bels x

request anything you want!! xxx

[userwosoxxx]

hi everyone!! writing will be out soon; they are ALL WIP’s!! life is getting pretty hectic!! if anyone wants to drop me a message or any kind for any reason, whether it be a request, a question or just need a friend feel free!! thank you so much for your support xxx

[userwosoxxx]

Hi I just found your page and I love your fics

Could you write ✍ something for patri guijarro fluff a little bit of angst with smut

Like reader comforting patri after news of her injury and reader plays nurse

If you have any questions just ask plz

Healing in Your Hands • P. Guijarro

a/n: thank you ever so much that means the world to me!! inbox is always open.. send requests! as always, enjoy!! xxx

Y/N’s POV:

I saw her limp before she even crossed the threshold. Patri’s usual grace had been replaced with the sharp, stubborn stiffness of someone who refused to show weakness, even to me. Her eyes met mine for a fleeting second, bright and defiant, before she turned away, bag in hand, trying to keep her pride intact.

“You don’t have to do everything on your own,” I said softly, stepping toward her.

“I can handle it,” she snapped, but her voice wavered. I caught it immediately, that almost imperceptible tremor that spoke louder than words.

“I’m not asking you to handle it alone,” I said, trying again. “I just want to help.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to be taken care of. I’m fine.”

Her stubbornness was infuriating, heartbreaking, and familiar all at once. She had always been the strong one — the one I leaned on for laughter, courage, and guidance — but now, seeing her vulnerable and refusing help made my chest ache with helplessness.

“Patri,” I whispered, my fingers brushing against hers. “You’re injured. You can’t keep pretending that nothing’s wrong.”

“I don’t need a nurse,” she said, stepping back, voice rising. “I don’t need anyone telling me what I can and can’t do. I can manage. I always do.”

The words hit me like a slap, sharp and unfair. I wanted to argue, to force her to see that letting me care for her didn’t mean she was weak, but the fire in her eyes stopped me. Instead, I just held her gaze, my own heart breaking.

“Fine,” I said quietly, stepping away. “But don’t shut me out. That’s all I ask.”

She left the apartment for the evening, and I sat alone, listening to the rain streak against the windows. Every creak of the floor, every car that passed, made my chest tighten with longing and guilt. I replayed our fight endlessly — her stubborn pride, my own desperation, and the ache of wanting to comfort someone who refused comfort.

When she returned late that night, I stayed seated, letting her enter the apartment first. She slumped into the sofa, exhausted, tension radiating off her like heat. I stayed silent, close but careful, letting her calm herself before trying to reach her.

Hours passed in quiet. Finally, she broke the silence.

“I hate feeling weak,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “I hate that I need you like this.”

I crossed the room slowly and knelt beside her. “You’re not weak,” I said, holding her hand. “You’re human. And humans… humans need love. Let me be that for you.”

Her lips trembled, and she looked at me with a mixture of fear, longing, and surrender. She nodded slowly, the tiniest exhale leaving her chest. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay… I’ll let you.”

From that moment, everything shifted. I became her nurse, her comfort, her anchor. I carried her groceries, helped her stretch and ice her knee, and sat by her side during the long hours of frustration and self-doubt. She still resisted at times, flinching at a touch, muttering, “I can do it myself,” but slowly, she allowed herself to lean on me more and more.

We laughed through it, too — late nights in the kitchen, me teasing her as she tried to balance on one leg while icing her knee, her small smiles when she realized she needed me and didn’t have to hide it. Those moments, fleeting and tender, reminded me why I loved her so fiercely. She was strong, yes, but strong enough to let someone in. Strong enough to let herself be human.

One night, after a particularly grueling day of therapy and stretches, we collapsed onto the sofa, bodies entwined. She rested her head on my shoulder, letting out a long sigh.

“I hate that I let myself be stubborn,” she murmured.

“You’re not stubborn,” I said, brushing her hair from her forehead. “You’re brave. And brave people… brave people let the people who love them in.”

She shifted closer, lips brushing mine in a soft, hungry kiss. Her eyes darkened with a sort of desire which is only visible in the most intimate of moments between us. Her hand grazed against my heat between my legs as she set me over the top of her legs, straddling her, her favourite position. My legs tightened around her legs as Patri ran her hands up my thighs, feeling the heat of my skin as I traced the muscles in her biceps. Her lips attached sloppily to my neck, teeth grazing the soft flesh. “Patri.. we, we can’t” I whispered, my voice a mix of need, admission and hesitance. “Yes cariño, yes we can,” she whispered back. Her lips once again pressed lazy kisses down the side of my jaw, to my neck. Impatiently, I rocked my hips against her thigh, sending waves of pleasure through my core. I felt Patri’s breath catch in my ear, igniting a spark thrill in my body. “Please Patri,” I said, voice a hoarse confession. Her hand slid down immediately finding the place my body yearned for her most. Her eyes met mine, warm and deep like sunlit amber melting into honey, flecks of gold dancing at the edges. For a moment, the world vanished, leaving only the quiet pull of those brown depths — curious, tender, and unyielding all at once. I could feel her thoughts brushing against mine, unspoken words swirling in the soft gaze, pulling me closer without a single touch. Those eyes held storms and calm, laughter and sorrow, and in their reflection, I saw both her and myself, fragile and unafraid “You want this amor?” she said, reassuring as ever. “More than anything,” I replied. That was all the confirmation she needed.

That night, I could feel the tension of days spent resisting care dissolve as our bodies pressed together, hands exploring, sighs mingling. Make-up kisses became make-up whispers, and then make-up everything — the kind of intimacy that leaves you breathless, laughing through tears, feeling the raw intensity of being seen and accepted completely.

[userwosoxxx]

Between Goals and Heartbeats • A.Putellas

pairing: alexia putellas x reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: laughter, loss, quiet tension, all things in the household that make them, them. messing up, falling hard, and still holding onto eachother; that’s you and alexia.

a/n: send me in requests i’m getting round to them all!! as always enjoy!! xxx

I remember the first time I saw her laugh so hard it nearly made her fall off the sofa. The way her eyes crinkled, the dimples that only appeared when she was truly unguarded, the way her entire being seemed to glow even in the quiet apartment where no one else could see. That night, she told me about the first time she ever scored in a professional match, how the roar of the crowd had vibrated through her chest and left her feeling taller than the sky itself.

We were sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, our legs tangled like we were trying to merge into one body. She traced the curve of my jaw with her thumb, as if memorising the weight of my smile. Happiness like that felt sacred, impossible to bottle, yet somehow I held it in my chest as if it were the most fragile treasure in existence.

Time, of course, does not let joy linger untouched. There were nights when I would wake to the sound of her breathing uneven, the kind that spoke of exhaustion, pressure, and a world that demanded more than her heart could give. I would sit by the side of the bed, brushing her hair from her forehead, whispering, “You’ve given everything, love. That’s enough.” But sometimes, even my words could not reach the parts of her mind that punished her for dreaming bigger than the rest of us dared.

We cried together once after a particularly cruel defeat. She had scored a goal that should have turned the match, yet we lost by a fraction. I had never seen someone so alive and broken at the same time. She pressed her forehead to mine, tears soaking into my shoulder, whispering, “I hate losing, but I hate feeling like I’m letting everyone down even more.” I held her as if I could keep the world from collapsing, and for a while, we simply breathed together in silence, letting our hearts beat in tandem over the ruin of our shared disappointment.

But even amidst heartbreak, there were moments that stitched themselves into memory. Sunday mornings when the city was quiet, when she would make coffee just the way I liked it — a splash too much milk, a hint of vanilla — and hand it to me with a crooked grin, waiting for me to tease her about her perfectionism. Or walks along the river, where she would pause every few steps to point out a bird, a ripple in the water, a fleeting light across the rooftops. In those minutes, the world softened. The weight of everything else lifted. And love became tangible, something I could see in her eyes and feel pressing into my chest like the softest armor.

We danced once in the kitchen during a thunderstorm. She had no music playing; we didn’t need it. The rain tapped a rhythm on the windows, and we laughed as our shoes slipped on the tiles. I remember thinking then, as her hand held mine and her forehead rested against my shoulder, that if life ended right there, I could die happy. And yet, I didn’t know that life would test us further.

There were arguments, too — small at first, but they grew in intensity, fueled by the pressures of her career and my own fears of losing her to a world that demanded her brilliance. One evening, I said something careless, and her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes reflecting a sadness I could not reach immediately. She stormed out, leaving me standing in the kitchen, heart hammering, realizing the fragility of happiness when words are wielded carelessly. That night, I sat on the windowsill, staring at the empty street, replaying every moment, every syllable, wishing I could take back my misstep and rewrite the hurt with tenderness.

Yet love, I learned, is never perfect, and perhaps its beauty lies in the imperfection. The next morning, she returned, not with anger, but with a quiet courage that softened the night’s wounds. She brought coffee and croissants, placing them gently on the counter as if to say: We survived the storm. We are still here. I took her hand and held it as we sat together, knowing that these small acts — the gentle forgiveness, the willingness to stay — were the threads that wove our hearts closer than ever.

One evening, we watched the sunset from the roof of our building. The sky burned in streaks of orange and violet. She rested her head on my shoulder, murmuring that the sky reminded her of the first time she had won a championship — how fleeting triumph felt against the permanence of memory. I pressed a kiss to her temple, whispering, “We have each other, and that’s longer than any trophy lasts.”

The happy moments, the sorrowful ones, the arguments, the laughter — they were all part of the same tapestry. I saw her not just as the athlete the world adored, but as the person who loved fiercely, who feared, who cried, who laughed with abandon. In her presence, I felt fully alive, fully human.

And in the quiet of one particularly golden afternoon, when the world seemed to pause just for us, she whispered, “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but here.”

I smiled through tears, my heart shattering and soaring all at once. “Nor would I.”

There is no perfect love, no flawless life, but there is this: the way we hold each other through storms, the way we laugh when the clouds break, the way our hearts recognize one another even after darkness falls. And in that recognition, we are home.

Because in the end, happiness and sorrow are not opposites but companions. And with her hand in mine, I know I will weather every storm and treasure every sunbeam — because love like this, fleeting and eternal all at once, is everything.

After that evening on the rooftop, we didn’t speak for a long while about the arguments we’d had, the nights we’d spent on opposite sides of the city, silently replaying words that had cut too deep. Instead, we let the small gestures speak: a hand reaching for mine while making breakfast, a shared glance across a crowded room, the way our shoulders would brush as we walked side by side. Those moments were quiet, almost imperceptible, but they stitched the frayed edges of us back together.

One Saturday, we decided to go to the old park near the river — the one she had loved as a child. The trees were heavy with blossoms, petals drifting in the wind like delicate snow. She ran ahead, laughing, the sound carrying across the water. I followed, slower, savoring every movement, every curve of her stride. When I finally reached her, she had stopped by the swing set, her hands outstretched. “Come on,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Pretend you’re a kid again.”

I climbed into the swing opposite hers, and we pushed off gently, back and forth, feeling the ground slip away and the sky widen above us. For a few minutes, there was no pressure, no expectations, no fear of failing. Just us. The wind tangled our hair together, and I realized that happiness — the pure, effortless kind — often came in such fleeting bursts. But fleeting didn’t make it any less real.

Later, when the sun was setting and painting the clouds in shades of pink and gold, we lay on the grass side by side, shoulders touching, hands intertwined. She traced patterns on my palm with her thumb, her voice soft and low. “Do you ever think about the future?”

I turned to her. “All the time,” I said. “Mostly with you in it.”

She smiled, a quiet, almost shy curve of lips. “Even if it’s hard?”

“Especially if it’s hard,” I whispered.

There were nights, though, when the weight of her career pressed on us again. She would return from training, exhausted, and I would sense the storm brewing behind her eyes. One night, I made the mistake of asking if she wanted to talk about the match we had just lost. She flinched, her jaw tightening. “I just want to be left alone,” she said. I nodded, staying close, letting her lean against me as silence settled around us like a blanket. Sometimes love isn’t about solving problems; sometimes it’s about holding the other person steady until the storm passes.

And then there were the moments that shattered me in the best way — the times she would look at me after a long day, her eyes soft, tired, and vulnerable, and say, “I couldn’t do this without you.” The words were simple, but they carried more weight than any trophy or goal ever could. Those moments reminded me that love isn’t always loud or dramatic; sometimes it’s quiet, steady, unshakable.

One afternoon, we went back to the rooftop where we had watched the sunset. This time, we brought a blanket and a thermos of tea. The city stretched below us, warm and golden, humming with life. I leaned my head against her shoulder and sighed. “I don’t want to forget days like this.”

She kissed my temple. “You won’t. We’ll make more.”

And we did. We filled our days with ordinary magic: making breakfast together, walking barefoot in the kitchen while laughing at spilled coffee, dancing in the living room when a song came on that reminded us of the first time we met. Even the arguments became part of the rhythm — brief storms that passed and left the sky clearer, teaching us patience, forgiveness, and the value of staying even when it’s hard.

On one particularly quiet evening, after a long week of travel and training, she pressed her forehead against mine and whispered, “I think I’ve learned something.”

“What’s that?” I asked, my heart already full, anticipating the truth in her eyes.

“That even when the world is heavy, even when we falter, even when we lose… love like ours can still be the light we come home to.”

I held her tighter, breathing in the scent of her hair, the softness of her cheek, the warmth of her heart. “Then we’ll never stop fighting for it,” I said.

She smiled, and it was a small thing, but it made my chest ache in the way only love can — a sweet, bittersweet ache that reminds you that everything we have is worth the trials, worth the pain, worth the moments that make us feel like we might break.

And as the city lights began to twinkle below us, I knew this for certain: we would survive every storm, cherish every laughter, and hold each other through every heartbreak. Life would always be a mixture of joy and sorrow, but with her hand in mine, every day became a masterpiece.

Because love, real and fierce, doesn’t erase sadness — it transforms it. It turns every tear into a seed of hope, every argument into a lesson, and every fleeting moment of happiness into a memory that can carry you through the darkest night.

And in the quiet of that evening, as we watched the last light fade into a gentle darkness, we held each other, hearts beating in unison, and smiled.

We were home.

[userwosoxxx]

could you write something for pernille harder? Preferably angst where reader and P is married and they make up after a big fight thanks

The Weight Of One Word • P. Harder

pairing: pernille harder x reader

word count: 2.4k

summary: one careless sentence, spoken in anger nearly tore apart the love of a lifetime; but sometimes, even the deepest wounds can lead back to eachother.

a/n: i hope this is okay for you!! as always the requests are open and i’m getting round to them all i promise!! send more in… requests are open. and as always, enjoy!! xxx

Y/N’s POV:

It started with the sound of rain on the bus windows.

A thin, unbroken rhythm, like a pulse that refused to die. No one spoke. No one even looked up. The smell of grass, sweat, and heartbreak clung to our clothes like punishment.

We had lost.

Not just a game. The game — the one that was supposed to prove we were still who we thought we were. The one that would erase every doubt, every headline. Instead, it stripped us bare.

Pernille sat three seats ahead, her headphones on, eyes fixed on the black glass of the window. Even from behind, I could feel the tremor in her shoulders — that quiet, dangerous stillness she gets when she’s fighting herself.

When we finally reached home, the sky was a bruise.

Neither of us turned on the lights.

I followed her inside, the click of the door locking sounding louder than it should. She tossed her bag to the floor and stood there, breathing hard, as if the house itself were shrinking around her.

“I missed two chances,” she said, her voice rough. “Two.”

“Everyone missed something,” I whispered.

Her laugh came out sharp, bitter. “Don’t do that, Y/N. Don’t say what people say when they’re trying to make it better.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” She turned to me, eyes bright with fury and grief. “You don’t get it. You never do.”

The words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t true.

I stepped closer. “I get it more than anyone.”

“Then why,” she said, voice rising, “did you let them through? You were right there.”

The air left my lungs.

Her accusation fell between us like lightning — silent for a moment, then everywhere at once.

I could see she regretted it the second it left her mouth, but it was too late.

Her lips parted. “Wait, I didn’t mean—”

But I’d already heard the rest of it, the one sentence she hadn’t said yet, the one that sat behind her eyes.

“You made us lose.”

The words were not loud. They didn’t need to be. They split something open inside me anyway.

I looked at her — the woman I’d built my world around — and for the first time, I couldn’t find her in the room. Just a stranger drowning in her own anger.

“Say it again,” I said, my voice steady, terrifying even to me.

She froze. “No, I—”

“Say it again, so I can stop wondering if you meant it.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but I couldn’t stay to watch them fall. I walked past her, the echo of my footsteps following me down the hallway.

“Elskede, please,” she whispered. “Don’t go.”

But I was already gone.

The night air hit me like cold glass as I stepped outside. I didn’t take the car. I just walked — through the sleeping streets, through the storm that had been waiting for us since we left the stadium. The rain soaked through my jacket, my jeans, my heart.

By the time I reached my mother’s house, dawn was beginning to smear the sky with grey.

She opened the door without a word, saw my face, and simply held me.

There’s a kind of crying that doesn’t make a sound — the kind that lives in your throat and burns behind your eyes. That’s the one I did.

When I woke up later, the house smelled of coffee and rain. My mother left me a note on the table: She called. I didn’t answer.

I sat there for a long time, staring at that line. Half of me wanted to throw my phone into the sea. The other half wanted to run home and fall into her arms.

But pride is a heavy thing to carry. It digs into your shoulders and tells you that forgiveness is weakness. So I stayed.

Pernille’s POV:

The first day without her feels like a room with no air.

The second day feels worse.

I train alone, though every movement echoes with her absence — her laugh behind the drills, her hand brushing mine between sprints, the sound of her breath when we collapse side by side on the grass. The field is the same, but I am not.

At night, I replay it again: the moment the words left my mouth. You made us lose.

How small they sounded. How huge they became.

I didn’t mean them.

That’s the thing about anger — it’s never about the person standing in front of you. It’s about the mirror they hold. That was my wife. My everything. She’s the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. She’s the one I vowed to love and protect with my whole heart and soul.

I drive before I can talk myself out of it. The highway hums under the tires; every sign looks like a chance to turn back. I don’t.

When I reach her mother’s house, it’s mid-afternoon. The rain has stopped, but the air still smells of it. My hands tremble on the steering wheel. In the passenger seat lies the bouquet — wildflowers, the kind she loves. Not arranged, just gathered. Real.

I knock.

Her mother opens the door. Her eyes soften the moment she sees me. “She’s in the garden,” she says quietly.

The path is lined with lavender and rosemary. At the end of it, she was sitting on the old wooden bench, her hair pulled back, the same blue sweatshirt she wears when she wants to disappear.

She hears my footsteps and turns. Her face is calm, but her eyes — those clear, steadfast eyes — hold everything.

I stop a few feet away, clutching the flowers like a shield.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” I start. My voice shakes. “I was angry, and scared, and—”

“—and human,” she finishes softly.

I swallow. “I hurt you. The one person who never deserved it.”

She looks down at her hands. “You think saying sorry fixes it?”

“No.” I kneel in front of her, the damp grass cold against my knees. “I think it’s the only thing I can do before I learn how to make it right.”

She exhales — a sound between a sigh and a sob. “You know what that sentence did?” she asks. “It made me wonder if all the years I spent protecting you on the pitch meant nothing. If the way we fight for each other stops the second the whistle blows.”

“Don’t say that,” I whisper. “You’re the reason I ever fight at all.”

Silence. The kind that holds the weight of everything said and unsaid. Then she reaches out, hesitant, her fingers brushing the edge of the bouquet.

“Wildflowers,” she murmurs.

“Because they survive anywhere,” I say. “Even after storms.”

Her lips twitch — the ghost of a smile. “That’s very you.”

“I was hoping it could be us.”

Something in her breaks then. The wall, the distance — all of it. She stands, and before I can breathe, her arms are around me. The flowers tumble between us, petals crushed against our chests.

She smells like home.

“I’m still angry,” she whispers into my neck.

“I know.”

“I still love you.”

I pull back just enough to see her face, to trace the tears that have carved tiny rivers down her cheeks. “That’s why I came.”

We stand there in the quiet garden, the sky pale and kind above us, and the world finally feels like it’s starting to breathe again.

Later, we sit on the bench, shoulder to shoulder. She picks a stray petal from her sleeve and turns it between her fingers. “Next time we lose,” she says, “promise we lose together.”

“Always,” I tell her.

Her hand finds mine, warm, steady. I bring her hand to my mouth, settling a kiss on her left ring finger, on the ring that glistened, as if reflecting forever. “I meant everything I said that day at the alter. We win together, we lose together too.” She smiled at me. A real smile. That soft cheesy grin which could brighten the darkest room.

The air smells of lavender and rain. Somewhere inside the house, her mother hums a song through the open window. It’s soft, distant — like forgiveness itself.

And just like that, the weight lifts.

Not all at once, but enough to make space for light.

[userwosoxxx]

could you write something about ona batlle losing the euros and reader comforts her?

Silver Doesn’t Rust • O. Battle

pairing: ona battle x reader

word count: 2.6k

a/n: another request!! remember they are always open!! let me know what you would like to see!! as always, enjoy!! xxx

The silence after the final whistle is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.

It doesn’t come like a wave; it collapses like a ceiling. One moment there’s noise — a roar, a storm of red and gold, chants turned into ashes midair — and then the world exhales, empties, and the stadium becomes a hollow chest still aching with the echo of its own heartbeat.

We lost.

I know it before I look at the scoreboard. I know it in the ache that blooms between my ribs, in the stillness of Ona’s shoulders as she stands a few meters away, staring at the grass like it betrayed her. Her hands are on her hips, her mouth trembling in that way I’ve only seen when she’s holding in tears — never for herself, always for others. But tonight, the weight is hers, and I can feel it pulling both of us down.

There’s confetti for them. Blue and white. It falls over us, too, though it shouldn’t. It clings to Ona’s hair, catches on her cheek, turns her tears into something almost holy.

Someone calls my name — I don’t know who. Everything sounds far away, like I’m underwater. I take a step forward, then another, because standing still feels like surrender, and I’ve never been good at letting go.

She turns slightly when I reach her. Her eyes — those impossibly soft, fiercely guarded eyes — are rimmed red, not from crying, but from fighting not to.

“Ona,” I whisper, because her name feels like a prayer.

She doesn’t answer, not with words. She looks at me, and that’s enough. There’s a kind of collapse that happens quietly — a shattering you can only see if you’re close enough to hear it. I see it now. The final, invisible break of her composure, the tiny tremor in her breath.

“We were so close,” she finally says. Her voice cracks like thin ice.

I nod, though the truth burns on my tongue — close means nothing in finals. It’s a word for people who get to move on. For us, it’s a wound that never quite heals.

She swallows hard, staring at the pitch as if the answers are written somewhere in the blades of grass. “I thought this was it. Our year.”

“It was,” I say, though it sounds like a lie even to me.

The others move around us, ghosts of red jerseys in the dim light. Cameras flash like lightning, cruel and unrelenting. I want to shield her from it all — from the lenses, from the world, from the echo of a dream undone. But all I can do is stand beside her.

And sometimes that’s enough.

When she finally lets out a sob — quiet, strangled, desperate — it’s like the stadium exhales with her. My body moves before my mind catches up. My arm finds her shoulder, my hand curls at the back of her neck, and I pull her in. She doesn’t resist. She never does, not with me.

Her forehead presses into my collarbone. Her breath shudders against my skin.

“I should have done more,” she whispers, the words trembling like they’ve been waiting all night to escape.

“You did everything,” I tell her.

But she shakes her head, and I feel the denial run through her body like lightning through a tree. “No. I could’ve stopped that cross. If I’d been half a step—”

“Ona.” My voice breaks, softer than I intend. “You can’t rewrite it.”

“I keep trying.”

“I know.”

And I do. Because I’ve seen her fight ghosts before. I’ve watched her replay mistakes until dawn, whispering apologies into the darkness like it can forgive her.

I tighten my grip on her. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then whose was it?” she asks, the question cracking open between us like thunder.

I don’t answer. Some questions don’t want answers. They just want to be held.

So I hold her.

Time blurs. Minutes dissolve into something infinite and unbearably fragile. The crowd’s celebration fades, replaced by the low hum of a world still turning without us.

Someone calls for team photos. Medals. Protocol. But Ona doesn’t move, and neither do I.

She finally lifts her head, eyes glassy under the floodlights. “You should go,” she says, though her voice falters at the edges.

“I’m not leaving you.”

Her lips part, trembling like she wants to argue — then close again.

“You’ll get in trouble,” she murmurs.

“Let them try.”

That earns me the ghost of a smile. It’s small, exhausted, but real. I’d trade every trophy in the world for it.

We walk off the pitch together, the roar behind us fading into memory. The locker room smells of defeat — sweat and silence and the kind of sadness that has weight. No one speaks. No one needs to.

Ona sinks onto the bench, her hands shaking as she unties her boots. One lace snaps, and she just stares at it, like it’s the final straw.

I kneel beside her, my fingers brushing hers. “Let me.”

She doesn’t protest. I untie the other boot for her, slow and careful, like I’m undoing grief itself. The silence between us isn’t empty — it’s heavy, full of everything we can’t say.

When I look up, her eyes meet mine again. There’s so much in them — pain, exhaustion, something softer hiding underneath.

“I hate losing,” she whispers.

“I know.”

Her lip trembles. “It feels like… like I lost a piece of myself out there.”

“You didn’t,” I say. “You gave it.”

Her breath catches.

“Sometimes,” I continue, “the giving is the winning. Even when the world doesn’t see it.”

She doesn’t reply, but she leans forward until her forehead rests against mine. It’s a fragile contact, trembling with everything unspoken.

In that moment, the world stops being about football. It stops being about medals or mistakes or what-ifs. It’s just us — two people who have carried each other through every storm, standing on the edge of another one.

Her breath warms the space between us. My heart is loud enough to drown the silence.

I could tell her now — all the words I’ve hidden behind laughter, behind passing drills, behind the safety of almost. But it feels wrong to speak love into a wound still bleeding. So I stay quiet.

Instead, I whisper, “You’re not alone.”

She nods, barely. A single tear slips down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb before it falls.

For the first time all night, she lets out a small, broken laugh. “You always say the right thing.”

I smile — tired, aching, real. “No. Just the true thing.”

She exhales, long and trembling. “Stay?”

“I’m here.”

And I mean it.

When the rest of the team leaves, when the staff pack up, when the world moves on — we stay. Two silhouettes under the hum of fluorescent light, still wearing the weight of a dream undone.

She leans into me, her head resting against my shoulder, and I feel her finally — finally — let go. Not of the loss. Not of the pain. But of the idea that she has to carry it alone.

And I hold her tighter, because that’s all I can give tonight.

The bus ride back to the hotel is a quiet kind of hell.

No one speaks above a whisper, and even the engine seems to understand it should grieve with us. The reflection of the city lights flickers across the windows like ghosts — blue, gold, fleeting.

Ona sits across from me, hood up, gaze fixed on the floor. Her hands are clasped so tightly together her knuckles have gone white. I want to reach out, to pry them open, to let her rest for a moment — but the space between us feels sacred, too fragile to cross without breaking something.

Every so often, she looks up and catches me watching her. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. Grief has its own language, and we’ve become fluent.

When we finally arrive at the hotel, it’s past midnight. The halls are dim, the air heavy with the smell of chlorine and disinfectant. Doors close quietly as teammates retreat into rooms to mourn in private.

Ona lingers in the corridor, her hand resting on the wall like she needs it to stay upright. I stop beside her.

“You should sleep,” I say softly.

“I can’t.”

“Neither can I.”

We stand there, suspended in the kind of silence that hums. The kind that feels like it’s trying to tell you something if only you’d stop breathing long enough to listen.

Then she says it, so quietly I almost miss it:

“Will you come with me?”

I nod before my heart can catch up.

Her room is small, the kind of sterile that only hotels can manage — white sheets, white walls, one lamp still flickering from a bulb that’s trying to die. Her bag is half-unzipped, boots tossed in the corner like she couldn’t bear to look at them anymore.

She sits on the bed and stares at her hands. I close the door and lean against it, not sure if I’m guarding her from the world or myself.

After a moment, she looks up. “Do you ever feel like… if you lose one thing, you start losing everything else too?”

I take a step closer. “Yes.”

Her voice trembles. “I feel like that now.”

And that’s when something inside me breaks — not in the way things shatter, but in the way ice melts. Slowly, quietly, completely.

I cross the room. I sit beside her. I don’t speak — words are too small for what this is. Instead, I take her hand. She lets me. Her fingers are cold, trembling faintly, like she’s been holding her sadness for too long and it’s started to seep into her skin.

We stay like that for a long time — no clock, no noise, just the quiet thud of our hearts against the dark.

Then she says, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not winning.”

I turn toward her. “You’re Ona Battle,” I say. “The girl who runs until her lungs forget how to breathe. The one who laughs so hard she cries. The one who saves everyone else before herself.”

Her throat moves. “And who am I when I can’t save anyone?”

“You’re still you,” I whisper. “You’re still everything.”

The lamp flickers again, and in that frail golden light I see it — the exhaustion in her eyes, the quiet plea buried beneath her sadness.

I reach out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. My fingers tremble when they touch her skin, but she doesn’t pull away. She just closes her eyes, like my hand is something she’s been waiting for without realizing it.

“Y/N,” she breathes.

It’s the first time she’s said my name all night, and it’s enough to undo me.

Her eyes open — glassy, searching. “Why do you always stay?”

I could lie. I could tell her it’s what friends do. I could hide behind the easy answer. But something about the way she’s looking at me — raw, stripped of everything but truth — makes lying impossible.

“Because I don’t know how to be anywhere you’re not,” I say.

The words hang in the air, trembling between us. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then — a tiny sound escapes her throat, something like a sob and a sigh combined.

She leans forward until her forehead rests against mine again, like it did in the locker room. But this time, it’s different. This time, the silence isn’t just grief. It’s everything we’ve been afraid to name.

Her breath brushes against my lips, a whisper away from something irreversible. And for a heartbeat — one wild, dangerous heartbeat — I think she might close the distance.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she pulls back just enough to look at me, her expression soft and devastating. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I might start believing them.”

I smile, even as my chest tightens. “Maybe you should.”

Her eyes shine — not from tears now, but from something gentler, something fragile and bright. She shakes her head, but her fingers find mine again, threading together like they belong there.

We sit in silence, hands intertwined, as the night drags itself across the window. Outside, the city hums — cars, distant laughter, a siren that fades into nothing. Inside, the air feels sacred, like the moment before dawn when the world is about to start over.

Eventually, her head finds my shoulder. Her breathing slows. She doesn’t fall asleep — not really — but her body softens against mine, like she’s finally allowed herself to rest.

I watch her in the dim light — the soft lines of her face, the faint shimmer of confetti still tangled in her hair. She’s heartbreak and beauty and strength all at once. And in that moment, I realize something simple and impossible: I love her.

Not the way you love someone who scores the winning goal or lifts a trophy. But the way you love something you’ve survived with — the way you love the one person who reminds you that even in losing, there can still be light.

I don’t tell her. I just stay.

At some point, dawn begins to stretch its fingers across the curtains. The first light touches her cheek, turning the remnants of her tears into something golden. She stirs, blinking sleepily, then looks up at me.

“Did you stay up all night?” she asks, voice rough.

“Someone had to make sure you didn’t disappear,” I say, smiling softly.

She laughs, low and tired. “I think I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

She nods. “Because of you?”

“Because of you,” I correct.

She smiles — the real kind this time, small but fierce, the kind that could build something new from ashes.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“For what?”

“For not letting the silence win.”

The words lodge somewhere deep inside me, in that sacred space where love and pain blur into one.

Outside, the world is waking — sunlight spilling over the rooftops, buses starting their day. Inside, we are still. Two people, one heartbreak, and the smallest, brightest flicker of something worth holding on to.

When she finally stands, stretching, she looks different. Not healed, not fixed — but alive. And maybe that’s enough.

She walks to the window, pulls the curtain open. Light floods the room, spilling over the white sheets, over her hair, over the medals still lying on the table — silver, but shining like gold.

She turns back to me, eyes soft. “Coffee?”

It’s the simplest word in the world, but it sounds like hope.

I grin, standing to join her. “Only if you make it.”

“Deal.”

And as we walk out into the fragile morning, shoulder to shoulder, I realize that maybe the real victory isn’t on the pitch. Maybe it’s this — surviving the loss, finding each other in the ruins, and choosing to stay.

Because sometimes love doesn’t arrive with fireworks or declarations. Sometimes it comes quietly — in the silence after the final whistle, in the touch that steadies you, in the morning that still dares to begin.

And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

[userwosoxxx]

could you write something for aitana?

Warm Hands, Warm Hearts • A.B

pairing: aitana bonmati x female!reader

a/n: i hope this is okay!!

The city was quiet that morning, the kind of soft, golden light that seemed to wrap itself around everything it touched. Y/N stepped off the tram, pulling her tiny coat tighter around herself, and saw Aitana already waiting outside the little coffee shop on the corner. She was leaning against the brick wall, hair caught in the sunlight, eyes scanning the street with that calm, focused expression that made everyone believe she could run through storms and still stay untouchable.

Y/N’s chest tightened. That expression had softened for her before, countless times, and every time it did, it felt like gravity shifted. Like somehow, the world got smaller, warmer, centered entirely on the way her smile reached her eyes.

“Hey,” Y/N said, a little breathless from walking too fast, hands shoved into her coat pockets.

Aitana’s lips curved gently. “Hi amor,” she replied, voice low and steady, carrying that quiet certainty that had always made Y/N feel safe. “I got us a table inside. It’s still cold out here.”

Y/N laughed, a little soft, a little nervous. “You really think about everything, huh?”

Aitana’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ve learned to. For you.”

“Aren’t you charming,” Y/N flirted, to which Aitana lightly slapped her arm.

Inside, the shop smelled of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon, warm enough to thaw the cold from Y/N’s fingers as Aitana slid into the seat across from her. Aitana ordered both their drinks, remembering her order since the first time meeting her back in 2023, and for a moment, there was a quiet that felt like peace itself — two people just sitting, breathing, letting the world pause around them.

Y/N stirred her latte, watching the steam curl into the air. “I like these mornings,” she said quietly. “No schedules, no deadlines, no football… just us.”

Aitana reached across the table, fingers brushing against hers, warm and steady. “I like them too,” she said, in her half-good, half absolutely awful english which never failed to make the both of them giggle. The way her thumb traced the back of Y/N’s hand made it feel like sunlight inside her chest. “It’s easy to forget, sometimes, how small moments like this matter. But they do. More than anything else.”

Y/N felt her heart swell. “I used to think that love had to be grand. Big gestures, fireworks, the impossible.”

“And now?” Aitana asked, tilting her head, watching them closely.

“Now I know,” Y/N said, her voice soft, “it’s in coffee shops, warm hands, quiet smiles… it’s in the way you look at me like I’m the only person in the room.”

Aitana’s chest tightened slightly at that. “That’s because you are. For me, at least.”

They laughed softly together, the kind of laugh that lingers, leaving a warmth behind long after it fades. Outside, the city moved on, people rushing past, the tram clanging in the distance, but inside that little coffee shop, the air seemed to glow. Two hearts, quiet and steady, meeting in the middle of a world that often felt too fast.

After coffee, they walked hand in hand, letting fingers lace like puzzle pieces finally found. Aitana carried Y/N’s small coat over her arm, teasing, “You know, I could carry you too, but I’d have to pick you up first.”

Y/N laughed, pretending to pout. “Oh, I see. You want to embarrass me in public?”

Aitana stopped, lifted Y/N gently by the elbows, and pulled her close. “No. I just want you to know that I could. And I’d do it every single day if it made you smile.”

The city faded around them, leaving only the warmth of hands entwined, hearts brushing against one another, laughter spilling quietly into the streets. Y/N rested her head against Aitana’s shoulder and whispered, “You make ordinary feel like magic.”

“And you,” Aitana said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s face, “make me want to be better, every single day.”

And for a moment, in that simple, tender exchange, the world was everything they had ever wanted — soft, unhurried, full of love, and impossibly, gloriously theirs.

Although their bubble was soon popped by the sound of a bike bell. “Lo siento!” Y/N called, cheeks turning inevitably ruby red with embarrassment. With that both women erupted into a fit of laughter.

Y/N and Aitana strolled down the quiet cobblestone streets, the late-morning sunlight casting long, soft shadows. Y/N couldn’t stop grinning, eyes darting up at Aitana with that mischievous spark that always made her laugh

“You’re awfully quiet for someone who said mornings like this matter,” Y/N teased, nudging her shoulder.

Aitana chuckled, looping her arm through Y/N’s. “Maybe I just like listening to you talk. Or maybe I’m plotting my next move.”

Y/N tilted their head, suspicious. “Plotting, huh? Should I be worried?”

Aitana smirked, leaning down so their foreheads nearly touched. “Depends. Do you trust me?”

“Hmm,” Y/N said, pretending to think, though their heart was already racing. “I… might.”

“That’s good enough,” Aitana said, and before Y/N could react, she slipped her hand into hers, fingers intertwining perfectly. The warmth of her touch made Y/N melt inside, a quiet flutter spreading through her chest.

They passed a small flower stall, and Aitana stopped, picking a tiny lavender blossom and tucking it behind Y/N’s ear. “There,” she said with a grin. “You look… dangerous now.”

Y/N laughed, swatting at her gently. “Dangerous? Really?”

“Absolutely,” Aitana replied, brushing a thumb over Y/N’s cheek. “Anyone who can tease me like you… yeah. Dangerous.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the word, and she couldn’t resist leaning closer, nose brushing Aitana’s. “And you,” she whispered, “are completely impossible.”

Aitana’s grin widened. “Only for you,” she said, leaning in for a soft, teasing kiss that made Y/N’s knees feel like jelly. When she pulled back slightly, her eyes glimmered with amusement and affection. “See? That’s how I put you in your place.”

Y/N pouted playfully. “Hmm… I think I like being put in my place.”

Aitana laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible,” she said, tugging Y/N gently toward a nearby park. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They walked along the tree-lined path, fingers still entwined, and Y/N couldn’t resist leaning into her again. “Do you ever think about how perfect this is?”

“Every day,” Aitana said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s face. “Even when the world gets messy, when football gets busy, when there’s long weeks at camp, I remember moments like this… and it reminds me why I fight for everything I do. For us.”

Y/N’s chest tightened at the words, and without thinking, she pressed their lips to Aitana’s again—longer this time, warmer, more playful. Aitana responded immediately, her hands resting lightly on Y/N’s waist, holding them close without force, her smile never leaving her lips.

When she finally pulled back, Y/N rested her forehead against hers, grinning. “You know… I could get used to this. Being spoiled and teased and… well… loved like this.”

Aitana brushed her nose against Y/N’s, soft and tender. “Good. Because I plan to do it forever.”

And as they wandered further down the quiet streets, laughing and stealing small kisses, the city seemed to shrink around them, leaving only sunlight, warmth, and the kind of love that felt like home—messy, teasing, joyful, and endless.

[userwosoxxx]

B & B- Brat and Boss • J.H

pairing: jenni hermoso x female!brat!reader

summary: jenni’s girl can be a little “off the rails” sometimes, but jenni doesn’t have to do a lot to make her behave

a/n: something new!! someone new!! who’s next??!!

Jenni was a force of nature. On the pitch, she moved like a storm—quick, precise, unstoppable. The kind of player who demanded respect without even speaking, whose presence alone made opponents falter. Off the pitch, she was no different: confident, decisive, and somehow always in control.

Y/N, on the other hand, was chaos wrapped in a smile. A little bratty, a little mischievous, and always ready to tease Jenni at the worst possible moment. She knew exactly how to push buttons—pulling hair, stealing snacks, leaving notes on the fridge—but she never expected to meet someone who could match her wit… and then completely shut her down.

It happened one evening after practice. Jenni had been running drills until her legs screamed, hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, her uniform damp and tired-looking—but even like that, she radiated authority. Y/N bounced into the locker room, grin wide, holding two energy drinks.

“Thought you might need a pick-me-up,” Y/N said, flopping onto the bench beside her.

Jenni raised an eyebrow, towel slung over her shoulder. “You do know I’ve been running for two hours straight, right?”

“Yeah, and I thought I’d make it fun for you,” Y/N said, nudging her shoulder playfully.

Jenni let out a slow sigh and knelt in front of her, fixing Y/N with a stare that could melt steel. “Y/N,” she said, her voice calm but firm, “fun is great. But there’s a time for teasing, and there’s a time for… not tripping over your own feet in the middle of the locker room.”

Y/N pouted, pretending to be offended, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “I was just—”

“—being annoying. I know.” Jenni’s smile softened slightly, but the edge remained. “And I told you—when I tell you to behave, you behave.”

Y/N groaned, flopping dramatically onto her side. “You’re so bossy.”

“And you love it,” Jenni said, standing and holding out a hand. Y/N hesitated, then accepted it. Jenni pulled her up effortlessly, steadying her with a firmness that was equal parts discipline and affection. “You need structure, brat. Trust me.”

Y/N huffed, still smiling, and leaned into Jenni. “Fine… maybe I do.”

Jenni’s grin softened, her fingers brushing through Y/N’s hair. “Good. Because whether it’s on the pitch or off, I’ve got this. And you—well, you’re lucky I like bratty girls.”

Y/N laughed, a mixture of surrender and joy. “Guess I am.”

Jenni kissed her forehead, strong and steady. “Always.”

Later that night at home, Y/N grinned mischievously as she leaned against the doorframe of the living room, arms crossed. “You know, I think you’re overreacting.”

Jenni, standing by the kitchen counter with a stack of laundry, didn’t look up. “Am I?” she asked, voice calm but sharp, like a referee about to blow the whistle.

“Oh, come on,” Y/N said, bouncing on her heels. “I only borrowed your headphones. You don’t need to give me that look.”

Jenni finally turned, eyebrows raised, her arms folding over her chest. “Borrowed?” she repeated slowly, stepping closer. “You stole them.”

Y/N bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “It’s just music, Jenni. You have plenty.”

Jenni shook her head, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Plenty doesn’t mean you take what’s mine, brat.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but couldn’t hide the sparkle in them. “Maybe I like being a brat,” she teased, inching closer.

Jenni’s smile turned sly. Before Y/N could take another step, Jenni closed the gap in one confident stride. Her hand shot out to pin Y/N gently but firmly against the wall, their faces only inches apart. “Oh really?” she murmured, eyes darkening playfully.

Y/N’s heart raced, but she didn’t back down. “Mmm… maybe,” she said, grinning up at Jenni.

Jenni shook her head, amused, leaning in closer. “You think being cheeky gets you out of trouble?”

Y/N shrugged, lips twitching. “It’s worth a try.”

Then Jenni did something Y/N hadn’t expected — a quick, teasing kiss right on the lips, soft but full of authority. Y/N froze for half a second, then melted into it, laughing quietly against Jenni’s mouth.

Pulling back just enough to smirk, Jenni whispered, “Lesson one: being bratty has its consequences.”

Y/N huffed, laughing. “And lesson two?”

Jenni grinned, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s face. “Lesson two: you’re lucky I think you’re adorable when you’re insufferable.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but this time, she stayed pressed against Jenni, letting her dominant, confident presence sweep over her. “Fine,” she said with a smirk. “I’ll behave… for now.”

Jenni chuckled, pressing her forehead against Y/N’s. “That’s a good girl.”

“Ew Jen!! shut up!” And with that Y/N spun on the balls of her feet and walked towards the stairs.

“You won’t be saying that later cariño,” Jenni remarked playfully with a feathered kiss to Y/N’s cheek.

With rosy red cheeks Y/N ran up the stairs quicker than ever before. What a night she was in for.

[userwosoxxx]

Between Shadows And Stars

Alexia Putellas X Reader

Word Count: Too many xxx

The afternoon sun filtered through the amber leaves of the old city park, dusting the cobblestones in gold. The world moved with a gentle rhythm, oblivious to the stories about to intertwine within it. Alexia Putellas walked along the narrow path, her boots silent against the stones, her mind somewhere between the last match and the next training session. She carried herself with the quiet confidence of a captain, yet the weight of expectation often clung to her like a second skin.

And there, on a worn bench under the sprawling branches of a maple, Y/N sat sketching the trees with delicate strokes. Her hair fell in careless waves over her shoulders, and the sunlight caught a glint in her eyes that seemed to hold a thousand untold stories. There was a kind of magnetic stillness about her, a presence that made the air shift subtly, almost imperceptibly, around her.

Alexia paused, as though the world had slowed for the briefest moment. She noticed the way Y/N’s lips curved with quiet amusement at some private thought, and something in her chest twisted—an inexplicable longing, a recognition she couldn’t yet name. And Y/N, oblivious to the attention, continued to sketch, unaware of the life she had just quietly, irrevocably touched.

The first words came in a stumble, a casual question about the park, about the light, about the way the autumn wind made the leaves dance. But there was no casualness in it, only the fragile bridge between strangers that immediately hummed with something more. Alexia’s voice, normally so composed, betrayed a hint of vulnerability. Y/N looked up, and in that instant, the world shrank to the space between them.

They spoke for hours—or at least, it felt like hours—about everything and nothing: favorite songs, childhood memories, the invisible threads that connect moments of happiness. Y/N laughed with an abandon Alexia rarely saw outside the walls of her home, and Alexia, for the first time in weeks, felt the tension in her shoulders melt, replaced with a warmth she didn’t know she had been craving.

The omniscient eye noticed the small miracles in their meeting. A loose leaf fell, landing at Y/N’s sketchbook as if nature itself conspired to mark the occasion. Alexia’s hand brushed against hers briefly when she reached to pick it up, and the touch lingered, a spark that traveled through the quiet spaces of the park, binding their hearts in a delicate, invisible thread.

And yet, beneath the laughter, beneath the bright shimmer of something new, there was a shadow neither could see. A shadow that belonged to Y/N alone, hidden beneath her smile, tucked behind her jokes, in the way she sometimes flinched when the sunlight caught her too sharply, or when fatigue pressed against her bones. But in this moment, it was invisible, and that was exactly what made the connection so achingly beautiful: a fragile bloom in the midst of unseen winter.

As twilight approached, Alexia insisted on walking Y/N home. Their hands brushed again, and this time, neither recoiled. It was a hesitant, perfect entanglement of fingers, a tentative claim on the other’s existence, as though the universe itself whispered, hold on to this.

At the door, Y/N turned, a quiet question in her eyes: “Will I see you again?”

Alexia smiled, the curve of her lips tender and unguarded. “You already have,” she whispered, not knowing she meant far more than just this afternoon.

And in that instant, neither could know that this simple meeting—this stolen afternoon of laughter, leaves, and sunlight—would become a lifetime’s anchor. That the love taking root here, delicate and trembling, would grow to withstand joy, heartbreak, and the relentless march of fate itself.

Even as they parted, the omniscient world observed: a seed had been planted, one that would bloom in ways neither of them could yet imagine. And somewhere, deep beneath the surface, the universe held its breath, waiting to see how this fragile, luminous bond would endure.

The days stretched and folded into one another like soft fabric, and Alexia and Y/N discovered the subtle rhythms of each other’s worlds. Every meeting, every shared glance, became a thread weaving them closer, until their lives felt like two rivers converging, carrying laughter, secrets, and whispered confessions into a single current.

Alexia watched Y/N in the quiet mornings, the sunlight catching the dust in her hair like gold. She marveled at how effortlessly Y/N could find beauty in small things—a cracked teacup, a patch of moss, a lone pigeon strutting in the square. The way she noticed, truly noticed, made Alexia feel both grounded and weightless at the same time, as if the world were expanding just for them.

They shared breakfasts in dim cafés, the scent of coffee thick and comforting, and Alexia delighted in the little things she could do to make Y/N smile: a playful nudge when she dropped sugar in her tea, the careful way she tried to balance two spoons of whipped cream on Y/N’s plate without spilling. Y/N laughed, sometimes choked on her words, and Alexia’s chest swelled with a quiet, tender joy she could never quite articulate.

Evenings became their sacred hours. They wandered the city streets, fingers intertwined, voices low against the hum of streetlights. Y/N told stories of imaginary kingdoms, of characters that only lived on the edges of her sketchbooks, and Alexia listened with rapt attention, as though she could step into those worlds herself simply by hearing them. And sometimes, Y/N’s laughter would falter, a shadow brushing her eyes, a fleeting weariness she quickly masked with a joke or a teasing grin.

Alexia noticed these fleeting shadows, and they tightened something in her chest. She wanted to ask, to reach across the chasm she glimpsed, but Y/N’s smile stopped her. There was a fragile pride in Y/N, a determination to be light and joyful, and Alexia understood, silently, that some battles were not hers to fight. She only wanted to be there, unwavering, a steady presence in the quiet storms.

Nights were often the most intimate. Wrapped in blankets on Y/N’s balcony, the city lights stretching below them like constellations, they shared whispers that no one else would ever hear. Alexia’s hand would rest over Y/N’s, their fingers lacing together like roots of the same tree. And sometimes, in the rare quiet where words failed, their hearts spoke in rhythm, one slow beat answering the other.

It was during one of these nights that Alexia felt a shift. Y/N leaned against her, soft and warm, and murmured, almost shyly, “I could stay like this forever.” And in that simple sentence, the weight of everything—the joy, the hope, the unspoken fragility—pressed against Alexia’s heart. She held Y/N tighter, wishing fiercely that time could bend around them, that these moments could stretch on indefinitely.

The omniscient world observed them with a mixture of reverence and sorrow, for even in the most luminous joy, shadows lingered. Y/N’s steps sometimes faltered after long walks. She would gasp slightly after climbing stairs or pause a beat too long before responding to Alexia’s teasing. The symptoms were subtle, almost imperceptible, but the universe had seen them, quietly threading them into the tapestry of what was to come. Yet for now, these were small shadows, easily brushed aside by laughter, by warmth, by the extraordinary act of loving and being loved.

There were stolen afternoons of art and music, of quiet reading sessions with soft fingers brushing over worn pages. Alexia took joy in seeing Y/N come alive, the world expanding in her presence, while Y/N found in Alexia a steady anchor, a reassurance that love could exist in its purest form: patient, unyielding, and entirely devoted.

They planned small adventures—picnics in hidden gardens, wandering through markets, watching street performers with childlike awe. Y/N sketched relentlessly, her hands capturing fleeting moments that Alexia could barely articulate. And in turn, Alexia would show Y/N the magic she saw in the ordinary: the symmetry of shadows on the training ground, the curve of the stadium lights at night, the way a single blade of grass caught the first dew.

In every shared moment, the omniscient eye noticed the fragile thread of impermanence. Every laugh, every brush of fingertips, every quiet night held a hint of urgency, though neither fully acknowledged it. Love was blooming with reckless abandon, unafraid of the shadow that lingered beyond the edges of their days.

One rainy afternoon, as droplets traced rivulets down the café window, Alexia reached across the table and took Y/N’s hand. “Promise me something,” she whispered, voice low and trembling. Y/N tilted her head, her eyes reflecting both curiosity and the faintest glimmer of worry.

“Anything,” she replied.

“Promise me we’ll always find each other in the dark. No matter what comes.”

Y/N squeezed her hand, warmth and determination in that single touch. “I promise Ale,” she said, though the weight of unspoken truths pressed gently against the edges of her words.

And so, their love continued to grow, tender and ferocious all at once—a quiet, luminous fire that warmed the corners of their hearts, even as the unseen shadow of fate loomed at the periphery.

The morning had begun like any other, the city wrapped in silver mist, the streets glistening from overnight rain. Alexia arrived at Y/N’s apartment, humming a quiet tune, a playful thought in her mind about making breakfast together. But the air was different—heavier, taut with something unsaid.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, sketchbook forgotten in her lap, eyes staring beyond the walls, distant and fragile. The shadows beneath her eyes were no longer subtle. Alexia noticed it instantly, her heart tightening, the invisible thread of worry snapping taut.

“Y/N…” Alexia’s voice was low, careful, the gentle armor she always wore absent in this moment. She knelt beside her, hand hovering, unsure whether to reach or to speak first.

Y/N finally turned, her smile fragile, almost like a cracked mirror reflecting sunlight. “Alexia…” she began, and for the first time, her voice wavered, betraying the fortress she had built around herself.

“I… I went to the doctor yesterday,” she said, each word a stone dropped into a still pond. “They… they found something. Something bad.”

The words hung in the room, dense and suffocating. Alexia felt her knees weaken, the air pulled from her lungs. She wanted to speak, to soothe, to tell Y/N it would be okay—but she couldn’t lie, not to this person who had become the center of her universe.

“What… how bad?” Alexia finally asked, her hands trembling as they found Y/N’s. She held them as if she could physically anchor the fragility she sensed in her.

Y/N’s eyes glistened, the depth of her pain shining through her usual defiance. “They… they don’t think there’s a cure. It’s… terminal.”

The word hit Alexia like a blade she hadn’t seen coming. Terminal. Final. Finite. The universe seemed to pause, the city outside their window fading into silence. She could feel every heartbeat, every breath, echoing in the hollow space of sudden, unbearable reality.

For a long moment, neither spoke. They just held each other, a fierce and silent promise in the gravity of their clasped hands. Alexia felt tears burn behind her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Y/N, for all her fragility, reached up and brushed a thumb against Alexia’s cheek, grounding her.

“I didn’t want you to know like this,” Y/N whispered, voice breaking. “I wanted… I wanted to just… love you without this shadow.”

Alexia shook her head, pressing her forehead to Y/N’s. “No. We face this together. You’re not carrying it alone. I won’t let you.”

And in that shared moment of vulnerability, the omniscient world observed the intricate beauty of human resilience. Even when faced with the unbearable, love became a force both delicate and indestructible. The room, the city, the universe itself seemed to lean in, acknowledging their quiet, furious determination to clutch joy even as grief lingered at the edges.

Days that followed were a kaleidoscope of raw emotions. Joy and fear collided in bursts of laughter and sobs. Alexia insisted on small adventures despite Y/N’s fatigue—picnics in hidden gardens, quiet nights watching the stars, walks through the city streets as if trying to imprint every moment into memory. Each gesture, each stolen kiss, carried the weight of eternity.

And Y/N, for all her fear, became braver than either of them could have imagined. She drew, laughed, cried, and loved with an intensity sharpened by the knowledge of time’s impermanence. Alexia, too, discovered a fierceness she had never known: a devotion that would not yield, a tenderness that refused to shrink before the looming shadow of mortality.

One evening, they sat on Y/N’s balcony, rain tapping softly against the glass. Alexia held Y/N in her arms, feeling the rhythm of her fragile heartbeat against her own. “I don’t care how much time we have,” Alexia whispered, “I will spend every second loving you.”

Y/N pressed her face into Alexia’s chest, tears mingling with whispered laughter. “Then… we’ll make every second count,” she said.

And in the omniscient gaze, the world seemed to pause again—an eternal moment suspended between despair and love. They had been given a shadow, yes, but within that shadow, they found light sharper than they had ever known, brighter because it burned against the dark.

Yet even amidst the heartbreak, a quiet tension lingered: fate had dealt its cruel hand, but love, in its unyielding, ferocious beauty, refused to surrender. Every laugh, every touch, every glance was now a defiance against the inevitable—a sacred rebellion that bound them together with a force neither mortality nor fear could undo.

The world, to anyone else, seemed ordinary, but to Alexia and Y/N, it had transformed into a canvas painted in hues too vibrant for everyday eyes. Every sunrise was a symphony; every shared cup of tea a miracle. The ordinary became sacred because time was no longer infinite.

They spent mornings in the kitchen, Y/N humming softly while Alexia cracked eggs and stirred batter. Flour dusted the air like early morning snow, settling on their hair, their clothes, their laughter. They would chase each other with spoons of batter, playful shrieks echoing against tiled walls, and for fleeting hours, the word “illness” became inconceivable. It existed outside their orbit, a distant storm they refused to face in the glow of present love.

Afternoons brought long walks, Y/N sketching the city in quiet corners while Alexia watched, fascinated by the intensity in her eyes. Sometimes, Alexia would tease, “Are you capturing the buildings or my soul?” Y/N would grin, a spark of mischief dancing in her gaze. “A little of both,” she would reply, and the universe seemed to tilt, acknowledging the truth hidden in jest.

But shadows were never fully absent. Y/N sometimes faltered mid-step, her body protesting against the invisible weight of illness. Alexia noticed the tremor in her hand as she sketched, the faint wince when she laughed too hard, and a tight knot formed in her chest. Yet she refused to let these shadows dominate their moments. Instead, she learned to cradle Y/N in ways beyond physical touch—through patience, through understanding, through the quiet reassurance that she was not alone.

Evenings were the most tender. Wrapped in blankets on the balcony, Alexia would trace constellations in the sky, inventing stories for each one, while Y/N leaned against her shoulder, a hand resting lightly on her chest. “Do you think the stars know our story?” Y/N whispered once, voice tinged with awe and something else—an unspoken fear.

“They do,” Alexia replied, kissing her temple. “And if they don’t, we’ll tell it anyway. Loudly. Brightly. So that it echoes through eternity.”

There were moments of quiet revelation, too. One rainy night, Y/N pulled Alexia close, trembling. “I’m scared,” she admitted, voice small against the roar of the storm outside. Alexia held her tighter, heart shattering and swelling at once.

“I know,” she whispered. “And that’s okay amor. I’ll be scared with you, if you want me to. But I will never let you face this alone.”

And so they lived in dualities: laughter threaded through tears, hope tangled with fear, love entwined with fragility. Every kiss became an oath, every touch a testament, every shared glance a defiance of mortality itself. They made love fiercely, with the knowledge that each heartbeat could be borrowed, each moment a gift.

They danced in living rooms, barefoot on wooden floors, music weaving their souls together. Y/N’s laughter would float over Alexia’s shoulder like a soft ribbon, and Alexia would twirl her, whispering, “Even if tomorrow ends, tonight is ours.” And for those nights, the world ceased to matter.

Yet even in joy, reality cast a shadow. Doctors’ visits punctuated their lives, reminders of the ticking clock. The omniscient eye lingered on Y/N’s exhaustion, the faint paleness creeping over her skin, the way her smile sometimes faltered mid-laugh. But these moments never diminished the intensity of their love—they only sharpened it, made every heartbeat more sacred, every second more brilliant.

One evening, sitting by the sea, watching waves collide with rocks, Y/N rested her head on Alexia’s shoulder. “I don’t want to leave you,” she murmured, voice breaking against the tide’s roar.

Alexia pressed her cheek to Y/N’s hair, tears mingling with the salt of the ocean air. “And you won’t,” she said firmly. “No matter what. I’ll carry you with me, in every breath, every goal I score, every moment of my life. You are a part of me.”

They stayed there long after the sun had vanished, wrapped in blankets, wrapped in each other. The omniscient world observed their defiance, their stubborn refusal to let fear eclipse love. It was in these moments, when grief and joy collided so violently, that life felt both unbearable and exquisite—a knife’s edge suspended over eternity.

And as they walked back to the city, hand in hand, laughter still lingering, hearts still beating fiercely, one truth became undeniable: their love was not ordinary. It was extraordinary, forged in the knowledge of mortality, tempered by heartbreak, and illuminated by the fierce beauty of human connection.

Winter arrived quietly, draping the city in a muted silver. The air was crisp, almost painfully sharp, and every breath seemed to carry the weight of inevitability. Alexia noticed how Y/N moved slower now, how even laughter had a fragility, a tremor, a gentle ache beneath the surface. Yet still, she fought to shield their moments from despair, clutching joy as though it could stave off time itself.

One evening, the sky bleeding gold and crimson over the horizon, they sat together on Y/N’s balcony. The world stretched out below them, indifferent and infinite. Alexia traced her fingers over Y/N’s hand, memorizing every line, every scar, every imperfection that had become hers to cherish.

“I’m tired,” Y/N whispered softly, voice barely above the hum of the city. “I don’t… I don’t think I can fight anymore.”

Alexia’s heart convulsed. She gripped Y/N’s hand tighter, willing strength into her own trembling body. “Then fight with me,” she said, though her voice broke. “Even if it’s just in moments. Even if it’s just in us.”

Y/N smiled faintly, the kind of smile that carries both surrender and love. “I have,” she said. “I’ve loved you… every second. And that has been enough.”

For hours, they simply sat, wrapped in each other, hearts beating in a rhythm that refused to consider the ending. Alexia whispered stories of the life they would have had, the adventures they would take, the laughter that would echo in the corners of their days, if fate had been kinder. Y/N listened, eyes glistening with tears, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of fleeting life.

Then came the moment neither could postpone—the final, inevitable breath. Y/N pressed a hand to Alexia’s cheek, lips trembling, and whispered, “Thank you… for everything… for loving me…”

And in the silence that followed, Alexia held her as the world dimmed, time faltering, the universe itself leaning in to witness their love. Y/N’s eyes closed slowly, a serene surrender settling across her features. The omniscient narrator lingered on every detail—the way the light fell across her face, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her hand still entwined with Alexia’s, even as life slipped away.

Alexia refused to let go, her tears falling freely, her sobs swallowed by the night. “I love you,” she whispered, over and over, until the words became both a prayer and a promise. “I love you. I love you. I will never stop.”

Days later, Alexia returned to the stadium, to the roar of the crowd and the pulse of the game. But within her, Y/N’s absence carved a hollow that no cheer, no goal, no victory could fill. And yet, in that hollow, there was a luminous presence, a quiet echo of every moment they had shared—the stolen breakfasts, the laughter in the rain, the hands clasped on cold balconies, the whispers of love against the infinite sky.

She carried Y/N in everything she did: in the way she ran across the pitch, in the way she celebrated with quiet reverence, in the way she smiled at fleeting moments of joy, refusing to let grief extinguish her spirit entirely.

The omniscient world observed, and in its infinite gaze, it understood this truth: love does not end when life does. Y/N’s light remained, a guiding force in Alexia’s heart, a reminder that even in heartbreak, there is a kind of beauty that transcends mortality. It is the ache of loss, the tremor of memory, the echo of devotion—a love so complete that it leaves the soul shattered, yet somehow, exquisitely whole.

And in the silence of night, Alexia would sometimes whisper to the stars: “I will find you… always.” And somewhere, beyond time, beyond life, Y/N’s warmth lingered, a quiet smile in the infinite dark, and the world—though irrevocably changed—was a little brighter for having held their love.

A.N: this broke my own heart i feel SICK! couldn’t leave you all this way!! enjoy this xxx

Alternate Ending: 462 words

Spring had settled fully over the city, painting rooftops in soft pastels and filling the air with the scent of blossoms. Alexia and Y/N strolled through a quiet garden, their fingers intertwined, laughter trailing behind them like sunlight. The shadow that had once threatened to consume them had lifted—Y/N’s illness was no longer terminal. Each breath now felt like a miracle.

They paused at the edge of a fountain, the water shimmering with golden reflections. Alexia turned to Y/N, eyes brimming with emotion. “I don’t want to waste another second,” she said. “I want to share everything—every moment—with you.”

Y/N smiled, a sparkle in her eyes that made Alexia’s chest ache with love. “Then we will,” she whispered. “Every second. Every sunrise, every storm, every quiet night.”

And just as Alexia leaned forward, Y/N’s phone buzzed with a notification. They laughed, thinking it was trivial, but when Y/N glanced at it, her eyes widened, a mixture of disbelief and awe spreading across her face.

“It’s… a research study,” Y/N said, voice trembling. “They’re saying… there’s a new treatment, experimental, but it could completely reverse the damage. I could… I could live a normal life. Truly healthy.”

Alexia’s heart skipped. Relief, hope, and disbelief collided in a rush of emotion. “So this isn’t just… manageable?” she asked.

“No,” Y/N said, laughter spilling into tears. “This… this could be a real second chance. Not just surviving—but thriving.”

They stared at each other, suspended in a heartbeat that seemed to stretch forever. And then, in a spontaneous surge of joy, Alexia picked Y/N up, twirling her under the spring sun as Y/N’s laughter rang out, echoing against the trees and fountains. It was a pure, unfiltered sound of life and hope.

But the twist was more than medical miracles. Months later, during a quiet evening on their balcony, Y/N pulled Alexia close, pointing to the sky. “Look,” she whispered.

Above them, a meteor shower streaked across the night, each falling star blazing bright before dissolving into darkness. “Do you see?” Y/N asked. “Every star… it’s like a story. And ours… ours is still being written. Not just surviving… thriving. Even the universe celebrates it.”

Alexia held her tighter, feeling the pulse of life in every one of Y/N’s beats. “Then let’s write it beautifully,” she said. “Every day, every moment, no matter what comes.”

And in that moment, the omniscient world observed their love—and saw something extraordinary. Not just survival, not just joy—but a resonance so profound that even the stars seemed to bend closer to witness it. A life almost lost had become a life blazing with promise, a love that had danced on the edge of tragedy now soaring into something eternal.

The twist—the cosmic reminder that fate had both tested and blessed them—left a lingering awe: love, courage, and hope could defy shadows, and sometimes, the universe itself conspired to reward hearts brave enough to hold on.

Alexia and Y/N walked hand in hand under the shower of meteors, laughter and tears mingling, hearts wide open, life sprawling before them like an endless horizon. And for the first time, they truly believed that love—true, ferocious, luminous love—could conquer even the weight of the stars.

i hope you’ve forgiven me now!! remember requests are open so if you want me to write anything just let me know!!

[userwosoxxx]

The Soft Launch

Alexia Putellas X Reader

It started, as all chaos in Alexia’s life did, with Mapi’s phone.

The morning after a big league win, the Barça girls were lounging around the training center — coffee cups, snacks, and post-match gossip scattered across the table. Alexia was scrolling through messages when Mapi suddenly gasped loud enough to make everyone jump.

“Capi…” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Explain this.”

Alexia blinked. “Explain what?”

Mapi turned her phone around. On Instagram, a new photo had just gone up — from Y/N’s account.

It wasn’t anything scandalous, not really. Just a quiet snapshot: Y/N’s hand resting on a familiar black-and-gold captain’s armband, sunlight spilling across the table. The caption read:

“Always proud of you 🩵 #ViscaBarça”

Nothing obvious, nothing explicit.

But everyone in the room knew that armband.

Aitana immediately shouted, “Soft launch confirmed!”

Patri fell off the couch laughing.

Ingrid started a slow clap.

Alexia covered her face with her hands. “I can’t have one peaceful morning…”

“Peaceful?” Mapi teased. “You’ve been hiding this for months! You should thank us for not posting the evidence earlier!”

Y/N arrived a few minutes later, coffee in hand and completely unaware of the storm she’d caused. “Morning!” she greeted cheerfully — and then froze when the whole locker room turned to stare at her.

Patri grinned. “Nice post.”

“Oh,” Y/N said slowly. “That.”

Alexia, still red in the face, stood up. “It’s fine. Let them have their moment.”

Aitana raised an eyebrow. “So… it’s official now?”

Alexia looked at Y/N. For a heartbeat, the room went quiet — a rare thing for that group. Then Alexia smiled, soft and sure. “Yeah,” she said simply. “It’s official.”

The locker room erupted. Cheers, teasing, someone (probably Mapi) blowing a whistle for no reason. Y/N hid her face in Alexia’s shoulder, laughing.

“Finally!” Mapi yelled. “Do you know how hard it’s been not to tag you two in every post?”

“Wait,” Patri said, already typing furiously on her phone. “Does this mean I can post the photo from the bar? The one where you thought no one saw you holding hands?”

Alexia groaned. “No.”

Too late. Patri was cackling.

By the time the team filed out for training, the “soft launch” had turned into a full-blown celebration. Someone played “Besos” over the speakers. Aitana kept chanting, “Power couple!” until Giráldez told her to knock it off.

Later that evening, Alexia posted her own photo — a mirror selfie of her and Y/N, faces half-hidden but smiles unmistakable. Her caption was simple:

“My favorite teammate ❤️”

Within minutes, the comments filled with heart emojis, flags, and about fifty jokes from her own teammates.

Mapi: Finally.

Aitana: Called it.

Patri: #TrafficGoals

Alexia rolled her eyes, smiling as Y/N leaned over her shoulder to read. “You know they’re never going to let this go, right?”

“I know,” Alexia said, kissing her temple. “But I don’t want them to.”

Outside, Barcelona glittered — alive, loud, full of laughter. Inside, they were just Alexia and Y/N: the captain and the girl who made her forget how to hide.

And for once, Alexia didn’t mind being seen.

[userwosoxxx]

The Worst Kept Secret

Alexia Putellas X Reader

A.N: part two!!!! okay i’m starting to think i could make this into a collection…? please let me know if you guys are up for that?? and any ideas you have!!! requests are open always! enjoy! xxx

If there was one thing Alexia Putellas prided herself on — besides her passing accuracy — it was her ability to stay composed.

Except, apparently, when Y/N was around.

The morning after the team night out, Alexia walked into training trying to look completely normal. Hair up, sunglasses on, coffee in hand — a picture of calm professionalism.

Unfortunately, her teammates had other plans.

“Buenos días, traffic girl!” Mapi called from across the locker room the moment Alexia appeared.

The room erupted in laughter.

Alexia froze mid-step. “I am not answering to that.”

Patri snorted. “You don’t have to! It’s already stuck.”

Y/N tried, tried to keep a straight face, sitting on the bench tying her boots. But when Alexia shot her a mock glare, her lips curved into a grin.

“You could defend me, you know,” Alexia muttered as she sat beside her.

Y/N shrugged innocently. “I could. But then they might stop teasing you, and honestly… this is kind of fun.”

“Traitor,” Alexia whispered, but her tone was warm. She reached down and tied her own laces — except halfway through, Y/N leaned a little closer, pretending to whisper something, and the movement made Alexia lose her focus completely.

Patri caught it immediately. “Ohhh, look! The captain’s blushing!”

“I’m not—” Alexia began, then sighed. “Okay, maybe a little.”

The teasing didn’t stop once they hit the pitch either. During rondos, Mapi kept passing the ball to Y/N just to make Alexia chase her down. When Y/N stole it from her and started dribbling away, Alexia laughed — that bright, unmistakable laugh that the whole team recognized.

“You’re supposed to tackle her, not flirt with her, capi!” Aitana yelled.

“That’s not flirting!” Alexia protested.

“Then why are you smiling like that?” Ingrid called out.

Alexia had no answer for that one.

By the end of training, even Jonatan Giráldez gave up pretending not to notice. When he dismissed the team, he added dryly, “And Alexia — next time, please try to arrive on time to social events. The paparazzi aren’t the only ones who notice when you’re late.”

The locker room exploded.

Y/N hid her face in her hands while Alexia just sat there, red to the ears but laughing so hard she couldn’t even be mad.

Later, when everyone finally left, Alexia lingered by the door, waiting for Y/N.

“You know,” Y/N said, smiling as she joined her, “you handled that pretty well.”

“I had no choice,” Alexia replied. “They’re unstoppable. Besides…” — she glanced around to make sure no one was watching — “…if the whole world’s going to find out, I might as well enjoy it.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Enjoy what?”

“This,” Alexia said simply, brushing her thumb over Y/N’s hand before linking their fingers together.

Outside, the sun was setting over the training ground — golden, soft, the kind of light that made everything feel a little easier.

From the parking lot, Mapi’s voice rang out once more:

“Finally holding hands in public! About time!”

Y/N laughed, and Alexia groaned — but she didn’t let go.

[userwosoxxx]

Just One Drink

alexia putellas x y/n

A.N: i DO have a part two!!! kind of a continuation kind of a new story in a way??!! let me know what you think!! as always ask away!! request anything!! also let me know if there’s anyone else you would like me to write for too… hope you enjoy xxx

The plan was simple — in theory.

Slip into the bar after the rest of the team, keep things low-key, and avoid giving the paparazzi any new rumors to chase.

But with Alexia Putellas, captain of FC Barcelona Femení and world-class overthinker, nothing ever stayed simple.

Y/N was still checking her reflection in the mirror when Alexia appeared behind her, already dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans, pretending to scroll on her phone but clearly not reading a thing.

“You look hot,” Alexia said, voice a little too casual.

“Hot?” Y/N raised an eyebrow. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

Alexia set her phone down, gaze softening. “Okay, you look incredible. Which is a problem, because I’m supposed to be focused on not giving away that we’re dating.”

Y/N laughed, slipping into her coat. “Then stop staring at me like that.”

“I’m not staring,” Alexia argued. “I’m appreciating. There’s a difference.”

It took them twenty extra minutes to actually leave the apartment — not because of traffic, not because of paparazzi — but because Alexia kept finding excuses to “fix” Y/N’s hair, adjust her coat collar, or steal quick kisses that turned into not-so-quick ones.

By the time they finally reached the bar, most of the team was already there. Patri was waving a menu around, Aitana was halfway through a story that involved too much hand-gesturing, and Ingrid had just started a round of shots.

“Por fin!” Mapi yelled as soon as she saw them. “We thought you got lost or something!”

“Yeah,” Aitana added with a smirk, “or maybe you were busy?”

Alexia froze for a split second, then forced a laugh that fooled absolutely no one.

“Traffic,” she said. “You know how it is.”

“Mm-hmm,” Mapi teased. “Traffic in your living room, maybe.”

Y/N bit her lip, trying not to laugh, and slid into a seat next to Alexia. Under the table, Alexia’s hand brushed hers, a silent apology and a secret thrill all at once.

They spent the night pretending to be just friends — exchanging quick glances, laughing a little too hard at each other’s jokes, their knees brushing beneath the table. Every so often, Alexia would forget herself and reach for Y/N’s glass or tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear before remembering the crowd around them.

When the night ended, Aitana leaned in with a grin. “You two think you’re subtle, huh?”

Alexia blinked. “What?”

“We’ve all seen the way you look at her,” Mapi added. “You don’t stare at your teammates like that, capi.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, and Alexia just laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Maybe I just have great taste in people,” she said, earning a round of dramatic oohs from the table.

Later, when they finally escaped into the cool night, Alexia slipped her arm around Y/N’s waist.

“You think they bought it?” she asked.

Y/N smiled up at her. “Not for a second.”

“Good,” Alexia murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Because I’m done hiding anyway.”

And somewhere behind them, from the bar doorway, Mapi’s voice rang out:

“Knew it!”

[userwosoxxx]

Home After The Whistle

alexia putellas x reader

The stadium lights were still bright when the whistle blew for full time. Camp Nou roared with pride — Barcelona had just won another league match, and Alexia Putellas was, as always, at the heart of it. Her name echoed through the stands like a song you never got tired of hearing.

But amid all the cheers and applause, Alexia’s eyes searched for one thing — or rather, one person.

You.

You’d been watching from the stands, scarf wrapped around your neck, fingers frozen from the crisp evening air. Every time Alexia got the ball, your heart raced as if you were playing yourself. It was always like that — pride, nerves, admiration — all tangled into one messy, beautiful feeling.

After the final whistle, you made your way through the corridors of the stadium you’d come to know so well. Security nodded at you — they knew you by now. The “captain’s girlfriend” wasn’t just a title; it had become part of your life, quietly, steadily, like the hum of the city you both called home.

When you reached the locker room hallway, you heard her laugh — low and familiar. You leaned against the wall, waiting until the door opened and she stepped out, hair still damp from the shower, jersey swapped for a Barça hoodie. She spotted you immediately.

“There you are,” she said, smiling — that slow, crooked grin that always made your knees feel weak.

“There you are,” you echoed, teasing. “Didn’t think the captain would have time for me with all those interviews.”

Alexia chuckled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I always have time for you.”

She leaned in and kissed you — soft and unhurried. The world seemed to fade around you, leaving only the smell of grass, her shampoo, and the faint adrenaline still clinging to her skin.

⸻

Later, at home, the city was quiet. Barcelona glittered outside your balcony — a thousand lights reflecting off the Mediterranean. Alexia was curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, wearing one of your oversized sweatshirts. You sat beside her, scrolling through photos from the match.

“Look,” you said, holding your phone up. “You look so serious in this one.”

Alexia squinted. “That’s my ‘don’t mess with me’ face.”

“You’re terrifying,” you teased.

“Good. That’s how I score goals.”

You both laughed, and she reached over to pull you closer, wrapping her arms around your waist. Her heartbeat was slow and steady against your back.

“I still can’t believe this is our life sometimes,” you murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“You. Me. Barcelona. Everything. It’s like… a dream I never thought I’d have.”

Alexia was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly, “It doesn’t feel real to me either, sometimes. When I’m on the pitch, it’s like another world. But then I come home — and you’re here — and that’s what makes it feel real again.”

You turned to face her, touched by the honesty in her eyes. “You know, you’re kind of romantic when you want to be.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said, smirking. “I have a reputation to keep.”

You leaned in, your foreheads touching. For a while, you didn’t talk. You didn’t need to. The city hummed below, and the warmth between you was enough.

⸻

A few days later, she had an early morning training session. You woke up to the sound of her moving quietly around the kitchen, trying not to wake you. But you did anyway — you always did.

“Alexia,” you mumbled sleepily, padding into the kitchen. “You were gonna leave without saying goodbye?”

She turned, startled, then smiled. “You need your sleep.”

“I need my girlfriend,” you corrected, wrapping your arms around her waist.

She laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’ll see me tonight.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You watched her go, the morning sun catching the edge of her hair as she slipped out the door. You knew the world saw her as a legend — a captain, a champion, a symbol.

But to you, she was just Alexia — the woman who made coffee too strong, sang off-key in the car, and never left without promising she’d come back.

And every night, when she did, it felt like home all over again

[userwosoxxx]

The Quiet Corners Of Her Chaotic World

alexia x y/n

1. The scarf and the stadium

Y/N never missed a home game.

She wasn’t loud—no chants, no painted face—but everyone in the seats near her knew who she was. The one who wore Alexia’s number 11 scarf, even in the heat.

That scarf wasn’t just merch. It was the first gift Alexia had ever given her, long before the world knew they were together. Y/N still remembered how it happened—an early autumn night, after a match in Madrid. Alexia had draped it around her neck and whispered, “Now you’re my good luck charm.”

Now, years later, whenever Y/N tugged that same scarf tighter around her shoulders at the Spotify Camp Nou, she’d feel Alexia’s eyes flick up from the pitch—just for a second.

No one else would notice, but Y/N could always tell.

That tiny glance, that secret softness that didn’t belong to the captain of Barcelona, but to her Alexia.

When the final whistle blew and the crowd erupted, Alexia would always find her in the stands—always. One hand raised, two fingers pressed against her heart. Their quiet language in the middle of a roaring stadium.

⸻

2. Midnight Recovery

It was close to 1 a.m., and the apartment smelled faintly of eucalyptus gel.

Alexia sat on the floor, her legs stretched out, eyes half-closed as she rolled ice along her knee. Y/N padded in quietly, hair messy from sleep, wearing one of Alexia’s old training tops that hung loosely on her frame.

“You should be in bed,” Alexia murmured without opening her eyes.

“I can say the same about you,” Y/N whispered, settling beside her.

Without another word, she took the ice pack from Alexia’s hand and began to roll it herself—slowly, carefully. Alexia relaxed, a small hum leaving her throat as the tension melted away.

“Every time I see you play,” Y/N said softly, “I forget that you’re human. Then I see this part—the aches, the bruises—and I remember how much you give.”

Alexia opened her eyes then, looking at her as if trying to memorize the sound of her voice. “And you,” she said, “you’re the reason I can give this much.”

The world outside was silent. The only sound was the faint clink of melting ice and the steady rhythm of their breathing.

⸻

3. After the Trophy

The celebrations had gone late into the night. Champagne, cameras, noise—all the beautiful chaos of victory. But hours later, when the world finally slept, Alexia and Y/N found themselves on the balcony of their apartment overlooking the quiet city.

Alexia had changed into sweats, her medal still hanging around her neck. Y/N stood behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

“You did it,” Y/N whispered.

We did it, Alexia almost said. Because that was how it always felt—with her there through every moment no one saw.

“Do you ever get used to this feeling?” Y/N asked, watching the medal glint under the moonlight.

Alexia smiled. “Not this one. But I think I could get used to coming home to you after.”

They stayed there, wrapped in quiet, until the first light of dawn brushed across the rooftops. Alexia turned, pressed a soft kiss to Y/N’s forehead, and whispered, “You’re my real trophy.”

And Y/N, sleepy-eyed and smiling, just murmured, “Then don’t ever put me in a cabinet.”

[userwosoxxx]

The Weekend Off

alexia putellas x reader

The world always slowed down when Alexia came home.

After weeks of travel, training, and endless matches, the rhythm of her boots on the pitch was replaced by the quiet hum of her apartment—the one she’d insisted on decorating with Y/N’s favorite flowers, because “if I’m not here, at least the place should still smile at you.”

Y/N was curled up on the couch when Alexia walked in, duffel bag in one hand, shopping bags in the other.

“You didn’t,” Y/N said, already grinning.

Alexia set the bags down with a shrug that couldn’t hide her smirk. “I did. You said your headphones broke, no? And there was this cute jacket that looked like you.”

Y/N crossed her arms, pretending to scold her. “You can’t keep spoiling me. You’re supposed to be saving for retirement, abuela.”

Alexia laughed and dropped onto the couch beside her. “I score goals for a living, cariño. Let me spend them on something that makes me happy.”

Y/N melted, as she always did. She reached up and brushed a strand of blonde hair out of Alexia’s face. “You already have me. Isn’t that enough?”

“Never,” Alexia whispered, kissing her forehead.

For the rest of the night, they stayed wrapped in each other—no stadium noise, no pressure, no trophies. Just takeout containers, movie reruns, and the sound of rain outside the balcony.

When Y/N finally fell asleep against her shoulder, Alexia looked down at her and thought, not for the first time, that this—this quiet, ordinary love—was the best thing she’d ever won.

A.N: hi everyone!!! i’m so sorry this one’s a little rusty… an old one but getting into the swing of writing again!! i’m super excited to be here!!!