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randombush3 · 28 days ago

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Far too flattered (don’t encourage me to make things worse)

ojalá te amara

alexia putellas x reader

prologue, que te quiero, busco lo de antes, te hacemos falta

summary: you wake up but you're not sure where

words: 2664 (short and sharp i would say)

content warnings: just me feeling bad for what i'm presenting you with

notes: it's being set up for a resolution te lo juro

“You’re watching me.”

Eyes, that’s what you catch a glimpse of. And it’s obviously Alexia, because who else would be here?

You feel her look away, but that does nothing to veil the tension she carries around with her, the charge she puts between you whenever you are remotely close. The guitar in your hands feels like it is fizzing – or maybe that is your skin, your fingers familiar, familiar for once, and itching to play it.

“You haven’t touched it in years,” she replies after careful consideration. “Reminds you of your father.”

“He never played for me–”

“You played for him,” she cuts in. You forget that you are not a stranger to her. She does this a lot, finishing sentences and stories and phrases as though she carries an encyclopedia around that details your life. Or as though she loves you, but that is more difficult to come to terms with. “Still, you didn’t want to remember anything about it.”

“I should be more careful about what I wish for,” you joke. She winces, unashamed of it.

A command rests on her lips, tickling the tip of her tongue. It’s an unloaded bullet. You shoot yourself.

“Sit,” you say.

She sits, her movements deliberate, slow enough that you can’t help but track every inch of her as she does. The bedroom suddenly feels smaller, tighter, as if the four walls have leaned in to listen.

“You’re going to play it.” It isn’t a question. She maps out your actions like they are inevitable, like she is omniscient, like she is your god.

“Didn’t say that,” you counter, though your voice lacks conviction. Her presence always seems to do this – pulls what little certainty you have left out by the roots leaving you exposed and flustered. It has worsened in the past few days.

You look down at the guitar, your fingers grazing the strings, and they hum under your touch. Here we are, they say to you. You’re not surprised that you hadn’t wanted to play it before now. You can only remember his favourite songs, the slow slump of his mask, slipping off his face until he resembled a happier man. A man he used to be.

It’s painful to not remember his death. Being told about it is not the same.

“Didn’t need to,” she says, leaning back on her palms, posture as composed as her words. But her eyes – God, her eyes – betray her. They dart from your hands to your face, they linger too long on your mouth, dark with something you can’t ignore. Something you haven’t been able to stop seeing ever since you caught it.

You swallow hard. “You’re good at making people do things they don’t want to do.”

“Am I making you do anything?” Her voice drops, almost a whisper, but there is a challenge threaded through it. She tilts her head, a lock of hair slipping loose from behind her ear. You watch it fall, noticing its dampness, noticing the faint sheen of her skin that tells you she has just gotten out of the shower.

She must have come back from training early, yet she looks anything but tired.

“Always,” you say, finally meeting her gaze. She doesn’t flinch, seemingly unfazed. If anything, her lips curve upwards, not quite a smile, not quite definable, but enough to leave your chest tight.

“You’re too dramatic,” she murmurs. The charge between you snaps, crackling like static. You realise too late that she has closed the space between you until you can feel her knee brushing against yours. It’s light, accidental maybe, but it sets off a pulse through your entire body.

“Alexia.” Her name leaves your mouth like a warning, but its direction is unclear. Is it to her, or to yourself? Is it a reminder that this isn’t something she has readily available to her anymore? Or do you simply want to tell her what she is getting herself into?

Her knee remains against yours, a bridge that is not prepared to cross this river. She doesn’t move, doesn’t pull back, and you are not convinced she will. Not unless you tell her to, and even then, she doesn’t seem like she’d listen.

Alexia is putting a stop to something. Or starting something else.

“You should stop,” you say, words hollow and frail.

“Should I?’ Her voice is velvet, teasing at the edges. She shifts slightly, just enough for her knee to press more firmly into yours. It’s deliberate. She’s deliberate. Every move she makes is calculated, intentional, and that knowledge burns through, bright and undeniable.

“You think you’re clever,” you murmur, hand tightening around the neck of the guitar, fingers moulding into the fretboard. The strings groan quietly under the pressure, but you barely notice.

And she says, “no.” She believes her answer. “But you are afraid.”

That hits like a blow. You blink, grip faltering, but she doesn’t look away. Her gaze is steady, sharp, cutting through the distance that you have maintained.

“I’m not afraid.” It’s defensive, said too quickly, and you both know it. The ghost of a smirk crosses her lips, but it vanishes as quickly as it came.

“Then what is it?” she asks, leaning forwards. The proximity is unbearable, intoxicating. Her scent – clean like soap, but faintly metallic, the lingering smell of exertion – wraps around you, making it impossible to think.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Your resort to such a childish retort is an opening. An opportunity.

“No,” she says, tone measured, blunt. “What I’d like to know is why you won’t fuck me like I am still yours.”

This is a battle you will not lose, you decide, inhaling sharply.

“‘Like’?”

She is searing, and her fire is contagious. You force your eyes to meet. You’re not going to yield.

“I’m still yours,” she breathes.

…

“So you fucked?” Mapi is out of breath, running alongside Alexia as she keeps a furious pace during their laps, motivated only by her yearn for gossip. Strong legs certainly help, but it is not those that spur Alexia on.

“Nope,” she grits out, speeding up as they turn the final corner, well ahead of the pack behind them. “And I haven’t had an orgasm since September,” she continues, Mapi trailing after her like an old dog who still wants to play, throat dry and chest heaving.

“How are you sprinting?!” she shouts between gasps as her legs drive her forwards somehow until almost collapsing to a stop.

Alexia hands her a water bottle, and Mapi takes it with her to the ground.

“I haven’t had an orgasm for months,” Alexia repeats with a shrug.

Mapi stares up at Alexia like she’s trying to decipher a code. Her brain, still foggy from the run, tries to plough on, mouth opening and closing a few times, but it takes a few attempts to get the words out. “That explains a lot.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow, amused despite herself. “Explains what?”

“Why you’re insufferable lately!” Mapi exclaims, throwing her arms out dramatically. The rest of the team are beginning to fill up their watering hole, but Alexia doesn’t seem to care. Mapi will probably let this slip to Patri anyway, and that will hardly allow her to keep this private.

“Oh, definitely. And not the fact that my fiancée was in a life-threatening accident and remembers neither me nor our daughter.” Your daughter? Alexia doesn’t feel like correcting herself.

“No, because she’s alive – you should be relieved.” Mapi bites her lip, “instead you’ve been left to stew in your horniness.”

“I don’t think she wants to have sex with me!” Alexia whines, outburst still somehow reserved but her grasp on herself slipping just enough for Mapi to truly want to help her out.

Mapi props herself up on her elbows, sweat dripping down her temple as she processes the conversation. “So you’re telling me she look at you like she wants to eat you alive–”

Alexia cuts her off with a sharp glare. “Keep it clean, Mapi.”

“I am keeping it clean! I’m just saying, she looks at you like that, and you still haven’t done anything?”

Alexia exhales harshly, squeezing her empty water bottle so tightly that it screeches out a burst of air. She remembers yesterday, how you’d seemed intrigued, how she’d pushed. She remembers how it had been working; she had you convinced, had you reassured. She remembers how she’d fucked it up, how she should hae waited for you to kiss her. “It’s not that simple,” she replies. An understatement, really.

“Isn’t it though?” Mapi stands, brushing grass off her legs. “She’s clearly into you, Ale. You’ve seen it, felt it. So what’s stopping you?”

“She has to want it,” Alexia says, her voice low but firm.

“She does,” Mapi insists. “You just said–”

“No, Mapi,” Alexia interrupts, her tone sharper now. “She has to know she wants it. Has to feel. It can’t just be some reaction she doesn’t understand. It can’t be because she feels drawn to me, or because her body reminds something her mind doesn’t. It has to be her choice. She has to choose me. Otherwise…” Her voice trails off; she is not going to speak these fears aloud.

“And so you’ve told her you could have sex with her, and she’s looked enticed, but you’re not going to do it unless she, what? Jumps you in the middle of your kitchen? What’s your eleven-year-old going to think of that?” Alexia swats her friend’s arm, Mapi instantly regretting her little joke after the reminder of how strong her captain is. “Ow! That’ll bruise, you know.”

“Don’t mention Amaia,” Alexia warns, not because Mapi is being rude, but rather bringing up her name in a conversation about difficulties fucking her mother seems morally wrong. “We’re trying to become a family again.”

“And I take it you haven’t informed your fiancée about–” Alexia shuts the conversation off with the decision to end the team’s break and shoo them into the gym where the trainers are expecting them.

…

You’re bored. Massively so.

A decade ago, you were up to your ears in essays and books to read, searching for jobs, exploiting your connections as much as you could. You were in a productive state. You were fighting to win, prepared to do whatever it took.

Now, you’ve been told to relax. You get sick pay. Your associates send you cards, your clients send you hampers.

You are fucking sick of opening hampers and pretending to care about various artisanal jams.

It’s nice for them to do that, although you assume it is more to uphold appearances then give you their deepest sympathies, but it is just another mundane task that everyone has conspired to give you in order to keep you distracted from the harsh reality of your situation. You can tell from your home office that you enjoyed your job. There are two desks, one is presumably Alexia’s, but yours, unlike her neutral backdrop for online interviews and video calls, is made for reading, for curling up in your leather desk chair and paging through bundles until every single detail of your case is known. It’s littered with reminders, scrawled on yellow post-its, about possible points and contacts and dates. When you look at it, you are jealous of the life you have built yourself.

You don’t need to work, as Alexia has told you, trying to be comforting. She makes more than enough and you have your inheritance and savings to ensure financial independence if worst comes to worst. You don’t need to do much of anything, it seems, with staff to help and Eli to care for Amaia (who had been employed as her nanny before you and Alexia had even met). But it’s agitating. Humiliating.

You don’t want to be a trophy… whatever label your relationship with Alexia deserves.

“You’re not a trophy wife,” Alexia agrees, her fork prodding at the risotto you’ve made (not from memory), bemused by the conversation topic but not entirely surprised. Amaia is sleeping at a friend's house, playing a match tomorrow that requires her team to be en route earlier than necessary. The girl’s mother, Lucía, seemed conspiratorial when she insisted you allow yourself to rest and that the game will not be anything exceptional, what with them playing a weaker team from a rural town outside the city. With no child to worry or censor for, tonight feels like a very domestic date.

“I’m not even your wife,” you can’t help but say, gently, humorously, but truthfully.

Alexia frowns, but it is subtle and not meant to be seen. “Do you want to know about how we got engaged?” she asks, steering the conversation in a far more constructive direction. You can hear your therapist’s approval ringing in your ears.

You think about it for a moment. The engagement ring was ruined in the accident and you haven’t been presented with its replacement. You’re not even sure what you’d want, though the delicate band on your finger (as seen in pictures) was a choice aligned with your taste.

“Who did it?” Being eager seems sickening. You’re trying to play it cool, especially after quite possibly being defeated by the incident.

“You,” she says without missing a beat, clearly still immersed in the moment, still engrossed in the timeline of it. You’re shocked, but maybe that is because in your brain, the last person you remember sleeping with was a man. The idea of women and how to date them has mentally not crossed your mind yet, though you have a family with one. “Rather abruptly, I must say. I really wasn’t expecting it.” You raise your eyebrows, scraping the last of your risotto from your plate. “See, I had planned to propose to you – I had a ring and everything. We’d had a Champions League away game, so it was longer and farther than usual. And you’d be in London for meetings the week before I’d left. We’d barely seen each other.”

“We weren’t in paradise the entire time?” Your sarcasm is ignored.

“The distance was making things a bit tense between us,” she continues, “and so I made sure to get a nice restaurant booked, one whose menu wouldn’t be too mature for Amaia.” You’re impressed she planned for Amaia to be there, but you try not to let that show on your face. Instead, you choose a mask of neutrality. “Anyway, we’d just arrived at the airport and I was expecting to get a taxi back home since it was late and, God, that law firm worked you like a dog. But you were there, in Arrivals. You and Amaia. And I just remember being so grateful, so thankful for my family, so relieved to see you guys.”

You want to comment, but you don’t. Her eyes are shining and you, off all medication now that most of your physical injuries have healed, top up the two glasses of white set in front of you both on the table.

“You asked me in the car, Amaia asleep in the backseat. I hit my head on the window, I was so shocked. And you’d said it so casually, a simple: let’s get married. Only you would be able to do that!” You laugh. She laughs too. “It was an easy thing to agree to. I still proposed formally at that restaurant, but you insisted you got all the credit.”

She watches as you take a sip of your wine, noticing the lipstick you’re wearing and how it smudges onto the glass. She notices most things about you. She can’t help herself.

“Alexia,” you sigh, the cool wine doing nothing to ease the tightness of your throat, “I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know how to make this work.” You take a deep breath. “I’m not sure if I can keep pretending that this is what I want.”

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randombush3 · 29 days ago

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@p0orbaby didn’t reply to my message in time so I freestyled the plot icl