Casual. Been too long.
You stared at the message for twenty minutes before replying: Okay. Casual.
You met at a quiet Italian spot downtown, tucked away from the usual crowds. Paige was already there when you arrived, wearing a simple white tee and jeans, hair in a loose ponytail. She stood up when she saw you, pulling you into a hug that lingered two seconds too long. You let her.
“Phoenix looks good on you,” she said once you were seated, eyes tracing your face like she was re-learning it.
“Dallas treating you okay, No. 1?” you teased back.
The conversation started light and comfortable, like slipping into an old favorite song.
You talked about the season how Paige was already averaging 22 and change, how you were thriving next to Kahleah Copper, adjusting to the pro speed. She asked about your family. You asked about hers. She told you about her little brothers’s basketball games and how her mom still sent her care packages. You laughed about the ridiculous travel schedule and the way both of your teams had played each other already close game, another quiet nod across the court when you checked her.
Somewhere between the appetizers and entrees, the flirting crept in.
Paige leaned forward, chin on her hand. “You still do that thing when you’re focused on defense? Tongue poking out a little?” She demonstrated with a smirk.
You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You still do that cocky little shoulder shrug after a step-back three?”
“Only when I know you’re watching,” she shot back, voice dropping. Her foot brushed yours under the table and stayed there.
The air thickened. You traced the rim of your glass. “Why’d you really ask me to dinner, Paige?”
She was quiet for a beat, eyes sincere. “Because I saw you with her in New York and it fucked me up. Still does.” A soft laugh. “I’m out here living the single life everyone expects, but every time I score a big bucket or hit a game-winner… I still look for you first. Even when you’re on the other bench in a different jersey.”
Your heart squeezed. “I’m still with Maya.”
“I know,” she said gently. “And I’m not asking you to blow up your life. I just… missed this. Missed us. Even if it’s only dinner and some light flirting that we both know isn’t really light.”
You let out a breathy laugh, cheeks warm again. “You’re dangerous, Bueckers.”
“Only for you.” Her eyes held yours across the candlelight. “No pressure. Just… I’m here. You’re here. We’re closer in proximity than we’ve been in years. If you ever want more than casual dinners, you know where to find me.”
The rest of the night flowed easy stories, inside jokes, lingering glances, her foot still occasionally brushing yours. When you hugged goodbye outside the restaurant, Paige’s arms wrapped around your waist a little tighter, her lips brushing your temple.
“Text me when you get home safe,” she murmured.
You nodded, flustered all over again, heart and head at war as you watched her walk away.
You were still with Maya.
But Paige was still Paige.
And some things some people were never really over.
a/n: this would lowkey be a good small story with a couple chapters? idk lmk
Summary: Max used to think that you’re too sweet for him … now he has to learn to live with the fact that Toto has quite a sweet tooth (inspired by the song that I’ve had on repeat)
I take my whiskеy neat
The doors to the upscale restaurant swing open and Max strides through, his fingers lightly grazing the small of your back as he guides you inside. The dimly lit interior is bustling with the chatter of well-heeled patrons enjoying their evening repasts. A sharply dressed hostess greets you with a polite smile.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to The Sazerac Room. Do you have a reservation?”
“Verstappen,” Max replies curtly.
The hostess consults her tablet, then nods. “Right this way please.”
She leads the two of you through the elegant dining room, weaving between tables topped with crisp white linens and elaborate floral centerpieces. Max keeps his hand at your back, his thumb idly stroking in a soothing pattern as you take in the opulent surroundings with wide eyes.
“This place is incredible,” you murmur, craning your neck to admire the ornate chandeliers glittering overhead. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
He simply grunts in acknowledgment as the hostess stops before an intimate table tucked discreetly in the corner. After pulling out your chair for you with a flourish, she sets two leather-bound menus on the table.
“Your server will be right with you,” she informs them before departing with a polite nod.
You waste no time in opening your menu, hungrily perusing the offerings. “Oh Max, look at all these amazing cocktails! The La Vie en Rose sounds divine — rose liqueur, raspberries, lemon ...” You glance up at him hopefully. “We should get a couple of those to start.”
Max barely glances at his own menu before shaking his head. “I’ll just have a whiskey neat.”
Your face falls slightly at his brusque response. “Are you sure? These all look so good! We should live a little and try something fun for once.”
He fixes you with a stern look from across the table. “You know I don’t like frilly drinks. Now stop pestering me about it.”
Chastened by his harsh tone, you lapse into a wounded silence and continue reading the menu with diminished enthusiasm. A few moments later, a dapper middle-aged gentleman in a crisp suit appears at your table.
“Good evening, and welcome to The Sazerac Room. My name is William and I’ll be your server this evening.” With a polite smile, he produces a notepad from his breast pocket. “May I start you off with something to drink?”
You glance back at Max, giving him one last chance to change his mind. When he simply gazes back at you impassively, you sigh. “I’ll have the La Vie en Rose cocktail, please.”
William jots down your order before turning to Max expectantly.
“Whiskey neat,” Max says flatly. “Redbreast 27 Year, if you have it.”
“An excellent choice, sir.” William makes a note. “And may I bring you both some bread from our bakery while you decide on your meals?”
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” you reply gratefully.
William departs to place the drink orders, leaving you and Max alone once more. An awkward silence stretches between you, filled only by the tinkle of silverware and murmurs of conversation from surrounding tables.
Finally, you try again. “Max, are you sure I can’t tempt you with one little sip? This La Vie en Rose cocktail sounds absolutely divine. You might lov-”
“For fuck’s sake!” Max suddenly explodes, slamming his menu down on the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want any of your ridiculous fruity bullshit? I’m a fucking race car driver, not some ridiculous Instagram model trying to look pretty with my drink.”
His nostrils flare as he leans across the table, eyes flashing with irritation that you would dare continue to push the issue. “I’ve had a long fucking day and I am going to drink whatever the fuck I want. So order your stupid fucking girly cocktail if you must, but don’t act so goddamn disappointed and keep shoving it in my face when I say no.”
You shrink back in your chair, eyes widening with hurt at his enraged outburst. The crestfallen look on your face is enough to douse Max’s fury like a bucket of ice water. He slumps back, remorse already stirring as he witnesses the light dimming in your eyes, lips trembling ever so slightly as you blink back sudden tears.
“I … I was just excited to try something new together,” you whisper shakily. “But never mind. You’re right, I’m sorry.”
The arrival of William with a basket of assorted breads and your glittering pink cocktail garnished with raspberries provides a merciful distraction from the tension.
You immediately reach for the drink, wrapping your hands around the delicate stemmed glass and taking a large gulp — both to avoid making eye contact with Max and to sample your coveted libation.
A look of bliss softens your features as the tart, sugary concoction bursts across your taste buds. “Mmm, this is incredible!”
For a beat, Max can’t help but drink in your look of pure enjoyment — the way your eyes flutter closed in delight, pink lips quirking into a contented smile as you savor each sip. It simultaneously tugs at his heartstrings and fills him with an irrational stab of resentment.
Here you are, sweet and radiant, able to find joy in the simplest of things … while he is just a miserable bastard who can’t let himself enjoy anything without getting irrationally angry.
You deserve so much better than him.
The thought is sobering and he feels shame burn hot in his gut. Unconsciously, his shoulders slump as he watches you take another euphoric sip of your cocktail.
“I knew it, this is amazing,” you sigh happily, seemingly recovered from his earlier tantrum as you bask in the deliciousness of your drink. “Max, you have to try just one little-”
“No.” The refusal is automatic, the word slicing through your offer before he can think better of it.
Your face shutters once more, the bright light in your eyes dimming as your smile fades into resignation. With a soft exhale, you set your glass down and reach for the bread basket instead.
“Suit yourself, then.”
As you silently butter a roll, Max finds himself at a rare loss, anger dissipating into regret as the knot in his stomach tightens painfully. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration after his impressive win on the track, a chance for the two of you to enjoy each other’s company and make more happy memories together.
Instead, he’s gone and ruined the mood … again … just like he always does.
***
“Another round?” Checo’s voice cuts through the sound of laughter and chatter around the table.
Max glances up distractedly from pushing the remaining bits of food around his plate. He, Checo, and a few other members of the Red Bull team are celebrating a successful Monaco Grand Prix. Despite making the podium, Max’s mind hasn’t really been on the festivities.
“I’m all set, thanks,” he mutters, raising his glass of whiskey with a tight smile before taking a sip. His gaze drifts across the opulent dining room of Cipriani Monte Carlo, idly scanning the crowd of wealthy patrons enjoying their evening meals.
That’s when his eyes catch on a shockingly familiar figure.
You.
Sitting at an intimate corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a candle’s flickering flame. For a moment, Max’s breath catches in his throat as a thousand bittersweet memories assault him all at once.
The hurt look on your face that night at The Sazerac Room … the resignation in your eyes as you accepted, yet again, that he would never be able to appreciate the sweet, simple pleasures that brought you such joy ...
The cold, empty silence that descended over your apartment when he finally left for good, stuffing his belongings into a duffel bag as you watched with trembling lips from across the room ...
Max blinks, and the moment passes — but his gaze remains riveted to your table. Because there, sitting across from you with adoration written across his insufferable face … is Toto Wolff.
Max feels his lips curl into an unconscious sneer as the Mercedes team principal murmurs something to you with a gentle smile, reaching across to delicately brush a lock of hair behind your ear. You catch Toto’s hand as it falls, pressing a tender kiss into his palm that makes the older man’s expression soften even further.
Your waiter arrives then, providing a momentary distraction as he lays out a couple of fresh cocktails on crisp white linen — a bright purple concoction garnished with a sugared rim and a plump cherry for you and an amber-hued old fashioned for Toto.
Your eyes light up as you take in the colorful beverage, immediately wrapping your hands around the delicate stemmed glass and bringing it to your lips to sample. A look of pure delight crosses your features as the no doubt sugary drink bursts across your taste buds.
“Mmm ...” you hum in pleasure, causing Toto to chuckle affectionately as he watches you enjoy the first reveling sips.
Setting your glass down, you gesture enthusiastically toward it as you address Toto. “This is incredible! You have to try it.”
Without hesitation, the Mercedes team boss dutifully leans across the table to take a long pull from your straw. Max watches with a mixture of disgust and morbid fascination as Toto’s expression morphs into one of surprised enjoyment.
“Wow, that is quite good, isn’t it?” Toto remarks with an indulgent grin, licking a telltale dab of purple syrup from the corner of his mouth.
“I told you!” You crow in delight, eyes sparkling with unrestrained glee.
The pure joy radiating from you in that moment is enough to make Max’s heart clench in his chest. He has seen that look before, so many times — whenever he deigned to let go of his surly demeanor for even a moment and actually indulge whatever fleeting whim or simple pleasure you desired to share with him.
But it was always so short-lived with him, stamped out by his own stubborn refusal to truly embrace anything resembling happiness or frivolity. You deserved so much more than his constant scowling and gruff rebuffs.
As if reading his thoughts, Toto then leans across the table to tenderly capture your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. The gentle intimacy of it makes Max’s gut churn as a feeling too complicated to fully unpack blossoms in his chest.
When you finally part, both of you are smiling at each other with such open, unguarded adoration that it’s almost obscene to witness. Toto reaches out to cradle your face in his palm as your lips find his once more in another chaste, loving caress.
This time, when you pull away, you let your head loll back with a look of pure bliss. Something deep within Max cracks and splinters at the sight. In a haze, he finds himself drifting back through the churning currents of memory ...
… that last, fateful shouting match in your living room, both of you red-faced and furious as the dam holding back all the anger and resentment and accusations that had been building for months finally burst ...
… you weeping silently as you clutched a meager trash bag containing what little remained of his belongings, not even able to look at him for fear of collapsing completely ...
… “I’m too sweet for you, Max. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”
The acid words burn in his mind even now, feeling as fresh and raw as that night they were spat out like venom between you. His chest constricts as his gaze falls guiltily back to the present day scene in front of him.
Toto and you, basking in the warm, rosy glow of new love — careless and unrestrained in your public affection. Delighting in each other’s company and simple pleasures … just as you always desired for Max to do, yet he could never fully surrender to.
The display is like a twisted mirror, taunting him with the vibrant reflection of what he threw away. What he was too foolish, too emotionally stunted and uncaring to fully appreciate at the time.
Stumbling from his chair in a daze, Max barely registers the questioning looks and concerned murmurs from his team as he staggers from the dining room. He hardly makes it to the privacy of the restroom before bending at the waist, hefting the contents of his stomach into the thankfully pristine porcelain basin.
The whiskey burns on the way back up.
Max grips the edges of the counter, face contorted in anguish as a realization washes over him in searing waves.
You were the real prize all along … and now, he’s lost you for good.
My coffee black
The drone of announcements over the PA system and the dull roar of hundreds of people bustling to and fro mingles into an ever-present white noise hum. Max trudges ahead, the brim of his ball cap tugged low as he weaves through the teeming crowds filing through the airports’ terminals.
It’s just after 5 am, the start of another grueling race week. This time the travel will take you from the Middle Eastern leg of the circuit to the other side of the world in Australia. Twenty-plus hours of planes, layovers, and jet lag beckon — a prospect that grows less and less appealing with each passing season.
A warm weight presses against his side as you shuffle along beside him, head lolling adorably as you struggle to keep your eyes open. One slender hand is looped through the crook of his elbow, gripping the strap of your carry-on bag with the other. You let out a jaw-cracking yawn, leaning into Max’s solid bulk.
“I need coffee,” you mumble groggily. “I’m barely conscious.”
He shoots you a sidelong glance, mouth quirking ever-so-slightly at your dramatics. As grating as your tendency for excessive cheerfulness can be at times, he does admire your ability to shake off the fatigue and stress that plagues him more and more these days.
“There’s one of those chains up ahead,” he grunts, nodding toward the familiar logo peeking through from around the corner.
You light up immediately, straightening and quickening your shuffling steps in anticipation of the caffeinated boost soon to come. By the time you reach the counter, there’s a bright spark back in your eyes that makes the exhaustion plaguing Max’s own limbs feel slightly more bearable.
The barista, a pimple-faced youth who can’t be any older than 18, greets you with a too-wide smile. “Welcome to Daily Grind! What can I get started for you?”
You lean in eagerly, surveying the massive display of chalkboard signs advertising the latest sugar bombs and “coffee” concoctions designed to appease the basic palates of everyday people who wouldn’t know a good cup of joe if it slapped them across the face. Max scowls, already anticipating some ridiculously saccharine order.
“I’ll have a large cinnamon honey oat milk latte, please,” you chirp, as expected.
The barista marks down your request with a perky nod. “Excellent! And for you, sir?”
“Black coffee,” Max replies flatly. “Medium.”
Your brow furrows as you shoot him a quizzical look. “Just black coffee? Not even a splash of cream or anything?”
He shakes his head tersely, one hand already rummaging in his pocket for his wallet as the barista rattles off the total. “We’re in a rush as it is, and that sugary nonsense you ordered takes forever to make with all the fussy bullshit they do to it.”
You wince at his blunt assessment, shoulders slumping a bit in a way that makes a pang of guilt flicker through Max’s chest. He doesn’t mean to be so harsh … but sometimes it’s like the more considerate side of his nature has been ground away by years of constant training and calculating every single variable down to the most minute detail.
The poor kid working the register seems to shrink under the intensity of Max’s gruff demeanor. With shaky hands, he quickly processes the payment before stammering out your total. As you shuffle off to the side to wait for your orders, Max can’t help but keep picking.
“Honestly, I don’t know why you insist on ordering those stupid drinks that are 90% milk and trash,” he mutters, shooting you a disapproving look. “Barely any actual coffee at all.”
You frown, immediately hunching into yourself a bit as you cradle a handful of napkins against your chest. “It’s not like that coffee flavor isn’t there at all,” you argue meekly. “And I have to get some kind of caffeine boost to stay awake during all these flights and race weekends. I just … I don’t really like the taste of black coffee.”
Max scoffs loudly at that, shaking his head in open derision. “Sure, because drinking just regular black coffee like an adult would be too difficult. Instead you have to get your ‘caffeine boost’ from some tooth-rottingly sweet concoction that looks like something a child would order.”
The barista shifts uncomfortably behind the counter, clearly flustered by Max’s abrasive tone. Not that he cares — he’s been dealing with people gawking at him in public for years now. What does rub him the wrong way is the wounded look spreading across your delicate features, eyes dropping to stare dejectedly at the floor.
He opens his mouth to continue chiding you, but at that moment the barista appears with your drinks. The sweet, cinnamony aroma of your order hits Max’s nostrils like a slap in the face, making his nose wrinkle on instinct. You accept your oversized paper cup gratefully, hands automatically curling around the comforting warmth.
With visible enthusiasm, you bring the drink to your lips, unable to resist taking a sip despite the scalding temperature. Max tracks the minute changes in your expression — the slight widening of your eyes, the upward quirk of your lips into a smile of unalloyed contentment. Your lashes flutter closed on a quiet hum of blissful appreciation.
“Mmm … heaven,” you practically moan, hunching over your cup as though to better inhale the revitalizing notes of sugar and spice.
It makes Max want to retch, watching you so unashamedly indulging in such vapid, artificial flavors. How can you find such simple-minded pleasure in that, when you could be savoring the bold, robust notes of a proper cup of black coffee? One meant to awaken the senses and caress the taste buds with its smoky aroma and rich, nuanced flavor notes.
“You can’t honestly get any enjoyment from basically drinking hot milk and flavored syrups,” he mutters, sneering at the offensive beverage in your grasp.
In response, you simply shift closer to him until you’re pressed alongside his body. Your free hand snakes around his bicep, squeezing gently as you tilt your head back to gaze up at him imploringly. Exhaustion and hurt war openly with the angelic softness of your delicate features.
“Max … can’t you just let me enjoy this?” You plead in a low murmur. “It’s early, and we’ve got a long flight ahead.”
His jaw clenches stubbornly, unwilling to back down so easily. Caffeine and sleep deprivation have eroded his already thin sense of decorum.
“I’m just saying, drinking a syrupy dessert drink loaded with sugar and god knows what else isn’t doing you any favors. You might as well just stick to black coffee like a normal adult if you want to be awake and energized.”
The wounded look in your eyes deepens into something more somber and resigned. Slowly, you pull away from Max’s side until a noticeable distance stretches between your bodies. Something inside him shrivels at the loss of contact. Your slender fingers work feverishly at the cup’s lid until it pops off with a dull thunk.
Max stares blankly as you march over to the nearest trash can and upend the contents of your cup into the receptacle. You don’t even seem to hesitate — simply turn on your heel and hurl the now-empty cup in after the wasted drink. It clatters hollowly against the canister, mocking and empty.
When you turn back to face Max, the sight makes the now-lukewarm coffee sitting neglected in his own cup feels like a lead weight in his gut. Your arms are wrapped protectively around yourself, hunched against some unseen foe. Head bowed, you refuse to meet his gaze as you slowly make your way back over to where he stands rooted to the spot in stunned silence.
It’s only as you draw up beside him that Max notices the twin tear tracks striping your cheeks. Your chin remains stubbornly trembling, but you make no move to wipe at the tears now falling freely. Max’s chest constricts almost painfully at the sight of your misery, the guilt gnawing at him as the reality sets in.
He is the reason for it. His harsh, uncompromising tongue has wounded you in one of the cruelest ways once again. Too strict, too unyielding, too incapable of allowing even the smallest indulgences that bring you simple joy without sneering dismissal.
For several agonizing moments, the two of you stand in silence amid the milling crowds of travelers streaming past. Max can’t bring himself to meet your gaze, knowing he’ll only find the depths of his own callous thoughtlessness reflected back at him in your swimming eyes.
Finally, you release a shuddering sigh that sounds far too weighted for someone of your sweetness and light. When you speak, your voice is little more than a tremulous murmur laced with dejection.
“Let’s just go to the gate, Max.”
You brush past him without another word, leaving him to trail numbly in your wake as shame burns a hole through his gut. He watches as your form disappears into the throngs, shoulders already beginning to hunch inward as that spark of happiness in you gutters and fades.
Lingering behind, Max’s gaze falls to the empty cup lying crumpled and discarded in the trash. A reminder of yet another instance where his unchecked tongue and inability to empathize has spoiled an innocent attempt at simple pleasure.
His coffee suddenly tastes like ash on his tongue.
As he moves to dump the neglected drink into the nearby basin, Max wonders with a sinking feeling just how many more times he’ll be able to snuff out your light before it dwindles to nothing.
***
The late morning sun bears down with oppressive force, causing a mirage-like haze to shimmer over the sweltering asphalt of the paddock. Despite being early summer, the Spanish air is already thick and heavy enough to bathe Max’s skin in a sheen of perspiration as he trudges toward the Red Bull Energy Station.
Ahead, he spots a cluster of people milling aimlessly near the entrance to the Mercedes motorhome. At the center appears to be you, head tilted back in unrestrained laughter at something George Russell is regaling you with. The British driver is equally animated, pale features scrunched up in exaggerated motions as he relays what is no doubt an amusing tale.
Max feels his steps gradually slow of their own accord as he takes you in from a distance. You seem utterly at ease and in your element — cheeky grin splitting your face, one hand toying idly with the ends of your hair as your eyes crinkle with unbridled mirth.
A pure vision of effortless contentment.
His gut clenches unexpectedly, unbidden memories of how he methodically chipped away at that very lightness in you until it was all but extinguished washing over him in a nauseating wave. How quickly he took such simple joys for granted ...
So transfixed is he by the sight of your open, honest amusement that Max barely notices the figure slipping up behind you. Not until Toto Wolff raises a conspiratorial finger to his lips, eyes twinkling impishly as he pantomimes for silence at a sputtering George.
You remain oblivious even as the Mercedes team principal slides flush against your back, looping one arm around your waist to tug you snug against his chest. With his free hand, Toto cups it teasingly over your eyes — to which you release a tinkling peal of laughter.
“Guess who?” The playful lilt of the older man’s Austrian lilt is unmistakable, dripping with honeyed warmth.
“Hmm … I wonder,” you murmur coyly, making a show of tapping your chin in feigned confusion. “Is it a dashing gentleman caller here to sweep me off my feet?”
Toto chuckles deeply in your ear, the sound positively dripping with unguarded affection. “Only if you’ll have me, liebling.”
Craning your head back with a cheeky grin, your arms instinctively wind around his neck as you stretch up on your tiptoes to greet him properly. Toto meets your lips in a lingering, languid kiss that has George hastily clearing his throat and looking resolutely anywhere but at the affectionate display before him.
When you finally part, all radiant smiles and flushed cheeks, it’s like the rest of the world has completely fallen away. Toto gazes down at you with such pure adoration that Max feels his throat constrict as though a belt is suddenly cinched tight around it.
“I have a surprise for you, schnucki,” Toto murmurs huskily, lips brushing your temple as he speaks.
You light up like a kid on Christmas morning, practically vibrating with excitement at his words. “Oh? Do tell!”
With a wink and roguish smile, Toto brandishes his other hand from behind his back — in it, clutched protectively, is a large cup topped with whipped cream and what looks like edible flower petals sprinkled over the top. The light purple hue of the iced contents catches in the bright sun, refracting a prism of soft, delicate colors.
“I had the barista in our hospitality whip this up for you,” Toto explains fondly. “After I mentioned how much you enjoy trying unique coffee flavors. It’s a lavender vanilla iced latte.”
Your mouth drops open in a perfect ‘o’ of delight as you instinctively make grabby motions toward the tantalizing beverage. Max recognizes that earnest enthusiasm all too well. It’s the same look you used to get whenever presented with any unique taste or experience to appreciate.
A look he always met with disdain and scorn.
Toto doesn’t hesitate for a second before depositing the cup into your greedy hands. You immediately cradle it reverently, as though it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever held. Ducking your head, you take a long pull through the striped paper straw.
The expression that blossoms across your features as that first taste bursts over your tongue is one of pure, unadulterated bliss. Your eyes flutter closed on a muffled moan of sinful enjoyment, lips pursing as though savoring each individual note of flavor. Max hasn’t seen you look that unguardedly delighted by anything in … well, he can’t actually recall the last time.
“Oh Toto, this is heavenly!” You gush, swiping your tongue across your lower lip to catch a stray drop of condensation. “The lavender is subtle, but gives it such a uniquely fresh and floral twist. And the vanilla adds this creamy sweetness that keeps it from being overwhelming.”
You open your eyes to beam radiantly up at the older man, who returns your luminous smile with equal warmth. “It’s perfect, thank you! You have to try it.”
Without prompting, you eagerly offer the cup up to Toto. He accepts it with an indulgent chuckle, locking eyes with you as he takes a contemplative sip — no doubt eager to share in whatever fleeting moment of bliss the simple drink has brought you.
Unlike Max, who would have turned up his nose and likely received it with derision, Toto seems to savor the complex blend of flavors. Humming thoughtfully, he swipes his tongue across his upper lip as though committing each separate note to memory.
“You’re quite right, liebling,” he agrees readily, “this is delightful. So refreshing for this heat. I may have to acquire a taste for these iced coffees myself.”
You positively glow at his assessment, lighting up from within like a joyful little sun. Max is helpless before the storm of emotions suddenly ripping through him at the sight.
“Oh! That reminds me,” you chirp giddily, bouncing on the balls of your feet, “I was talking to the barista about maybe incorporating some other floral syrups for iced coffees too. Like rose or hibiscus! And maybe we could get her to try making those fun layered drinks with the espresso on the bottom-”
Toto’s deep belly laugh cuts off your stream of eager rambling. Without warning, he snakes an arm around your waist and tugs you flush against him once more. You let out a startled giggle as he buries his nose in the crook of your neck, lips brushing the feverish pulse point just beneath your jaw.
“You adorable thing,” he rumbles warmly, words slightly muffled against your skin as he presses a languid line of kisses along the sharp line of your jaw. “So enthusiastic about the simplest pleasures in life ...”
Pulling back, Toto lifts one hand to tenderly cradle the side of your face. You automatically nuzzle into his palm with a look of such smitten devotion that it makes Max’s heart stutter behind his ribcage. When Toto leans in to seal his lips over yours once more, the kiss is deep and thoroughly unhurried — as though the two of you have all the time in the world to savor this intimate little moment.
Max’s hands clench into white-knuckled fists, blunt nails biting crescent moons into his clammy palms. He should turn away, leave you to your blissful display with someone who so clearly appreciates you. Yet he remains rooted in place, unable to tear his eyes from the scene unfolding before him.
It’s like witnessing an alternate universe version of your shared lives play out in vivid, scorching detail.
In this reality, Toto is the one tenderly stroking the pad of his thumb over the elegant arch of your cheekbone as the two of you part, drinking in the sight of your passion-addled features hungrily. He is the one basking in the radiance of your bright and unrestrained joy. Celebrating each of your simple thrills, from the most frivolous of flavored coffees to the sensual graze of skin on skin.
And where does that leave Max? An outsider peering in at paradise with his face smeared against the glass, watching the warmth and affection he could never fully embrace slowly slip through his calloused fingers.
And my bed at three
The mattress shifts, the subtle movement rousing Max from his slumber. He cracks one eye open to find the space next to him empty, the sheets disheveled where you had lain.
A glance at the digital clock on the nightstand tells him it’s not yet 5 am. Where are you going at this hour?
He hears faint rustling from the living area of the hotel suite, followed by the soft click of the door. Groaning, he kicks off the covers and pads out of the bedroom, the plush carpet warm beneath his bare feet.
You’re sitting on the couch, slipping into a pair of flats. “What are you doing up so early?” He asks, his voice still husky from sleep.
You look up, startled. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” A soft smile plays on your lips. “I was going to watch the sunrise.”
Max rakes a hand through his tousled hair. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Because it’s beautiful.” Your eyes sparkle with an excitement he can’t comprehend this early in the morning. “The colors, the way the light slowly creeps over the horizon — it’s just magical.”
He snorts. “It happens every day. Nothing magical about it.”
Your face falls ever so slightly, and it tugs at something in his chest. But the feeling is fleeting, replaced by annoyance at having his sleep disturbed for something so trivial. “So you didn’t want to join me, then?” You ask, almost timidly.
“And wake up before the ass-crack of dawn? No thanks.” He flops onto the couch beside you with a huff. “I was up until 3 am sim racing. Not all of us find staring at the sky such riveting entertainment.”
You say nothing, simply nodding as you avert your gaze. The light in your eyes has dimmed, and he feels a pang of guilt. But he shakes it off — it’s far too early for this kind of whimsical nonsense.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters. “I’m going back to bed.”
He doesn’t see the way your shoulders droop as he turns and trudges back towards the bedroom. Doesn’t see the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes before you blink them away and readjust the set of your jaw with determination.
Max burrows under the covers, fully intent on drifting back into oblivion. But sleep evades him, his mind buzzing with a peculiar restlessness. He punches his pillow into a more suitable shape, flips it over to the cool side, but still he lies awake, listening to the silence that fills the suite.
After what feels like an eternity, curiosity gets the better of him. He kicks off the covers once more and pads over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city street below. Sure enough, there you are, a tiny figure perched on a bench across the way, your face tipped up towards the slowly lightening sky.
Max leans his forehead against the cool glass, watching as the inky blackness of night gives way to soft shades of periwinkle and lilac. Slowly, the colors deepen into blazing pinks and vibrant oranges that streak across the heavens. The sky ignites in a brilliant blaze of crimson and gold, the clouds set afire by the rising sun.
And there you sit, bathed in the dawn’s ethereal glow, utterly transfixed. In this light, your features seem softer, more at peace than he’s seen you in a long while. A smile plays on your lips, genuine and unguarded, as you take in the spectacle unfolding before you.
Max finds himself holding his breath, as if the slightest movement might shatter the magic of this moment. He’s never seen you look more beautiful, more alive than in these fleeting minutes as day breaks over the city.
A rare pang of tenderness blooms in his chest, quickly overshadowed by a creeping sense of unease. He isn’t certain how much time has passed before the brilliant hues fade into the pale blue of morning, but eventually you rise from the bench, taking one last, lingering look at the sky before turning and disappearing from view.
Max exhales slowly, his breath fogging up the glass. He isn’t proud of how he dismissed your simple joy, that spark of wonderment at the little things that he so often takes for granted.
An emptiness settles in the pit of his stomach, the guilt heavier than before. How many other moments has he trampled on in his relentless pursuit of success?
He thinks of your radiant smile, how it lit up the pre-dawn gloom more vibrantly than the sunrise itself. With a sigh, Max turns away from the window, already dreading the apology he knows he owes you.
Because in that single, breathtaking moment, he realizes just how lucky he is to have someone like you in his life. Someone who can find magic in the mundane, beauty in the simple things he’s become blind to along the way.
Someone, Max fears, who may be too sweet for him.
***
Max gives up on sleep around 4:30 am, as he has for the past several weeks. Insomnia has become his constant, unwanted companion, leaving him tossing and turning until the first hints of dawn creep through the curtains. On nights like this, slumber remains persistently out of reach no matter how exhausted he feels.
He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling as the brightening sky slowly illuminates the room. It wasn’t always this way — he used to be able to sleep like the dead after a race weekend, knocked out by the physical and mental exertion. But lately, his mind refuses to shut off, thoughts swirling endlessly until his head pounds.
With a groan, Max kicks off the tangled sheets and drags himself out of bed. Maybe going for a run will quiet the racket in his brain, at least for a little while. He dresses quickly, lacing up his trainers and grabbing his earbuds before heading out into the semi-darkness.
The pre-dawn streets are blissfully empty as he starts off at an easy jog. He despises becoming one of those obnoxious morning people, but exhaustion has a way of stripping away one’s self-respect. If pounding the pavement before the rest of the world awakes is what it takes to catch a few hours of sleep, so be it.
His route takes him along the harbor, the gentle lapping of the waves against the seawall providing a soothing soundtrack. The first rays of sunlight glint off the glassy surface, and he finds himself averting his gaze, oddly resentful of the impending sunrise.
It wasn’t so long ago that he scoffed at your eagerness to greet each new day. But ever since you’ve been gone from his life, those brilliant, fleeting moments of beauty have begun to mock him at every turn.
He picks up his pace, as if he can outrun the rising sun and the flood of memories it brings. But there’s no escaping the vivid flashes of you, smiling radiantly as the world awakes in a blaze of fiery hues. Or the hollow ache that twinges somewhere beneath his rib cage whenever he’s reminded of just how little he appreciated you.
So lost is he in his circling thoughts that he nearly runs right into you, appearing abruptly on the path ahead. His trainers skid against the pavement as he grinds to a halt, his heart stammering in his chest.
“Max?” You blink up at him, clearly startled by his sudden presence.
He opens his mouth, an automatic apology rising to his lips — until his eyes zero in on the camera clutched in your hands. Of course. Still chasing sunrises after all these years.
A wry grin tugs at the corner of your mouth as you take in his rumpled running attire. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Max says nothing, his gaze flickering briefly towards the brightening horizon before fixing on you once more. You look … well, radiant as ever, lit by the soft morning glow. A small pang of something — longing, maybe — twists in his gut.
“Out enjoying another sunrise, I see,” he says at last, nodding towards the camera.
You glance down at it fondly. “Well, you know how it is. I have to capture them while I can.” A teasing lilt edges into your voice. “Not all of us are night owls.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh. “I’ll never understand what’s so fascinating about watching the same thing happen day after day.”
“But that’s just it — each one is different. Unique and fleeting and … breathtaking.” Your eyes spark with that gentle wonderment he remembers so well, the sight sending a tremor through his chest. “Like getting a front row seat to the greatest show on Earth, but it’s one you’ll never see again.”
You trail off with a small shake of your head, seemingly at a loss to put the feeling into words. Max doesn’t need the explanation — he’s seen that look of childlike awe on your face more times than he can count.
An awkward silence stretches between you, laden with the weight of history and unspoken apologies. You shift your stance, mouth opening as if to say something more.
But Max cuts you off before you can get the words out, unable to bear whatever sentiments might cross those sweet lips of yours. “Toto not joining you this time?” He asks gruffly.
Your expression softens into a fond smile, and it’s like a physical blow to Max’s sternum. He knows that look, has been on the receiving end of it more times than he cares to remember. The way your entire being seems to brighten when you so much as think about someone you love.
“Ah, you know Toto — he’s more of a sunset person,” you say with a light laugh. “I’ve never been able to drag his grumpy butt out of bed for a sunrise.”
Even as his insides curdle with jealousy, Max can’t help the quirk of his lips at the mental image. He could all too easily picture Toto swatting irritably at you, burrowing deeper under the covers to escape the blasted sun.
“But we make it work,” you continue, that loving glow refusing to dim from your eyes. “I take photos of the sunrise to share with him later. And he does the same with the sunsets for me. That way, we both get to experience it in a way.”
The gentle sound of your voice washes over Max like a salve, momentarily easing the tangled knot of regret and longing that’s taken up permanent residence inside him. He watches, transfixed, as the early morning light bathes you in ethereal radiance.
In that moment, he sees it so clearly — the depth of give and take in your relationship with Toto. The effort, large and small, that you both put into nurturing one another’s happiness.
Even when your desires don’t perfectly align. Even when compromise is required.
It’s such a simple gesture, capturing those magical moments to share with your loved one. But it’s one Max was never willing to make when you were with him.
A lump forms in his throat as realization washes over him with unforgiving clarity. You weren’t too sweet for him, as he had so arrogantly assumed time and again. No — the truth, much harder to swallow, is that he was simply too sour for you.
Too selfish, too wrapped up in his own ambitions to make even the smallest concession. Too blind to recognize the magic in the simple things that brought you unbridled joy. Too bitter and jaded to embrace and nurture the beautiful nature that made you … well, you.
And now, after all his careless cruelties and wasted chances, he can only stand idly by and watch as someone else basks in the sweetness of your affection. As someone else goes out of their way, day after day, to put that blinding smile on your face and those stars in your eyes.
Something in Max’s chest cracks and crumbles at the injustice of it all. At the agonizing truth that he let the best thing in his life slip through his fingers, all because he couldn’t be bothered to change his sullen ways.
Because you were never too sweet for him … he was too sour for you.
One wedding topples it all. And apparently Alexia’s house is made of cards and nothing more. A harmless party game meant to entertain guests at the reception implodes her relationship in a way no rational person could see coming.
The Euros. A late-night call turned inquisition. An unfollow without remorse. The world watches with baited breath as it all comes tumbling down. And a single Alexia finds herself standing across from Jenni for the first time since they ended. History is the past up until it gets dragged into the present, and then it starts influencing the future.
Wordcount: 9.8k
Warnings: 18+ - smut ahead
Masterlist
Part 27 -> Part 28 -> Part 29
Madrid, Spain — November 2025
"You are miles away." Soledad states softly from her recliner.
Alexia jolts back to attention, the fridge open and cool air escaping. Glancing down at the carton of yogurt in her hand, the catalana quickly places it on the shelf and closes the appliance, her hands reaching into the bag to unload the rest of the groceries she picked up on her way. "Sorry," she murmurs. "Just thinking."
"Come sit," Jenni's mother directs. "You know, Alexia, you don't have to visit every week. I know you are extremely busy."
Frowning, the footballer shakes her head. "I want to visit. I—"
"Why haven't you told Jenni you've started finding your way to Madrid every off day you have?" Soledad asks.
"I just…" Alexia trails off quietly. "I'm not doing it to earn points" she states, "or to get in her good graces—"
"I think you're already in those," Jenni's mother jokes with a grin before it fades into a sigh, exhaustion tracking across her face.
"I don't want her, or you," the catalana murmurs softly, a hand reaching out to squeeze the older madrileña's where it rests on the recliner arm, "to think I'm here for some ulterior motive. I missed you for years; I want to see you; I want to be here because I love you. I know Jenni would give anything to be here in my place. I don't want to add to the ache in her chest that I can visit every day off while she's left waiting for the season to end."
"I'm glad you came, cariño," Soledad states softly. "I missed you too. Now what had you frowning so deeply into the fridge?"
"A couple things," Alexia mutters. "Rafa told me that latest test results are getting worse. You spoke with the cardiologist about them?"
The matriarch grumbles, "that boy blabs all my secrets."
"This isn't one to keep from me," the footballer states with a frown. "I called the English doctor. He said based on the latest, he wants to move forward with surgery. Three days from now," the catalana emphasizes.
"That is soon," Soledad responds, eyebrows raising.
"He has an opening. I told him we'd take it," Alexia replies evenly.
The older woman finally nods in consent. "Okay, cariño. Surgery on the 24th. Here? Or do I need to make my way to rainy England?"
"We play Levante the day before, but I'm flying here right after. The doctor's scheduler said he was getting surgery approval at one of the nearby private hospitals here; you won't need to travel. I'll send Rafa all the details later today. And I'll tell Jenni—"
"Nothing," Soledad states firmly.
Alexia's face turns stricken. "What?" She asks helplessly. "Soledad! She should know you're having surgery!"
"She has her championship match the day before. I know she would drop everything to make it here before the surgery. But she should stay there and play. It's been the one goal she's held to throughout all the chaos, Alexia. The one goal that has kept her sane and focused through the Federation lawsuit and the pain of realizing coming back to Spain wasn't safe. And I am not going to let her abandon that goal right when she's about to complete it. I will be fine. I will have the surgery and be recovering when she gets here."
"You're her mama," Alexia argues. "You cannot keep her in the dark!"
"It's my choice," Soledad states firmly.
"You can't ask me to lie to her," the catalana whispers, voice breaking.
The older madrileña replies, "Jenni needs to see this goal to completion, Alexia. It's what makes all the hurt and pain and suffering she's been through amount to something deeper, something she can look back on these past years in Mexico at with pride instead of her whole time there being shrouding with pain and having to piece herself back together twice."
Alexia winces, eyes closing in regret because while Soledad did not come out and lay blame at her feet, the catalana knows she is responsible for the first breakage and Jenni's consequent move out of the country.
Silence weighs down the air, landing like a lead weight on the footballer's chest.
Does she respect Soledad's wish?
Does she not mention this to Jenni?
Despite all her downfalls, that is the one thread of decency Alexia can tie herself to in the rolling sea of all her past mistakes: she has never once lied to Jenni. And the idea of starting to now, just when they've started to truly rebuild trust between them, has the midfielder's stomach clenching painfully in distress.
"You said a couple things," Soledad states some time later, breaking the silence.
"What?" Alexia asks, confused as she struggles to climb her way back to the present.
"You said 'a couple things' were weighing on you. Me and my heart issues make one. What is the other?"
Alexia sits down heavily on the floral couch. Her hand caresses a golden flower, smiling at the many fond memories made on this couch and in this apartment with Jenni and her family.
"Cariño," Soledad murmurs, "talk to me. I can see something is causing you distress."
"If Jenni had kept a big secret from you for a long time, would you hate her for it?"
"I could never hate my girl," the older woman states. "And your mama could never hate you. She lives for you and your sister."
Alexia's eyes flick up at that, slightly watery. "She might. I have kept it a secret for so long. And it is not a kind one."
"For you? Or for whoever you have kept the secret for?"
The catalana jolts at that. "How do you know it isn't a secret I made?"
Soledad smiles softly. "Alexia, if I know anything about you, it is that you take on the weight of the world to protect those you love. You're worried about telling your mami, hmm? Knowing how tightly knit your family is I can guess it's something about another family member that has you nervous to tarnish their reputation, hmm?"
Alexia nods. "Yes," she whispers.
"Oh, cariño," Jenni's mother soothes, "That sounds like an exceptionally heavy burden. And no mama, especially no yours, would ever want you to carry that. If there is something she should know, and from the tone of your voice this is something that has impacted your life for long enough, you should share it with her."
Alexia sighs heavily.
"And, honestly, my girl, she might not be as surprised as you think."
The catalana's head pops up. "Did she say something to you?"
"We talk," Soledad states, "I don't know if we have talked about whatever this secret of yours is, but I know your mother fairly well at this point. And we love the same, Ale. Which means we love wholly and fiercely for our people, but we are not blind to the faults of men," the older madrileña adds with a pointed look.
The midfielder's eyes widen as Jenni's mama steps closer to the truth than anyone before.
"Tell her, Alexia. She wants to be fully in your life, not just in the pretty corner you doctor up for her to visit. It's a hard balance, you know," Soledad continues, "to proudly let your babies find their own way in the world but sit back and pray they allow you stick around as more than furniture doting their lives just on the holidays."
"Mama isn't—" Alexia starts to defend.
"Have you shared the hard bits, Alexia? Have you opened up about what's weighing you down, what makes you sag into your seat at the end of the day when the cameras turn off and the club's demands go quiet?"
"No," Alexia whispers. "I don't want to burden her."
"She is already burdened. Eli just hasn't shown it to you. Mamas know our children, better than just about anyone. We have watched you grow up and struggle and find your footing too many times to count. She knows there are things bothering you that you aren't sharing. But she is respecting your decision to keep it to yourself, for now. Tell her, mi sol. It will lighten the weight for the both of you."
Alexia settles back into the couch that smells like home and Jenni and warmth. It's like her Mama's couch, one of the places she can just be Alexia without any other expectations.
The catalana settles into her thoughts, mind contemplating all she just spoke about with Soledad.
Everything feels like it is moving just a touch too fast to wrap her hands around properly. It is a frightening feeling, like the train is pulling away from her and she's losing all her control to stop it.
Alexia has lived within the bounds of her control for years, finding comfort in it for the most part.
Only one person has ever had the ability to talk her into willingly loosening her hold.
Snorting to herself, the midfielder supposes it should not surprise her that Jenni had to have learned it from someone.
Soledad's methods are much different from her daughter's, but both have the ability to leave the catalana feeling a little raw around the edges but also intensely seen.
For someone who has spent so much of her life in the spotlight while actively hiding everything but the carefully constructed persona she wears as a shield, having someone strip you down so quickly, so completely, is both terrifying and liberating.
It has been a specialty of Jenni's since the very beginning of their relationship.
---------------------------
Barcelona, Spain — November 2014
It has been exactly three weeks since that first night spent wrapped around each other.
They have fallen into a rhythm that would be frightening to Alexia if it happened with anyone else besides Jenni. While they have moved fast since full intimacy was introduced into their relationship. But that should come as no surprise. They were connecting on a deeper level than Alexia has experienced in any of her past relationships before they even had their first date.
Their connection has Alexia opening up about things she has long kept locked inside. And it has her softening in ways she didn't know she would ever desire.
Deferring to Jenni in the bedroom is one such way.
The catalana always took the lead in her past relationships, quiet by determined.
But Jenni flips her onto her back once, control firmly in the madrileña's hand, and all Alexia can think about from that point forward is how freeing it felt to let her take the lead.
Their rhythm includes spending any spare night together that they can manage between training, Alexia's second job, and traveling for matches. Those nights find them either in Jenni's double bed in her tiny apartment or in Alexia's childhood bedroom, the walls still the soft purple of adolescence that father had painted years ago on her thirteenth birthday.
A rare weekend off finds them hunkered down in Jenni's apartment, her roommate absent due to a trip back home to visit family before the last stretch of games prior to the holiday break.
In a different timeline, Jenni herself would have probably ventured home to Madrid. But when Alexia shared that she didn't have any shifts at the market the entire weekend, the madrileña told her mama that she would see her after their last match in mid-December, eager to have multiple uninterrupted days with her girlfriend for the first time.
The striker didn't have sex in mind.
Well, she didn't have solely sex in mind.
She wanted to just live a day with Alexia from start to end without football or Alexia's job or other obligations separating them.
And she had a particular plan in mind for their evening.
The idea all came together the week previous when Alexia stumbles upon an old shoe box tucked back in her closet that decidedly does not contain shoes.
The catalana looks confused as she looked at the content, turning to face the bed where Jenni sits watching film.
"What's this?" the midfielder asks curiously.
Jenni almost chokes in response, eyes wide as she looks from the item to Alexia's face and back. "Um, a harness."
"For like rock climbing? I didn't realize you did that," the younger woman mumbles pensively.
The striker can't stop the snort of laughter that bubbles up. "No, Ale. Not for rock climbing. For you know…"
"Clearly I don't," Alexia replies with a creased frown. "What are you talking about?"
"It's a harness, Ale. For sex. Like with a strap."
"Oh," the catalana replies, a blush taking over her entire face as she throws it back into the shoe box and places the box on the dresser, putting a few feet between her and the item.
Jenni feels her faint embarrassment fade as she watches her girlfriend's eyes flick back to the box a couple times in quick succession. Alexia is clearly curious, even if she's attempting to ignore the item's existence.
"Have you…" Jenni trails off, letting the silence fill in the blank. "Ever?"
The younger woman wordlessly shakes her head, eyes locking on the striker. "Clearly you have?"
Jenni's head tilts in consideration. "Does that make you jealous?"
Alexia ponders the question, mulling it over in her head to deduce what she is feeling about it all. "No, I don't think so. I—you've used it a lot?" she asks slowly, face heating up with the smirk it pulls from Jenni.
"A bit," the madrileña replies. "Why? Do you want a demonstration?" she teases lightly, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she stares her girlfriend down. The game film sits paused, laptop placed on the side table as Jenni spreads her body back across the bed in an image of casual dominance.
The catalana draws in a sharp breath through her nose, eyes widening.
Jenni's chest lurches at the desire she sees swirling there. "You have really never?" the madrileña asks, intrigued. They've talked a bit of their history with past partners. Jenni knows Alexia took a slightly different role with her two girlfriends before the madrileña.
Alexia snorts. "What? Keep one in my bedroom? The place where Alba frequently paws through my stuff? I never needed anything more than my fingers or my mouth anyways."
"Using a strap doesn't mean you don't still have fun with those," Jenni answers with a laugh. "But it is a different experience."
The color on the catalana's cheeks is a deep, rosy red. The madrileña can see her girlfriend swallow thickly, caught between shyness at the topic of sex being so brazenly discussed in the light of day and deep curiosity as her arousal builds the longer they linger on the topic.
"And you…like it?" the younger woman mumbles, gaze shifting to the wall as if eye contact is too much to handle at the moment.
"I like giving, yes," Jenni replies softly. "Come here," she directs, hands reaching for the midfielder.
Alexia goes willingly, even if her eyes stay focused on anywhere but her girlfriend's face.
The dark-haired woman pulls the catalana towards her lap, lifting her slightly until she's maneuvered into straddling the striker. Alexia gasps lightly, not expecting the move.
Jenni's fingers gently raise the midfielder's chin until she has no choice but for her amber irises to land on the madrileña's own.
"Would you want to try it sometime?" It is asked gently, without a smirk or teasing lilt. The older woman seems to inherently understand that Alexia needs space to safely consider the question, without the heat of embarrassment raising her defenses before she even gives it true consideration.
The catalana shifts in Jenni's lap as she rolls the idea around in her head, her hips moving involuntarily to relieve the ache of desire that has landed low in her stomach over the past few minutes. "Maybe," she murmurs.
The striker nods and pulls her girlfriend into an impromptu make out session, letting the conversation fizzle out and quietly tucking the box back away when they finally rise sometime later.
Over the course of the week, the madrileña couldn't help but catch how Alexia's gaze would sweep over to that top corner of her closet whenever she entered the bedroom, attention still grabbed.
And so Jenni does something about it.
Quietly.
Covertly.
She plans a night at home when that free weekend pops up. The older woman cooks—the apartment filled with the sound of sizzling garlic and tomatoes and her best attempt at cooking steak to date if she does say so herself.
After, when the night has shifted into the quiet, warm haze of an evening unwinding into the deeper hours, Jenni pulls Alexia towards her bedroom, the lights off and only the glow of the moon guiding the way.
Clothes come off slowly, reverently.
Jenni doesn't try to swallow down Alexia's soft moans as her first orgasm hits. There is no other person in the space to consider—not her roommate, not Alexia's family—it is just them and a night that is all theirs.
Alexia drops down, tongue already an expert at winding the striker up exceptionally well.
It is in the afterglow of the first round that Jenni approaches the topic again. "Ale?" she asks quietly.
"Hmmm?" the catalana murmurs, fingers dragging lightly down the striker's arm, tracing tattoos and letting her skin cool as the fan in the corner completes its circuit.
"You know that box you found earlier?"
She can feel Alexia still where she rests half on top of the madrileña.
Oh, the catalana knows exactly what she is referencing.
When the younger woman doesn't make a sound, Jenni continues speaking, giving her the cover of silence to consider the offer. "Would you want to give it a try?"
Alexia pushes up off Jenni's body, twisting so she's holding herself a few inches above the madrileña. Her eyes fix on the older woman's, understanding passing between them.
"Tonight?" Jenni asks softly for confirmation.
The catalana dips her head minutely, heart hammering in her chest.
Jenni pulls the midfielder back down on top of her, lips softly claiming as she rolls them over to the side before disengaging her mouth and walking purposefully towards the box in the closet.
The moonlight illuminates the tattoo inked down the madrileña's spine in a way that has Alexia's breath hitching at the vision.
Jenni is hers. And she is the striker's in return.
Alexia never could have imagined at the start of the year that she would end up here, in Jenni's life as her girlfriend, in Jenni's bed like it belongs to her too.
When the older woman turns around, it is with the infamous harness strapped into place while a modest, purple dildo bounces softly as she strides casually back over to the bed.
The catalana feels her pulse pounding in her ears, body an odd mix of arousal, anticipation, and fear.
She is not uncomfortable. Not with Jenni. She knows herself well enough to know this. But vulnerability still feels like weakness to her, especially in recent years.
Jenni has stripped away so many defenses of hers without even meaning to, but the idea of giving someone else this type of control over her body, literally opening herself up to Jenni, feels inherently wrong in a way that has her skin prickling.
Alexia has willed herself into moving forward after her father's death, carrying the responsibility and taking control of the family. It is an unusual dynamic for any young adult to suddenly be the one older family members defer to on decision-making and problem-solving.
But the madrileña—with her quietly perceptive eyes, her unguarded smile, and her steadfast presence that coats any situation in comfort for Alexia—strips all of that away.
She does not demand control.
Jenni just wordlessly unbuckles the restraints of the armor Alexia has fashioned around herself and silently sets it aside.
The woman does not seek to destroy it, but merely relocate it when they are alone.
It lightens the load constantly beating the midfielder down. These moments Jenni offers up help set aside Alexia's need for control. Her brain stops fighting, stops pushing onward despite the emotional toil. And for once she gets to breathe without the weight of anyone else being lifted up by her shoulders.
When the striker kneels on the bed, gaze locked with Alexia's so she can take a step back if at any point her girlfriend becomes uncomfortable with this new territory, the catalana knows she wants this.
She wants Jenni to take the reins and guide her through this new territory.
She wants Jenni to make her forget all about her many responsibilities.
She wants Jenni to quiet her head long enough to just exist in the silence instead of filling it with a chaotic rambling of internal dialogue and a never-ending checklist of things to be done.
"Okay?" the madrileña whispers. The air stills between them with the importance of the moment hanging in the middle. Something crackles to focus as Alexia's hands find Jenni's waist.
"Slow," she replies quietly.
"Of course," the older woman murmurs, lips dropping to kiss down the side of Alexia's neck as the younger woman moans into the touch. "You tell me what you need."
Sinking further into the mattress as the tension led in her limbs softens, Jenni follows, the strap wedging between their hips but ignored in favor of the madrileña building her girlfriend back up to a pliant and twitching mess.
It does not take long.
Not when Jenni seems to know the catalana's body even better than she does.
Alexia moans, hips pushing up as the need for more than groping and open-mouthed kisses grows more intense. "Inside," she gasps when teeth graze the pulse point on her neck.
Jenni pulls back slightly, eyes flicking down as her hand reaches to position the strap, gliding the head through the younger woman's wetness a few strokes before settling in at her opening and pausing.
The striker takes a deep breath, gaze raising to map the catalana's face as she pushes inside achingly slow.
Alexia's breath hitches, her chest rising as her head pushes back into the pillow. "Fuck," she pants, eyes snapping back to Jenni.
She is not a stranger to having fingers inside, but this intrusion is something else entirely. The stretch, the fullness, the depth. As Jenni comes to rest with the strap fully inserted, Alexia groans lightly.
"You okay, cariño?" the madrileña asks gently, shifting her body to be held up by one forearm as she brings her other hand up to brush a strand of hair out of Alexia's face.
"Yes," the younger woman instantly replies. She is. Truly.
This feeling is entirely new. But by no means is it unwelcome. The younger woman takes in a deep breath, body adjusting and taking stock of the feeling inside.
Then Jenni pulls out and thrusts back in slowly, gently, and Alexia's eyes roll back at the drag.
She whimpers.
Actually whimpers.
A blush rises up her chest at that utterly uncharacteristic reaction.
She knows she can be loud. Correction: she knows that Jenni somehow has found to make her loud when she naturally is quite quiet in bed, especially with still living at home. The older woman throws all that out the window with one or two strategic touches, and Alexia loses her filter completely.
Something about the proximity—about having Jenni's body weight on top of her as every thrust builds into a rhythm of pulsating need instead of the distance usually required for her hand or mouth to do the work—has Alexia's orgasm building quickly.
Jenni pants in the midfielder's ear as the madrileña snaps her hips forward cautiously, pulling a throaty groan out of the catalana.
Alexia's hands slide down to grasp the striker's ass as she widens her legs, opening herself up enough that the next thrust lands even deeper than those before it.
The madrileña groans as the motion has her bottoming out. The harness grazes her clit and now the pleasure radiating through Jenni's body is not just from the knowledge of what Alexia is allowing her to do or her girlfriend's noises but also from the fabric grinding against her own core.
Jenni grunts into the catalana's ear on the next thrust, each move forward now nudging her closer to the edge as well.
"Ohhh!" Alexia gasps as the striker hitches one of the midfielder's legs up and over her hip, encouraging the younger woman to wrap her leg around Jenni's back for more leverage. "Jenni, Jenni, please," she pants, the heat in her belly starts spreading through her veins as the strap hits a new depth.
The younger woman's hips circle frantically as she feels the tell-tale tightening of her core settling in. She has never gotten this close before without a hand or tongue working her clit, but she can feel her orgasm approaching like a freight train just from the motion of the striker's hips.
"Let go, Ale," Jenni whispers, lips falling to the catalana's shoulder in an open-mouthed pant as her thrusts pick up speed. The dark-haired woman is nearly at the edge too.
She very rarely comes this way, but tonight her desire is at an all-time high, largely fueled by the novelty of this being their first time with the strap and Alexia's unrestrained moans echoing in her ears. For once, Jenni isn't silencing them with her mouth or her hand. And hearing her girlfriend come undone under her has the striker a bit more vocal than normal too.
"Bebé, I'm gonna—Alex, shit, are you close?" Jenni groans, her hips stuttering as her clit starts its pulsing. She tries to push through, hips still rocking forward and back as she tries to hold off her orgasm long enough for Alexia to fall too.
At the increase in speed and the knowledge that her girlfriend is seconds away from orgasm, the catalana comes undone. Alexia sucks in a sharp breath, body tensing as her limbs start to shake with the force of the clenching from her core.
In contrast to her earlier volume, this fall is almost entirely silent in the descent.
Jenni moans as she feels Alexia hit her peak, quickly falling over the edge herself. Her hips thump down into her girlfriend as she rides out the remaining jolts of pleasure. One. Twice. Three times as she ends with a drawn out groan.
And that seems to restart the midfielder's voice. "Oh my god," Alexia whines as her thighs continue to shake, chest heaving at the absolute wreckage those few extra thrusts send her spiraling into. "Fuck!"
The madrileña slowly eases the strap out, fingers gentle as they coax the catalana back down to a less sensitive state.
Alexia buries her face in Jenni's neck, breath heaving. Her tongue flicks out to suck at the saltiness clinging to the striker's skin. They both have worked up quite the sweat with that performance.
"Hey!" Jenni teases, "No marks, cari."
"But you're mine and everyone should know it," the younger woman murmurs into the skin.
The striker chuckles. "Was it that good that I've made you extra possessive?" she teases.
The catalana pulls back, eyebrow arching. "You absolutely wrecked me. What do you think?"
Jenni pulls the younger woman back down into her arms. "And that was just the beginning," she goads lightly.
"The beginning?" Alexia questions in disbelief.
"It gets better," the madrileña replies, voice dropping a timbre. "Just wait until I put you on your knees."
Another whimper escapes Alexia as her mind conjures up that provocative visual. She has never given up control in this way before in her life. She expected she would like it somewhat if her response to having Jenni's fingers inside are anything to go by, but also expected she would have to grapple with the idea of willingly taking the strap, at least in the beginning.
But something about Jenni so delicately taking it out of her hands and calmly steering them through the transition completely erased any hesitance in the catalana. She can't say she would enjoy this with anyone else. In fact, Alexia is quite sure she would have a hard time loosening up enough to enjoy it (let alone reach orgasm) with anyone else.
Jenni, though, has already burrowed herself deep enough into the catalana's chest that she makes it feel so damn natural for Alexia to hand over her stressors, her worries, her need to be in a position of power and dictate the outcome. Because as the madrileña has shown time and time before—and especially tonight—Jenni is exceptionally skilled at getting Alexia to drop the weight without a fight and hand over the control she otherwise keeps in a tight grip.
Trusting the older woman to has been the best decision Alexia has ever made. For the first time in entirely too long, her mind is silent, her body is still, and her soul is at peace.
She could get used to more nights like this.
---------------------------
Monterrey, Mexico ✈️ Madrid, Spain — November 2025
Jenni stares in disbelief as the final whistle blows, tears gathering in her eyes. She falls to her knees on the grass.
They did it.
She did it.
Tigres have just won the Apertura title in front of thousands of fans in their home stadium. The noise is monstrous.
Her head is swimming.
All these years of struggle and growth and perseverance have led to this moment. It feels validating.
All those harsh criticisms from the media and fans alike carry no weight here and now.
She isn't washed. She isn't too old. Her football history doesn't have to end with the stain of Rubiales the last major highlight in her career.
Jenni has now won a championship title in three leagues across her time playing. It is a quiet accomplishment that might not be highlighted by the media but speaks to her dedication to this sport and advancing her game every step of the way.
It lands as one of her biggest accomplishments to date, outside of winning the World Cup.
In a league where winning is never guaranteed, in a country where she had to carve out a place for herself, in a time of her life when everything has been so emotionally fragile, Jenni persevered.
She has shown that she has a depth of strength she previously did not know existed. Julia has told her before, but these past few weeks the madrileña has started to believe it herself.
The hours after the whistle blows are a blur. Photos. Confetti. Trophy raises and a glittering medal she'll take back with her to Spain to gift to her mama.
Her flight back home leaves tomorrow around noon for an early morning arrival in Madrid on the 25th.
Jenni sighs. Just imagining stepping off that plane and seeing her mom, her family, all the sights that make her chest squeeze in the best way. She won't have much time, needing to report to National Team camp by that evening. But she will have at least some hours wrapped around her family, hearing her mama's laugh and catching up with her niece. And then after the Nations League final wraps up, she will be in Spain for almost the entire month of December.
That reminder loops in her head all throughout the victory photo shoots and team celebrations and fan appreciation events. She will be in Madrid soon. Very soon.
Her phone is still blowing up the following morning when she trudges out of bed half-awake long after the sun has risen and haphazardly packs her carry-on bag to accompany her larger suitcase in her trek back to her homeland.
The flight is long, and she is still close to running on empty after draining so much of herself in her pursuit of the championship title. As a result, Jenni sleeps most of the twelve-hour flight back to Spain.
It isn't the most rejuvenating sleep of her life, but she lands bright and early in Madrid at 7am without feeling like she is going to fall asleep on the spot.
Rafa is there at the Arrivals pick-up waiting for her.
"Take me to Mama," Jenni directs as she slides into his passenger seat.
Her brother pauses for a half-a-second too long, head turning slowly to look at his little sister.
"I know, Rafa," Jenni states quietly. "Take me to her now."
Sighing, he nods and heads towards the hospital. "It went well," he offers quietly. "She is recovering and trading recipes with the nurses."
The striker smiles at that. It sounds like her mama.
Still, she's not pleased at her family intentionally placing her in the dark. They should know better than anyone that football does not come before family. Not for Jenni. And the betrayal that neither of her siblings cracked to tell her the news is frankly hurtful.
Jenni's eyebrows raise as Rafa pulls into the lot for the private, expensive-looking hospital blocks away from their childhood home. The footballer was expecting the public hospital where she was taken when she broke her wrist when she was seven and where Rafa had to get stitches in his eyebrow when Jenni accidentally booted the ball into his face from mere feet away. Her left kick was lethal even as a gangly kid.
"Rafa?"
"Come on," her brother states, pulling into a spot and killing the engine. He doesn't even pause, climbing out of the car and heading for the entrance.
Jenni sighs but quickly follows, taking long strides to catch up.
The hospital is far calmer than Jenni expected. No nurses yelling, no people coughing in the waiting area, no chaos. She supposes you buy yourself calm when spending the money on private healthcare.
The madrileña frowns. She knows her mama doesn't have money for this, even if Jenni does send home a healthy amount of money each month much to her mother's protest.
The striker would never say no to paying. She tried to earlier, even, but her mama refused to even consider. Jenni wonders what changed.
By the time the two open up the door to room 149, Jenni thinks she has a small idea.
Alexia sits on a couch in front of the floor to ceiling windows, backlit by the early Madrid sunlight. Jenni's breath catches in her throat.
Rafa notices and goes to open his mouth to comment.
The striker's youngest sibling instincts take over, slug punching him in the bicep as she pushes past him into the room.
"Ouch," her brother whines from behind her.
The footballer just smirks in triumph.
"Jenni?" her mom asks in surprise, eyes flickering to her son and narrowing slightly.
Rafa holds his hands up defensively. "I didn't tell her! She already knew! Demanded I bring her here right from the airport."
Jenni frowns. "I can't believe you didn't tell me, Mama! What if I was having surgery and kept it from you?"
That makes Soledad pause. She hadn't considered the inverse. "I'm sorry, my girl," she murmurs. "I just didn't want it to impact your match. Or have you leaving before you accomplished your goal."
"Well I did know. And look, I still won the title," Jenni argues. "Have a bit more faith in me next time. I'm not here to make this visit about me. But you all should know how much it hurt to learn you intentionally kept me out of the loop and used my geography against me."
"I'm sorry, mi hija," her mother replies softly. "I thought it was best, but I can see now I should have let you know."
Jenni nods at the apology and leans down to kiss her mother. "You will always be more important to me than football," she murmurs. "So don't place the sport on this pedestal and call it my decision."
Soledad nods and pushes her daughter gently towards where Alexia stands, waiting for her own chance to greet the dark-haired madrileña.
"Hi," the catalana murmurs, running her palms down her sweats nervously.
Jenni doesn't respond verbally, hands firmly pulling the young woman's body into her own instead. Her nose buries in Alexia's neck, breathing in a scent that is so familiar her heart automatically slows a beat in response at the comfort she finds in it.
Alexia's arms wrap around her back, squeezing tightly as she kisses the crown of the striker's hair. "I have missed you," the midfielder whispers in Catalan.
Jenni's eyes water at that for some reason.
She's heard the language since she left Barcelona. In shows and interview clips and music. But something about hearing the lilt of the language in Alexia's voice brings a layer of emotion bubbling up that she can't quite name.
"Wait, who told you that Mama was having heart surgery?" Rafa asks, breaking the moment.
"Was it my sister?" her mother asks in a teasing tone. "She can never keep her mouth shut when she has gossip, especially if it's you asking."
Alexia bites her bottom lip.
Jenni snorts and turns to her family. "Imagine my surprise when my girlf—Ale," she corrects, ears tinging pink at her almost slip-up, "uh, when Ale called me and told me about the surgery date," the striker says dryly. They still haven't defined what they are more than daily 'I love yous' and a promise to talk once Jenni is back in Madrid. The striker doesn't want the first time she trots that title out to be here, before she can ask Alexia properly.
"Mama, I had just hung up a call with you. And Rafa, you and Silvia texted me later that day. Not a single peep from you about her going under the knife!"
"Technically it was minimally invasive," Rafa mutters defensively. "No knives were used."
Jenni rolls her eyes at her brother trying to use semantics to get out of his berating.
Soledad huffs out a laugh. "I should have known…"
"Jenni deserved to know," Alexia states. "She would not have wanted to be blindsided once she landed in Madrid. And I will always put what's best for her above anyone else," the catalana adds quietly.
The striker's hand reaches down to lace her fingers with the younger woman's, squeezing tightly in appreciation.
This one act has done unimaginable good in repairing her faith in them getting back together. Alexia was asked by a maternal figure, Jenni's own, to keep a secret. In the past, Jenni knows that ask would have overridden the catalana telling her. Alexia would have trusted the madrileña's own mother would know best and would have gone along with that choice without much thought.
But the Alexia of today only considered what Jenni needed before instantly defying her mother's order. Alexia did not place her mother's authority or her relationship with Soledad ahead of Jenni's heart or her peace.
It feels good to know she was prioritized.
It feels comforting to know Alexia did not hesitate on knowing what Jenni would choose for herself.
It feels like the catalana knows her inside out again, even if there is still plenty to re-learn about each other.
Alexia knows her heart. She knows exactly how Jenni ticks. And that is not something easily found when your name is known by millions but very few actually understand the person who exists behind that name.
---------------------------
Soledad gets released from the hospital around noon. The surgeon who operated on her mama visits the room personally to pass along the release instructions, his English accent pronounced, which has Jenni raising her eyebrows. She had expected a Spanish doctor, but she supposes money does bring top-tier service. And apparently that comes with foreign doctors, probably poached from successful careers in their home countries for the promise of more money serving elite clients.
This bill is about to be expensive, she can feel it. But she would pay all the money to her name to make sure her mama is around for years to come.
The surgeon steps to the side with Alexia, the two chatting as a nurse walks through the release instructions a second time to make sure everything is understood. Their conversation is clearly not medically related, otherwise the surgeon would be addressing her mama and the family. Which means it is personal talk.
Jenni's eyes keep shifting over to the two. She knows Alexia is royalty in Spain. All football fans, and even quite a few who are not fans, know her name and face. It is not surprising to learn the surgeon is one as well. But when she sees the surgeon write his personal number on the back of his card and hand it to Alexia with a smile, her stomach churns a little.
Alexia's smile is polite.
It is always polite in these situations. Years before it would have been a scrunched up nose and a look somewhere between confusion and indignation. The madrileña cannot help but smile and the memory of early Ale without any media filter. She was raw and rough around the edges when it came to schooling her face. Jenni loved it.
When the midfielder doesn't turn around and throw the card with the number on it in the trash as Jenni expected the second the man leaves the room as they both had done countless times in the past under similar situations, Jenni frowns.
Soledad catches the exchange and sighs deeply.
"Alexia? Rafa? Can you two go grab the cars? Jenni will accompany me downstairs."
Both nod and jump to respond, gathering the bags from Soledad's stay and heading out of the room.
Alexia stops to squeeze the striker's hand on her way out the door. An action that the madrileña reciprocates, even as her head replays the last few minutes.
"She arranged for the surgeon," Soledad states, leaning back into the pillow as the door closes softly behind Alexia.
"Who?" Jenni asks absentmindedly.
"Alexia."
"Alexia did what?" the striker asks, confused and only now clocking back into the conversation.
"Alexia flew in that surgeon from England, my doctor. It is why I had the surgery so quickly. Even this hospital with its private doctors was a month out for surgery."
The dots snap into focus. "Alexia found you a surgeon from England to bypass the wait?"
Her mama nods. "And covered it all."
"Financially, you mean?" Jenni asks, distressed. "She shouldn't have done that. I'll pay!"
"I saw you watching their exchange," Soledad states, seemingly changing direction in the conversation.
"He gave her his cell phone number," Jenni replies, frown back in place. "I don't like it."
"He knew of her beforehand," the older madrileña says with a sigh. "The payment isn't money—"
"I will pay," Jenni cuts in, fist clenching. "Whatever she planned otherwise, I would rather pay."
"I know, cariño," her mother soothes. "But Alexia already agreed to an arrangement with him."
Jenni swallows down the bile in her throat. "What arrangement?" she asks in a whisper.
"Sorry, my girl, I didn't mean it like that. We both know Alexia would empty her pockets before anything stole her soul in that fashion. He has a daughter who loves the sport, and apparently is a huge fan. She exchanged an in-person meet and greet with the girl and few of her little friends as well as tickets to the Nations League final match."
Jenni blows out a breath, relief loosening the tightness in her chest. "Still. She shouldn't have had to do that. I will pay."
"She didn't want you to pay," Soledad replies softly. "She did this out of love. For you. For me. For the girl she was who lost an important figure in her life to heart issues. You know I'm the first to resist help—"
Jenni snorts at the understatement.
"She loves this family. And although it pains me that her time was used to barter this way, she chose it. I know you would have paid. She knows it too. And she could have just paid herself. Sometimes we need to step back and accept love the way a person is trying to show it."
The madrileña blows out a breath, tears catching at the corners of her eyes. "I was so scared, and she and I talked about that every day. About how the wait for you to get the surgery you clearly needed weighed so heavy on me, like a ticking time bomb I couldn't diffuse. And she listened and comforted me but also solved the problem so it didn't need to take up so much of my world anymore."
"And she disobeyed my direction to not tell you all about the surgery because she knew you even better than me. I thought it would be a distraction. She knew it would be motivation. I am sorry I underestimated how well you would balance the news with your obligation to your teammates and the club. You are an ultimate professional. You always have been."
"It's okay Mama. I understand your reasoning, even if I don't agree with it. But, you are right. Alexia knew exactly what I needed," Jenni states softly.
That warmth from earlier blooms further across her chest at the confirmation that someone else has noticed how much work Alexia has put into rediscovering what Jenni needs so that the catalana can show up for the madrileña in all the ways that she needs now.
As the nurse pushes the wheelchair holding Soledad out the front entrance, Jenni's eyes hone in on where Alexia leans against the passenger door of her rented car, face turned up to the sun.
"Mama," Rafa calls, gesturing to his opened passenger door.
Alexia straightens up at the sound. Only then does Jenni realize she is dressed in sweats marked with the Spanish crest.
National Team camp.
Right, Alexia arrived yesterday for camp.
How is she here now?
Did she get approval to be absent for the team training to sit with Jenni's mama this morning?
Jenni and Esther were the remaing players to arrive, delayed due to their long distance flights requiring more time.
The striker walks over to make sure her mama is situated. Rafa nods at her and jogs around to the other side of her vehicle, sliding in and starting up the vehicle.
While they pull off, Jenni watches, a hand shielding her eyes from the sun that is now high in the sky.
After a second, the madrileña turns and heads over to the catalana who is quietly watching her. Jenni's hands land on hips she spent years tracing but that her fingers haven't touched in ages. They curl comfortably around warm skin, pulling her body into Alexia's.
"I have missed you," the striker murmurs warmly. "How long do you have before you have to be back at camp? I'm due to check in around 4. "
Alexia sighs, running a hand across her jaw. "I have time if you want to grab lunch. My physio appointment is at 3:30."
"Physio?" Jenni asks in confusion. "Are you hurt?"
"Just load management, really," the midfielder reassures. "A little bit of a quad pull that I'm managing."
"You didn't say anything," the madrileña frowns.
"You have had a lot on your plate," Alexia murmurs. "It isn't serious."
"No," Jenni states firmly, "we tell each other all of it."
"Okay," the young woman relents easily.
"Anything else you've been keeping from me?"
"I've been dying to kiss you since you entered the hospital room."
Jenni laughs brightly. She was not expecting the silly side of the catalana to make an appearance so quickly.
Alexia smirks at pulling laughter from the madrileña.
"Well," the striker whispers, "maybe we should rectify that before we head to camp, hmm?"
"What do you have in mind?" the younger woman murmurs, eyes dropping to Jenni's lips.
"Pick up a quick lunch from that food truck not far from here and take it back to eat on the roof at Mama's?"
"Perfect. Get in, bebé," Alexia replies with a tap to the madrileña's hip as she steps back to open the passenger door.
Jenni smirks but slides in as instructed.
The catalana closes the door before strolling over to her side of the vehicle and piloting them to their first destination—the neighborhood food truck that has been basically a monument in Madrid for all the years the younger woman has been visiting the third best city in Spain (behind Mollet del Vallès and Barcelona of course).
The food is made quickly as always and before long the rental car gets parked half a block down from Jenni's childhood home. They bypass the familiar door of Soledad's to continue a climb up the stairs, headed for the roof of the apartment building.
There was not much up there the last time the two of them visited, but Alexia is surprised at the couch that has been added to the space along with a rather sturdy-looking shaded addition attached to the stairwell, a necessary protection from the hot Madrid sun. It isn't much compared to the accommodations they both have experienced after the boom of their careers. But it is quiet and peaceful, words not always easily found in such a bustling city like Madrid.
Lunch gets eaten quickly, both starving after their occupied mornings and a whole night flight of travel in Jenni's case.
Comfortable silence falls as the striker clears the table of their trash, stuffing it all back in the bag it came in.
Jenni leans back against the couch, a content smile on her face as she closes her eyes to listen to the sounds of her city.
Alexia's hand lands softly on her thigh, squeezing three times affectionately but leaving the striker to her moment.
"Thank you," Jenni whispers, eyes opening and landing on Alexia's amber irises. "I love how much you love my mama. She told me you arranged the surgery, and what it is costing you. I can pay, Ale. You shouldn't have to sell yourself or your time for me or my family—"
"Jenni, I love you. I love her. Your family became a part of mine a long time ago. I just did what I would do for Alba or my mama. What you would do for them in my place."
The striker nods. She would do anything for Alexia's mother or sister; that is true.
"Even if we hadn't restarted this, I would have done anything to get your mama the best care. You know that, right?"
Jenni does. She nods, tattooed fingers reaching out to gently grab the midfielder's wrist and raising it to her mouth, palm up. She leaves a gentle kiss in the center, eyes still locked with the catalana's.
"I love you," the madrileña states thickly. "I see how well you've loved me, especially in these past few weeks of hell. And I'm so thankful for you."
Alexia swallows. "I know there is still much that will only be proven over time to ease the reservations you have," she admits, "but I'm here for the long-haul, Jenni. We took a detour, I know. But being yours for the rest of my life is still the biggest goal of mine."
"You are," the striker whispers. "You are mine, Ale."
Words don't feel like enough to hammer home that point.
This situation has been so much easier to navigate due to Alexia's presence in her life. The midfielder has been her emotional sounding board, never once turning off like she might have in the past when a situation swung too close to her own buried emotions or fears. And because Alexia quietly orchestrating this all in the background is how Soledad's heart condition resolved with a relatively quick and easy surgery she otherwise would have been waiting most of next year to receive.
The realization hits her hard, sitting here on the roof couch as she stares at Alexia.
Her fear of them being together has dissolved. The connection she has with the midfielder has saved her this month. Alexia's love has kept her held together when she otherwise would have cracked into pieces under the weight of all her stress.
When Jenni was scared she might wake up to a call that her mama had a heart attack and passed away while stuck in Mexico, Alexia comforted her through the tears. She let her exist in those emotions and then calmed the striker down with quiet words and reassurances and logic when Jenni asked for it.
When the striker was angry at her mother refusing her financial assistance to shorten the wait time for surgery, Alexia listened and somehow got Soledad to agree without that burden ever landing on Jenni.
The madrileña has been so scared that getting back together would lull her into the past version of herself, someone whose emotional level balanced off to the mood of her partner which left the madrileña chasing highs that didn't belong to her own self happiness. Jenni was scared the version of herself she's built in Mexico would disappear under the weight of Alexia's name and the midfielder putting herself and her career first as happened during their end.
But Alexia has not let that be the case at all.
She has dropped everything, from club to country obligations, to be at Soledad's side and help Jenni navigate through the chaos when she was over 5,000 miles and an ocean away.
Alexia has kept her steady emotionally. She hasn't littered their conversations with platitudes or attempts to shift the focus away from the hard emotions, the hurt and anger and sadness. No, the catalana has stayed. She has stayed present and caring and invested in what Jenni needs most in the moment.
Alexia has been quietly showing her through one of the worst times in her life in recent years (and that is saying something) how her love has changed and evolved.
It is no longer a love of the bright-eyed and naive optimism belonging to youth.
This is a love that has been put through the trenches. A love that is battle scarred. Instead of retreating, instead of giving up when things looked stacked against her, Alexia dug deeper. She shoveled down to the root of the issues affecting her and went to work cutting out the rot. For herself, but Jenni gets to reap those benefits too now.
What is left is the woman Jenni fell in love with, loving her the way the dark-haired woman needs.
The time they were broken up was painful.
Jenni lived through hell and back. And she is still standing to tell the tale.
Alexia broke. But she found a way to use the wreckage to rebuild an even better version of herself.
Their story and the weaving road it has taken has brought them to here, right now, knees touching and Alexia's soft fingers tracing Jenni's jaw reverently.
"I fell in love with you before we ever kissed," the catalana admits softly. "My soul found a peace with you that I have never found with anyone else. I know my Papa would have loved you. Maybe even more than he loved me," Alexia states with a crooked grin.
"Impossible," Jenni whispers.
"I love you," Alexia replies, words honest and raw. "I buried it. For a time. But that has always been a truth in my life. I will spend my next fifty-some years learning everyday how to love you that much better. Because I've realized this year that love isn't just the grand moments. It is the quiet acknowledgements. It is the showing up, especially on the hard days. It is comfort and care and 'what can I do to make your life better' every day I get to wake up with my heart belonging to you. Is it being attuned to your words but also the way your body leans to the left ever so slightly when you're feeling overwhelmed, as if it's unconsciously looking for the exit—"
The younger woman's speech is cut off when Jenni pushes forward into her chest, lips landing soft but firm and sure on Alexia's as the last of her thoughts bleed out into a moan instead.
The midfielder's hands reach up to frame Jenni's face, body melting as the striker pulls her closer.
This kiss eventually ends, both separating to gasp for air, eyes wide and wild with arousal.
"Ale," Jenni groans, burying her head in the catalana's neck as her hands drop to flex on the younger woman's hips before Jenni spontaneously lifts her thighs, slotting the shrieking midfielder to rest on her lap.
Alexia sighs happily, arms wrapping around the older woman's shoulders as they cuddle on the threadbare couch on the roof, tucked away from the rest of the world.
"How am I meant to go to camp and be around you 24/7 and not touch you?" the striker mumbles petulantly.
"Maybe we give ourselves a bit more distance this camp? Because I'm not sure I'll be able to stop myself from kissing you, cameras and fans and teammates be damned."
Jenni chuckles. "We probably should," she agrees. "I know we have a lot coming up with camp and the matches, but we end up back here in Madrid at the end, right?"
The younger woman nods.
"I'm getting us a hotel, for the night of the final, whether we win or lose I want to celebrate" the madrileña states decisively. "Because I have missed you, Ale. Not just this, the talking, the closeness, the bonding. But…" she trails off, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she lets the thought linger in the air.
Alexia knows exactly what she means. "Make the reservation for a few days," she husks, eyes dark with want. "What I want to do to you won't fit into just one night. And we're winning that title," the catalana states firmly.
Jenni smirks, excited for the challenges to come—both the football and the personal.
They both have changed over their four years apart. Jenni has already noted the growth in herself and Alexia when it comes to their communication and emotional regulation. But based on the way her girl is staring her down, determined and confident and hungry, it seems like maybe there is some other growth in store for the madrileña to discover.
That was the description you placed at your latest social media post. Everything changed since the last time you wore that uniform. You have your own place now and your current career is more dignified and better paying. The old workplace is gone and all your old co-workers have since moved on. Even though you loved them to death, you don't miss those long night shifts, covering for them, and the tolerance for old, perverted men that wanted something in exchange for big tips. And yet, it was the easiest way to earn money for your transition.
You had some good memories of that job, though. You were popular in the restaurant and you had a big following on IG back then. Some people in person and online were even nice enough to buy you stuff and send donations. There were many guys who loved your content and you admit that you thrived through male attention. One person, however, caught your attention; even though you thought he was cute, it shocked you when he randomly commented about wishing to be like you. That's when you DM'ed him in private and asked if he was maybe... trans. You decided to send him a pair of your work clothes and asked him a favor: dress up and doll for me. Long story short, he... well, she, is now your current girlfriend.
That was then. Now, you're a month away from turning 27 and at the ripe age, you feel too old to be working at a place that represents your much younger years. The only reason why you don't work there anymore is because as soon as you turned 21 and became promoted to the black uniform, a global shutdown happened that caused you to lose that job. 3 years with the company and 3 years in transition, one after SRS. All of that was gone, but you turned that loss into an opportunity.
Your post blows up and so many people, many of them new, are shocked to find out you were that Hooters girl.
"OMG, that was you!?" "I didn't know you were trans!" "She was Femboy Hooters before Femboy Hooters was a thing?" "Girl was always head of everyone even back then!" "Goals!"
The comments felt polarizing, but it also meant something for you: you're not that Hooters girl you were at 18-21 anymore. You're finally just you. Sure, you love how the Hooters outfit still feels so comfortable, sexy, and affirming to you like it was just yesterday. Even at an older age and a few pounds later, much to your disgust, you still look so good and could pass off as someone younger. Nobody could really tell you are trans unless you told them so.
But one person asked a question that many wouldn't dare to ask: Would you ever work again at Hooters if you had the chance?
Very bold thing to ask, but not surprised. Your younger self is defined as being a Hooters girl. But even though the internet is forever, it's also more infinite than ever and thus, your past self, no matter how popular and viral you were at that heyday, has become all, but forgotten by the modern internet circle. Until now.
A part of you likes to go back and experience those younger, carefree days. But even though your popularity isn't as it used to be, you're much more well-off than you were during your "peak" and are no longer struggling like before. You live as your authentic, feminine self and you prefer to keep it that way. So to answer at that random fan's question, you reply with the most understanding of words:
PROLOGUE / PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3 / PART 4 / PART 5 / PART 6 / PART 7 / PART 8 / PART 9 / PART 10 / PART 11 / PART 12 / PART 13 / PART 14 / PART 15 / PART 16 / PART 17 / PART 18 / PART 19 / PART 20 / PART 21 / PART 22 / PART 23 / PART 24 / PART 25 / PART 26 / PART 27
NEXT PART
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
“Unfortunately we’ve got to go to the dance studio and learn our choreo for the idol awards performance." Jinu told you. “Derpy is going to stay with you and Baby has refused to leave his room for today so he’ll be stewing in his room.”
“He’s really living up to his name right now.” Abby commented pulling on his trainers.
“The girl he likes insulted his pride, how else would he react?” Romance replied, brushing his soft pink hair through.
“I wasn’t aiming to upset him this bad.” You said frowning. “He can’t just throw out insults at everyone and not expect anything back.”
“He just a spoilt brat, he’ll have to swallow his pride sooner or later.” Mystery told you kissing your forehead.
Jinu kissed your cheek, Romance gave you a warm hug and Abby kissed the top of your head, ruffling your hair a little before they all left leaving you with your favourite oversized house cat. You watched as Derpy elegantly leapt onto the sofa and laid down, leaving a space open for you so you could cuddle with her. You held up your point finger to her letting her know you’d be one second.
You quickly snuck into Mystery’s room, stealing one of his many fluffy blankets, you then quickly dropped by the kitchen on the way back to the sofa grabbing some tasty snacks. You threw the snacks on the sofa and lastly you collected the laptop that had been bought for you and still sat unused in the guest room. Returning to the sofa with all your things you snuggled up next to the fluffy cat, wrapped in a warm blanket, eating snacks and watching various videos on the internet.
You were enjoying yourself, binge watching Ouran High School Host Club and snacking on various junk foods when the door to the room swung open with a loud bang. You jumped slightly almost dropping your snack and Derpy’s claws clutched onto the furniture in shock. Your eyes flicked over to the doorway where you saw Baby, an oversized hoodie on his disgruntled form, the hood pulled up so far you could barely see any of his mint hair sticking out. He was probably wearing shorts or maybe just his boxers underneath but the oversized hoodie was so big you couldn’t see anything on his legs.
“Jesus what did the door do to you?” You asked as the man stormed into the kitchen aggressively swinging open the fridge. The demon pulled out a can of drink before slamming the door to the fridge, the whole appliance shaking at he did so.
“Baby!” You scoffed finally rising from the sofa. “You’re over 700 years old stop it with your tantrum!”
“Or what?” Baby finally replied turning round and opening his can of drink. “You gonna get Jinu to tell me off?”
You glared at the boy, placing your hand on the top of his can to stop him sipping at it.
“No I’m just going to have to ruin your day.” You told him your free hand grabbing his hoodie draw strings and pulling them as tight as you could.
You were sick of this old demon acting like a stubborn child so you were going to annoy him until he realised what it was like to be annoyed all day. Fight fire with your own kind of over-the-top, very not good idea fire. Baby reacted before you could fully pull the drawstrings grabbing your wrist mid pull, his face filled with angry mischief.
Before you could fully register his eyes even changing colour your legs were swept out from under you, falling flat onto your back. Your hands were suddenly trapped on either side of you, Baby’s knees pressing them into the floor as he casually straddled you.
“You sure about that babe?” He taunted you pulling down his hood and sipping at his drink.
“Get off me!” You shrieked trying to knee him in the back, but the blow having no effect on the now smirking man.
“No, I’m comfy.~” Baby drawled, smirking down at you.
“Babyyyyy!” You whined, your legs flailing widely only seeming to amuse the man more.
“I mean I could be convinced to get off of you, but you’d have to make it worth my while and make up for what you said earlier.” The mint haired demon teased, looking down at you with teasing slitted yellow eyes.
“What the hell do you want?” You asked huffing in defeat.
“Be my servant for the rest of the day.” The boy told you sticking his tongue out at you.
“As if!”
“Guess we’ll just sit here until everyone else gets home or I get bored then. It’s a shame I wouldn’t have even made you do very much, just fetch me some food and play some rounds of Mario kart with me or some shit.”
“Fine...” You relented after Baby loudly slurped on his can of drink. “…But you can’t order me to do anything inappropriate, it’s not a sexual thing, it’s an I’ll do chores for you thing.”
“Okay one last thing though.” Baby agreed unpinning your hands.
“What now?” You whined twisting out your sore wrists.
“You gotta wear the outfit I got you.”
“You what?”
So after a bit of arguing and some more rough convincing from the smug demon you found yourself in the bathroom changing into a maid outfit that Baby had hiding in his room. Surprisingly the outfit was your exact size, the frilly black dress and thigh high white stockings fit you like a glove. However the skirt of the dress was quite short meaning that if you ever bent over to far your underwear would be on full display so you were going to have to be careful not to flash yourself. You mind was still evaluating if this was better than lying on the floor with Baby sat on top of you, but he was using quite a lot of pressure on your wrists and the dude was heavy.
“You done changing yet?” You heard Baby call from the other side of the bathroom door.
“Yes.” You called back with a sigh unlocking the door.
You swung the door open the boys blue eyes flicking up from his phone to look at you fully dressed up in the costume he gave you. His eyes swept down your body, pausing slightly in-between the end of the dress and the start of your thigh high white stockings.
“If I knew you were going to look this good in that outfit I would’ve blackmailed you into wearing it way sooner.” Baby told you his smirk growing wider.
“Shut up.” You groaned crossing your arms though you could feel the blush on your cheeks.
“Okay whatever you say babe.~” Baby cooed standing from the sofa and wandering toward the far door. “Can you grab me some Doritos and meet me in my room? It’s time to whoop your ass in Mario kart.”
