#It's hard to figure out what she's feeling for food at feeding time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

randombush3 · 6 months

Text

ubi amor, ibi dolor

alexia putellas x reader

part one

words: 11455 (SORRY THERE WAS A LOT TO FIT IN)

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks part two x

content warnings: it’s gets a little sad but tbh the next part is the one you should be worried abt 🤘

notes: this one covers 2017-2019. i apologise if it’s a bit jumpy because if i covered EVERYTHING you’d be sat here reading for days. also, this part was so slow to be finished because i abandoned it for ages and only just decided i should probs get to finishing it. the next part is the last one!

It’s about three months later, and there is not a silence that can’t be filled with the sound of Alexia’s voice. You don’t know how to prove this, because you leave none to be filled, instead seeking to occupy every spare second granted by your tour schedule to call her, to text her; to talk to her.

You spend your nights on balconies all over the continent. Your smoking habit is worsening but the excuse of getting some fresh air to do so is a perfect way to weasel yourself out of parties and clubs and late-night chats with your friends. You much prefer to spend your time finding out more about the woman you quickly become obsessed with. She often verbalises her disdain for your disregard for your lungs – something that transcends the language barrier with an overwhelming clarity – but she is glad that you are talking to her either way.

A few times, you go as far as to hop on a secretly booked flight. You never step outside the airport, leaving Barcelona very much stamped in your passport but not on your list of places you have explored, but Alexia is more than content to pursue your hooded figure as you lead her into hidden corners of the arrivals lounge she begins to associate with the racing feeling in her heart when she sees you. Kissing against walls and on hard airport seats is not what feeds most budding romances, but you don’t care. You happily fly to her whenever you have a spare five minutes, and she is more than content to make the time spent physically together worthwhile.

The tour is nearly over. Five shows in three weeks, and then you can traipse back to London to fight off the delayed hangover in the comfort of your own home with meals cooked by your parents to keep you going. One of the worst things about being on the road is the food (or lack thereof), and your athlete gi… Alexia, is unimpressed with your nutrition. You find that she does not agree with most of your lifestyle, yet she seems captivated by it; like she is discovering a different, scarier world, and she can’t close her eyes.

Alexia’s birthday is soon.

She has enough dread for the event to have communicated it far more efficiently than usual, with most conversations needing to be doubled in length to get past the all-too-familiar grunts of unrecognition. The streets of Barcelona are filled with whispers of a women’s league, and she is unsure of the pressure that is starting to grow on her shoulders. A birthday is inconvenient, she claims, though you only laugh.

You tell her about Virgil – she knows you love him, she knows you love most things to do with him – and his famous quote. “Labor omnia vincit,” you say, finding it ironic that you are only able to talk to her right now because you skipped out on soundcheck and a run-through with the backup dancers. “Work conquers all. It reminds me of you.”

Her lilting Spanish laughter fades as she actually thinks about it.

“Es verdad,” Alexia replies, and you are glad to understand. “Quiero ser la mejor del mundo así que ‘labor omnia vincit’.”

“You’re speaking Latin with a Spanish accent.”

“You love my accent.”

You smile. It’s true.

…

It hasn’t settled in Alexia’s mind that you, who calls her whenever you can because you miss her opinions and her jokes and the face that you can picture when she speaks, are the same person as the one she sees on Jenni’s phone as the team crowds round the screen to watch a viral video from your concert last night.

“A birthday present for you, eh, Ale?” Jenni jests, clinging on to Alexia’s admission months ago about her crush on you. She doesn’t know about the reality of it all. No one does, as of yet.

“Who puts them in these outfits?” asks Leila, mildly outraged at the bedazzled lingerie you’d been dressed in. “There’s nothing to them! They might as well go on stage naked.”

“It’s fine. They get hot while they’re performing anyway,” Alexia dismisses, not wanting to delve into your issues with your stylist. Well. Her issues with your stylist, who seems to not care about dignity or have any faith in the world’s imagination. (That, and Alexia is not sure she likes this idea of sharing, though she is aware that nothing defines you as hers.)

“Oh, did they tell you that themselves?” She glares at Jenni, and shoulders her way out of the huddle. It’s not Jenni’s fault that her mood has been easily soured, because tomorrow is Alexia’s birthday and then, the next day, she has to get to Madrid for her national camp. The Euros later this year is going to be in the Netherlands, and her dreams for her country are currently far-fetched. It hurts, and you’re well aware of her misery.

In fact, you are so aware that you are on a flight from Oslo on the fourth of February. It’s too special a day to miss. You have once again abandoned soundcheck.

Alexia receives a text as she slides into her mother’s old car, considering flinging the device out of the window at one of her teammates’ heads after they sang to her at training without the mercy of letting her forget that she is one year closer to the end of her career. At this rate, the career will be full of wasted potential. She is in a terrible mood about it.

And then she looks at her phone.

You have really tried to up your game with the Spanish of late, enlisting the help of a private tutor who Skypes you twice a week with new phrases and grammar that mildly resembles that of a dead language you carry more than a passion for.

You: Estoy aquí!

The only thing she can think to do is slam her index finger on the call button of your contact, nail bending painfully on the glass of the screen.

Your instructions are clear: “Airport. Now.”

She drives.

She drives at an embarrassingly desperate speed, because just over a week is too long a separation and her day has been awful and there is something so magnetic about your presence that she would be going against nature to do anything other than find you. Obviously, find you she does: right in the arrivals lounge, same black hoodie as always disguising your identity. It’s not any busier than usual, and you catch sight of her the minute she pushes her way to the front of the crowd of expectant faces.

With a weary grin, you walk towards her, and she knows that this game is only temporary. There will be privacy close by, and you can speak then.

She turns with a nod, and you follow as she takes the usual route, but suddenly there are fingers intertwined with her own and you are stopping her in front of everyone.

“Feliz cumpleaños,” you say with a pronounced failure and a hilariously concentrated expression. Alexia giggles, and the storm cloud above her dissipates, but the kiss she wants to press to your lips will have to wait. There’s somewhere empty just around the corner, and she tugs your hand to get you to come with her – to match the same haste she has – but you don’t. “Al coche. So we can go to your casa.”

Her eyebrows raise.

“It’s your birthday,” you explain, stepping towards her so that the people around you see a couple instead of two women walking in a vague direction. Alexia swallows, body tingling at your proximity. Her body always tingles when you stand near her like this. “It’s your birthday, so I am here for the night. My flight is tomorrow.”

She understands you entirely.

She all but drags you to her car.

Alexia does not even remember what it’s like to be miserable. She is set alight by your presence, by your lips, your hands, your soft greeting that you whisper in her ear when she pulls away to drive you to her flat. It’s a new place, and she is free from the fuss of her mother.

You smile when she pulls you out, taking your bulging handbag in one hand and grasping yours with the other, and she kisses that smile as she presses you against the mirror in the lift. The bag hits the floor with a thud, your overnight things spilling out because of her carelessness, but you pay the rolling Dior lipstick no mind, too caught up in the way her tongue swirls in your mouth. How her hands grip your waist.

She’s stronger than last time. She gets stronger every day: she is going to be the best footballer in the world. She is dedicated to her sport.

Your palms travel up the back of her t-shirt, cold from the metal you’d previously had them pressed against. Alexia flinches as your fingers brush a particular spot, the skin there slightly raised.

“¿Que pasó?” you ask, head tilted to the side as she draws back, panting. “Are you hurt?”

She examines your eyes. Deeply inquisitive. Full of something that may resemble love in the future.

Alexia smiles – an expression that she wears mostly when she is thinking about you. You watch as she turns around, the lift jerking to a halt as if to hurry up her slow movements. As she lifts up her t-shirt, you eye the tattoos you are aware decorate her back. There are going to be more someday, she has always been clear about that.

And, oh.

You’re not usually so attached. Alexia, it’s apparent, is a complete exception.

She asks you if you like it. You lean forward, and kiss the four words (she must have researched the quote, because you excluded the last when you mentioned it), tongue running over the redness as if you are going to heal the irritation. She moans quietly, more surprised than anything else.

“Do I get the credit for it?” She shakes her head, which you catch in the mirror opposite, and, before you can voice your protest, she is facing the right way again and kissing you as she leads you to her door. “You know, there’s another quote from him that I much prefer to that one. ‘Labor omnia vincit improbus’ is… Do you know the word workaholic?” Again, her head shakes. She backs you against the wall next to her door, lips attached to your neck as you keen under her touch.

She slots her leg between yours, and you forget your next sentence.

It’s a heated kiss. It promises tonight’s activities to you, and you cannot wait for her to unlock her door.

Your lips run along her neck as she jams her key into the lock. You suck and bite, spurred on by the moans she bites back with a clenched jaw. You find it sexy: her determination to get you inside. And it’s her birthday, after all. She deserves it. You have another gift for her in your bag, but she is grateful for this anyway.

“Inside,” she gasps as you smooth your tongue over the newly-created hickey you just gave her, kicking her door wide open and hauling you through the gap.

The flat is pitch black, but Alexia knows it well enough to chuck your bag towards the dining table and have you on your way to the bedroom without needing to switch any lights on. But your hands wander, and she gets distracted. She stops you in the middle of the flat, only half a second into your journey, and her life feels so full (especially when you moan like that). The room feels so full.

The room is full.

The room is…

“Moltes felicitats, moltes felici–” sings (and abruptly stops) a whole choir of Alexia’s friends and family, the lights switching to bathe the two of you in total mortification.

Alba’s hand covers the eyes of her cousin’s six-year-old, whose mouth has formed a perfect circle.

Silence washes over what looks to be a surprise birthday party. One which Alexia was assured yesterday was not going to happen. By multiple guilty attendees!

Alexia looks helplessly between you, her mother, and the shit-eating grin on Jenni Hermoso’s face, remembering herself promptly when Eli’s eyes drop to the placement of her hands on your bum. She almost jumps away from you.

“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, stewing in the terribly awkward silence as Alexia’s eyes only grow wider and wider. “Alexia.”

She breaks from her frozen state, thawed by the husk of your voice.

“Jo…”

The crowd explodes, and you let the tsunami of Catalan wash over your ears. There is so much noise, and so many people, and you can only watch as Alexia tries to answer all of their questions. She shakes her head, nodding at the same time, switching between two different languages to cover the shrieks from Jenni and the absolute bollocking her mother is giving her in front of everyone about dignity and respect. You are famous, says Eli, and you do not need Alexia’s horny motives to embarass you like that.

“She’s a celebrity,” Eli chides with a glare at her daughter, eyes softening as you continue to stare at the sea of faces blankly. You are backed against a wall with nowhere to run. “Alexia, introduce us to your girlfriend. Now.”

“You guys don’t need to be introduced to her!” Alexia replies like a petulant child, nearly crossing her arms and stamping her foot. “You know her name, and you’ve seen her. So you should all leave, really. Mami, I told you I didn’t want a party.”

Eli’s hands fly from her body to halt the departure of the guests as they catch on to how unwanted they are. “No, we are still going to have this party,” she insists. It’s the final decision. “So, go on. Introduce us.” It’s definitely not a question.

You clear your throat, wanting to save Alexia somehow. “Hola,” you begin, and every face breaks out into a beaming grin. “Um. Soy Y/n. Y… soy de Inglaterra?”

“Sí,” Eli says with a swell of encouragement that you can feel from two metres away.

“Alexia,” you plead.

“Guys, this is Y/n. She doesn’t speak Spanish, and she definitely does not speak Catalan, so either you practise your English or we cut the cake Mami has made and then you–”

“I am a big fan!” Jenni squeals, accented words loud and piercing as she surges towards you, sparking the movement of the entire body of people. No one listens to the rest of Alexia’s declaration.

…

There is a reason you are so well-liked, Alexia determines. She can see it as you interact with her family and closest friends. You smile and you listen and you remember things about people that they would deem insignificant. And it helps that you look breath-taking while doing it all.

Sitting at her dining table, Alba on one side, her mother on the other, she watches you flit around her flat with a talent for socialising, charming every person you speak to.

“She doesn’t know how you feel, does she?” Eli comments, noticing the hesitation in her daughter’s expression.

“I don’t know how she feels,” is what Alexia replies, because there is no way you can ignore the emotion she pours into your conversations. It exceeds that of a simple crush or hormone-fuelled desire. “She is incredible. I am me.”

“You are Alexia Putellas.”

“And she at least likes the way you kiss her,” Alba chimes in, her contribution unnecessary but making Alexia blush at the memory. The fact that her entire family saw that, most of them knowing where you were heading, is something she might be tossing and turning about at night for a while yet.

“Your father would love her.”

“I think so too,” Alexia says, chin resting on her palm as the world melts away, your eyes briefly meeting with hers as one of the children giggles at the face you have just pulled behind their mother’s back. A pang of disappointment reverberates in her chest as she grieves momentarily over the loss of her favourite person on Earth, wishing he could have shared the traumatic experience of today. He would’ve laughed so hard at her face when the lights went on.

“She seems lovely, really. Very polite. Is it because she’s English?”

“She is very…”

“I suppose the Latin came from her?” Alba asks with a smirk, prodding the fresh tattoo over the thin material of Alexia’s t-shirt, grinning as her sister hisses in pain.

“Next time, we can go somewhere quieter and talk properly. I know that you’ll be busy when tonight is over.”

Both Alexia and Alba shudder. “Mami!” her little sister groans, suppressing her gag.

“Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, Alba.”

“Never say ‘sex’ in front of me again,” Alexia tells her smug mother.

“Well, never get so caught up in the moment that you don’t notice the balloons taped to your flat number.”

Alexia bolts outside to check, and hates herself when she sees them.

…

“Dance with me!”

You grab Alexia’s hand, pulling her towards you. The party has lasted longer than she’s happy with, and you have seemingly forgotten about what you could be doing. You love to dance. You love music.

The little boy who’d been your partner up until now sticks his tongue out at Alexia, and she reciprocates the gesture. She is the birthday girl, after all.

You don’t understand a word of the music, but the beat flows through your hips as you move them against her. She runs her hands up and down your sides, your tank top now the only layer between your skin and her impatient fingers, hoodie having been stripped off the minute the party became interesting.

“My mother likes you,” Alexia whispers into your ear as you sway in time to the rhythm. Her lips brush your ear lobe, and you shiver despite the growing heat between you.

“This was very much a surprise,” you giggle in response, possibly answering wrong because her Spanish didn’t quite catch.

“Mhm.”

“I can’t wait for them to leave.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “You are not having fun?”

“I am,” you reply with a nod, a smirk slowly creeping into your content expression. She holds her breath, reminding herself of the presence of her family as you grind into her. “But I also can’t wait to fuck you.”

Alexia shudders.

“I will tell them to go.”

They cut the cake.

They sing again, completing the lyrics this time. You are even taught them before-hand, pushed out to the side of the crowd, very much silently told that you currently hold no place in Alexia’s life in comparison to these people. They all love her. You aren’t there yet.

But, she values your presence.

Alexia doesn’t care much about the people here tonight. She sees them almost every day, and she knows they are constants. What she does care about is you.

You, in that tank top. You, with your hair down, face fresh even though your day must have been exhausting. You, with a red mark on your collarbone that no one knows how to point out to you in English.

Soon, everyone is gone, and you are panting underneath her. Her lips capture yours, muffling the groan that comes with the movement of her fingers inside you. Your legs wrap around her body tighter, heels digging into her back.

Her hair falls around you; encapsulating you, surrounding you with only her. Her smell, her taste, her fingers.

You moan as her determination to destroy you becomes apparent. She hits every spot that has been neglected for the past few months, and though it is the first time the two of you are doing this, it’s as if Alexia has studied your body for years already.

She breaks apart from you as you come, your back arching off the mattress, chest pressing against hers. She wants to see your face for the first time. If she had a camera, she would have used it. You look beautiful.

Nothing on Earth compares to the cliff you have just been pushed off, and it is as if you are falling for eternity.

She goes again, and again, and again. She’s an athlete.

She ruins you, but her strong arms hold you together afterwards.

You fall asleep, for the first time in a while, with someone by your side. Whose hands find purchase on her favourite part of you, pulling you on top of her as she whines at your own tired attempt to make her feel good. Alexia whispers that she has been given enough, that she doesn’t need it, and she thinks you fall asleep to the sound of her incomprehensible, breathy Spanish. You cling to her.

…

The tour ends.

You couldn’t be happier. The final show is a blessing, and the tears in your eyes are of joy. You, Gio, and Anya are going home at last.

However, the well-decorated flat you walk into lacks everything possible, because there is no Alexia standing in the middle of the living room. She can’t be here, though you wish things were different. The season has been successful for her so far, and she is busy.

You really miss her. One night wasn’t enough. It will never be enough, and you are starting to realise the gravity of your blushes.

You like Alexia, and you have fallen hard and fast.

“You’re not coming back with us,” your brother says knowingly, skiing beside you down the picturesque blue run in Les Gets. You have come here every year since you were eight. April is a little later than usual, and the snow often turns to slush towards the afternoon – though one could argue that is simply a cue to move onto apres-ski – but it is pleasant to be on holiday with your family. People try to bother you, but it is easier to pretend you don’t see their waves when you have your ski goggles pulled over your eyes.

Your brother coughs, not pleased that you are ignoring him, reducing him to ‘everyone else’. (His ego, far too preened, far too large, cannot handle the idea of that.)

In front of the two of you, your father turns with precision and great technique. You can’t relate: you’re drunk. You have been since this morning.

“Sorry?” Your innocence is pretence and he rolls his eyes behind his Oakleys.

“Your flight. I saw it was booked to take you somewhere else. Somewhere you’ve been going a lot.”

“You’re not subtle.”

“You’re not subtle,” he replies, skis dangerously close to yours. You have to swerve, sending you onto the off-piste section of the run much to your irritation. With the excuse of tackling the jumps, however, you are lucky to evade further questioning, watching as he glides off into the distance, reaching the banner and skidding to a halt to wait for you and your mother. Your mother prefers to drink more than ski. She is always holding up the rear.

When you return to the chalet, bought by your parents a decade ago to solidify their roots in Les Gets, your brother seems to have remembered your conversation from earlier. Your parents have gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you to make something for yourselves. He is glad to have you alone.

“You don’t like lads, do you?” And, in truth, it’s an insightful question by his standards. He cares; he just does not know how to show it.

Pausing the construction of your sandwich for a moment, you allow him to see you for who you are. He’s your brother, after all. “Not at all,” comes your response.

He hums. “Thought so. You’d have gone out with half of England’s football team otherwise. God knows that they don’t mind.”

“England has a women’s team.”

“Gross.” His lips purse as he thinks about his little sister’s love life, and he decides that he would like to know more about Barcelona. “Are you buying a villa?”

“What?”

“Well, you go to Barcelona a lot. Are you buying a villa with the girls? Is that what celebrities do?”

You roll your eyes. “Mum and Dad buy villas. It isn’t just celebrities who splurge on property.”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“I wish you’d never become a lawyer.”

He laughs – hearty and deep. His laugh reminds you of dark forests for some reason; tall trees that dwarf your body, but keep you safe nonetheless. “I wish you’d never gotten famous. My life would be so much quieter if half my mates weren’t trying to squeeze something or other out of my connections.” His pride is profound in his misery, and you smile, blushing. “You’re not buying a villa.”

“Well done, genius,” you taunt, assembling your sandwich once again in hopes that the baguette will kill the buzz in your mind. You can’t really think when you’re drunk, and, recently, when there is nothing else to occupy you, your mind wanders to Alexia. What is she doing now? Does she miss you? Is she excited to see you in three days?

It dawns upon his face with an amusing animation. “You’re seeing someone,” he accuses.

“Maybe,” you shrug. “She’d be one lucky girl.”

“One unlucky girl, you mean. I’d better find out who she is and tell her to run for the hills. You’re about two decades overdue for an exorcism, and it shows.” He swiftly appears behind you, despite his lumbering limbs, and flicks your ear as your teeth sink into your dinner. You squeal, pushing backwards to get him away from you. “What’s her name? Who is she? What does she do?”

“She is… classified.”

He reaches for his phone. “I’m going to find a list of Spanish names and see which one turns you into a tomato.”

“She’s still classified.” You prod your index finger into his shoulder.

“Hey.” You retract your finger, surprised by the tenderness of his tone. “You can tell me, you know. You’re my little sister. I really don’t give enough of a fuck to spread it.”

With great shame, you absolutely do not need to be told twice to talk about your favourite Spanish woman on the planet at the moment. He actually has to beg you to stop.

…

Things with Alexia are good.

Not just in terms of your relationship, but in general, too. Walks are more enjoyable, and so are mornings, afternoons, evenings. She likes that you feel comfortable to chill in her flat while she goes to training. She likes that she comes home to you. She likes that you spend your days with a pencil between your teeth, a blank page set out in front of you.

Now that the tour is over, it is clear what comes next. The new album will be the best ever made, you have decided, because you might finally understand the lyrics that you sing. They could resonate.

They will resonate.

Alexia asks you to be her girlfriend when she drops you off at the airport. Your plane is private and she can kiss you goodbye when you agree.

You love being Alexia’s girlfriend. You repeat your new identity over and over as you fly back to London, and it is a mantra that plays on loop in your mind as you get on with life back home.

The girls tease you mercilessly when you spill it. All three of you are on the balcony, though this time there is a joint placed between your fingers rather than a cigarette. Slightly high, more so giddy about Alexia, you confess. They’re happy for you, but Gio can’t help but text Anya later that night.

Gio: Have you seen the new plan?

Anya: What plan?

Gio is sitting upright in her bed, ensuring that her panic is quiet so her new boyfriend does not wake up. Her fingers hover over the keys shamefully, but she has to tell someone and it can’t be you.

Gio: The publicity plan.

It’s at your studio session the next day when all comes to light. Your manager/publicist appears, which is honestly quite rare. She’s not fond of the claustrophobia of the small room, nor the darkness it becomes shrouded in when you, Gio, and Anya are trying not to murder each other.

Dave swivels around on his chair, bored with the bickering. You aren’t sure about a lyric, but they disagree, even if Anya knows you have a better point than the third member of your group.

Your manager clears her throat. “Y/n, may I speak with you? It’s quite important.”

“Do this lyric without me,” you grit out to Gio.

“It’s your solo.”

“I don’t care.”

With that, you follow your manager into the corridor.

They hear your protests from the studio, the shout of frustration piercing through the small gap underneath the door, overcoming the supposedly impregnable sound-proofing.

There are tears streaming down your face upon your return. Fuck her, and fuck him.

Anya and Gio can’t look at you. Their chins dip to their chest as they slump in place, succumbing to the predetermined guilt they discovered last night.

“It’s not fair,” you cry to them as they refuse to turn around, throwing yourself onto the sofa with a heaving sob. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair. She’s going to hate me — she’s not going to love me anymore, and I… I love her.”

Anya’s mouth opens with a sob of her own. She had thought Alexia was a dalliance. She hadn’t realised.

It’s fun to have someone, she knows, but it is painful to love them.

You are clearly not enjoying yourself now.

“You love her?” she asks, though she is sure of the answer as another gasp leaves your body with a chilling desperation.

“Yes, I fucking love her. It was obvious.”

“But you—”

“Because I’m not out!”

“So what did she tell you?”

“They want it to last a few months. Enough to draw the attention away from my aversion to men and his relationship with some blogger.”

Anya gulps. A few months is a lot to endure, especially for the footballer whose heart you’ll be breaking. “You’ve said no, right?” she tries, paling as she grips onto the mic stand, trying in vain to remember the harmony she is supposed to sing. “You’ve told them… You’re you, of course you’ve said no!”

“Of course,” Gio adds, equally in denial.

You can only shake your head.

You were not given a choice.

Telling Alexia is hard, and not just because of the tears running through your words as you try to get them out over the phone.

In Barcelona, her head hangs in disappointment. She is never going to be good enough for you, she tells herself. The world will soon slot you by the side of another celebrity, and you will be pictured together as many times as humanly possible. No one will know that she is the one you call when you need to talk to someone, or that it is her rose that is pressed between your favourite copy of Little Women, saved from Sant Jordi. No one will be any the wiser to the girlfriend you keep in Spain, nor assume that you are visiting the country for a reason other than tourism and partying with your favourite foreign men’s football team.

It goes like this for months.

It sours the second- place finish in the league even more; makes the Champions League semi-final exit soul-destroying; and completely ruins her joy about winning the Copa de la Reina (worsened by a picture of you and him released the morning of the final).

She is still your girlfriend, but she is always one step behind you. She is in the shadows of the crowd when you sell out Wembley for the first time, and is just out of frame in the picture captured backstage of you and your lover embracing. His muscles do not feel the same as Alexia’s, but he becomes a friend, you guess. He isn’t fond of the arrangement either.

Then, when Alexia feels as though she might explode from the jealousy she harbours, she is tested once more as you go radio silent for a day. It’s unbearable. You usually text her every hour.

She misses hearing you greet her with ‘I took a smoke break’. She misses the taste of your lips, and the heat of your breath, and the swell of emotion you cause inside of her when you show her that you really care.

It’s a hard day. The Euros have started, and Spain has won their first two group stage matches. Vilda is terrible as usual, but it is nothing in comparison to the cavity left in her chest where you have carved out your notifications. Alexia has never wished to be distracted from football before, but today is clearly Judgement Day.

“Is this about your girlfriend?” Jenni pesters, mocking Alexia’s frown by exaggerating it on her own face. “She’s not pinging your phone every five minutes and now you’re inconsolable.”

“I have many things to be upset about,” Alexia replies moodily, though Vilda’s earlier berating has had no effect on her mood because it simply cannot get worse. “Our coach is shit, and we don’t get treated like England or Holland does.”

“And your girlfriend hasn’t texted you.”

“Yes, Jenni. She hasn’t texted me.”

She sighs.

Jenni is repulsed by the fire in Alexia’s belly seemingly having been put out. Her grimace is noticeable as she bends down to unlace her boots, glancing around the shoddy locker room, imagining what Alexia claims a few of the other teams have.

“Maybe she’s busy. She is, like, famous. She could be out for lunch with Shakira!”

“No, that was last month.”

Jenni pauses for a moment, awestruck at her friend's seriousness, before collecting herself and trying another approach. “Why don’t we do some shooting practice while you wait for her to call? That way, Spain gets more goals, and you’re…”

She doesn’t get to finish, cut off by the alarming brrrp of Alexia’s phone. Her friend saddens at the volume, pitying Alexia for how loud she has turned her ringer up just in case she had been missing your notification all along.

Alexia swipes her phone up from the bench, and hurries into the toilets.

Throughout the five months you have been dating, Alexia has become increasingly more aware of your intense reactions to emotional situations. You feel when you feel. She admires you for your work ethic, as you do her, because you fly from Barcelona to London and back again, all while writing songs, humming melodies, and holding together your high-profile life. Unfortunately, your determination and tendency to give everything and more has bled into every aspect of your life. And you are a wreck when she finally gets a word out of you.

“Tranquila, cariño,” she tries as you suck in a pathetically shallow breath. She knows exactly how many kilometres away from her you are, and she wishes she could sprint the distance. “Tranquila. What has happened?”

“I… I fired her.”

“Who?”

“My manager.” Alexia’s hand balls into a fist and she quietly celebrates. Well, until you sob again. “I mean, we all fired her. But now we have no manager and Dave is concerned about the structure of our group and the album sucks and it’s shit and HE tried to kiss me yesterday, even though he’s got a girlfriend too!”

“Búa, más slower, por favor. I’m not inglesa!”

Life, even if you are upset right now, starts to look up. You even get to spend a month with her, practising your Spanish (mejor-ing your nivel de español), meeting her family in a more appropriate context, and even watching the first match of the 2017-2018 season. Which Alexia is adamant they will win.

…

She proposes in November; a year after you kissed.

It’s not a hard decision to make. Not when you have built IKEA furniture together, and spent a week in Menorca with her, her mother, and her sister. Not when her English is littered with your vocabulary and references to Virgil and the like, and your family can all shout at you in Spanish because they’ve heard her do it so many times. Not when ‘I love you’ is the easiest sentence she’s ever said. Every minute of her life that she gives you is like exchanging part of her soul for pure, complete bliss.

You’re fucking freezing, and befuddled at the fact that Alexia has requested to take a walk in the park near your flat. Your Spanish girlfriend, the same woman who finds summer too temperate in England, has somehow turned into a snow-lover, even if there is only damp grass and a biting wind. Alexia wishes England had white Christmases, but it’s a myth, she has discovered.

The ring sits in her coat pocket. She chose it with Alba before she left the warmer climate of Barcelona, and her sister did not ask her whether she was rushing into things. It’s not too soon; if anything, she should’ve asked a year ago.

“Fuck me, it’s cold,” you groan as you shiver. She takes your hand, her woollen gloves itchy against your bare skin, but it warms you up. “We could be inside, in bed. There’s a new series we could start, or, I don’t know, don’t you have some football game to watch?”

“I hate watching football with you.”

You part your lips to respond, but she is not lying and she has said it before. Some bullshit about you supporting all the wrong teams.

“Well, I hate it when you drag me out into the freezing cold for no reason. If you want a dog to bring on walks, just say so. We can go to Battersea before you leave tomorrow.”

“Don’t,” she murmurs, halting you both near the inky water of the lake you have been circling for the past five minutes. It sucks that her visits are temporary, even if you are technically moved into each other’s homes (she has your keys, you have hers). With the remaining time left before her flight tomorrow at noon, she has worked up the courage to do it now.

It’s like scoring a goal: receive the pass; dribble; gear up for it; shoot.

“What’s wrong?”

Her free hand reaches into her pocket. “Nada.”

“No, you’re acting weird…” You blink a few times as if to adjust better to the dim light coming from the distant lampposts. A plop sounds from the water, and she jumps. She’s on edge.

“No.”

“Yes. Jesus, you haven’t decided to break up with me in the middle of a park at night, have you?” Your question packs an unnerved insecurity, and she feels a little guilty about the suspense. She fiddles with the ring in her pocket, and then she takes a deep breath. “Hey,” you try tenderly. “Seriously, Ale, what’s wrong?”

“Te lo dije. Nothing.”

“So what’s in your pocket?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

She sighs, “here,” and she grabs your hand to press it into the soft warmth inside. And there’s a piece of metal, heated by her fingers. With a chunk of rock on top of it. It feels like an engagement ring. You’re probably not getting broken up with tonight.

“Are you proposing?”

“Are you saying yes?”

“Yes.”

“Hòstia.” She frowns, and you consider pushing her into the lake. “I am going to say it now.”

“But you already—”

A quick display of her athleticism, for the muscles exist despite being buried underneath all those layers, and she is down on one knee. Her joggers will have wet patches, and she hates the squelch of the mud beneath her, but she has a perfect view of your surprise. Your tears.

“Bueno. Your brother helped me to… write the speech,” she starts, and her rehearsal is adorable. Although, honestly, you don’t hear what she has to say because you have already made up your mind.

You tell her yes in as many languages as you can.

And she thanks you with breathy moans into your mouth as you guide her towards a bench, and then your flat, and finally your bed.

When you are finished, well into the early hours of the morning she will have to leave, you climb out of bed, missing the firm grip of her toned arms the minute you’re out of it. There is a burning, overwhelming sureness inside of you that you can’t escape. You know it is soon – probably too soon for most – but there is a person out there for everyone, and yours is right in your bed.

Your guitar, slightly dusty from the neglect because of your frequent visits to Barcelona, rumbles when you pluck it from its stand, collapsing into the armchair beside your bed with a groan, feeling the ache of your muscles that only affirm just how good a time you’ve had with your fiancée.

You don’t play anything interesting, but the noise is enough to rouse Alexia from her heavy slumber. She lifts her head from where it has been buried within the silk pillows of your bed, and watches as your fingers pluck the nylon strings with vague allusion to one of your older songs. The weight of her ring – your engagement ring – does not seem to affect your playing: in fact, Alexia realises your hand was naked without it. You hum, fingers beginning to itch for a cigarette the minute the guitar starts to bore you, and she clears her throat.

Her grin is self-satisfied and certain. “Me voy a casar contigo,” she says into the dark stillness of your bedroom.

“I love you,” you reply.

…

Being engaged is fun.

Like, really fun.

You stay in Barcelona in December, hiding from the bitter chill of England. No one questions it, and the absence of a manager grants you so much freedom. The girls pop to the city one weekend to brainstorm a song, but, other than that, you are content to forget your own identity and become Alexia’s fiancée, one of the regulars at the increasingly more popular Barça Femení games (only the team know you’re there, able to see through the caps and sunglasses).

There are still rumours circulating about you and him, though their credibility has lessened ever since he revealed himself to have been in LA for a while. To the world, you’re sort of MIA. They catch you occasionally when you return to London for photoshoots or just to chat with your friends and family, but they get nothing more. Your Instagram posts are few and far between, and the most recent paparazzi picture is of you leaving Gio’s house to buy her a pregnancy test.

When the test is positive, something is tweaked inside of you, and you return to Barcelona – a place that is now your home too – carrying a lead-ish guilt.

Alexia loves her football, and Alexia is obsessed with her career. You are too, but you have done what you can, really. The BRIT nominees will be announced tomorrow, and you know that you and the girls are on that list. You have your fame, you have your money. But Alexia has neither, and she should. Especially when her male counterparts are raised high and mighty on large, golden platforms.

You know just how ambitious she is, and that is why you lack surprise when you enter her flat to find her hunched over her iPad at the dining table, replaying the same twenty-second clip over and over until she has identified every single fault and created a plan to correct them.

She barely registers your presence, but you don’t mind how absorbed she is in her footage. It is nice to make the ever-composed Alexia jump when you slink up behind her, pressing your lips against her neck. She dissolves herself in the fuzzy feeling you give her.

“Hola,” she says, regaining control when she spots another mistake, grasping her pen tightly as she scribbles down Spanish words you can’t be bothered to read.

“Hola,” you reciprocate, though you are a lot more enthusiastic about it. “Tengo una pregunta.”

“Oh no.” You wrap your arms around her shoulders, and she relaxes. Your ring reflects the light from her screen as if to remind her that you are hers, and that softens her previous sternness slightly. Another kiss to the skin behind her ear, and she is more open to talk.

Clicking your tongue, you think of where to start. “Okay, first, I have news.”

“About Gio? Is she okay?”

“She’s… pregnant.” The emergency you were recalled to London for was actually a pleasant surprise for her and her boyfriend. You’re unsure about how committed they are to each other, and whether a baby is a great idea, but you held your tongue when Anya shook her head at you.

“Uf. Pobrecita, ¿no? She loves tequila.”

“She does love tequila,” you agree with a chuckle. You extend your hand slightly and press pause on the footage. Alexia pushes back against you. Her chair scrapes against the wooden floorboards, but there is a gap between her and the table now. She motions for you to sit in her lap.

She tilts your chin up and kisses you gently: a welcome home kiss. “¿Qué pasa, mi amor?”

“What would you do if I told you that I was pregnant tomorrow?”

“I would ask you if you have been cheating on me with a man,” she replies instantly. You laugh, head falling forwards, resting on her shoulder. She runs her hands up your sides, fingers firm, thighs tensing underneath you.

“But hypothetically. If it were possible,” you continue, a smirk working its way onto your lips, guilt forgotten. You may have spent your plane journey scrolling through pictures of Alexia with the various babies in your life. It was a self-indulgent act, and it has very much led you to now.

Her eyebrows furrow with the adorable crinkle in between them, and she is seriously trying to work out if she is missing something. You go to London, you come back, you want a baby?

But she loves you. And she is very intrigued.

“Is it mine?”

“Yes, it’s yours.”

She watches the smirk on your face blossom into a smile, and she feels a matching one tug her lips upwards. “Is it going to support España or England?” The latter is pronounced in your accent, and you make a mental note to ask Jenni if she has been doing impressions of you to her teammates.

“It can choose when it’s older,” you say, waving off her stupid football question. Since dating her, your interest in football has decreased. She has sort of put you off. You only really watch it to watch her now, or when United are playing an interesting game and your father is antsy enough to text you every minute.

“No, it can’t.” You blink. She pulls you into her. “It chooses now. Spain or England, and Manchester United or Barcelona. There are right answers.”

“Manches–”

“Wrong! I think I will have to make sure the baby is not brainwashed.”

You panic for a moment. “Wait, you do know I’m not really pregnant, right?!”

Alexia is not the most ready for children, but she is always prepared to give you everything you want. “If you want a baby, mi amor, let’s make a baby. Sin chicos.” You giggle coyly as she hoists you up – the display of strength exuding an unbearably sexy cockiness. “And after,” she says in between kisses as she stands, “we can look on the Internet for options.”

“¡Vamos!”

…

The Barcelona women’s team congas its way back into the Home team changing room of the Joan Gamper, following a 7-0 win. Alexia kicked off the goal-laden game in the sixth minute, and she is on cloud nine. Victory is the sweetest taste in her mouth, and one where she knows you are watching is even better.

Mapi flicks her shoulder as they dance to the music bursting from someone or other’s speaker. “You’re so happy,” she says, her grin wide and eyes shining. They dance topless, most of them, but Alexia has subtly been rushing to get dressed and find you. Barcelona is a beautiful city, and she has promised that you can take her to dinner somewhere now that your morning sickness has subsided and only started to affect you when it is supposed to.

“We just won,” she explains over the shouts of joy from her teammates.

María León joined from Atleti this season, but she has known Alexia longer than that, and she can tell when there is something more to football in her emotions. Though it is a well-kept secret, Alexia has two obsessions, and you are one of them.

“Yo sé. But you have been very happy recently, in general. Except, you don’t come out for team nights or hang back to practise more after training, so it is definitely to do with Y/n.” Alexia’s absence in her teammates’ lives is actually unusual, seeing as you are very encouraging and a firm believer in the ‘work hard, play hard’ mentality. Your urging is what sends Alexia to bars and clubs with the girls, though she has neglected all of these outings ever since you showed her your positive pregnancy test (best belated birthday present ever). “So… what’s going on?”

“You’re so nosy.”

“I’m interested. I love her, and I want to know how she has made it so that you haven’t had a bad day for the last three months, even when we lost to Bilbao. Is it sex? Does she suffer through–”

“No!” Alexia interjects, cheeks reddening. Mapi smirks at the twenty-four-year-old, proud to have embarrassed her. She still claims that she is not a prude. Her phone buzzes on the bench – you’re asking how long she is going to take.

Mapi swipes Alexia’s clean clothes from her grip, holding them behind her back as she giggles at her friend’s exasperation. “Tell me, or go outside like that.”

“Good thing it’s May,” Alexia shrugs, grabbing her phone and bag, knowing you won’t at all mind spending time with her in just her sports bra. She is pulled back by Mapi, who has hooked her finger into the waistband of Alexia’s shorts and yanked hard enough for them to have stretched.

“Ale, tell me.”

“No. You’re a gossip.”

“I’m not a gossip.”

“You so are.”

“Am not.”

“So it wasn’t you who told Leila about Patri’s crush when I made it clear that we weren’t even supposed to know?” Mapi shifts uncomfortably, letting go of the shorts. “And it definitely wasn’t you who let everyone find out about my engagement because you don’t know what an inside voice is?”

“Hey, you never specified that you were going to be sneaky about it!” she defends, as she has done ever since the entire canteen went silent in shock and then, two seconds later, broke out into a clamour of pleas to be bridesmaids and to get Bad Bunny invited to the wedding.

“It was implied,” Alexia shoots back with a glare.

“Fine. Be annoying. I’ll just ask Y/n.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. She’s got better things to do.”

“Ouch,” Leila says, patting Mapi on the back as she shoves her way into the conversation. The two are partners in crime, and Alexia hates that she is now outnumbered. “But tell us. Please, Ale.”

“We’ll even not nutmeg you for a week.” They love to try. It’s their highest priority mission.

“A month,” Alexia negotiates.

“Yes! Just tell us.”

“Y/n is pregnant.” Three months down the line is not necessarily when she wants to announce her personal business to the entirety of Spain, but you both know that it’s safe to tell people now.

Mapi laughs. “Ay, Alexia, you don’t have to lie to us.”

She looks at her friends blankly, having not expected this reaction. When she told her mother, the woman at least had it in her to take it seriously (albeit with quite the cautious ‘are you sure?’). “I’m not lying,” she then says, more to Leila than the giggling Mapi in front of her.

“You’re not…?” Leila tries, grappling with it. Two pairs of eyes drift down to Alexia’s crotch, squinting at the material as though some previously concealed appendage is going to jump out at them.

Alexia clears her throat.

“I’m sorry. How?!”

“The normal way most lesbians–”

“She’s, like, actually pregnant? Like, de verdad, she is pregnant?”

“Or she’s smuggling a lime under her shirt.” Her nod is small and she has the glimmer of a smile on her face despite Leila and Mapi’s gobsmacked expressions. Her phone buzzes: it’s you again. “And, if you two don’t mind, I don’t want to leave her waiting for me outside.”

“Because she’s…”

“Exactly.”

When she finally escapes the changing room, she climbs into her car. With heartbreak from both you and your dad, you have sold your i8 in favour of getting Alexia a Land Rover. Most of your money is in savings. You earn loads, but it is hard to find things you want to spend it on, and a lot of it goes towards private jets to get you to and from Alexia.

You are sitting in the passenger seat. “Jugaste bien,” you say as her hand moves up from its instinctive resting place on your thigh, settling on the growing swell of your stomach. “I’m so hungry. I could eat a horse.”

“A horse?”

“Or a house. Or, I don’t know, an entire cavalry. Feed me.” Her alarm — a mistranslation — causes her to almost run over the steward directing her out of the car park. “Tengo mucha hambre, Ale.” She nods with a roll of her eyes. She’s been warned about pregnant women.

…

In the bustling excitement of Estadi Johan Cruyff, which has slowly filled with more and more fans in the time you have known the plastic seats and improving pitch, you find yourself in the midst of an unexpected turn of events. With your due date approaching and Alexia’s insistence that you are surely made of glass, you have been forced to part from your sisters (Gio and Anya) and live in Barcelona. She wants the baby to be born here. You’ve negotiated that the next one will be had in London.

Alexia’s mother notices the deep breath you take in, well-acquainted with the horror on your face having worn that same expression twice before. ¿Estás bien?” she asks you, the steadiness of her voice comforting to the flurry inside your head.

The whistle blows and the game kicks off. This can’t be happening now.

It’s too early. There’s a… What are they called? Braxton-hicks?

“Sí,” you affirm with a curt nod. The not-contraction doesn’t hurt that much, you tell yourself. You settle in the seat and focus on the match in front of you, using the rhythm of the crowd’s cheers (it can now be called a crowd!) to keep you grounded. With a reassuring smile, Eli offers you her hand. You take it and try not to crush her metacarpals.

It’s definitely possible that you are in actual labour, considering the increasing intensity of your contractions, but you are not about to leave the match. Alexia would notice your absence. This game is important for her team – it’s the last before the Christmas break.

At halftime, Eli quietly reassesses you, tricking you into seeing the team’s medic when guiding you to the ‘toilet’. Already briefed on the situation, the medic asks you a few questions in accented English, much like that of your newly trilingual fiancée. “Don’t tell her,” you beg quietly through a huffed sigh, gladly taking the seat offered to you. “I’ll wait until it’s finished.”

“There is another hour left.”

Your ears burn and another contraction shoots through you. You shake your head, fending off the pain while you do so. “He can’t be a Barcelona fan,” you insist. Eli grins at the knowledge that her first grandchild will be a boy, but you do not see it, too focused on convincing the medic to keep the child’s other mother in the dark about what is currently happening in the Barcelona medical room. “I’ll wait.”

Eli hands you your phone per your request. You call Gio, whose daughter is only two months old. “Don’t tell me,” she starts when you fail to greet her. The sound of her voice, her accent, her tone is relieving, though you are incredibly grateful for the woman who continues to hold your hand as though you are her own daughter. “Nah, nah. Where are you? I’m gonna jump on a flight, alright? I’ll call Anya and we’ll be there soon.”

“Don’t… rush,” you groan.

“Babe, we are going to rush. Where are you?!”

“A match!” You try to remember the breathing exercises you learnt for this exact moment. “Her match. Second half’s only just started. She… She doesn’t know.”

Gio’s loud, boisterous laugh rings out, and you can tell that she is not at home. No one with a newborn baby can afford to make noise at that volume. “Fucking hell. Ever heard of sense?” You don’t respond, embarrassed that you are in too much pain to think of a comeback. “I’ve left Mia at my mum’s, so don’t you worry. Want me to bring anything from home? Cadbury’s, maybe?”

“One of those massive bars?”

“Yep, done deal.” She pauses. “Hey, babe, I’m gonna ring Anya now, alright? Call your mum – or your dad, if you two haven’t yet made up. I’ll see you soon. Tell Alexia her baby’s on the way!”

Your protests are cut off by the final beep of her hanging up, and your head drops back as another contraction, your body squeezed as though some giant rubber band has just snapped back into place. Eli stands up, worried now.

Before you can tell her that you are alright, a gush of water hits the sterile floor with an unnerving splatter. The prospect of having to care for another life suddenly becomes very real. “Tenemos que ir al hospital.”

“No.”

“Soy la abuela. Yo sé que hacer.” Even the medic, who has nervously stayed by your side, much more experienced with ACLs than broken waters (and stubborn pregnant women), looks intimidated by the firmness of Eli’s words. “Por favor”: she softens her blow.

You glance around the room, slowly descending into agony and helpless against the wrath of rationality from your fiancée’s mother. “How long’s left of the match? ¿Cuántos minutos quedan?”

The medic holds up all ten fingers. You grapple with your body, begging the baby to sit tight for a moment. “Let her finish. We can go when the whistle blows.”

Your contractions get closer together.

Eli’s frustration leads her to ask God for the baby to not have inherited your stubbornness. She also loves you more for it; admiring your insistence to keep Alexia from missing everything.

You don’t call your own mother. You simply type out a shaky text to the family group chat; blunt and to the point. ‘Baby. Now.’

Half of your universe storms the web, booking flights to Barcelona. Anya and Gio are almost at the airport already — a few steps ahead of your panicking parents and your brother, who has been enjoying dinner at the Savoy with his clients. Those who serve as your planets, revolving around you like you are the sun, do you a favour, letting Dave know that you probably won’t make it to the Skype call scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dave, in turn, now expanding into management, informs your newly-hired publicist (good riddance to the old one). The world has expected a pregnancy announcement ever since you failed to appear at your most recent awards show, despite winning in your category.

It's almost an eternity later that Alexia, football boots clacking against the floor, flings open the door of the medical room. Eli calls out, warning her daughter about slipping on the sizable puddle that has spread out beneath you.

Your fiancée is valiant in her attempt to mask her sheer panic.

“Have you called an ambulance?” she asks her mother, stepping over your amniotic fluid and placing her hand on your shoulder. You squint, trying to open your eyes though this contraction has been the most excruciating so far.

“We were waiting for you. She was adamant that you finished your match.”

“No football match is more important than her!” If you understood Catalan (and weren’t in labour), you’d have teased her for being a sap. “Call an ambulance, Jesus Christ. Look at her — she needs a doctor.” Her composure revisits her fleetingly, and she turns to the medic. “Thank you for looking after her.” There is no answer because it is drowned out by her barking more orders her mother’s way.

“No ambulance,” you declare before your mouth opens in a silent sob. “Drive me. Not an ambulance.”

The last glimpse the Estadi Johan Cruyff gets of Alexia Putellas in 2018 is her carrying you to her mother’s car, your face buried in her team-issued jacket in case anyone is waiting outside to take pictures of the players.

Eli drives; something she doesn’t like doing often but feels is necessary with the nervous bounce of her daughter’s legs in the backseat enough to convince her that they’d speed like the Flash if anyone else ended up behind the wheel. She knows Barcelona, can navigate it with her eyes closed, and you are at the hospital before you can begin to tell Alexia how much you think you can’t do this.

“I really fucking can’t do this!” you cry out, situated in the delivery room. Sweat rolls down the side of your face, already dampening your hair. Alexia thinks you look beautiful, and she has been made proud of the last two hours. You’ve also helped her a lot with English swearwords.

“You can.”

“I can’t.” You’re told to push again. “Alexia, you are having the… next… fucking… beach ball.” Each word is punctuated by a guttural moan.

Waves of intense pain contort your face in agony, and the midwife continues to talk you through your task as though instructing you how to park a car. “Estás haciendo muy bien, mi amor,” she tells you, ignoring the possibility that you may have rendered her left hand boneless.

“There’s a baby coming out of my vagina,” you shout, “don’t even try to test my Spanish, you twat.”

The midwife shoots your fiancée a pitiful look. “She’ll take it back,” she says in Catalan.

“She’s getting quite inventive.”

“There’s been worse.”

You can imagine the conversation taking place in the middle of you delivering her literal child. “No, I won’t! It’s breaking me in half.” You grip her hand harder. “Never. Again.”

But, with a final, visceral (and heavily encouraged) push, the room is filled with the sound of life. Nico comes into the world screaming at the top of his lungs. All Alexia can think to say is, “definitely yours.”

…

Life is a lot more tiring trying to juggle being a mother and a pop star.

The press have a field day when you announce the birth of your son with a simple Instagram post, your engagement ring second only to the swaddled lump on your chest. The caption (‘ours’) sparks debate on who exactly is the other parent. Well, father. Alexia’s teammates, while waiting to finally be allowed to meet your bundle, spend a good two months teasing her mercilessly about it. Most notably, Alexia almost loses La Reina to Papi.

2019 comes with change — a lot of it.

You hire a new manager so that Dave can focus fully on the last album 2sday will produce. The group has been together for six years, and you have made your millions.You seek neither money nor fame, but it comes knocking on the door of your quaint apartment in Barcelona anyway, along with a record deal only for you. A solo act.

Between Nico crying, Alexia playing football, and you trying to write songs that don’t end up criminally depressing, the contract on your dining table slowly becomes forgotten about. Alexia is too stressed about the impending World Cup to grant you a moment to breathe. You spend your days in Barcelona with a baby attached to your hip, the question of his parenthood still a mystery to the public, and, ever so slowly, you begin to resent your life.

It could be postpartum depression, but you have no time to really investigate the symptoms.

Alexia, two weeks before she needs to leave for her national camp and then the World Cup in France, comes home to an eerily silent apartment.

She calls out your name, wondering if you have perhaps gone to her mother’s house. The terrible sinking feeling comes with your reply. “Can we talk?” you ask.

She finds you perched on the Egyptian cotton sheets that cover your double bed. The sheets are out of place here, greatly exceeding the original budget of the decor, and, where Alexia sees this as you adding to her life, you feel you are somewhere you don’t belong. It is fine when she is next to you, holding your hand, claiming the other half of the now six-month-old baby boy gurgling in his carseat. When she isn’t there, though, the vacant space taunts you.

“I have no friends here,” you tell her quietly. The gravity of the mood settling over you pulls her onto the mattress, not caring if the sheen of sweat she wears as her outermost layer of clothing dirties the expensive creamy white beneath her. “I have no friends, I don’t speak the language, and I think that I have played at being a normal person for long enough. I mean, it’s great to watch you and to be there for you, but, darling, that’s not who I am. This,” you gesture to the loungewear you have on, stained with dribble, “is not who I am.”

Alexia hears what you are saying. She understands; she remembers the nights where you’d call her, a cigarette rasping your voice, sparkles shining in the valley between your breasts. She has seen this coming. It would be impossible not to notice the dimming of such a strong love between you: still present, yet slowly fading away.

“They want me to sign a new deal. Alone.” The suitcases lined up in the corner of the bedroom become glaringly obvious. Nico is in his carseat for a reason. “I think it would be good for me to go back to London. I need to feel like myself again, and my parents are willing to watch him. I sold my flat – I’ve bought a house in Highgate.” Tears sting your eyes as you speak, and you know where Alexia’s shoulder is without having to look, resting your head against it. “I love you. I love you so much, but I just can’t do this anymore.”

It’s as if the ground crumbles away beneath her. Your words hang above Alexia’s neck like an axe, waiting to execute her, waiting to end everything. She can’t look at Nico, whose face crumples at his mother’s clear heartbreak.

The world, once vibrant, lays in ruins. Her funny story from training dies on her tongue, and her question of whether you wanted to visit her mother before she left for camp disintegrates, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Do you still want to marry me?” she asks, and you hate the way her voice cracks with uncertainty. “Are you moving permanently?”

“I haven’t called anything off. It’s still going ahead as planned.” She senses the but. “But I… I can’t think here. I can’t be here. I want – I need – to go home.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

She is going to be at the World Cup anyway. You and her will always find your way back to each other. She is going to be busy.

She is going to be busy.

“Yeah. It’s okay. Take all the time you need.”

She is going to fall apart without you.

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso #woso fanfics #barca femeni #fc barcelona

646 notes · View notes

ginnsbaker · 6 days

Text

fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (9/?)

Part Summary: You get more than you bargained for on Halloween

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader, temporary Leigh x Danny | Word count for this part: 7.300+ | Warnings: Light angst, R and Leigh being obtuse | Author's Note: Longest chapter so far (and about 90% of it is just Leigh and R)! I have officially written another novel length fic with this update. From a two-shot to this? Wouldn't be possible without everyone's support. Thank you, everyone. I have a little treat for you at the end.

Despite Leigh's promise to bring Logan in for his vaccinations, she missed the appointment again for the second time. Understanding that life gets hectic, you decide that rather than seeing Logan miss another round of critical vaccinations, you'll take matters into your own hands and arrange a home visit at the Shaw’s.

On the day of the visit, you discover that Logan has gained 2.5 pounds in just two weeks. The drastic weight gain might indicate that he’s not a purebred Shih Tzu as you originally thought when you got him, or Leigh has been feeding him more than the recommended serving size. You can feel Logan’s solid back as you hold him in place while you administer the vaccine on his scruff. Leigh appears nervous, and if you weren’t determined to scold her after completing Logan’s immunizations, you might have found it adorable.

“Just a quick pinch, buddy,” you murmur soothingly to the anxious pup. Logan yelps as the needle pierces his skin, but within two seconds, it’s over. You rub his neck to distract him from the sting of the medicine, then return to your insulated bag to dispose of the syringe. Leigh watches closely as you finish with Logan, a slight frown creasing her forehead. You notice she's dressed in what you figure is her nightwear—a thin olive camisole and matching capri pants. It seems too dressed down for receiving a guest.

“Why are these vaccines so important, anyway?” she asks lightly, but you don’t miss her apprehension behind it. “I mean, he'll mostly be indoors…”

The frustration from her missing two appointments sneaks into your voice as you say, “Vaccines can mean the difference between life and death for puppies. Take the parvovirus—it's lethal and spreads quickly.”

Leigh nods, taking in the weight of your words. You notice her swallow, perhaps realizing the graveness of her oversight. “I didn't realize it was that serious,” she murmurs.

You catch yourself, realizing you might be coming across as harsher than necessary. “It's alright, Leigh. That's exactly why I came here,” you say mildly. You've dealt with many uneducated dog owners before, and Leigh is no different. You know you need to be patient with her, just as you have been with others, and you remind yourself not to let your personal feelings interfere with your professional opinions.

Logan wiggles happily at your feet, seemingly forgiving you for the shot already. “And another thing,” you add, glancing down at Logan’s round belly, “he’s put on quite a bit of weight. We need to watch his diet. Too much food isn’t good for him either.”

Leigh looks slightly embarrassed. “I guess I've been spoiling him with extra treats,” she admits. “I'll be more careful with that.”

“It’s okay. I know how hard it is to say ‘no’ to that face,” you say, smiling at Logan while you rub his chin. “Just keep to the recommended portions, and he’ll be in good shape.”

As you gather your things to leave, you remember Logan's vaccine card. After filling out the final details, you head towards the kitchen where Leigh has silently drifted off. She's busying herself with breakfast on the stove when you approach.

“Here's Logan's vaccine card,” you say, handing it to her. “He needs another dose in two weeks, so don't forget to schedule that in.”

“Thank you,” Leigh says, accepting the card with a nod. “I won't forget this time.”

The aroma of coffee wafts through the room, tickling your nose.

“I've just made some coffee. Would you like to stay for breakfast?” Leigh asks.

You hesitate, considering the offer, but you’re inclined to refuse, still irked by her missing the previous appointments. “I’m good, thanks,” you say, a bit too briskly. Leigh's face falls slightly, a look of disappointment flashing across her eyes before she gives you a small, resigned smile and turns back to the stove.

You start to leave but something stops you—the frustration from Leigh’s no-shows running over.

“Leigh, can I ask why you didn’t make it to the clinic? And not even a text,” you find yourself saying as you spin on your heels to face her. “It’s not just unprofessional—it hurts more coming from a friend.”

“If you have a problem with me, it’s perfectly okay to transfer Logan to another clinic as long as you’ll follow through with his appointments,” you suggest, noting her standing there, mouth agape, her vivid green eyes sharply focused. Getting that off your chest didn't bring the relief you expected. Instead, you're left with a sinking feeling of regret. Looking back on your words, you realize how petty they must have sounded.

Leigh on the other hand, is momentarily stunned by your outburst, her eyes wide as she absorbs your words. Then, something shifts in her expression, a flicker of intrigue crossing her features before she clears her throat and apologizes.

“I'm really sorry,” she says sincerely, turning off the stove and setting down her spatula. “I didn't handle things well, and you were right to call me out on it.” Leigh takes a careful step closer, causing you to instinctively step back until your lower back meets the edge of the dining table. You weren't expecting Leigh to be so understanding, leaving you unsure of how to react. Should you apologize for getting upset?

Fortunately, Leigh doesn't leave you to dwell on your thoughts for long. She continues, “Why don't you stay for breakfast? I can whip up something nice, and we can catch up like we used to. Please, let me make it up to you.”

Feeling like an absolute fool and still grappling with the aftertaste of your flare-up, you find yourself in a quandary. Rejecting her offer would just drag out this uncomfortable moment even longer, which is the last thing you want. Besides, your stomach is growling—you haven’t eaten anything since you got here, and the smell of brewing coffee is too good to ignore.

“Alright,” you relent, glancing down at your feet. “That sounds good.”

Leigh looks relieved. “Perfect, just give me a minute,” she says, clapping her hands together as she turns back to her cooking.

You linger awkwardly, still standing. “Need a hand with anything?” you ask.

“Just sit there, be all pretty, and relax.”

That little compliment makes your cheeks burn even hotter. If you weren’t so distracted by your hunger and embarrassment, you'd swear it’s almost as if she’s flirting with you.

Wait.

Is she?

Then, as if the universe can hear you thinking, Leigh’s phone buzzes loudly on the kitchen counter. She snatches it up, and even though you can’t see her face, you can tell she’s happy he called as she chirps, “Hey, Danny.”

Right. Danny Greer. That name shatters your brief daydream. Suzie was right—you're too close, and it's clouding your judgment. Leigh laughs into the phone, and you look away just in time for her to turn slightly and steal a glance at you.

Alright, you think, that's it. After this breakfast, it's time to really put some space between you and Leigh. You need to clear your head and let her have her space too. It's the best move, for the sake of your friendship and your sanity.

As Leigh busies herself in the kitchen, you find yourself aimlessly scrolling through your phone, not really focusing on anything. The sound of her laughter while she talks to Danny floats over to you, making you regret agreeing to stay for breakfast and blame your inability to say no to her.

She ends the call with a lingering smile and soon approaches with two plates in hand. Each has a stack of pancakes and two sunny-side-up eggs with the edges just crisped up how you like them. The fact that Leigh remembered leaves you speechless. It’s a small detail, but it makes you guilty for brooding and feeling all jealous.

“I hope you still like your eggs this way,” Leigh says as she sets the table.

“Thank you,” you say warmly as Leigh pours coffee for both of you. Recalling her preference, you offer to add two sugars to her cup, and she rewards you with a small, appreciative smile. She then grabs the syrup from the fridge, along with two sets of utensils, and places them on the table.

You take a bite of the fluffy pancakes, perfectly cooked and deliciously light. “These are amazing, Leigh,” you say enthusiastically.

Leigh beams, standing a bit taller with pride instead of dismissing the praise. “I'm glad you think so! I've been working on perfecting the recipe.”

“Seriously, Leigh, you could sell these.”

She laughs. “Keep the compliments coming and I might just make you breakfast more often.”

You almost choke at her words. You really should take a little break from Leigh until you can get this crush under control. Even simple remarks are starting to feel like a tightrope walk.

Leigh tilts her head slightly, a coy look crossing her face. “So…” she drawls, leaving the word hanging as she waits for you to look up from your plate.

You stop chewing once you sense her heavy gaze on you. “Hmm?”

Leaning in slightly, she lowers her voice as though about to share a secret. “This Sara... is she a friend of yours? Someone new around here?”

The piece of pancake suddenly feels like a mouthful of sawdust as you process her question. You grab your coffee and take a quick gulp to help wash it down. “I, uh, met her on a dating app, actually,” you say.

Leigh's eyebrow arches. “Oh?”

There’s a short, tense period where you repeatedly stab your pancake and tap your foot rapidly against the leg of the stool you’re sitting on, while Leigh twirls her hair around her finger, lost in thought.

“She’s gorgeous,” Leigh finally says. “I didn’t know you were into women.” That is, unless you and the person from her advice column are one and the same. She's chosen to approach what she's dubbed the “EspressoEyes conundrum” as a Schrödinger’s cat scenario, where you simultaneously do and do not have feelings for Leigh.

You fiddle with your coffee mug. “Yeah, I think I've mentioned that before,” you say, though your memory suddenly feels unreliable.

Leigh shakes her head, certain. “No, you definitely haven't told me that.”

“Well, yes, I'm into women, but obviously I like men too,” you say, deciding it's perhaps better to just be clear.

“We're the same then,” she says casually, as if discussing something as mundane as their taste in movies.

“Really?” You’re hoping Leigh is buying the faux surprise on your face, even though Jules had let slip about Leigh's college days.

“Yeah,” Leigh nods. “I had a serious relationship with a woman back in college. It's not something I talk about much, but it's part of who I am.”

“I see.”

Leigh takes a slow sip of her coffee, eyeing you over the rim of her mug with a slight tilt of her head.

“So, do you like her? Sara, I mean,” she asks.

“Yeah, she’s great. We get along really well.”

Leigh sets her coffee cup down with a small clink, not missing a beat. “Have you guys...you know, slept together?” she asks, more bluntly than before.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, feeling a bit like you’re under interrogation. “Um…no, we haven’t.”

A quick glint flashes in her eyes before it vanishes. Her shoulders relax as she leans back in her chair. “Sorry, that was out of line,” she mumbles with a curt, dismissive laugh. “I guess I'm just being nosy.”

The way she said it doesn't truly suggest she's sorry for crossing some lines, but you’re not focusing on that. Rather, you feel like you’ve earned the right to ask Leigh some questions about her own personal affairs.

“And you?” you start, trying to sound flippant. “How are things with you and Danny?”

Leigh matches your nonchalance as she stands up to gather the empty plates from the table. There's a smooth, practiced ease in the way she begins cleaning up, letting you know she's not about to let your questions corner her.

“Things are... going,” she replies, keeping it vague. “Danny's great. We're figuring things out as we go.”

“Where'd you meet him?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“He's Matt's brother,” Leigh says flatly, without flinching. You have to give it to her for being so straightforward about it. Not that you’re judging Leigh or anything—it’s just that moving from in-laws to lovers is quite an unconventional transition.

It’s also possible that you’re just bitter.

“Did you always find him attractive?” you ask, almost spitefully, curiosity getting the better of you. Leigh freezes, her back going rigid at your callous words. There's a moment of visible tension, but then she lets out a slow breath and lets it slide. She had been quite direct in probing about your dating life, so perhaps this levels the playing field.

“No, it wasn’t like that,” Leigh says slowly. “I—”

“Oh hey, Y/N, it's been a while!”

Neither of you heard the front door open. Jules bursts in, holding Logan who's wagging his tail wildly at the sight of familiar faces, both oblivious to the cutting atmosphere they've just entered.

“Oh hey, Y/N, it's been a while!” Jules exclaims. She looks between you and Leigh. “Am I interrupting something?” she asks, noticing the residual stiffness in the air.

“Y/N was just leaving,” Leigh says.

You don’t need to be told twice. “Hey, Jules,” you say with a short wave. “I just came to give Logan his shots.”

Jules frowns slightly as you start to leave so soon after her arrival. You reach over to give Logan a quick pat on the head. Turning to Leigh, you manage a tight smile and say, “Thanks for the breakfast.”

As soon as you're out the door, Jules turns to Leigh with a worried look. “What was all that about?” she asks softly.

Leigh shrugs, her expression inscrutable. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replies evenly, turning away to busy herself with the dishes.

You get into your car but instead of starting it, you just sit there motionless. Your hands rest aimlessly on the wheel as you lose yourself in thought.

Here’s the truth about Sara:

She's exactly your type on paper—blonde, blue-eyed, stunning. But despite all that, she hadn't managed to hold your attention. Her beauty just couldn't pull your mind away from Leigh, from her vivid green eyes that always seemed to see right through you.

The silence in the car allows you to realize what an odd question you had thrown at Leigh about Danny. You realize just how inappropriate it might have seemed, how it must have sounded coming from a place of jealousy rather than concern.

Why did you even ask that? The answer is uncomfortably clear: you can't be just friends with Leigh. Not anymore. You’ve been lying to yourself, hoping things would just sort themselves out. But they won’t. Not like this. You can’t keep doing this to yourself—or to her.

Because right now, this friendship, if you can even call it that, is doing more harm than good.

“It’s not working.”

Suzie looks up from her clipboard, startled. Her red locks tumble across her face as she tilts her head, brushing them back with a quick flick of her hand.

“Seeing other people, you mean?” she asks, already guessing the root of your distress.

You run a hand through your hair, messing up your low ponytail. Frustrated, you decide to let your hair loose from the tie altogether.

“I thought if I met someone like Sara—someone who’s practically a checklist of everything I find attractive—it would make things easier. But it’s just... not.” You massage your temples, as if trying to rub away the spell Leigh seems to have cast on you. “She's perfect, but she's not Leigh. And no matter how hard I try, I can't stop thinking about Leigh.”

“You're right about one thing though,” Suzie says, getting back to her task.

“Which is…?”

“That Sara’s perfect,” she chuckles, and you can't help but roll your eyes. “Look, you can’t force these feelings. If your heart’s not in it, it’s not in it.”

“So…Should I keep seeing her? Maybe she’ll grow on me or something.”

Suzie stops and gives you a serious look. “Maybe. But love shouldn't feel like an obligation, you know? It’s not fair to either of you if you’re just waiting to see if you’ll catch feelings.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” you acknowledge with a sigh. “She’s everything I thought I wanted. And I think she likes me.”

“Sometimes what we think we want isn’t what we really need,” Suzie answers. “Why not take a break? Give yourself some space to think. It might help you figure out what really works—whether it’s Sara, someone else, or just time to yourself.”

“You think so?”

Suzie gives a small shrug. “Look, I don’t have all the answers.”

Hearing that makes you feel a tad embarrassed. You’ve been leaning on her for advice a lot lately, and it’s probably awkward for her, especially since you're her boss. Maybe she’s just being nice because she has to be.

“Thanks, Sue,” you say, standing up from your chair to head back to your office. “I appreciate you listening to all this.”

She smiles back, and you can tell she’s relieved to move on from the subject. Suzie might not have all the answers, but maybe there’s another place you can find them.

That night, in your bedroom, you settle in front of your laptop, the cursor blinking expectantly on the blank submission form of the advice column. You type in your handle—EspressoEyes—a moniker you’d used before, thinking it would increase your chances of being noticed again. Quickly, you type out your query and hit send, watching as it disappears into the digital ether. No sooner have you shut your laptop than your phone rings. It’s your mom.

“Hey, Mom,” you answer, shifting to sit against your headboard.

“Hi, sweetheart! Are you coming home for Thanksgiving? We’re starting to plan the menu and would love to have you,” she says. Your chest tightens. Just hearing her voice makes you feel like you’re already home. You pretend to think for a second, considering your rather empty social calendar.

“Yeah, I’ll come home,” you decide, realizing it might be nice to get away for a bit.

“Oh good! It’s been too long. We’ll make sure to have all your favorites,” she chatters on, already listing the dishes that would normally make you salivate. But these days, you just don’t have the appetite for food.

“Sounds great, Mom. Really looking forward to it.”

You hang up with a promise to send your flight details soon. Setting your phone down, you feel a slight relief at the thought of escaping to a place where no one knows about the mess you’re in.

Leigh can’t sleep. She lies wide awake, staring at the ceiling while Danny's snores fill the room. The weight of his arm draped over her stomach feels stifling, trapping her in place. She can’t breathe. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she slips out from under his arm and tiptoes out of the bedroom. In the hallway, she grabs one of his shirts hanging over a chair and slips it on. It smells like sandalwood and something uniquely him—comforting yet somehow off-putting at the same time.

She pads into the kitchen to boil some water, the soft click of the stove burner igniting a comforting sound in the otherwise quiet apartment. With the kettle on, she wanders into the living room, pulling Danny's shirt closer around her. Even with the windows closed, the crisp chill of autumn seeps in.

Sitting on the couch, Leigh pulls her knees to her chest. The post-sex cocktail of oxytocin and vasopressin usually knocks her out, but tonight they fail her. Instead, her mind is filled with doubts and the urge to flee from any kind of closeness.

She remembers the last conversation with you, the disapproval on your face when you finally mentioned her relationship with Danny. It troubles her more than she expected. Were you right? Is she just scrambling to fit someone, anyone, into her life, even if it means ignoring the screams inside her head telling her to run?

The kettle whistles, snapping her out of her thoughts. She makes her tea and settles back into the couch, stirring slowly as she thinks about what it might mean to step back from everything—Danny, you, all of it.

With nothing but time until sleep takes her or the sun rises—whichever comes first—Leigh picks up her phone to distract herself. She scrolls through social media, news articles, anything to keep her mind off the spinning thoughts. Eventually, she wanders to the advice column inbox to check on the latest submissions.

Her breath catches in her throat when she sees another entry from EspressoEyes, a handle she recognizes—possibly yours. It reads:

“Is it wise to pursue other relationships if you have strong feelings for someone else? That someone is a friend, and staying just friends is becoming increasingly difficult. My feelings seem to be putting a strain on our relationship. Should I give myself some space?”

Leigh reads the message two more times. She sets her phone down, her thumb instinctively finding its way to her mouth where she nibbles at the nail, a nervous habit when she’s thinking long and hard. And the more she thinks about it, the more obvious it becomes. Of course, she's the friend you're talking about. This is you, openly struggling with your feelings for her. She had hoped things might change, might become less complicated when Sara came into the picture, but she was mistaken.

When she asked about Sara, Leigh was trying to gauge your feelings for her, wondering if Sara's presence meant she didn't need to worry about whether you were EspressoEyes or not. In her mind, if you were involved with Sara, it would imply you weren't interested in Leigh. But she surprised even herself by asking if you had slept with Sara, unsure why she needed to know that detail. Deep down, she couldn’t openly admit just how relieved she felt when you told her you hadn’t.

Leigh picks up her phone again and starts typing out a reply to the submission. When she’s done she tosses her phone somewhere on the couch and goes back to her tea. Sitting there, she watches as the sky outside shifts from dark to a wash of pastels.

A week later, Leigh’s phone vibrates incessantly on the table, the screen lighting up with Danny's name again. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, she turns it off and sets it aside. They've been cycling through breakups and makeups so often it's exhausting—a twisted routine, one that's leaving her more drained each time.

It's Halloween, and since she and Danny are off again, Leigh decides to take the night for herself. She picks Matt's favorite restaurant, which is fully decked out for the holiday, with jack-o'-lanterns lining the walls and eerie candles flickering on each table. She orders a pumpkin-spiced latte and a small plate of appetizers, settling in to enjoy her evening solo. Later, she’ll have that tiramisu that her late husband so adored.

Matt always loved this holiday because it was the one time of year Leigh would indulge him by dressing up as whatever comic book character he was into at the moment. They'd start the evening here for pre-dinner celebrations before meeting up with friends and family later on. But tonight, there are no costumes for Leigh; she's dressed simply in jeans and a cardigan, her face free of makeup, her hair tucked behind her ears to keep it out of the way while she eats.

As she waits, she watches families and couples in costumes come and go, a bittersweet creeping up at her.

Then, you walk in. You’re dressed sharply, scanning the room like you're meeting someone—on a date. Leigh catches her breath. Were you aware that this was Matt’s favorite restaurant? Moreover, it’s been almost two weeks since that awkward morning when you left in a haste. You haven’t noticed her yet. Leigh watches you for a moment, debating what to do. She’s torn between going over or staying put. The last she contributed to the advice column, she’d left a message she hoped you'd find useful if you were indeed the person she’s been advising to. From the look of things, maybe you were taking that advice after all.

Taking a deep breath, Leigh stands and walks over. As you turn and notice her, a small, tentative smile appears on her lips when your eyes meet.

“Hey.”

You return the smile, though it's imbued with a bit of wariness. She appreciates it nonetheless.

“Hey,” you say.

Leigh doesn't beat around the bush; she gets straight to the point of why she came over. “Look, I'm sorry,” she says, the words coming out almost demandingly. “About last time. I crossed a line asking about Sara.”

There's an unmistakable assertiveness to her apology, carrying the same confidence and directness with which she usually addresses any issue. She doesn’t bow her head or wring her hands; instead, she holds your gaze steadily, expecting her apology to be taken as seriously as she means it.

“It’s okay. I wasn’t exactly in line myself when I brought up Danny,” you say, looking up at her. Then, searching for something else to say, you ask, “So, are you here to meet Danny?”

Leigh seems unfazed by the mention of Danny, yet again. You feel a bit silly soon after, realizing that after just acknowledging the awkwardness of digging into each other’s romantic lives, here you are, doing it again. You just can’t help yourself, can you?

“No. I’m on my own tonight,” she replies. Then she mirrors your earlier question, a slight tilt to her head. “And you? Here with Sara?”

“No, things didn’t push through with Sara. I’m meeting someone new,” you say, the words feeling strange as they come out. It was a simple yes or no question, and you're not quite sure what compelled you to open up about the specifics of your dating life.

Leigh just nods, her face neutral, not giving away anything in reaction to your news. “I should let you get back to your, uh, date,” she says, then quietly returns to her seat.

Having a date with a stranger just a few feet away from the woman you truly care about is about as ironic as the universe can be.

You’re on your second americano, the bitter taste barely registering as you glance at your watch for the umpteenth time. It's been thirty minutes past the time your date was supposed to arrive, and there's still no sign of him.

The restaurant has filled up around you. Families are tucked into booths, laughing and sharing plates piled high with food. Groups of friends clink glasses in cheerful toasts, and couples lean close, whispering and smiling over candlelit tables. Sitting alone at a table set for two, you start to feel conspicuously isolated.

The last two texts you sent within the hour remain unanswered, their blue bubbles on the screen marking the time you spent waiting. Determined to find some explanation, you open the dating app where you met him, your fingers tapping nervously. There, his profile pops up, showing that he is currently online. Relief washes over you for a moment—maybe there's a reasonable explanation. He might still show up. But as you tap the message icon to send him a query about his whereabouts, a sudden notification stops you: you can no longer message this user.

Feeling disheartened and embarrassed, you can’t help but feel all kinds of ugly for being stood up by someone who doesn’t even mean anything to you. Did he see you waiting and decide not to meet? What about you turned him off? You find yourself scrutinizing everything about your appearance. Was it what you were wearing—perhaps not feminine enough for his taste? Your hair was pulled back, exposing your forehead; maybe he didn't like that look. Or was it your posture—too slouched or too stiff? You even wonder if he might have passed someone else on his way here, someone he found more attractive. It's unsettling to realize how quickly the self-confidence you've spent years building can be shaken in just one evening.

You signal the waiter for the check. Although your stomach is growling, the thought of eating anything seems impossible right now. You're just focused on getting out of there as quickly as you can. Just as you finish paying, Leigh appears at your table. Without a word, she slides into the seat across from you. You're surprised to see her, and although you're not really in the mood for company or conversation, her presence is somehow less intrusive than you would expect.

“I couldn't help but notice your date never arrived,” Leigh comments with an amused smile, inadvertently adding salt to the wound. You think to yourself, Way to rub it in, Leigh, but you're too drained to actually say anything confrontational, so you just mumble a small, “Yeah.”

Leigh leans in a bit closer, lowering her voice as if she's about to let you in on a secret.

“Want to get out of here?”

It’s definitely not a date. Far from it.

It’s just two friends winding up spending Halloween together by chance.

It’s what Leigh keeps telling herself.

Leigh didn’t know what came over her when she went back to your table. She hadn't thought she'd be asking you to ditch the restaurant and wander the city for the rest of the night—together. What she did know was that she had been eating unusually slowly, glancing over at you occasionally to see how your evening was unfolding. But as it became painfully obvious that your date was a no-show, she couldn’t take it; seeing you left to handle the disappointment alone was more than she could bear.

Turning to Leigh in your car, you ask, “Do you mind if we stop first at the 7-Eleven on Main? I haven't had dinner yet.”

“What kind of dinner can you get from a 7-Eleven?” she asks.

You shrug and say, “Donuts.”

At the 7-Eleven, you grab a box of assorted donuts, and on a whim, you also pick up a few cans of beer to go along with them. With snacks in hand, you drive to a spot that overlooks the city—the same one where Leigh took you after getting takeouts the first time around. It’s not secluded—there’s a small crowd, with several cars parked and groups of people lounging on their car hoods.

“I wasn’t always attracted to him,” Leigh murmurs, after finishing her first beer. You both sit side-by-side with the trunk of your car open, swinging your legs while Leigh’s are crossed over the edge of the trunk.

You glance over at her, a curious ‘Hm?’ escaping your lips, though they're still full of donuts.

Leigh chuckles at your reaction, finding the sight of your cheeks stuffed with food more endearing than she probably should.

“Danny,” she clarifies with a sigh. “I actually used to hate him. He was always such a burden on Matt. Always dragging him into trouble.”

You think about what she's said, then offer a perspective, “You know, they say hate isn't the opposite of love, it's indifference. So maybe there’s always been something there, something more than just annoyance.”

Leigh leans back, stretching her arms out behind her for support as she considers your point. You find yourself wondering what's going through her mind. Is your honesty drawing her even closer to Danny? You could have exploited her past feelings, suggesting that maybe she's always disliked Danny and is confusing her loneliness for love. But you choose not to manipulate her emotions, even if it might be easy to sway her. You won't take advantage of her vulnerability just to get what you want.

Though you can’t deny that the temptation is there.

“Leigh, can I ask you a question?” you say, watching her closely.

She nods, her face open and expectant as she pops open another can of beer.

“How did you find out about me and Matt?”

Leigh takes a sip before answering. “Didn’t I mention it before?”

You purse your lips and shake your head, maintaining a neutral expression as you encourage her to elaborate.

“Danny told me,” Leigh reveals after a brief pause.

“What exactly did he tell you?”

Leigh hesitates, her eyes flickering to the side before meeting yours again. She sets the can down, her fingers drumming against the aluminum in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

“He just flat-out told me one night. I didn't believe him at first, so he mentioned your name to prove it, and I pieced together the rest. I tried to learn everything I could about you, where you lived... and that’s how I discovered your clinic in the city. And I... well, you know the rest,” she says. From what Leigh said, you easily conclude that Danny hadn't come clean to her about his role in facilitating your relationship with Matt. He had conveniently removed himself from the narrative, leaving out his involvement entirely. Lost in thought, you don't realize you've grown quiet until Leigh's voice pulls you back.

“Why do you ask?”

If you answer that question, you don’t believe you can continue hiding the truth about Danny any longer. As you watch Leigh, relaxed in the back of your car, her hair tousled by the gentle evening breeze, you're torn. You're afraid of disrupting her peace. The truth, as it often has, seems only to bring her pain. So, you buy yourself some time to think.

“Do you ever wish he had just kept it to himself? That you never knew any of this?”

Leigh appears briefly disconcerted by the question. She takes some time to think about how to respond, and you give her the time she needs, reaching for another piece of donut from the box. At this rate, you're on track to polish off half a dozen all by yourself.

“Knowing the truth hurt—a lot. It felt like I was suddenly a stranger to my own life,” Leigh says, looking somewhere distant before her eyes return to you. “But then again, knowing has changed how I see things, how I see him—and even how I see you. It’s given me a chance to see things as they really are, not just how I want them to be.”

“You never would’ve met me,” you say with a light-hearted grin, almost suggesting that maybe it was better she hadn’t. But Leigh gives you a look, a gentle sadness in her eyes that makes it clear she doesn’t entertain the thought of not having met you.

“What about you? Do you wish things had stayed hidden?” she asks, turning the question back on you.

A part of you—a very significant part—trembles on the edge of laying bare your feelings for her.

Fiddling with the edge of the donut box, you let a small smile flicker across your lips, but it doesn't reach your eyes. “There's something to be said for not knowing everything. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss,” you say softly. “I mean, not knowing can save you from a lot of unnecessary heartache.”

As you speak, you’re still weighing whether knowing Leigh is turning into an unnecessary heartbreak.

Leigh nods slowly, the corners of her mouth lifting in a bittersweet smile. “Well, when you put it that way, maybe not knowing some things is for the best.”

It feels like a silent agreement on that fine line between knowing everything and being happier not knowing. Perhaps what you can do for now is spare Leigh from her own unnecessary heartbreak. If what she has with Danny is working, why ruin it?

“You know what's missing here? Music,” Leigh muses, reaching for her third beer. “Oh, and you better keep up,” she adds, glancing at the single beer you’ve had.

“Or how about you pace yourself? I'd hate for the party to end too soon for you,” you quip slyly.

Leigh grins, unfazed by your warning. She leans closer, and her breath, warmed by the beers, brushes against your cheek. “Speaking of parties, I actually got invited to this Halloween bash tonight. Everyone's supposed to be in costume, and there will definitely be music. We should go. What do you say?”

You pretend to think about it, but you’re already clearing out your trunk and hopping off it as you reply, “Well, you did say you needed music.”

A party isn’t really your scene.

Leigh is already tipsy by the time you both arrive at it. People are either clad in bulky costumes or barely dressed at all. Halloween decorations dangle from the ceiling, a foot or two above the faces of the revelers as strobe lights flash in erratic bursts. You weave through a crowd of zombies and sexy nurses, the bass from the DJ's speakers vibrating under your feet.

As you're both making your way toward the bar, a co-worker spots Leigh and pulls her aside excitedly. “Leigh, over here!” they shout over the noise, grabbing her arm. She turns back to you with a slightly apologetic grin. “Just a sec, I'll catch up!” she promises, before being swallowed by the crowd, her hand slipping from your arm.

But that was half an hour ago.

Now, you're feeling dizzy from the alcohol that's been keeping you company in Leigh's absence, and the sea of masked and painted faces around you is starting to merge into a blur. You round a corridor that brings you back to the main room and finally, you spot her. Leigh is near the dance floor, laughing with a group dressed in characters you don’t recognize. She sees you and waves excitedly, her movements a bit too exaggerated. You make your way over, dodging a particularly enthusiastic witch.

“Found you,” you say, as you reach her side.

Leigh grins, her eyes bright. “Dance with me!” she yells over the music, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the throng of sweaty bodies. Too exhausted to argue, you let her lead you into the chaos. As the music takes over and you both start to dance, the rest of the party fades into the background. Leigh's hand is warm in yours, her other hand reaching up to loop around your neck. The music swells, and the crowd presses in, pushing you closer together. Her breath is sweet with the tang of alcohol, and her cheeks are flushed.

Leigh’s movements become less and less coordinated as she leans into you, her body heavenly against yours. Her lips come dangerously close to yours, barely brushing against them, and for a moment—surrounded by her warmth and scent—you're tempted. You want her, deeply, irrevocably—

But not like this.

You firm your hands on her hips, pushing her slightly away. “Hey, let's get some air, yeah?” you suggest calmly despite your heart going crazy in your chest.

She looks up at you, a bit confused but nods, her smile unfaltering. You take her hand again and guide her off the dance floor. Moving through the crowd proves to be a challenge with Leigh's unsteady steps. She stumbles, laughing as she clings to your arm for support.

“I almost ate it back there!” she exclaims, still giggling.

“Yeah, you did,” you mutter distractedly. As the festive sounds of the party fade behind the closed door, reality slaps you both with a sobering chill. Leigh is simply too drunk, and you’re almost a fool for nearly taking advantage of that. You can't concentrate on anything but what nearly happened back there.

You feel Leigh’s hand slip back into yours, slotting in place like magnets that just fit together. Her laughter has quieted, and she leans into you slightly, resting her head on your shoulder. It's then you realize that a drunken Leigh is more affectionate and less aware of physical boundaries—dangerous.

“You know, maybe we should call it a night? I can take you home,” you suggest, making an effort not to lean into her, even though the intoxicating mix of her shampoo and the faint scent of sweat beckons you closer.

Her reaction is immediate and surprisingly lucid. “I can’t go home like this,” Leigh protests, straightening up. “Jules has her own Halloween thing tonight, and I can't show up drunk and be seen like this by her. She’s been sober for a year now; I can’t just...” Her voice trails off, filled with worry.

You glance at your wrist and see it's already 2 AM. A sigh escapes you as the reality of your early morning responsibilities begins to weigh in. You have to be up in four hours to open the clinic at 8 AM, and staying out to make sure Leigh fully sobers up is far from feasible. Leigh appears exhausted, her eyes heavy, even as she tries to muster a smile.

“Listen, Leigh,” you say, eyeing a practical solution. “I have an early start tomorrow, and you look like you need some rest. How about you crash at my place tonight? You can sleep it off and head home in the morning when you’re feeling better.”

Leigh seems to consider this for a moment, her gaze drifting towards the street where groups of men glance their way as they pass by. Finally, she nods meekly, looking relieved.

“That sounds really good right now. My head feels heavy, and I just want to go to sleep,” she mumbles, letting out a weary sigh and rubbing her eyes. You help her to her feet and steady her as you both walk back to your car, which is fortunately parked nearby. Leigh curls up in the passenger seat, and you crack the windows to let in some fresh air.

Once home, you give Leigh some clothes to change into and then start setting up the couch for yourself, grabbing an extra pillow and blanket from the cupboard. As you turn back a while later, you see Leigh, in her slightly tipsy state, misinterpreting your preparations. She gives a small, tired smile and plops down onto the couch. Reacting quickly, you catch her just before she falls completely into it.

“W-What are you doing?” she whispers, surprised as she finds herself practically in your arms, half-carried in a bridal style.

You feel the heat rise from your cheeks to your chest, aware of how close she is. “This is for me,” you say, nodding towards the couch, “you’re taking the bed.”

To avoid any further confusion, you slowly lift her up, wrapping an arm securely around her waist as you guide her to your bedroom. Leigh’s head remains tucked in your neck, her body relaxed and yielding as you move.

“You really don’t have to do this,” she mumbles against your skin, though her tone suggests she’s grateful for your care. You don’t see the blush that has crept to her own cheeks, your eyes fixed straight ahead.

“It’s no trouble at all,” you assure her as you gently set her down on your bed. “Make yourself comfortable. The mattress’ much better for a good night's sleep.”

Leigh nods, pulling the covers around her. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft and more sober now.

“Anytime,” you respond with a reassuring smile. “Good night, Leigh.” You close the bedroom door softly behind you and retreat to the couch.

“Good night, Y/N…” Leigh whispers to herself, a faint smile touching her lips as she nestles deeper into the bed.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

306 notes · View notes

blueicequeen19 · 8 months

Text

Charter Ch. 8

Warnings: drama, angst, mentions of Luke’s abuse, oral, creampies, use of cuffs, breeding kink 😈

By the time she got to my house, I was antsy. My anxiety had spiked, there was that pain in my chest that nearly choked me. I couldn’t believe how nervous I was. How restless. I’d cleaned and organized things that didn’t need it, picked up Summer’s room, and started dinner. I’d wanted to wait until she got here so we could cook together but I was too anxious to wait. By the time her and Bo made it through the door, my shrimp and grits were nearly done.

“Smells amazing.” Y/N smiled at me. I couldn’t resist pulling her into my arms to kiss her. There was no fighting this. Not anymore.

“Took you long enough.” I murmured against her lips as Bo pawed at me for attention. She laughed, taking a step back to allow me to rub on her dog.

“I had to shower and feed him and walk him. I sometimes think having a dog is about like having a child.” Y/N teases as I straighten back up and Bo finds a spot on the couch.

“At least Bo doesn’t make you paint his nails.” I counter, making her laugh again as we move to the kitchen. I turn off the burner and make our plates. Y/N sits down with two beers and my dick twitches in my sweats as she eyes me hungrily. Her eyes light up as I approach the table but she looks away when I sit the plates down and take my seat.

“Problem?”

“Are you ever not hard?” Y/N rolls her eyes at me with a smirk and I chuckle. Part of me forgot I’d changed into sweatpants. Another part was glad I did if she kept looking at me like that.

“Around you, no.” Y/N fights a smile before we dig into our food. The silence is comforting. Like we’re both just happy to be in the same room as each other. These past three weeks had been hard. Harder than I’d ever imagined they would be. The distance was bearable when she still worked there but when she hung up her key, I felt something inside me break. I couldn’t just wait for her to come around again. Not this time.

“I took your advice. And Shoupes.” I cleared my throat and her bright eyes found mine, her brows raised.

“I filed a protective order against Chelsea. If she gets within five feet of her she’ll go to jail. I’m sure by now she’s been served.” I said, feeling the weight lift off my chest. She smiled at me, pride in her eyes as she nodded her head and kept eating. I still wanted to handle things my way but I’d start with the law.

“How’s Summer? Does she ever ask about her egg donor?” Y/N asked, leaning back in her chair once she finished and crossing her arms.

“Yes and no. I’ve told her as much as I think she can understand at five. She knows Chelsea is not safe and not okay to be around. She knows to get help if she’s approached.” Y/N nods.

“And what are we doing?”

“I figure we can give the dating thing a try.”

“Do you think the Charter will survive if you stop flirting with every female that walks in?” We both laugh.

“I hope so.” She smiles, content with my answers as we finish our beers. I lead her outside so Bo can do his business and I light a joint as we approach the waters edge. I take a few long hits and pass it to her. I feel the calm wash over me and I watch as the tension leaves her body after taking a few hits and handing it back.

“It’s peaceful out here.” Y/N murmurs, wrapping her arms around herself as the chill from the water hits us. I pull her against me, tucking her under my arm after I put the joint out.

“I love it out here.” I press my lips to her forehead and her arms wrap around my waist.

“What will I be to Summer?” She asks, a tremor in her voice like this was a hard question for her.

“Another positive role model in her life.” I respond, running my hand up and down her back.

“I don’t know if I’d call myself a role model. I didn’t have the best upbringing either. At least Summer has you.” She pulls back to look at me and I’m struck with the realization that I don’t know shit about her family except that her and her mother fight a lot.

“My father was an abusive piece of shit and my mom bailed. I think if I can give Summer more than I had then I’ll be happy.”

“My mom is a Kook and my dad is a Pogue. They’d met at a party and conceived me. My mom went down one path and my father went down another. I was the pawn they used to hurt each other. All they did was talk shit about each other and try to buy my love. By the time I was old enough to know better, I realized how awful they both were and now I don’t have much of a relationship with either. My mother doesn’t miss an opportunity to let me know she’s disappointed in me for not doing more with my life.” She releases a shuddering breath and I wrap my arms tighter, kissing her shoulder.

“I think we decide who we want to be when we’re older. I think you made the right choice. You didn’t let their actions define you.” I murmur, pulling back to rest my forehead against hers. She nods, sniffling.

“Neither did you.” She lifts up to kiss me and I groan, instantly deepening the kiss by slipping my tongue into her mouth to taste more. When she pulls back breathless and shivering, I crack a grin.

“That free therapy session will cost you a blowjob.” She swats my hands away with a laugh, turning back towards the house with an added sway to her hips.

“I don’t fuck on the first date, Maybank.” She taunts, shaking her ass at me and squealing with delight when I chase after her. I haul her up my body and press her back to the wall of the enclosed porch, kissing along her neck and throat.

“You do with me.” I growl, making her groan as I grind my cock against her clothed pussy. We make out just like we did behind the bar. Our tongues tasting one another and moaning into each others mouth. When she sucks my tongue into her mouth, I nearly blow my load right then.

“You have too many fucking clothes on.” I lower her to her feet to yank her shorts and panties down her legs then I kneel, throwing her leg over my shoulder before attaching my mouth to her clit.

“Oh fuck.” She moans, both hands in my hair as I stare up at her glorious tits and pierced nipples after she quickly removed her shirt and bra. She’s so wet that even as I slurp up her juices, more is still running down my chin. Her clit throbs against my tongue and I know she’s close already. She’s always fucking ready for me.

“JJ, please.” She cries, urging me to give her more as she grinds against my face. I take her clit between my teeth, making her eyes fly open on a gasp right before shoving two fingers inside her. I resume sucking her clit and her cries pierce my ears as she cums hard.

I don’t wait before jumping to my feet, wrapping my arms around her as she sways to kiss her again. Y/N tears at my own clothes until she frees my cock and pumps me in her hand.

“God, I missed this.” She pants, moving to drop to her knees but I stop her, shoving her over the back of the couch. I was already leaking precum all over her hand. If she got me in that sinful mouth this would be over before we’d even started.

“Nope. I need to be inside that pussy.” I thrust my dick through her slit, coating my cock in her slick arousal before nudging her soaked entrance. She sucks in a breath.

“Remember when I said if you’re good I’ll fuck you bare?” I spread her cheeks, watching my dick tease her slit.

“Yes.” She breathes, arching her ass out for me. I slap it, digging my fingers in to the flesh as I tease us both.

“I’m fucking you bare tonight and every night after this. I want you dripping with me.” The thought makes me absolutely feral, pumping her full until she makes me a daddy again. Making sure every fuckhead in this town knew she was mine.

“JJ.” The sound of her begging makes me shudder as I finally work the thick head inside her. My eyes nearly roll back into my skull as I push inside until I’m balls deep and she’s trembling. Heat washes over my body and sparks race up my spine. This was better than I could’ve ever imagined.

I tighten my hands on her hips before sliding half way out and slamming back in. She yelps, her feet barely reaching the floor as I shove her down further over the couch. I don’t waste anytime before I start fucking her with vigor, hard and fast. Her moans and pleas fill the air, her nails biting in to my arms as she reaches back, her pussy choking the life from me as I pummel into her. I’m on the verge of exploding when I suddenly stop and she growls in frustration.

“Don’t growl at me.” I slap her ass before yanking her upright and throwing her over my shoulder as I take us back inside. I wanted to take her on every surface of my house again but I wanted to take my time tonight. So for now, I’m finishing with her in my bed. I kick the bedroom door shut and faintly hear Bo grumble in protest before I toss her down on the bed.

“You better put that thing back inside me.” She snaps, shoving her hair from her face with defiant eyes looking up at me as I round the bed.

“Or what?” I counter, grabbing a pair of leather cuffs from my nightstand and kneeling back on the bed. She tries to flee but I quickly pin her beneath me and cuff her hands behind her back. She knows I love when she fights with me.

“I should punish you for quitting. For leaving me.” I growl in her ear. She wiggles beneath me and I can’t stop myself from kissing and biting down the side of her neck and down her spine, my tongue tracing her tattoo. I force her legs apart and kneel between them, running my hands up and down her body.

“JJ, please. Stop teasing me.” She begs, shaking her ass at me. I bring both hands down on both cheeks, making her hiss.

“But there’s nothing like sinking into pussy that’s been teased.” I slide my hand between her legs to stroke her clit. She tries to bring her legs together as she whimpers so I spank her again.

“Don’t make me tie your fucking legs open.” I shove her legs beneath her so she’s on her knees and spread wide for me. I move her ass into the air before dropping down onto my back between her legs to feast on her pussy.

“Jesus, JJ!” She tries to lift off my face, whining and whimpering when I don’t let her. I suck on her clit lazily until she’s trembling and cussing then I shove two fingers in deep and suck her swollen nub into my mouth. I wrap my free hand around my cock, stroking myself hard as she screams her release but I don’t stop.

“I can’t— please— JJ.” I thrust my tongue inside as she begs, making her squirm and try to move away. I slide my wet fingers up and probe her tight, puckered hole.

“JJ— wait— I.” I suck her clit into my mouth again and she moans, her legs shaking so hard she doesn’t even notice when I slide a finger inside her ass and slowly pump it. Her body grows taunt and a sob escapes her as reaches her peak again, wetness seeping out of her until she’s begging me to stop. I don’t give her a chance to come down before I move onto my knees and raise her ass in the air.

“Tell me you want me. That you want this.” I demand, pawing her ass with both hands. I loved having her like this. At my mercy. She couldn’t mouth off if she was too fucked to speak.

“I want this, J. You know I do.” She pants, unable to look back at me with her arms bound behind her back. I work my dick inside her and we both moan loud and long. I’ve been on the verge of cumming for awhile now so I don’t waste anymore time. She’s face down, her body surging forward with every hard thrust and her cries are muffled by the comforter. Sweat drips from my brow as I watch my cock disappear inside her wet heat, over and over again. Every time it comes back covered in her cream, I thrust harder. I’m right there but I’m not ready yet. I yank her up by the cuffs, molding her back against my front.

“One more. You can do it.” I growl, licking my fingers and bringing them to her swollen clit.

“I— can’t—!” She cries, her face twisting in anguish even as her body barrels towards release. Her climax triggers my own, her pussy sucking every drop of cum from me until we both finally collapse.

“What’s your favorite color?” She asks sleepily. We’d slept for a few hours only to wake up and go at it again. Now we’re both basking in afterglow as we start to fall back asleep.

“Green.” I murmur, stroking her hair while she rests her head on my shoulder, her naked body half on mine.

“Where’s your dad?” She asks, her voice growing more and more faint as sleep takes her.

“I don’t know.”

“Your mom?”

“Don’t know.” She hums in response, nuzzling in closer and holding me tighter. My throat tightens, making me wonder how I ever slept without her.

I see my phone light up from the nightstand again and I lazily reach for it, checking long enough to make sure it’s not any of the Pogues and sitting it back down. I don’t recognize the number so I ignore it.

Now that I’ve let her in completely a new type of possessiveness takes over. I thought it was bad when we weren’t exclusive and I saw her ex talking to her or putting his hands on her but now.. I might actually shoot someone.

I don’t have to worry about Summer because she has a heart of gold and loves everyone. She’s asked for Y/N and Bo everyday since the beach. Summer often makes me realize that my heart is on the outside of my body and that everything good about me.. is her.

It’s hard not to go to the dark place that wonders why my parents couldn’t get it together. Why they didn’t give a fuck enough to try. To just even fucking try. My dad only wanted anything to do with me when it benefited him. When he could use me to steal something or get out of a bind. But if I disagreed then I met his fists. Eventually he stopped providing and I had to steal to survive. It was a never ending cycle and everyone assumed I was just like him and no wonder my mother left.

Y/N snuggles closer, smelling every bit like me, sex, and her sweet shampoo. The thought of taking her again when she’s probably still dripping my cum is tempting.. but I resist. Tomorrow is Sunday so the Charter is closed and I plan to spend the day with my girls. And Bo. Like I could ever forget about the motherfucker.

I’m almost back to sleep when a sudden pounding on my front door has us both jerking upright. Like a goddamn swat team. I jump out of bed, yank on a pair of shorts and grab my gun.

“Who would be here this late?” Y/N hisses, yanking my shirt down over her head and pulling on my sweats.

“I don’t know. Stay here.” I demand, almost missing the glare she shoots my way. I make my way down the hallway and Y/N trails close behind me. I nearly stop dead in my tracks when I see the familiar flash of lights and someone standing on my door step. Something is wrong. My mind immediately starts to panic. Summer isn’t here.

My throat starts to close as I sit the gun down and open the door to reveal Sheriff Shoupe. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. Cops don’t show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night unless something is wrong and someone is dead. I reach for my phone but it’s not in my pocket. Y/N takes my hand but I barely feel it as my mouth becomes dry and I can’t form words.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news and show up here in the middle of the night.” Shoupe starts, looking more stressed than usual.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Y/N asks, her hand tightening in mine like she can feel my panic. Where’s Summer? Is she safe?

“There’s been an accident.” My knees buckle and I catch myself on the door frame. All I can think about is Summer. Is she okay? Were they in an accident? Is that way I kept getting calls from an unknown number? Is John B..

“Spit it out, Shoupe.” I snap, barely able to get a full breath in my lungs. I can’t breathe. Is this a panic attack? His face remains firm, not giving me lip over my usual attitude.

“There’s been a fire.”

“Oh god.” Y/N gasps, tightening her grip on me as the room starts to spin. Blood rushes to my ears and I can barely hear anything. Summer. My baby.

“Summer..” I choke on her name, my heart threatening to split open in my chest like a gaping wound.

“There were no bodies inside. No one was hurt that we know of. We tried getting ahold of you the last few hours but we know it’s late. Better to do this in person.” Shoupe clarifies, his eyes giving away his sympathy.

If there’s no fire here and there was no bodies then it had to be..

“I’m sorry, JJ, but the Charter burned down earlier this evening. No one caught it until it was too late.”

And just like that… my knees hit the floor.

#smutwarning #outer banks smut #jj maybank smut #jj maybank fic #obx2 #jj maybank imagine #rudy pankow #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank x you #jj obx #blueicequeen19 #outer banks x reader #wattpad #outer banks fanfiction #tw unprotected sex #jj maybank #charter

537 notes · View notes

johnpriceslamb · 2 months

Note

hihi could u maybe do an arthur morgan x fem!reader??

i was thinkin about the reader being really upset about something and which arthur (being that kinda person) he noticed quickly, they walked to his tent for then the reader to be comforted by arthur morgan (he isnt good at comforting but he tries real hard,, take ur time ofc! we love u-🎀

𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝔀𝓷,

❥ You’re sad. Arthur finds out and comes to comfort you.

𝓑𝓔𝓕𝓞𝓡𝓔 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓟𝓡𝓞𝓒𝓔𝓔𝓓 ! ꒰ female ! reader . hyper-feminine ! reader . reader is mentioned 2 be physically shorter than characters mentioned below . crybbie reader sorraiiii . Karen’s a meanie pants but she loves reader . 1.1k wrd count. ꒱

❥ Arthur Morgan x female ! reader

You’re sensitive.

You don’t mean to be, but sometimes you take what people say a bit too seriously.

It’s not a bad thing to be sensitive, but you’re in a gang. A gang filled with murderers, thieves, criminals, whatever. You’re prone to being teased and made fun of- even more likely due to your soft nature and demure figure.

Usually, you spend your time doing chores or assisting Pearson with cooking. What you lacked in strength and courage to be able to hold a gun, you made up with your skills in being able to feed the gang actual food, instead of.. the usual stews Pearson made.

From then on, you gained the honouring title of ‘Pearson’s assistant.’

Then again you’d much prefer being referred to your actual name.

“—‘n I’m just sayin’..” The woman in blonde stirs her spoon in the stew you made, mindlessly blabbering about.

Karen was a sweet girl, she really is. But sometimes, she enjoys talking. A bit too much.

“You ain’t really uh.. fit for all this.” She gestures to camp.

Ouch.

You shrink in the log you sat upon, meekly fiddling with the utensil in your hand. You get where she’s coming from, but nevertheless you still took it to heart.

“Karen!” Mary-Beth softly hits her upper arm, a scolding tone picks on, “C’mon, lay off it.”

She shrugs. “‘M just saying what everyone wants to hear. It’s like seeing a fawn amongst a pack o’ wolves.”

She’s blunt. You’ve known her for a while, considered her as a friend. And you knew well enough that she does not sugar coat things. You’re not sure if you should take what she said as a compliment or not, but regardless you still feel a bit embarrassed at the fact that you didn’t really fit in.

“H—Hey,” You feel yourself crumble at the fact that your tone took on a higher pitch as a defence mechanism and the stuttering which makes her point stand even more bolder, “I’m.. I’m trying, okay?”

Karen looks at you with a demeaning expression. That’s all it takes to shut your pretty little mouth up.

Then, she lets out a soft giggle.

“C’mon girl, y’know I was just jokin’. You just sit there and look pretty for us.”

You take this as an opportunity to leave, going on with your day but with a heavy heart.

You find yourself near the lake which is situated just right beside the camp, staring off at the distance with a long look. You know Karen was just playing around, but you still can’t help that little sharp pang in your heart.

You don’t notice the approaching steps from behind. You hear the sound of fabrics scrunching together as they squat behind you, a warm hand lays gently on your shoulder.

“Hey.”

You tilt your head upwards, eyes landing on the loyal enforcer of the gang.

“Hi,” You whisper back. Unconsciously does your head lay on his chest, and almost immediately do you feel better being in Arthur’s embrace.

His arms wrap around you, a gentle kiss is placed on the side of your head. He lovingly looks at you, cold eyes which softens at the sight of his sweetheart. It falters a bit when they see those pretty eyes glimmer in the light.

“Y’alright?” He asks with a tone of concern. His arms tighten at the sight of your vulnerability.

“Mhm.” You meekly nod, feigning your expression with a soft smile, “I’m fine.”

“Mm.” His upper eyelids cover half of his eyes. His expression was almost lazy, dog-like. “No use lying to me, sweetheart. Yer lips quiver when you do.”

You almost melt at how lovely his voice sounded.

“C’mon,” He gestures for you to stand up. He lends you a hand for you to aid yourself onto your two feet, a hand rests upon the curve of your hip to guide you to his tent.

“Where we goin’?” You ask shyly, leaning into his touch.

“My tent. We’re goin’ to talk.” He replies blankly.

You don’t say anything until you’ve reached his tent. He guided you to the edge of his bed, allowing you to sit. He sizes you up a few times, quietly admiring you for a moment before sitting next to you, knees touching.

“What’s wrong, hm? Why’s gotten my girl so down?” Your hand unconsciously grabs onto his to squeeze, fiddle around with. He wants to chuckle at your puppy-like neediness but forces himself not to.

“..Just some stuff Karen said.” You meekly explain, fiddling with his fingers, “Said ‘m not really fit for.. any of this.”

“She said that?” He says with a frown, scratching at his strong jaw.

“Mm,” You nod.

“‘Reckon she’s right.”

“Eh?” You almost pout at how immediate he was to agree.

“Hey, c’mon. I ain’t even get to finish. I mean, she’s right. You don’t fit in. You’re too good for any of this.” He explains himself, biting his lip to prevent himself from doing anything to you. Your eyes did a lot to him, unbeknownst to you.

“Way too good.” He mumbles, lovingly rubbing circles on your little palm.

“You really think so?” You ask with a shy smile.

“I know so.” He nods, leaning in to press a little kiss on your forehea. He leans back to peer at your face again.

“C’mon, I know you.” He sighs, “Don’t let Karen’s words get to your mind. Even if you don’t really fit in, yer still one of us now. Y’hear?”

You shyly nod. With just one nod down to his lap do you immediately crawl towards him, cuddling up to him like a bug in a leaf.

#fem! reader #rdr2 x you #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #afab! reader #arthur morgan x fem! you #rdr2 #arthur morgan x fem! reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan rdr2 #red dead redemption fanfic

326 notes · View notes

ghostfanwriter · 11 months

Text

💖🧰 Dirty Hands 🧰💖

Part two

🧰 Pairing: Joel Miller x Afab!Reader

💖 Synopsis: Your dads, Bill and Frank, are the only people you've ever met. When Joel Miller comes to visit, you learn about new and exciting feelings.

🧰 Features: 🔞, soft!Joel, kissing, very secluded and kinda oblivious reader. Honestly there's not much, this is mostly just the setting of the story.

💖 Word count: A bit over 5k.

🧰 About this: Timeline's a bit different from the show. Basically their ages are the same from the show, Bill and Frank are older than Joel. But here, they all meet in 2023, after the raiders already shot Bill. The main difference from the show is that here Bill and Frank are not as old in 2023 as they are on the show, I picture then as old as they are when they meet Joel and Tess on the show.

💖 Author's note: She's finally here! I loved writing Bill and Frank ✋🏻🤧 literally my favorite. Writing their dynamics with reader was a joy, loved it.

Good reading 🧰💖

💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰

You've lived in Lincoln your whole life, but the majority of it was inside the town your dad built for himself right after the outbreak.

He was the only person you knew — or remembered, at least — until Frank arrived.

You were six or seven when your dad told you to lock yourself inside your bedroom and gave you a gun, which he had already taught you how to use. "You only open this door for daddy or to kill whoever is inside that trap, alright, cupcake?" You obeyed, looking out the window and watching him talk and then walk the man past his gates.

You only opened your door when he called you, a couple minutes later, a plate of food in his hands. "This is for you, baby. I'm gonna feed him and he'll go away. He can't see or hear you, so you stay here real quiet. I'll tell you when you can leave."

And you did, but instead of calling you, he came back later, tucked you in and told you not to leave your room for the rest of the night. You had a bathroom and he brought you more food and told you not to worry, so you didn't mind.

Next morning he introduced you to Frank, saying he'd stay around for a while.

A while became forever, and before you knew it, you had two dads. Two very different men who did their best to look after you.

But nothing they did could prepare you for today.

Nothing could prepare you for the man you'd see today.

🧰💖≈

Your dads were having people over for the first time in literally forever. But you wouldn't be a part of it.

"Bill, for God's sake, she would have so much fun! She needs to see people." You heard Frank almost yell from the kitchen.

"I'm not letting them see her! I don't know what got over me to let you give them our fucking location! I won't let them know we have a daughter!" Bill sounded angry and upset, he was afraid everything he worked so hard on building could be destroyed by Frank's "friends".

So the first woman — if you don't consider the one in your faded memories — you've ever seen, and the very first man who wasn't one of your dads, had to be seen from your bedroom window.

When you saw her you smiled, thinking about all the things you two could talk about. Did her hair annoy her as much as yours did sometimes? Did she feel the same things that you did? What would her voice sound like?

Your wandering was cut by the next new person you saw.

Tall, broad shoulders, short and greying hair and beard and a sculpted face. An imposing figure that took over your senses, setting itself instantly as your new favorite sight. He made your stomach feel like it was loose, floating around your belly, but you couldn't bring yourself to look anywhere else.

You watched from your window as they sat down and ate. Your dads clearly having two very different experiences, Frank was laid back and having fun, while Bill sat stiff and you constantly saw his hand reach for his gun.

Your attention was focused on the man, though. The way he sat, how his jaw moved when he chewed on your dad's food, how his eyes were hooded and serious, most of the time holding your dad's gaze.

His eyes were so pretty, from a distance they seemed dark and mysterious, and you stared into them, your brows furrowing with the intensity of his look. You were so lost in them that it took you — way over — a second to realize he was looking right at you. And you only noticed because your dad yelled.

"Frank, not inside!"

You hid behind your curtains. Your chest moving so fast it hurts, and you can feel every contraction of your heart.

Your dad will fucking kill you. They shouldn't have seen you, but now the man has.

"Aren't you going to introduce us to her?" He had barely spoken yet, and his voice sent chills down your spine, pooling in your panties.

"Who?" Bill asked, his hand reaching for his gun. He was ready to kill both of them at any wrong move.

"Oh, shit." Frank sighed under his breath. "Bill, it's okay." He said, resting his hand on Bill's shoulder.

"There's a girl?" The woman asked excited, looking around to see if she could find you.

"Fucking — stay here." Bill told the man and the woman.

Him and Frank walked inside, and you, still hidden behind the curtains, kept looking at the man. Your heart felt like it didn't fit inside your chest anymore.

You stepped away when they walked inside your bedroom.

"Honey, I told you to be careful. Goddammit." Bill said, opening his arms as you run towards him, tugging yourself under his embrace.

"Sorry, daddy. I wanted to see them." Frank invited himself into the hug. "It's okay, darling. We'll take you to meet them, if you want to. They seem like good people, even your dad has to admit." But Bill's face didn't look like he agreed with it.

"Can I?" You looked into Bill's eyes and he looked at Frank, shaking his head no, but looking back at you and sighing.

"Okay. You can come down. But!" He said when you started giggling into his chest, hugging him tighter. "But they think we have others come over, so keep that in mind. And, listen to me. You're gonna stay with us, alright? I want to keep my eyes on you the whole damn time." You nod enthusiastically, hugging Frank.

"Oh, you'll love Tess!" He said and you made a little happy sound.

"I know! I have so much I want to talk to her about!" You say excited. Bill sighing behind you, scratching the back of his neck and shaking his head, a soft smile breaking through his face.

You three reach the front door. Your arm is tangled with Bill's, your eyes wandering around as you walk outside.

"Look, there is a girl. She's our daughter. She's... We wanted to know you first, before you could meet her." Frank said, walking outside first, you and Bill following right after.

You were wearing a yellow summer dress, and you could see the man gulping when he saw you. You were a vision he thought this world would never provide him again.

Feminine and pretty. Colorful amongst all the muted colors everyone was wearing.

Your dress perfectly outlining your curves, your hair looking like silk, falling carefully over your shoulders, your eyes wide; attentive but curious at the same time.

"Oh, look at you! You're so pretty!" The woman said, and you couldn't hold your smile back anymore. "I'm Tess, what's your name?" You looked up, at Bill, who caught your gaze and nodded for you to respond.

You told her your name, and you could see the man's brows furrow behind her when you said it.

"Well, it's really nice to meet you. This is Joel, we're..." She looked back at him, then at your dads, and she seemed uncomfortable for a second. "We're friends. And we're really glad to be here, to meet this place. To meet you!" She finished with a warm smile.

You loved her.

You shook her hand and the man approached you, shaking your hand as well, his eyes sweet but intense, and a soft smile on his lips. You couldn't help the girly smile that stamped your own lips while greeting him.

His hand was big, rough, textured, but also soft and warm, his fingers double the size of yours, distracting you. It made your breath get stuck on your throat, and your mind wonder what it would feel like if he held you the way your dads held one another. If he touched your face or your sides. If he ran his hands up your legs, like you do sometimes at night.

If his rough fingers would hurt you if they touched you on other places, how much further than yours his fingers could go, how much more you'd have to open yourself to him.

You loved him.

You all sat back down at the table, Bill insisting you'd sit between him and Frank. You talked a lot to Tess, about things you had tried to talk about with your dads, but they never seemed to fully understand.

After your dad lowered his guard a little, he let you, Frank and Tess walk around, show her some things and talk. You felt comfortable around her, like she was someone you had always known.

Whenever you looked at the man, though, you felt the same things from when you were watching him through your window. Your stomach felt funny, and your palms dry and sweaty at the same time. The fact that he kept looking at your direction didn't help you, either.

Everytime you were not around him you felt in your guts that you were wasting your time, that you should come back and try to get close to him.

It was like there was a magnetic field between you two. You couldn't stop looking for him, and he seemed to not find interest in anything else after seeing you.

Every fucking time you looked at him you found his eyes already on you. Analyzing you, studying you, as if he wanted to engrave you on his mind.

You were everything he thought didn't exist anymore. You were feminine, your hair was pretty, your skin was soft and you smelled good. Frank had made you a perfume with a few flowers and fruits, and you wore it everyday.

It smelled fresh and delicate, and the smell got stuck on Joel's wrist, coating his mind with a soft but persistent layer of you.

Even more than the smell, the hair or the soft skin, it was you that drove him crazy. The silly smile you had stamped on your face the whole goddamn time, the way you talked to Tess like you could never run out of things to talk about, how delicate you looked.

But also how your dads told the story of the day raiders tried to invade Lincoln, how you and Bill shot them, how you killed the one who shot Bill. Most of all how you told the whole thing with a smile on your face. How not fragile you were, despite your girly figure.

How intriguing you were.

And Joel couldn't keep his mind and his eyes off you.

He knew he wouldn't find someone like you ever again, so he wanted to make sure he had your frame right on his brain.

Having his attention made you feel good, in a different, new way. In a way you've never felt before. But it also made your stomach feel funny, like you were sick.

You went for Bill, who was sitting on a porch chair next to the man, taking to him. "Daddy, is it okay if I go to bed? Not feeling great." You asked your dad, the man shifting by his side.

"Yes, darling, sure. Do you need anything?" He asked, his voice coated with concern.

"No, I'm fine. Think it's just been a lot for one day. Just wanna lay down for a bit." You bend down to kiss his cheek, and he kisses you too, the man's eyes glued to your body the whole time.

"See you, Joel. Nice to meet you." You say to the man, who nods and smiles at you, offering you his hand again, making your cheeks burn at the feeling of them.

💖🧰≈

You wake up with a soft knock on your bedroom door.

You open your eyes to find Frank, who invites himself in, sitting on your bed.

"Hi, darling. How are you? Tired already?" He mentions for you to sit next to him, which you do, snuggling next to him, hugging his side.

"Doing fine. Better anyway." He looks down at you, worried. "Oh, what was wrong? You didn't say anything."

You don't know how to explain, but you try anyway.

"I don't know, I felt weird since they arrived. Felt this thing on my stomach, like I would throw up. But now I think it's gone."

"Oh, sweetheart-" your dad starts, but he stops when Bill and the man stand on your doorframe. The man looks at you from behind your dad, up and down, smiling softly at your sleepy face and hair. "Frank, cover her up, please."

He does it, covering your body — previously covered only by a tight tank top and an underwear — with your blanket. "I'm showing Joel his room. Baby, are you feeling better?"

You nod and smile. "Good, was worried about you. Now, keep your door closed. Locked, please." Bill says as he closes your door and leaves with the man.

You grunt, feeling the same thing again. "Ugh, here it is. Not gone yet. Dad's food never made me feel like this before." You snuggle closer to Frank, who sighs and hugs you tighter.

"Oh, honey pie, you're not sick. It wasn't dad's food." You look at him.

What could it be, then?

"But don't worry, Tess already left and Joel is just hanging over for a while to help me and dad around with some fixings."

You grunt, feeling funny again. Thinking about Joel leaving and never seeing him again makes your heart sink down on your chest.

💖🧰≈

You spend the next day inside your bedroom, watching the man work with your dads, fixing some things on the exterior of your house and helping them with things they can't do by themselves anymore.

Watching him carry heavy things around and laughing with your dads made you uncomfortable. Your body begging you for some relief.

So you give it some. You lift your skirt and touch yourself over your panties. Steady and fast circles around your clit until you cum, the man being the only thing in your mind.

You imagined what it would feel like to have him hold you, his skin touching yours, what kissing would feel like. How he'd hold you on his strong arms, how he'd move you around.

You wondered if he looked like the men from the magazines you found on your dad's car, and what he would to with it, what it would be like, what it would feel like.

As soon as your high was over you heard your name being yelled from outside. It was already dark, but you were close to the window and got worried they may have seen you.

You'd be fucked if they did.

You looked down and found all three of them looking at you. Bill was the one to speak.

"Baby, can you cook us something for dinner, please? We're gonna be here for a while still." You hoped your voice would come out okay.

"Sure daddy, be right down." You answered, Joel's gaze weakening for a split.

"Thanks, love." Frank said and they went back to work.

💖🧰≈

You felt funny while you cooked dinner. Specially since you knew Joel was gonna eat. You couldn't pull yourself out of him while you cooked, thinking about how tired and hungry he must be, and how you'd be the one providing food for him. How you'd be making him feel good after working all day.

It makes you want to do it more, to do things for him, help him feel better after a tiring day.

You're so lost on him you don't notice when he walks in the kitchen, watching you for a while in silence. You drop a wooden spoon on the floor and bend over to grab it, your skirt fully lifting and leaving your whole ass on display.

He chokes on his saliva, startling you, and you get up, looking at him. "You always wear that around the house?" He asks, talking directly to you for the first time since you introduced yourself the day before, his voice a little broken.

"Yes, she does. Because she's our daughter and it's usually only us around here." Frank says out of nowhere. "But I told her she should wear more appropriate things while Joel's around, didn't I, love?" You blush.

He did, but this was literally the first time you had someone over, so you forgot. And honestly "appropriate" isn't exactly clear. You weren't naked, and your clothes were never questioned before.

"Sorry, dad, I'll go change. Can you watch the pans for me, please? Thanks." You say rushing out of the kitchen, avoiding Joel's gaze.

"You back the fuck off, alright? Bill will fucking murder you if he sees you watching her like that." Frank says after a bit, while Joel grabs a cup of water.

"I wasn't watching her, I'm sorry. Just stopped and she dropped it. I just wanted some water. Besides, there's Tess—" Frank looked at him from over his shoulders while he stirred a pan with pasta. "Don't shit me, Joel. Tess told me about you two. I know you're not a couple anymore." Joel shifts on his feet. Tess shouldn't have said anything.

"But she's young, and she's used to only have us around the house. She got overwhelmed by you, and I believe you may be a good man, but not for my daughter." Joel's heart aches a bit. He thinks of Sarah, how livid he'd be if a man ever looked at her the way he found himself looking at you.

"And again, be thankful I was the one to walk in and not Bill. You'd be buried outside by now. If he left anything to be buried, that is."

You walk back in, in a sweater and pants. Bill walks in at the same time, drenched in sweat, panting quietly.

"You're sick, honey? Why are you wearing this?" You look over at Frank, who rolls his eyes. "She just wanted something more cozy, Bill. She's alright." He looked at the three of you, his gaze softening at you. "Okay then, I like that you're fully covered." He says, eyeing Joel for a second before looking at you again.

"I'm gonna shower and then we can eat. Thank you, darling. It smells amazing." He kissed your cheek and went to his bedroom.

"Love the outfit, sweetheart. Don't listen to your dad, this is perfect. Joel, why don't you go take a shower too so we can all eat together?" Frank says.

Joel looks at you, then at Frank, then grunts in agreement and goes upstairs.

"Dad, is it bad that I... Think about him?" You ask, genuinely concerned. Frank turns the stove off and looks at you. "What do you think about him, love?"

You feel your cheeks on fire.

"I don't know." You respond, not wanting to welcome your dad on your daydreams. He comes towards you, cupping your cheeks loosely.

"My love, do you think about him like dad and I? You you think of doing to him what you see us do? Kissing, hugging?" He asks low, afraid somehow Bill could hear them.

"I do." You whisper, pushing yourself into his embrace, hugging him tight and snuggling your face on his chest. "I think about what kissing him would be like. What having his hands on me would feel like. What hugging him would feel like." You say, knowing well that you can't lie to your dad.

"Darling that's perfectly normal. Joel is a beautiful man, the only man you've seen besides me and dad." He waits for a response, but you have nothing to say.

"Just... There's a lot you don't know, okay? A lot we didn't think we had to tell you about. And your dad and I are just afraid someone might take advantage of that." He hugs you tighter, hoping Joel wouldn't be that someone.

🧰💖≈

After dinner, you help Bill with the dishes while he chats with Frank and Joel, who are still at the table. They're talking about construction, cars and resources, and you're just listening to them.

Then you all go to bed and you lock your door, just like your dad asked you to.

Before you could sleep, though, you let the man take over you again.

You insert two fingers inside you and circle your clit desperately, trying to just get some relief so you could go to sleep. Softly, you moan the man's name when you cum, and pray he couldn't listen to you.

Your water bottle was empty, and you had to go downstairs to refill it. "Fuck!" You said, if one of your dads saw you outside your bedroom, they would kill you.

But your throat was dry and you didn't want to grab water from your bathroom. So you had no choice.

You almost fell on top of Joel when you opened your door and found him standing right in front of you.

"What are you doing here?" Your voice high and scared.

"Thought I heard you call me, came to see if you needed my help for something." His voice low and heavy, like his words were thick and hard to let out.

"I wasn't calling you. I don't need help, I was just going to grab some water." You respond way too fast, barely taking breaks between your words.

"Hum, I could swear I heard your pretty voice call my name just a minute ago. Joel, Joel, Joel. Multiple times. Didn't know you did those things, baby." His expression is serious and dark, looking down as he towers over you.

He wasn't going to try anything. But since you were calling him...

Fuck.

"I... I wasn't calling you. I'm sorry, I have to get back to bed." You try to close the door, but he doesn't let you, easily keeping it open with his forearm.

"But you weren't sleeping, were you, baby?" He steps in, forcing you to walk back inside. "I'm sorry. I just... I… I saw you and you were looking at me and I… I shouldn't, you barely even spoke to me, I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

He closes the door behind him.

"Oh, I don't mind angel, I'm not mad at you. My name never sounded sweeter. But I can't sleep now. Not now that I've heard it." His arm snakes around your waist, and he pushes you close.

He connects his mouth to yours, and you finally learn what a kiss feels like. His beard makes you flinch at first, scratching and almost hurting the sensitive skin of your face.

You're used to your dads' beards when you kiss their cheeks, but Joel's feels different, it hurts in a way that makes you want to feel it even more.

You moan into it and your body softens under his embrace, your legs give in and you're only standing because he's holding you. Your hands grab his back and his hair, and you moan into his mouth when his tongue opens it's way into yours.

His arms hold you tight and squeeze you, his large hands hold you you firmly, and you feel like that's what was missing for you all along. To be in Joel Miller's arms.

He is intoxicating.

His perfume, woody and different from the ones your dads have, mixed with his natural essence make you dizzy. His strong arms hold you in a way you didn't know you needed to be held. His mouth explores you with such hunger, such passion, and you've only just met.

It makes you wonder what it would be like if he loved you, if he cared for you. How much more of this intensity you'd feel from him.

You deepen the kiss, exploring his mouth with hunger and curiosity, all while doing your best not to drown in saliva.

He breaks the kiss and goes to your jawline and neck, smelling, kissing and biting you, his beard scratching you deliciously, making you moan.

"You smell so good, baby, you're so soft. Been a long time since I saw a girl like you. All pretty and sweet for me like this." He says as he runs his hand through your hair, his rough fingers caressing your scalp, pulling your head back to make more room for his lips.

You feel something hard pressing on your lower belly and you pull away. "Wait, Joel. I think there's something in your pocket." He looks down and laughs, grinding himself on you.

"This, baby?" His voice low and breathy. You nod and he looks at you, his breath heavy, his brows furrowed, now showing more confusion than arousal.

He lets you go abruptly, looking puzzled at you, analyzing you. "How old are you?"

You frown.

"I don't know, actually." You respond.

"What? How… how do you not know?" He turns his head, even more confused.

It was confusing, you'll give him that.

"Well, my dad, Bill, found me on a road a few days after the outbreak. After FEDRA evacuated the town. He said I could walk and speak, but was still really small. So he thinks I was around 2 or 3." He looked at the roof and then at you, doing the math in his head. "So you're 23?"

You nod. "Yeah, probably."

He puts his hands on his hips, looking at you and at the door.

"And... How do you not know what this is?" He asks mentioning the tent on his pants.

Oh... Maybe because you've never seen a man other than your dads, and you've never fucked any of them. Maybe that's why?

"Well, you and Tess are really the first people I see that are not my dads, and, well, the people I knew before them. Y'know, not a lot of friends to have around here." You say moving your arms around, mentioning the empty town and all the emptiness surrounding it.

You get close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, and talking close to his ear, your hands roaming all over his back and hair.

"But I know somethings. Things I listened in songs, read in books. Things I want you to teach me." You say, touching his crotch, his cock throbbing inside his jeans.

But he thinks about your dads again, about you, and how he'd kill the man who tried anything similar with his own daughter.

"Sorry, baby. I can't. Your dads didn't tell me this. They said they had people come over before, just never stay. I thought you maybe got with one or some of them."

"You're the first." You say, not fully aware of all the weight the sentence has.

"I can't be your first one." He says, making you furrow your brows.

He pushes you away, walking towards the door.

"Why not?" you ask.

"Because you don't know me, baby. You're young and you need someone who knows you, and who you know. Someone who'll take care of you like you need." He sounded serious and decided. His voice deep and just slightly above a whisper.

He was kinda into the idea of you being innocent and naive. But when you're this untouched, it feels too much for him.

"But I want you." You say, returning his whisper. "I've been thinking about you ever since you showed up. Sometimes I feel this burn, this ache between my legs, and I used to fix it by just touching it. But today when I did it, my mind kept going back to you." You confess, and he swallows hard, his Adam's apple moving slowly as he did.

You see his eyes wander back around your body, and his gaze get darker again. But as soon as it darkens, he sees your face and it softens.

He turns towards the door, walking towards it.

Noticing how your words affected him, you keep going.

"I was calling you, Joel. I was doing it because of you." His body stiffens and he stops, his hand on the door handle. He turns his head to look at you over his shoulder.

"Please." You say, your voice sincere and sweet.

He turns back around, looking at you like you were tearing him apart. "I'm sorry. Can't do this to you. I don't know if I know how to be gentle anymore, I don't want to hurt you."

"If it's not you then who is it gonna be? My dads trusted you enough to let you inside our house, to let you sleep here with us. That has to mean something." You say, and he moves his jaw from side to side.

He knows he can't, but you're right. Someone could do worse than him trying his best to be gentle.

"Baby, if I have you, I won't want anyone else to have you after. If I'm your first one, I'll be your only one." He said, getting close to you.

"I don't know if I'll want anyone else after you." You respond, walking close to him and caressing his hair with your fingers. "I know I don't regret my first kiss." You whisper, your face close to his, and his eyes go darker, staring into yours.

He was your first kiss too.

"Could've been more gentle?" He asks with an embarrassed smile.

"It was perfect." You respond with a smile.

He looked at your lips, his hand coming to cup your cheek. You snuggle your face onto his hand, enjoying the texture and warmth of it.

"But I mean it. I can't do it. Not right now." You whimper, and he gives you a faintly stern look, his fingers pulling your hair behind your ear.

"Told you. You don't know me. I'll be around for a few more days. We'll be patient and see how this goes." Your face must be the one of a lost puppy by the way he's looking at you.

"Just don't want you to regret it. Can't just sleep with the first man you ever see, princess." He says with s laugh. The nickname makes your knees weak.

He kisses your cheeks, both of them, and let's go of you, grabbing your water bottle. "I'll fill it for you. Don't want your dads seeing you downstairs."

After a few minutes he comes back, finding you sitting on your bed. He places the bottle on your nightstand.

"Sleep tight." He wishes, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

"I'll see you tomorrow, right?" You ask, feeling vulnerable already being so clingy to the man.

He holds your chin, caressing your jaw.

"I'll be here for a whole while, angel. Promise I won't go anywhere before we talk about this, okay?" You nod, getting up to lock the door after him.

He gives you a little kiss on the cheek and leaves, and you go back to bed, letting anticipation bloom on you, feeling like you're gonna melt.

To think that he was indeed also thinking about you, that he wanted you the same way you wanted him, made you feel funny, like you're gonna scream.

It made you revisit all the times you caught his gaze, everytime you saw his eyes go from your body to your eyes when you looked at him.

How maybe he did the same in his bedroom, thinking about you the same way you thought about him.

Just picturing that makes you feel funny, and you smile to yourself. Feeling all special to be noticed by a man like him: strong and resourceful, the things your dads taught to be — and to look for.

Your dads were worried he would take advantage of you. But on his grand opportunity to do so, he said no and told you to go back to sleep.

And that just made you want him more.

🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖

Coming up: You convince Joel he's the right one to be your first, but how hard will it be?

🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖🧰💖

Did you like it? Hopefully yes, I loved writing this so much it hurts that it's finally out. I'm currently working on the part two 💖