summary: Alexia Putellas had always been forbidden fruit. She was your father’s closest friend, and the woman who once made it clear she could never see you the way you saw her. You left Barcelona hoping distance would dull your feelings, your craving. But now you’re back and quickly realizing that the desire is still there. Only this time, it feels less like something you’re meant to resist and more like something that’s been waiting to be bitten into.
contains / tags: 18+ mdni, smut, explicit content, older!Alexia, dadsBFF!Alexia, younger!reader, footballplayer!reader, cunnilingus A!receiving, fingering A!receiving, making out, foul and inappropriate language, age gap, shared history, implied consent given, longterm pining and yearning, usage of yn and petnames (princess, princesa) | wc: 7k
DISCLAIMER: This fic contains an age gap of 8 years (present time reader is 24, Alexia is 32) and explores a dynamic of a shared history that not all readers may be comfortable with. There is also some foul language in the fic that references their relationship dynamic. I didn’t want to just leave a “DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT” type of warning. Hence, why I am including this disclaimer just to be safe. I believe I handled the topic with as much caution and tact as there can be when it comes to smut but if you feel that the age gap and history is something you would dislike or feel iffy reading about, do not read.
⋆˙⟡♡ Alexia has not left your mind ever since you met her.
She managed to consistently occupy a disproportionate amount of your brain for years. Even when you tried to get away from her.
You spent six years in Manchester, tried to get as far as you could at that age from Barcelona; you dated all kinds of women in the hopes that one of them would stick and yet, she was still the one who constantly occupied your mind.
Trying to forget about Alexia Putellas was impossible but seeing her again seemed even harder than you anticipated.
You bit your lip as you lingered in your childhood living room, just having arrived back from a small welcome drink with old friends, now returning to your welcome home party at your dad's house.
You watched her standing out there — beer in hand, talking to Patri about something, throwing her head back to laugh. She looked so familiar and yet so different. The once lankier build you were so familiar with was now firm and strong, her hair back to its natural brown, framing her face. She looked so good and every part of you couldn't stand it.
"You good, princesa?" Your dad appeared at your shoulder, reading your face in the infuriating way that fathers do. "Go on outside. Everyone's waiting to see you."
“Yeah, soon, Papà.” You hummed and gave him a small smile. "I was just, uh, reminiscing."
He laughed, a confused look on his face. "Well, you can reminisce outside." He nudged you. "C'mon. Alexia's been asking about you nonstop."
You said nothing, just nodded. "I'll follow you out. Just gotta change first."
"Okay, but don't make them wait too long," he said, already heading outside, already walking toward Alexia and her group. You stayed where you were for another moment, taking a deep sigh before heading to your bedroom to change.
⋆˙⟡♡ Your dad had you when he was young; he was only seventeen, barely settled into his own life, scrambling to figure out single fatherhood. Even if it was hard, he made it work but that meant giving up a lot.
Before he had you, he had been training with the Barcelona B team, trying to make something of himself, but after you were born and one tragically timed ACL injury later, he accepted that his dreams as a footballer were done. The world of football, though, that he couldn't let go of. So he took coaching courses, put in the hours, and slowly found his footing as an assistant tactical coach for the women's team.
Alexia was just a new signee to Barcelona then; she was eighteen, bright-eyed, restless with ambition. She and your dad got close after she badgered him into helping her with her defensive work, knowing he'd been a decent defender in his day.
Eventually, they got closer after all those training sessions, so much so that he started treating Alexia like his work-little-sister.
⋆˙⟡♡ You met Alexia for the first time at your housewarming party. Your dad had just inherited the house from your late grandfather, and after months of renovation, it was finally ready. It felt like a real change from the small apartment you'd grown up in. He invited people from the club, and Alexia was one of them.
You already knew who she was. You were also training in La Masia at that time. The women’s team had just become fully professional and all the femeni players were somewhat heroes to all of you girls in La Masia.
Your dad introduced you the way he always did, calling you his princesa. Alexia found it cute and adopted it on the spot, and began referring to you as princesa as well. While it made you cringe whenever your dad introduced you that way to his friends, insisting that you were too old to be called that, you didn’t seem to mind when it came from Alexia. You decided that you liked the way it sounded when it came from her.
Since then, Alexia became a constant presence in your life.
Along with other people from the club, she always came over to your house for weekends and right before the holidays, before she headed back to her family. In the times that she was there, she taught you to do football tricks. She’d help you with homework.
She occasionally also came to your youth games when she could, standing at the crowd with her arms folded, paying proper attention, and afterwards would tell you what you'd done well and what you needed to work on. Somehow that always mattered more than anything your dad or coaches said.
You didn't think anything of it for a long time. She was just Alexia, just always there.
But as you grew older, you slowly figured that there was something different in the way you felt about Alexia. And, by the time you were sixteen, you had fully figured it out: the reason you couldn't stop thinking about her, couldn't stop smiling when she talked to you, the way your heart did that stupid thing whenever she was near...
You knew, at that point, it wasn’t just platonic admiration.
⋆˙⟡♡ It was your eighteenth birthday. Your dad suggested that you celebrate it at a bar. He said something about celebrating Barcelona B winning the league and also something about wanting you to learn how to drink while surrounded by people you trusted.
Whatever it was, you just went along with it.
Because not only were you celebrating your birthday, the fact that you were finally being able to drink legally and that your team won, you were also celebrating the fact that Alexia was coming to see you again.
"She's actually coming?" your teammate said, for the third time.
"She always comes," you said, bragging a bit but trying to sound like it was nothing.
Throughout the years, Alexia slowly became a household name in Spain. She was catching the attention of everyone, signing brand deals, and receiving awards. She wasn’t just Alexia, your dad’s friend. She was now Alexia Putellas, la reina.
Though, while you loved watching her succeed, it also meant you got to see her less. The visits became less frequent: weekly became monthly, then monthly became occasionally. Then, occasionally became nothing much at all,
But thankfully, she was finally making time to see you for your birthday. Just as you were turning eighteen.
She arrived about an hour in,and you felt the energy in the room shift the way it always did when Alexia walked into somewhere. Your group of friends from La Masia started giggling and smiling, already eager to approach Alexia for a picture.
"Moltes felicitats!" She found you first, arms open. She hugged you properly, wrapping her arms around you and lifting you up for a second. All you could think about was how happy you were to see her again and how amazing she smelled, the same familiar perfume she had always used.
She pulled back from the hug and looked at your outfit, frowning to herself. "You turn eighteen and couldn’t wait to dress like it, huh? What happened to the Hello Kitty shirts?"
You felt the blush climb your face immediately. "Hey Alexia," you chuckled. “I missed you.”
“I know, I know, it’s been so long,” she said, chuckling, patting your head as she did. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to watch your games recently. I’ve been busy.”
“Trust me, I know,” you chuckled, waving off her apology.
"Well, at least I have something to make it up to you." She handed you a small box, wrapped neatly. "I hope you like it."
You opened it and felt the same fluttering feeling in your stomach. It was a delicate gold necklace with a dainty crown charm. You looked up at her.
"Thought it was suitable," she said simply. "For the princesa."
At this point, your face was fully red, heart beating overtime. You thanked her, hugging her once more.
"I'm putting this on right now," you said, as you pulled away from the hug, already fumbling with the clasp.
She laughed. “Let me.”
Alexia helped you with it, letting you turn from her, hands brushing your hair to the front. You bit your lip, a bit giddy she was doing it in front of your teammates. In your teenaged, delusional mind at the time, you felt it was the most romantic scene that could ever happen.
Before you could even turn around to present the necklace to Alexia, your dad materialized from the corner of the bar and clapped Alexia on the shoulder. "Ale, you made it."
"Of course." She said, greeting your dad before gesturing at you. "Xavi, your girl is a grown-up now."
Your dad looked at you with an expression that was mostly pride but also partly teasing. You knew he was going to say something that’ll embarrass you. "I know. I have to start watching out for the boys." He said, squeezing you close to him.
"Papà—" You groaned loudly, pushing him slightly, making him and Alexia laugh.
"My bad, my bad." He held his hands up immediately, grinning. "I meant to say that I have to watch out for the girls," he turned to Alexia to explain. "She came out and told me she likes women yesterday. It completely slipped my mind. again"
"Papà!" You said in an annoyed tone, widening your eyes at your dad. He always managed to stay the stupidest and most embarrassing things about you in front of Alexia. “That's not what I — I wasn't asking you to — madre mia."
Alexia was looking at you with an amused expression, chuckling. "Congrats?"
"I'm going to actually die of embarrassment," you groaned, shaking your head.
Your dad and Alexia laughed. He turned to Alexia "Come on, let’s go before I embarrass my kid anymore." your dad said, still grinning. "All the guys from the club are all over there. Sandra and Patri said they’re on their way too. Let me grab you a drink."
"One second," Alexia said, glancing toward the entrance. "I need to wait for—"
She was looking at the door. You followed her gaze.
"New girl?" your dad asked, apparently reading something in her expression. Just at the mention of it, your heart dropped.
Alexia shrugged, lazy smirk playing around your lips. "For now. I don't know. It’s nothing serious.”
“When did you become such a player, hermana,” your dad joked, squeezing Alexia’s shoulder.
The woman who walked in was obviously Alexia's age. She was confident, pretty, looking around the room until she found Alexia and crossed toward her. She greeted you warmly enough. You were seething too much to even remember her name because all you could focus on was how Alexia’s hand found the small of her back.
You just gave her a tight-lipped smile and said a curt thanks before deciding you’d rather not be around Alexia while she was with this new girl. You made your way back to your friends, who were already excitedly whispering about Alexia. You brushed them off, just wanting to celebrate and drink, pretending not to give a fuck about the Alexia even if you constantly watched her from your peripheral the entire night.
⋆˙⟡♡ By midnight, you were absolutely plastered. It started off fun – dancing with friends as you sang along to whatever song was blasting. Then very quickly, it became… not fun.
You found yourself in one of the booths, slumped over your teammate who was patting your back as you vomited into one of the empty gift bags.
Your dad appeared as soon as he heard. "Dios mío." He said, tone concerned more than mad. “I thought I told you to stop after your last shot an hour ago.”
From where you were slumped over, you gave him a weak shrug.
Much to your dismay, Alexia came rushing to where you were. She sighed at the sight of you absolutely plastered, sweaty and vomiting into a glittery pink paper bag.
She patted your dad’s arm. “You go settle the bill. I can drive her home and take care of her while you settle things here.
Your dad looked between you and her. "You sure?" He asked.
Alexia nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll text you once I get her back to your place.”
Your dad said his thanks as your friends helped you up, giving you a glass of water and wiping your mouth and face. As you stood up, Alexia put your arm around her, arm holding your waist to keep you steady.
She chuckled. “Looks like the princess enjoyed her eighteenth birthday.”
You groaned in response. “Alexia, I’m sorry…”
She looked at you and gave you an easy smile. “What do you have to be sorry for? You’re supposed to be the drunkest person on your 18th.” She joked as she walked you to her car. “Mission accomplished.”
⋆˙⟡♡ The car ride was quiet for a while. You sat in the passenger seat with your head tipped back and the window slightly open. In your hands was a new plastic bag that Alexia had gotten from somewhere in her car, just in case you needed it.
"Okay," Alexia said eventually, focusing on the road. "Lesson one. You have to eat carbs before you drink. Basic stuff, princesa."
You said nothing, closing your eyes for a moment, still feeling the alcohol swirl inside you.
"We'll work on it. Like when I used to teach you those ball control drills when you were little, remember? Except this time we can practice with shots." She glanced at you. "Much more useful life skill, honestly—"
"I hate you," you blurted suddenly.
Alexia wasn’t sure of what she heard. She frowned a bit but chuckled awkwardly. “What?”
"I said I hate you." Your voice came out thicker than you intended. Perhaps it was just because you were drunk, young, absolutely stupid and too honest. "I hate you so much."
Alexia didn’t respond yet. She grew concerned, pulling over to the side of the road, just a block away from your house. “Hey, princesa, what’s going on?” She asked, tone gentle. “Is everything good?”
"How could you bring her?" It came out before you could stop it. Your tone was pained and Alexia could hear it clearly. "To my birthday. How could you bring some girl to my birthday."
Alexia was quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry. You're right, it was friends and family, I should have asked your dad first if–-"
"That's not what I mean." You shook your head, settling your back against the reclined seat, trying to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill. "You don't understand."
Alexia sighed, unsure of what to do with this outburst. She knew you were drunk out of your mind but she knew that you wouldn’t have said all of it if you didn’t actually mean it. "Then tell me." Her voice was gentle. "You know you can tell me anything. You're like my little sister. I—"
"Stop." The word came out sharp, unslurred for once. "Stop saying that. Stop calling me that."
"YN—"
"I'm eighteen." Your voice broke on it, which was humiliating and yet, you kept going. "I'm not a little girl anymore. I haven't been for a long time and you keep — you just keep—"
You couldn't finish it. You didn't need to.
Alexia watched you as you turned slightly away from her, wiping your tears as you did. She mouthed a curse word to herself, finally realizing what you were trying to say. She took a deep breath before continuing.
"YN," she said, tone careful. “You know, I don’t…” She trailed off, still unsure how to face this situation.
"I know," you said. "I know, okay, I know. You don't have to say shit."
"I'm sorry." She sounded like she meant it, which made it worse. "Princesa, I'm so sorry, I didn't know at all that…”
She hesitated before continuing. “You'll find someone, you know? Someone your age who deserves you, who will treat you like an actual princess.” She said, trying to sound comforting but every single word she said felt like a dagger. “You’re a young and beautiful girl but YN, you know that I’m not— That I cannot…”
Alexia sighed, still struggling to find the words to comfort you. “I'll always be there for you, that doesn't change,” she continued. “There’ll be someone for you, princesa. I promise—"
“I don’t want anyone else,” you said, shaking your head, mascara streaking your face. “I want you.”
Alexia sighed, looking out the car, watching the road ahead. “YN, I don’t… I don’t see you like that,” she started. “You’re too young.”
“I’m eighteen, Ale.” You countered.
Alexia chuckled but it didn’t seem cruel or mocking; it just came out in disbelief. “Princess, I’m twenty-six,” she responded, trying to rationalize with you now. “We’re at such different parts of our lives. I don’t think you would want to date someone this much older. Quite frankly, if it was anyone else, I would disapprove too.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed. “Absolute bullshit and you know it. I'm old enough. I know what I want.”
Alexia sighed, trying to keep patient. “You don’t understand. It’s just… it won’t work.”
You scoffed and before you could think about it. You unclasped your necklace and held it out to her. “Then I don’t want this,” you said, tone harsh. “You cannot give a girl this and act like you weren’t leading her on.”
Alexia frowned. “Leading you on? YN, it was a gift. For your birthday,” Her tone came out offended and hurt. "How is that leading you on?"
You shook your head, dropping the necklace into one of the car’s empty cup holders. “I don't want it."
Alexia sighed, growing impatient. "YN, you're being dramatic. C’mon, I thought you liked it." She said, trying to talk some sense into you. “I really picked that one out for you cause you know how much I care about you. Don’t you like it?”
You shook your head. "I want something else." You looked at her directly as if daring her. "You know what I want."
She looked back at you and she sighed, lips turning into a tight line as she leaned back onto her seat, turning away from you. "No," she said.
"Alexia—" You tried to reach out but Alexia swatted your hand away.
"No." Her voice was harder this time, something in her composure finally frayed at the edges. "YN. I would never — you're practically my little sister or my cousin or whatever. For fuck's sake, I’m your dad’s friend.”
Alexia paused once she noticed that she was starting to raise her voice, breathing out for a moment. “I would never look at you like that." The words landed the way she probably intended them to. She didn’t want to hurt you but if that was what it took to draw the line, then that was what she was doing. "Never."
That was it. That was the moment Alexia broke your heart.
⋆˙⟡♡ After that, you left. You didn’t tell your dad what happened and you were certain Alexia hadn’t either. Which was probably why it must have come as a shock to hum when you decided that you were refusing the renewal offer from Barça B and accepted the offer from Manchester City.
You told your dad it was for the minutes, the development, the chance to play at the first team instead of fighting to work your way up to the first team at Barcelona. All of that was true in a sense but none of it was the real reason why you left.
You spent six years in Manchester City. There, you developed, slowly became very good at football and yet, still so shit at forgetting
You only saw Alexia twice in the time you were away: when City played Barça in the Champions League. The first time you kept your head down and got through it. The second time she tried to talk to you after the final whistle and you found a way to ignore her, walking straight past her and greeting Patri instead, who also knew you from back in the day, switching kits with her instead as if trying to make a point to Alexia.
⋆˙⟡♡ Your contract with City expired this season and you had decided not to renew. Alexia was in a similar situation: contract expired and leaving her club. It seemed like you were both at a crossroads.
You were back in Barcelona negotiating, and your dad had been beaming with excitement for two weeks at the idea of you possibly returning to Barcelona. Hence, why he was so set on inviting a bunch of friends from the club tonight at your welcome home party, as if to convince you to bite the bullet and sign with Barcelona.
That was why she was here.
And that was also why you have been anxiously looking through your outfits, settling on one that felt just right before heading to the party.
⋆˙⟡♡ You walked out into the backyard and felt her notice you before you even looked.
It happened in your peripheral vision. She was in the middle of a conversation, pausing to glance over to you eyes scanning you for a bit before excusing herself moving toward you with one hand holding a beer bottle and the other at the pocket.
She gave you a small smile. “Long time no see,” she smiled as her eyes quickly scanned you, lingering a microsecond longer where your abdomen was exposed. "You look…”
She trailed off and you nodded. “Yeah, I haven’t seen you since we played against each other.” You said.
She chuckled, nodding. “Yeah, when you totally snobbed me,” she said. She looked at you again, almost as if she couldn’t help it. "You look good.”
"You said that already." You said laughing
"I didn't actually say it the first time." She smirked.
You hummed, eyeing her too, dressed in a button-up top with her forearms exposed and straight-cut jeans. She looked good, even better than she did years ago.
Before you could continue talking, your dad caught sight of you, ushering you to talk to some other people from the club, clearly set on his agenda of convincing you to sign.
Alexia drifted away too but one thing was for sure: her eyes were on you the entire time.
⋆˙⟡♡ The crowd thinned out as the night got later.
You found yourself feeling a bit socially drained from all the talk about negotiation and signing, settling on the old, wooden swing at the edge of the yard, beer in hand. Alexia noticed you settle there, slowly walking over to you and sitting beside you.
“So…” She said, “I heard you weren’t dead-set on Barcelona yet. Are you actually considering Atlético?"
You shrugged. "Among others,” you responded before taking another sip of your beer.
"Don't tell me you’re considering Real Madrid," she asked.
You chuckled and shook your head. "Please, my dad would actually kill me."
"Yeah, your dad and everyone else who's ever met you." She bumped her shoulder against yours lightly. "La Masia girl ending up at Real Madrid. You’d be a villain."
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile.
She hummed. “So, when’s your next meeting with Barcelona?"
"Don't act like you don't already know everything,” you quipped back, looking at her and giving her another eye roll. With your dad’s big mouth, you were sure everyone at the party tonight was updated with all of your affairs.
Alexia chuckled. "I know some things," she said. "But I don't know what you're thinking about. You don't really talk to me anymore."
She paused, taking an exhale, before turning back to you and smiling. “Except from the last Champions League match where you called me a filla de puta on the pitch for stealing the ball from under you.” She smirked.
You chuckled briefly as you shook your head, not saying anything more, trying to pretend that you weren’t absolutely drawn in by the familiar smell of her perfume, trying to pretend that her presence didn’t overwhelm your senses and that you wanted to absolutely just jump her.
Alexia wanted to ask.
She had been wanting to ask for years: why you didn't reply to her texts, why you walked past her after that match like she was a stranger, why every birthday greeting she sent was left on seen.
Deep inside, she had a clue that it was about what happened six years ago, on your eighteenth birthday. But it had been years since then, you were twenty-four now. And from what she’s heard, you’ve been in several relationships. It had been years and yet, it seemed like you haven’t moved on.
"Well," she said instead, breaking the silence. "You know I'm leaving."
She glanced at you. "You'd be the perfect replacement. The next number eleven. It’d be like passing the crown — from la reina to la princesa." She paused, grimaced slightly at calling herself la reina.
You caught it and laughed, short and involuntary.
"Hey." Her voice shifted, something in it warm and pleased. "First smile I've gotten out of you all night."
You looked away but still felt the smile linger on your face.
"Which reminds me. I have something for you, actually." She reached into her jean pocket before presenting it to you.
You looked over. It was her gift from six years ago.
"I found it in my things," she said. "Just a few weeks ago, when I was packing up. I've had it for all those years apparently. Just thought you should have it back, like a welcome back gift."
You took it from her before turning it in your fingers. It looked exactly like you remembered it – dainty and classic. You handed it back to her without saying a word.
You turned slightly, lifting your hair. Her fingers found the clasp and you felt them brush your neck as she clasped the necklace on you. The charm settled in between your collarbones.
You turned around to present it to her. Alexia smiled and her eyes stayed on your neck, smiling, before looking away to take a swig of her beer. If you hadn’t been paying close attention, you wouldn’t have noticed the clear blush on her cheeks.
Gotcha, you thought to yourself, smiling as you did.
"Wait," you said with a smile. "I can't see if it looks right."
You stood up and gestured for her to do the same. "Come inside for a second. I want to see it in the mirror."
⋆˙⟡♡ She followed you to your room because Alexia Putellas had, apparently, never learned to distrust you.
You pushed your bedroom door open and stepped inside. The room was exactly as you'd left it: pink walls, old trophies on the shelf, the same furniture in the same places. She followed you in and stopped, looking around the room as she closed the door behind her.
You walked over to your vanity, bending over to the height of it. You looked at Alexia through the mirror as you adjusted the necklace at your collarbone. Behind you, she moved slowly along the wall, taking in the old posters and framed photos.
She stopped.
She was standing in front of the poster on the wall by your bed where you had a bunch of posters and the biggest of them all was a poster of her. You never bothered taking it down and apparently, neither had your dad. She stared at it with an expression caught between flattered and horrified.
"God," she said, sitting down on the side of your bed facing, taking a swig of her beer. She grimaced as she looked at it again. "I didn't know you had this. I look so young here."
You smirked walking towards her, in the space between the wall and the bed. “Yeah, you know I was always a fan.” You said as you stood in front of her. You bent down slightly, just enough that the necklace was dangling in her eye level from where she sat. “I feel like the necklace suits me more now.”
With the way you were bending, the top you were wearing hung low, just enough to show the lace bra you were wearing underneath. Alexia averted her gaze, pressing the beer bottle back to her lips and taking a swig. “Yeah,” she said, staring at the poster to avoid the sight of you.
You knew that this was your chance. Before Alexia could fully lift the beer back to her lips, you took it from her slowly, urging her to look you in the eyes as you brought it to your lips, drinking from it slowly before placing it on the bedside table.
Alexia gulped and stiffened, watching you standing over her, a look playing on her face.
“Wha–”
Before she could say anything, you moved closer to her, placing a leg on both sides of her lap and straddling her, adjusting until you were comfortably resting on top of her. “You know, I always admired you.” you said.
"YN—" she started.
"What? I always used to sit on your lap." You said it lightly, feignng innocence. “How is it any different now?”
"You know what you're doing." Her voice was careful, controlled in a way that felt strained.
"What? Cause I don’t know," You tilted your head, placing both arms around her shoulders. "What am I doing?"
She looked at you but didn't answer. Her hands were hovering around your hips, just suspended, uncertain but cautious. You smirked, seeing her neck move as she gulped.
You shifted forward slightly, closing the distance between you as your lips moved closer to her ear. "A lot has changed since that night," you said, quietly "Don't you think?"
Her jaw was tight.
"Six years." You leaned in, your breath brushing her ear. You felt her go very still underneath you. "I grew up. I left and I tried to get over you… but I couldn’t”
Alexia shifted a bit but you didn’t budge. "But I still want you," you said. "I still..."
You didn’t continue what you were saying. Instead, you turned your head, moved closer to her and caught the edge of her ear between your lips, nipping at it just enough to garner a small inhale from the older woman. Her hands moved closer to you but she kept them hovering as if she was still apprehensive.
You smirked to yourself before you planted a gentle kiss on the space between her ear and jaw. When she didn’t move, you moved your way further down the jaw, planting slow open-mouthed kissed, following the line of it. She stayed absolutely still, hands still hovering, not stopping you but not pulling you closer.
You moved down further, gripping onto her to keep balance. You kissed the side of her neck, sucking a bit as you did, surely leaving some marks on her. After, you pulled back just enough to look at her face.
Her expression had finally broken open into something unguarded. The pupils in her hazel eyes had doubled in size and she looked flushed, lips partly, open. You held her gaze for another moment before you took off your shirt, leaving you exposed in just a lace bra.
"YN." Her voice was different now, slightly rough at the edges. "You shouldn't—"
Before she could say anything more, you captured her lips with yours. Her lips were soft and she tasted like a mix of a light lipgloss taste and the beer she was just drinking. Alexia didn’t move at first, feeling all sorts of conflicted.
Your hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. Finally, her hands held onto your waist, keeping you steady and her lips started to follow your lead, lip-locking as you did. She held you lightly, a sharp contrast by the firmness and intensity of your kisses and the way you clung onto her.
This was what you’ve dreamt about all those years and you couldn’t believe you were finally able to do it.
It felt better than you could have ever imagined.
You broke the kiss, keeping your face close to her, looking into her eyes. Her eyes darted from your eyes to your lips, as if trying to make sense of what just happened. It was filled with a look of pleading. A plea or you to stop or for you to continue? You weren’t sure what it was.
You pecked her lips another time before leaving a trail of kisses from her cheek to her jaw then down her neck. After a final kiss on her exposed collarbone, you slid off her lap and sank to your knees on the hardwood floor in front of her, your hands finding the button of her jeans. She put a tentative hand on yours.
"You can tell me to stop," you said, waiting for her response. “Just tell me and I’ll stop.”
Alexia looked down at you, eyes lidded, breathing heavier than before. She blinked but did not say anything, removing her hand from on top of yours.
You smirked at her, pleased with her reaction, as you continued pulling down the zipper. As soon as they were open, you tugged at both her pants and underwear simultaneously. Alexia said nothing but the way she lifted herself slightly off the bed – just enough for you to pull the pants off of her –- told you everything you needed to know.
You took her bottoms off, parting her legs as you did, leaving her completely exposed. You subconsciously licked your lips upon seeing the wetness gathering between her thighs. A moan nearly escaped your lips as you looked at it for a moment more, letting her light musky smell waft to you, feeling yourself clench in arousal.
You moved closer, looking up to lock eyes with her as you did. Alexia’s mouth parted with her chest rising and falling with anticipation. With your hand, you parted her folds, watching the slick glisten beneath your fingers as you did.
Alexia inhaled sharply, her hands gripping the sheets as she leaned back, tilting her head away as though she couldn't bear to watch.
“Ale,” you said, voice soft. “Please look at me.”
Alexia bit her lip before reluctantly looking down at you.
You offered her an innocent smile. “Watch your princess,” you said just audible enough for her to hear.
You watched her neck move as she swallowed, unsure of what to do at this point. Her breath hitched once more as your mouth enveloped around her clit, forming a light suction around it.
You kept your eyes on her, almost urging her to keep eye contract as you continued slowly to suck on it in a slow, steady pace. After you settled into it, you began using your tongue to trace her folds before slowly settling on her clit, pressing it flat against her before swiping upwards, catching her nectar, coating your tongue.
A moan escaped your lips as you tasted more of her wetness – light, salty, and slightly tangy. The moan vibrated against Alexia, eliciting an open-mouthed gasp from her.
You continued to alternate between sucking and licking on her clit. You moved your hands from her legs to just behind her hips, pulling yourself closer. As your pace increased, you pressed yourself deeper against her, determined to make her fully unravel.
Alexia bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. One hand found your hair, gripping lightly the back of your head. She wasn’t pushing you away nor pulling you closer, just holding you as if just to hold onto something to ground her. You smiled when you felt her shift closer.
Not satisfied with her reactions, you quickened your pace, now flicking your tongue against the small, sensitive part of her clit. A full moan finally escaped Alexia as she took her hand from your hand and moved it behind her on the bed, to keep herself balanced.
You took that as a good sign, keeping your pace fast and steady. A string of small moans continued to spill from Alexia’s lips, arching her back slightly as she fully laid on your bed, brown hair sprawling beneath her.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to savor it all: the taste of her on your tongue, her warmth, the smell of her against you, the knowledge that you were finally tasting Alexia Putellas.
This was the same Alexia you always wanted, the same Alexia who never noticed you, at least not in the way you wanted her to. The same Alexia who swore that you she could never see you in that way. And here she was now, trembling beneath your mouth, choking down her sounds. It filled you with satisfaction. It felt like redemption.
You felt yourself growing more desperate with every passing second, and it only drove you forward. Alexia's moans grew louder. "Sí, sí," she murmured, her voice low and strained. “Sigue así.”
The pride in you filled your chest, urging you to go further. You pressed two fingers against her opening, letting her slick coat the tips of it before pushing in, garnering another sharp breath from Alexia.
You glanced up at her. Her button-up top had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of toned skin. Her stomach tightened as you began moving your fingers further into her. The sight of it was intoxicating.
Eventually, you lifted your mouth away but kept your fingers where they were. Moving up, you positioned yourself over her. Alexia looked back at you through heavily lidded eyes, mouth still parted.
Before she could react, you captured her bottom lip, kissing her with fervour as you continued to thrust into her, pounding faster into her. You could feel Alexia struggle to keep up with the kiss, her lip-locking growing sloppy, unable to focus on anything else but the pleasure, as you curled your fingers, pressing into her.
You moved your mouth to her jaw, kissing and sucking and biting. Alexia gripped the sheets, knuckles turning white as she did. She arched into you as you continued to pound against her. The sounds of your thrust against her wetness filled the room. Soon, it was becoming impossible for Alexia to keep her moans quiet. She got louder, incoherent words strung together with gasps and moans, as she felt your fingers fuck into her.
You moved closer to her, whispering onto her ear. "Ale, you're getting so loud,” you said, voice teasing and amused. “Do you want my dad to find you getting absolutely wrecked by his only daughter? The idea must turn you on, huh?" With that, you thrusted into Alexia harder, curling your fingers into her as you did.
Alexia winced as she heard your words but could not hold back her moans as you relentlessly fucked her. She felt embarrassed and ashamed of how good it felt to be fucked by you and of just letting you do this to her. Deep inside her, she knew this was wrong, that she shouldn’t be enjoying this.
And yet, here she was, overwhelmed with pleasure and writhing underneath you.
Alexa cursed under her breath as she felt your fingers repeatedly curl into her, hitting her sensitive spot each time you entered her. She could feel the orgasm build up into her as she did. You felt her clench around your fingers, internal walls tightening.
“Yeah, Ale, come for me,” you whispered in her ear, almost taunting. “Come for your princess.”
With one more curl of your fingers, Alexia felt the waves of pleasure take over her body. She arched her back further, closed her eyes, face contorted in pleasure as she allowed the orgasm spread throughout her body.
After a few more thrusts, you pulled your fingers out of her, waited for her to open her eyes fully before you wrapped your mouth around your fingers, sucking your fingers clean as she watched.
Alexia averted her gaze, bringing her hand to her face, pretending to wipe sweat off of it but really just so she wouldn’t have to look at you, feeling the pleasure dissipate slowly only to be replaced by frustration and shame.
You couldn’t make sense of it then but something in you just felt powerful at that moment, like the tables have finally turned. Six years ago, she turned you down and broke your heart, claiming that she will never see you in that way. And here you were now, making her eat her words, showing her that she was wrong.
"Can't believe you'd let me do that." You said teasingly as you rested beside her in bed, smiling. "Did the thought of my dad finding us make you hornier?"
Alexia frowned a bit as she heard the question but she didn’t answer. She stood up so suddenly. She ignored the mild dizziness from the sex and the sudden standing, immediately putting her bottoms on and cursing under her breath.
"Leaving me already?" You said, smirking, filled with pride.
She hated how you were teasing her. She didn't know why you were doing so when you knew she was already feeling shameful about what just happened, when you knew that Alexia was the kind of person who would generally never allow something like that to happen normally.
“Hey,” you said, sitting up slightly, watching her look around for the shoe she took off. “Alexia, c’mon.”
She ignored you.
You frowned, reaching out for her hand. “Don’t leave your princess just after she fucked you.”
Somehow, that was what sent Alexia over the edge. She stopped putting on her shoes and spun around to grab your face, clutching so hard that your lips were almost puckering. "Don't ever disrespect me like that again." She hissed at you.
Your eyes widened at the energy shift. It was your turn to be speechless. Alexia was gripping on to your face firmly. Even if you had something to say, you wouldn't be able to at how tight her grip was.
"Actually, don't talk to me ever again." Alexia let your face go, slightly pushing you to the side as she let your face go. You kept yourself steady with your hands on the bed, looking up to her.
She fully buttoned her pants. She didn’t look back at you. She stormed out of the room, slightly slamming the door behind her.
You sat there, silent. You felt a bit guilty and ashamed. You didn't anticipate her to get this angry at you. Actually, you didn't anticipate anything.
You admittedly just acted on all the pent-up frustration from the past few years. Maybe it was just wanting to get back at her for her rejection years ago. Whatever it was, the feeling of pride dissipated quickly. You knew this was a mess you couldn't easily fix.
"Fuck."
a/n: wooop, anyway messy and didnt bother doing much proofreading but i hope u guys liked it! i so rarely write bottom!Alexia but i hope u guys liked it still. if you did, i'd appreciate a like and reblog! i also have other fics ongoing if any of u are interestedddd. anyway, lmk ur thoughts and please be nice.
if any of u are interested in a part 2, which will be... just more smut with dbf!Alexia, lmk in the comments and if i post it, ill tag everyone.
(another disclaimer: the plot is vaguely reused from an old fic I have published for another fandom. I did not plagiarize because… I wrote it ahahah. Changed some things up but there are a few similarities with my old fic and this one.)
"Trust me?" she asked quietly.
It should've been a difficult question, but it wasn't.
An hour ago she was a stranger watching you from across a crowded bar. Now you're climbing into the back of a black Rolls Royce because somehow saying no feels impossible.
She flirts like it's a language. Smiles like she's already won. Kisses like she doesn't ask for permission from the world.
A woman in a tailored suit calls her boss and suddenly the gorgeous stranger you've been shamelessly flirting with might not be just another woman at the bar and you have absolutely no idea what you've just walked into.
Word Count: 15.2k
Warnings: Smut
Masterlist
The bar wasn't somewhere you usually came alone, yet here you were. A long week had finally ended, and the thought of going straight home to your empty apartment had somehow sounded worse than sitting in a crowded bar with strangers.
At least here there was noise, a bit of life, something to distract you.
You sat at the bar, nursing a drink you were in no rush to finish, occasionally glancing towards the television mounted above the bottles behind the counter.
The place was busy, people squeezed around tables, couples laughed in corners, groups of friends shouted over the music.
Nobody paid much attention to anyone else which was why it took you a second to realise someone was looking at you.
You felt it before you saw it, a pair of eyes lingering. You glanced up and froze.
Across the room sat a woman you'd never seen before, brunette hair, sharp features. The sort of confidence that seemed to radiate from her without any effort. The second your eyes met, she smiled, not politely or accidentally a smile meant entirely for you.
Your stomach immediately betrayed you, the sensible thing would've been to look away. Instead, you held her gaze, the smile transformed into a smirk, and you watched her lift her glass almost like a silent greeting.
Before you could stop yourself, you mirrored the gesture, something flashed in her eyes, amusement, maybe victory. You weren't sure, but suddenly your drink wasn't nearly as interesting anymore.
A few minutes passed or maybe only seconds, you couldn't tell, but every time you looked away, your eyes found their way back to he and every single time she was already looking.
The ridiculous thing was that neither of you seemed embarrassed about it, most people would've looked away eventually. She never did. Then, without warning, she stood.
Your pulse jumped, no, surely not you thought to yourself, but she was already moving through the crowd walking directly towards you, each step seemed impossibly confident as if she already knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.
She stopped beside your stool close enough now that you could see the tiny flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, close enough that she somehow became even more attractive.
"Hi." Her voice was smooth, warm and dangerously charming.
You cleared your throat, "Hi."
A grin immediately tugged at her lips, "Nervous?"
You laughed, "Confident, aren't you?"
"Usually." She tilted her head, "Although I have spent the last ten minutes wondering if you're going to tell me to go away."
"You walked across the entire bar without knowing"
Alexia shrugged, "Worth the risk."
Your heart did something deeply unhelpful, "That's a lot of confidence for someone approaching a stranger."
"It's a lot of staring for someone who wasn't interested."
You couldn't even argue, because she was right, Alexia's eyes dropped briefly to your drink, then back to you.
"I'm Alexia."
The way she said it made it sound important, not because she expected you to know who she was. Just because she knew exactly who she was. You smiled, "I'm—"
"Beautiful."
You blinked, "What?"
"I was going to let you tell me your name." Alexia looked completely unapologetic, "But then I got distracted."
Heat immediately rushed into your face, the smile she gave you in response was downright smug.
"See." She pointed at you, "That."
"That what?"
"The blush."
"There is no blush."
"There absolutely is."
You laughed, the sound seemed to make her soften slightly. For the first time since she'd walked over, something gentler appeared beneath all the confidence, something genuine.
She looked at you for a second longer than necessary, then said quietly, "I've been trying not to come over here all night."
Your eyebrows lifted, "Oh?"
Alexia nodded, "Thought I'd make a fool of myself."
That surprised you, because nothing about this woman suggested uncertainty, "And yet here you are."
Her gaze met yours steady and unwavering, "Yeah."
The smile that followed was smaller now, more honest, "Turns out the thought of not talking to you felt worse."
For a moment the noise of the bar seemed to disappear, the music, conversations, the glasses clinking together. None of it mattered, because suddenly all you could focus on was the woman standing in front of you.
The woman who had looked at you from across a crowded room and somehow made everyone else disappear.
Alexia glanced at the empty stool beside you, then back at you, "So." She rested an arm against the bar, "Are you going to let me buy you another drink?"
You smiled, "Depends."
Her eyes sparkled, "On what?"
You leaned slightly closer, close enough to see her own confidence falter for the first time all evening, "Whether you're planning on flirting with me all night."
Alexia's grin was immediate hopelessly pleased, "Oh." She pulled the stool out and sat down beside you, "I was planning on doing a lot worse than that."
The words settled between you dangerously. The kind of comment that could be interpreted a hundred different ways.
The kind that made your pulse immediately pick up whilst Alexia looked entirely too pleased with herself.
You shook your head, trying and failing not to smile, "Does that line usually work?"
"Line?"
"The one where you pretend to be charming."
"Pretend?" she repeated, placing a hand dramatically over her chest.
You laughed, Alexia's eyes lingered on you for a moment a second too long. Something shifted, the teasing was still there, but now there was something else underneath it.
The bartender appeared and Alexia ordered another round without taking her eyes off you, "You're very confident."
"So I've been told."
"You don't seem worried I might reject you."
Alexia considered that, then shrugged, "I don't think you will."
The certainty should have annoyed you, instead, it made your stomach flutter, "And if you're wrong?"
Her expression softened not by much, just enough to notice, "Then I'd thank you for the conversation and spend the next week being embarrassed." The honesty caught you off guard, Alexia noticed immediately, "You didn't expect that answer."
"No."
She smiled into her drink, "People assume confidence means fear doesn't exist."
"And does it?"
Her gaze lifted to yours, "All the time."
The admission hung there suddenly the conversation felt different, more personal, less like a game.
You found yourself studying her, the way she held herself, the way she watched you while pretending not to, the way she seemed completely present in every moment.
It was unsettling, most conversations drifted, this one didn't, Alexia's attention never wandered, not once.
A group squeezed past behind her, and she shifted her stool closer without thinking. The movement left her shoulder brushing yours, neither of you moved away and neither of you acknowledged it.
You became painfully aware of every point of contact, the warmth of her arm, the scent of her perfume, the tiny smile threatening at the corner of her mouth.
She knew exactly what she was doing, "You're staring again."
You rolled your eyes, "You started it."
"I know."
"You admit that awfully easily."
Alexia laughed, "Why would I deny it?" The answer came so naturally that it stole your next response, "You have really expressive eyes, you know."
"Do I?"
"Very." You looked away,which only made her grin wider, "There. You did it again."
"Did what?"
"Got shy."
You immediately scoffed, "I am not shy."
"You're blushing again."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
The look she gave you made it impossible to maintain eye contact for more than a few seconds.
Every time you met her gaze, the air seemed to tighten as though the rest of the room had disappeared and the only thing that mattered was the space between the two of you.
Alexia leaned forward slightly, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you noticed, enough that your attention dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
A mistake, because the second you looked back up, you knew she'd seen it her smile became almost unbearably smug. “What?”
Alexia took a sip of her drink, slowly, deliberately, then she set the glass down, "Nothing."
The liar.
You both knew exactly what had happened and judging by the look in her eyes, she was enjoying it far too much.
The conversation continued. One drink became two then three.
Neither of you seemed interested in leaving, every topic somehow turned into flirting. Every joke became an excuse to lean a little closer. Every glance lasted a little longer than it should have. Eventually there was a pause, not an awkward one, the opposite, the kind where neither person feels the need to fill the silence.
Alexia was the first to break it, her fingers drumming against the condensation on her glass, then, with a kind of lazy certainty, she let her hand fall to your knee. Not an accident, not a conversational pat. Her palm pressed warm and steady just above your kneecap, the pressure light but deliberate. You felt a slow, electric ripple climb your thigh, radiating outward from that single point of contact. Your breath caught in your throat.
She didn’t look at her hand or at your lap. Instead, she watched your face carefully, waited for the microexpression that would tell her how to proceed. You tried to keep your face neutral, but it was impossible. Alexia’s thumb drifted, slow, tracing a circle on bare skin just below the hem of your dress.
“Is this okay?” she asked quietly. The question was so uncharacteristically gentle, it almost broke your focus.
You blinked, then nodded, hoping you didn’t look as desperate as you felt.
Her smile deepened, eyes glinting. “You can tell me to stop,” she murmured.
The implication, she wanted you to say don’t was devastating. You managed, “I don’t want you to.”
She squeezed your knee, her hand moving fractionally higher, pinky brushing the inside of your thigh. You suppressed a shiver, acutely aware of every molecule of space between you and her and every molecule she was now invading.
The bartender dropped off your new drinks, misreading the intimacy as a casual touch. You reached for your glass a little too quickly, almost knocking it over. Alexia grinned, leaning in, her voice pitched for only you to hear. “You seem nervous.”
You took a sip, swallowing against the heat in your cheeks. “You keep saying that.”
“Maybe I like it.”
You tried for an eye roll, but your voice was softer than you meant it to be, “You’re a menace.”
“I’m very well behaved,” she said, the words landing somewhere between truth and open dare.
You glanced at her, weighing it, and found yourself thinking about what well behaved could possibly mean to someone like Alexia. Her hand had not moved from your thigh. If anything, she’d gotten bolder, her palm sliding by literal centimetres higher each time you answered a question, until now it was only the thickness of your dress between her skin and the rest of your leg.
Alexia leaned closer still, her temple nearly touching yours, the air around her glittering with the sharp notes of her perfume. “Tell me something true,” she said.
You pulled in a breath, felt your pulse hammer inside your wrist, “Something true?”
She nodded, watching your lips. Her pupils were blown wide, dark, a little dangerous.
You thought about lying, about saying something clever, but the truth snuck out. “I haven’t done this before.”
Alexia stilled, her hand pausing mid-motion. “Done what?”
“This,” you gestured vaguely at the two of you, the not-quite-touch, the careful choreography. “Let a stranger pick me up at a bar.”
She grinned, slow and predatory. “I’m hardly impersonal,” she said. “I’d like to think we’re both somewhat invested at this point.”
“Somewhat,” she conceded, though she could barely remember the last time she’d felt this alive and fidgety in her own skin.
Alexia’s hand, still at your thigh, moved with slow intent now, her knuckles grazing the delicate skin above your knee, then wandering upward, fingers splayed, as if claiming territory. Your breath came shallow, and you crossed your legs, trapping her hand between them. She didn’t seem bothered by the escalation if anything, she seemed to approve. Her lips curved upward, like she’d just watched a dog perform a new trick. She looked at you in a way that made your whole body feel like the center of a searchlight beam.
“Tell me another thing,” Alexia murmured, voice pitched for your ear alone. “Something only I get to know.”
You considered, momentarily at a loss. “That feels unfair,” you said, “since you already know how to make my heart beat faster.”
Alexia’s thumb drew a lazy semicircle along the inside of your thigh. “Then I’ll trade,” she said. “I’ll tell you something first.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded.
“When I walked over here, I was so nervous I nearly forgot how to speak English,” Alexia said, her eyes darting to yours to see if you’d buy it.
“I don’t believe you,” you said.
“You’re right.” Her grin flashed. “I was only nervous for about five seconds, but they were very intense seconds.”
You snorted, and Alexia’s hand squeezed your thigh, anchoring you to the moment. “Are you always like this?” you asked, without looking away.
Alexia tilted her head as though considering. “Not always.” Her expression gentled, suddenly earnest. “Usually only when I actually like someone.”
You blinked, trying to process the cliché and sincerity in one breath, “I don’t believe you,” you said again, but there wasn’t any heat behind it.
Alexia shrugged, as if to say, take it or leave it. “Truth or dare, then?”
“Are we twelve?”
“Would you prefer spin the bottle?” She laughed at her own joke, and the sound did something strange to your nervous system. You found yourself grinning despite the tension, despite her hand, despite the fact that your skin was now abuzz with anticipation.
“Truth,” you said, because you genuinely wanted to know what she’d ask.
Alexia’s eyes went soft for a moment, like she saw something she liked. “What do you want to happen next?”
The question stole your breath. You’d been bracing for innuendo, for some predictable escalation, but this was much riskier. It required an answer, a real one.
You took a sip of your drink, stalling, the ice clinked against your teeth.
You met Alexia’s gaze and said, “I want you to keep touching me.”
If she was surprised, she didn’t show it, if anything, her satisfaction sharpened. “Permission granted, then.”
You expected her to move her hand immediately, to go for the dramatic show, but instead she left her hand exactly where it was palm firm, fingers spread, thumb still tracing that single path, up and up, until your whole leg felt like a live wire. There was no hurry, she seemed to know exactly how long you could stand to be touched and how long you could stand not to be.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. All the words in your body seemed to have gathered somewhere behind your ribcage, hiding. Alexia’s thumb edged beneath the hem of your dress, just a centimeter, maybe two. The contact was delicate, almost accidental, but the intent behind it was not. It was a dare, pure and simple.
You forgot how to breathe.
Alexia leaned her face against her palm, elbow on the bar. She looked at you, eyebrows high and lazy. “You’re very easy to read, you know that?”
You wished you were better at lying, wished you could pull off even a little of her composure. “Not my fault,” you said, voice embarrassingly hoarse.
Alexia smiled, pleased as a cat, and then said, “I’d invite you to get out of here with me, but I don’t want to be rude.”
You almost laughed, but all that came out was a small, open-mouthed sound. “Is that why you’ve been doing this the whole time?” you asked, gesturing at your thigh, your face, the space between you.
Alexia shrugged, not even pretending. “Maybe I just like making you blush.”
“This is a lot for a first conversation,” you said, though you weren’t pushing her away. Every ounce of you wanted her closer.
“I’m not in the habit of apologising for knowing what I want.” Her fingers played a restless tattoo on your leg. “But if it’s too much—”
“It’s not,” you cut in, surprising yourself with the urgency in your voice. “It’s not too much.”
The look she gave you was so direct, so unwavering, it made you wonder if you’d ever actually been seen before tonight.
“Okay,” Alexia said, soft and steady. “So let’s go.”
You felt for your purse, hands a little clumsy, aware of how sharply the world had contracted to the two of you. The rest of the bar was background noise, lights smeared by alcohol and adrenaline. Alexia watched you reach for your coat, then she stood, not offering a hand because she seemed to know you wouldn’t want that. Instead, she waited, gaze never leaving you.
Outside, the Barcelona night air hit you like a splash of cold water. It should have helped, it didn't. If anything, stepping away from the noise of the bar only made you more aware of Alexia walking beside you.
The city buzzed around you, cars drifted past, distant laughter echoed down the street. Yet somehow all of your attention remained fixed on the woman at your side.
You had barely taken three steps onto the pavement when Alexia glanced towards the darkness beyond the entrance, "Get the car."
The words were calm, matter of fact, as though she'd done this a thousand times before.
Your eyebrows furrowed, a figure emerged from the shadows, a woman. A little taller than Alexia, professional, completely unsurprised, "Yes, boss."
Boss? Before you could process the exchange, she was already moving away.
You stared after her, then slowly turned back towards Alexia.
Alexia, meanwhile, looked entirely unbothered, almost amused by your expression, "What?"
You narrowed your eyes, "Nothing." Her smile suggested she knew you were lying.
The questions immediately started piling up in your head. Who was that? Why had she called Alexia boss? Why was there apparently a woman waiting in the shadows for instructions? And perhaps most importantly, what exactly did Alexia do?
The sensible part of your brain told you to ask, the other part was currently too distracted by the way she was looking at you.
So instead you said nothing, Alexia's smile widened, "You're thinking very loudly."
"I'm trying to decide whether you're secretly running a criminal empire."
She laughed, the sound warm and genuine, "I can neither confirm nor deny that."
"That's exactly what someone running a criminal empire would say."
"Good point."
You were still trying to work out whether she was joking when headlights appeared at the curb, a sleek black Rolls Royce glided to a stop in front of you.
You blinked, once, twice.
The same woman stepped out from the driver's seat and without hesitation she walked around the vehicle and opened the rear door for you.
Your brain completely short circuited, Alexia seemed far more interested in your reaction than the car itself, "You look concerned."
"I'm standing outside a bar with a stranger whilst another opens the door of a Rolls Royce for me."
"Fair."
The woman remained waiting patiently as though this was all perfectly normal, which somehow made it stranger.
Alexia stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that the warmth of her presence settled beside you again. Then her hand found the small of your back, the touch wasn't possessive it was reassuring.
You looked up at her, the city lights reflected in her eyes, "Trust me?" she asked quietly.
The question should have been difficult, it wasn't not really, because despite the mystery, the unanswered questions and despite her being a complete stranger you met an hour ago you found yourself nodding.
Alexia's smile softened, "Good girl."
You rolled your eyes immediately, "Don't make it weird."
"Too late."
The woman holding the door looked suspiciously close to smiling, you pointed at her, "See? Even she's judging you."
Alexia glanced towards the driver, the driver instantly looked away, professional once more, "I pay her to pretend I'm charming."
You laughed, the sound escaped before you could stop it, Alexia's expression immediately brightened as though she'd won something, "That joke wasn't funny."
"It was a little funny."
"It wasn't."
"It was." Still smiling and despite your hesitation and better judgment, you ducked into the car. The interior was ridiculous, soft leather, ambient lighting, enough space to comfortably fit half the bar.
You slid across the seat trying very hard not to look impressed, trying and failing, a moment later Alexia climbed in beside you.
The door closed and the outside world vanished instantly, silence settled around you, it was private, comfortable and dangerously intimate.
The driver pulled away from the curb and as the city lights began sliding past the windows, you finally turned towards Alexia.
Alexia watched you for a long moment, her eyes so steady and unblinking it was impossible to decide if she was about to say something of consequence or if she was simply cataloguing which way your hair fell, whether you’d keep avoiding her gaze, how you were pressing your knees together under the hem of your dress. The car glided through the city, the silence between you both like a suspended breath.
Then, without warning, Alexia curved her hand around your jaw and kissed you.
There was no hesitation. No lean in, no shy, searching question in her eyes. One heartbeat you were staring forward at your own reflection in the privacy glass, the next you were tasting her: cold gin, salt from a half-remembered rim, something sweet you couldn’t place. She kissed the way she spoke, direct and unapologetic. Her lips were warm, soft but insistent, and her fingers splayed against the side of your neck, anchoring you in the leather-wrapped capsule of the car. It could have been rude if it hadn’t been so fast, so smooth, so exactly the right amount of pressure.
You froze, a breathless half second, not from shock, not exactly, but from the simple fact of being chosen, of being seen, and then immediately being claimed. Her mouth slid from yours to the corner of your jaw, then back again, as if she’d found the first taste promising and wanted to make absolutely sure. The confidence of it, the way Alexia didn’t bother with permission, only checked with pressure and the answering heat of your lips against hers it undid you like a single, practiced knot.
She pulled back, barely. Her forehead tipped against yours, the scent of her perfume mixing with your quickening breath. Close up, you could see the faint constellation of freckles across her nose, the near invisible scar above her left eyebrow. Her pulse beat beneath your fingertips where your hands had landed, one against her shoulder, one clutching the lapel of her blazer.
“Too much?” she murmured, not even bothering to disguise her amusement.
You were supposed to say something witty, reassert some sense of control over the situation, but all you could muster was, “No. Not enough, actually.”
Alexia laughed, and the sound vibrated through her chest to yours. She kissed you again, slower this time, a measured escalation, her tongue flicking the seam of your mouth before she deepened it. She tasted like adrenaline, like the distilled sharpness of citrus and want. Your body answered before your mind caught up, and you leaned into her, hungry, desperate to make up for every kiss you hadn’t had before this one.
It became clear within minutes that Alexia’s mouth was not the only part of her that lived on the offensive. Her hand found your thigh again, sliding up, warm and greedy, and this time it made no pretense of stopping at polite borders. She gripped, squeezed gently, fingers kneading the soft muscle under your dress hem, as if confirming that you were real and here and entirely at her disposal.
Alexia’s hand drifted with the certainty of someone who had never once been denied. She pressed higher, fingers trailing over the impossible heat where your thighs met, the only barrier a thin band of cotton. The touch wasn’t tentative nothing about Alexia seemed to be, her palm settled at the apex of your legs, fingers closing with almost lazy possession.
The whole world funneled to a single point of contact, you barely registered that the city was flying by outside, that the woman driving the car was a living, breathing witness to the slow burn undoing happening in the back seat.
Alexia’s lips moved to your neck, the pressure of her mouth making you tilt your head back against the seat. She kissed the soft skin under your jaw, then lower, slow and insistent, until your whole body was a single receptive nerve ending. You tried to bite back the noise that wanted to escape when her fingers pressed in, tracing the shape of you through the fabric, but a traitorous gasp slipped out anyway.
Your eyes flew open and landed in the rearview mirror. The driver’s gaze met yours for a heartbeat, cool, unreadable, with the faintest ghost of a smile before she looked away. A flush of something shamed and thrilling ran through you.
“Alexia,” you whispered, meaning it as a warning, a plea, something. She paused, her lips at your ear, her hand unmoving but present, holding you hostage against your own body.
She followed your gaze to the mirror, her lips quirked up. “Cata,” she called, voice just loud enough to be heard over the car’s hush. Like she shouldn’t have had to ask.
“Yes, boss,” the woman replied, sliding a pair of earbuds into place, a low, thrumming music started, insistent, and a moment later, the privacy partition slid up, transforming the rear cabin into a cocoon.
Now it was only you and Alexia, and the velvet black of the car, and the hum of terrible possibility.
Alexia’s hand moved again, this time with no witnesses. She gathered the hem of your dress in her fist and slid her palm beneath, skin to skin. Her touch was purposeful, a slow, winding trail up your thigh until her fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. She lingered there, just barely touching, reading your whole body through the trembling in your legs.
She kissed you again, deeper now, her tongue a soft demand. One of her hands tangled in your hair, the other pressed into your cunt through the thin layer of fabric, fingers moving in an excruciating, perfect rhythm.
You arched into her, breath coming short and fast. She nipped at your bottom lip. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked, not as a tease but a genuine question, her voice ragged around the edges.
You nodded, probably too eagerly.
Her mouth traced a slow line from your throat to your collarbone, then back up to the soft skin behind your ear. "Lift," she murmured against it, barely louder than the hum of the car.
You obeyed without thinking, hips rising, and she drew your underwear down in one unhurried motion, leaving it somewhere forgotten around your calves.
The air hit you first, then her hand, her thumb found your clit with the same faultless confidence she brought to everything else, pressing once, firmly, before beginning slow, deliberate circles that made your breath stutter and your fingers curl against the leather seat.
Your head tipped back against the headrest as her fingers pressed in, slow and deliberate, two knuckles deep before pausing there, letting you feel the stretch of it, the unbearable fullness of almost. Her thumb kept its own time, unhurried, entirely indifferent to the stillness of her fingers and then, without withdrawing, they began to move, curling upward on each slow stroke, finding the soft spot of you from the inside.
The pace of it. The way her fingers explored with such calm, with such patient violence. It undid every prepared defence, all the quick answers you thought you’d have for this moment. Your hands went to her wrist, not to stop her but to anchor yourself, to make her real, the hard lines of her hand pressed so warm between your thighs.
The car blurred by city lights you barely registered the route, but the only place that mattered was here, in the tight private world of the backseat and the mess Alexia was making of your body. Her mouth returned to yours, rough this time, her tongue a slow demand, her breathing totally unlike the cool, precise woman she’d been at the bar.
You’d meant to perform better at this. You’d meant to be the kind of person who played hard to get, who made her work, made her wait. Instead, you were unraveling all over her hand, hips pressing up, head tipped back so you barely even saw her anymore, only felt the relentless, exacting motion of her fingers.
“Good?” she asked, voice a hoarse promise, lips brushing against your ear.
You couldn’t speak. You had to search for words, any words at all, but all that came out was a whimper. You clung to her shoulder, the soft wool of her jacket, as if something about the fabric could stabilise you. It didn’t.
Alexia withdrew her fingers, and you nearly whimpered at the loss until she brought her hand, glistening, to her own lips and sucked her fore and middle fingers into her mouth. Her eyes never left yours as she tasted you, and she smiled, a lazy, wicked thing, before she pressed her damp thumb to your lips and said, “Try.”
You did. You licked it, and her whole expression softened, she bit her own lip as if surprised.
“Jesus,” she said, and you felt every syllable like a bruise on your chest.
Alexia crowded closer, lips still parted from the last kiss. She tugged at your knee, insisting it fall open for her. You let it. She moved down the seat, somehow graceful in the confined space, until she knelt on the floor between your legs. There was a reverence to the way she looked at you then, a beat of assessment, the hot, clinical attention of someone memorising every square centimetre of bare skin and shiver.
The world was a dark blur outside the windows, the car eating the city block by block. Inside, only Alexia’s hands, her mouth, and the feverish heat pooling at the base of your spine.
She reached up, fingers spanning your thigh, and leaned in, lips grazing the sensitive skin just above your knee, a single deliberate brush that made every hair stand at attention. She trailed upward, slow as torture, kissing your inner thigh, then biting, just enough to leave a mark. You felt the indentation of her teeth long after she moved higher.
You didn’t dare look out the windows, certain the city would be watching, even though you both knew the glass was blacked out. All you could see was Alexia, her head haloed by the car’s ambient light, her eyes locked on yours as she kissed, licked, nipped her way toward the heat between your legs.
She hovered, a breath away from where you ached for her, and you could feel her exhale, warm and humid, her mouth finally, finally pressing in and up. The first pass of her tongue nearly made you convulse, a shock of sensation that stole your breath. She licked you slowly, methodically, hands holding your thighs apart, steady even as they trembled under her grip.
There was nothing gentle in the way she worked you open. She sucked, then licked, then sucked again, and when you gasped or moaned she’d smile, the vibration of it sending you higher. She was thorough, insistent, the kind of lover who wanted proof of her own effect, who liked to leave you shaky and overwhelmed and a little ruined.
You dug your hands into her hair, the silky strands fisting between your fingers, and she responded by moaning into you, the sound so raw and animal it short circuited your brain. Her tongue circled your clit, then pressed, then flicked so fast and so relentless that you lost track of time, of the world, of everything except the wet, obscene sounds and the mounting, unbearable pressure.
She slipped two fingers into you, the same ones that had made you fall apart already, and curled them just right, just as her mouth closed around you and sucked you hard enough to tear a cry from your chest.
Her tongue slid lower, firm and slow as a prayer, flattening along your clit until your vision shimmered at the edges. Then, a slick tease, she pressed the tip just inside you. She drew lazy, savouring circles with her tongue, working you open in increments so small it was almost agony, and when you dug your heel into the seat edge for leverage, she moaned as if you’d given her a gift.
You wanted to say something clever, something cutting, anything to keep this from feeling like pure, animal surrender, but Alexia stole every syllable from you, translating want into sensation, pleasure into pressure, until all you could do was gasp and cling. The world outside the car ceased to exist. There was only the rough texture of the leather beneath your hips, the velvet slide of her tongue, and the steady, unrelenting rhythm she set with her fingers.
She alternated between licking you and fucking you with her tongue, one moment teasing the rim, the next thrusting deep enough you felt your whole pelvis lift off the seat. Her hands, palms broad and sure, held you open, anchored you so tight it was impossible to run, though your entire body wanted to arch away and into her at once. Each time you came close to shattering, she’d back off, tongue circling languidly, a slow drag that made you sob with frustration, then she’d return, hungry and insistent, as if she was intent on mapping you molecule by molecule.
You barely recognised the sounds coming out of your mouth, didn’t believe yourself capable of the high, desperate noises echoing off the car’s plush interior. Alexia ate you like she was starving, like the world had ended and all that was left was this, your body, her mouth, the heat and salt and slick of you. You felt the build start low, a gathering storm, your thighs trembling so hard you worried you’d break her grip.
She must have felt it, the way your pulse skyrocketed, because her tongue redoubled, fast and relentless over your clit, and when she pressed inside you again, it was with her whole mouth, her face buried so deep she could have been breathing you. You came so hard you saw a burst of white behind your eyelids, your hips jackknifing off the seat as you lost all sense of yourself, of her, of the car or the city or even your own name.
When it passed, you were boneless, melting back into the seat with a sound that was half laugh, half staggered sob. Alexia surfaced, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes dark and almost tender.
"Lift," Alexia said, and you surfaced slowly, hands still trailing absently along your own calves, the word arriving a beat late. She was sliding your knickers back up your legs, matter of fact, almost tender. "What's your address? I'll have Cata drop you home."
You almost laughed. You had let this woman pull you into a blacked out car and come apart in her mouth, and yet something in you toyed at giving her your postcode. "Just drop me back at the bar." Alexia almost smiled, as if she’d expected that answer, maybe she had. Maybe this was the kind of thing she did on Fridays, collect women from dim bars, corral them into luxury vehicles, and see what they’d let her get away with before midnight, you only half cared. Your whole body still pulsed with spent energy, core tight and legs jelly weak, and you didn’t trust yourself to speak.
Alexia’s hands were smooth, methodical as she helped you gather yourself, dress tugged discreetly back into position, wrists steadied together momentarily. Not possessive, but careful, as if she knew exactly how fragile a person could be when they’d just let go of a lifetime’s worth of control in the span of a half hour. For a second you almost expected her to light you a cigarette.
“Cata?” Alexia called out after pressing a button near your head, as the divider slid down and the muted thrum of the city returned through her open window. “Back to Calle del Bruc, please.”
No one asked for clarification, Cata’s tone was even, automatic, “Yes, boss.”
Alexia looked at you sidelong, one corner of her mouth quirking in a private joke. “Don’t worry, there’s a shop at the corner if you need a tactical recovery snack.”
It hit you, belatedly, that you might actually be starving, “Don’t suppose you’d let me walk it off?”
“In those shoes?” Alexia made an exaggerated show of glancing at your feet. “You’d make it one block.”
She had a point. Your heels dug into the thick carpet, ankles wobbling, and there was something indecent about offering the stranger in a tailored suit this much leverage over your literal ability to stand, but you didn’t hate it. Instead, a laugh tumbled out, unguarded and light, and Alexia softened to it, slow, genuine, the sort of smile that only happened when she wasn’t trying for effect.
“Okay,” you said, “I’ll take the ride.”
Alexia stayed angled toward you, every line of her posture open, the pants of her suit stretched tight over muscled thighs, her fingers steepled together like someone interviewing for a position only you had no doubt who was being sized up for potential.
“Is this where I’m supposed to say something clever?” you asked.
She shrugged, not breaking eye contact, “Only if you want to.”
You could feel the blush return, but you didn’t try to hide it this time. “I don’t know if I can outdo you.”
“Maybe that’s not the point.” Alexia’s tone was different, now, less tease, more invitation. “Maybe you just enjoy the ride.”
The car settled into a red light outside a late night panadería. Neon flickered against the window, painting the interior in pinks and blues. Alexia tilted her head, as if waiting for you to look away. You didn’t.
Soon the club the night started in came back into view, your hand reached for the handle before you could the door was open Cata standing tall above you in your seat.
You got out from the car, legs unsteady on the pavement, almost forgetting the state of your own body, the way heat still flickered up your thighs with every movement. Cata gave you a single nod, bored or respectful, you couldn’t tell, then ducked back inside, returning to whatever in cabin playlist she’d engineered for herself.
The street seemed too bright, the laughter spilling from the bar at double volume, the world now in high contrast after the hush and luxury of the car. Alexia moved over into the seat you had been in, she looked as immaculate as she had hours ago, utterly untouchable, except for the smear of pink at the corner of her mouth, nearly the same colour as your lipstick.
You wanted to say something, anything to break the spell of the night, but the words were stuck behind your tongue. You were suddenly aware of what it meant to be seen together this way, to be half dressed and full of teeth marks, to have been made open so thoroughly and so quickly you barely remembered your own rules for how moments like this should play out.
“I didn’t get your name,” Alexia said, into the silence between you.
The breeze hit first. You folded your arms against it, against her, against the whole unbearable composure of her still sitting there. “I don’t think that matters much now, does it.” Not a question, you held her gaze one beat longer than was wise. “Bye... Boss.”
She smiled at your quip, you saw it fall the moment you turned away.
The bar door was loud and bright and full of strangers. Behind you, a car door closed, and the engine pulled away down the street as you stepped back into the place it all started.
The Rolls Royce merged silently back into the late night traffic, for the first few minutes, nobody spoke.
Cata's hands rested confidently on the steering wheel, eyes scanning mirrors as much as the road ahead. Years of driving for Alexia had taught her that silence was rarely uncomfortable.
Tonight, however, it felt... different, she caught Alexia's reflection in the rearview mirror still looking out of the window, watching the bar disappear into the distance.
"You want me to turn around?" Cata asked eventually.
Alexia didn't answer immediately, "No." A beat passed, "...Keep driving."
Cata's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly.
Interesting.
💪🏼
The wrought iron gates rolled open before the car reached them.
The estate beyond was more fortress than home, hidden behind centuries old stone walls and towering cypress trees. Cameras tracked the Rolls Royce as it wound up the long drive before stopping beneath the portico.
Before Cata could step out to open the door, the front door swung open.
"About time." Patri bounded down the front steps wearing an oversized hoodie, a packet of crisps tucked under one arm, "We were taking bets."
Cata sighed, "I told you not to say any-"
"You also bet." Patri grinned, "And I won."
Alexia climbed from the car, smoothing invisible creases from her jacket, "What exactly did you win?"
Patri held up a handful of notes triumphantly, "Mapi said you'd be back in an hour."
"I said two," Ingrid called from the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel.
"I guessed you'd bring someone home." Patri looked dramatically offended, "Which, for the record, would've won if you hadn't decided to be mysterious for once."
Alexia shot her an unimpressed look, "You're all exhausting."
"We know," Mapi replied, appearing beside Ingrid with a mug of coffee in hand, "That's why you keep us."
Inside, the house smelled unmistakably of fresh bread, garlic and slow cooked tomatoes, Ingrid smiled warmly as Alexia stepped through the doorway, "I kept your dinner warm."
Alexia loosened the top button of her suit jacket, "You always do, thank you"
That finally earned a small smile, the kitchen was already occupied, Misa sat at the island cleaning one of the training pistols they used in the private range beneath the house.
She glanced up briefly, "No bullet holes?"
"No."
"No stab wounds?"
"No."
"Disappointing."
Alexia rolled her eyes, "It was a quiet evening."
From the corner of the room came a snort, everyone turned, Pina was leaning against the counter, methodically sharpening a knife with the kind of concentration most people reserved for crossword puzzles.
Without looking up she asked, "So. Was she worth being late for the meeting you called?"
Silence, even Patri stopped eating, Mapi slowly lowered her coffee, Ingrid looked between them all, Alexia reached into the fridge, retrieving a bottle of water."I don't know what you're talking about."
Six voices answered simultaneously, "Boss."
Alexia unscrewed the cap, "I met someone."
Patri slammed both palms onto the counter,"I KNEW IT!"
"You owe me fifty euros," Jana said without missing a beat.
Patri groaned dramatically before fishing money from her pocket, "Worst night ever."
"You literally won the first bet."
"I've now lost the important one."
Mapi folded her arms, "So you met someone..." Alexia nodded, "...and?"
"There isn't an 'and.'"
"There is always an 'and,'" Misa replied.
Alexia took a long drink of water, hoping it would somehow delay the interrogation, but it didn't.
Pina finally looked up from the knife she'd been sharpening for Ingrid after complaining none of the knives she used for cooking was sharp enough, "What was her name?"
Alexia froze just for a fraction of a second, "...I don't know."
The room fell silent, Patri blinked, "You..."
Mapi blinked, "...don't know?" Mapi finished for Patri
Even Cata turned around, "You didn't ask?"
Alexia rested the bottle on the counter, "I did."
"And?"
"She didn't tell me."
Patri stared, then burst into hysterical laughter, "Oh, this is priceless."
Mapi joined in, "The great Alexia. The woman who has politicians returning missed calls. The woman whose enemies cross continents to avoid her...got rejected by a woman whose name she doesn't even know."
"I wasn't rejected."
"No?" Mapi grinned, "Then what's her name?"
Alexia's silence answered for her, Patri was laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes, "I love her already."
Ingrid hid a smile behind her mug.
Cata folded her arms, "So what did she call you? If you didn’t find the time to get names"
Alexia couldn't stop the smallest smile from tugging at her lips, "'Boss.'"
That only made everyone laugh harder, Pina slid the newly sharpened knife onto the counter and, for the first time all evening, smiled, "Interesting."
Alexia looked over, "What?"
Pina shrugged, "You've spent years making people fear you." She tilted her head thoughtfully, "And tonight..." A knowing smile spread across her face, "...someone walked away."
The laughter around the kitchen faded, Alexia found herself looking toward the dark windows overlooking the grounds.
She could still picture you disappearing through the door without looking back, without giving your name, or asking who Alexia really was.
For perhaps the first time in years, Alexia realised she wanted something she couldn't simply command, buy, or intimidate into her life.
She wanted another chance encounter, that prospect was far more unsettling than any rival family waiting in the shadows.
💪🏼
The marina shimmered beneath the last of the evening sun, rows of yachts bobbed gently against their moorings, each one more extravagant than the last, but they all paled in comparison to the one looming at the end of the dock.
You stopped walking., "...That's a yacht?"
Lily looked over her shoulder, grinning, "What?"
"That's not a yacht." You pointed towards the floating palace”, "That's a small country."
She laughed, "I know." The thing was absurd, multiple decks, floor to ceiling windows reflecting the orange sky, crew moving efficiently across polished teak decks.
You'd never seen anything like it outside of films, "Remind me," you said, tearing your eyes away for a second, "how exactly do you know someone with a yacht this size?"
"I don't."
You frowned, "You don't?"
Lily shook her head as if that was the least surprising part of the evening, "You know Jana? The one who comes into the coffee shop every morning?"
You hummed, "The one you think I don't know you're sleeping with... that Jana?"
Lily shot you a look, "I'm not sleeping with Jana."
"Her car is outside at the end of your shift four nights a week."
"Coincidence."
"There’s an extra toothbrush at your flat."
"Allegedly."
"You accidentally called her 'babe' while steaming milk."
"I was tired."
You snorted, "So... definitely that Jana."
Lily sighed dramatically, "Fine." A beat, "Maybe."
You bumped her shoulder, "I knew it."
She rolled her eyes, "Anyway, Jana invited me and told me to bring a friend, so I assume she knows whoever owns this ridiculous thing."
"Comforting."
"It'll be fine." You weren't entirely convinced.
The closer you got, the bigger the yacht seemed, people in expensive clothes laughed on the upper deck, champagne catching the fading light, staff moved with quiet precision. Everything about it screamed money, old money, the sort that never had to tell anyone it existed.
Lily was already digging through her handbag, "Found it."
She held up a sleek black invitation with gold lettering before presenting it to a member of staff stationed at the bottom of the boarding ramp.
The woman scanned it, smiled politely and stepped aside, "Enjoy your evening."
Lily flashed you an excited grin, "See? Easy." She bounded halfway up the ramp before realising you hadn't followed, "Y/N?"
You had turned, distracted by movement beside the entrance, your stomach dropped. No...
Standing a few feet away, dressed in a tailored black suit with an earpiece tucked discreetly behind one ear, was a woman you recognised instantly.
Cata. She recognised you at exactly the same moment, there wasn't the slightest flicker of surprise on her face however. Just that same unreadable expression she'd worn outside the Rolls Royce.
Your heartbeat picked up, she walked towards you with measured steps, professional and controlled.
When she stopped in front of you, neither of you spoke, not at first, "Can I check your bag?" Her tone was courteous, almost gentle.
You swallowed, "Yeah... of course."
You slipped the strap from your shoulder and unzipped the bag, holding it open.
Cata's inspection was quick and methodical, she barely disturbed anything inside before stepping back.
For one impossible second, your eyes met again. Did she actually remember you?
Of course she remembered you. She remembered everything.
She gave a single nod, "Enjoy your night."
You managed a small smile, "Thanks."
She stepped aside and you started walking, one foot in front of the other trying very hard to appear completely normal.
Your thoughts, however, had other ideas, Cata, not someone who merely resembled her, the same woman, the same driver, the same bodyguard, the same quiet, observant presence who had watched you climb out of a blacked out Rolls Royce only a few weeks earlier.
Your pulse refused to settle, there were only two possibilities.
Either Cata worked security for multiple wealthy people...or this yacht belonged to Alexia.
You weren't entirely sure which possibility made you more nervous.
"Y/N!" Lily called from further up the gangway, "You coming or what?"
You blinked yourself back to the present, "Yeah."
You forced your legs to keep moving, each step carried you further onto the yacht. Further toward answers you weren't sure you actually wanted and despite every sensible instinct telling you to turn around a small, traitorous part of you hoped with embarrassing intensity that Alexia was somewhere on board.
💪🏼
The upper deck hummed with effortless luxury, music drifted from hidden speakers, low enough that conversations never had to compete with it. Crystal glasses caught the evening sun, laughter rolled across the decking as guests wandered between the bar, the plunge pool and the shaded seating areas.
At the centre of it all sat Alexia, one ankle rested across the opposite knee, an untouched glass of whiskey balanced loosely in her hand.
She looked exactly as she always did perfectly composed and perfectly in control. It didn't seem to matter that half the yacht revolved around her, women drifted in and out of conversation with her, each one impossibly beautiful.
One leaned against the arm of her chair, laughing at something Alexia had said that wasn’t even funny.
Another perched on the edge of the sunbed beside her, making no secret of the fact she was trying to catch Alexia's eye.
Someone else appeared with two fresh drinks, offering one with a hopeful smile. Alexia thanked her politely, nothing more, it hadn't gone unnoticed.
Patri watched another failed attempt and leaned towards Mapi, "That makes..." She counted under her breath, "...eight."
Mapi didn't even look up from her beer, "Nine."
"The blonde by the pool doesn't count."
Across from them, Ingrid laughed quietly, shaking her head, "They'll keep trying."
"They always do," Misa muttered.
Alexia, blissfully ignoring the commentary surrounding her love life, took another sip of her drink.
She wasn't listening to the women competing for her attention, she was listening to the sea, the engines, the rhythm of the yacht beneath her feet.
Then something changed, not the music or the conversation, the atmosphere, someone approaching quickly.
Alexia lifted her head, Cata, she rarely hurried, which meant something had happened. Without waiting to be acknowledged, Cata crossed the deck, weaving effortlessly between guests until she reached Alexia's chair.
"Boss."
Alexia set her glass down, Cata leaned in, speaking quietly into her ear, the words lasted barely three seconds.
Alexia's expression changed instantly not dramatically, anyone who didn't know her would have missed it, but the people around her knew every tiny shift in expression she'd ever made.
"Bring her to me." Alexia picked her whiskey back up, settling into her chair as though the conversation were already over.
Cata didn't move. "I anticipated that. So I went to find her first." A pause, just long enough to be uncomfortable. "I can’t find her"
Alexia turned her head slowly, the glass pausing at her lips, "Then keep looking."
Cata stepped back with a single nod, "Yes, boss," and was gone, threading back through the crowd with the same quiet efficiency she'd arrived with. Alexia brought the whiskey to her mouth, and whatever had just crossed her face crossed it no longer. Across the seating area, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, and Misa exchanged a glance. Not one of them said a word. They knew better to.
💪🏼
You were grateful for the relative anonymity of the bar that was built into the main deck, a sunken space filled with expensive people who all seemed to know, or want to know, each other. Lily had already vanished into a small knot of women near the bowling alley, because, of course, there was a bowling alley on this ship and you could see her holding court, basking in the attention of anyone who mistook her accent for novelty.
You hovered, uncertain. You tried to make yourself small, blending into the pale curve of the banquette near the glass doors, but every so often you'd catch eyes on you, some tracing the line of your outfit, some evaluating you for a social transaction you didn’t understand.
When you realised you’d been staring at the same drink for ten minutes, you made yourself get up and cross to the rail. The air was spiced with salt and ozone, the city’s skyline had already begun to blue out in the dusk, and the lights on the next yacht over blinked like landlocked constellations.
You felt aimless, suddenly, remembering the rush in the car, the way your own body had become unfamiliar, a stranger’s for a little while. You wondered if Alexia was here, if she ever thought about you, even as a punchline. If she was the kind of person who remembered or the kind who always needed newness.
You tried to picture her among these people, she wouldn’t be laughing in the way you saw the women laughing here. She wouldn’t be smiling for the camera or parading a new girl on her arm. She would probably be quiet, watching, drinking something brown and expensive while running a thousand unspoken calculations.
The thought made you smile, which was, mercifully, the exact moment someone cleared their throat beside you.
“You need to come with me” a low, familiar voice spoke.
You froze, then turned, Cata stood there in her suit, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable. "Took her longer than I expected," you said and something shifted at the corner of Cata's mouth, gone before it fully arrived.
"Follow me." She turned and walked, not waiting.
The upper deck was quieter, the music from below reduced to a low pulse through the floor. Fewer people up here, and the ones who were watched you the way people watch someone walk into the wrong room. You stayed close behind Cata.
"Boss." Cata announced you without ceremony.
"Kiss arse," you muttered thinking she wouldn’t hear you, evidently her hear was better than you gave her credit for.
Cata looked over her shoulder, “Speak when spoken to"
You held her gaze, "Yes, boss," you said, borrowing her own phrase back, and watched something that might have been respect flicker across her face before she turned fully toward you, close enough that you felt the shift in air.
"You have quite the smart mouth."
You let yourself smirk, "Thank you."
"Cata." Alexia's voice came from somewhere behind her, low and unhurried, and you felt it move through you before you even found her face. "Let her be." Cata held your eyes a moment longer, then stepped aside with a single nod, and the space she left open framed Alexia exactly as though it had always been arranged that way.
Alexia's eyes moved down your body and back up. You became aware, suddenly, of your shorts and tank top and the way you'd heard boat party and dressed for the weather instead of whatever this was.
“Come sit”
Your feet didn't move, "Do I have to?" The words were out before you could stop them, and the silence that followed had a texture to it. Across the deck, four heads turned in unison, Patri, Mapi, Ingrid, Misa each of them suddenly very interested in you for the first time all evening.
“No” Alexia sipped her drink, you're guess of expensive brown liquid correct, “I’d like it if you did though”
You moved, then. What else could you do? You crossed the deck, conscious of every pair of eyes some curious, some dismissive, some openly assessing. Your body felt a half step behind you, as if your limbs needed reminders to carry out the simplest commands.
You reached Alexia, and even sitting she radiated a tethered energy, a gravity that made the upholstered benches and overfull glasses and even the Mediterranean itself seem like a backdrop for her benefit.
You took the seat she gestured to, two places down from her rather than the empty one directly at her side. It felt less like keeping your distance and more like making a point, though what that point was you couldn’t have explained. For a moment she didn’t look at you, her profile cut a sharp line against the glow of the city behind her, hair slicked back, lashes heavy. You took a breath, then another, and tried to remember how talking worked.
Alexia broke the silence first, “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, as if this were her own birthday party and you were the surprise.
“I wasn’t really given the option,” you replied glancing to Cata, and watched a hint of pleasure arc across Alexia’s mouth.
“I run a tight ship,” she said, though you gathered from the yacht, the suits, the entire performance, that ‘ship’ was a flexible concept for her.
Someone behind you snorted, you glanced back. The four women at the other end of the seating area each with a drink, each angled for maximum eavesdrop were practically vibrating. One said something under her breath Alexia’s gaze flicked her direction and the group fell silent, as if their boss had snapped a leash taut.
You turned back to her, heart pinwheeling, but your hands were steady. “So what’s this?” you asked, gesturing at the yacht, the party, the entire orchestration, “Just another Friday for you?”
“Yes,” she said, as if finding the question quaint, “But not for you?” Her eyes didn’t blink as she asked it.
You shook your head, made yourself relax into the plush seat, “Where I come from, the closest thing to a boat party is watching old men play dominoes on the beach.”
She considered that, head tilted, as if calibrating how much of it was a joke. Then she smiled not the predatory smile from the car, but something private, almost delighted, “I would like to see that,” she said.
You almost said, “You wouldn’t,” but stopped yourself. Alexia already knew what she liked and what she didn’t, she didn’t need anyone to tell her.
A server appeared from nowhere, placing a drink in front of you gin, your favourite, garnished with a literal flower. You raised an eyebrow, “You have people following me?”
Alexia’s face resembled perfect innocence, “We have a good bar staff,” she said.
You sipped, it was, of course, the best thing you’d ever tasted and not what you had been served earlier. You allowed yourself a second sip before returning to the conversation at hand. “Do you always get what you want?”
Alexia didn’t answer right away. She looked at you for a while, fingers tracing a lazy orbit around the lip of her glass “Statistically,” she said, “more often than not.”
You scoffed, “I bet you hate losing.”
She grinned, small and sharp, “I prefer not to waste time on impossible things.” You liked that, or maybe you hated it. Either way, your blood ran a little faster, the gin burning a path down your throat.
“Why did you want me here?” The question surprised even you, the boldness of it, the edge, but Alexia seemed to enjoy it.
She set her glass down, leaned back in her chair, “Curiosity,” she said. “I think better in company.”
You looked around, “You seem to have plenty of company.”
She followed your gaze, the three women at the bar, the servers and silent security detail, the handful of guests now half watching the two of you from the pool, “Most people,” she said, voice dropping a little, “never say anything interesting to me.” She watched you, as if to see what you would do with that. “I like that you do.”
You felt the flush rising again, but met her eyes until she blinked firs, “That’s not a high bar.”
She laughed, and the tension in her posture eased a notch. Behind her, Patri leaned closer to Mapi, whispering “Wait, is she flirting with her?” and both burst into silent laughter.
Alexia ignored them, but you did not miss the flicker of annoyance that crossed her brow before it smoothed flat again.
“So what do you talk about,” you asked, “when you’re not being entertained by strangers?”
She looked out at the water, considered, “Business, usually. Or Tv shows. Or why Catalan food is objectively superior to all other food and nobody wants to admit it.”
“I’ll admit it,” you said, “as long as you never make me eat a snail.”
It was meant as a joke, but Alexia’s face lit up as if you’d just offered a secret handshake. “Deal,” she said. “We’ll start with something easy. Croquetas.”
“Croquetas are not easy,” you said, remembering the last time you’d tried to make them, oil splattering across your forearms, half the batch dissolving into a kind of béchamel soup.
Alexia raised her glass in a small salute, “They are if you know the trick.”
“I bet you know a lot of tricks,” you said, before you could stop yourself. She looked at you with a look that could turn concrete to steam, and you felt a jolt of adrenaline, as if you’d taken a dare you never meant to accept.
“I do,” she said, very quietly, her voice dissolving the space between you. “Would you like to learn one?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it again. The urge to say yes was so loud it drowned out every other sound on the deck, but that was not what you said. You said, “Show me.”
She stood, unhurried, glass in hand. “Take a walk with me.” You followed, aware of every person watching, of Cata’s silent shadow two steps behind, and of the way your heart pounded against your ribs, trying to keep pace.
She led you to the prow of the yacht, past the glass walled gym and the helipad, out onto a private viewing deck where the rest of the party was a distant rumour. There was no one else up here, the wind caught your hair and the edges of Alexia’s shirt, untucking it slightly, exposing a bare inch of stomach that glowed under the lighting.
She leaned against the rail, folded her arms loosely, and looked at you as if waiting for the next move. For the first time, you realised she was maybe as uncertain as you were about how the rest of this would go.
You cleared your throat, “So, what do you want to know?”
She gestured to the empty air between you, as if the night itself was the question, “Start with something true.”
You swallowed, tried not to think of her mouth or the hum of the car, or the fact that you’d spent weeks replaying her name in your head until it made almost no sense. “I’m terrible at parties,” you said, surprising yourself with the confession.
She smiled, not in the predatory way, but with a slow warmth that made her eyes crinkle at the corners, “You’re doing better than most.”
You shrugged, suddenly shy, “That’s only because I don’t care what these people think.”
“Is that so?” she stepped closer, angling her body to block the wind, “Does it matter what I think?”
You considered it for a second, then, “Yes.”
She nodded as if she’d known it already, stepped forward until you were pinned by the intensity of her, the hush between your bodies as taut as cello wire. “I’ve been trying not to think about you,” she said, as if reading the lines of your own private screenplay. “It hasn’t worked.”
A laugh caught in your throat, unsteady, “I figured you would have plenty of distractions.”
She didn’t smile. Instead, she extended her hand, palm up, inviting, and after a moment’s hesitation you took it. She squeezed, her grip warm and dry, and drew you closer until your hips touched the railing and the heat of her arm pressed yours.
“I lied, before,” Alexia said, voice pitched low. “I did want you to tell me your name. I still do.” You stared at her, the way the city lights painted bars of gold and blue along her jaw, the sincerity unguarded in her eyes. Her thumb traced the line of your wrist, patient, “You don’t have to.”
For a moment you were six years old, hiding under the kitchen table from your mother’s temper, unheard and unseen until you wanted to be. The urge to withhold was a muscle, one you’d trained since girlhood. But here, in the wind and the hush and the unyielding steadiness of Alexia’s hand, you wanted the opposite.
You told her your name. It came out quieter than you meant, small, like you had to try it out for both of you at once.
She repeated it, tried its weight on her tongue, then, “It suits you,” like it was something valuable, a keepsake she’d been hoping for.
Her thumb lingered, the movement slowing as she watched your reaction, then she leaned in, brushed your cheek with the side of her knuckle. For a second, you thought she might kiss you again, and you weren’t sure if you were ready for it, or the kind of night spent in the blast radius of Alexia’s attention.
Instead, she let the moment stretch, the two of you suspended in the hush of approaching midnight, city lights flickering, the yacht’s gentle sway pulling you both out to sea, metaphorically or otherwise.
You said it again, your own name, like maybe this time it would count more.
She smiled, wider now, the kind of smile that could build bridges or break ribs, and for a moment you saw the edges of the woman you’d met in the car, the one with a whole private world hidden behind calculated calm and jokes that always landed halfway between tease and dare.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and you didn’t know if she was talking about the name or simply standing here beside her without stepping away.
Behind you, the city was already a collection of distant lights. Up here, you didn’t feel watched, or judged, or anything except anchored to the spot. You’d forgotten what that was like, to be in a place and not want to be anywhere else.
You leaned on the railing. Alexia joined you, her shoulder pressed to yours in a way you didn’t hate. She looked at the water, then at you, something thoughtful shading her face. “What do you want, really?” she asked, and for a split second you didn’t know if she meant here, now, on this deck, or in the cosmic sense.
You thought of your answer, surprised at how easy it was, “I want to do something that isn’t about what anyone else wants.”
Alexia’s gaze flickered, as if she’d been waiting for that, “And what would that look like?” Her voice was softer, the competitive edge blunted by something that felt damn close to hope.
You considered the question. There was a time you would’ve answered with the first clever thing to come to mind, but now, wind in your face, her gaze locked on yours, you went for honesty. “I don’t know yet,” you said, “But I think I’d like to find out.”
She nodded, as if this was the best answer she’d ever heard.
You looked at her, really looked, and realised that for all her show and sharpness she was just as curious about the next step as you were. “Show me a trick, then,” you said, and her face split wide, delighted.
“I was making an innuendo”
“What makes you think i didn’t know that?” She was closer now, her face a question. For a long moment all you heard was the wind rushing past the railing and the hollow thump of your heart under your ribs.
She leaned in, her lips finding yours as if the answer to every riddle was hidden in your mouth. This time the kiss was the opposite of the car, no performance, no urgency, a long slow hush that pulled at your bones. She kissed you like she wanted to remember every detail, taste every secret, build the anticipation to a point so bright it burned through all the layers you hid yourself under.
When it broke, she kept her face close to yours, breathing in the same inch of air. "You going to leave just as quick this time," she said, and you had to laugh, because you recognised your own pattern even as she named it.
"Maybe I like the chase," you said, and she traced her fingertip along your jaw, not quite smiling.
"Me too."
The world fell away, the city, the yacht, the crowd, until it was just you and her and the pressure of her hand against your lower back. Alexia drew you in until your hips rested together, her body angled around yours like a shield. You felt something unclench in your chest. The wind lashed at your hair, and she smoothed it behind your ear with unnecessary care.
You could see now that nothing about her was casual, not really. Every gesture, from the careless way she drank to the way she held you, was a tic of discipline learned so early it became invisible. She was always running a calculation, how much to reveal, how much to risk, how close to get before she startled herself into retreat.
You didn't pull away. Instead, you asked, "What now.. Boss?"
She smirked, let her hands drift down your arms, fingers trailing heat, "Sometimes," she said, "the trick is there isn't one."
You felt her smile against your cheek, the slow, coiling satisfaction of a plan coming together. Then her hands were at the backs of your thighs, and in one smooth motion, she scooped you up, your legs reflexively circling her hips. You laughed, startled and delighted, but the sound dissolved when she pressed you into the wall of a stairwell, her mouth capturing yours, hard and slick with intent.
You clung to her, fingers threaded in the fine hair at her nape, only distantly aware of the world beyond her, the city a smear of colour in the porthole window, the thudding bass of the party below now just a private drumline for the two of you. She kissed you with a kind of greedy discipline, her mouth coaxing yours open, teeth gentle but insistent, tongue sliding hot against yours until you forgot to breathe.
She carried you down, footfalls muffled by expensive carpeting, the darkness pressing in close and intimate. At the bottom of the stairs, she manoeuvred you through a heavy door before letting it swing shut behind you. The click of the lock was a perfect, surgical sound. You were alone, the hush of the room thick and absolute.
She set you down your back thudding softly onto a mattress that could have slept four. She loomed over you, all dress shirt and precision lines, the heat of her body radiating over your own. You reached for her, and she let you, gathering your wrists in one hand and pinning them above your head on the bed, her mouth returning to yours, then to your neck, then lower, each kiss a claim.
You arched into her, thighs falling open, and she slid between them, grinding in slow, deliberate pulses that made you whimper. She was all pressure and rhythm, the fabric of her trousers rough against the thin fabric of your shorts, each movement a study in controlled violence.
She never let up, never released your wrists, just moved her mouth lower, teeth scraping lightly at your collarbone, then the edge of your breast peaking out the side of your tank top. She shifted, stripping you carefully, exposing you to the cool air and to her.
She took her time then, as if mapping your body for later use, hands and mouth and tongue leaving a trail of heat from your ribs to your hips to the inside of your knee. She was patient, so patient, the kind of patience that only made you want her more, until you were writhing beneath her, pleading wordlessly for her to close the final distance.
She did, eventually. She knelt between your legs and slid her hands up, thumbs tracing the sharp lines of your pelvic bone before pressing your knees wider. Her mouth was a question, and your answer was in the way your back arched, the way your hands found her hair and pulled. She licked slow at first, almost lazy, but when you gasped, she smiled into you, then licked again, harder, faster, tongue and fingers working in unison until your vision went white and the only thing you felt was her mouth, her tongue, the burning pleasure that built and broke, built and broke, until you unravelled so violently you nearly sobbed her name.
Alexia gave you no room to recover. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes gone almost black, hair a mess from your grip. She slid off the bed to her feet, unhurried, pulling you to the edge with one hand under your arm.
She then paused to look at you really look, as though you were something rare she’d found washed up on the sand. You lay there, breathless, skin prickling with the rush of exposure, and for a second you wondered if she’d make you wait for it, if she’d force you to beg. But she only smiled, a crooked, open hunger, and slowly began to work open the buttons of her shirt from top to bottom slowly.
She wore nothing underneath, the sight was enough to make your mouth go dry, the lines of her body sharp and golden under the room’s dim light. She was sculpted, almost severe, the kind of body that came from discipline and war with herself. She stood at the edge of the bed, letting you stare, and when you reached for her, she didn’t slap your hand away, but caught it, kissed your wrist, and pressed your palm to her toned stomach.
“Good?” she asked.
You nodded, unable to manage a syllable.
“Want more?”
Your voice was ragged, “Yes.”
She bent to kiss you, slow and exploratory, her whole weight pressing you into the mattress. She tasted of whiskey and salt, and her hands roamed your body as if memorising every detail for later. When she broke the kiss, she nipped your bottom lip, then traced her tongue along the seam of your mouth, teasing until you were shaking with want.
“I have a strap,” she murmured, voice rough with intent. You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you nodded, throat tight. Your gaze locked onto her as she turned toward the dresser, the drawer slid open with a whisper, and her fingers brushed against the leather, the buckles, the polished metal. She lifted it out like it was something sacred, something dangerous.
You watched, breath shallow, as she stepped out of her trousers, the fabric pooling at her ankles before she kicked them aside. Her underwear followed, black lace discarded without ceremony. The strap was already in her hands, the harness fitting snug against her hips with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. The way she adjusted the straps, fingers skillful, movements precise made your pulse hammer in your throat. There was no hesitation, no fumbling. Just the quiet authority of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
Your lungs locked when she turned, when the mattress dipped under her weight, when her knees bracketed your skull like the jaws of something beautiful and inevitable. The words came low, scraped raw, “I want your tongue.” You obeyed without thought, extending it flat, exposed, a living offering.
Then her hips began their movement, deliberate, her pressing the tip on your tongue. Each roll of her body drew a slow, wet path from the tip of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, her breath hitching when you flicked instinctively against her, a betrayal of control neither of you acknowledged.
You watched her hips move, the liquid confidence there, the way she didn’t treat you like a prop but like an accomplice, an equal participant in whatever this was between the two of you. She made a small, approving sound as you adjusted angle, depth, pressure, all of it on instinct, as if your own body ran algorithms to anticipate what she’d like most.
She kept her hand in your hair, not to force or dominate, but to feel each trembling, hungry movement you made. The slick, silicone weight of her slid over your tongue, filled your mouth, and each time your lips dove deeper, the muscles of her legs tensed around your head, thighs caging you in the dark. Her breath came ragged, every inhale a shudder that vibrated through her skin to yours, her composure cracked and light poured through the seams.
She looked down at you, hair falling across one cheek, brows knit in focus, an expression you’d never seen on her before. It was completely unguarded, almost raw. The knowledge that you had done this unravelled the perfect Alexia, lit you up from the inside. You doubled down, hollowing your cheeks, flattening your tongue, letting her fuck the softness of your mouth at her own pace.
She started slow, a testing roll of her hips, but soon she found the rhythm she liked, thrust, grind, retreat each stroke making her breath catch at the top, mouth slack and beautiful. You gripped her ass, pulled her closer, and Alexia let her head tip back, a perfect, silent moan written across her throat, the line of her jaw sharp under the pressure.
"Jesus," she muttered, the word both a warning and a surrender. You took her deeper, feeling the fullness in your mouth, the slight burn at the corners of your jaw. She liked that, liked it even more when your breath came short and needy. Every time you tried for air, she’d slow, let you catch it, then start again, showing you that patience you’d already learned from her hands and her tongue.
The world narrowed to the taste and the weight of her, the shuddering in her thighs, the salty sweat on your tongue, the quiet, desperate noises that slipped out of her despite every attempt to restrain them. You lived for those noises, for the messy, unprofessional honesty of them.
Her hands cradled your head gentle, then rough, then gentle again. At one point she cupped your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge, and you nearly broke from how careful she was, even when fucking your mouth. Every inch of her screamed confidence, but the way she held your face, the way she watched you, none of it was cruel. You realised then, in the dark, that you wanted her to break, to lose every scrap of composure with you.
You forced your eyes open, met her gaze, and watched the exact moment her control snapped. She swore, a soft Catalan curse, and pumped into your mouth with a rhythm that was almost punishing, almost needy. You let her, relaxed your jaw, took her as deep as you could and then further. The base of the harness kissed your lips, the heavy drag of it forcing your tongue flat and your eyes watering, but you didn’t stop. You gagged, for real this time, an involuntary spasm that made her flinch like she might pull away, but you gripped her hips tighter, pushed back, let the embarrassment burn through every inch of you and transform into something shameless.
She watched you, transfixed. You knew it wasn’t about dominance or humiliation, Alexia was too careful, too precise for that. It was about proof, about seeing how much of her you’d take, how much you wanted, how much you could stand to bear for the taste and feel of her. You blinked tears from your lashes, swallowed around her, and when the next wave hit, you welcomed it, the fullness and the ache, the sweet stretch of being bruised open for her.
She rocked her hips, short and sharp, a rhythm you felt all the way to your core, and with each pass she said your name, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a growl. You lost yourself in the sound of it, in the heat, in the pure intent of her body moving with yours, for you, because of you.
Eventually her pace faltered, hips slowing, and she dragged herself out, slow and slick. The silicone glistened, your spit threading in lines between you and the tip, and she wiped it on your tongue, a final, deliberate press. You licked your lips, Alexia smirked down at you, “Atta girl”
Your hands found her thighs, the muscle there dense and unyielding under your palms. You traced upward, over the curve of her ass, the harness straps cutting neat lines across it, then up and over her hip bones, then the chiseled marble of her abdomen, each ridge rising to meet your fingertips as they climbed.
Her breasts were softer than the rest of her, a contrast that made you pause, palming her breasts, and you flicked your thumb across a nipple. It hardened instantly, and the noise she made was almost a laugh, almost a threat. You rolled it, pinched, rolled again, and caught the way her jaw clenched, the way her hips rocked forward in reflex.
The cock bobbed just inches from your mouth, shining, and you licked it again, slow, letting the tip bump your lower lip, then your cheek, then your tongue. You looked up to see Alexia watching you really watching, pupils huge, face flushed with the kind of hunger you’d never had directed at you before.
You grinned up at her, hands sliding down her thighs to brace yourself and guide her backwards until, you sat up, chest to chest with her, and held her gaze as you wrapped a hand around the length of her with the other you encouraged her to lay back. You put your leg over her hips and guided it between your legs. You were still shaking, still slick, still wide open from before, but the pressure of the harness against you sent a fresh bolt of heat through your entire body. You lined the cock up, rolled your hips down, and took the whole length in one, trembling motion.
Alexia groaned, and you felt her hands grip your waist, holding you steady as you started to move. The first few strokes were slow, measured, you both watching the way her cock disappeared inside you, the way your bodies slotted together.
She let you set the pace, her hands resting on the small of your back, just above the swell of your ass, anchoring you in place. You started to ride her, slow at first, then faster, watching her face for every twitch, as you bounced on her lap.
Your hands found her shoulders, and you braced yourself, using her body as leverage. Every time you dropped down, you could feel her fill you, the thickness of the cock stretching you out perfectly, and the soft rub of the harness against your clit.
It was better than any other strap you’d ever taken, because Alexia made it feel like an extension of her will, her control, her desire for you. She didn’t just fuck you, she orchestrated your pleasure, built it up with every roll of her hips and every hungry sound from her throat.
You started to perform for her, grinding down harder, circling your hips at the bottom of each stroke, letting your head tip back so your hair fell in a wild curtain, your breasts bouncing with every movement. You moaned, loud and shameless, and her hands clenched tighter at your waist. You could feel her watching, totally focused, as you rode her, faster and harder, the slap of your skin against her thighs echoing through the room.
“Fuck,” she hissed, a wild, broken sound, and you rode her even harder, chasing sensation, chasing that next impossible edge. She sat suddenly and twisted a nipple with her mouth, teeth scraping, and you nearly lost it, your whole body lighting up with pleasure and pain, the sensations blurring until you were nothing but nerve endings and hunger.
You pulled her in for a kiss, biting her lower lip, still rolling your hips against her in a slow grind, when the ceiling above you thumped. You both stilled, a beat of silence, then voices, sharp and overlapping, somewhere high on the yacht. Alexia's eyes cut to the door.
A single gunshot. Two screams, then nothing.
She was off the bed before the echo died, the harness hitting the floor with a heavy buckle clank. She dressed fast, the efficient movements of someone who had done this before. She was pulling open a drawer, rummaging, when she said, without looking at you, "When I leave, lock the door. Don't open it until I tell you." She found what she was looking for. You didn't see what it was. The door clicked shut behind her, and you were still sitting there, flushed and breathless and completely alone.
The lock clicked, then silence, not true silence.
The engines still hummed beneath the yacht, but inside the cabin the quiet felt oppressive.
You stared at the door, your pulse was still racing, only now for an entirely different reason.
Another shout echoed from somewhere above, closer this time.
You slid off the bed, hastily pulling your clothes back into place with hands that suddenly refused to cooperate. Your fingers fumbled with buttons you'd managed perfectly well only minutes earlier.
Another dull thud reverberated through the ceiling, not another gunshot, footsteps lots of them heavy and running.
You crossed the room before stopping yourself, Alexia had been very clear. Lock the door. You checked it anyway, locked.
Your eyes drifted around the cabin for the first time, it wasn't just a guest suite.
The shelves held books in three different languages. A chess board sat half finished on a side table. One wall displayed framed photographs of coastlines and mountains instead of people.
Nothing about the room felt temporary this was hers, another voice barked somewhere outside, firm and controlled.
You couldn't make out the words, then "CLEAR!"
It was Misa, you recognised her voice from earlier.
Another answered almost immediately, "Port side secure!" that was Patri.
You frowned, they sounded calm not frightened and certainly trained. Your stomach tightened, Alexia hadn't been exaggerating about her world. This wasn't some glamorous fantasy she'd built around herself. It was real, every bit of it.
The sound of footsteps approached your door, you instinctively stepped backwards as someone stopped outside. A shadow crossed beneath the gap, your breathing slowed to almost nothing.
A single knock, three short taps, not Alexia, you didn't move, the was handle tested once, then whoever it was walked away.
Only after the footsteps disappeared did you realise you'd been holding your breath. Minutes crawled by or maybe only seconds time had become impossible to judge.
Then voices again, this time much closer.
"...one in custody."
"...sweep the lower deck."
"...check every cabin."
You caught Alexia's voice among them, steady and completely unshaken.
"No unnecessary casualties." A pause. "I want answers before sunrise."
You closed your eyes, she sounded exactly the same as she had ordering a drink earlier that evening, that frightened you more than the gunshot had.
Eventually, the voices faded, a key turned in the lock, your entire body tensed. The door opened and Alexia stepped inside, her white shirt sleeve was rolled to the elbow now, and there was a faint smear of blood across one cuff you couldn't tell if it was hers.
She closed the door quietly behind her, for the first time since you'd met her she looked tired, not physically, just heavy.
Her eyes found yours immediately, "You listened."
"I wasn't exactly tempted to ignore you."
The corner of her mouth twitched, "Good."
You looked at the stain on her sleeve, "What happened?"
Alexia followed your gaze, she glanced down at the blood almost absently, "Someone made a very poor decision."
"Is everyone okay?"
There was a brief pause, "My people are."
The wording wasn't lost on you, you took a careful step closer, "Alexia..."
She looked at you, really looked at you, the composed facade she'd worn all evening had cracked just enough for you to glimpse the woman underneath.
"I told you," she said quietly. “My world is... complicated."
You thought back to the party, it had looked almost normal, and now you understood why they all watched the exits.
Why Cata searched every bag herself.
Why Alexia always seemed to know exactly where everyone was.
"This happens often?"
Alexia was honest, "Often enough that everyone knows what to do." The answer settled heavily between you, she reached for a clean shirt folded over a chair, unbuttoning the stained one with practiced movements. Then she stopped, "You should leave."
You blinked, "What?"
"Cata will take you ashore."
"And you?"
"I'll be busy."
There it was again, the invisible wall she'd built around herself, the one that separated her life from everyone else's.
You studied her for a long moment before asking quietly, "Are you trying to protect me...or push me away?"
Alexia opened the door. Cata was already there, hands clasped behind her back, expression unreadable.
"Cata will take you home."
You looked at Alexia for a moment longer than you should have. Then you clasped your hands behind your back the way Cata always did and simply nodded once and murmured, "Yes, Boss."
☆ Summary: Alexia loses at Uno and gets oh, so deeply upset when you call her a sore loser. Thankfully, you know how to deal with her princess behaviour.
☆ Word count: 10k
☆ Warnings: SMUT (+18) • fingering and oral (both giving and receiving) • Very slightly brat!Alexia and very slight dom!reader • Lots of teasing • aftercare, showering together etccc
☆ A/n: I realised at the end that Alexia took about three showers during this whole fic, not my fault, I'm Brazilian, and we love our showers very much. Also, 10k fic and a scientific article published all in one week? yeah :p hope you guys like this one!
Some might argue that playing a competitive game with remarkably competitive people isn't the wisest choice, but for you and Jana, it was the ultimate form of entertainment. This was especially true on an evening like this, as the world outside was being swallowed by a heavy sky of neverending rain, thunderstorm and dark clouds.
You could count on one hand what was there to do during camp when training was over, gym sessions were done for the day, and sunshine was out of the question. To end the boredom, you had gone up to the room you shared with Alexia and grabbed the uno cards you always had in your camp bag. You brought them down to the game room and set them on the round, light wooden table.
And just like that, a war began between you, Alexia, Jana and Patri.
"UNO!" Jana yelled as she slammed her penultimate card onto the table. A +4, mind you — directed straight at Alexia, who was already holding approximately thirty-two cards in her hands.
Safe to say, the captain was not a natural at uno.
You leaned to the side, watching the Catalan stare down at the colourful card as if Jana had just invoked a curse upon the putellas bloodline. You and Jana exchanged a brief look, both of you trying very hard not to laugh (and failing miserably).
Across the table, Patri – holding about half the number of cards Aleixa was saddled with – looked equally as furious. It was now extremely obvious that either you or Jana would take the win, a sad realisation that was about to result in Patri and Alexia's collapse.
Collapse, yes. Because apparently, a casual, friendly and harmless round of uno was treated as the worst form of personal affront by those two, especially Alexia.
"Come on! Jana, this ain't possible," Patri complained, leaning forward to examine the discard pile as if hoping the number would magically change. "You definitely cheated, tía! That's the fourth plus four you've dropped during the whole game! How many did you draw?"
"I didn't cheat," Jana said cheekily, biting back a smile. "You and Ale just... lost. Stop being sore about it."
Alexia's jaw clenched. Actually, she had been grinding it for the last three rounds, ever since Jana had forced her to draw sixteen cards in total. You could see her pterygoid muscles tense up under the skin of her neck; it would (undoubtedly) give her a tension headache later on, and you could practically hear her whining about it.
"I really don't understand how either of you can't seem to formulate a reasonable strategy," you teased, leaning back into your red, plastic seat. You guys are midfielders. Isn't that what you all do? Isn't that your job? Think ahead of your opponents? Analyse the other team's game and weak spots?"
Alexia glared at you, her fingers gripping the million cards in her hands so tightly the cardboard began to bend.
"Hey… stop it," you murmured, reaching across to gently pat the back of her hand, trying to coax her into loosening her grip. She didn't budge.
Stubborn woman.
"Maybe defenders just have some form of innate privilege during card games," Patri said, more to herself, genuinely trying to find a correlation between the art of stopping crosses and matching numbers and colours.
You smiled at Patri's analytical face, but your attention didn't stay on the Mallorcan for long. Your eyes naturally fell back to your girlfriend. They always did that; it was muscle memory at this point, an instinct to seek her face in every room.
Right now, it was written across her face as clearly as if it were flashing in neon lights: the competitor in her did not know how to handle losing at a card game. Or at any game, really.
Alexia hated losing, and right now, she was very frustrated
"Let's play again, vale?" Patri said, already snatching your remaining cards to shuffle them into her own pile. "Let's do a best of three-"
"That was our third round," Jana pointed out, her voice absolutely dripping with fake innocence. "That was the best of three."
Patri narrowed her eyes, unfazed. "Best of four, then, whatever. Don't be difficult."
"No. Let's definitely not play again," you interrupted, laughing. "Just accept the defeat, Patrícia. That's what normal people do."
"You lost too!" Alexia chimed in defensively, her voice super indignant. "Jana won, not you. Her victory is not your victory! This is an in-di-vi-du-al game!" She enunciated every single syllable to make her point across, but she only resembled a grumpy toddler.
You rolled your eyes. "Yes, but you don't see me pouting about it, do you? I'm grown up enough to play simply for the fun of it."
"I'm not pouting!" Alexia responded as if that was the only thing that mattered in your entire sentence.
"You are, though, just a little–" Jana's teasing was cut short by the sound of plastic chair legs dragging across the wooden floor.
Alexia stood up abruptly, a storm on her face.
"I'm going to take a shower," she announced flatly, tossing her remaining cards onto the table. "I don't want to play anymore."
"Oh, Ale! Come on," Jana said, grinning. She was clearly enjoying this, watching two of the most competitive players in women's football (and her own captains) lose their minds over a kids' game. "Don't be like that! We can reset, alright? I promise I'll go easy on you this time."
"Stop mocking me," Alexia grumbled. She turned on her heel and walked toward the glass door that separated the game room from the lounge, where the stairs led up to the bedrooms.
She wasn't necessarily angry-walking, but she was definitely pouty-walking, foot stomping and everything. You rolled your eyes. This was becoming premeditated behaviour at this point. Alexia did this every single time she lost. Board games, card games, and video games, it didn't really matter. The moment she realised she couldn't win, she always found a reason to leave, and of course, ensured her exit to be as dramatic as possible.
"Alexia, don't be such a sore loser!" you called after her, twisting around in your chair. "It's just a game!"
…
That did it.
She stopped in her tracks and turned back around slowly. Just like a dramatic scene straight out of a novela. Alexia moved at 0.75 speed. When she finally spoke, the coldness in her voice could have turned all the rain outside into snow.
"I'm not a loser," she said, looking right into your eyes, her hands curled into fists at her sides. After delivering her cinematic final line, she turned again, and this time she left for good. The last thing you saw was her Nike shoes as she rounded the corner of the corridor.
The silence left was, as anyone could imagine, uncomfortable. The only sounds left were the droplets of rain against the window and Patri letting out a forced cough, a clear (and desperate) attempt to end the tension in the room.
"Bueno…" Jana said slowly, looking at the door, "I think she's a bit upset."
Patri turned to you, her expression softening into concern."Tia, I think you actually hurt her feelings this time."
"Oh come on!" You protested, throwing your arms up in the air. "It was a joke! A broma! She did lose."
Patri reached for the scattered cards again, stacking them in a pile. "Yeah, but you know how she is. She gets annoyed when she loses."
You knew Patri was right. Alexia did get incredibly annoyed, but something in your gut told you that a simple apology later wouldn't fix this. The best thing to do was to follow her right now.
You found her in your shared room, lying face down on the bed. She was still wearing the same clothes, still committed to the bit of anger and sulking.
No shower then, huh?
"...Ale?" you said softly, stepping inside. You closed the door behind you, and your fingers reached for the lock, twisting it until you heard the click.
She didn't respond…. she didn't respond at all, which was exactly what you had anticipated.
You walked over to the edge of the bed, looking down at her and her spectacular display of stubbornness. "Come on, amor. I was just teasing you."
Crickets. Zero response.
She just… lay there, her face buried in the white pillow, fully devoted to giving you the silent treatment. The silent treatment was another classic Alexia behaviour, usually reserved for when she felt truly and deeply slighted by you.
You rolled your eyes fondly. You couldn't help it; even when she was acting entirely miserable, she looked cute. Pouty, grumpy and petulant. What a devastatingly good mix.
She shifted slightly on the mattress, and the movement offered you a spectacular view of her backside and… Okay, wow. Alexia's ass and thighs looked absolutely perfect in those red training shorts. Even while sulking and ignoring your entire existence, the woman managed to be breathtakingly hot.
You crawled onto the mattress and leaned down to press a soft kiss against the only part of her cheek that was peaking between the pillow. "I shouldn't have said that," you whispered close to her ear. "Vale? Perdon?"
Apparently, that unlocked something inside the Catalan. Suddenly, she was sitting up, her honey eyes flashing at you like an angry snake.
"Of course you shouldn't have!" she snapped. "I'm a Champions League winner! I have won every single domestic cup there is! I have won the World Cup, Déu meu! I'm not a loser, and I'm absolutely not a sore one!"
"I know, guapa," you interrupted smoothly, biting the inside of your cheek. "But you still lost at uno, and that's okaaaay! You can't let a card game ruin your night."
She stared at you, genuinely offended by your words. Then, before you could even blink, she grabbed your wrist and pulled you down on top of her.
You land half on top of her body. For a delicious moment, you thought she was maybe she was actually going to… engage with you properly, kiss you. But instead, she just pouted. Like, full-on pouted, her bottom lip stuck out completely, a display to make it clear how aggrieved she was.
"You are so annoying right now," she said straightforwardly, her warm breath brushing against your lips, causing you to part them slightly, instinctively trying to breathe her in. "Did you come up here to annoy me even more?"
You giggled, which was apparently the wrong move. Her expression got even more wounded.
"What? Do you get off by making me mad or something?" She groaned, tossing her head back against the pillow.
You smiled down at her, still hovering over her chest. "A bit, yeah. I'm not gonna lie… you get all grumpy and pouty, and-"
"I don't want to talk to you," she cut you off, pushing hard at your shoulders and rolling out from under you. "I was expecting some sort of apology."
"I did apologise!"
"You didn't mean it, though!" She claimed petulantly as she swung her legs over the side and got off the bed.
"Okay, okay, Ale," you said, sitting up on the mattress, still amused by the theatricality of it all. "I'm sooo sorry, yeah? From the bottom of my heart, from the depths of my soul–"
Alexia didn't even bother turning around to look at you.
Instead, she walked straight toward the attached bathroom. At first, you thought she was just going to take a shower to cool off, but then… the distinct click of the lock echoed through the bedroom.
You froze in your spot.
Alexia never locked the bathroom door. Ever. She was one of those people who loved company while showering; she loved when you washed her hair, or when you simply sat on the counter or the closed toilet lid to chat with her while she washed. You'd always thought it was because she grew up in a house full of women, accustomed to sharing space.
Locking the door was basically a statement. It was her way of saying she was genuinely upset (as if the previous fifteen minutes hadn't been glaringly obvious).
"Ale?" you called out, padding over to the door and knocking against the wood.
There was no response. You groaned, resting your forehead against the frame. "Alexia, come on. Open the door. Now."
Since you heard nothing, you reached down and tried the handle anyway, even though you already knew it would refuse to budge. You rattled it a little in frustration. She had actually locked you out.
"Ale! Don't be like this," you said, leaning your shoulder against the door. "I was joking! You know I was joking! Now you are just being childish."
A second later, you heard the sound of water running. She had turned on the shower. Your conscience told you she had probably done it for the sole purpose of drowning out the sound of your voice.
You rolled your eyes. Impossible women..
"Alexia!"
The sound of the water intensified, as if she had set it on the maximum pressure. She was definitely doing that on purpose.
You waited outside the bathroom door like a dog for a few minutes, alternating between cajoling her with sweet talk through the door and threatening her with a (retaliatory) silent treatment of your own. But Alexia was as stubborn as a bull and far too proud to surrender. Eventually, you gave up the fight and decided to wait it out, tossing yourself back onto the bed.
When Alexia finally emerged from the bathroom about twenty minutes later, she was still mad. A thick cloud of warm condensation followed her into the room behind her. Her fingers were pruny, and her hair was dripping onto the fabric of a hoodie, one you hadn't even realised she had sneaked into the bathroom with her.
You blinked, trying to look closer… It was your hoodie.
A smile tugged at your lips. The fact that she was wearing your clothes was a fantastic sign that she (secretly) wanted to make amends, right? Either that, or she had simply assumed it was hers, given that the national team's standard training gear didn't have any individual identification on it. Either way, she looked incredibly pretty and adorable, all swallowed up by the clothing.
Naturally, she was making a point of looking anywhere but at you.
"Ale," you tried again, softening your voice to butter her up. "Guapa, talk to me, por favor?"
Ignoring you entirely, she climbed into the double bed and immediately crawled to the opposite side, turning her back to you.
After ten whole minutes of silence, you couldn't take it anymore.
"You're being ridiculous."
"I am not talking to you," she muttered into her pillow, her voice muffled. "And I won't until tomorrow morning, at least."
"Are you really giving me the silent treatment because I called you a sore loser at uno?
"Yes. And for giving me empty apologies."
"Empty apol–? Good God!" You scoffed, rolling onto your side to face her rigid back. "You lost, and you stormed out like it was the end of the world! That's the only reason I called you a sore loser. I obviously know you aren't an actual loser."
She huffed.
Yep. That was it. The only response you got. To drive the point home, she pulled the blanket higher over her shoulder, completely shutting you out of her cocoon.
Despite everything, despite her being upset, despite the locked door, despite the stubborn silence, you found yourself grinning. Alexia sulking was quite literally the most endearing thing you had ever witnessed.
Very slowly, you slid across the mattress and stopped short of pressing your chest against her back, making sure not to fully touch her yet. You wanted to respect her boundaries while she cooled off, but you still wanted to be close enough to smell her honey shampoo and body wash.
"I really am sorry," you said quietly, your teasing tone melting. "I shouldn't have called you that. Even as a joke."
She didn't answer right away, but you watched as the tight lines of her shoulders finally dropped. Her body relaxed, just a bit.
"You are right, bebe," you coaxed, sliding closer. "You have won everything. You are the absolute best." You paused, letting the compliment sit… but, because you couldn't help yourself, you added. "Well, except at uno apparently. But that's totally okay. I don't love you any less for it."
You heard her try to muffle a giggle into her pillow.
"Guapa," you whispered, reaching out to nudge her shoulder. "Let's talk? Please? I don't like it when you are quiet."
She was quiet for so long, you thought she was actually going to commit to the silent treatment until morning, but then she finally spoke.
"Okay… so I might have overreacted a little bit," she admitted quietly.
"Yes, you did."
(Finally) she turned around to face you.
"Jana was lucky," she said, her hazel eyes were wide and intense as she looked at you, practically begging for validation.
"Yes, unbelievably lucky," you agreed, nodding instantly. At this point, you would say anything just to keep hearing her voice. "But she's also very talented at card games."
Alexia pouted again. You leaned in close, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
"Forgive me?" you asked, humming against her skin.
She took her time answering, considering it as if she were deciding whether you had suffered enough for your crime.
"Yes," she said slowly, but then she paused, her eyes now had a bit of a spark to them. " But you have to make it up to me."
"Okay, baby," you smiled, placing your hand on the mattress right beside her head. "You tell me exactly what to do, and I'll do it."
"We are never playing cards again," she declared.
"Never," you agreed solemnly, without hesitation.
"And you have to tell the others that Jana only won because she cheated. "
A quiet laugh escaped your lips. "She didn't, though! She's just that good at it… accept the reality, amor."
"Then we are no longer friends," she said, completely serious.
"Oh, we're not friends anymore?" You smirked. "How exactly are we supposed to be dating if we aren't even friends, huh?"
She shrugged, bottom lip still out, unbothered by her contradiction. "We won't have to find out if you just do what I'm asking you to do."
You let out a tsk with your tongue. "Now, now, Putellas. You want me to lie for you? Start a rumour over a silly card game?"
"Yes, please," she said with a single nod of her head, looking satisfied with the logic of her own argument.
"Is there something more that you want, Ale?" you ask, your voice turning velvet.
You knew she understood the sudden change in your cadence; she knew exactly what that low tone implied. She looked up at you, her pupils visibly dilating in the dim light of the room.
"I want..." she started, but then she trailed off, her eyes dropping to your lips. The hesitation made you lean even closer, hovering just centimetres away from her face.
"Yeah? Tell me."
"I want you," she breathed.
"I'm right here, guapa," you murmured. You wanted to see her squirm just a little bit more.
A pretty flush crept up her whole face, and she let out a frustrated huff through her nose. She got flustered so quickly, it was as hot as it was endearing.
"Y-you know what I mean," she stammered, glaring at you half-heartedly. "Don't be condescending now."
You had to bite back your smile because she was being so clearly needy, so openly desperate for your touch and attention, and yet, she was doing it while maintaining this pouty, wounded expression as if she hadn't just completely given herself away.
"I just want to be sure," you whispered. You leaned down and kissed her left cheek."...that I give you exactly what you want." You shifted, now pressing a slow kiss to her other cheek before stopping on top of her lips. "So I can be completely certain that I'll be forgiven."
Her hands lowered to your hips, her long and delicate fingers gripping at your flesh as best they could over the fabric of your adidas shorts. Her lips were pink and pouty, her forehead deeply creased, with the tiny droplets of water from the shower still clinging to her skin. Her cheeks were so, so flushed you could practically see her capillaries dilating in real time.
She was thoroughly embarrassed. You grinned like a mean wolf. You got yourself a good little sheep.
"Te quiero aquí," she breathed, pressing her pelvis to yours as she clawed onto your hips again. It seemed she was incredibly handsy tonight. [I want you here]
"Here, where, amor?" You asked, teasing her for pure self-enjoyment. "Be good for me. Tell me what you want."
Her eyes flickered away from yours immediately.
"You could ask for anything," you continued, attenuating the teasing slightly, just enough to coax the truth out of her. "You could have my fingers, my mouth… or do you want to be strapped, bebé? Oh, what about scissoring? Want to feel me against you?"
Alexia groaned and looked toward the wall beside you, just so she wouldn't have to meet your eyes. She muttered something under her breath, but it was too quiet; you only caught the very end of it.
"...please?"
"Please, what?"
She snapped back at you, and you kissed her grumpy face. "I'm not teasing, I promise. But you keep mumbling so much when you are like this, I genuinely couldn't understand you."
You two held a staring competition.
You won.
You tilted your head, waiting patiently while running a single finger up and down her inner arm, feeling her hair stand on end.
"...eat me out? Por favor?"
You smiled victoriously. "Of course I will!" you replied, your voice honey-sweet, almost as sweet as the taste you were already craving. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Alexia looked up at you, a mix of shyness and sweetness on her smile. You had to physically hold yourself back from calling her cute; you didn't want to ruin the dominant moment you had carefully set.
She shifted beneath you, spreading her legs and making space so you could slot yourself between her things. You heard how her breath turned heavier, her nostrils flaring up a bit as she drew in more air through her parted lips. All while her eyebrows remained knit despite how much you wanted her to just relax.
You settled between the space she offered, but before you did anything else, you pressed a kiss to her forehead again. "You are being so needy right now." You didn't say it as a question, nor exactly as a statement, but as a condescending comment.
You were a little too smug, a little too pleased with yourself. And you watched as the words made their way to her brain, settling deep into her white matter as she processed and made sense of them. Alexia hated being teased like this. She hated being the one who was flustered, hated feeling like she lost control when, deep down, she wanted nothing more than to completely surrender it to you.
"S-stop it," she mumbled, her protest so weak you almost had to lean down to hear her. "I'm not–"
"Yes, you are," you interrupted, pressing kisses along her jawbone. "You're sulking and pouting, locking doors, giving me the silent treatment... all just so I'll come up here after you and spoil you rotten."
She made the smallest sound of defeat, and you knew you had her exactly where you wanted her. You smiled wolfishly again.
"That is very needy, Alexia, very princess-like behaviour from you. Though I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You do this from time to time, right bebé?" You tilted your head. "My beautiful little drama queen."
"But that's alright," you continue, pulling back just slightly to look at her whole face. "I like it when you're like this. All vulnerable and desperate and mine."
Her cheeks were deep red now, her breathing already uneven, and you haven't even truly started yet.
"Let me take care of you, yeah?" you coaxed. "Let me take the grumpiness right out of you"
She gave you a helpless nod, completely unable to form words, and that was all the permission you needed.
You could feel the heat of her skin over the fabric of your own clothes. Her chest was rising and falling in shallow breaths. You pouted teasingly as you noticed the tiny damp spot darkening her shorts, a promise of how wet she already was for you, all from your dirty talk, all from being teased on.
Deep down, she liked it.
You slid lower down her body, stopping to press a kiss to her inner thigh. "Let me cheer my girl up," you murmur, voice low and dripping with mock sympathy. "Since she was so deeply upset about losing a silly game."
You slid your thumb under the waistline of her shorts. "Hips up, baby," you instructed, tugging for emphasis.
Alexia lifted her hips without a second thought, allowing you to slide both her shorts and underwear down in one go, baring her to the room and to your eyes. The last thing to leave her body was that goddamn hoodie.
You swallowed and licked your lips as you watched her, now completely naked. Her cunt looked absolutely delicious, messy and damp. Her clit was glistening with her own desire, begging to be taken into your mouth.
Slowly, you brushed your thumb over her swollen clit, then you slid lower, tracing over her slit and pressing down toward her ass. "Spread your legs wider for me, Alexia."
She obeyed, very compliant. With her thighs parted wider, you had a perfect view of her. You hummed, satisfied. Of course, she was acting all bratty during uno; the poor thing must have been turned on since you guys were downstairs, judging by how soaked she already was.
"You're such a mess, baby," you murmured, playing with her clit gently, circling it and watching her cunt contract around nothing.
"Ugh," Alexia groaned, throwing her hands over her face to herself, "Stop it."
"No," you said simply.
You leaned your head down and kissed the soft flesh of her stomach before making your way down towards her cunt again. Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw Alexia peek through the gaps between her fingers. She was watching you with that same shyness from before, but now the pride was entirely gone; it was overtaken by need.
You left a wet trail with your tongue as you made your descent. Your hand settled firmly on her hipbone, holding her from moving away from your mouth. Your tongue flicked out the moment you reached her mount, and you traced a slow line from the pink tip of her clit down to her hole, feeling the salty slickness coat your tongue and your chin. You wanted to be as messy as she was; you wanted to be covered in her.
"My poor baby," you said as you licked her labia before slowing your rhythm, sliding your tongue gently into her hole, tasting her as you pushed in and out. "So wet, so desperate. You know you could have just told me you wanted my face in your pussy earlier, right? There was no need to go all bratty on me downstairs."
You weren't sure if Alexia could fully understand you; your words came out incomprehensible from being stuck at her pussy.
She gasped, a whimper escaping her pink lips just as she arched her back off the mattress. "I-I don't like when you tease me like this, "she pouted, pressing her fingers even harder into her face to hide.
You chuckled. "Tu cono dime otra cosa, no?" You teased, pulling back just enough to look up at her and shake your head playfully. "Tsk, Tsk, Ale, stop lying to me" [Your cunt tells me something different, no?]
Reaching up, you caught her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face, forcing her beautiful eyes to look straight at you. You leaned up just enough to steal a quick peck from her lips before your fingers resumed their attention to her clit.
"Why are you so wet, bebé? ¿Estabas pensando en mí mientras te duchabas? Estabas tocando a tu coño?" Your voice was a purr, each word made for her to jerk her hips involuntarily. "¿O estabas demasiado ocupada, enfadada por haber perdido?" [Were you thinking about me while you took a shower? Were you touching your pussy?/ Or were you too busy being angry for losing?]
Alexia groaned, her fingers digging into the white sheets as she tried to hold back from moving too much. Her eyes were rolling from the pleasure of your fingers.
"Joder… fuck," she gasped. "I-I was just taking a-a shower, I wasn't doing anything."
You chuckled. Her argument was entirely too weak, just like her voice. Her body was also betraying her; you felt her pelvic muscles contracting, her clit getting even more swollen.
You couldn't take it anymore. You need to devour Alexia again.
Lowering your mouth fully onto her pussy, you abandoned talking and focused on making her cum with your mouth. Your tongue lapped at her clit in firm strokes before dipping down to slip between her folds, tasting her wetness, savouring the mess she was making just for you. You sucked gently at her clit, pulling her sensitive nub into your mouth, then releasing it with a pop, only to dive back in with vigour and hunger.
Her legs were already trembling, her thighs closing around your ears, and her heels dug hard into your back, forcing you close and locking you in her cunt. She bucked again against your face, a desperate sign for you to keep going.
"Like tha–fuck, sí," she cried out. You could feel her pulse throbbing against your tongue, each flick eliciting a sharper gasp from her, each messier than the other.
You circled her hole gently. "Can I?" You asked, resting your chin on top of her naval so you look up her body and meet her eyes properly.
"Yes, please," she nodded, her eyelids shutting. "T-two, please… okay? Please–"
You slid two fingers inside her in one move, curling them upward to press against her spongy spot, all while your mouth continued its relentless caress on her nub. The dual stimulation was becoming too much; it was already enough to send Alexia over the edge faster than she had anticipated.
Alexia could become rather vocal when she was orgasming. Knowing that, with your mouth still on her clit, you blindly searched for her shorts that had been discarded on the mattress and draped them over her chest before continuing your indivisible attention to her pussy. Alexia, even out of her mind, understood you instantly and bit the fabric of the shorts just as her back arched and a loud and unrestrained moan tore
from her throat.
She shocked slightly, her thighs momentarily constricting your airways as they clawed at the sides of your head.
You helped her ride her waves of pleasure with steady movements from your fingers and tongue, matching her pace until the trembling began to subside, turning into satisfied sighs.
You were lazily self-indulging in her sweetness when you heard her drop the shorts off her mouth. She tapped your cheek, and you lifted your head. Your face was covered in slickness, your skin flushed red from the temporary lack of oxygen, and your lips still glistening with her juices.
You were a mess, but looking up at her, she looked equally undone. She gave you a lazy smile as she let her head completely fall into the pillow. You gave her a final and soft kiss on her pussy before making your way up.
You let your weight fall over her chest. She wrapped one hand around your waist while her other hand reached up, her thumb gently brushing across your lips to wipe away the wetness she had left there.
"Te gusta perder ahora?" you whispered right against her thumb, voice filled with amusement and a hint of condescension. [Do you like losing now?]
She rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop smiling. Her breathing was still heavy, her cheeks a beet red that spread across her neck. Her light brown hair was tangled on the pillowcase, undoubtedly filled with knots since she'd lain down while it was still damp.
Yep, you were definitely going to have to brush it out for her later.
"You are still annoying," she breathed out shyly, which made you grin. "Just so you know."
"And you are entirely too easy to fluster," you countered, leaning down to press a tender kiss to her left cheek, then her right. It was all very soft and tender now that the urgency had passed.
You kiss her cheek again, and this time she turned her head to catch your lips with hers. It was slow and deep, completely unhurried. She tasted your palette as you exchanged saliva. You bit her lips gently, and she mimicked you, but her teeth were more aggressive, making you whine as she pulled at your lower lip. It forced a sound from your throat, but to make it better, she soothed the ache with a wet swipe of her tongue.
When you eventually pulled back, both of you were panting. "You okay?" you asked.
She nodded, but she didn't speak. She simply looked at you with vulnerable, hazel eyes while her breathing gradually evened out. Her hand reached out to your torso, and she tugged your shirt in her fist and pouted. She didn't need to use words for you to understand precisely what she wanted. You'd become fluent in Alexia's body language.
Now straddling her lap, you pulled your shirt and black training bra over your head, throwing them somewhere across the mattress or the floor; you weren't sure where they had landed. Your eyes were fixed on Alexia's, while hers were glued to your chest. She held your hips with one firm hand while the other trailed upward, her warm palm cupping your tit.
"Guapa," she murmured, still not looking at your face, completely bewitched. "So pretty…"
She flickered her thumb across your nipple, causing you to feel a spike of heat to pool in your underwear. You leaned down, pressing your naked chest against hers, liquefying against her body. You pressed a kiss to her forehead, then another to her nose, before trailing back to her cheeks. You took your sweet, sweet time kissing every flushed centimetre of her face while she gripped at your ass with her left hand.
"Take this off, please," she whined against your mouth, her hands clumsily tugging at the elastic of your red shorts.
"Mhm… so polite now."
You quickly undressed, discarding the adidas shorts until you were completely naked on top of her. You were fully prepared to make out with Alexia again, but her half-lidded eyes and soft expression stopped you in your tracks. You looked down at her, tracing the relaxed lines of her face.
"I'm sorry for locking the door," she whispered, her hand sliding down to press softly against the bottom of your back. "That wasn't very nice of me."
"Not it wasn't… but it certainly was effective," you admitted, which made her giggle. The sound was tired, but also incredibly beautiful; you instantly wanted to do whatever it took to hear it again.
You kissed her face once more, merely because you couldn't seem to stop yourself, because she looked so soft right now, and she was your girl, and absolutely no one else in the whole entire world got to see her like this, or taste her.
You were so in deep. When had you become this disgustingly in love?
"Did you know you look so pretty when you cum?" you murmured, nosing at her sensitive (and still flushed) neck. You tenderly nudged her face to the side so you could get more space to kiss down her throat. Her blush deepened almost instantly, colouring her skin in the exact same tone as the national team's uniforms. "You get all needy and hot."
The poor thing covered her face with her hands for the twelfth time that day. "Stop," she pouted, her voice muffled. "You're embarrassing me."
You chuckled, pressing your warm lips against her cold knuckles. "Embarrassing you with the truth?" You gently pulled her hands away from her face. "Why is that embarrassing?"
"Because it just is," She trailed off, searching for words.
Where was her oh, so sharp vocabulary now?
"Not my fault, you get all cute, and flushed and breathless for me, capitana."
She rolled her eyes and tried to shield her face again, but you wouldn't let her hide. You caught her chin gently between your fingers, and you tilted her head up, making her meet your eyes.
She held your gaze like a good, fucking girl.
"Eres guapissima," you say simply. "Even when you're being competitive, when you're sulking like a baby, and especially when you're like this – completely undone, trusting me to take care of you."
"Te estimo," she whispered.
"I love you, too," you replied softly.
Now it was her time to reach up to pull you down for a kiss. When you broke apart, she was smiling brightly. You rolled off her chest, cuddling up into her side, as she wrapped her arms around your waist. You held her close, running your fingers through her (tangled) hair, gently trying to work out the knots.
"Thank you for making it up to me," she said after a while, her voice filled with contentment.
"Anytime, amor," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Anytime."
Her hand slid lower again, resting on your bare ass. You tilted your head, pressing a lazy and messy kiss to her jawline, then you trailed it down to the hollow of her throat, feeling her heart beating against her pulse point.
She whimpered a tiny, needy sound, and shifted her hips slightly, as if trying to draw you closer. "Kiss me… please," she whispered against your skin.
You obeyed, capturing her mouth in a hungry kiss. Your tongues slid together, tasting each other, sharing the arousal that still lingered on your lips. She groaned into the kiss, her hands migrated to your shoulders, her short nails digging in your skin just enough to send a shiver down your spine.
When you broke the kiss, both of you were breathing hard, your chests rising and falling in sync. Alexia's stubborn pout had melted into a shy grin.
"I… I can take care of you, too, if you want," she offered.
You chuckle. "I just want to focus on you right now, yeah?" You let your fingers trail down her side, feeling the soft curve of her waist before settling on the inside of her thigh, where her skin was still (incredibly) warm and damp.
You adjusted your body, lowering yourself until your forehead rested gently against hers again, your breath mingling with hers. Your hand moved slowly, two fingers sliding back into her slick entrance without teasing. She moaned, eyelids closing. You felt the familiar tightness of her pussy, the way her walls closed around you as you began to pump in a steady and unhurried rhythm. Alexia's hips rose to meet each thrust, her body responding to your movements with complete compliance.
You stayed like that for a few minutes, fucking her while sharing sweet kisses. She always took a little longer to come the second time around, but you knew her body inside and out; you were used to her rhythm.
When your wrist began to burn from the weird angle and repetitive movement, you shifted your position. You tried to lean more of your weight forward, resting your knee against the mattress, and used the rolling tilt of your hips to drive your fingers deeper into her, letting your body do the work so your hand could rest a little, without ruining Alexia's moment.
"I'm sorry," she said, her mouth parting in an o as she felt how deeply you could get in this new position. "You can… ugh, fuck… You can stop if it's hurting your fingers, okay?"
"Shh," you kissed her temper. "Don't worry about it bebé, just relax for me." You captured her mouth, tangling your tongues together to distract her from her own thoughts, forcing her to just feel.
She let out a gasp that quickly turned into a whimper as you pressed the heel of your hand on her clit, rubbing in sideways. She bucked helplessly against your hand, her hands came up to clutch at your shoulder. You wouldn't tell her that, but it hurt like hell because you had spent the whole afternoon doing shoulders and back workout.
"Oh, fuck, baby–" she cried against your lips. "Amor… amor, please."
You watched her face carefully, enamoured by the way her eyebrows knit together in concentration, the way her lips part with each exhale. She was close again, you could feel it, the tension building in her thighs and inner walls, the way her breath was short.
"You are almost there, ale," whispered against her mouth, your voice husky. You increased the pressure on her clit, your fingers curling just a little more to hit that sweet spot inside her.
Just a few seconds later, her body tensed, every muscle tightened, before she shuddered. She moaned loudly, but you quickly shut her up with a kiss. Her cunt gripped your fingers as pleasure overtook her. Her wetness spilt onto your fingers, dampening your hips and hands as she rode the peak of her orgasm.
You kept moving until her body turned soft. Slowly, you slip your fingers out and brough them to your mouth to taste her; your tongue lazily licked her from your skin. She tasted sweet and salty and utterly addictive.
While you enjoyed the taste of her, Alexia completely collapsed against the mattress, her chest heaving with a lazy smile spreading across her face. You took your finger off your mouth and Alexia reached up, tracing a fingertip along your lower lip, then leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your mouth.
You shifted your body, settling down beside her, your bodies pressed side by side, legs tangled. You felt her shivering a little bit, so you pulled the duvet over you both to warm her up. The waiting outside continued, and it was the only sound you could hear besides your shared breaths. You were running tired, and Alexia too, so you just held her, letting her head rest on your shoulder.
"You are very polite right now, huh?" You finally teased because why not? "Saying a lot of thanks, a lot of sorries…"
"Gràcies," she murmured against your lips, her voice soft.
Alexia let out a sleepy chuckle. "I can be very polite when I want to be," she said, turning her head to you with a cheeky expression.
She moved impossibly closer, nuzzling her face into you. Her breath brushed across your collarbone. You felt the subtle shift in the air before she even said anything. That amazing, lazy, post-organs softness was slowly giving way to something darker and needier again.
"Now…" She whispered, her finger drawing a tentative line down the centre of your stomach. Her touch was light at first, but it became bolder as she slid her hand lower, parting your thighs to find your cunt completely slick.
You gasped the moment her fingers made contact with your clit. Her thumb rubbed slow circles over the nub while her lips grazed your ear. "Let me make you feel good, bebé." she whispered.
"Si, please," you nodded desperately, your hips rolling to meet her.
She penetrated you with two fingers, brushing perfectly against your G spot. Her other hand found your breast, squeezing and rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger, getting you even wetter.
As she picked up her rhythm, a wave of self-consciousness hit you… Alexia was hitting everything so fucking perfectly. You were already so sensitive from watching her, from making her come, you felt yourself rushing toward the edge entirely too fast.
"A-ale, wait," you gasped, your hand coming up to catch her wrist to slow her down. Your cheeks were burning with unusual embarrassment. "I-I'm going to… It's too fast, I think I'll finish too quickly."
Alexia paused her thrusts, but she didn't pull out, keeping her fingers nestled deep into your warmth. She lifted her head, her eyes devoid of any judgment. "Do whatever you need to do, bebé," she murmured, leaning up to press a sweet kiss to your lips. "Come as fast as you want. I've got you, sí? I'm here."
With her permission, it was like your defences completely crumbled.
"Amor… feels so good," you moaned as she resumed her work, moving faster this time, her thumb massaging your clit just how you liked it. You could feel the orgasm building low in your belly. She kissed your jaw, then your mouth, swallowing your breathless sound as she drove you closer to the edge.
Her movements become more urgent, her fingers thrusting deeper, her palm grinding against your clit so perfectly you thought you might die. Finally, you shattered all over her.
Your whole body tightened, your thighs fighting to clamp themselves over her hand as it all became too much. You felt yourself flooding her fingers as she continued to move, milking every last tremor. Eventually, with a weak (and exhausted) wrist, you gently pushed at her shoulder, falling to the mattress panting and spent.
She smirked, a look of pride on her face. Alexia was too cocky for her own good. Then, just like a copy-cat, she sucked her two fingers into her mouth, savouring you.
"You taste so good," she said, taking her finger off and drying them on the blanket as if you were simply trying to remember what being a functional human being felt like.
When you failed to offer her a response, Alexia crawled back up on your body, laying her weight on top of you. Sweat-slick skin against slick skin.
Rain. That was all that you heard.
The smell of sex hung in the air, and your mind was already making the mental math about what time would be the best to sneak into the laundry room to leave those damp sheets so no one would see them. You pushed that thought to the side and focused on Alexia. You were tangled together, her body so warm against yours. This was heaven, definitely.
You tilted your head when her breath brushed against your throat, pressing a series of soft kisses up your neck.
"Wanna go again?" she murmured against your skin.
You blinked into the dimly lit room. It felt like your eyelids were made of pure lead. You were so, so exhausted. But then, mama raised no quitter. If your girl wanted to come again, you were going to make it happen, no matter how tired your muscles were.
"Okay," you breathed out, moving your body to make yourself more available to her. "Do you want my mouth? Fingers…?"
Alexia let out one of her characteristic pouts against your neck. "No, bebé," she trailed off, her voice a tiny and sleepy whine. "I want my mouth on you."
Your hand lazily found its way back to her damp hair, "Ale, I don't think I can come again. I'm so tired. I'm empty, sweetheart."
"Please?" she whispered. She lifted her head, just enough to look at you; her light eyes were so wide and soft, stripped of any authority. "Let me try? Or let me just taste you… I like your taste, your smell. I just like being between your thighs, please?"
Your heart melted on the mattress at her words. She was just as tired as you were, yet she was begging just for the comfort of burying herself in you. And honestly, you sympathise a lot with the feeling.
"You are impossible," you said fondly, your finger gently hooked at the back of her neck, guiding her down. "Go on then. Try your best."
She let out a victorious sigh against your skin. She kept kissing her way down your chest, each press of her lips leaving a faint sheen of saliva and a glistening trail behind. She lingered a little longer at the spot just below your breasts, at the dip of your ribs, her tongue dragging across your skin in a lazy motion that made you shiver.
Alexia moved lower now, her lips finding your hipbone. She then flattened her tongue and swept it back and forth over your skin, spreading a thin film of her saliva that made the skin slick and sensitive to the light breeze in the room. You could feel her breath hitching each time she pressed a little harder, as if trying to memorise the scent of you.
Her mouth moved up again, catching the meat of your breast. She took your nipple between her lips, sucking it deeply while her free hand found the opposite breast, squeezing and rolling the flesh in a rhythm that matched the pull of her mouth.
"You feel so good, baby," you breathed, your hand coming up to cup the back of her neck while your other hand rested on her ass.
Alexia was being so messy. There was a thick trail of saliva glistening at the corner of her mouth, dripping down her chin until it smeared on your breasts in a warm pool. You closed your eyes at the sigh, your pussy giving tight and involuntary contractions.
She hummed something around your nipple, but you were more preoccupied with what she was doing to you to care about what she was actually trying to say. The two of you were making a mess of the sheets beneath you; you could only feel the inner skin of your thighs slick, overwarm, as if it had been smeared in honey.
Maybe you were not so empty, after all.
After a (long) moment, she released your nipple. She trailed a wet line of saliva down your sternum before going further down on you again, leaving a path of kisses behind. Her kisses had become more careful and slow as she worked her way down your abdomen, pausing to nibble lightly at your lower stomach. When she reached your cunt, she paused and gazed up for a second, surely just to see the mess she had left across your chest.
Then, she lowered her face, her breath so warm against your folds. She began o lick you languidly, as if enjoying the most delicious meal she had ever been served. Her tongue swept in around your clit, gathering the slickness that coated your inner lips. She then narrows the tip of her tongue, flicking it lightly over the sensitive bud, teasing you enough to make your thighs tremble. As she worked, she let her saliva drip freely, creating a glistening mess that slid down your thighs and pooled faintly on the sheets beneath you.
You watched her with tired eyes, too immersed in the view. Her cheeks hollowed with each suction, her eyes fluttered closed when she found a spot that made you gasp and moan. Her tongue went deeper into your hole, slipping between your lips to explore the velvety warmth inside, curling and stroking slowly, drawing out a low moan from you.
She seemed to really savour the taste of you; her own breathing was growing ragged as she lost herself in the act. Her nose was brushing against your pubic mound with each pass, before she pressed her tongue firmly over your clit while licking it.
Her hands were wandering now, cupping and gently squeezing one of your tits, while the other went down to press lightly against your thigh, urging you to open just a bit more for her, so she could have more space. The combination of her tongue and the pressure of her fingers against your flesh sent a wave up your body.
You could hear the profane and wet sounds of her mouth working on your pussy, the occasional sigh that escaped her lips, as she was truly having the time of her life.
"Mhmm, sí… so good," she mumbled.
The sight of her, utterly focused, her hair falling in damp strands over her forehead, her lips glistening with your own arousal, was intoxicating and inebriating. She looked lovely and messy and utterly absorbed in the task of giving you pleasure. Her own arousal was also evident in the way her hips shifted subtly against the mattress, seeking friction even as she devoted herself to you.
As her tongue pressed deeper into your pussy, she found that sensitive spot again, and the well-known warmth of the orgasm approached. Your breath was all over the place, and you pressed yourself harder against her face, searching for her. Alexia responded, increasing the pressure, her tongue flicking faster. She focused her tongue on your clit again, her lips sucking eagerly as she drew out every last shiver of sensation.
With a final sweep of her tongue across your clit, you finally reached your high, completely dampening her face. Your pussy clenched as she continued to lap at you, drinking in your release, her own moans muffled against your skin as she rode out the aftershocks with you. She had come too, you realised.
She pulled back after a minute. Her face was pink, her lips swollen and glistening with a mixture of her saliva and your cum. She rested her forehead against your thigh, breathing heavily, a satisfied smile on her lips.
"Deliciosa," she whispered, her voice hoarse, probably from dehydration. She moved and pressed a soft kiss to your lower belly, then slid up to claim your mouth, making you taste yourself.
You wrapped your arms around her, pulling her close as the two of you lie together, bodies slick with sweat and saliva. You stayed like that for a long time. Just holding each other. For the first time in the day, you were both completely soft and relaxed and spent. Both getting their fill (more than once).
Hopefully, Alexia would lose at uno a lot more often.
You woke up from the deadest sleep imaginable with a persistent nudge against your shoulder. You groaned miserably. You were thoroughly tired, exhausted. This was the price you paid for spending too many hours having sex instead of sleeping like a normal person.
You ignored the nudge, turning to your other side and trying to shut your eyes even more, as if it was possible. But the irritable nudge came agai, and you forced your eyes open. You glared grumpily at the pitch-black room before your eyes drifted blindly towards the digital clock on your nightstand. It was 1:15 am.
"What?" you asked drily. Your mouth felt lined up with dust; it hurt to speak.
You heard a soft chuckle in the dark and, even without seeing her face, you knew Alexia was smiling with that know-it-all attitude. "Water, grumpy," she murmured.
Your vision was blurred, your face sticky with sleep and sweat. The room was so dark you couldn't understand how Alexia was navigating it; she had turned off every light, so how was she seeing anything? She didn't wait for your eyes to adjust; instead, she pressed a cold and condensation-soaked water bottle against your bare arm. You flinched at the chill, but took the bottle and swallowed its liquid eagerly. You were, indeed, very thirsty.
Little by little, the world around you came back into focus as your eyes adapted to the dark, your sympathetic system doing its work to dilate your pupils. Alexia was sitting beside you, wearing a pair of clean pyjamas. You, on the other hand, looked like her complete dichotomy; you were naked, entirely covered in a dried mix of saliva, sweet, and well… her and your fluids.
A cloud of discomfort hung over your head. You felt completely disgusting. The sheet beneath yours was still the exact same damp ones from earlier, too, and it did not help with how you were feeling.
"Let me guess, that it wouldn't be hygienic of us to sleep in your shared body secretions?" you finished for her.
"I took a shower while you were sleeping," Alexia said, reaching out to take the bottle from you. "I didn't want to wake you up because you looked cute, but then I thought that–"
She pouted, crossing her arms. "Well, when you put it like that, you make it sound incredibly unromantic."
You let out a dry laugh, but it disappeared as soon as you realised how every single part of your body hurt. Your back and shoulder were crying from the gym session from earlier in the afternoon, your tights were burning from being spread open for Alexia for hours, and your left arm was numb because Alexia had a habit of sleeping directly on top of you. You were profoundly uncomfortable.
It was the same sensation from taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon and waking up hungry, thirsty, confused and with a headache throbbing in your front lobe.
Alexia, ever the sweetheart, noticed the pathetic slump of your shoulder and, knowing that you hated being woken up, shifted on the mattress and forced a thing in your hand.
It was a passion fruit protein bar, already unwrapped. "Eat," she said. "You look like shit, bebé."
You rolled your eyes. "You are such a gentleman, Alexia." You tried to hand it back to her. "Thank you, but I'm not really hungry. I just want to take a shower and go back to sleep. I'm dead tired."
She refused to take it back. "You can eat a few bites, and then we can shower together."
"You already showered."
"Yes, but it won't hurt to shower with you," she insisted, softening her tone a bit. "I want to wash all of your bad mood away."
"I'm not moody," you pouted. "Just tired… You shouldn't have woken me up, I was in such a good sleep."
"Oh yeah," she said, and you could feel her dramatic flair returning. "I should have just left you to die in your sleep from lack of nutrition."
"You're ridiculous," you muttered, but you decided to give her that and bite into the protein bar.
You finished the bar, and Alexia helped your heavy limbs out of the bed, walking into the bathroom. Your thighs burned with every step. Would you need to go to physio tomorrow because of the pain? You should come up with a lie about the reasoning behind it… Maybe tell them your psoas muscle was tight as a rock? Or perhaps blame it on the abductor?
As you were thinking about a million things at once, Alexia kept true to her word and took over. She helped you under the warm water of the shower and washed you like she said she would. She took her time soaping you up.
When her hands moved between your legs, working with careful focus, you couldn't help but think this was a far more self-indulgent activity than a mission about cleanliness. Still, you didn't complain, didn't open your mouth. You just leaned your forehead against her shoulder and let her pamper you.
Once she was satisfied with her work, she rinsed you off, wrapped you in a fluff towel and dried you down before pulling a set of fresh clothing over your body – her clothes. When Ale was done playing caretaker, she stepped back and looked at you with fondness as if she was admiring her favourite doll.
"Guapa," she said then, leaning in to press a warm kiss to your lips. "Now, let's go back to bed… I feel like I'm talking to a zombie. I'm not even sure if you are awake right now."
You blinked lazily at her, walking back into the bedroom. "Oh, I'm not."
A/n: I think I said this in the last few fics, but I'm trying to make my writing as realistic as possible, which means including some "raw" and sometimes "disgusting" details, but honestly, I kinda love reading stuff like that, so I'm trying to incorporate it more and more.
You have to admit, the spot right by the balcony had the most perfect lighting. You hadn't really thought of it much when you bought the cosy apartment in Barcelona but it really was the perfect lighting.
The sun beams through the windows as you stare at your laptop screen with a fond smile. A few of your co-stars stare back at you along with an interviewer that you know just introduced themselves but for the life of you, you can't remember the name of.
It's the usual questions. The ones that you've been asked ever since season three ended. The usual 'how are you feeling about being renewed for a fourth and final season?' and 'what was your favourite thing to film?' and, of course, the age old 'how did it feel to eat your co-stars?'
You play along though, well practiced at these exact questions as you and your co-stars trade stories and flash each other secret smiles through the laptop screens.
"And, of course, y/n-"
Your eyes snap back to the screen, momentarily distracted by the way your dog wandered into the room, sniffed the dirty boots by the door and went straight back to her dog bed.
"-I heard you brought a soccer ball to set with you."
You laugh at that, a more genuine smile splitting open your face. "Yeah, I did." You shake your head softly at the memory. "Well, Jenna, who plays Melissa, also plays a bit so between takes we were having a bit of a kick about."
"Because, of course," The interviewer continues," You have history playing soccer, don't you?"
"You did your research," You compliment with a small laugh," I do, yeah. Except, where I'm from, we call it football." Your co-stars on the call all yell out various teasing taunts as you wink at the screen. "But, yeah, I...Hang on, I'll get it."
You duck out of screen very briefly.
Your whole apartment is a shrine to football and the trophy cabinet is no exception. You bypass both Ballon D'ors and the medals that sit there, reaching to the very bottom to the little box that sits alone.
You open the box on screen, fishing out a very old medal that you won what feels a lifetime ago.
"I won the under-twenties World Cup as a kid." You flash the medal at the screen with a grin. "So, you could say I have a bit of history with football." You flash another teasing grin at your screen. "I actually tried to convince the writers to let us have a few flashback scenes of us playing football but I was overruled. Apparently, they didn't want to have to arrange another practice session after someone, not naming names, turned up to our first one in heels."
There's more playful ribbing from your castmates that you take with a sharp grin and a long suffering roll of your eyes.
"I always say this but the only reason I even played well was because I had a crush on a girl on the Spanish team. It was so embarrassing. She probably thought I was so lame."
"I'm sure that's not true," The interviewer says softly.
You don't dispute them. You're actually not sure what your school girl crush thought of you back then. She probably didn't even know who you were until your match against Spain. You weren't the most outgoing teenager. It was a wonder how you even got into acting in the first place with an attitude like that.
You made a fool of yourself in the tunnel before that match, palms already hot and sweaty from the nerves of playing but also from the way your crush caught your eye as she lined up.
You waved like an absolute loser and then proceeded to collide with the wall when she gave you a pleasant smile in return. It was probably in your top ten most embarrassing moments of your life which said a lot considering you once ate shit on the red carpet.
Now though, you smile a little fondly at the memory as the topic moves on. You allow yourself to relax back in your seat, sucking in the last of the warm Barcelona sun as your castmate's voices overlap with stories.
You're kind of lucky, you decide, that you can even be home right now. Most of the time, you're not even in the country, too busy with filming schedules and press junkets but you'd been firm this year.
You had to be home at this time of year. It was your non-negotiable and you were glad that the showrunners were happy to accomodate you.
Your co-worker Sophie is in the middle of telling a story about a funny incident on set when your dog starts barking up a storm. You hope the mic doesn't pick up on it as you lean back in your chair and peer towards the door, where the telltale sound of a key scraping the lock fills your ears.
You roll your ears. Of course that's what set her off. You shake your head fondly and let your eyes drift back to your laptop screen.
The door creaks open and your dog's barking quietens as she runs around the apartment in excitement. You expect a familiar voice to be cooing at her but there's too much noise for that and a soft huff of amusement escapes you.
Sophie's still in the middle of her story and you mute yourself quickly.
"Pina!" You holler when you're sure no one on the screen can hear you," Get the hell out of my cabinets! None of those are for you!"
You hear Pina's familiar groan from all the way in your kitchen and a snicker from Cata, who you assumed was also in there. Those two were never far from each other.
"Kika!" You continue sternly," Stop winding up my dog! And for god's sake, Patri, if you leave your dirty socks in my hall again then I'm banning you from this house!"
You check your screen again. Sophie's still telling her story so you've got a bit more time.
"Vicky, Salma, if you're going to pull out all the dog toys then you better make sure to clear them up again! Clara...You're an angel and I'm happy you're here. There's biscuits in the cabinets for you."
"How's that fair?!" You hear Pina complain but you don't even bother responding to that.
A hand rests gently on your shoulder and you turn your head.
Alexia smiles down at you, the shy smile that she reserves only for you after a long day at training. "I told them to be quiet when we came in," She says in embarrassment, eyes flicking to your screen," But you know what they're like. I'm sorry."
"It's okay, baby," You reply," I take it they're staying for dinner?"
"We'll order in."
"From that sushi place we like?"
"Whatever you want."
Alexia presses a soft kiss to the top of your head and you glance back at your screen, unmuting your mic with a soft smile.
"Sorry about that," You say," My wife and her teammates just got home. It's very loud in here right now."
As if you tempted fate itself, someone shrieks from the lounge. You assume it's either Cata or Vicky and decide you don't want to check what happened. Especially, because you watch on the screen as another person fills the space to your other side.
Patri. Of course it is.
She beams at you in greeting before zeroing in on your laptop. "You're still working?"
"The life of an actress," You deadpan," It's so glamorous." You gesture vaguely to her. "My wife's teammate, Patri. We're hosting some kind of game night, I think, so I've got a full house."
"How exciting," The interviewer says," Remind me, your wife plays soccer professionally, doesn't she?"
"She does." You turn to give Alexia another soft smile. "For Spain and Barcelona. I think she's the greatest player in the world."
Alexia's cheeks grow red at your compliment. You'd been together for years but any kind of praise still made her blush. Patri points at her and nearly dies laughing, drawing the attention of everyone else in your apartment and soon your screen is filled with warring teammates trying to get their faces shown.
"She's working," Alexia hisses, trying to control the chaos," Go! All of you! Away!"
"No fair, Ale!" Vicky complains," We never get to see her work!"
"You've watched everything she's been in," Alexia mutters.
"It's not the same. That's a character. This is y/n. It's different."
"And she's still working," Your wife insists," Go. She'll be done soon. Decide what you want from the sushi place."
Vicky walks off with a grumble, pulling a complaining Cata and Pina with her. Patri smirks as she disappears, giving your call a lazy two finger salute, cuffing Salma around the back of the head to pull her away too. Kika beams at the camera and waves before disappearing into the apartment properly.
Clara's a little shyer with her goodbye, a soft wave and an awkward smile as Alexia gestures for her to disappear too.
Your wife sighs deeply, shaking her head fondly as the chaos disappears deeper into the apartment and the dog starts barking again.
"I won't be long," You promise her softly," Don't let Cata and Pina eat us out of house and home?"
"I'll be my best."
"Thank you, baby."
You kiss her hand gently and let her wander away to control her squabbling teammates.
You glance back at your screen with a smile.
"Y/n's very secretive when it comes to her family," Your castmate Courtney teases and you roll your eyes," We finish filming and she's on the first flight back to them."
You stick your tongue out. "You're all welcome to come and visit," You tease," But you'll have to sit through a few football matches. My wife takes her job very seriously."
A little one shot in a world where Alexia is a CEO, big boss bitch but is still a simp for her wife. Cos she’s just a girl.
Thank you for the request/inspiration!!! (i tried to tag you but it wouldn't let me. sorry!)
and thank you @wosofutbolfan for always being that babe and getting me out of a jam 🫶🏼 and even adding your own smutty bits 👀
smut 18
wc 2868
The meeting room was full of suits. Every seat was occupied by some head of this or a lead board member of that. People whose self worth was inflated because of their equally inflated bank accounts.
And Alexia sat at the head of that long, clean and clinical table.
The one with the largest bank account of them all.
Alexia Putellas, one of the most prolific names in the business world.
The 32 year old’s portfolio was large to say the least. You name it, she most likely owned it, or had a stake in it.
The business titan owned half of Barcelona's new luxury high rises, expanding out to London, New York, and her newest addition in Tokyo.
Not forgetting her ownership with several tech companies of course.
Ice cold bottles of Berg water imported all the way from Canada were set directly in front of each seat, along with polished to perfection Vera Wang glassware.
It was pretentious, but it was expected.
Diagrams flicked over the projector, numbers and percentages neatly presented for all the big wigs to see. Some would nod, pretending to be as invested as they were paid to be. Some took notes on their shiny air mac books, looking up every so often so they looked the part.
But not everyone felt that way.
Alexia’s fingers tapped restlessly against her arm chair. It was the only thing she could focus on while one of the new starters in marketing drawled on about …. well, she couldn't actually tell you what she had been talking about because Alexia hadn't actually been listening.
Her focus had been on you.
Because this morning you had been very distracting.
—-------------------------
Alexia hadn't woken up to her usual 7am alarm, instead she had woken up to the warm press of your soft lips on her bare stomach.
“Amor?” She groggily murmured, one eye sleepily opening.
“Good morning, baby.” You purred as your kisses travelled lower.
The brunette sleepily smiled as her brain woke up to what was happening. “Hmm, this is a nice way to start my morning.” She mumbled, her morning voice raspy as she stretched her arms over her head. The soft cream Italian silk sheets moved with her.
You smiled sweetly up at her, loving the way the muscles in her stomach were already flexing to the feeling of you.
“You looked so cute sleeping. I couldn't really stop myself.” You whispered, almost shyly.
The room was still dark, a slither of morning light spilled in the corner of the large room, giving you some sense of sight. Not that you needed it, you knew Alexia's body like the back of your hand, every curve, every freckle was mapped out in your mind.
“I have no complaints.” Alexia hummed as you shuffled down lower, your face now in between her thighs.
Your cunt jumped with want when her large hand lazy tangled in your already messy bed hair.
You lathered her thighs in slow, wet kisses, sucking gently on her sensitive skin just to hear her breath skip in her throat.
Alexia had finally fully woken up now, she sat up on her elbows, wanting to fully see what you were doing to her. She watched as your naked body lay between her legs, worshiping her like the goddess she was, praying at the altar of her cunt.
Her eyes greedily took in the curve of your arse, traveling up the smooth skin of your back, watching the way your muscles moved. The tresses of your hair flowed down your spine, falling between your shoulder blades. You looked dreamlike. For a moment she wasn’t sure if she was still dreaming.
“You look so good, baby.” The brunette sighed happily as she leaned back, folding her arms behind her head, getting herself comfy for what was to come.
Her, hopefully.
You nuzzled your nose against her thigh giving her one last kiss before you flattened your tongue and tentatively gave a gentle lick between her lips.
“Fuck.” She sighed, her lashes fluttering from the feeling of you.
You hummed at the taste of her. Pressing your tongue inside her, greedily lapping at the already wet fluids escaping her.
You slowly licked your tongue from her entrance, through her folds, then gently wrapped your lips around her clit, sucking it teasingly against your tongue.
“Baby.” The brunette whimpered, her hips already grinding into your face.
“You’re so wet already, Ale.” You smirked, looking up at your wife through your lashes.
Alexia let out an airy chuckle trying to ignore the way your breath tingled against her wet skin. “And who’s the reason for that?”
You gave her lips another soft kiss before going back to your task.
Your hands wrapped around her strong thighs, opening her up fully for you, like she was your own personal buffet.
The brunette, relaxed sitting back, letting you eat her out while she watched you.
“Thats it.” She whispered before gathering your hair on one hand, pushing your face a little deeper. “Keep going.”
You groaned, feeling the pressure of her hand on you, doing exactly what she said without protest.
Alexia could feel her heart thumping against her chest as your tongue swirled with precision around her clit.
God, you felt so fucking good.
But your bliss was rudely interrupted as a blaring jingle went off besides Alexia’s head.
“Fuck.” The brunette grumbled before reaching for her phone to see who dared to call her at this early hour. “It’s Jenni.” She sighed.
But you didn't stop as she pressed the green button on her screen, and she made no effort to stop you.
“Si?”
You heard the familiar voice of Jenni.
“When?.... Today?” Alexia frowned, her hand still wrapped in your hair as she spoke to Jenni.
You flicked your tongue at Alexia's clit, quickening your movements before slurping at her wet folds.
The brunette gritted her teeth watching you like a hawk as you continued to pleasure her.
“Can’t it wait?” She sighed with annoyance.
Even as you greedily licked at Alexia's cunt you could hear Jenni’s own agitated tone simply state a firm ‘No’
You pulled back, Alexia watched as her shiny fluids stuck messily to your chin. You sweetly smiled before sticking out your tongue, showing her just how truly wet she was.
Her bottom lip came in between her teeth as she watched her juices drip from your tongue and onto the sheets beneath you. She looked utterly mesmerised by you, her mouth gapping open, lost in the filthy sight.
Then you went back to it.
“Fuck.” Alexia gasped, throwing her head back against the pillow.
You could hear the unmistakable, all knowing change in Jenni's tone through the phone.
‘That’s why you don't want to get out of bed.’ You heard the raven girl snigger through the speaker.
Alexia let out a frustrated groan as she hung up, blindly throwing her phone on the bed.
“I have to go.” She frowned before dramatically throwing her arm across her face. “I have a meeting with the board that I can’t get out of. I have to leave in 15 minutes.”
You stopped what you were doing and leaned your head against her thigh, giving her a pout that you’d normally save for when you really needed it.
Like the time you found a raggedy kitten on a holiday in Greece. You had begged Alexia to bring the flea ridden feline home with you. She of course had said no before the words had even fully left your mouth, but when you stuck your bottom lip out your wife never had the heart nor will power to not fold and not give you exactly what you wanted.
That raggedy old kitten was now named Falafel and had her very own playroom. Alexia was her favourite person, not that she'd admit it, but Falef's purrs said otherwise.
“Thats not fair.” You sulked.
“I know.” She sighed before releasing the hold on your hair.
You leaned up, Alexia’s hazel eyes watched you crawl from her shaky thighs and sat directly on her stomach before you lent down to give her a lazy kiss.
“Dios mio.” She whispered the moment she felt your wet cunt press against her tight abs.
“Thats okay, baby. We can come back to this later.” You murmured against her lips, before sneakily allowing your hips to roll against her skin.
Her hands automatically moved to grab your hips, but you were quicker, moving off of her before she could no doubt grind you against her.
“You better jump in the shower.” You sighed dreamily as you laid back on your side of the bed.
Alexia peered over at your naked body, you could see she was having second thoughts on whether or not to go to this meeting, but you both knew Jenni would gladly drag her out by her feet if she didn't show up.
The brunette grumbled as she left you in the sheets, seconds later you heard the shower turning on.
She was quick as she got ready, as the CEO she was used to having last minute meetings.
Alexia was in the walk-in wardrobe as she buttoned up the last button of her shirt, grabbing her sunglasses from the side before she came back into your shared room.
“I’ll make it up to you tonight, my love…” But her words were caught in her throat as she walked into the sight in front of her.
Your hand was between your thighs, your hair a mess of tresses over the dusty pink pillowcases as you boldly circled your wet clit.
You smirked when you heard the small whimper leave Alexia’s gaping mouth. The brunette comically looked between your legs, then your face, then back between your legs again.
“Oh, hey, baby.” You rasped, your wet fingers slick with your arousal.
And just as she began to walk towards you her phone rang again. No doubt Jenni telling her to move her arse.
She groaned, throwing her head back before she headed towards the door to leave, knowing full well if she stepped an inch closer to you she wouldn’t be making it to this meeting. “Amorrrr, why do you do this to me!”
You couldn't help but laugh.
The 32 year old stood in front of you. In full designer. Looking everything like the 5”8 CEO that she is. Silk shirt tucked into high waisted tailored trousers. At least 30 staff reported to her. Reported being the optimum word. They respected her but they feared her.
A room would fall into silence at just a glance from her. Analysts would break a sweat at a pointed cough, stock markets fell at the arch of her eyebrow. And here she was. Stomping her foot like a child who had been told Christmas was cancelled because of you. And some light fingering.
Maybe it was a bit mean of you but you had to keep your wife on her toes every now and again.
The brunette looked over her shoulder at you one more time before she left and mumbled. “You wait until I see you tonight.” She warned.
But you couldn't take the threat too seriously, not with the tantrum she just had.
“Can’t wait.” You winked cheekily before dipping a single finger inside yourself, keeping your eyes locked with hers the whole time.
Alexia’s eyes drifted down between your legs once more before she begrudgingly left.
—---------------------------------------
Now here she was. Her mind miles away, bored out of her skull while you were at home.
Being a brat.
Alexia sighed before she discreetly pulled out her phone under the table. Her fingers automatically opened the Instagram app.
She smirked when she saw the little round pink icon of your dp lit up with a story, but when she opened it her smirk faltered, her lips parted for the seventh time that morning due to you.
There you were, kitted up head to toe in fresh Nike, thanks to Alexia’s stakes in the brand. Your face sweaty, sporting a tight sports bra, your chest drenched wet with sweat. Your baby hair’s curling at the edges where you had just completed a work out.
The brunette licked her before she clicked on your next story.
Alexia closed her eyes in frustration as she looked over the new picture. It was a selfie. Close up. Your tight nipples were perking through the fabric. Your rosy pink lips were parted just like the way they were when she left you this morning, in the large king sized bed. The same cloudy eyes that looked at her with so much desire as you teasingly touched yourself.
The throb between her legs that had barely left her came back in full throttle as she imagined your mouth.
The way your tongue had pressed inside her, making her legs shake and back arch and–
“…Alexia?”
“Sweat.” She gently mumbled under her breath, too consumed in her thoughts to even realise she was talking out loud.
“...Erm, Alexia?”
The brunette nearly dropped her phone as her name was called again bringing her back to the real world.
“Huh?...What?” The CEO looked around the boardroom, slipping her phone back in her pocket as a room full of eyes looked at her for an answer.
Alexia must have looked like a dear in headlights, which wasn't often.
The new marketing girl cleared her throat a little nervously. “I-I was just asking what your thoughts were on maybe teaming up with Rosalia and h-her team? It would be great for traction on the new project.” She stuttered.
Alexia stared at her, blinked, once, twice, completely lost. Shit.
“I erm…”
“What she means to say is…” Jenni came in to save Alexia, giving her a shit eating grin as she did, “she thinks that's a great idea. We’ve been wanting to work with Rosalia for a little while and this is the perfect project for that.” The raven haired woman smiled reassuringly at her young colleague.
Alexia looked at Jenni, then back at the woman in front of her, her face looking a little less anxious at Jenni's words, but still looking at Alexia for her approval.
Alexia knew if Jenni liked whatever idea this was then she could let it pass.
“Si, I like the idea. Well done.” Was all she needed to say with a little head nod and small smile.
The room murmured in agreement, happy that Alexia liked the idea.
The brunette looked over at her oldest friend, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ her way.
“Shall we end it there. I think a quick coffee break would be good.” Jenni chimed, looking at Alexia, still smiling.
The room of course looked at Alexia for the go ahead.
Alexia nodded, clearing her throat as she pulled at her shirt collar. “Everyone take 15.”
The room slowly descended with gentle murmurs as everyone began to rise from their chairs. Eager to get their caffeine fix.
A low whistle came from the other side of the room. Jenni was standing now, her phone in her hand and that same wolfish grin on her face. “Aye, now I know why you were distracted." Jenni chuckled, showing her screen to Alexia, with your face plastered on her phone.
“She’s killing me.” Alexia breathed, covering her face with her hands before dragging her palms down her face.
The raven haired girl threw her head back, letting out a belly laugh. “You are so whipped. I love it.”
With a loud groan the brunette stood up from her chair, shaking her head at her oldest friend.
“I can’t even argue with that.” Alexia admitted, softly chuckling. “I owe you a coffee for saving me.”
“Can we go to the one with the cute barista?” Jenni wiggled her eyebrows.
“Sure.” Alexia agreed.
The two colleagues began to walk out the room, Jenni held open the door for Alexia as she walked out. The brunette pulled out her phone once more, smiling to herself when she saw she had a text from you.
Then she stopped dead in her tracks.
It was a photo of you. Hair freshly washed, in nothing but an old pj top, one of Alexia’s of course. You were clearly naked from the bottom down, smiling innocently at the phone. With a simple text saying ‘miss you’
Before she could reply the heavy glass door came hurling towards her, slapping her right in the side of her face.
“Oww! Merda!” She hissed, rubbing her now thumping head. She looked over at Jenni with a scowl, who had apparently let the door go.
Jenni smirked, holding her hands up in innocence.“Aye, it's not my fault you’re so distracted!” She smirked, walking ahead.
Alexia rubbed her head, already feeling the lump forming and quickly wrote out a reply.
‘Amor, you have to stop. I just banged my head, distracted by your face. Its dangerous for me x’
She can't help but laugh aloud at the reply that vibrates in her hand.
“Aw, my poor baby. Not the kind of head I had in mind, but I'll rub it all better. Come home soon x “
Alexia Putellas (Barcelona Era) x Female Footballer Reader!
Wc: 5k
For four years, the routine had been as steady and unyielding as the tides along the Barceloneta coast.
Whenever Alexia Putellas walked off the training pitch at the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper—whether her legs felt like lead after a grueling Champions League semi-final or she was riding the euphoric high of another domestic masterclass, she never had to guess where her comfort lived. It lived in a pair of expressive, warm eyes, a soft, reassuring smile, and a girl who treated her like she hung the stars in the Catalan sky.
You were that girl.
As a fellow midfielder in the FC Barcelona Femení squad, you knew the exact physical toll the sport took on a body. You knew how Alexia’s right knee throbbed when the weather dropped, how she took her coffee with a very specific splash of oat milk and half a packet of raw sugar, and how her posture shifted from commanding captain to vulnerable, tired girl the second the heavy oak door of her home closed behind her.
You had loved her for so long that loving her felt less like a conscious choice and more like a vital biological function.
You spoiled her. There was no other word for it. If Alexia mentioned in passing that she loved a particular bakery in Gràcia, a fresh box of pastries appeared on her locker shelf the next morning before she even arrived. If she was too exhausted to untie her boots after a draining session in the rain, you knelt on the damp grass and unlaced them for her, your fingers brushing against her ankles with a reverence that made some of the younger academy call-ups whisper in the locker room.
You answered her texts within seconds. You cleared your weekends to accommodate her unpredictable media appearances, sponsor events, and family dinners. You gave her the world wrapped in quiet, undemanding devotion, never asking for a formal title, content simply to orbit the sun that was Alexia Putellas.
Or, at least, you had tried to be content.
The fracture line in your chest had begun as a hairline crack months ago. It was the subtle way Alexia’s eyes started drifting toward her phone during dinner. The dismissive little huffs of air when you rearranged your entire schedule to pick up her dry cleaning, as if your time had no intrinsic value of its own. The casual way she accepted every sacrifice you made, swallowing your devotion whole without ever offering a crumb of reciprocity.
And then came the Tuesday afternoon that broke the glass completely.
You were standing in the players' lounge, carefully peeling an orange for her because you knew she hated getting the bitter white pith under her fingernails. You handed her a segment, your thumb gently brushing the back of her hand.
Alexia didn’t take it. She didn't even look up from her iPad, where she was flicking through tactical footage. Her shoulders were bunched up near her ears, tight with post-training irritability.
"Y/N, stop” she snapped, her voice cutting through the hum of the lounge like a jagged knife. "Just... stop doing that."
Your hand froze mid-air. "Doing what?"
"All of this” she muttered, finally looking at you, her dark eyes flashing with an irritated, suffocating impatience. "The hovering. The bringing me fruit, the constantly making sure I'm comfortable, fixing my kit, rearranging your life. It’s too much."
A cold weight settled in the pit of your stomach. "I was just trying to help you, Ale. You said you were tired."
"I am tired” Alexia shot back, closing the iPad with a sharp, echoing thwack. "I’m tired of feeling like I have my mom following me around the club. Why do you even do it? Why do you keep trying so hard?"
You stared at her, the orange segments slipping from your fingers back onto the paper napkin. The question hung in the air, heavy and cruel, demanding an answer you suddenly didn't have the emotional energy to fabricate.
"Because I care about you” you whispered, your throat tightening.
Alexia let out a cynical, dry puff of air, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, don't. Save it. We're friends, Y/N. Just teammates. You act like you're my girlfriend, but you're not ever. So stop treating me like I'm special, because it's exhausting."
Just teammates.
The words echoed in your skull, tearing away the last four years of masonry you had built around your heart. The illusion shattered into fine, microscopic dust. She didn't want your care. She didn't want your devotion. She looked at everything you gave her and saw a burden.
You didn't cry. You didn't yell. A strange, numbing calm washed over you—the self-preservation mechanism of a soul that had endured too much abandonment in its lifetime.
"Okay” you said softly.
Alexia blinked, clearly taken aback by the lack of a fight, the absence of your usual tearful defense. "What?"
"Okay” you repeated, your voice entirely level, stripping every ounce of warmth, every shade of intimacy out of the syllable. "Got it."
The transformation was immediate, stark, and terrifyingly efficient.
If Alexia wanted friends, you would treat her like a friend. Not an enemy, you weren't malicious, and you didn't have a cruel bone in your body but the luxury car of your affection was suddenly downgraded to a local bus, running strictly on schedule and devoid of any extra amenities.
The next morning in the locker room, Alexia walked in carrying her heavy training gear and tossed her wet shinpads onto the bench. Out of pure, ingrained muscle memory, your hand reached toward them to move them out of her way so they wouldn't soak her spare socks.
Halfway there, your fingers stopped. You withdrew your hand as if the plastic had burned you, picked up your own kit, and walked right past her to tape your ankles.
"Morning” you offered, your tone light, breezy, and utterly transactional, the exact tone you used with third-string substitutes you barely knew.
Alexia paused; her boots half-zipped. She looked up at you, waiting for the usual sequence: the smile, the offer to fill her water bottle, the quiet check-in on how her sleep had been.
You just sat there, listening to music through your headphones, staring straight ahead.
During the tactical session on pitch three, the true shockwaves hit. In the past, whenever Alexia dropped deep to receive the ball under pressure, you were always the safety valve, running yourself into the ground to provide a passing lane, anticipating her movements before she even made them.
Today, when she called for a square ball under a heavy double-press from Mapi and Patri, you didn't force the pass. You calmly recycled possession to the opposite flank, choosing the safer, lower-risk option.
Alexia threw her arms up in the air, glaring at you across the grass. When the whistle blew for a water break, she marched straight over, her face flushed with heat and a strange, bubbling agitation.
"What was that?" she demanded, standing right in your personal space. "You had a clean passing lane to my feet. I called for it."
You took a slow sip from your water bottle, wiping your mouth with the back of your wrist. You looked at her with polite, detached curiosity, the way a customer service representative looks at a slightly confused client. "Option B was safer. The statistical success rate on the switch was higher. Pere wants us to minimize midfield turnovers."
"Since when do you care about statistical success rates over instinct?" Alexia snapped, her voice rising. "You always look for me."
"Well, I'm adapting my playstyle" you replied smoothly, offering a completely harmless, hollow smile. "We're just teammates, right? No need to overcomplicate the build-up. I'll see you on the next drill."
You turned on your heel and jogged away, leaving Alexia standing alone on the turf, her mouth slightly open, a deep, burning confusion warring with an unidentifiable anger in her chest.
Over the next week, the absence of you became a physical weight in Alexia’s daily life.
There were no more fancy coffees waiting in her locker. There were no more midnight texts checking if she had taken her magnesium for muscle recovery. When she dropped her water bottle during a shooting drill, you didn't scramble to pick it up; you simply stepped around it with a polite, "Careful there" and kept running.
You were polite. You were professional. You were a teammate.
And Alexia found herself slowly losing her absolute mind.
The privilege of being adored had become so woven into the fabric of her routine that its sudden removal felt like oxygen being slowly sucked out of an airtight room. She caught herself waiting for you to crack, waiting for the heavy sigh, the fond eye-roll, the inevitable softening where you would cave and bring her a towel.
You never caved. You were terrifyingly, consistently fine.
Football clubs are breeding grounds for chaos, gossip, and opportunistic flirtation, especially when a new transfer window brings fresh talent into the orbit of a powerhouse like Barcelona.
Her name was Louise. She was a twenty-six o-year-old French winger signed from Lyon, fast, flashy, entirely unapologetic, and possessed of a radiant, chaotic energy that could light up a room. She also had zero filter and an immediate, laser-focused fixation on you.
It started innocently enough during a recovery session in the gym. Louise, stretching her hamstrings near the resistance machines, struck up a conversation about tactical positioning, her English laced with a thick, charming accent. You laughed at one of her dry observations, leaning against the rack.
Across the gym floor, Alexia was doing core work on a stability ball. Her eyes were supposed to be fixed on her trainer, but her gaze kept darting magnetically toward your corner.
She saw Louise lean in close to your shoulder, whispering something that made you throw your head back and laugh—a genuine, melodic laugh that Alexia hadn't heard directed at her in months. She saw Lou’s hand lightly, lingeringly brush against your forearm.
And she saw you smile back. Not politely. Warmly.
A cold, vicious spike of jealousy ripped through Alexia’s ribs, so sharp and violent that she lost her balance on the stability ball, tumbling backward onto the rubber mat with an undignified thump.
"Everything alright, captain?" Pere asked, rushing over.
"I'm fine” Alexia hissed, shoving herself up off the floor, her dark eyes burning with an incandescent rage as she glared across the gym.
You weren't stupid. You knew Louise was laying it on thick, and you knew exactly what effect it was having on the woman standing forty feet away. You didn't feel any real romantic interest in Louise, your heart was still a bruised, stubborn landscape but after weeks of being treated like an annoyance, watching Alexia unravel from afar offered a dark, intoxicating validation.
So, when Louise leaned over the lunch table two days later and asked if you wanted to grab coffee in El Born after the afternoon tactical meeting, you didn't hesitate.
"I’d love to, Lou” you said clearly, making sure your voice carried just far enough across the canteen. "I'm completely free."
Lou flashed a brilliant, triumphant smile, reaching across the table to tap her fingers against your knuckles.
At the captain's table, the sound of Alexia’s fork snapping cleanly against her ceramic plate echoed in the sudden silence of the dining hall.
From that afternoon onward, Alexia stopped trying to pretend she was unaffected. The veneer of captainly composure melted away, replaced by a bitter, prickly hostility. She became short-tempered with the coaching staff, hyper-critical of the ball movement during drills, and outright mean whenever she had to interact with you.
"Can you actually run this time, or are you too distracted by your little French lady?" Alexia muttered loud enough for you to hear as you jogged back into position during a tactical walkthrough.
You didn't blink. You didn't offer a meek apology. You simply turned your head, looked her dead in the eyes with a chilling, utter blankness, and said, "Mind your spacing, captain. You're out of position and let me play."
Alexia looked like she wanted to physically lunge across the grass and throttle you.
The tipping point arrived on a rainy Thursday morning in late spring. A completely fabricated, absurd gossip item began circulating through the lower-tier Spanish sports blogs and filtered into the squad's group chats: FC Barcelona Femení star forward spotted holding hands with new signing in the Mercadona; rumored relationship blossoming.
It was entirely false. You had gone to that supermarket (the nearest from your house) to buy coffee beans and some oat milk, and Louise had merely bumped into you on the pavement and walked three blocks with you under an umbrella because it was raining.
But by the time it reached the locker room, it had mutated into a full-scale romance.
Alexia walked into the room ten minutes before team meeting, her face pale, her jaw clenched so tight the muscles flickered. She dropped her kit bag onto her bench with a force that rattled the metal lockers.
"Is it true?" she blurted out before she could stop herself, her voice shaking with an ugly mix of grief, humiliation, and furious possessiveness.
You were sitting on your bench, calmly pulling your boots on. You looked up slowly. "Is what true?"
"Don't play games with me" Alexia snarled, taking a step toward your bench, her chest heaving. "The whole club is talking. You and Louise. Are you actually dating her?"
The sheer hypocrisy of it hung in the air like tear gas. Alexia, who had spent months pushing you away, treating your devotion like a disease, and reminding you at every turn that you were just teammates was standing here looking like a betrayed lover.
You let out a quiet, humorless scoff. "What I do outside of training hours is none of your business, Alexia. We’re just teammates, remember? You made that crystal clear."
"That's different!" Alexia shouted, the word tearing out of her throat, drawing the startled eyes of every player in the room. "You can't just... you can't just be with someone else!"
"Excuse me?" you said softly, standing up to your full height, your brown eyes locked onto hers, steady and unyielding. "You don't get to dictate who I care about anymore. You gave up that privilege a long time ago."
Alexia’s face drained of what little color it had left. She looked shattered, her lower lip trembling slightly before her defensive walls slammed back down with brutal force. "Fine. Do whatever you want. Sleep with whoever you want. I don't care."
She spun on her heel and stormed out of the locker room, slamming the door so hard the glass pane rattled in its frame.
The training session that followed was a disaster of epic, catastrophic proportions.
Karma, or the football gods, or simply the dizzying weight of human misery, decided to collect its debts from Alexia Putellas that afternoon. From the very first whistle, nothing went right for her. Her first touch deserted her; her trademark diagonal passes sailed harmlessly out of bounds; her defensive timing was half a second too slow.
Every mistake compounded her frustration, turning her into a live wire of raw, jagged nerves.
And you didn't look at her. Not once. When she blew a simple possession in the central channel, you didn't cover for her; you let Mapi win the ball cleanly, forcing Alexia to chase leather.
During a high-intensity small-sided game thirty minutes into the session, the inevitable occurred. Alexia charged out to close down a loose ball, her studs catching awkwardly in a damp patch of turf just as she pivoted.
A sickening, muffled pop echoed across the grass, followed instantly by a sharp, agonizing scream that made the entire pitch freeze dead in its tracks.
"Stop! Stop training!" the coach bellowed, blowing his whistle frantically.
Players converged on the spot instantly. Alexia was down on her right side, clutching her right ankle, her face buried in the damp grass, her shoulders shaking with stifled, white-hot pain.
You stood ten yards away, your heart doing a terrifying, violent freefall into your stomach. Every instinct, four years of muscle memory, of unconditional devotion, of loving her above all else screamed at you to run to her, to drop to your knees, to cradle her head.
You forced your feet to stay planted in the mud. You swallowed the lump in your throat, folded your arms across your chest, and forced your expression into a neutral, detached mask.
She's just a teammate, you told yourself, a hollow lie tasting like ash on your tongue. Let the medical staff handle it.
-
They get her up eventually, one arm slung over a physio's shoulders, ankle already swelling visibly above her sock, and half-carry her off toward the medical room while training limps on around the gap she's left in it. You go back to the drill. Your finishing, again, is vicious and precise, and this time you know exactly why.
It's forty minutes later, showered and changed, gear bag over your shoulder, that you overhear it two of the physio staff, talking near the equipment room, not bothering to lower their voices because they don't think anyone's listening.
"…can't drive herself home like that, obviously, someone'll have to take her "
"Isn't her sister meant to be picking her up? Or Vicky?"
"Vicky's already gone, she had that appearance thing. And apparently, she doesn't want to call her sister, doesn't want to worry her " a small, exasperated laugh. "She's being very Alexia about the whole thing. Says she'll get a taxi. On a sprained ankle. In this weather."
You stand very still in the corridor, gear bag digging into your shoulder, and you think: everyone's gone. It's just me left in the building. She's going to end up alone in a taxi with a swollen ankle rather than ask.
And underneath that thought, quieter, truer: of course she won't ask me. Not after everything.
You know, with the particular clarity of someone who has spent two years learning a person's every stubborn edge, exactly what's happening in that medical room right now. Alexia, jaw set, insisting she's fine, insisting a taxi will be fine, because the alternative turning to you, the person she pushed away, the person she's spent three weeks being cold and sharp with is apparently a worse prospect to her than travelling home in agony with strangers.
You think about walking away. You think about it seriously, for about four seconds, standing there with your keys already half out of your pocket. Three weeks of hard-won distance, and here's the exact moment it would be easiest to protect, to let her sit in a taxi and be stubborn and prove some point to herself about not needing you.
But love doesn't leave just because you've asked it to behave for three weeks. You know this now in a way you only half-knew it before. It's still there, underneath all the careful coldness, patient and stupid and entirely undiminished, and it doesn't care what she said to you in the corridor five weeks ago. It just wants her to get home safely.
You go and find the team doctor first, not Alexia, you're not ready to face her yet, not without a plan.
"How's Alexia doing?" you ask, keeping your voice carefully casual, the tone of someone asking after any teammate.
He glances up from his clipboard. "Grade two sprain, could've been worse. She'll be in a boot for a couple of weeks. She's a bit sore and a lot stubborn, honestly, insisting on getting herself home, which is a terrible idea, but you know how she is." A small, tired smile. "She's through in the changing room now, getting dressed. Everyone else has already left, unfortunately."
"Right” you say. "Thanks."
You don't ask permission for what you do next. You go to the bench where Alexia's things always sit you know the spot without thinking, three weeks of distance hasn't erased two years of habit and you pick up her gear bag, and then, because you spot them sitting on top with her wallet, you pick up her car keys too.
You find her in the changing room, alone, sitting on the bench in her training kit with one boot off and the other leg propped up, her ankle already strapped and swollen, wincing every time she shifts her weight even slightly. Her hair's come loose from its bun. She looks, for the first time since you've known her, genuinely fragile, and something in your chest twists so hard it's almost painful.
She sees you in the doorway with her bag over your shoulder and her keys in your hand, and her whole face does something complicated surprise, then a flare of something defensive, then, underneath both, the faintest, most reluctant flicker of relief that she immediately tries to smother.
"I don't need you to do this” she says, before you've even said anything. Straight into it, the way she always does when she's trying to protect herself from something. "I've already called a taxi."
"You haven't” you say, calmly. "You've been sitting here for ten minutes arguing with the doctor about whether you need one."
"That's not…" she stops, flustered, because apparently that's exactly what happened. "It doesn't matter. I don't need you driving me home, Y/N. I'm perfectly capable of …"
"Of what? Hopping in a taxi with a sprained ankle in the rain?" You keep your voice even, not unkind, just factual. "I've got your bag. I've got your keys. I'm parked next to you, same as always. It's not a favour, Alexia, it's just getting you home. That's all it is."
"I don't want your help” she says, and her voice wavers slightly on want, betraying something underneath the stubbornness not dislike, you realise, but fear, the fear of needing something from someone she pushed away, the fear of what accepting might mean about everything she said five weeks ago.
"I know you don't want to need it” you say, gently. "But you do. So, let's not make this a whole thing. Come on."
She opens her mouth, you can see the argument forming, can see her gathering herself for one more round of insisting she's fine, that she doesn't need you, that she'd rather sit in pain than accept help from the person she hurt and you know, with sudden, weary certainty, that if you let her finish that sentence you're going to be standing in this changing room for another twenty minutes while she talks herself into a taxi purely out of pride.
So you don't let her finish it.
You cross the room, set her bag down, and before she's got more than half a syllable out, you lean down and kiss her.
It's quick barely two seconds, soft and sure and entirely without permission but it's enough to short-circuit whatever speech she'd been building, enough that when you pull back, she's just sitting there, boot half-on, mouth slightly open, staring up at you with an expression of such total, blank astonishment that you'd laugh if you weren't half-terrified of what you've just done.
You don't say anything. You'd meant to have something ready some explanation, some sorry, I shouldn't have, ignore that but looking at her face, dazed and open in a way you've genuinely never seen it, the words dissolve before you can use them. So instead, you just crouch down, sling her good arm over your shoulders, and say, "Right. Up you get. Careful of the ankle” as though you haven't just detonated something enormous between you.
She lets you help her up. That's the tell, really Alexia Putellas, who has spent weeks bristling at every offer of help you haven't made, who fought you on this exact thing forty seconds ago, goes utterly compliant, letting you take most of her weight, hopping awkwardly toward the door with an expression still fixed somewhere between shell-shock and something dazzled underneath it.
She doesn't say a word the whole way to the car park. Doesn't argue, doesn't insist, doesn't do any of the things Alexia Putellas usually does. She just leans into you, quiet, and every few seconds you catch her glancing sideways at your mouth like she's trying to work out whether the last two minutes actually happened.
You can't help it, the sight of her, the most stubborn woman you have ever met in your life, absolutely stunned into silence by one two-second kiss (well really was a litte peck) was too much, and a laugh escapes you before you can stop it, low and delighted.
"What” Alexia says, immediately defensive, though there's no real heat in it, just a kind of flustered scramble to reclaim some dignity. "What's funny."
"Nothing” you say, still smiling, guiding her toward the passenger side of her own car. "You've just got a very specific face on right now, so pouty."
"I do not have a face and I’m not pouty right now."
"You've absolutely got that face." You open the door for her, help her ease down into the seat, careful of her ankle, and she's still watching you with that same stunned, unmoored expression, cheeks gone pink, and you have to look away before you laugh again, because if you start properly laughing you might not stop, might end up crying instead, from relief or nerves or the enormous, terrifying hope suddenly unspooling in your chest.
You get her home. It's a quiet drive she doesn't say much, keeps stealing glances at you at red lights, and you keep your eyes very determinedly on the road, driving her own car with a peculiar, tender care, like the vehicle itself is something precious now simply by association.
Her flat is warm and a little too tidy, the way places get when someone spends more time on the training ground than at home. You get her settled on the sofa, prop her ankle up on a cushion the way the physio instructed, fetch her an ice pack from the freezer without needing to be told where it is old habits, you think, a little wryly, they don't actually go anywhere, they were just waiting.
By the time you've got her sorted, some of the shock has worn off her, replaced by something more like her usual self, though softer round the edges, less armoured. She watches you move around her kitchen with an expression you can't quite read.
"You kissed me” she says, eventually, like she's still confirming it happened, still testing the words in her own mouth.
"I did” you say, not turning around, focused very hard on filling a glass of water for her.
"Why?"
"Because you were about to spend twenty minutes arguing yourself into a car for pure stubbornness, and I didn't have the patience for it." You bring the water over, hand it to her, and finally let yourself meet her eyes. "Also, because I've wanted to for about two years and I'm tired."
Something in her face crumples, just slightly, at that’s not sadness exactly, something more complicated, guilt and hope tangled together.
"I'm hungry” she says instead, abruptly, which startles a small laugh out of you, because of course, of course this is how Alexia Putellas processes an enormous emotional confrontation by changing the subject to food, the same as she always has, the same stubborn, deflecting, utterly familiar version of her you've loved for two years.
"Alright” you say, easily, letting her have the deflection because you know her well enough to know she needs a minute. "What do you want?"
"I don't know. Something easy." She shifts on the sofa, wincing slightly at her ankle, and then looks up at you from underneath her lashes with an expression so deliberately pathetic, so exaggeratedly wounded, that you nearly laugh again the full puppy-dog routine, bottom lip very faintly out, eyes huge, the look she gives referees when she wants a foul given.
"What” you say, amused, "is that face for?"
"Nothing” she says, entirely unconvincingly. "I just my ankle hurts. And I'm cold. And you're just standing there so huggable."
"You want a hug."
"I didn't say that."
"You absolutely did say that, with your face and “huggable”" But you're already crossing the room, already lowering yourself onto the sofa beside her, careful of the propped ankle, and she doesn't hesitate at all just leans straight into you, tucks herself against your side like she's been doing it for years instead of never once before tonight, her head finding your shoulder with an ease that undoes something in your chest completely.
You wrap an arm around her carefully, mindful of her, and for a moment neither of you says anything. The flat is quiet. Somewhere outside, the rain that's been threatening all evening finally starts, soft against the windows.
"I'm sorry” Alexia says, into your shoulder, so quietly you nearly miss it. "For what I said. In the corridor. I didn't mean it the way it, I panicked. You were so… you were always doing so much for me, and I didn't know what to do with it, and I said the cruellest thing I could think of because it felt safer than admitting I liked it."
"I know” you say, softly, and you find you mean it the anger of the last five weeks has drained out of you somewhere between the medical room and this sofa, leaving only the old, patient love underneath, still there, exactly where you left it.
"And then you stopped” she goes on, voice small. "Doing all of it. The coffee, and everything. And I hated it. I hated it so much, Y/N, I didn't understand why it felt like losing something when I was the one who said I only wanted a friend."
"Because you didn't actually want a friend” you say, gently. "You wanted someone to love you the way I do, without having to call it that. And I couldn't keep doing it once you said what you said. It would've broken something in me."
She's quiet for a moment, and when she lifts her head to look at you, her eyes are shining, overbright, and there's none of the armour left in her face at all.
"I don't want to just be friends” she says, low, almost frightened by her own honesty. "I never wanted that. I don't know why I said it."
"I know why” you say. "You've said it yourself. Panic."
"Can I " She stops, swallows, tries again. "Can I kiss you properly? You only gave me about two seconds earlier and I've been thinking about it for the last forty minutes and I want to actually"
You don't let her finish that sentence either. You lean in and she meets you halfway, and this time there's nothing quick about it, this time it's slow, and soft, and certain, her hand coming up to rest against your jaw like she's making sure you're really there, and you feel something in your chest that's been clenched tight for five weeks finally, finally let go.
When you break apart she's smiling, properly smiling, the kind you haven't seen from her in weeks, unguarded and a little disbelieving, like she still can't quite work out how she got here.
"So” she says, a little breathless, "friends don't do that."
"No” you agree, smiling back at her, brushing a strand of hair off her face with a tenderness you've been rationing for five weeks and are no longer interested in rationing. "They really don't."
"Good” Alexia says, decisively, settling back against your shoulder with the satisfied air of someone who has just won an argument she started against herself. "Because I'm done with just being friends. I want the coffee. And the water bottles. And you carrying my bag through airports even though I do, in fact, have arms."
"You'll have to ask nicely maybe bribe me with a kiss or two."
"I'll ask however I like” she says, but she's laughing now, soft and warm against your shoulder, and outside the rain keeps falling, gentle against the windows, and inside, finally, everything that's been circling for two years settles quietly into place, the way the truest things always do not with fireworks, but with an ordinary evening, an ice pack, a bad joke about arms, and a girl who has finally stopped pretending she didn't want to be loved exactly the way you'd always loved her.
You order food eventually, something easy, like she asked for, pasta from the place two streets over that she likes and you eat it curled together on the sofa with her ankle propped on a pillow between you, and she keeps stealing glances at you between bites like she's checking you're still there, and every time you catch her doing it she goes faintly pink and pretends to be very interested in her food instead.
"I'm going to be insufferable now” she warns you, later, when the food's gone and the rain's settled into something steady and comfortable outside. "I'm going to want the coffee every single morning and your hugs and kisses and everything."
"I know, I want some kisses and hugs too. It´s what I expect when I’m dating someone."
"And I'm going to expect you to still jump in front of footballs for me."
"You always did expect that. You just weren't going to admit you liked it."
She goes quiet at that, thoughtful, tracing an absent pattern against your knuckles where your hand rests over hers. "I liked all of it” she admits, finally, so quietly it's almost lost under the rain. "I liked it so much I didn't know what to do with myself. It felt like too much. Like I didn't deserve someone loving me so carefully, so I pushed it away before I could ruin it myself."
"You didn't ruin it” you say. "You're here. I'm here. The ankle's the only casualty."
That gets a proper laugh out of her, surprised and bright, and she tips her head back against your shoulder, eyes closing, entirely at ease in a way you've genuinely never seen her before, not on the pitch, not in the dressing room, not anywhere. Just soft, and certain, and yours, finally, the way you'd quietly hoped she might be for two long years of coffee and stray footballs and a love you never once needed her to notice, because you knew, somewhere underneath all the patience, that eventually one way or another, whether by injury or stubborn
Summary: Securing a massive contract to supply the flowers for FC Barcelona’s women’s football team was supposed to be strictly business. But as the football season unfolds, the quiet routine of your flower shop is upended by frequent visits from some of the team’s top players, especially a certain regular named Alexia.
Word count: 15,4 k
(it's a slow burn)
The heavy summer heat of Barcelona hung thick and sticky over the avenues, but inside Floristeria Arrels, the air was a cool, damp sanctuary smelling faintly of crushed green stems and wet earth.
You stood behind the wide zinc counter, your hair pulled back with a simple green silk ribbon, your eyes scanning the terrifying financial spreadsheet on your screen. Your family’s shop was a neighborhood staple, a shaded haven of high ceilings and weathered stone walls, where zinc and wooden buckets overflowed with seasonal blooms. But over the last year, keeping the doors open had become a grueling uphill battle. The neighborhood was changing, rent was skyrocketing, and the independent budget your father had run for decades was stretched to its absolute limit.
“Petal! The heavy lifting is for the youth, and you are wasting the prime of your twenties staring at a glowing rectangle!”
You turned around, an amused smile at the nickname breaking across your face. Your father was leaning against a stack of ceramic pots, holding a pair of rusted pruning shears like a scepter. He was seventy-two, stubborn to a fault, and supposedly retired.
“Papa, I am twenty-seven, and I am technically the owner,” you reminded him gently, wiping a smudge of dirt from your cheek with your dark green apron. “And you aren’t supposed to be lifting anything either. Where are the boys?”
“Your brothers are married men with responsibilities, apparently,” your father scoffed, though there was a deep warmth in his eyes. “Which means they dropped off the kids and fled the manual labor.”
Right on cue, an eight-year-old boy burst through the backroom door, brandishing a plastic dinosaur. “Tia! Leo says that if I eat a marigold, I’ll turn into a dragon. Is that true?”
“No, Lucas, and please don’t eat the stock,” you laughed, catching him by the shoulders before he could collide with a massive vase of hydrangeas.
This shop was your entire life. When your mother passed away, your father had been ready to close the doors forever. Your older brothers, both established in their own careers, hadn’t cared enough to step in. But you couldn’t let it go. You had spent your childhood doing homework on the overturned wooden crates in the back. You had a business degree now, sure, but your heart belonged to the flowers. You had a terrible habit of wanting to save everything: drooping ferns, stray cats, and your family’s heritage.
Which was exactly why the official letter sitting next to your keyboard felt like a literal lifeline. Floristeria Arrels had just been awarded an exclusive, year-long corporate contract with FC Barcelona to provide all floral styling for the VIP boxes, the presidential suites, and the official club events. Today was your very first task: delivering the massive centerpieces for the welcoming lunch for new signings at the training complex.
“Wish me luck,” you muttered, lifting a massive, intricately designed ceramic vase filled with vibrant tropical greenery and striking orange bursts.
“Don’t trip over your own feet,” your father called out. “You have your mother’s eyes, but you inherited my coordination. God help the football club.”
The media lounge at the sports complex was a chaotic blur of activity. Journalists were setting up heavy tripods, PR representatives were speaking rapidly into headsets, and caterers were bustling past with silver trays.
You felt out of your depth. You were dressed in a simple linen dress, your hands slightly damp, carrying a floral arrangement that weighed nearly fifteen kilos.
“Right on the center glass table, please,” a stressed looking woman in a club blazer directed, pointing toward the middle of the room.
You nodded, taking careful, deliberate steps. Do not trip. Do not drop the five-hundred-euro vase.
Naturally, just as you reached the table, your sandal caught on a thick, stray television camera cable.
You gasped, your balance tilting dangerously forward. The heavy ceramic vase slipped from your grip, tilting at an angle that promised a catastrophic, public shatter against the glass table. You braced yourself for the impact and the humiliation.
It didn’t come.
Instead, a pair of strong hands shot out from the side, catching the base of the heavy ceramic vase with incredible, lightning-fast reflexes. A firm shoulder brushed against yours, steadying your stance before you could go down with it.
“I’ve got it,” a calm voice said. “Steady.”
You blinked, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You looked up, and your breath caught all over again.
Standing right there, holding the weight of the vase effortlessly, was Alexia Putellas. The captain of FC Barcelona was wearing a crisp white club polo shirt, her hazel eyes looking down at you with a mixture of amusement and concern. Away from the flashing stadium cameras, she possessed an effortless, commanding presence that made your stomach do a fluttery flip.
“Are you okay?” Alexia asked, easily shifting the heavy vase onto the center of the table.
“I… yes. Yes, thank you,” you stammered, your cheeks burning a sudden, bright crimson as you smoothed down your apron. “I’m so sorry. I’m incredibly clumsy. It’s a family trait.”
Alexia let out a soft, warm laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Good reflexes are part of the job description around here.” She stepped back, her eyes drifting over the striking arrangement. “Wow. Did you make this? It’s beautiful.”
“I did,” you said, your voice growing steadier as you returned to a subject you actually understood. A quiet confidence took over your posture. “I’m Y/N. My shop is doing the arrangements for the club this season. I wanted to make sure the workspace felt right.”
“Well, Y/N,” Alexia said, extending a hand. You took it, noting how warm and firm her grip was. Her eyes locked onto yours with a sharp look of surprise, as if she hadn’t expected the florist behind the contract to possess such a calm, grounded energy. “The club’s flowers used to look like they were bought from a petrol station at the last minute. What are these orange ones?”
“They’re Alstroemeria,” you murmured, your voice dropping into a soft, knowledgeable register as you looked from the blooms back to her eyes. “Peruvian Lilies.”
“Do they have a meaning?” Alexia asked, leaning back against the edge of the table, crossing her arms. She looked genuinely interested, the guarded, professional mask she usually wore for the media completely dissolving.
“They do,” you said, a passionate light entering your eyes. “In the old language of flowers, they don’t represent flashy, temporary success. They symbolise mutual support, devotion, and endurance. Because the petals grow in a tight, resilient cluster before opening up spectacularly, it represents a strong bond that can withstand trials. I thought... well, for a long, grueling season where you have to hold everything together under pressure, the team lounge needed something that represents standing firm. Not a standard rose that withers in a week.”
Alexia stared at the orange petals for a long moment, the playful look fading into a profound, quiet stillness. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely capturing you in the busy room.
“Mutual support and endurance,” Alexia repeated quietly, her voice carrying an unspoken weight that sent a sudden rush of heat straight down your spine. A genuine, incredibly soft smile broke across her face. “I think you’re exactly right. We could use a bit of that magic this year.”
A PR coordinator suddenly shouted from across the room. “Alexia! We need you for the photos with the new signings!”
“Coming!” Alexia called back. She turned back to you, her eyes lingering a little longer than necessary on your face. “It was nice to meet you, flower girl. I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a lot more of your work around here.”
“Nice to meet you too Alexia,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The August humidity in Barcelona was a different beast entirely. It turned the city into a slow-moving oven, forcing everyone to seek the mercy of blasting air conditioning or the dense shade of old stone alleys. Inside Floristeria Arrels, the fans hummed a steady rhythm, circulating the comforting scent of damp soil, fresh eucalyptus, and sweet jasmine.
You were standing behind the long zinc counter, carefully binding a bundle of vibrant, spear-like stalks together with twine. Your hair was pinned up haphazardly with a claw clip to keep it off your neck, a few stray strands framing your face as you focused.
“Tia! Tia, look! I made a fortress!”
You looked up to see your nephew, Lucas, sitting on an upturned wooden crate in the corner. He had successfully built a barricade around himself using empty terracotta pots and plastic plant markers.
“That’s a very impressive fortress, Lucas,” you said, offering a warm smile. “But if any of those pots break, your grandpa is going to make you sweep the entire sidewalk.”
“Grandpa is asleep in the back,” Lucas whispered conspiratorially, pointing a plastic dinosaur toward the break room door. “He won't know.”
“I hear everything, you little monster!” your father’s booming voice echoed from the back room, making Lucas giggle and dive behind his ceramic wall.
You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you. This was your daily reality, always chaotic, loud, but grounding. You had been running the shop full-time since your mother passed, balancing the books, managing deliveries, and dealing with a family that treated the retail space like an extended living room.
The brass bell above the front door chimed, cutting through the hum of the fans.
“Welcome to…” You started to look up, wiping your hands on your apron, but the words caught in your throat.
Two athletic women walked into the shop. They were wearing casual athletic gear: shorts, slides, and training shirts that bore the unmistakable badge of FC Barcelona. You recognised them instantly from the sports pages your nephews always left lying around. It was Patri Guijarro and Kika Nazareth.
“Hola,” Patri said, offering a friendly, easygoing wave as she looked around the lush, green interior. “Wow, it really does smell amazing in here. Alexia mentioned your shop has a reputation for the good stuff.”
Your heart did a tiny, unexpected skip at the mention of the captain’s name. You hadn’t seen Alexia since that breathless encounter in July, though you had thought about her crisp white polo shirt and those warm, hazel eyes far more than a vendor should.
“Hola,” you replied, leaning against the counter and offering your best welcoming smile. “Welcome! What can I help you find today?”
Kika wandered over to a display of ferns, poking a frond curiously. “We need something for the locker room. The Joan Gamper Trophy match is coming up, the season is officially starting, and the old fake ivy we had in there looks like it died in 1998.”
“And it’s depressing,” Patri added, walking up to the counter. She looked at you, her eyes narrowing slightly in realization. “So... you’re the famous florist who almost crushed our captain with a ceramic vase last month.”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable pink. You instinctively tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Word travels fast, apparently. Yes, that was me. My clumsiness precedes me.”
Patri burst into a hearty laugh. “She told us the new florist looked like a classic Hollywood movie star but had the coordination of a newborn giraffe. I see she was right about both.”
Before you could process the movie star comment or the fact that Alexia Putellas had been describing your appearance to her teammates, Lucas popped his head out from behind his terracotta fortress.
“My tia is not a giraffe!” Lucas announced loudly, pointing his plastic T-Rex at Patri. “She just trips over things because she looks at flowers instead of her feet!”
Kika let out a delighted wheeze, immediately abandoning the ferns to walk over to Lucas's fort. “Who is this? The bodyguard?”
“I’m Lucas,” he said proudly. “And this is my fortress.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucas. I’m Kika,” she said, crouching down to be at eye level with him, completely charmed. “Do you think your fortress could survive a dinosaur attack?”
While Kika distracted your nephew, Patri turned back to you, an amused smirk on her face. “Anyway. We need something hardy. Something that can survive twenty-five footballers celebrating a win, or a lot of steam from the showers.”
You cleared your throat, grateful to focus on your craft rather than your burning face. You reached behind you, tapping one of the tall, striking stalks you had been binding earlier. They were lined with brilliant, trumpet-shaped blossoms that shot upward like spikes.
“For a locker room at the start of the season? You want Gladiolus,” you said, your voice growing confident and passionate as you spoke about the blooms.
Patri tilted her head, inspecting the tall stalks. “Gladiolus? Why those?”
“The name comes from the Latin word gladius, which means sword,” you explained, looking into Patri’s eyes. “Because of their shape, they historically symbolise strength, moral integrity, and preparedness. They’re a warrior’s flower. They don’t look delicate; they look like they’re ready for a challenge.”
Patri stared at the flowers, then looked back at you, thoroughly impressed. “A warrior’s flower. Damn. That’s actually perfect for us.” She turned her head. “Hey, Kika! We’re getting the sword flowers!”
“Get the sword flowers!” Kika called back, currently engrossed in a fierce dinosaur battle with Lucas on the floor.
“We’ll take a big arrangement of those for the lockers,” Patri said, pulling out her phone. “Oh, and before I forget…” She tapped her screen. “Our ex-teammate, Ingrid, texted me. She’s currently playing over in France for Lyon, so being long-distance with Mapi is tough. She wants to set up a regular ‘just because’ delivery to surprise Mapi here in Barcelona since she can’t exactly hand her a bouquet herself. Can I leave the details with you?”
“Of course,” you said, pulling out your order book and grabbing a pen. “I can take Mapi’s address down now, and Ingrid can just text the shop’s business line directly for any future updates. We handle a lot of our long-distance accounts that way.”
“Perfect. I’ll pass the shop’s number along to her,” Patri said, forwarding the contact information. “She wants to set up a steady routine so Mapi gets fresh flowers sent to her place every week.”
“I understand. It’s a hectic calendar for both of them,” you noted practically, jotting down Mapi's Barcelona delivery address in the logbook. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it on a strict schedule so the quality stays consistent every Monday morning.”
Patri smiled, watching your efficient handwriting. “Appreciate it. You run a tight ship here.” She capped her phone and leaned against the counter, casual again. “By the way, Alexia wanted to come today to see the shop, but she got stuck in a late tactical meeting with the coach.”
You tried to keep your hand steady as you shut the logbook, but a tiny flutter in your chest betrayed you. “Oh? Well, she's a very busy woman.”
“She is,” Patri murmured, a knowing, slightly mischievous glint in her eyes. “But she was pretty disappointed she missed the trip. She mentioned she wanted to see what the place looked like.”
You offered a polite, professional smile, though the warmth in your face gave you away. “Well, tell her she’s welcome anytime. Hopefully, I won’t drop anything on her next time.”
“I’ll tell her,” Patri winked.
Ten minutes later, after Kika officially declared a truce with Lucas and promised to bring him a Barça sticker next time, the two players left the shop, carrying a smaller starter plant Patri had insisted on buying for her own kitchen.
As the brass bell chimed shut, the shop fell quiet again. You looked over at the tall, proud stalks of the gladiolus sitting on your counter. A warrior's flower.
Your phone on the counter suddenly buzzed with a notification: a new message from a French country code, displaying a profile picture of Ingrid Engen and Mapi Leon laughing together in front of the Eiffel Tower.
Hi! Patri gave me your number. I’m Ingrid. Can we set up that weekly delivery for Mapi? I want her to have fresh flowers every Monday morning so her week starts right, even if I’m not there to make her coffee.
You smiled, typing back a swift, professional confirmation.
September brought the start of the Champions League group stages and the frantic pace of the Liga F kickoff. For the club, it was a high-stakes whirlwind. For your shop, it meant a steady, thrilling influx of business. You had spent the last two weeks coordinating with the club’s PR department for press room backdrops, but your favorite order of the week had quickly become Ingrid’s Monday morning delivery for Mapi.
She relied completely on you to be her hands and eyes in Barcelona. She would send quick, excited messages from France: Mapi had a really tough match, can we do something super bright today? or It’s our anniversary next week, let’s go all out! You took immense pride in nailing every detail, making sure the long-distance deliveries were flawless. It was a massive account for your shop, and you were determined to keep it perfect.
It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when the brass bell above the door chimed. You were sitting on a stool behind the counter, sketching a new layout for the autumn window display.
You looked up, expecting to see your father or one of your weekly dinner friends. Instead, your heart did a violent, sudden stutter against your ribs.
Alexia Putellas walked in.
She wasn’t in her training kit this time. She wore a casual, oversized black blazer over a simple white tee, dark jeans, and her hair was down, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She looked effortlessly chic, but as she walked closer to the counter, you noticed the slight tension in her jaw and the faint dark circles under her hazel eyes. The weight of being the captain during a demanding triple-match week was clearly taking its toll.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low. A small, genuine smile broke through her tired expression as her eyes met yours.
“Hola, Alexia,” you replied, giving her a warm smile, though you secretly hoped she couldn’t hear the frantic pacing of your heart. You leaned on the counter, looking at her with all the soft, classic warmth of someone completely at home in her own space, even if you currently had a stray piece of green floral tape stuck to your wrist. “What brings you into my jungle today? I thought Patri and Kika were the designated team shoppers.”
Alexia let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning against the counter just a few inches away from you. “They wish. But this isn’t a club order. This one is personal.” She shifted her weight, a subtle shadow passing over her features. “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday tomorrow. I wanted to get her something... special. Something elegant, but bold.”
A sudden, sharp pang twisted in your chest. It was an annoying, unwelcome feeling, and it caught you entirely off guard. Of course she has a girlfriend, you scolded yourself internally. She’s Alexia Putellas.
Brushing the feeling aside, you instantly locked into your professional element. You wanted to make sure the club captain walked out with something spectacular that represented your shop well.
“I can absolutely help with that,” you said, stepping out from behind the counter and gesturing for her to follow you over to the refrigerated display of premium imports. “Tell me a bit more about her style. Is she minimalist, or does she like drama?”
“Drama,” Alexia said instantly, standing close behind you as you slid open the glass doors. The cool, flower-scented air rushed out. “She likes things that look striking. Memorable.”
Your eyes scanned the shelves, bypassing the soft pastel roses and the delicate lilies. Then, you spotted them. Tucked in a protected, chilled bucket were a few pristine, heavy stems with deep crimson and burgundy blooms, their paper-thin petals arranged in tight, heavy, perfectly symmetrical layers. They looked like velvet.
“Burgundy Ranunculus,” you murmured, reaching in to gently pull a stem out.
Alexia leaned in, looking over your shoulder. You could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume, something woody and expensive, and it made your breath catch. “They’re stunning,” Alexia whispered, her eyes tracking the rich, dark petals. “What do they mean? Patri told me you’re really a walking encyclopedia for flower language.”
You turned your head slightly, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia's face. Her hazel eyes were locked onto yours, waiting.
“They’re incredibly unique because of how they grow, they start as these tight, guarded little buds, and then they slowly unfold into these massive, complex masterpieces,” you explained quietly, your voice dropping a register in the quiet space. “In the traditional language of flowers, they don’t represent a loud, flashy confession. They symbolize radiant charm and complete captivation. Sending them to someone means: I am completely dazzled by your light. It’s a sophisticated kind of devotion. It says that even in the biggest crowd, they’re the most brilliant thing you see.”
For a long moment, Alexia didn’t say anything. She just stared at the burgundy ranunculus in your hand, her expression unreadable. There was a strange, distant look in her eyes that didn’t quite match the romantic nature of the bouquet she was buying.
“Radiant charm,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper. She looked up, her gaze lingering on your face, taking in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnestness in your hazel eyes. She cleared her throat, a polite smile stretching across her lips. “Yes. Let’s do those. A large bouquet of those, please.”
“You got it,” you said, giving her a reassuring nod.
You walked back to the workstation and began to craft the arrangement. You spent twenty minutes meticulously layering the ranunculus with textured sprigs of frosted eucalyptus and delicate, dark foliage to let the deep jewel tones pop. You used thick, luxurious black paper and tied it with a heavy silk ribbon, ensuring it looked flawless.
Alexia watched you the entire time, her chin resting in her hand as she leaned on the counter. She didn’t look at her phone once. She just watched your hands move with practiced grace.
“You’re very good at this, flower girl,” she said softly as you snipped the ends of the ribbon.
“I grew up doing it,” you smiled, looking up. “My mom taught me how to find the rhythm in the flowers. When she passed, it felt right to step in and keep the business going. It’s a lot of work, but I love it.”
Alexia’s expression softened completely, a look of profound respect crossing her face. “It shows. Your family must be very proud of what you’re doing here.”
“They mostly just like the free flower arrangements for Sunday dinners,” you joked, breaking the heavy emotional air with your usual self-deprecating humor.
You handed the massive, stunning bouquet over the counter. Alexia took it, her fingers brushing against yours for a brief, electric second. A jolt of warmth shot up your arm, and by the look in Alexia’s eyes, she felt it too.
“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia said, holding the bouquet carefully. She tapped her card to pay, giving you one last, lingering look before she headed to the door. “Wish me luck for the match on Thursday.”
“Good luck, Ale,” you called out. “Bring back a win.”
As the brass bell chimed her departure, you let out a long, shaky breath, sinking onto your stool. You looked at the empty space where the red camellias had been. You had just made the perfect, romantic bouquet for another woman to receive from Alexia Putellas.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. It was a message from Ingrid in Lyon.
Hey! Mapi loved the Monday bouquet, she literally cried. You’re an angel! Sending you a massive hug from France!
You smiled, typing back a professional, sweet reply. Your shop was successfully handling everything from long-distance love to the club captain’s relationships. But as you looked out the front window, watching Alexia’s tall figure disappear down the sunlit Barcelona street, you couldn’t help but wish, just a little bit, that someone would buy a bouquet of burgundy ranunculus for you.
October brought a welcomed break from the grueling summer heat, replacing the sticky air with crisp, golden autumn mornings. For the club, the schedule was tightening, packed with mid-week fixtures and high-profile sponsor events. For you, it meant adapting the shop’s palette to rich ochres, burnt oranges, and deep plums.
Your biggest project of the month was a massive corporate order for a major FC Barcelona sponsor gala hosted inside the luxury lounges at Spotify Camp Nou. The club’s PR department had requested twenty elegant, low-profile centerpieces that wouldn’t block the guests’ views across the tables. It was a high-earning contract, and you had spent the last two days meticulously prepping the vessels.
Naturally, because your family treated your workplace like a communal living room, the pristine prep area was currently shared with a hyperactive toddler.
“Tia! Look! I’m a bird!”
Your three-year-old niece, Sofia, was currently flapping her arms wildly, running circles around a stack of plastic crates. She was wearing a tiny Barça jersey, a gift from your older brothers, who were die-hard culés, and her pigtails were flying.
“You’re a very beautiful bird, Sofi,” you laughed, keeping one eye on her and the other on the delicate stems you were trimming. “But birds need to stay away from the glass vases, okay? Otherwise, the bird goes into the cage.”
“No cage!” she shrieked happily, veering sharply toward the front of the store just as the brass bell above the door chimed.
“Hola! Is anyo… oh, hello!”
Clara Serrajordi walked into the shop, only to be immediately ambushed at the knees by a small, flying toddler. Sofia had firmly wrapped her arms around Clara’s shin, looking up at the young midfielder with wide, innocent eyes.
Clara froze, her cheeks flushing pink as she looked down at the child, then up at you. She looked a bit shy and completely out of her depth, awkwardly holding a small gym bag. “Oh, um... hola.”
“Sofi, no! Let go!” you gasped, quickly coming out from behind the counter. “I am so sorry. She thinks everyone wearing athletic gear is a playground structure.”
“No, it’s okay,” Clara said quietly, a small, polite smile breaking through her shyness. She carefully squatted down, adjusting her bag so she didn’t drop it. “Hola, little one.”
“I’m a bird,” Sofia corrected solemnly.
“A bird? That’s cool,” Clara murmured, her voice soft and gentle.
You reached down to gently pry your niece away, offering Clara an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind her,” you smiled, straightening up. “I thought the PR team told me I was driving the delivery over to the stadium today?”
“Oh, you are!” Clara nodded, standing up and shifting her weight from foot to foot. “I had a break between training and media, and since I live right around the corner, they asked if I could just stop by to escort you through the stadium security gates. They’re doing a high-security sweep for the gala sponsors today, so it’s easier if a player is in the van with you to bypass the main checkpoints.”
She looked around the shop, her eyes wide as she took in the lush, autumnal atmosphere. “Wow. It really is beautiful in here. The captains told us about it, but... yeah.”
“Thank you,” you said warmly, gesturing to the rows of beautifully arranged wooden boxes on the side counter. “They’re all secured in the transport crates. Let’s get them loaded into the van.”
Before you could start lifting, Sofia decided she hadn’t had enough attention. She crept back over to the counter, reached her tiny hand up, and triumphantly swiped the heavy shop keyring with its bright green Floristeria Arrels lanyard right out from under Clara’s nose.
“Keys!” Sofia cheered, running off toward her fort of plastic crates.
“Sofia! No, bring those back!” you called out, about to chase after her, but Clara just let out a quiet, nervous giggle.
“It’s okay, really,” Clara said, rubbing the back of her neck. “We have a few minutes before we need to head out.” She walked over to the counter, watching you lift the first heavy crate. She pointed to the spectacular, multi-petaled blooms sitting in the display tray, showing off shades of dusty rose, deep plum, and metallic, earthy greens. “What are the moody-looking ones? They look like vintage roses, but sharper.”
You smiled, always happy to talk about the stock. “Those are Hellebores. They’re incredible for low-profile gala centerpieces because they sit so elegantly and look high-fashion under dim lighting.”
“Do they have a meaning?” Clara asked, tilting her head curiously.
“They do,” you nodded, securing a low glass trough with tissue paper. “Hellebores represent resilience, survival, and enduring power. In old traditions, they symbolize a strength that protects your peace. What makes them unique is that they actually thrive and bloom in the freezing mud of winter, when most other flowers are dying off. I chose them for the gala because they perfectly mirror the club’s long-standing resilience, no matter how harsh the environment gets, you still produce something beautiful.”
Clara stared at the flowers, nodding slowly. “Resilience and enduring power. Yeah... that definitely fits. Especially with the pressure right now.” She quieted for a second, looking down at the counter before speaking softly. “Alexia actually wanted to ride along with you to deliver these today. She was complaining in the locker room that her tactical meeting ran long and she couldn't make it.”
Your hands froze for a fraction of a second over the cardboard box. You kept your face down, trying to control the sudden warmth rushing to your cheeks, your eyes darting to the floor. “Oh? I’m sure the captain has much more important things to do than haul boxes of flowers in a delivery van.”
“No, she really wanted to,” Clara insisted, her voice quiet but honest. “She keeps telling everyone how knowledgeable you are. Patri and Kika tease her about it, but... I think she just really likes hearing about your work.”
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. Before you could respond, Clara’s phone vibrated loudly on the wooden counter. She picked it up, her eyes widening slightly when she saw the caller ID.
“It’s Alexia,” Clara whispered, looking a little nervous as she swiped to answer. “Hola, Ale?”
“Clara! Where are you?” Alexia’s smooth, commanding voice echoed clearly through the quiet shop, sounding a bit stressed. “The PR team is asking if the van has arrived at the stadium gates yet. Did you get lost?”
Clara looked at you, her cheeks turning pink again as she spoke into the phone. “I’m at the flower shop, Alexia. We’re just... loading the van now. But Y/N’s niece took the van keys hostage.”
There was a sudden, dead silence on the other end of the line. You held your breath, your face burning.
“Clara,” Alexia’s voice came back, noticeably lower and completely stripped of its previous irritation. “Stop bothering the florista and get on the road.”
“I’m not bothering her!” Clara said quickly, looking at you for help.
You finally stepped in, leaning closer to the phone. “The arrangements are fully loaded, Captain. Clara is doing a great job, we’re just handling a minor toddler situation.”
Another brief pause on the line. When Alexia spoke again, her tone was entirely soft, a quiet warmth bleeding through the speaker. “Hola, flower girl. Don’t let her break anything. I’ll see you at the stadium gates in twenty minutes, then. I’ll make sure security lets your van right through.”
“Looking forward to it,” you murmured quietly.
“Drive safely,” Alexia ordered, though there was a clear smile in her voice before she hung up.
Clara let out a breath, retrieving the van keys from a very cooperative Sofia in exchange for a piece of wrapped candy from your counter bowl. Together, you walked out to the alley where the shop’s delivery van was parked.
“Thanks for the explanation about the hellebores,” Clara said as she climbed into the passenger seat next to you. You adjusted the mirrors and started the engine, shifting the van into gear. As you pulled out into the Barcelona traffic, Clara turned to you with a shy, friendly smile. “I’ll tell Alexia about the resilience part.”
November brought a heavy, damp chill to Barcelona. The vibrant autumn colors of the previous month began to give way to grey skies and a persistent, biting wind that swept through the streets. For FC Barcelona, the honeymoon phase of the early season was officially over. The match schedule was grueling: midweek Champions League fixtures followed by intense away games in Liga F. You could see the toll it was taking on the team just by looking at the sports pages your father left on the counter.
For your shop, November was defined by a monumental contract: the grand opening of a brand-new, permanent exhibition pavilion at the FC Barcelona Museum, dedicated entirely to the history, trophies, and cultural impact of the women’s team. Because the museum was one of the most visited cultural spaces in Spain, the club’s design directors wanted sleek, high-end floral installations to anchor the entrance and the VIP preview lounge. It was a massive architectural project for Floristeria Arrels, requiring structural arrangements that would look flawless under museum spotlighting and hold up against the thousands of fans expected for the opening week.
Behind the large wooden workstation, you were deep in prep mode, snipping the sharpest thorns off a pile of dark, sturdy branches. With your hair piled into a quick, messy bun to keep it out of the way, your hands moved with practiced precision, weaving a spool of thin green wire into the base of a new display.
The brass bell above the door chimed, a sudden gust of cold November air rushing into the warm, earthy sanctuary of the shop.
You looked up, a welcoming smile already forming on your lips. It faltered slightly, your pulse kicking into a familiar, rapid rhythm.
Alexia walked in.
She was pulled tightly into a heavy, dark winter coat, the collar turned up against the wind. But as she stepped up to the counter and unbuttoned her coat, you saw how exhausted she looked. Her shoulders were tense, the usual bright spark in her hazel eyes muted by sheer physical and mental fatigue. The weight of captaining a team through a high-pressure mid-season slump was practically visible.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said. Her voice was lower than usual, a bit rough around the edges, but she still managed to give you a genuine, tired smile.
“Hola, Alexia,” you replied softly, your natural empathy instantly tuning into her heavy mood. You leaned against the counter, looking at her. “You look like you’ve been run over by a tractor. Rough week?”
Alexia let out a dry, breathy laugh, running a hand through her hair. “A tractor might have been gentler. We had a late flight back from Sweden, training at dawn, and now I have to spend the afternoon at the museum preparing for the grand opening of the pavilion.” She sighed, looking around the quiet, warm shop as if it were a life raft. “Your brother already has the main transport crates at the stadium, but I told the PR team I’d come swing by to check on the final VIP accent pieces. Mostly, I just wanted to escape the stadium noise for a minute.”
“You have fifteen minutes before you need to be there?” you asked, noticing the way her fingers were tightly laced together.
Alexia blinked, checking her watch. “Yeah. About that. Why?”
“Sit,” you said, gesturing to the heavy wooden stool on the customer side of the counter. “I just brewed a fresh pot of chamomile and honey tea in the back. You’re not leaving this shop looking that stressed. It’s bad for my brand.”
Alexia stared at you for a second, surprised by your quiet assertiveness. Then, the tension seemed to melt out of her shoulders all at once. “Okay,” she murmured, pulling herself up onto the stool. “Thank you.”
You disappeared into the back room for a moment, returning with a steaming ceramic mug. You slid it across the counter to her. Alexia wrapped her hands around the warm mug, inhaling the sweet, herbal steam. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, shuddering exhale.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the shop’s heaters and the rustle of the wind outside. You turned back to your workstation, giving her space to just breathe, your hands methodically wrapping floral wire around a thick stem.
“What are you working on?” Alexia asked quietly, breaking the silence. She was watching your hands move, her chin resting on her palm.
You looked down at the bundle of small, paper-like blossoms in your hands. They were a deep, striking purple, clustered tightly together on stiff, branching stems. They didn’t look like traditional, delicate flowers; they felt rugged, papery, and completely indestructible.
“These are Statice,” you explained, your voice soft in the quiet room. “Most people call it Sea Lavender.”
“Statice,” Alexia repeated, testing the word. “Like statistics?”
You laughed softly, your hazel eyes crinkling. “No, though I’m sure your analysts love those. It comes from the Greek word for ‘causing to stand’, because the flower holds its color and shape for years, even after it’s been cut and dried. It practically never fades.”
Alexia took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze locked onto yours. “Does it also have a meaning?”
“It does,” you nodded, setting the bundle down. “Statice symbolizes remembrance and sympathy, but in modern botany, it represents success and turning adversity into triumph. Because it can grow in harsh, salty coastal soils where nothing else survives, it’s the flower of endurance. It tells someone that no matter how grueling the winter gets, they have the permanent strength to see it through.”
Alexia stared at the purple blossoms for a long moment. The heavy, quiet tension from September felt like it was shifting into something deeper, a silent understanding passing between you. She looked up from the flowers, her hazel eyes searching your face, lingering on the soft curve of your lips.
“Endurance,” Alexia murmured, her voice carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “I think I needed to hear that today.”
“I know,” you said softly, offering her a reassuring, warm smile. “That’s why I’m the florist and you’re the captain.”
Alexia smiled, a real, bright smile that reached her eyes this time. She finished the rest of her tea and stood up, looking visibly lighter, the exhaustion pushed to the background. She picked up the small, beautifully styled box of VIP table accents you had set aside. “I should get back to the museum complex before they send a search party for me.”
“Let me walk you to the door,” you said.
You walked around the counter, opening the heavy wooden door for her. The cold November wind instantly caught your hair, blowing a few blonde strands across your face. Alexia stepped closer to you for a brief second, using her tall frame to shield you from the biting gust.
As she tucked her hands into the deep pockets of her coat, you quickly reached into your apron.
“Here,” you said, slipping a small, dried sprig of the deep purple Statice into the front pocket of her heavy coat, right beside her fingers.
Alexia froze, looking down at your hand, then up at your face. Her breath hitched slightly in the cold air, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to your eyes.
“For luck,” you whispered, your cheeks flushing from more than just the cold. “A reminder that you endure.”
Alexia’s expression softened into something intensely private, a look that made your heart do a violent flip. She reached up, her thumb brushing against your cheek for a fleeting second, sending a jolt of pure warmth straight down your spine.
“Thank you, flower girl,” she said quietly, her voice full of an unspoken weight. “For the tea. And for the flowers.”
You watched her drive away into the grey November afternoon, your hand instinctively rising to touch the spot on your cheek where her thumb had rested.
December transformed Barcelona into a city of lights. The streets were filled with the scent of roasted chestnuts, and festive decorations lined the shopfronts. Inside your shop, the air was a rich, intoxicating mix of fresh pine needles, cinnamon sticks, and dried orange slices. The annual Barça Christmas charity gala was coming up, and the club had commissioned you for massive festive wreaths, garlands, and dozens of premium poinsettias. Your shop looked like a winter wonderland, albeit a very busy one.
The holiday rush was in full swing, and you were currently losing a wrestling match with a massive, incredibly stubborn pine garland. A festive red velvet ribbon kept your hair pinned back and out of the line of fire, leaving you free to squint through a shower of flying needles as you used both hands to heave the heavy, fragrant greenery onto the display rack.
“Tia! Tia, look at me! I’m a Christmas elf!”
You turned around to see Lucas, wearing a floppy green felt hat he had found somewhere, trying to balance a pinecone on his nose.
“You’re a very helpful elf, Lucas,” you laughed, adjusting a stray piece of twine. “But if you want to be a real elf, you need to help me move these heavy crates of soil to the back before the delivery van arrives.”
“Elves don’t do heavy lifting, Tia. That’s for trolls,” Lucas said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms.
“I heard that!” your father’s voice barked from the back room. “And I am not a troll, I am your grandfather! Go sweep the entrance!”
Before Lucas could argue, the brass bell above the front door chimed, letting in a swirl of crisp December air and a burst of loud, familiar laughter.
You looked up, wiping your hands on your apron. Your heart instantly did a familiar, erratic skip. It wasn’t just one player this time, it was a whole delegation. Patri, Kika, and Clara all walked in, led by Alexia. They were bundled up in thick winter jackets and beanies, their cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Hola!” Patri announced loudly, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. “We heard the florist was drowning in pine needles, so we came to inspect the goods.”
“And to escape fitness training,” Kika whispered, giving Lucas a high-five as she walked past him. “Hey, Lucas. Nice hat.”
“Hola, everyone,” you smiled warmly, your eyes instinctively finding Alexia. She was wearing a cream-colored knit beanie and a dark coat, and the moment her eyes met yours, the tired lines on her face seemed to soften. She gave you a quiet, lingering nod, her gaze dropping briefly to the red ribbon in your hair before looking back at your eyes.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, stepping up to the counter. “We were driving past and saw the delivery van outside. We figured you had a lot to load for the gala tomorrow, so we came to help.”
“You... came to help load crates?” you blinked, looking at the four professional athletes standing in your small shop. “I don't think the club’s insurance covers the captain straining her back lifting my poinsettias.”
“Please,” Patri scoffed, already grabbing the handles of a heavy wooden crate full of festive centerpieces. “We lift weights for a living, Y/N. This is a warmup.”
“I’ll help!” Clara said quietly, stepping forward with a shy smile. She carefully lifted a delicate tray of white cyclamen, making sure not to crush the leaves, looking very focused on doing a good job.
For the next fifteen minutes, your quiet shop was filled with absolute chaos. The players formed a mini-assembly line, carrying the heavy arrangements out to your delivery van. At one point, your friends happened to walk past the shop window on their way to a café. They froze, their jaws dropping as they saw the captain of FC Barcelona carrying a box of pinecones while Kika chased Lucas around a display of ferns. They caught your eye through the glass, pointing and mouthing, ‘What is happening?!’ You just flushed bright red and shrugged, waving them off.
Alexia carried the final, massive holiday wreath inside from the prep table. As she set it down on the counter, she breathed out a puff of air, her cheeks rosy from the chill.
“That should be everything,” Alexia said, leaning against the counter, just inches away from you. She looked down at a stunning arrangement you had set aside on the corner display. It featured a towering, majestic white flower with thick, velvety petals blooming spectacularly from a bulb. “Wow. What is this one? It looks like a crown.”
You smiled, stepping closer to her, your shoulder brushing lightly against hers. A sudden, electric warmth bloomed in your chest despite the December chill.
“That’s an Amaryllis,” you explained quietly, your voice soft and confident. “Specifically, a winter Amaryllis.”
“Does this one have a story?” Alexia asked, turning her head to look at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours.
“It does,” you nodded. “The name comes from the Greek word amarysso, which means ‘to sparkle.’ In botanical lore, it symbolizes splendid beauty, worth beyond beauty, and determination. Because it’s a bulb that sleeps all through the autumn and then blooms in the absolute dead of winter, it represents a deep, indestructible pride. It says that even in the darkest, coldest times of the year, something breathtaking can grow if you give it time.”
Alexia stared at the white petals, her expression turning quiet, a sudden, heavy shadow crossing her eyes. She looked down at her coat pocket, the very pocket where you had slipped the purple statice flower a month ago.
“Something breathtaking in the dead of winter,” Alexia murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense and searching, lingering on your lips for a second too long.
Before the silence could stretch, Patri called out from the doorway. “Hey, Ale! Are you buying that bouquet for the gala, or are we heading out?”
Alexia blinked, pulling herself out of the moment. She cleared her throat, a slightly forced, distant smile appearing on her face. “Right. Um, actually... can you wrap up a separate bouquet of red roses and holly? I need to take it with me tonight.”
Your chest tightened, a familiar, cold pang of reality hitting you. The girlfriend. You had almost forgotten, caught up in the warmth of the shop and the way Alexia looked at you.
“Of course,” you said, your professional mask slipping back on perfectly. “Give me five minutes.”
You wrapped the holiday bouquet with practiced efficiency, tying the ribbon tightly. You handed it over the counter, ensuring your fingers didn’t brush against hers this time. You didn't want to complicate things.
“Thanks, flower girl,” Alexia said softly, holding the romantic bouquet in her arms. She looked like she wanted to say something else, her eyes scanning your face, but she held back.
“Thank you all for the help,” you told the group, forcing a bright, cheerful smile. “See you at the gala tomorrow.”
After the players piled out of the shop, laughing and shoving each other into the cold evening air, the store felt suddenly huge and incredibly quiet. Lucas came over, taking off his elf hat and looking up at you with his smart-aleck eight-year-old eyes.
“Tia,” he said thoughtfully. “She looked sad when you gave her those roses.”
“Go sweep the entrance, Lucas,” you murmured, turning back to your counter.
You looked at the white amaryllis, sparkling under the shop lights. Splendid beauty, waiting in the dark.
x bonus chapter x
The Spotify Camp Nou hospitality suite was transformed into a glittering winter wonderland for the annual Christmas charity gala. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the massive room, reflecting off the silver trimmings and the dark green velvet tablecloths.
You stood near the grand entrance, smoothing down the skirt of your dark emerald dress. You had opted to leave your hair down, the soft waves brushing past your shoulders, and your eyes swept over the room with a sense of quiet pride. Every single table was adorned with your low-profile centerpieces, the rich pine, cinnamon accents, and striking white amaryllis catching the light perfectly. The club’s PR director had already stopped by to praise your work, noting that the atmosphere had never felt so elegant.
But despite the success, you felt entirely out of your element. You were a florist, used to dirt under your fingernails and the quiet hum of your family’s shop, not the clinking of champagne glasses and the flashing cameras of the Catalan media.
“You look like you’re plotting a getaway,” a smooth, familiar voice murmured from beside you.
You turned your head, your heart instantly doing a violent, familiar flip.
Alexia was standing there. She had traded her usual training gear and casual blazers for a breathtaking, floor-length gown in a deep midnight blue that hugged her athletic silhouette perfectly. Her hair was styled in sleek, polished waves cascading down one shoulder, and her eyes were looking down at you with an intense, quiet focus. Up close, her presence was almost dizzying.
“Alexia,” you said, a soft, breathless smile breaking across your face as you looked her up and down. “I could say the same about you. The dress suits you much better than a football kit.”
Alexia let out a low laugh, a genuine warmth spreading across her features. “Don’t let the managers hear you say that. But thank you. You look... incredible, flower girl. Truly. The emerald suits you.”
“Thank you,” you replied, your cheeks heating up slightly. You gestured to the room around you to redirect the focus. “What do you think of the arrangements? They look okay under the bright lights?”
“They’re perfect,” Alexia said softly, her gaze drifting over the room before settling right back on your face. “Everyone is talking about them. You completely transformed the space.” She paused, shifting her weight as she took a sip from her glass. “I saw your friends’ faces through the window yesterday, by the way. I think Patri scarred them for life.”
You laughed, the tension leaving your shoulders. “They texted me immediately demanding to know why the Barça captain was acting as my personal delivery courier. I told them I just have excellent customer service.”
“Clearly,” Alexia smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Before the conversation could deepen, a sudden shift in the room caught your attention. A stylish, striking woman walked up to the bar a few meters away, gesturing for Alexia to join her. It was the girlfriend. You recognized her instantly from some late-night stalking.
Your chest tightened with that familiar, unwelcome pang of reality. You instinctively stepped back, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind your ear as your professional mask slid firmly into place. “Your guest is waiting. You should go, Ale.”
Alexia looked over her shoulder, her smile faltering. The lines of exhaustion and tension you had seen in November seemed to flash across her face for a brief second. When she looked back at you, her hazel eyes were guarded, lacking the easy warmth she had just shared with you.
“Right,” Alexia said quietly, her voice dropping a register. She looked at you for a long, lingering moment, as if she wanted to say something else, but the noise of the gala swallowed the space between you. “Enjoy the night, flower girl.”
“You too,” you murmured.
You watched her walk away, watching the way her posture shifted back into the rigid, perfect composure expected of the club's leader as she greeted her partner.
You didn’t stay much longer after that. You slipped out of the gala before the main courses were served, taking a taxi back through the brightly lit streets of Barcelona.
January in Barcelona arrived with a biting, crisp clarity. The holiday lights were packed away, leaving the city streets feeling stark and quiet under the pale winter sun. At the Ciutat Esportiva, the atmosphere was thick with intense focus; mid-season awards were being announced, and the press room was constantly booked for high-profile mid-season press conferences.
For your shop, January meant providing clean, minimalist arrangements for the media rooms: lots of structured greenery and sharp white accents that looked professional on television.
A persistent draft from the front door had you shivering slightly, prompting you to pull your thick wool cardigan tighter around your shoulders. A neat, high ponytail kept things out of your way as you leaned over the counter, the bright glow of your phone screen lighting up your face during your favorite Monday morning ritual: trading quick texts with Ingrid.
Hi Y/N! Let’s do something warm and bright for Mapi this week, Ingrid’s text from Lyon read. She’s feeling a bit down with the winter training schedule. Maybe some yellow or orange?
I have some stunning winter marigolds and orange ranunculus that just arrived, you typed back quickly, a soft smile on your face. I’ll make it look like a little burst of sunshine. How is France treating you?
Freezing! 🥶 But the football is good. Hey, by the way... is the vibe at the club offices as weird as Patri says it is? She texted me saying the locker room has been completely silent all week.
You paused, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. I haven’t been to the club this week, just the press room. Why is it silent?
There was a pause, the little typing bubbles appearing and disappearing before Ingrid’s reply popped up. Alexia is single again. Apparently, it happened right after the New Year. Nobody is brave enough to ask her about it, but Patri says she’s just throwing herself entirely into training.
Your heart gave a sudden, violent thud against your ribs. You stared at the words on the screen, a flood of conflicting emotions rushing through you. Single. The relationship you had meticulously crafted bouquets for was over. You thought back to the Christmas gala, the heavy, guarded look in Alexia’s eyes and the forced smile she had worn.
Before you could type a response, the brass bell above the door chimed. You looked up instantly, your breath catching in your throat.
But it wasn’t Alexia. It was Patri.
The midfielder walked in, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her heavy Barça parka. She looked tired, the usual mischievous spark in her eyes replaced by a quiet, subdued sigh as she approached the counter.
“Hola, chica,” Patri said, offering a small, weak wave.
“Hola, Patri,” you replied softly, setting your phone aside. “You look like you’ve been freezing on the pitch all morning.”
“Pretty much,” Patri muttered, leaning against the counter. “I’m here to pick up the press room displays for tomorrow’s briefing. Are they ready?”
“They’re right here,” you said, gesturing to the sleek, white ceramic vases filled with elegant eucalyptus and structured white stems. As you began to carefully wrap the base of the vases in protective paper, you kept your tone casual, though your pulse was racing. “Ingrid actually just texted me. She mentioned things have been a bit heavy at the training ground.”
Patri let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing her face with her hands. “Yeah. It’s tough. Alexia... she’s going through a lot right now. The breakup was rough, and instead of taking a breath, she’s just practically living on the pitch. First one there, last one to leave. She won’t talk to any of us about it.” Patri looked around the shop, her eyes landing on a display of small, delicate plants in the corner. “She usually comes here when she’s stressed, but she told me to pick these up today. I think she’s just hiding.”
Your chest pulled tight with a quiet, aching empathy. You didn’t want to fix Alexia’s problems, that wasn’t your place, but as a florist, you knew that sometimes when people couldn’t find the words, the flowers could speak for them.
You stopped wrapping the vase and walked over to a specific wooden shelf near the window. Tucked away in a small terracotta pot was a cluster of hardy, delicate white blossoms that looked like tiny, frozen bells.
“Take this to her,” you said quietly, bringing the pot back to the counter.
Patri tilted her head, looking at the small white flowers. “What is it?”
“It’s White Heather,” you explained, your voice soft and steady in the quiet shop. “It’s one of the few things that can bloom beautifully in the dead of January. In old botanical language, white heather symbolizes protection, good fortune, and the fulfillment of wishes.”
You looked up, meeting Patri’s eyes. “It’s not a romantic flower, and it’s not flashy. It’s a flower given to tell someone that you wish them peace and safety while they navigate a storm. Tell her... tell her it’s just a sponsor’s gift for the captain. A wish for a good second half of the season.”
Patri stared at the white heather, a soft, knowing expression gradually overtaking her tired face. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “A sponsor’s gift. Right.” She took the little pot gently, nesting it into her arm. “I’ll make sure she gets it. I think she really needs a little bit of protection right now.”
After helping Patri load the sleek arrangements into her car, you stood inside the doorway, watching the vehicle pull away into the cold January afternoon.
You walked back to the counter, picking up your phone to see a final text from Ingrid: Make sure to look after Ale if she stops by! x
You looked out the window at the grey Barcelona sky. Alexia hadn’t come to the shop this month, choosing to hide away in the noise of her training.
February brought the frenetic, dizzying rush of the Valentine’s Day season. For your shop, it was easily the most chaotic week of the winter. The counter was practically buried under mountains of crimson roses, delicate pink tulips, and heavy satin ribbons. Your father had been brought out of retirement (again) to handle the delivery logs, and your friends had even offered to help clip thorns after their corporate day jobs.
To make matters more intense, FC Barcelona had a massive home game at the stadium on Valentine’s Day weekend, meaning the club had ordered dozens of presentation bouquets for the VIP suites and the pre-match ceremonies. You had been working fourteen-hour days, your hair thrown into a messy bun with a pink silk ribbon, your eyes bright but exhausted.
It was late on a Friday afternoon when the heavy Valentine’s rush finally hit a brief, blessed lull. Your father had taken Lucas to get hot chocolate, leaving the shop quiet save for the hum of the coolers.
The brass bell above the door chimed, letting in a crisp breeze.
You looked up, automatically reaching for a fresh sheet of wrapping paper. “Welcome to Floristeria Arrels, give me just one second…”
The words died in your throat.
Alexia stood in the doorway. She was wearing a casual green-colored hoodie under a dark jacket, her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, her hands shoved into her pockets.
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. You hadn’t seen her in almost two months, and up close, you could see the change. She still looked tired from the grueling winter season, but the heavy, suffocating shadow she had carried in December was gone. Her eyes looked clear, grounded, and entirely focused on you.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth and low in the quiet shop as she walked up to the counter.
“Hola, Alexia,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter. You offered a warm, slightly tentative smile. “You survived the January schedule, I see.”
“Barely,” Alexia smiled, a genuine, soft expression that sent a sudden rush of warmth straight to your core. She leaned against the wooden counter. “Patri gave me the white heather, by the way. She said it was a ‘sponsor's gift,’ but somehow I didn’t think some sponsor’s administrative office was choosing specific botanical wishes for my peace and safety.”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, undeniable crimson. You instinctively tucked a stray blonde curl behind your ear, looking down at your hands. “Well... I just thought the captain could use a little luck for the second half of the season.”
“Thank you,” Alexia said quietly, her voice full of sincere warmth. “It’s sitting on my kitchen counter right now. It helped, flower girl. Truly. It was nice to have a bit of quiet luck around.”
A heavy, incredibly soft silence fell between you. The sharp, romantic tension from the autumn hadn’t disappeared; instead, it felt like it had thawed into something much more intimate, stripped of the boundaries that had kept you apart before.
“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a soft smile as you gestured to the sea of red roses surrounding you. “Are you here to brave the Valentine's Day madness? I can whip up a custom bouquet if you need one.”
“No,” Alexia said instantly. She looked at you, her hazel eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly direct focus. “No more red roses. I’m actually just here for my own apartment. I wanted some fresh greenery. Eucalyptus, maybe? Something clean.”
Your chest loosened, a wave of relief washing over you that you couldn’t quite hide. “I can definitely do eucalyptus. Let me grab the fresh bunches from the back.”
You walked over to the cold storage, pulling out a lush, fragrant bundle of silver-dollar eucalyptus. As you brought it back to the workstation, you noticed a small, rustic clay pot sitting on a lower display shelf, holding a cluster of delicate, low-growing purple flowers. They were simple, wild, and blooming right out of the dark, rich soil.
“Here,” you said, setting the eucalyptus down and carefully leaning over to tend to the little plant.
Alexia leaned in, her chin resting on her hand as she watched your fingers gently brush a stray speck of dirt off one of the heart-shaped leaves. “What are those?”
“These are Violets,” you murmured, looking up to meet her gaze. “They’re traditional February blooms. In old floral language, they symbolize modesty, faithfulness, and subtle, unspoken affection.”
You gently traced the edge of a velvet petal, your voice soft and steady. “Because they’re small and grow close to the earth, they don't shout for attention like roses do. But they’re incredibly hardy. They bloom right out of the soil even when the ground is still cold, signaling that the winter is ending. It’s a plant that represents a quiet, fresh start.”
Alexia stared at the tiny purple flowers, then slowly raised her eyes to your face. She took in the soft curve of your mouth, the earnest warmth in your hazel eyes. She didn’t look away, the silence stretching between you until it felt completely breathless.
“A quiet, fresh start,” Alexia repeated, her voice dropping to a low, intimate register. She stared at the tiny purple flowers for a long moment, then looked up, her eyes locking onto yours. “I think a fresh start is exactly what I’m looking for.”
Your pulse hammered against your ribs, the silence between you suddenly feeling completely breathless. You managed a small smile, lifting the little clay pot. “Then the violets are yours. On the house.”
“Thank you, flower girl,” Alexia whispered, her eyes softening with a genuine warmth.
You turned to the workstation to package everything up, laying out a large sheet of thick brown kraft paper to bundle her heavy branches of silver-dollar eucalyptus. Because the stems were springy and full, the paper kept unrolling and snapping back as you tried to fold it.
Seeing you struggle slightly, Alexia instinctively leaned over the counter and reached out to press her palm down on the edge of the paper to hold it steady for you.
As you brought your hand down to tape the seam, your fingers slid right across the back of her hand. It was a complete accident, a sudden brush of skin against skin. You caught your breath, your hand freezing for a split second against hers. Alexia didn’t move her hand away either; she just kept holding the paper flat, her hazel eyes flicking up to catch yours with a quiet, lingering intensity that made your skin tingle.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your voice a little breathier than intended as you quickly finished taping the paper.
“Anytime,” she replied softly, a slow, amused smile playing on her lips as she finally pulled her hand back. You leaned against the counter, your hands trembling slightly as you picked up your shears.
March brought the long-awaited arrival of spring. The biting winter winds softened into gentle, warm breezes, and the sun lingered just a bit longer over the city’s plazas each evening. For the club, March meant the intense preparation for the final stretch of the season, split up by a brief international break. For your shop, it meant a vibrant explosion of color as the first true spring blooms began to arrive in heavy wooden crates.
A heavy delivery crate sat open on the counter, trailing loose packing straw onto the floor as you worked. With your hair swept up and held securely out of your face by a smooth silver clip, you lifted out the final tray of potted bulbs. They weren’t quite blooming yet, but the tightly closed green buds were fat and bursting at the seams, showing just enough hints of bright yellow to promise a sea of golden warmth in a few days’ time.
The brass bell above the door chimed cheerfully.
“Hola!” Patri’s boisterous voice echoed through the shop before she even fully stepped inside.
You looked up, a bright smile instantly taking over your face as Patri walked in, closely followed by Kika. Both were dressed in casual tracksuits, looking relaxed and sun-warmed from an early training session.
“Hola, regulars,” you teased, leaning against the counter. “What can I do for you today? Don’t tell me Patri already managed to kill that pothos she bought in January.”
“No, that thing is indestructible, just like you said,” Patri laughed, walking up to the counter and resting her elbows on the wood. “We actually need a nice birthday plant for Kika’s aunt. Something that says ‘I love you’ but also ‘I forgot your birthday was this week and ordered this at the last minute’.”
“Hey! I didn’t forget,” Kika protested, though she was grinning as she wandered over to inspect a shelf of flowering cacti. “I just... misplaced the date.”
“Right, right,” you chuckled, stepping out from behind the counter to help them browse. “I have some beautiful potted orchids, or some fresh jasmine that smells amazing.”
As you walked them through the options, Patri kept casting sideways glances at you, a mischievous, knowing smirk playing on her lips. Finally, as you reached for a lush potted jasmine, Patri casually leaned against a display rack.
“So, chica,” Patri started, her tone entirely too innocent. “Alexia’s apartment has been smelling a lot like eucalyptus lately. I visited her apartment last night, and the girl who can barely keep a cactus alive has a perfectly manicured, tiny clay pot of purple violets sitting in prime real estate on her kitchen windowsill. Care to comment?”
Your cheeks flared a brilliant, instant pink. You instinctively tucked a loose blonde curl behind your ear, your hazel eyes darting down to the plant in your hands as you tried to maintain your professional composure. “I just sold Alexia some fresh greenery, Patri. It's my job.”
“Uh-huh,” Kika chimed in, abandoning the cacti to join the interrogation, a massive grin on her face. “And is it your job to make our captain smile at her phone in the middle of video analysis? Because she’s been doing that a lot. Especially on Monday mornings after she sees the arrangements you send for Mapi.”
“I... I just provide good customer service,” you stammered, looking every bit the flustered, classic beauty as you tried to dodge their playful glare.
“Right, ‘customer service’,” Patri purred, swapping a highly amused look with Kika. “Well, just so you know, the captain’s schedule is absolute madness right now, but she’s suddenly magically free every single Tuesday afternoon. Completely single, too. And she really likes flowers. In fact, she’s been complaining that she doesn’t have a good excuse to come by the shop this month because the administrative team handled the international break orders online.”
Your heart did a violent, erratic thud against your ribs. The realization that Alexia was talking about you, that she was looking for reasons to see you, sent a wave of pure, thrilling heat through your chest.
To hide your burning face, you quickly turned back to the workstation, picking up a small trowel and reaching for a tray of vibrant potted bulbs you had been sorting earlier.
“If you two are quite finished playing matchmaker,” you said, your voice breathless but carrying a playful edge, “I need to finish processing these.”
Patri walked over, tilting her head at the rows of green, goose-necked stalks pointing out of the dark soil. She nudged one of the fat, swollen tips where a sliver of bright yellow was tearing through the papery casing. “Well, these look ready to burst. What are they?"”
“They’re Daffodils,” you murmured, grateful to anchor yourself back into your craft. You carefully brushed a bit of loose earth from the rim of a small pot. “They’re the ultimate flower of March. In traditional botanical lore, daffodils have a bit of a dual meaning. Historically, they could represent unrequited love, but globally, they symbolize rebirth, new beginnings, and unequaled affection. They’re the very first flowers to break through the soil after the frost, showing that the sun is finally back.”
Patri stared at the yellow flowers, then looked up at your flushed face, her expression softening into a genuinely warm, supportive smile. She reached out, lightly tapping the counter.
“Let’s go with the new beginnings part,” Patri said softly, giving you a reassuring wink. “I think the frost has officially melted, chica. You just have to wait for the sun to walk through the door.”
“Yeah,” Kika agreed, nodding enthusiastically as she picked out the jasmine plant. “And definitely don’t charge her for the next batch of eucalyptus.”
You laughed, the nervous tension giving way to a soft, bubbling happiness. After wrapping up Kika’s aunt’s plant and waving the two mischievous midfielders away, the shop fell into a quiet afternoon lull.
You looked down at the bright yellow blossoms growing from the little pot, their golden petals catching the warm March sunlight streaming through the storefront window. A fresh start. A new beginning.
April arrived with a sky-high spike in adrenaline. The city was practically vibrating with anticipation as FC Barcelona rolled into the Champions League Semifinals. The pressure on the squad was immense; every training session was hyper-focused, and the media presence at the Ciutat Esportiva was constant.
For your shop, April meant a flurry of quick, efficient corporate orders for the stadium’s luxury boxes. But inside Floristeria Arrels, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the high-stakes football world. It was a haven of soft rain, damp pavement outside, and the intoxicating, sweet scent of blooming spring bulbs inside.
Rain lashed violently against the storefront glass as the clock ticked past closing time on a stormy Thursday evening. A few loose strands of hair had escaped your bun, framing your face as you hoisted a heavy, freezing zinc bucket into place, determined to get the last of the fresh imports organized before finally calling it a night.
The brass bell above the door gave a sudden, sharp chime as the door pushed open against the howling wind.
You looked up, surprised. “Oh, sorry, we’re just about to…”
The words evaporated.
Alexia stood in the doorway. She was pulled into a dark, rain-slicked club jacket, her hood pushed back to reveal her hair, which was slightly damp from the storm. She looked completely worn out, not just physically, but mentally. The sheer weight of captaining the team through the highest-stakes week of the season was evident in the tight line of her jaw.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said quietly, her voice low and carrying a hint of hesitation. “I saw the lights were still on. I know it’s late.”
“Hola, Ale,” you breathed, setting the heavy bucket down. Your heart kicked into that familiar, erratic rhythm, but your immediate instinct was to offer her a reprieve from the storm outside. “Don’t worry about the time. Come in. You look like you just played ninety minutes in a downpour.”
Alexia let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, stepping further into the warm, fragrant sanctuary of the shop. She didn’t stay by the door; she walked right up to your workstation, leaning her hands against the aged wood. “Just ran from the car. The pressure this week... it’s loud. Everywhere I go, people are talking about the semifinal. I just needed twenty minutes where nobody asks me about tactical formations.”
“Well, you came to the right place,” you smiled warmly, your eyes locking onto hers. “The flowers don’t care about football.”
Determined to keep things light and give her the distraction she desperately needed, you went to move a large bucket of water and fresh cuttings out of her path. But your natural coordination chose that exact moment to fail you.
Your sandal slid on a slick spot of wet tile.
“Whoa!” you gasped, your arms flailing.
In your panic, your elbow clipped the rim of a heavy plastic bucket, sending a tidal wave of cold water splashing across the floor. You went down, landing awkwardly on your knees amidst a sea of scattered green stems and puddles.
“Y/N!” Alexia reacted with lightning-fast athlete reflexes, instantly dropping to her knees beside you on the wet floor. Her strong hands caught your forearms, stabilizing you. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your wrist?”
Your cheeks burned a violent, brilliant crimson. You looked up, finding yourself mere inches from Alexia’s face. The proximity was dizzying. You could see the golden flecks in her hazel eyes, could feel the warmth of her breath against your skin. You looked incredibly striking in your flustered state, your breath hitching.
“I’m fine,” you squeaked, your voice breathless as you looked down at the absolute disaster on the floor. “I told you... giraffe coordination. I just ruined my clean floor.”
Alexia stared at you for a heartbeat, taking in your wide eyes and your bright blush. Then, a sudden, beautiful sound broke through the quiet shop. Alexia laughed. It wasn’t the polite, guarded chuckle she gave to the media; it was a deep, genuine, chest-deep laugh that completely wiped the exhaustion from her face.
“You really are a hazard, flower girl,” she teased, her eyes crinkling with pure amusement as she let go of your arms to pick up a wet leaf.
“I’m a professional, I swear,” you laughed along, the embarrassment melting into a soft, bubbling happiness.
Together, sitting on the floor of the closed shop, you began grabbing the scattered stems. Alexia reached for a bundle of elegant, unbroken flowers that had escaped the water. They were sleek, cup-shaped blossoms of a stunning, soft pastel pink.
“Tulips, right?” Alexia asked softly, holding one up between you. The playful mood suddenly shifted, dropping into a quiet, heavy intimacy.
“Yes, those are Pink Tulips," you murmured, your voice steadying as you looked from the flower to her eyes. “They’re the heart of spring.”
“Do they have a meaning too?” Alexia asked, her voice dropping a register, her hazel gaze locking onto yours.
“They do,” you nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Unlike red tulips, which are very bold and aggressive about love, pink tulips are different. They symbolize affection, deep caring, and the attachment of a budding romance. They represent a feeling that is growing quietly, carefully... but securely. It’s the flower you give when you realize you're forming a bond you don’t want to lose.”
The silence that followed was completely breathless, heavy with a thick, undeniable tension. The storm outside seemed a million miles away.
Alexia didn’t look down at the tulip. Her eyes stayed locked on yours, intense and completely focused. Slowly, deliberately, she reached her hand up. Her warm fingers gently tucked a stray, damp lock of your blonde hair behind your ear, her thumb lingering against your jawline for a fraction of a second. A jolt of pure, electric heat shot straight down your spine.
“A budding romance,” Alexia repeated, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze dropping briefly to your lips before rising back to your hazel eyes. “I think that’s a very beautiful meaning, flower girl.”
You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe. The promise of what was growing between you felt completely overwhelming.
Alexia gently broke the spell, standing up and offering you a hand to pull you up from the floor. You took it, your skin tingling at the contact. She helped you grab a towel to quickly dry the rest of the floor, the heavy atmosphere shifting into a comfortable, warm hum.
When she finally prepared to leave, holding a simple bunch of the pink tulips you had wrapped for her, she stood by the door for a long moment.
“Thank you for the distraction,” Alexia said softly, her hand on the brass handle. “I think I’m ready for the match now.”
“Go win it, Captain,” you smiled, looking at her with all the earnest support you possessed.
As the door closed and she stepped out into the April rain, you leaned back against the wooden counter, your fingers tracing the spot on your jaw where her thumb had rested.
May in Barcelona was a golden, chaotic blur. The city was completely painted in blaugrana as the FC Barcelona women’s team pulled off a historic, breathtaking run, securing both the league title and the Champions League trophy. The entire city was in a state of absolute euphoria.
For you, May was a beautiful war zone. The club had put in massive, sweeping orders for the victory parade, the stadium gala, and the official team reception. Your shop had been working around the clock, but for the final presentation, you had to bring your craft directly into the heart of their celebration.
The media lounge at the Ciutat Esportiva was humming with organized energy. Security guards were tightly managing the perimeter, team photographers were uploading files, and the back of the room had been cleared out specifically for your workstation. You stood behind a long, white-draped table, focusing entirely on the grueling task of assembling the final massive presentation bouquet for the evening’s formal gala.
Your hair was pulled back securely in a claw clip to keep it out of your eyes, and you wore your dark green Floristeria Arrels apron over a clean linen blouse, your hands moving with practiced efficiency.
“The last of the stadium crates are fully secured in the van, Y/N,” your older brother said, walking up to the table with a clipboard. He had volunteered to manage the heavy loading today, and his calm, reliable presence was the only reason you were keeping up with the club's strict schedule. “Lucas is just finishing up the final inventory check.”
You looked over to see your nephew standing dutifully by the transport boxes. He took his job incredibly seriously, wearing a playful cardboard “gold medal” around his neck that he’d made to match the team’s achievements.
“Perfect. Thank you both,” you smiled, exhaling a soft breath of relief as you bound the thick floral stems with green twine. “Lucas, you’re officially the best assistant manager I’ve ever had.”
Lucas beamed proudly, checking off the last item on his list. “All thirty gold-ribbon packages are accounted for, Tia.”
Before you could praise him further, a sudden wave of lighthearted banter and clear, echoing laughter spilled into the lounge from the main corridor, signaling that the morning media restrictions had finally lifted.
The busy room instantly fell into a respectful hum as the players began to flood into the space. It was Patri, Kika, and Clara Serrajordi, all grinning from ear to ear, laughing loudly. And walking right in the center of them, looking completely radiant, was Alexia.
They weren’t in their formal gala gowns yet; they were wearing their official victory shirts, their faces glowing with the sheer, unmatched high of being champions of Europe.
“The champions are here!” Patri announced, throwing her arms wide as she spotted your workstation.
Your brother’s eyes widened, and he immediately grabbed Lucas by the shoulder, pulling him back to give the players room. “Hola, everyone,” you smiled, a rush of genuine, thrilled happiness washing over you as you looked at them. “Congratulations! The whole city is so proud of you.”
“Thank you, Y/N,” Clara Serrajordi said quietly, giving you a shy, proud wave from behind Patri.
Your eyes instinctively traveled across the crowded space, instantly locking onto Alexia. The moment her eyes met yours, the celebratory, public mask she had been wearing all morning seemed to drop. A quiet, incredibly deep warmth flooded her expression. She didn’t say anything at first; she just stood there, taking you in: your messy hair, your flushed cheeks, and the absolute focus with which you were navigating their high-profile chaos.
“We came to check on the final presentation bouquets before the media team takes them,” Patri said, leaning over the table to peek at your work. “Are we good to go?”
“Everything from the van is already styled in the main reception hall,” you said, nodding toward the majestic, sprawling arrangement on your table. “I’m just finishing up this last one.”
The bouquet was spectacular, filled with massive, lush flowers with incredibly thick, tightly packed layers of soft, voluminous petals that looked like ruffled silk.
Alexia stepped closer, bypassing her teammates to stand on the other side of your white-clothed table. She looked down at the breathtaking arrangement, her voice dropping into a low, private register. “Wow. These are incredible, flower girl. They look so heavy, like clouds.”
“They're Peonies,” you murmured, your voice dropping into that soft, confident register as you looked up into her hazel eyes.
“Peonies,” Alexia repeated softly, her gaze locked onto yours over the sea of pink and white petals. “What do they mean for a victory?”
“They’re the flower of honor and prosperity,” you explained, your heart doing a familiar, rapid thud against your ribs. “In old traditions, peonies represent good fortune and a legacy of success. But because they take years to establish their roots deep in the soil before they can bloom this spectacularly, they symbolize a triumph that was earned through deep, patient dedication. They say that the glory is real because the work behind it was real.”
Alexia stared at the peonies, a profound, quiet emotion passing over her face. She looked back up at you, her gaze intense, searching, and completely full of an unspoken weight. The bustling lounge, your family, her teammates, everything seemed to fade into the background for a long, breathless moment.
“Patient dedication,” Alexia whispered, her voice carrying a promise that made your chest tighten with a thrill of anticipation. “I think that’s the most perfect meaning yet.”
“Hey, Capi! The media director needs us for the trophy photos!” Patri called out from the other side of the lounge, breaking the spell. Kika and Clara were already moving toward the backdrops, waving to the staff.
Alexia blinked, pulling herself back, but she didn’t move away immediately. She reached across the workspace, her fingers lightly brushing against yours for a brief, electric second that sent a wave of heat straight to your core.
“I have to go do the media rounds,” Alexia said softly, her eyes searching your face one last time. “But as soon as the madness of this week ends... I’m coming to the shop. We need to talk.”
“I’ll be there,” you whispered, a soft smile breaking across your face.
You handed her a single, perfect pink peony from the leftover batch on your table. Alexia took it carefully, holding the stem lightly against her victory shirt like a badge of honor, before turning to join her team under the bright flashing cameras.
You stood behind the table, watching her walk away into the golden afternoon light of the complex, your heart beating wildly.
June arrived with a quiet, golden stillness that settled over Barcelona. The roaring crowds at Spotify Camp Nou had cleared, the parade confetti had finally been swept from the avenues, and the relentless, high-octane pressure of the football season had officially evaporated into the off-season. For the club, the year was a wrap. For your shop, the heavy corporate contracts were successfully completed, leaving Floristeria Arrels in a peaceful, lazy summer lull.
You were standing by the front window, the afternoon sun warming your skin. Your hair was loosely braided and tied back with a simple green silk ribbon. The shop was a fragrant paradise of summer blooms, but without the chaotic rush of the past few months, it felt incredibly spacious.
Your contract with FC Barcelona was officially up for renewal. The paperwork was sitting on your counter, waiting for your signature, a testament to a year of hard work, flawless execution, and a family business preserved.
The brass bell above the door gave a soft, familiar chime.
You turned around, a welcoming phrase already on your tongue, but the words instantly caught in your throat.
Alexia walked in.
She wasn’t wearing a club jersey, a sponsor’s tuxedo, or a rainy-day training jacket. She was dressed in a casual, crisp white linen button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, light jeans, and white sneakers. Her hair was down, catching the golden June light, and her eyes looked completely relaxed, free of the crushing weight of the captaincy.
But as she approached the counter, you noticed something you had never seen on Alexia Putellas before. She looked nervous. Her hands were tucked behind her back, her posture slightly tentative.
“Hola, flower girl,” Alexia said, her voice smooth, low, and carrying a soft, hesitant warmth.
“Hola Ale,” you breathed, stepping out from behind the counter to meet her in the center of the shop. You offered a warm, genuine smile, your heart beginning to hammer a familiar, frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Or should I say Champion? What brings you by? I thought the club orders were officially done for the summer.”
“They are,” Alexia said, stepping closer. The faint, clean scent of her woody perfume immediately enveloped you. “The club is done. I’m not here for Barça, I’m here for myself.”
Slowly, deliberately, she brought her hands out from behind her back.
Your breath hitched, your hazel eyes widening in complete surprise. Held carefully in her hands was a bouquet. It wasn’t one of the grand, perfectly symmetrical corporate arrangements you usually made. It was small, slightly rustic, and clearly wrapped by hand. It was a beautiful, striking mix of deep crimson roses and delicate, star-like blue forget-me-nots.
“I, uh... I went to a little shop on the other side of the city,” Alexia admitted, a faint, endearing flush creeping up her neck as she looked down at the flowers, then back up into your eyes. “Because I knew if I tried to buy flowers from you, you’d just give me a lecture on botanical history or try to give them to me on the house. And I wanted to buy these for you.”
You stared at the bouquet, a profound, overwhelming wave of emotion rushing through your chest. You looked up at her, your eyes bright and soft. “Alexia…”
“I looked up the meanings,” Alexia continued, her voice dropping into a low, intensely private register as she stepped even closer, completely closing the distance between you. “The pink roses are for admiration and new beginnings. No pressure, no complications. Just... the joy I feel whenever I’m around you.”
She offered the bouquet to you, the tall, striking stalks of vibrant blue delphinium framing the soft pink petals beautifully. Your fingers brushed against hers as you took the stems, sending a warm, electric jolt straight to your core.
“And the delphinium is for an open heart,” she added softly, her hazel eyes locking onto yours. “Because this entire season, through the hardest months and the highest pressures, coming into this shop and seeing you was the one thing I couldn’t forget.”
Your heart did a violent, joyful flip. You held the rustic bouquet against your linen shirt, looking up at her with all the striking, classic warmth you possessed. “You did your homework.”
“I had a very good teacher,” Alexia murmured, a beautiful, relieved smile breaking across her face. She reached out, her warm hand gently cupping your jaw, her thumb tracing your skin just like she had in the April rain. This time, there was no storm, no phone calls, and no relationship boundaries keeping you apart. “The season is over, flower girl. No cameras, no press, no football. Just me. I want to take you out on a proper date. If you’ll have me.”
“I would love to,” you whispered, leaning into the warmth of her hand, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips.
Alexia’s eyes darkened with a sudden, deep affection, her gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your hazel eyes. “Good. Because I’ve been waiting months to do this.”
Slowly, she leaned down, her lips meeting yours in a soft, incredibly sweet, and lingering kiss. It tasted like summer, like a fresh start, and like the perfect culmination of a year spent growing roots in the dark.
By the time Y/N pushed through the front door, her feet were aching so badly she almost considered sleeping right there in the entryway.
The apartment was quiet except for the low murmur of cartoons coming from the living room and the soft sound of Eli’s voice.
“Careful, mi amor. The dinosaur cannot fly from the sofa.”
“Yes he can,” her son argued immediately.
Y/N smiled despite herself.
It was the first real smile she’d managed in twelve hours.
Her shift at the hospital had been brutal from the second she clocked in. Two car accidents, one elderly patient with chest pain who reminded her painfully of her grandfather, one drunk tourist who kept trying to leave before the stitches in his eyebrow were finished, and then, because the universe had a cruel sense of humor, a trauma came in thirty minutes before she was supposed to go home.
So now she stood in the hallway, still in navy scrubs, hair falling out of its bun, smelling faintly of antiseptic and coffee, with dried pen marks on the side of her hand and exhaustion sitting heavy in her bones.
“Mama!”
Her son spotted her from the living room and immediately abandoned the plastic dinosaur in his hand.
Y/N barely had time to drop her bag before he launched himself at her legs.
“Oh, there’s my boy,” she whispered, bending down and scooping him up.
He wrapped his arms around her neck so tightly that her chest ached.
Not from the pressure.
From the feeling.
“Did you have fun with Eli?”
He nodded dramatically, his messy hair brushing her cheek.
“Eli made pasta.”
Y/N looked over his shoulder.
Eli was sitting on the living room floor among a battlefield of toys, looking elegant even in casual clothes, which Y/N found deeply unfair. Alexia’s mother smiled warmly at her, but there was concern behind it.
“Long day?”
Y/N let out a tired laugh.
“You have no idea.”
Eli pushed herself up from the floor. “Sit down. I saved you some food.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” Eli walked into the kitchen like it was her own, which, at this point, it nearly was. “That is why it is called being kind.”
Y/N smiled again and kissed her son’s cheek before setting him down. “Go clean up five toys for me.”
“Five?”
“Yes. Five.”
He sighed like she’d asked him to move furniture. Eli laughed softly as she pulled a covered plate from the fridge. These moments were the ones that confused Y/N the most. The domestic ones. The painfully normal ones. Because inside these walls, she wasn’t a secret.
Inside these walls, Eli knew exactly where the extra mugs were kept. She knew Y/N liked her tea stronger than most Spanish people could tolerate. She knew Y/N’s son hated peas but would eat broccoli if someone pretended it was a tiny tree. She knew where the plasters were, which blanket lived on the back of the sofa, and that Alexia always pretended she didn’t like cartoons but somehow knew the theme songs by heart.
Inside these walls, Y/N had a life.
A real one.
A family, almost.
Outside of them, she barely existed.
Y/N sat at the kitchen island as Eli warmed her food. Her son dragged toys across the living room floor, very clearly cleaning by moving the mess from one side of the room to the other.
“Alexia texted earlier,” Eli said. “They arrived at the concert.”
Y/N nodded, picking at a loose thread near her sleeve. “Good.”
Eli looked at her carefully.
Y/N felt the look before she met it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing face.”
Eli leaned against the counter. “I only wondered if you were sad you could not go.”
Y/N shrugged. “A bit, maybe. Bad Bunny would’ve been fun.”
“You work too much.”
“I’m an ER nurse. That’s sort of the job description.”
“Yes, but still.” Eli placed the plate in front of her. “You need rest.”
Y/N hummed, already taking a bite.
The food was warm, simple, and exactly what she needed. For a moment she let herself sink into it. The apartment. Her son. Eli washing a pan in the sink even though Y/N told her not to. The muffled sound of cartoons. The distant city noise outside.
Alexia was out with the team.
Y/N was home.
It should have felt fine.
It almost did.
“She deserves tonight,” Y/N said after a moment.
Eli turned slightly. “Alexia?”
Y/N nodded. “Last season at Barça. That’s huge. Emotional. Complicated. She should be out celebrating.”
And she meant it.
That was the worst part.
Y/N wasn’t angry that Alexia had gone out. She wasn’t angry that Alexia had friends, teammates, a life outside of her. She had never wanted to be the girlfriend who demanded every second, every text, every location.
She loved Alexia’s passion.
Loved the way her eyes lit up when she talked about football, even when the conversation shifted into tactical details Y/N only understood half of. Loved watching her be adored by people who had followed her career for years.
Y/N loved Alexia’s life.
She just wished she was allowed to be part of it.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
She glanced at it without thinking.
Instagram.
Kika Nazareth added to her story.
Y/N stared at the notification for a second longer than she should have.
She followed most of the Barça girls on Instagram, though she doubted half of them knew who she was. To them, she was probably just another random account in the sea of fans and friends and strangers who watched their lives through a screen.
She hesitated.
Then tapped.
The first story was harmless. A shaky clip of the stage, lights flashing purple and blue while the crowd screamed along to the music. The second was a selfie of Kika and a couple of the girls, laughing with drinks in their hands. The third was the one that made the apartment go strangely quiet around her. It was only a few seconds long. A video of the group dancing in the middle of the concert. Mapi was there. Irene. Patri. A few others Y/N recognized from Alexia’s stories and matches and post-game photos.
Then the camera swung.
Alexia.
Laughing.
Dancing.
Her head tipped back, her body leaning into Kika’s, completely relaxed. Kika’s left arm was wrapped across Alexia’s chest. Not briefly. Not accidentally. Comfortably. Possessively, even if Y/N hated herself for thinking the word. Alexia was singing, eyes bright, smiling like she didn’t have a care in the world. Kika was behind her, close enough that there was barely space between them, grinning as the lights flickered over both of them.
The clip ended.
Y/N’s thumb froze over the screen.
Her heart didn’t drop all at once. It sank slowly. Painfully. Like her body needed time to understand what her mind had already seen.
Eli must have noticed the change, because she stopped washing the pan.
“Y/N?”
Y/N didn’t answer.
She replayed the story.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each time, she tried to find a different version of it. One where Alexia looked uncomfortable. One where she moved away. One where Kika’s arm was just passing by, just caught in a bad angle, just one of those things that looked worse than it was. But no. Alexia was comfortable. That was what hurt. Not because Y/N thought Alexia was cheating. She didn’t. Not really. But comfort could still cut. Because Y/N had spent nine months learning the shape of Alexia’s caution. The way Alexia let go of her hand the second they stepped out of the car anywhere too public. The way dinner reservations were always made in quiet places, private corners, back rooms, or only when Mapi came along to make it look less like a date. The way Alexia never posted anything that even hinted at Y/N’s existence. The way she said, “It’s safer like this,” so many times that Y/N had started to wonder who exactly they were protecting.
And now here she was.
Public.
Open.
Careless.
With Kika’s arm around her like it belonged there.
Eli stepped closer.
“What happened?”
Y/N swallowed and shook her head.
“Nothing.”
Eli’s expression made it clear she didn’t believe her. Y/N looked down at her plate. The food suddenly felt impossible to eat. Her phone buzzed again. This time it was a message from Alexia.
Ale ❤️: Concert is amazing. Wish you were here.
Y/N stared at the words.
Wish you were here.
She wondered if Alexia really did. If Y/N had been there, would she have been allowed to stand beside her? Would Alexia have danced with her like that? Would she have wrapped her arms around Y/N in front of the team? Would she have kissed her cheek beneath the flashing lights? Or would Y/N have stood three people away while Alexia smiled at her like a friend? She set the phone face down.
Eli watched her carefully.
“Do you want me to stay until Alexia gets home?”
Y/N almost said no.
Pride rose up first. Automatic. Defensive.
Then she glanced toward the living room, where her son was now lining up toy cars across the rug, completely unaware that his mother’s chest felt like it was cracking open.
“Yes,” Y/N whispered.
Eli’s face softened.
“Of course.”
Neither of them said anything else for a while.
Y/N finished three more bites because Eli was watching and because she knew she needed food after a twelve-hour shift, even if her stomach had twisted itself into something tight and ugly.
Afterward, she showered quickly.
The hot water did nothing to settle her.
She changed into an old oversized shirt and shorts, then tucked her son into bed. He demanded two stories, then one more because “Ale does three,” which nearly broke her on the spot.
“She does, does she?”
He nodded sleepily. “Ale does voices.”
Y/N brushed his hair back from his forehead.
“Of course she does.”
“Is Ale coming home?”
Y/N stared down at him.
“Yes, baby,” she said softly. “She’ll be home later.”
He smiled, already half asleep. “Tell her I saved blue car.”
Y/N kissed his forehead.
“I’ll tell her.”
When she returned to the living room, Eli had turned the television down.
The apartment felt too calm.
Too normal.
Y/N picked up her phone again.
The story was still there.
Of course it was.
She watched it one more time, even though she knew she shouldn’t.
This time she noticed Mapi in the background, dancing with Miriam, her arms wrapped around her from behind for a second before both of them burst out laughing and separated.
Y/N almost laughed too.
Because she could already hear Alexia’s argument. Everyone was dancing. It didn’t mean anything. Mapi was doing it too. The difference was that Y/N knew Mapi. Mapi had been in their home. Mapi had eaten breakfast at their table. Mapi had let Y/N’s son draw a terrible picture of Bagheera and stuck it on her fridge like it was priceless art. Y/N knew Mapi. She knew her humor, her loyalty, her boundaries. Kika was a stranger. Not because Y/N hadn’t tried. Because Alexia had made sure the Barcelona part of her life stayed behind a locked door.
Y/N sat on the sofa and waited.
The minutes passed slowly.
Eli didn’t ask questions, and Y/N loved her for that. She simply sat nearby, knitting something small and soft in pale blue yarn, as if her presence alone could keep the night from falling apart.
It couldn’t.
A little after one in the morning, keys turned in the front door.
Y/N’s entire body went still.
Alexia stepped inside quietly, one hand braced against the door as she slipped off her shoes. Her cheeks were flushed from the night air, her hair slightly messy, her eyes still bright with the leftover energy of music and celebration.
She looked happy.
That made it worse.
Then she saw Eli.
“Mama?” Alexia whispered, surprised.
Eli stood slowly.
“I stayed with Y/N.”
Alexia looked from her mother to Y/N on the sofa.
Her smile faded.
“What happened?”
Y/N stood.
For one second, she looked at Alexia and forgot every word she had spent the last hour preparing. Because she loved her. That was the problem. She loved the woman standing in front of her, tired and beautiful and confused, in a jacket Y/N had helped her pick out weeks ago. She loved her enough to move countries. Loved her enough to trust her with her son. Loved her enough to build a life in a language that still felt unfamiliar on her tongue some days. But she was so tired of loving someone who only seemed brave enough to love her in private.
Y/N lifted her phone.
Alexia’s eyes flickered down.
Y/N opened Kika’s story and pressed play.
The music filled the room for five seconds.
Then stopped.
Alexia’s face changed.
Not guilt exactly.
Recognition.
Y/N hated that more.
Because it meant Alexia knew.
She knew what Y/N had seen before Y/N even had to say it.
Eli looked between them, the sadness in her expression quiet but unmistakable.
“I will check on him,” Eli said softly, giving them the room.
Neither of them answered.
Alexia waited until her mother disappeared down the hallway before she spoke.
“Y/N”
“No.”
Alexia stopped.
Y/N’s hand tightened around her phone.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name like I’m already being unreasonable.”
Alexia exhaled slowly.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
The apartment fell silent.
Then Alexia glanced toward the phone again.
“It was just dancing.”
Y/N laughed once.
It came out sharp and empty.
“Of course it was.”
“Cariño”
“No.” Y/N shook her head. “Not tonight.”
Alexia’s shoulders dropped, the concert glow fading from her completely.
“Can we talk about this calmly?”
Y/N looked at her.
“I have been calm for months.”
Alexia didn’t answer.
And that was when Y/N knew this fight wasn’t going to be small. It wasn’t going to be fixed with a kiss on the forehead, an apology whispered into her hair, and Alexia promising again that she’d handle it. This was the moment all the smaller moments had been waiting for. The story was still paused on her phone. Alexia frozen in the frame. Kika’s arm around her chest. Y/N turned the screen toward Alexia one more time.
“I asked you to deal with this.”
Alexia swallowed.
“I know.”
“No,” Y/N said quietly. “You don’t.”
And for the first time all night, Alexia looked afraid.
Alexia looked afraid. Y/N hated that. Not because she wanted to hurt her. Because fear meant Alexia still thought this was about the video. It wasn't. The video was simply evidence. The latest exhibit in a case Y/N had been building for months.
Alexia stepped forward carefully.
"Cariño"
"Stop calling me that."
The words came out before Y/N could stop them. Alexia flinched. Immediately. Y/N felt guilty. Immediately. Neither feeling was enough to stop what was coming. The apartment felt too small. Too quiet. Too familiar. Y/Ns son's coloring books were still on the coffee table. Alexia's jacket was still hanging by the door. The blanket they always fought over during movie nights was folded neatly over the sofa.
A life.
Their life.
And somehow Y/N had never felt further away from it.
"It was one video."
Alexia's voice was softer now.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The part where you pretend this is about one video."
Alexia opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Y/N nodded.
"Exactly."
She walked away from the sofa before she could start crying. The last thing she wanted was to cry this early. She needed Alexia to hear her first.
"For months," Y/N continued, "I've told you she's too touchy."
"I know."
"I've told you it bothers me."
"I know."
"I've asked you to say something."
"I did."
Y/N stopped walking.
Slowly turned around.
"You did?"
"I did."
"When?"
Alexia hesitated.
Y/N's stomach dropped.
"When Alexia?"
"I mentioned it."
"Mentioned it?"
Alexia sighed.
"It wasn't a formal conversation."
"Clearly."
The silence stretched.
Alexia rubbed a hand over her face.
"I don't know what you want from me."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because Y/N knew Alexia wasn't trying to be cruel.
She genuinely didn't know.
That was the problem.
"I want to feel like your girlfriend."
The room went still.
Alexia blinked.
"What?"
Y/N swallowed.
Hard.
"I want to feel like your girlfriend."
"You are my girlfriend."
"No."
The word came out sharp.
Painfully sharp.
"Not here."
Alexia stared at her.
"What does that even mean?"
Y/N laughed.
Again.
She was starting to hate the sound.
"It means the only place I get to be your girlfriend is inside this apartment."
Alexia's jaw tightened.
"You know why."
"No."
"You do."
"No, Alexia."
Y/N stepped closer.
"I understand why you don't post me online."
"Then, "
"I'm not finished."
Alexia fell silent.
"I understand why you don't put my face on Instagram."
Another step.
"I understand why you don't want paparazzi following my son."
Another.
"I understand why you value privacy."
Alexia nodded.
"But privacy and secrecy are not the same thing."
That landed.
Y/N saw it.
Saw the exact second the words reached her.
Alexia's expression shifted.
Only slightly.
Not enough.
Still not enough.
"You think I'm hiding you."
The hurt in Alexia's voice nearly made Y/N cave.
Nearly.
"Alexia..."
She shook her head.
"I don't think it."
Silence.
"I know it."
The words hung between them.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Alexia looked devastated.
"I have never been ashamed of you."
"I know."
"Then how can you say that?"
"Because being hidden feels exactly the same."
Alexia looked away.
That hurt too.
Because Alexia always looked away when she didn't have an answer.
Y/N had learned that months ago.
"Tell me something."
Alexia didn't respond.
"When was the last time we went to dinner?"
"We always"
Y/N cut in "Just us."
Silence.
Y/N nodded.
"Right."
"That's not fair."
"No?"
"No."
Alexia crossed her arms.
"We go out."
"With who?"
Silence.
"With who, Alexia."
"...Mapi."
Y/N smiled sadly.
"Exactly."
"Mapi knows."
"That's not the point."
"She helps."
"That's not the point."
Alexia's frustration started to show.
"Then what is the point?"
Y/N stared at her.
For a moment she couldn't believe she still had to explain this.
"The point is that we've been together for nine months and you've never once taken me somewhere publicly as your girlfriend."
The words echoed through the room.
Alexia looked like she'd been slapped.
Y/N kept going.
Because once she started she couldn't stop.
"You've introduced me to sponsors, You've introduced me to neighbors, You've introduced me to restaurant staff, But never your teammates."
Alexia opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"They don't need to know."
Y/N actually laughed.
A real laugh this time.
Small.
Broken.
"There it is."
Alexia frowned.
"What?"
"They don't need to know."
Y/N repeated the words back to her.
Slowly.
Like she was tasting poison.
"They don't need to know."
Alexia's face fell. Because she finally heard it. The implication. The dismissal. The years of meaning packed into one careless sentence.
Y/N took a shaky breath.
"You know what hurts the most?"
Alexia didn't answer.
"I don't know Kika."
The room went quiet.
Alexia frowned.
"What?"
"I don't know her."
Y/N gestured toward the phone.
"I've never met her, I've never spoken to her, I don't know what she's like, I don't know if she's kind, I don't know if she's funny, I don't know if she respects boundaries, I don't know anything about her."
Alexia's face softened.
"Y/N"
"No."
Tears were starting now.
She couldn't stop them.
Not anymore.
"That's my point, Alexia."
Her voice cracked.
"I know Mapi."
Silence.
"I've had dinner with Mapi."
Silence.
"My son knows Mapi."
Silence.
"Mapi knows me."
Another silence.
"I don't know Kika because you won't let me anywhere near your life at Barcelona."
Alexia looked stunned. Like she'd never considered it from that angle before. Like she'd never once thought about how strange it was that her girlfriend of nine months had never met most of the people she spent every day with.
The realization hit her visibly.
Too late.
Far too late.
Y/N wiped at her face.
"I'm tired."
Alexia took a step forward.
"I can fix this."
The words came instantly. Desperate. Instinctive. Y/N closed her eyes. Because she'd heard them before. After every conversation. Every argument. Every uncomfortable discussion. I can fix this. I will handle it. I'll talk to her. I'll make it better.
When Y/N opened her eyes again, something inside her had settled.
Not healed.
Not forgiven.
Settled.
Like a decision.
"I'm going to stay somewhere else for a while."
The color drained from Alexia's face.
"What?"
"I'm leaving."
"No."
The response came immediately.
Firm.
Panicked.
"No."
"Alexia"
"No."
Alexia shook her head.
"No, we're not doing that."
Y/N stared at her.
"We're not doing what?"
"Leaving."
Alexia's voice cracked.
"You don't leave."
The irony almost knocked the breath from Y/N's lungs.
You don't leave.
As if Y/N hadn't left everything already. London. Friends. Family. Her support system. Her entire life. All for this. For them.
"I'm not asking permission."
Alexia looked shattered. Y/N hated herself for it. But not enough to stay. She walked toward the bedroom. Behind her she heard Alexia follow.
"Please."
One word.
Barely a whisper.
It almost worked.
Almost.
Then Y/N opened the wardrobe and pulled down a duffel bag.
And Alexia finally understood she was serious. Really serious. Not a fight. Not a threat. Not a dramatic exit. Leaving. Actually leaving. The silence that followed was deafening.
Because for the first time all night...
Neither of them knew how to fix this.
And somewhere down the hallway, completely unaware that both of their worlds were collapsing, a little blue toy car sat waiting on a bedside table for Alexia to come home.
Y/N grabs the duffel and walks to her sons room, Eli sitting in a chair in the corner of the room stands when the door opens, seeing Y/N tear stains and glassy eyes and Alexia behind her. Y/N walks over to her sons dresser, puts some of his clothes in the duffel, walks over to slowly pick him up and walks towards the front door.
Alexia is right on their heel.
Y/N reaches the door, opens it and starts to walk out. Before she closes the door, she turns around to face Alexia
"When you figure out that Kika is not your girlfriend... Come find me"
With that she closes the door. Alexia watches and she gets in and drives off. Eli standing behind her daughter. Watching as she is lighting her world on fire. She knows the love her daughter has for Y/N and her son. She also knows that Alexia will have to fix this on her own.
