#Irene Paredes

[tracksuitlesbian]

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

this adidas ad for champions goes so hard, and vicky, irene, and sydney look so good 😮‍💨

source: adidasfootball on instagram

[ankaraalexiafcb]

Please God take all of Alexia’s pain and give it to Monster Tome 😭😭

[copper-16]

The sweetest 🩵 The Spanish NT kiddos are so adorable

[pollitodesplumado]

Que alguien te quiera y celebre tus triunfos como Patri los de Clauida 🫶🏻

Irene llendo a hacerle el sandwichito jajajaja

[woso-dreamzzz]

Hair

Irene Paredes x Child!Reader

Summary: You help your Mami when she gets a red

You’ve travelled with Mami for once.

Mama is at home with your little brother Matteo but you’re not really worried.

You’re a good traveller. Mami says so because you were born when she used to play in France so you’re used to going back and forth between countries. You know how to amuse yourself by playing or doing your homework or your reading.

Mami says you’re very responsible.

Since coming home to Spain and to Barcelona, you’ve not travelled as much. You’ve stayed with Mama at home even though travelling and going on planes is much more interesting.

You don’t know why Mami decided you could come with her this time but you have and you’re happy.

Or you were happy until Mami got her red card.

You’re not quite sure what happened apart from the fact that her leg was too high.

You know all about high legs.

At Taekwondo, your teacher explains all about how head shots are very dangerous because the head is a very important part of your body and that’s why people wear caps to protect them during sparring.

You’re still kind of small (but growing all the time!) so you’re not allowed to do any head shots of your own. But you know they’re dangerous and you know Mami is not going to argue her card even if someone else will.

“Mami?”

“Go back to the bench, squirt,” Irene says as she breezes past you to the locker rooms.

When you were younger, that used to work but you’re nearly eight now and Mama says you’re moving under your own power so you think that means that Mami’s orders don’t work on your anymore.

“No!” You say stamping your foot right in the tunnel.

Irene scrubs a hand over her face as she turns around to face you. “I don’t have the patience to deal with a tantrum right now, squirt. Go back to the bench and finish watching.”

You stamp your foot again. “I’m not having a tantrum, you’re having a tantrum!”

Irene sighs. “If you come with me now, you’re not allowed back out. We stay in the locker room. But you can keep watching the match if you head back outside.”

Your foot goes again. “With you.”

You’d inherited her stubbornness, Irene notes. Her hair. Her eyes. The tight set of her jaw. And her stubbornness.

Irene holds her hand out for you. You take it.

You’re a different beast to your brother.

Matteo is still small, still practically a baby. She and Lucia had been worried about the age gap between you both. At nearly eight, you towered over him with your toys and your rambunctious nature.

You were not unlike Lucy and Keira’s (and increasingly Ona's) Pup but maybe a bit lower energy now that you’re gotten older. More disciplined is what Lucia would say, now that you’ve had your energy redirected into Taekwondo. Disciplined and strangely emotionally intelligent.

Irene supposes she should pat herself on the back with that. She’d never agreed with hitting kids even if it’s a little scuff on the back of the head to redirect them. No whacks, no spanks, no hits.

She talked your through your emotions and now that you were older, you were able to talk her through them too.

You hold her hand now as she walks back to the locker room.

“Mami, are we showering?”

“Aren’t you a bit too old to shower with me, squirt?” She teases, grabbing her toiletries and a towel. “You’re nearly eight now.”

You puff out your chest at the reminder. “I’m not going in with you! Just wanted to know.”

“I’m going to shower. You can take a shower if you want but you have to come into mine if you’re going to be washing your hair.”

You tug at the end of your braid.

Lucia likes your hair long and Irene has to admit that she does too.

You’d come out with a full head of hair, screaming and crying your arrival to the world as Irene panted from all the energy she’d spent pushing you out. Screaming, crying, with thick hair as you were gently rest on her chest.

Your hair had remained just as thick as then, growing quickly to the point that regular trips to get it cut were needed.

But washing it was always a challenge. Lots of shampoo. Lots of conditioner. Lots of time spent in the tub trying to get it all washed.

It’s part of the reason why it’s done in the morning too. You hate the hairdryer but you hate sleeping with wet hair even more so washing it is always done in the morning so it can air dry before bed.

“Wash my hair?” You ask and Irene nods.

“You’ll have to shower with me then if we’re washing your hair. Is that okay?”

You nod. “Uh-huh.”

“Alright, squirt. Let’s go.”

Irene’s original plan was to drown herself in the shower, to stay there until the match was over and she could finally face her teammates again. The red card was justified, she knows that but it doesn’t mean there isn’t still a bit of a sting.

She was happy to leave you on the bench, safe with the others so Irene could wash away her anger and resentment while you were occupied.

But now you’re here with her, asking to have your hair washed and looking up at her like you just know she needs something like this to keep occupied.

It’s an easy routine to get through, to lather her hands with shampoo and massage it into your scalp. To wash it all out before moving onto the conditioner.

Two rounds of conditioner and you look up at her with a smile.

“I can wash your hair now, Mami?” You ask and Irene laughs, pushing away the wet strands from your face.

“I think you’re a little small to be doing that, squirt.”

You puff out your cheeks. “Are you sure? I’ve definitely grown since Mama last measured me!” To demonstrate, you stretch up to your tiptoes and reach as high as you can.

“Maybe when you’re taller,” Irene says placidly,” Come on. Grab your towel and we’ll get out.”

Irene’s just gotten yours and her own clothes on by the time that everyone else has arrived.

“Whoa,” Jenni says as she comes in,” You’re dripping everywhere, squirt!”

Irene sighs as she turns around. “You should have seen just how wet it was earlier. Absolutely everywhere.”

“We can tell,” Codi snickers,” There’s a river to the showers.”

“I’ve braided it back again,” Irene offers up weakly as she watches Alexia crouch in front of you.

“You know you’ll have to sleep with that wet hair,” Alexia reminds you.

You giggle. “No, I won’t. We call Mama and Matteo tonight. Mama will see my hair. She won’t let Mami put me to bed with wet hair. She says it’s naughty.”

“Devious,” Alexia says approvingly.

You high five her and look back at Irene, who shakes her head fondly at you.

“We’ll be having words about your eversion to the hairdryer.” She wiggles her finger teasingly at you and you grin.

You stick your tongue out. “You have to talk to Mama first.”

[pitchsidestories]

el sueño de una niña (2) II Jenni Hermoso x Reader

part 1 | masterlist | word count: 1803

summary: Jenni promised reader's daughter Mila to come to her first football match, can she keep her promise despite being away with the Spanish national team.

author's note: dear readers, you asked for a part 2 and here it's, please enjoy. Let us know your thoughts on the oneshot.💜🖤

“But you promised to come…”, Mila whined through the phone, her voice on the verge of cracking. The disappointment in the little girls voice weighed heavy on Jennis heart.

She winced as she replied: “I know, I know.”

“It’s my first important game…”, Mila complained.

Jenni sighed. She was the one who had helped Mila find a football team in her age class, the one who had bought her first pair of cleats and also the one who had promised her support for her first game. Only, she had forgotten that she would be away with the national team at the time of Milas first game.

“I'll find a way to be there, Mila.”, Jenni promised determinedly. She didn’t know how yet but there was no way she would disappoint her.

Mila seemed a bit more calm at the end of their call but at the same time the conversation had attracted the interest of Jennis spanish team mates.

“Mila has a game?”, Alexia asked, her eyebrows moved towards her hairline with curiosity.

Jenni threw her phone on her hotelbed with frustration: “Yes, it’s her first one. She asked me to come weeks ago.”

Irene who leaned in the doorframe smiled to herself: “Do you all remember your first games?”

“Who doesn’t?”, Alexia replied with a grin.

“We all do.”, Jenni agreed. She knew from experience how formative first games could be.

Aitana stood there, frowning at Jenni like her brain was working at full speed: “But how do you get to her game when you’re here with us right now?”

The hotelroom went quiet as everyone seemed to search for a solution to help Jenni out.

“Easy, fake an injury.”, Mariona blurted out.

Four pairs of eyes stared at her. The disbelief about her suggestion was palpable inside the room.

Jennis face suddenly lit up as she got up from her bed: “During training later? Mario, you’re a genius!”

Excitedly, the darkhaired player pressed a grateful kiss to Marionas cheek and picked her up to whirl her around.

“Jenni!”, she protested, her cheeks slightly reddened.

“Sorry!”, Jenni laughed and finally let Mariona back down.

“Don’t tell anyone that I had anything to do with it.”, Mariona pleaded.

Jenni winked at her nonchalantly: “Oh, don’t worry, Darling. I’d not tell a soul.”

“Good.”

A few hours later, Jenni went down just as planned during a training drill. She held her knee and screamed in pain. The other players crowded around her, faking worried looks. Alexias eyebrows knotted together, indicating that Jenni was definitely overdoing it.

“Jennifer? Are you alright?”, their coach asked, crouching down to Jenni.

“No.”, the football player moaned.

“The physio should take a look at it.”, Alexia interrupted, trying to steer the conversation into the right direction.

Jenni nodded quickly: “Yes, just to be sure. That really didn’t feel good.”

“Okay.”, Montse agreed as she watched her get up and limp off towards the physios.

A short time later, the physiotherapist Pilar realised with a sour face. “You’re fine, Jennifer.”

 “Listen I know I’m fine but there’s a game tonight I’ve to attend. It’s a little girl’s first football match.”, Jenni pleaded.

She shook her head in disbelief. “You want me to lie and say it’s bad enough that you’ve to leave?”

“Not to leave necessarily only to take a break until tomorrow. Please.”, Jenni looked at her with big eyes.

“Excuse me, you want me to compromise my integrity.”, Pilar protested.

“It’s for a good cause.”, the striker gave her the most charming smile in the hope it would work on the physio like it did on all the women before. Nowadays, the specific grin was usually reserved for Mila and you. But this was an emergency.

“You owe me, Hermoso.”, she warned her.

“I know, you can count on me.”, Jenni reassured the physio.

“Go.”, Pilar replied in an impatient tone.

“Thank you!”, the football player promptly jumped off the lounger throwing kisses at her.

“Ugh.”, the physio waved it off, pretending to be disgusted by it.

In awe you watched your daughter warm up with the teammates who became her friends. Mila and you were heartbroken that your friend hadn't come yet despite her promise, which she was supposedly so keen to keep.

The referee started the game that’s why you didn’t hear the person coming who put her arms around your waist with a cheeky smile on her lips. A loud gasp escaped your mouth as you turned around to see who dared to touch you like that.

“Jenni?!”, you exclaimed surprised, glancing at the face you came to love so much over the past year.

“Hey.”, the Spanish woman greeted you grinning.

“You really made it to the game.”, you whispered deeply impressed by her dedication.

“I told you I’d. I never break a promise.”, Jenni answered in a serious tone.

“True, it’s been twelve months, and you never ran away.”, you noted.

“Can’t believe you still think I would.”, she remarked hurt.

“No, I trust you.”, you disagreed whole-heartedly, cupping her cheeks with your hands before exchanging a gentle kiss with the striker. For one moment the pitch and the game faded into the background.

“I think I deserve that trust by now.”, Jenni stated earnestly, pressing a kiss to your hand before releasing you fully.

“You do.”, you responded. Both of you followed the game proudly. The Spanish national team player was the one who cheered and supported the girls the loudest.

A bright smile lit up Mila’s face during a short break once she realized that Jenni did came to the game to see her play. Shily your daughter waved at her which the striker returned with her hands formed to a heart. When the game was on again Mila even scored her first goal.

“There she comes! Hi Mila.”, Jenni kneed down to hug the small girl after the match officially ended.

Milas face split into a big grin once she spotted Jenni standing next to you. She immediately broke into a run and jumped into Jennis arms. “Jenni, you made it!“

“Of course I did. I promised you.“, Jenni laughed as she spun the little girl around before setting her back down on the grass.

Mila cocked her head: “Have you seen me play? You looked distracted by looking at Mami.“

You failed at stifling your laughter while your girlfriend replied: “Hey! Of course I watched you play.“

“Uhu, sure.“, Mila nodded, her little face filled with sass.

Jenni raised her eyebrow at her with a grin: “Excuse me? I came all the way from my national team camp to watch you play.“

The tiny football players’ eyes widened in awe: “How did you do that?“

“Magic.“, Jenni explained, waving her hands through the air as if she was casting some spells.

“Wow.“

“All for you.“, she winked at your daughter.

“Thank you, Jenni.“, Mila beamed and pressed yourself against the football player for another hug.

Jenni kneeled down to her: “You did so well today. Were you nervous?“

Mila nodded hesitantly: “Yes but Mami said she believes in me.“

“We both believed in you. Don’t worry, the nervousness gets better after a few games.“

“It does? Also, told coach that you’re a good coach too.“, Mila said and pointed in the direction of woman your age who watched you with raised eyebrows.

You shot her a smile while Jenni laughed: “Oh god.“

“She didn’t like to hear that.“, Mila confirmed what you both could read from the face of her coach already.

Jenni bit her lip to stop herself from laughing: “I bet so.“

“Mila, are you hungry?“, you quickly changed the topic, impatient to leave the football pitch and the watchful eyes of the youth coach.

“Yes!“

You turned to your girlfriend: “What about you, Jenni?“

“I think I have time to take my girls out for food.“, she winked.

“Perfect.“, you smiled.

Jenni held out her hand for Mila. You took the other hand of your daughter. “Let’s go.“

“Please, I’m starving.“, Mila complained which caused all three of you to break into laughter again.

Jenni ruffled through the young girls hair: “Don’t worry, you will get some food to fuel your body after such a long game.“

You found yourself at a restaurant shortly after. Mila was busy digging into her chicken tenders and you watched Jenni pick at her salad.

But there was something that your girlfriend had said earlier that you couldn’t get out of your head. You leaned forward, your chin resting on your hand and watched Jenni curiously: “So… how did you get out of the Spain camp?“

Chewing on a tomato, Jenni shook her head: “Can’t tell you that.“

“It’s top secret, huh?”, you smirked.

“Yes, it’s between me, the girls and our physio.”, she winked conspiratorially.

The small comment of the striker sparked Mila’s curiosity as well. “Was it dangerous?”

“A little bit.”, Jenni admitted sounding amused.

“Woah, that’s so cool.”, your daughter marvelled.

“Mila!”, you clicked your tongue disapprovingly.

“But mami you must admit it’s true.”, Mila defended herself.

Swiftly you changed the topic, looking into your girlfriend’s eyes. “When do you have to go back?”

“Tonight, but I can take Mila to bed before that.”, Jenni answered smiling.

“Really?”, your child asked beaming with delight.

“Really.”, the footballer confirmed mirroring her excitement.

“Good.”, Mila nodded satisfied.

The dinner with three had gone by in a blink.

In an animated tone Jenni read out loud to your daughter in the child’s bedroom. It was a story for boys and girls featuring the life story of Marta. In between you could hear Mila’s lively comments she exchanged with your girlfriend until there was only the silence of the night.

“She’s sleeping?”, you questioned as Jenni closed the door behind her.

“Yes.”, she affirmed calmly.

“Wonderful.”, you muttered gleefully. Eye to eye, you noticed a desire and lust in the way the striker looked at you. A blush crept upon your cheeks feeling the intensity of her stare. “What? Why are looking at me like that Jennifer?”

“No reason?”, she murmured innocently.

“No, tell me.”, you demanded in the knowledge that your lover was lying.  

“Well, I’ve some more time before I’ve to leave.”, she began mischievously.  

“You mean long enough to..?”

“Yes.”

“We shouldn’t waste more time don’t you agree?”, you glanced at her expectantly.

With a playful expression Jenni took your hand to guide you to your shared bedroom, leaving no doubt that she was fully in line with what just passed your lips.

Everything started with a promise and ended with another one.

After you two made love together Jenni promised that you three would be a forever thing. Something like the three musketeers against a man’s world which despite all it’s harshness would never get you down.

if you enjoyed this story reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated !

[maxsimagination]

𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝 𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙖𝙣 - 𝙞.𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙨, 𝙢.𝙡𝙚𝙤𝙣

summary: a combination of this and this.

-> !! strap use, fingering, oral sex !!

-> irene is 32, mapi is 28 & reader is 24

-> i apologise if any of the translations are wrong

𖦹 masterlist

it was a normal wednesday morning, training with the team and team bonding night later on.

it was my second season with the club, transferring in from bayern munich, all of the girls were really nice and welcoming when i first joined. since i was on the younger side of the team, i spent most of my time with claudia. but claudia was best friends with patri, who spent her time with alexia and irene, who were always with mapi.

it was like a chain reaction, so through knowing claudia, i’d met all the older girls.

i honestly thought i fit in much better with the older players rather than the younger ones. i wasn’t the type to always pull pranks on my teammates like they did, preferring to work on my techniques.

when i got to training that morning, mapi was waiting out the front like usual. she’d driven me to training once last year when i first came and ever since then we’d made it a tradition. this time however, irene was standing with her.

“hola chicas. irene, me alegro de verte.” (hello girls. irene, nice to see you.)

i walked into the grounds and the two older women followed me in. the whole team was already there, most just finishing up their breakfast. i put my things in the locker rooms with everyone else’s and joined the team for our pre-training talk.

jona had us doing a bunch of drills today, and then split us off into two teams. we played a couple rounds; alexia, patri and i were all together while claudia, irene and mapi were on the opposition.

as a striker, i naturally had irene and mapi defending for their lives while i ran rings around them and scored a few goals.

i even managed to nutmeg both the women at least once, throwing out a sassy “catch me if you can, chicas!” to mess with them even more.

jona was proud of my efforts, telling me i’d been on fire lately. that made my ego swell of course, and clearly mapi and irene weren’t too happy about how i’d beat them.

but we finished training a couple hours later and were reminded by alexia that there was team bonding at hers tonight. she normally organised these events, being the captain she took it upon herself to keep everyone on good terms with each other.

tonight was a casual event, ale told everyone to wear something comfy, nothing too fancy as we were just playing some games and watching a movie or two. so when i got home, i plopped my stuff down on my couch and headed towards the bathroom. time for an everything shower.

i washed my hair, shaved in all the right places and did my full skincare routine.

by the time i’d finished that, it was around 5:00, i had to be ready in half an hour. mapi had promised to pick me up, insisting she drive us to ale’s.

as for clothes, i’d opted for a slightly oversized tshirt and a pair of bike pants that just happened to accentuate my ass. soon, i heard a knock on my door. knowing it was mapi, i grabbed my phone and rushed to the front door.

“hola mapi. gracias por llevarme.” (hello mapi. thank you for driving me.)

“ah, it’s no problem.”

we walked down to her car, when i noticed someone sitting in the front seat. irene.

“hola irene.” (hello irene.)

i jumped in the backseat, greeting the other woman when i got in.

“hello yn.”

irene’s accent gave me shivers, it was the perfect combination of soft and gravelly.

mapi drove us all to alexia’s house, where at least three other cars were already parked on or near her driveway. we hopped out of the vehicle, traipsing up to the front door where i knocked on it twice.

alexia opened it, a giant grin on her face.

“chicas! welcome, please come in.”

she ushered us all inside to join the rest of the group. apparently we’d been some of the last to get there, everyone else all riding with each other.

we spent the evening playing some board games, watching a movie and just chatting to each other about anything and everything. it was close to 9 at night when i ducked into the kitchen to get some water.

i stood, sipping from a glass against alexia’s kitchen counter, when someone joined me in the kitchen.

“ya sabes tu culo se ve muy bien en esos pantalones cortos.”

(y’know your ass looks great in those shorts.)

that same gravelly voice from earlier spoke up, and i whipped around to see irene standing there.

“por que gracias, irene.” (why thank you, irene.)

the woman walked forward, meeting me where i stood by the sink. she was taller than me by a bit and i had to tilt my head up to see her properly.

her eyes were sparkling with what seemed to be desire, and judging by the way she raked her eyes up and down my body, i was correct. she edged closer and closer, eventually standing inches away from me.

“me gustaría mucho besarte ahora.”

(i would really like to kiss you now.)

“so kiss me.”

neither of us missed a beat, irene diving down to connect our lips in a messy and passionate manner. irene had spun us around then, lifting me up and placing me on the kitchen island.

“yn? where’d you- oh my god.”

we broke apart at the sound of a voice, mapi’s voice to be exact. however irene wasn’t fazed.

“maria, perfect timing. would you like to join?”

my eyes almost bulged out of my head at her words, getting it on with one person was okay but two? completely different territory.

“actually, yea. but not on ale’s kitchen island. shall we head home?”

this time she was asking me, so i quickly nodded my head and irene lifted me down from the island. we slipped back into the lounge where the other girls were, letting them know we were heading home.

they all bid us farewell, alexia yelling out not to be late to practice tomorrow morning.

the drive was short and full of tension, which made it feel longer. i was sat in the backseat again while the two older women were in the front, seemingly communicating through their facial expressions.

we did not return to my apartment, instead going to irene’s apartment. she made quick work of unlocking the door and letting us all in. mapi entered last, locking the door after herself.

as the lock clicked shut my nerves really started bouncing around. irene had clearly noticed and grabbed my hand.

“no tenemos que hacer esto si no estás cómodo.”

(we don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable.)

her voice soothed my nerves a little bit and i smiled up at her.

“no i want this.”

her gentle smile turned into a wolfish grin as this time she took my hand and led me down to a room, which i figured to be hers. mapi was directly behind me, hand on the small of my back for comfort.

when we walked in, irene spun me around and pinned me against the wall, hands above my head. her lips were just centimetres away from mine, teasing me everytime she got too close.

finally she kissed me, and i melted at the contact.

she pulled away and started littering little kisses and licks down my neck to my collarbone. once she was cut off by my shirt she tugged it up and over my head before going back to sucking little hickies on my neck and chest.

my head was tilted to the side, too caught up in irene’s movements to realise that mapi had come forward and pressed her lips to my own.

it took me a second to realise that there were two women kissing me.

irene had dropped her hold on my arms, using them to take my bra off, so i used that to my advantage and tugged on mapi’s shirt, signaling i wanted it off. she smiled into the kiss and pulled back, taking her shirt off and revealing she wasn’t wearing a bra either.

she kissed me again and my hands travelled down to her chest, tracing patterns along her skin before twirling her nipples between my fingers.

she yelped a little at the intrusion, but soon it was my turn because irene had kissed down to my own breasts, swirling her tongue on each nipple and promptly pinching them.

i groaned into mapi’s mouth, as she went back to kissing me. irene continued to suckle on my breast, giving the other one the same attention with her fingers. soon enough, her fingers then trailed lower, down to the waistband of my bike pants.

irene removed her lips from me, looking up at me in question. i looked back down at the pause of movement and gave her the go ahead.

she didn’t waste any time, hooking her fingers in the elastic and tugging the clothing down my legs. mapi had now taken advantage of my unattended nipples, moving her fingers to play with the nubs.

meanwhile irene had knelt down, hands pulling at my thighs. she dipped a finger into my folds, which came out coated in wetness. she sucked the juices off, before pressing a finger lightly onto my clit. that elicited a moan from me and one of my hands went to irene’s hair, pushing her face towards my heat.

she obliged, spreading my legs further and dipping her tongue through my folds. again drawing a moan from me, her tongue slipped down to push lightly against my hole before moving back up to suckle on my clit.

mapi was still kissing me and twirling my nipples between her fingers, which only added to my heightened excitement.

my eyes were closed, squeezed shut, while the only thing i could focus on was the feeling of irene’s mouth on my cunt. just then she brought her fingers up to my entrance, pushing one in.

i gasped at the intrusion, but that quickly melted into a moan when she started pumping it in at a steady rhythm. she added a second finger, stretching me out a little and setting a strong pace, while still toying with my clit in her mouth.

i could tell i was approaching my orgasm, the little coil had started to tighten in my stomach.

“‘m close. keep going, please.”

i was begging, that’s how much i wanted to come. the older woman below me didn’t utter a word, just kept her fingers pumping and mouth suckling.

it wasn’t long before i was practically on the edge, anymore and i’d fall off.

“i’m gonna cum, please can i cum?”

“go ahead, bebita.”

it was mapi who’d answered this time, i had almost forgotten that she’d been playing with my nipples and placing hickies all over me.

then i was coming all over irene’s face. she clearly didn’t care and was lapping it up like it was the last thing she’d ever eat.

once i’d come down from my high, irene picked me up and brought me over to her bed.

“estas bien, amor? lo hiciste muy bien.”

(are you okay, love? you did so well.)

i was tired, flopped on the bed like a rag doll just trying to get my energy back.

“sí, estoy bien. segunda asalto?”

(yes, i’m okay. round two?)

mapi had come to lie on the bed behind me, resting her upper body against the headboard and her legs splayed out on the mattress.

irene then walked over to a small bedside table and opened the drawer.

she pulled out a thick black silicone dick, attached to a harness.

“think you can take this?”

i nodded eagerly, propping myself up on my elbows.

“on your hands and knees. you’re going to make maría come, while i fuck you from behind.”

there was no arguing with her harsh tone. i scrambled onto my knees, kneeling in front of mapi. she’d managed to get her sweats off then, leaving her naked on the bed.

i looked back at irene, who was securing the harness.

“don’t look at me, get started.”

i didn’t think twice, arching my back and shoving my face in between mapi’s legs to lick a long stripe up her cunt. she instinctively widened her legs for me, grinding her hips towards my face.

i could feel irene up behind me then, the tip of her strap pressing against my entrance. she manoeuvred it so the tip was half in, then slowly pushed the rest in.

the girth of the silicone toy stretched me wide, i let out a little whine at the slight pain.

however irene continued, she set a slow pace to start, thrusting in then pulling out. thrusting in, pulling out.

i was still buried in between mapi’s legs, lapping at her clit, and pushing my tongue against her entrance every so often. her hands hand found their way to my hair, grasping it in her long fingers and pushing my face further into her cunt.

irene sped up gradually, until she was fully fucking me from behind. you could hear the slaps from her strap connecting with my ass every time she thrusted forward.

“‘m close, again. please don’t stop.”

i lifted my head to plead irene to keep going.

“make maría cum first. then you can cum.”

irene denied my pleads, slowing her thrusts slightly as i, desperately, licked, suckled and fucked mapi.

my hand, both of which were holding mapi’s legs wide open, came down to push into mapi’s entrance. i started with two fingers immediately, which left her whining before that turned into a moan.

i could tell she was so close, constantly grinding down on my face, chasing her own high.

it didn’t take long before she came crashing down, spreading her juices all over my face. i licked them all up, before pulling my fingers out and sucking the wetness off them too.

at the same time, irene had sped up again, added her own fingers to my clit, rubbing deliberate circles against my nub. i could feel myself hurtling towards my orgasm, with the coil in my belly tightening quickly.

“i’m coming- can i cum?”

“yes bebita, cum for me.”

irene praised me, thrusting into me hard and fast to bring me to the edge.

i fell over that edge just as quickly, letting my high crash over me like a wave. irene slowed down her pace, fucking me through the orgasm.

then she slowly pulled out, unclipping the harness and setting it down on her table.

“mis buenas chicas. estoy muy orgullosa de ti.”

(my good girls. i’m so proud of you.)

irene went to grab a damp washcloth and came back to clean both me and mapi up, pressing kisses on both our foreheads.

[bbangsoul]

this is so funny the way alexia completely highjacked irene before patri could high five her and before patri could even process what was going on pina jumps onto her back LOL

[b14augrana]

Scrubber

Your actions on the field are a product of your childhood idol

Barça Femení x teen!reader

pt. 2 masterlist

Warnings: reader suffers from the scrubber trait. 🥹

A/N: #yanited (not proofread as always x)

It was the last few minutes of the semi-final against Chelsea. If you kept the clean sheet at Stamford Bridge, you were sure to win it. If you didn’t… well, Fridolina tried explaining to you that you’d still win, but you weren’t willing to see for yourself.

“(Y/N), watch the wing!” yelled Mapi, who pointed to the flank. Lucy had overlapped and when the possession switched, you were left to take on Macario.

You glanced in the direction of the left wing, feeling slightly — no, very scared to go against Macario… on your own.

You could tell just by looking at her for a split second that Mapi was a bit worried for you too, and if she could deal with Macario she would, but unfortunately you were closer.

Nevertheless, you ran towards her side-on, trying to anticipate her next move. You knew what Mapi would say; hold her off until Lucy’s back in position, just delay her.

At the same time, you knew what Nemanja Vidić would do, and that is knock the living daylights out of her with a slide tackle. Guess what path you decided to take?

You sent yourself flying feet first towards the ball. As you slid across the grass, pushing the ball out of play. The last thing you saw before getting to your feet again was the distraught expression of Macario as she tumbled over your body, seemingly going headfirst towards the ground.

You could barely hear the groan she let out, because soon you were stood up and Mapi was at your side, patting you on the back for your tackle. Lucy ran to retrieve a ball and quickly toss it in to resume the play.

You hadn’t even registered your tackle until the side of your thigh started to hurt a little. A short glance beyond your shorts helped you discover that it was a bit red, but the tackle was worth any bruise that was sure to form in its place.

The game only started to pick up again when the red card was shown to Buchanan. Holding down the back line when the through balls and dribbles kept coming felt like a real Vidić-esque thing to do.

If it wasn’t already super obvious, Nemanja Vidić was your idol. You bled blaugrana in every shape and form, but that didn’t stop you from taking inspiration from the former Manchester United defender. If you hadn’t been a lifelong Barcelona fan, you would’ve trialed for the Manchester United academy and played for them just to say you played at your idol’s former club. You always had a pen and paper on hand in case you happened to come across him, and if that ever did happen you’d immediately get it tattooed (legal or not, you’d find a way).

The team found your love for Vidić very endearing. It was obvious that you admired his fearlessness because of how you tried to imitate it on the field by putting your body on the line, and Lucy loved that; she called you a ‘little brick wall’. Irene was a more solid defender than you, though. Your tactic was to just throw yourself at the ball whenever you were in doubt. She actually had tactics.

So, when Lauren James was at the edge of the box, winding her leg up to take a shot, you couldn’t find the time to think before flying in, cutting her out. You were smart enough to face the other way, and the ball deflected off your back instead of your face.

“¡Así es!” Ona yelled from the other side of the pitch, running into the box to defend further until Lucy cleared it down the wing.

The match ended with the scoreline being 2-0 to Barcelona. Everyone said your tackles were the defining factor that kept it that way, but you thought it was all thanks to Aitana, Frido and Cata. Regardless of who did what, you were happy your team were into the finals. You were happy you did something to keep them up on aggregate.

You ditched the celebrations a bit early to go sit down in the locker room and get your daily logins on Hay Day. The adrenaline wore off almost immediately after you sat on the bench, and your attention was brought to the minor grazes and bruises scattered along your legs. You felt one on your abdomen and somehow, you had a scratch on your shoulder.

You were glad. Vidić would never come out of a big match like that unscathed. You did your idol proud on the field, or so you hoped at least.

Most people often asked why you wanted to be a defender and subject yourself to the most physical parts of the game. Truth be told, you just really loved denying people of a goal. Lucy said you ‘played for the badge’ and despite not knowing what that meant, you hoped it was good.

You were also really bad at aiming and every time you cleared the ball or made a pass up field, you hoped and prayed it would at least go straight. You could never be a goal scorer like Caro or Aitana or Mariona.

“(Y/N),” a voice called out. You looked up from your phone to see Lucy. “Why aren’t you out celebrating?”

“I almost missed my Hay Day login. Have to do that before anything,” you replied. Lucy laughed, walking closer and sitting down on the bench beside you.

She put an arm around your shoulder, the way she always did. It felt older sister-y, and you liked that. “You really know how to tidy up back there,” she remarked. You smiled slightly, your cheeks burning up. Lucy was an insane defender so her praise meant the world to you. “Thanks, Luce.”

“They’re looking for you to give you the Player of the Match trophy, but you ran away too fast,” Lucy laughed, and your eyes bulged out of your skull.

“What about Aitana? She was the one that scored.”

“And you’re the one that kept out almost their entire team. You deserve this!” Lucy added, shaking you. You were a bit confused because you didn’t think your tackles were that vital, but you were proved wrong.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go out in a bit, after I put my slides on,” you responded. The woman smiled and gave you a tight side hug.

“Nemanja would be proud, scrubber. Good job today,” Lucy added while she stood up and began to walk away. Your face couldn’t help but form a smile of its own.

“But, don’t start slide tackling in every game. The last thing we need is for you to get hurt trying to wipe someone out with a Brexit,” she said sternly, suddenly turning around with a finger pointed at the plotting expression on your face. You raised your hands in defense.

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

Ngl if I had to travel in formal wear rather than joggers I’d be so annoyed loll

It’s the little things but I’d wanna be comfy on the plane

But they do look absolutely gorg and I’m not complaining and Ik it’s a partnership etc but still

haha for sure. well at least they have the whole vueling plane to themselves to relax. (and it’s a short flight given everything!) 😎📖🧘‍♀️

source: fcbfemeni on twitter

[copper-16]

Well this is really cute shut up 😭

[theitaliansalad]

And I will once again say:

Irene Fucking Paredes - I’m on my knees for you. I know no other altar but yours. Jesus Christ was resurrected in you today.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Sisters

Irene Paredes x Teen!Reader

Summary: You and your sister's wife

"You know," You say, voice thick and rough with sleep," My sister will get annoyed if she catches you sleeping in my bed."

"Lucía sent me to get you."

"And you're doing that by getting in bed with me?"

You flutter your eyes open, rolling over until your face to face with your sister in law.

Irene looks down at you, a smile on her face as she reaches out to pinch your cheek.

You squawk at her, swatting her hand away with a little yelp. "Stop it! You're so mean!"

"And you slept past your alarm," Irene reminds you," You need to stop doing that."

"Who are you? My mum?"

Irene grins. "I mean, technically-"

You groan, pulling a pillow over your eyes to block her out.

With your parents failing health and your own dedications at La Masia, they had signed their rights away and transferred your custody to your sister, Lucía.

Irene had put her own name on the paperwork too - something about it running smoother if it was clear it would be a couple taking care of you and not just Lucía.

You feel a poke on your shoulder and you swat blindly at Irene.

"Leave me alone," You say," Why can't you just let me sleep?"

"Because we have training," She replies, continuing to poke you," And you take ages to get ready. You're worse than Mateo."

"Mateo's practically a baby," You say," If he takes long to get ready then it's Lucía's fault."

"What's your excuse then?"

You sit up, shrugging. "It's Lucía's fault. She got me ready as a kid too. She's the reason I take so long."

"Go and get dressed, hermana," Irene says with an eye roll," I'm leaving in ten so if you're not ready by then I'm leaving without you."

"No you won't!" You yell after her.

You don't think she will but you still rush to change just in case.

Irene's stood at the door when you get downstairs, throwing her keys up and down while Lucía bustles around the kitchen with Mateo.

"Kiss your sister goodbye," Irene teases as you scoop up your bag and approach.

You groan. "You're so annoying."

"I don't hear you telling your sister how much you love her."

You make sure to drag your feet all the way over to Lucía, pressing a kiss to her cheek before doing the same with little Mateo.

"Be good at practice," Lucía reminds you," And if Irene gets on your nerves, tell me and I'll keep her in line."

You grin against Lucía's shoulder. "She's not all bad."

"Don't tell her that. She's already got a big head. Don't make it get bigger."

"I'll try."

"Let's go," Irene says, getting a bit impatient and you pull away from your sister.

"You're the one that made me say goodbye."

"Oh? So it's my fault?"

You pretend to think. "Yes. Yes it is."

Irene rolls her eyes fondly as an arm is thrown over your shoulder. "Love you Lucía, love you, Mateo! I promise I won't kill your sister!"

The car ride is an easy one, familiar.

You'd signed your first professional contract with Barcelona in the summer, rising through the ranks of La Masia before taking your place as one of the new centrebacks Barcelona signed for the new season.

"You nervous?" Irene's eyes are on the road as she speaks.

You rolls your eyes and scoff," No."

It's a complete lie and you think Irene knows that because one hand leaves the gearbox to gently rub your shoulder.

It's a little annoying how good she is at doing it while she's driving.

"You're going to do great," She soothes, the same voice she uses when Lucía is anxious and Mateo is crying," It's going to go so well for you. Everyone's friendly and no one is going to make fun of you."

You stare out the window. "You don't know that."

"Tell me if they do." She's gone serious now, pulling into a line of traffic and turning to look at you. "I know you like to solve things yourself but I'm serious. If anyone says anything or they make you uncomfortable, you come and get me."

"I know, Irene," You reply," You've been saying that kind of stuff for years."

She grins at you. "Just making sure you remember. No one is going to be mean to you but just in case."

"You're not going to hover, are you? Because I'll tell Lucía. She says you need to stop that."

"Lucía's not the boss of me."

You both exchange looks before bursting into laughter.

"Yes, she is."

Irene rolls her eyes. "Fine. I won't hover if you tell me if someone's making you uncomfortable. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Good." She looks back the queue in front of her. "Now what do you want from the drive through?

You frown. "Lucía said last night we weren't allowed to get breakfast from the drive through."

Irene winks. "I won't tell if you won't."

[cupofteatoyou]

what almost was

(By this request )

There’s a rhythm to the way Irene walks beside you after matches—slow, steady, with her hand resting gently at your back like a compass. She doesn’t speak much in moments like these, doesn’t need to. She just stays close, as if her presence alone is a promise.

You’ve always admired that about her. Her quiet certainty. Her ability to make you feel safe without trying.

So you don’t say anything either as the two of you step into the tunnel, the hum of Camp Nou fading behind you. Just a glance to your left. Just enough to see Alexia, a few paces ahead, surrounded by teammates and laughing at something Patri said.

She looks good. Of course she does. Ponytail high, jersey still clinging to her, skin glowing with the kind of confidence only she seems to wear like second skin. You should be used to it by now.

And yet.

Her gaze slides across the group, like she’s scanning. Like she’s looking for someone. You’re sure you imagine it—that moment where her eyes hover just a second too long before flicking away.

You tighten your grip on Irene’s hand.

“Everything alright?” she asks, low and warm, like she felt the shift in you before you could hide it.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Just tired.”

She hums softly. “You always say that after home games.”

You glance at her. “Maybe because I never get to nap with you before them.”

That earns you a smile. Irene’s are never loud, never wide—but they’re real. Quiet things you feel more than see.

“We could leave early,” she murmurs. “Skip the lounge. I know how much you love pretending to be interested in Lucy’s whiskey reviews.”

You laugh under your breath, leaning into her shoulder as you walk. “Tempting.”

“You’ve been a little off too,” she adds after a beat, not accusing—just observant. “The past few weeks. Is something wrong?”

Your throat tightens, just a little. “No. Nothing’s wrong.” another pause. Irene doesn’t press. She never does.

She just gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” You nod, because it’s true. You can tell her anything. You just don’t. Not about Alexia.

Not about the strange way your stomach knots when you catch her eyes across a room. Or how she stopped teasing you in passing months ago—no more half-smirks, no more dry comments that made Irene roll her eyes and you stifle a laugh.

It was easier when Alexia still pretended you were friends.

Later, in the lounge, the team’s buzzing. Not wild, but light—good mood, feet kicked up, muscles sore in the way that means victory. Someone’s passing around a speaker, arguing over playlists. The pizza’s going fast. You’re half-watching Mapi challenge Cata to a handstand contest, half-curled into the couch with Irene beside you.

Her arm is behind your shoulders, fingers trailing lightly through the ends of your hair, but she’s not even really paying attention. Just instinct. Like she doesn’t have to try with you. Like it’s easy.

You take a bite of a cold slice, chewing thoughtfully. “You think Mapi’s gonna break something this time?”

Irene doesn’t even look up. “Her pride. Again.”

“She’s already tried three times.”

“She’s stubborn.”

“She’s gonna flip and land on Cata.”

“She’s done worse.”

You grin, tossing your crust into the pizza box on the floor. “You’re very chill about the idea of bodily injury.”

Irene turns to you with that dry little smile she does when she’s amused but pretending not to be. “It’s Mapi. If something breaks, it’ll be the floor.”

You laugh and nudge her knee with yours.

Mapi does, in fact, fall over a minute later. There’s a loud thud, followed by exaggerated groaning, and Patri yells, “Eso es lo que pasa cuando haces yoga una vez y crees que eres invencible!”

“You owe me five euros,” you whisper to Irene.

“I don’t remember making that bet.”

“You didn’t. But I’m trying to teach you how to be fun.”

She hums and leans closer, her voice low and warm in your ear. “And I’m trying to teach you patience. Let’s see who wins first.”

You feel yourself smiling before you can stop it. This—this is good. Comfortable. Real.

But across the room, something shifts in your peripheral vision.

Alexia, seated alone on the far couch, legs crossed, phone in one hand, water bottle in the other. She’s not really in the moment—only half-listening, not laughing like the others. Her screen lights her face with a cold blue cast, and she doesn’t seem to notice.

Then she glances up.

And it happens again.

That flicker of something—recognition, hesitation, whatever it is—when her eyes land on yours.

She doesn’t look away immediately, but she doesn’t smile either. Just watches. Quiet. Intense. Like there’s something she’s not saying.

You swallow, look back at Irene. She’s watching you now, too.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks softly, but not without weight.

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t call you on it. She just shifts a little, guiding your legs across her lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her hands settle at your shin, tracing idle circles.

“You know,” she says after a moment, tone casual, “you’re unusually quiet tonight.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“You’re quiet for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re usually causing some kind of problem.”

You grin. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

Irene snorts. “God help us all.”

She leans forward and steals the last slice from the box without even breaking eye contact. You gape.

“That’s my slice.”

“You snoozed.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, a little smirk tugging at her lips, “but I’m your menace.”

You should be laughing. You are laughing.

But you still feel the weight of Alexia’s stare long after she’s looked away.

Irene drives the two of you home that night, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on your thigh. The car hums low with the sound of the road and the muted voice of a radio host talking about some late-night football results. Barcelona glows quietly outside the window—streetlights streaking gold across the windshield, buildings blurring into shadows.

Her thumb taps softly against your leg in time with the music, a steady rhythm, like she doesn’t even notice she’s doing it. You glance at her—strong profile lit by the dash, calm like always. The kind of calm that could keep the world steady if it ever tipped sideways.

“I think Alexia’s been a little off lately,” you say, almost like you didn’t mean to speak it out loud.

Irene hums, a sound of acknowledgment more than agreement. “Yeah. Maybe she’s tired.”

You nod, turning your gaze back out the window. “Yeah. Probably.”

But tired doesn’t explain the distance.

The way Alexia barely speaks to you anymore.

The way she always seems to notice you walk into a room—and then looks away like it costs her something.

The way she doesn’t tease you in passing, doesn’t throw out nicknames or sarcastic comments the way she used to. Doesn’t sit close anymore. Doesn’t let herself linger.

And the thing is… you miss her. Or maybe you miss who she was with you.

You miss the ease. The sharp glint in her eyes when you’d surprise her with a smart comment. The way her smile used to tug at one side of her mouth first, like she was trying to hide it but never could around you.

You don’t say any of that.

You don’t say you’ve noticed her looking again—but never quite at you anymore. Always near. Always past. Like you’re something she used to believe in.

Instead, you shift in your seat and say, “You think something happened? With her?”

Irene shrugs gently. “She’s intense. Sometimes she gets like that—overthinks things. Holds it in.”

You glance at her again. “So… you’ve noticed it too?”

“She’s always been that way,” Irene replies, not quite answering the question. “But yeah. Lately it’s more… quiet.”

You nod, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn’t care this much. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s just guilt—though for what, you can’t quite define.

Irene gives your thigh a light squeeze, pulling you back. “Don’t worry about her tonight, cariño.”

You offer a soft smile. “I’m not worried. Just—curious.”

She glances at you with a raised brow. “Curious enough to ask her?”

You shake your head, too fast. “No. I mean… it’s not really my place, is it?”

Irene’s quiet for a beat. The car slows as she turns onto a quieter street, the road lined with sleeping trees and shuttered shops.

“She used to talk to you more,” she says, like she’s just now realizing it too.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

The silence hangs, heavier now.

You want to fill it with something light. Something safe. A joke, maybe. A change of subject.

But instead, you say, “I think I miss her.”

It slips out, quiet. Honest.

Irene doesn’t say anything right away. She just keeps her hand where it is—steady, grounding—and lets the car roll forward into the night.

And somehow, that’s worse than anything she could have said.

Alexia’s POV

She tells herself it’s nothing.

The way her chest tightens every time she sees you laugh at something Irene says. The way her jaw clenches without warning when Irene leans in close, lips brushing the edge of your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like that kind of closeness should belong to anyone.

She tells herself it’s stupid.

Because she had her chance. She did. Months ago, when everything between you was easier. Lighter. Before the lines were drawn.

Before she saw Irene’s arm around your waist at a team dinner.

Before she noticed the way you looked at her—like the whole world had shifted a few degrees.

And she had no right to be hurt by that. She still doesn’t.

But it didn’t stop it from happening.

Didn’t stop the pit in her stomach from forming that night and never really going away.

So now she keeps her distance. She makes excuses. She nods when you speak but doesn’t add much. She laughs with everyone else, but it never quite reaches her eyes when you're in the room.

She can feel herself unraveling in pieces. Quiet ones.

After the match, in the lounge, she spots you before you spot her. You're curled up next to Irene on the couch, your body language soft and familiar. Your hand on Irene’s thigh, Irene’s fingers brushing your wrist. It should be sweet.

But all she feels is bitterness.

Patri says something beside her, something about post-match karaoke, and Alexia nods along, but her eyes are elsewhere. Always elsewhere.

She watches the way you lean your head against Irene’s shoulder. The way Irene presses a kiss to your temple without fanfare. You smile, eyes fluttering closed for a second like you’re home.

And Alexia looks away fast enough to make her head spin.

She tries to distract herself. Grabs a bottle of water. Scrolls aimlessly through her phone. But it’s no use.

When her eyes lift again—by instinct, not intention—you’re watching her. Just for a second.

She knows her face gives nothing away. She’s practiced that for years. She’s good at control.

But your expression is soft. Hesitant. Like you’ve been trying to figure her out and still don’t have the pieces.

And then you look away.

Alexia exhales slowly and presses the heel of her palm to her forehead.

She doesn’t want this. She doesn’t want to want you.

But when she closes her eyes later that night, it’s your voice she hears in the quiet. Your laugh, echoing in the back of her mind. Your mouth, slightly parted in surprise, the night you almost kissed her.

Almost.

She still remembers it. Too clearly. It was after a match last season. You’d been teasing her about a missed shot, your tone warm and familiar. She’d tried to match it with a sarcastic reply, but then you’d both just… stopped.

Too close. Too quiet. Eyes locked. Her hand had twitched like she might reach for you.

But then someone had called your name from across the parking lot, and you’d turned away with a smile.

And by the time you looked back, her face was blank again.

A week later, you were with Irene.

Now, in her apartment, she stares at her phone. At your contact.

Thumb hovering over it like muscle memory.

She never texts you anymore. But she still knows your number by heart.

She types out

“You looked happy tonight.”

Then deletes it.

“You’re glowing lately.”

Deletes that too.

Then finally

“Don’t forget how good you are at reading people.”

She stares at it.

Then she locks her phone and sets it face down on the table.

Some things are better left unsaid.

Even when they’re killing you.

Y/N POV

There’s a knock on door.

You’re not expecting anyone. Irene is still in post-match meetings with the staff, and afterwards probably getting dinner in some new restaurant with team. The hallway is quiet when you pad over, your socks barely making a sound against the carpet.

You open the door.

It’s Alexia.

Her hair is damp from a recent shower, curling slightly at the ends, tucked into the collar of a hoodie zipped all the way up. Her arms are folded, posture loose but guarded—like she’s keeping herself in check by habit more than intention.

She doesn't look at you right away. Just a flick of her eyes to your face, then past your shoulder, as if she might pretend she’s in the wrong place.

“Hey,” she says.

Your brow pulls slightly. “Hey.”

A beat. Too long. The silence stretches.

“I—uh,” she shifts her weight, then lifts something from under her arm. “You left your sweater in the lounge.”

Your sweater. The soft, navy one Irene gave you. You remember tossing it onto the couch while celebrating with team. You hadn't even realized you'd forgotten it.

“Oh.” You blink. “I—thanks.”

She holds it out.

When you take it from her, your fingers brush. It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s familiar and wrong and years of unfinished between you.

She doesn’t turn to go. You don’t ask her to.

“Do you wanna come in?” you hear yourself say, and it’s not casual. Not really. You say it softly, almost like a dare. Like you need to know how close she’ll let herself come.

Alexia hesitates. Then she nods. But the words won’t come. Because the truth is— You want her. You never stopped wanting her.

In few minutes She’s in your kitchen. You’re leaning against the fridge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Alexia’s holding a glass of water she hasn’t touched. Her fingers are curled too tightly around it, like it’s anchoring her to the moment—like if she lets go, she’ll do something she can’t undo.

The silence grows between you, big and choking. The hum of the fridge. The tick of the clock. The soft clink of her nails against the glass.

“I should go,” she says, but her voice doesn’t carry conviction.

You nod, slowly. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

She sets the glass down, eyes flicking to your hands. “You always do that,” she murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Clench your fists when you’re trying not to feel something.” You hadn’t even noticed. You flex your fingers slowly, release the tension in your knuckles.

“And you always come here when you’ve already decided you won’t leave,” you say. Her breath catches, barely audible. She takes a step forward. Your chest tightens.

Alexia’s eyes search your face. “Why do you look at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re drowning.”

You let out a shaky exhale. “Maybe I am.”

“Because of me?”

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t know, but because saying yes would make it real. Her gaze drifts lower. First to your mouth. Then your neck. Then back to your eyes.

“Irene loves you,” she says, almost like a warning.

You nod again. “Yeah. She does.”

A pause. She tilts her head. “But do you love her?” Her voice is soft, measured. Almost kind.

You swallow hard. “That’s not a fair question.”

“I know,” she says, and steps closer. Now she’s just a breath away.

You can feel the warmth of her, the tension thrumming between your bodies like a current.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“I shouldn’t be a lot of things.” Her eyes flick again—to your lips. Her breathing changes. Slower, deeper. Like she’s bracing herself for something that might destroy her. You feel it too.

“Say something,” she whispers.

You force out, “Don’t.”

She stills. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that. Like you’re mine.”

“I’m not,” she says quietly. “But I want to be.” The words hit you like a bruise And still, you don’t step back.

She moves closer, so slow you almost don’t notice. Inches. Then centimeters.

And when she kisses you—soft at first, unsure, like she’s waiting for you to flinch—you don’t.

You stay perfectly still. You let her kiss you.

Her lips are warm, hesitant, like she’s asking a question with her mouth and terrified of the answer.

Your hand finds her wrist. Not to stop her. Just to feel her pulse. To feel something that isn’t guilt.

And then you kiss her back. This time, she shudders. She pulls back, barely.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes.

“No, you’re not.”

“I wish I were.”

And then you lean in again, and everything else fades—the kitchen, the glass of water, the way you know this will break someone’s heart.

Clothes come off slowly. Not carefully—just methodically. She pulls your shirt over your head, drops it behind her. Your bra next. She watches as it falls, eyes dark. She doesn't say anything. Just steps in again and pushes you back until your knees hit the edge of the bed.

You lie down. She follows.

Her weight settles over you—solid, familiar, not gentle. Her mouth finds your neck. Then your collarbone. Then lower.

You gasp when her teeth scrape skin. Her hands grip your waist, hold you in place as she moves.

There’s nothing soft about it.

She doesn’t ask. She just reads you—waits for the shift in your breath, the way your hips lift. You guide her with your hands. She listens.

She’s quiet. Focused.

It builds fast. Pressure and heat and friction. You hold on—shoulders, hair, sheets.

You come with a sharp breath, back arching, one hand over your mouth.

She stays there a moment longer, lips against your hip. Then climbs up, chest to chest, eyes barely meeting yours.

You roll her over.

Take control.

You press her down and slide over her, mouth at her neck, your hand slipping between her thighs. She exhales hard, her head falling back, eyes fluttering shut.

You find the rhythm quickly. She’s warm. Wet. Ready.

She moans your name once. Not loud. Just enough to make your pulse spike.

She comes fast. Her body tenses, legs locked around your head. You hold her through it.

Then stillness.

Breathing slows.

Neither of you say anything.

You lie next to her after, bare shoulders brushing. Her hand twitches once, like she might reach for you.

She doesn’t.

And neither do you.

Later, when the room is quiet again, when your skin has cooled and the air feels thick with everything unsaid, Alexia moves.

She doesn’t say anything as she leans off the bed, picking her hoodie up from where it landed on the floor. Her movements are slow, careful, like she’s trying not to make noise in a space that’s already too loud with tension. She pulls the hoodie over her head and adjusts the sleeves, gaze fixed somewhere near the floor. Not at you.

She doesn’t meet your eyes.

And that’s when it settles in your chest.

The guilt.

It’s not sudden. It doesn’t hit like a wave. It leaks in quietly—through your ribs, into your stomach, up your throat. A dull, heavy ache that makes it hard to breathe.

You sit up. Sheets tangled around your waist. Skin still marked where her hands had been.

You don’t speak either. What would you even say?

You’d been the one to open the door. You’d been the one to let her stay. You hadn’t stopped her.

You hadn’t wanted to.

And now it’s done.

Alexia moves to the chair by the window, slips her shoes back on. Her fingers tremble slightly as she ties the laces, but she doesn’t comment on it. Doesn’t say a word.

The silence is worse than anger would’ve been.

You stare at the floor. Your heart thuds slow and sick in your chest.

The ache creeps in behind the guilt. Different. Familiar.

Because you still love Irene.

Not the kind of love that disappears under someone else’s touch. Not the kind that fades because it’s tested. It’s still there—steady, real.

And you’ve just done something unforgivable.

You press your palms to your eyes, as if that could change what happened. As if it could take it back.

Alexia stands finally, the door a few feet away. You look at her then, and she does look back—just for a second.

Her expression is unreadable. Not angry. Not cold.

Just… sad.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she says again. Quieter this time. Like she’s not sure you were ever really listening.

You don’t try to stop her when she opens the door.

You just sit there, naked in more ways than one, the door clicking shut behind her, and nothing left but the sound of your own breathing and the truth that now feels too loud to ignore.

You’ve broken something. And you don’t know how—or if—it can be fixed.

You wake up before Irene.

She’s curled toward you, one arm draped loosely across your stomach, face soft in sleep. Her hair’s a little messy, lips parted slightly, brows relaxed. She looks peaceful. Untouched by the storm inside you.

Like nothing’s changed.

Like you haven’t betrayed her.

You lie still.

The guilt hasn’t faded overnight—it’s settled deeper. Heavy in your chest. Tight in your throat. Your skin still remembers the way Alexia touched you. Your mouth still remembers the taste of her name. And now, in the quiet morning, with Irene’s body pressed close to yours, it all feels sharper. More wrong.

She shifts, breathes deep, and blinks herself awake. Her hand tightens slightly around your waist before she looks up at you, sleep still thick in her eyes.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice low and scratchy and sweet.

You swallow, force your lips into something like a smile. “Hey.”

You lean down and press a kiss to her forehead. You think it’s what you’re supposed to do.

She closes her eyes for a second, soaking it in, then stretches slowly, the motion catlike and unbothered. She yawns, then shifts fully onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow so she can look at you properly.

“You okay?” she asks, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Yeah.” It comes out too fast. Reflex. A shield.

She frowns just slightly, but then leans in and kisses you, soft and unhurried. Not the kind that demands anything. Just hers. Just because she wants to.

She pulls back and smiles. “You looked like you were thinking hard.”

You laugh, too lightly. “Just trying to wake up.”

“Want me to get us coffee?” she asks, already half-rising from the bed.

You grab her wrist gently, shake your head. “No, stay. It’s early.”

She grins and flops back beside you. “Good. It’s cold out there.”

She shifts closer, burying her face in your neck. Her arm wraps around your waist again, and she lets out a small, content sigh like being here—next to you, holding you—is the safest place in the world.

“I like this,” she mumbles. “Just being here. No alarms. No one yelling about breakfast. Just you.”

Your throat tightens.

You want to cry.

She kisses your shoulder, then your jaw. Her lips linger.

“You’re warm,” she says with a sleepy smile. “Perfect heater.”

You laugh, and it sounds more real this time. But it doesn’t feel real. Not underneath.

Because Irene is all the things she’s always been—steady, patient, gentle. The kind of partner you always told yourself you didn’t deserve and somehow got anyway.

And now?

Now you really don’t deserve her.

She tangles her fingers with yours under the covers. “We should go out later,” she says. “Grab food somewhere. Just us.”

You nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And you mean it. You mean it with everything in you.

But guilt clings to every inch of your skin.

And when Irene pulls you close again, burying herself against you like she could stay there forever, you close your eyes and try not to fall apart.

You ended up eat together with her teammates that evening, crammed around small tables in the small restaurant. There’s barely enough space for everyone’s plate, let alone elbows, but that doesn’t stop anyone from leaning in, laughing too loudly, or speaking over each other.

Post-game energy fills the air like static.

Patri’s in the middle of telling some chaotic story from the training trip last year—something about a lost passport, two sleeping pills, and Lucy Bronze nearly getting detained at the airport.

“She kept yelling she was British like it was a threat,” Patri says through a mouthful of food.

“You’re just mad she wouldn’t let you nap on her shoulder,” Mapi fires back from two chairs down, raising her glass in mock defense.

“I did let her nap on my shoulder,” Lucy adds flatly, eyeing Patri. “For exactly three minutes. And then she drooled on me.”

“She didn’t,” Irene says, laughing.

“She did,” Lucy insists. “She’s a menace.”

“I’m a delight,” Patri says with a dramatic bow of her head. “And I stand by that.”

You’re laughing. Everyone is. Even the staff seated a table over are chuckling into their drinks.

You sit close to Irene, her knee brushing yours under the table. Her hand rests lightly on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles through the fabric of your jeans. Her body is warm next to yours, familiar. Anchoring.

Alexia sits across the table.

She’s not talking much. She picks at her food, eating slowly. Occasionally she forces a smile when someone addresses her directly, but she’s not really in it—not fully.

Her fork scrapes across the plate more than it lifts. Her eyes flick toward the hallway every few minutes, like she’s waiting for time to pass, like the walls are too loud.

You don’t think anyone else notices how often she checks her watch. Or how tense her shoulders are beneath her hoodie. Or how she keeps blinking too much—like her brain won’t stop spinning.

You try not to notice either.

But you do.

You pretend your skin doesn’t still remember the way hers felt against it.

You pretend your laugh isn’t a little too sharp at the edges.

“You okay, babe?” Irene asks softly near your ear, mistaking your distraction for tiredness.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, clearing your throat. “Just hungry.”

“You didn’t even touch the tortilla,” she points out with a smirk.

You grab a forkful and shove it in your mouth, making a show of it.

Patri catches you mid-chew. “Oh my god,” she says. “You looked so betrayed when you bit into that empanada earlier. Like the food personally offended you.”

“I burned my tongue,” you protest, half-laughing, half-choking.

“She made this little gasp,” Irene jumps in, beaming now. “Like a sad puppy.”

“It was pathetic,” Mapi agrees from across the way, grinning. “I thought she’d cry.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “You’re all so cruel.”

“True love,” Patri says with faux-seriousness, nodding toward Irene. “She still held your hand the whole time.”

“Even while you made dramatic noises and refused to finish your plate,” Mapi adds.

“I was injured,” you mumble.

Irene leans in and kisses your cheek. “You’re very brave.”

You feel your face go warm. You laugh. It’s real, for a second.

Across the table, Alexia doesn’t say anything.

You glance at her. Just a flick of the eyes. She’s pushing food around with her fork. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. Her foot bounces under the table like she’s counting down to something.

Then, too suddenly, she stands.

“M’gonna head up,” she says, collecting her things.

“Already?” Patri asks, half-pouting. “I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Alexia shrugs, her voice tight. “Long day.”

She turns to leave, but her eyes catch yours—just for a beat. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. Just long enough to land sharp in your chest.

Then she looks away. Gone. The conversation slowly picks back up without her. You sit back in your chair, the air around you still filled with laughter and warmth. And yet, everything inside you feels quiet now. Too quiet. Like something’s been taken.

You don’t know what gives you away.

It could be how you barely touch your dinner that night . Or how your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes when Irene bumps her knee against yours under the table. Or maybe it’s just something in your eyes—something you can’t hide, no matter how hard you try.

But Irene knows.

She doesn’t say anything on the ride back to home. Just rests her hand on your thigh, thumb drawing small, absent-minded circles while she stares out the window. You wonder if it’s possible to feel completely hollow when someone you love is holding your hand.

You don’t let go.

But you don’t hold on tighter either.

Back in home , the door clicks softly shut behind you. You drop your things with practiced ease—your bag by the armchair, your hoodie slung over the back. Irene sits at the foot of the bed, her movements slower than usual.

There’s a pause.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. “Just tired.”

She hums, studying you for a second too long. Then she lets it go.

Or she pretends to.

You try to go through the motions. You wash your face. Change into sweatpants. Scroll through your phone like you’re not checking it compulsively for a name that shouldn’t matter.

But she doesn’t let it slide forever.

She’s reading in bed when she finally speaks again, her voice soft, almost casual.

“You’ve been quiet today.”

You glance up, force a smile. “I’m always quiet.”

“You know what I mean.”

You set your phone down, already knowing where this is going. You feel it in your chest. Like a bruise someone’s about to press too hard on.

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that today.”

You sigh. “Because it’s true.”

She puts the book down. Doesn’t get angry. Doesn’t raise her voice. Just turns slightly toward you, hands folded in her lap.

“I need to ask you something,” she says, and there’s something final in her voice. Not sharp. Not cold. Just real. “And I need you to tell me the truth.”

You brace.

“Is something going on with Alexia?”

The question lands like a pin dropping in a silent room.

You swallow. “What?”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

Her voice wavers slightly on the last word, and that’s what breaks you.

You look down at your hands. At your knees. Anywhere but her.

“It was one time,” you say. “Just… once.”

The silence that follows is absolute.

You hear the hum of the AC. The muted city sounds beyond the glass. The quiet ache in your chest that hasn’t stopped since Alexia left your room.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It was—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. “Don’t tell me it didn’t mean anything.”

You close your eyes. “Okay.”

Because she’s right. It meant something.

Even if you wish it didn’t.

She stands slowly and walks toward the window. She crosses her arms tightly across her chest, like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“I think I’ve always known,” she says. “Not the details, but… something.”

You sit frozen on the bed, heart in your throat.

“I see the way you look at her,” she continues. “Even when you’re with me. I just—I thought maybe it would fade.”

You shake your head. “I never meant for it to happen.”

“But it did.”

She turns to face you. Her eyes are glassy, but her voice doesn’t break. “Do you love her?”

“No,” you say quickly.

Too quickly.

She flinches, just slightly. “But you wanted her.”

“I love you,” you say again, desperate now. “I swear to god, Irene. I love you.”

She looks at you for a long, long moment.

“I believe you.”

You feel like you might cry.

“But it still hurts,” she says quietly.

You nod.

And then, the question you’ve been dreading from the moment she walked toward that window: “So… what happens now?”

You stare down at the floor.

You don’t know.

All you know is that nothing feels simple anymore. That you’ve broken something you can’t take back. That you’re still in love with the woman sitting three feet away from you—and you betrayed her anyway.

She steps forward, slowly, and sits down beside you. Her thigh presses against yours.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she says.

And it breaks you.

You don’t speak at first. You sit beside each other in quiet , backs to the headboard, the soft buzz of the outside world the only sound between you.

Your hand is still in hers.

She hasn’t let go.

And that—somehow—hurts more than if she had walked out.

You can’t look at her for long. Her expression is too calm, too composed, like she’s holding something back for your sake. Her grip is firm, her body still, but you can feel it the tremor under the surface. The kind of heartbreak that doesn’t explode—it erodes. Quiet. Constant.

“I keep thinking I should be angrier,” she says at last. “Like I should scream or throw something. But I don’t even feel that.”

You swallow. “What do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been living with a ghost,” she says. “Like you’ve been halfway gone for weeks and I didn’t want to see it.”

You blink fast. Your throat is raw. “I never wanted to leave you.”

She turns her head toward you, eyes searching. “But you did.”

It lands with a soft thud. Not a knife—just a truth.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you say, and it sounds so small. “I—I don’t know how I did this. I don’t even know who I was that day.”

Irene gives you a long look, but it isn’t cold. If anything, it’s unbearably tender. “I do. You were someone hurting. And I think… maybe I stopped asking why.”

You stay quiet. You don't deserve her grace, and you both know it.

“I’ve always known how Alexia feels about you,” she continues, voice low. “I’ve seen it. I saw it before you did.”

Your head snaps toward her.

“I didn’t say anything because I trusted you,” she says. “And I still do.”

That knocks the breath out of you.

“You still trust me?” you whisper.

“I don’t trust what happened,” she corrects, gently. “But I trust you. The you I’ve seen. The you who held my hand through injuries, who stayed up late helping me practice English, who kissed my shoulder every time I doubted myself.”

You feel like crying again. “I don’t deserve this.”

“Maybe not,” she says, finally letting go of your hand. “But love isn’t always about who deserves what.”

She shifts on the bed, facing you. Her eyes are clearer now. Tired, but clear.

“I love you,” she says. “And I don’t think I can stay here and pretend nothing happened. Pretend this place isn’t soaked in it. The team, the house, the goddamn stadium—it all feels like it’s pressing down on us.”

You nod. “I know.”

“So let’s leave,” she says simply.

You blink. “You mean—”

“Let’s go somewhere new. Clean. Quiet. I’ll talk to the club. I can take a break. I can play elsewhere. Or maybe not at all for a while.” Her mouth lifts just slightly. “Maybe I’ll finally open that café in Portugal.”

You stare at her, stunned. She’s offering a whole life.

“With me?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

She exhales, like she’s been holding it in for weeks. “Of course with you.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until she reaches up and wipes a tear from your cheek with the back of her fingers.

“I’m not saying this fixes it,” she says softly. “I’m saying this gives us a chance to try. Away from everything.”

You nod. A shaky, broken thing. “Okay.”

“I just need one thing,” she says, and now her tone sharpens, not angry—but steel-threaded. “No more lies. Not one. Not ever.”

You meet her eyes, and for the first time in days, you feel steady. “Never again.”

She searches your face. Whatever she sees must be enough, because she leans in and presses her lips to your forehead. It’s not romantic. It’s not forgiveness.

It’s a beginning.

“I’ll make the calls tomorrow,” she says.

You lie down beside her later, the city quiet beyond the window, and she turns toward you, slipping her arm around your waist like muscle memory.

And even though you don’t deserve this love, you hold it tighter than anything.

Because this time, you’re not letting go.

It’s been a few weeks.

The kind of weeks that slip by like water—ungraspable, slow, and strangely quiet. You and Irene have built a rhythm, one that doesn’t quite hum but doesn’t stumble either. It’s the sound of trying. Of relearning.

The mornings start the same. Irene pours the coffee; you open the windows. The breeze always smells like salt, and sometimes you catch her standing there, just breathing it in, like it’s something holy.

You sit on the balcony, legs tangled under the table, mugs warm in your hands. Some mornings, she rests her chin on your shoulder. Some mornings, she doesn’t touch you at all.

You don’t ask why.

Evenings stretch longer. You cook together—nothing complicated. Pasta, roasted vegetables, soups from a recipe you pretend to follow. She makes fun of your chopping technique. You tease her about using too much garlic. It’s comfortable. It’s careful. It’s quieter than it used to be.

You’ve memorized the half-beat pause in her laughter. The way she sometimes reaches for your hand but doesn’t quite make it all the way.

The way she forgives you without ever saying the words.

Barcelona feels far away now. Like a different lifetime. Like a version of yourself you’re not sure how to return to.

So does Alexia.

You don’t say her name. Not even once. But she’s there—between bites of food that don’t taste quite right, in songs that make your throat tighten for no reason, in the reflex to check your phone even though you’ve deleted every message.

She’s there when Irene kisses you, slowly, and your eyes flutter closed like you’re trying to keep something out.

You tell yourself you miss the simplicity, not the girl. You lie to yourself so often it almost starts to sound true.

Some nights, Irene watches you.

You feel it more than you see it—her gaze brushing over your profile in bed, or across the room when you’re folding laundry, or when you laugh at something on TV and she doesn’t laugh with you.

Like she’s still taking measure of you.

Like she’s trying to figure out if what’s left between you is enough to carry forward—or if it’s just the ghost of something that used to be whole.

You pretend not to notice.

But deep down, you wonder the same thing.

Once, when you’re doing the dishes and she’s drying them beside you, you ask, “Do you think it’ll ever feel the same again?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just sets down the towel, leans against the counter, and looks at you like she wants to be honest but isn’t sure how much you can take.

Then, quietly “I don’t think it should.”

You swallow. Numb. “Right.”

“But,” she adds, softer now, “I think it can still be something good.”

You don’t reply.

You just nod.

And hope you’re strong enough to believe her one day.

You’re out grocery shopping when your phone buzzes.

Your hand lingers on a carton of eggs, and for a second, you think it’s Irene texting to ask what kind of bread to get.

But it’s not.

It’s a number you don’t have saved anymore.

"I’m not going to ask how you are. I just hope you’re okay. I keep telling myself not to write this. That it won’t help. That it’ll only make things worse. But today’s been loud and nothing feels right and I guess I just needed to feel like I said something. I miss you. I don’t expect anything back. Just—be well."

You read it three times.

Then once more, slower.

The fluorescent lights above you feel too bright. The hum of the freezer aisle rings in your ears like static.

You type nothing.

You don’t breathe for a while.

Then—your thumb hovers, and you press down.

Delete.

No reply. No trace.

Just the ache of what almost was. What probably never should have been.

Later that night, Irene finds you in the kitchen, wiping down a counter that’s already spotless.

You’re moving slow, almost methodical, like if you just keep your hands busy, your thoughts won’t catch up to you. But they do. They always do.

She doesn’t say anything at first—just watches you for a beat, her arms crossed loosely, face unreadable in the low kitchen light. Then, quietly, she steps closer and rests a warm hand on your back.

“You can talk to me,” she says gently. “You don’t have to hold it all in.”

You nod. A small, jerky movement. But your lips press together, and nothing comes out. You don’t know where to start. You’re not sure if she actually wants to hear it, or if saying it out loud would make it worse.

Maybe it’s enough that you stayed. That you’re here, even if your heart’s still scattered in places it shouldn’t be.

She leans in, wraps both arms around your waist from behind, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder. Then another, just above your collarbone. You let your head fall slightly forward, closing your eyes.

“Irene,” you whisper. Like it’s an apology. Like it’s a plea.

She turns you around gently, hands on your hips, and looks at you for a long time. Her thumbs brush over the hem of your shirt, and then she leans in and kisses you. Slow, sure. Not desperate—just steady.

Like she’s trying to remind you of something. Something real.

You melt into it.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours. Her voice barely above a breath.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

Your throat tightens. “Are we?”

She nods once. “We are. I love you. I don’t know how to stop. And I don’t want to learn.”

You inhale sharply, the words cracking something in you.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmur.

“Maybe not,” she says, lips curving just slightly. “But you have me anyway.”

You blink against the sting in your eyes, and she kisses your cheek, your jaw, your mouth again—gentle, grounding. Her hands never leave your sides.

And when you finally press your face into her neck, breathing her in like safety, like forgiveness, she just holds you tighter.

No more questions. No more confessions.

Just the sound of her heartbeat, steady beneath your ear.

Just two people trying to find their way back to something that still might be worth saving.

Alexia’s POV

Six months later

She doesn’t follow you.

She tells herself that’s a boundary she won’t cross. So when you and Irene disappear—first from the training center, then the group chats—Alexia deletes your contact, mutes everything related to Irene, and tells herself it’s for the best.

But it’s impossible not to see. Not when others post. Not when a picture of the two of you pops up in someone’s story, blurry and sunlit and full of quiet happiness. You're wearing sunglasses and a soft smile. Irene’s hand rests low on your back.

Alexia stares for too long.

Then she closes the app and throws her phone across the bed.

Year later

She hears you got married.

A few of the girls go to the wedding. She doesn’t ask for details, but Mapi mentions it offhand one day—something about how beautiful the venue was, how Irene cried during her vows, how happy you looked.

Alexia just nods.

Later that night, she scrolls through tagged posts, breathing slow, controlled. You’re glowing in a simple white dress. Irene’s arm around you. The kind of love that doesn’t look performative—it looks like home.

Alexia sets her phone down, presses her palms to her eyes, and waits for the tightness in her chest to pass.

It doesn't.

Two years later

A baby.

The post doesn’t say much. Just a name, a date, a tiny hand curled around your finger. Irene kissing your temple in the hospital bed. Your smile is tired and real and full.

Alexia sees it by accident—someone reposted it to a fan page.

She doesn’t mean to click on your profile after that. But she does. Just once.

And then once a month.

She watches your family grow in square little glimpses. You in the kitchen with a toddler on your hip. Irene asleep on the couch, baby on her chest. A dog, eventually. A backyard.

All the things Alexia knows she could never give you.

She never double-taps. Never comments. She just watches. From far, far away.

Three years later

The second baby comes.

She finds out the same way—through someone else’s story, a wave of congratulations in the comments. This one looks more like you. Same eyes. Same serious little face.

There’s a video of you and Irene dancing in the living room, the older one clapping along, the newborn asleep in a sling against your chest.

Alexia watches it six times before she turns off her phone.

And cries for the first time in a years.

Four years later

She sees you in Barcelona.

It’s just a flash—she’s walking out of a shoot near the stadium when a familiar voice carries over the crowd.

She turns.

And there you are.

Holding one daughter’s hand. Carrying the other. Laughing at something Irene says as she leans in close, sunglasses on her head, looking exactly like the person who won your heart and kept it.

Alexia stands still.

She doesn’t call your name.

She just watches.

You don’t see her. But Irene does. They hold eye contact across the space. Not long. Just enough. There’s no anger there. No resentment.

Just... knowing.

Irene turns back to you, kisses the top of your head. You laugh again.

Alexia’s heart doesn’t break. It just aches in that quiet way it always has when it comes to you.

She walks away without looking back.

But that night, she posts a photo.

The caption is simple: “Gratitud.”

It’s not for you. Not really.

But a part of her hopes you see it.

Just like she’s always seen you.

Five years later

She’s not even sure why she still checks.

By now, she knows the rhythm of your life almost better than her own. The Monday park visits. The occasional photos from holidays in France or the coast. A birthday cake with lopsided frosting that your kids made. Irene’s arm always close. Your smile always tired, but real.

You glow in stillness. That’s something Alexia never gave you—stillness.

She was always a storm. Even when she didn’t mean to be.

Tonight, she lies on her back in a hotel bed, scrolling without thinking, thumb moving out of habit. She finds a new post. You’re in a bookstore, the older daughter curled against your side as you read aloud from a picture book. Irene took the photo—her name in the caption, a simple heart.

Alexia studies the photo for a long time. The angle is soft. Loving. Comfortable.

She’s not in love with you anymore.

Not in the sharp, consuming way she used to be. But there’s a part of her that still wonders—what if?

Then she closes the app. Locks her phone. Turns toward the window and lets herself fall asleep without dreaming.

Six years later

She wins another trophy.

It feels good. But not overwhelming. Just… right.

Later, after the press, after the champagne and interviews, she opens her phone and there it is—your family at the stadium. Not for her, of course. You’re there to support a friend. Your kids are wearing matching jerseys. One of them holds a homemade sign that says, Vamos Patri!

Alexia isn’t in the picture, but she knows exactly where you stood. She knows the curve of the seats, the angle of the sun. You look up in the photo, sunglasses on, a hand shielding your daughter’s head from the glare.

She thinks about walking over. Just saying hello.

But she doesn't.

Instead, she posts a photo from the locker room. The medal hanging around her neck, sweat still clinging to her skin. Her smile is wide, easy.

The caption is a lyric from a song you once played in the car, on a trip that neither of you ever talked about again:

"Hay amores que viven en silencio."

Seven years later

It’s summer in Barcelona, and the air smells like salt and orange blossoms.

Alexia runs into Irene at a café.

They nod. They smile. They don’t pretend to be friends, but they also don’t ignore the years between them. Irene asks how her recovery is going. Alexia asks how the kids are. She doesn’t say your name, but Irene does.

“She’s good,” Irene says softly. “Still burns the toast. Still forgets her keys.”

Alexia laughs, quietly.

Before they part, Irene says, “She still loves you, in her way. I think she always will.”

Alexia nods. “I know.”

But what she doesn’t say—what she can’t say—is that she loves you too.

Not in the way she used to. Not in the way that ruins or rewrites.

But in the way that lingers.

In the way that lets you go.

[pitchsidestories]

Volver a empezar II Gio Queiroz x Putellas!Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1887

summary: Five years later, old lovers cross paths once more—and the spark still burns. requested

author's note: Hi everyone, this is our first time writing for Gio, and we really hope you enjoy our take on her. As always, comments, thoughts, or just screaming about emotions are more than welcome. 🫶🏻🫶🏻

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

People were celebrating around you, but your older sister held you back. It was clear Alexia wanted to talk. You desperately wanted to join the celebrations—a win against Madrid always tasted sweeter than any other.

“Did you see who we’ll face in the Copa de la Reina final?”, she asked, her voice serious.

You frowned: “Yes. Why?”

“You know exactly why.”, the midfielder replied, her voice tinged with frustration.

You crossed your arms protectively in front of your chest: “Ale, she and her—that’s ancient history.”

“Ancient?”, Alexia scoffed. “It’s been a few years.”

Her mention of the past hit hard, and the sight of her roots growing back to their natural brown made it worse, reminding you of those times you both wished to forget.

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress your frustration: “Almost five years. We were teenagers back then.”

“It’s only five years.”, the Barcelona captain disagreed, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

Snappishly, you countered: “Maybe in your eyes.”

“Are you saying I’m old?”, she exclaimed, hands on her hips, outrage written all over her face.

Your eyes flashed mischievously: “Possible.”

The teasing about the age gap between you and your sister quickly escalated as Alexia, knowing how ticklish you were, launched into a tickling attack.

“Ahh, stop it!”, you cried, laughing uncontrollably.

“No.”, the midfielder replied decisively, shaking her head.

“Vicky, Jana, Ona, help me!”, you called out, desperate for help.

Smiling, Ona raised her hands innocently: “I’ll keep out of this sister thing.”

Later that night, long after the chatter and laughter with your friends had faded, your thoughts drifted back to that unforgettable summer with Gio— the woman your sister never dared to name.

Five years. It had been so long. Gio had changed since then, moving through a few football clubs, while you had stayed at the same one. But when you closed your eyes, you could still see it: the two of you running along the beach, chasing sunsets, the lightness in the air carrying you both toward the sea, which seemed like it belonged in a painting. The title of it Young Summer Love.

“Come on, Gio! Hurry up before they notice we left!”, you yelled, trying to drown out the sound of the crashing waves.

The Brazilian chuckled at your eagerness, a fond smile on her face: “I’m coming. Wait for me.”

“Good,” you replied with a happy nod, taking her hand in yours. Together, you ran, the sand soon soft beneath your bare feet.

A bright smile lit up her face: “This is so nice.”

“Right?”, you said boldly. “So, what are we waiting for?”

Without hesitation, you stripped off your shirt and shorts, as you stepped into the cool water.

Gio watched with curiosity as you waded in deeper.

“Is it cold?”, she called after you, slipping out of her own clothes with ease.

You turned to her, shaking your head and splashing water in her direction: “No, it’s pretty warm. Get in.”

The Brazilian followed your advice. But as soon as the cold water hit her calves, she shrieked: “Oh! You liar!”

“It’s not too bad. You’re just a coward.”, you laughed, watching Gio glare at you while she fought her way into the waves.

“I’m not a coward. I’m in.”, she protested as soon as the water reached up to her bikini top.

You waited for her to catch up with you.

“Yes, but it’s pretty warm for the beginning of the summer.”, you said as Gio appeared next to you. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the sunshine warm your face.

“But the ocean isn’t warm yet.”, she muttered, still shivering.

You made empathetic face, giving her a playful pout: “Need someone to warm you up?”

“How?”, Gio laughed.

You took a few steps towards her, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her in: “Like this?”

Under your fingertips, you could feel the little goosebumps rising on her skin.

Gio giggled, holding on just as tightly, trying to absorb any warmth she could: “I’m still cold.”

“Damn it, it was worth a try though.”, you grinned and letting your arms fall back into the water.

“Appreciate your efforts.”, Gio grinned at you, her face so close that your noses nearly touched.

“Anything for you.”

“Anything?”

“Yes, I’m serious. Well… maybe anything except letting you score a goal.”

“You won’t let me score a goal against you?”, Gio repeated with a laugh.

You shook your head once: “No, but everything else? You can get from me.”

She stared at you, lips parted slightly. Her gaze dropped down to your mouth.

“We’ll see about that.”, she smirked.

And there it was. One moment and your brain stopped working, you were about to give in. You could already taste her lips on yours. Almost. You never made it that far.

A voice carried over to you, coming straight from the beach: “Alexia, they are here.”

Gios eyes widened as she searched in yours for a reaction to whatever this was.

You turned your head and saw that next to Marta, your sister appeared.

“You two!”, Alexia yelled.

“It was my idea!”, you called out, trying to prevent the worst.

The Brazilian quickly corrected you: “No, it was our idea.”

“It was a stupid idea from both of you, then.”, your sister shot back, fury glinting in her eyes.

Gio bit her lip guiltily and lowered her gaze: “We know.”

“Go to bed.”, Alexia ordered, her voice like ice, sending a chill down both your spines.

Irene, who had been walking a few steps behind the others, gently reached out and touched the midfielder’s arm, her voice soft: “Ale, don’t forget—they’re still so young. Only seventeen.”

“Maybe.”, your sister replied, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “But they’re professional athletes now.”

She was clearly angry at both of you, but you could feel the deeper disappointment in her hazel eyes—eyes that mirrored your own. She always demanded perfection. What you did wasn’t something she would tolerate from a teammate, and certainly not from you.

Marta stepped in gently: “You were that young once, too.”

Little did the defender know that when Alexia was your age, you had all just lost your beloved father. It had been a dark time for your family. And yet, life moved on—even if the pain never fully faded.

"At seventeen, I was working hard to get where I am now.”, your sister answered firmly.

"They are too. Especially your sister.", Irene murmured.

"No. She’s not.”, Alexia replied, shaking her head.

And with that, it was settled. The five of you walked back to the hotel in silence, each lost in your own thoughts.

You only broke the silence once you and Gio were back in the hotel room you shared. Through the wide windows, the beach stretched out below, bathed in moonlight that shimmered across the waves.

“I’m sorry, G.”, you whispered into the dark.

The forward clicked on her nightlamp, then turned to glance at you: “It’s not your fault.”

You hesitated, then asked softly: “But it was fun… right?”

“I loved it. The sunset was beautiful.”, she sighed, a dreamy look in her brown eyes.

“Same.” You paused, then added without thinking: “You looked so beautiful in that light.”

To your surprise, Gio smiled and remarked: “So did you.”

“Me?”

“You always look beautiful, to be fair.”, the Brazilian continued sincerely.

Self-conscious, you ran a hand through your hair, still slightly curled from the sea breeze: ”You don’t think I just look like a mini version of my older sisters?”

She hopped onto your bed to get a better look at you, a smile tugging at her lips as she studied your face.

“You do look a bit like them,” she said. “But... you have something special.”

“Can I confess something?”, you blurted, changing the topic. The thought hadn’t left your mind since Alexia had shown up at the beach.

Gio tilted her head, curious: “Of course.”

“If my sister and her friends hadn’t interrupted, I would have kissed you.”, you admitted, your fingers toying with the edges of your bedsheet.

There was a moment of silence. When you looked up, Gios lips quirked into a smile: “I know. I was hoping that you would do it.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“Really? What if I kissed you right now?”

Gio lifted one eyebrow, leaning in slightly: “Then I’d kiss you right back.”

This time you didn’t hesitate. You put your lips on hers, tasting faint salt left by the sea. Gio kissed back, impatiently and hungry.

When she finally pulled away for air, she blinked at you, dazed: “Wow.”

“That was incredible.”, you agreed absentmindedly. Your brain was still busy comparing your imagination to the real thing.

Gio tugged on your shirt, drawing close to her again.

“Come back.”, she whispered.

You smirked: “Wanting more kisses? Oh, how greedy you are, Giovanna.”

The Brazilian rolled her eyes: “Stop.”

“Make me.”

And before you knew it, she was kissing you again. This second kiss was comforting and familiar and there was nothing else you would rather do.

There had been so many kisses between the two of you but none of them ever lasted. Gio had left. You had stayed at Barcelona.

You should be focused on the Copa de la Reina final but seeing her again made your head spin.

She caught your eye from across the pitch and paused her warm-up. You froze as she walked over.

“Gio.”, you murmured.

She nodded, her eyes searching yours: “You…”

“Yes.”, you simply confirmed softly. She didn’t have to say more, there were no words big enough for this anyway.

She shook her head like she still couldn’t believe you were really there: “It’s been ages. The last times…”

“I was injured.”, you finished her sentence, your heart heavy for all the missed opportunities to see her again.

With a sad smile on her face, the Brazilian studied you: “Feels like fate never wanted to meet us again.”

“Since when do you believe in fate?”, you asked, a little more cynical than you wanted.

Gio shrugged: “Maybe you just start to believe in something when you change clubs as much as I do.”

You nodded towards her Atletico teammates: “But you do well at Atletico.”

 “I feel comfortable here. And I hope I get to stay.”, the forward admitted, clearing her throat.

You studied your former girlfriend, eyes soft with memory: “And we met again… against all odds.”

“We did.”, she agreed.

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

A teasing smile played on the Brazilian’s lips:“So, you believe in fate now?”

Beneath the banter, something delicate stirred in both your chests—hope.

“Yes. What do you think?”, you asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Gio tilted her head, considering: “Maybe it is.”

Five years ago, you told her she could have anything from you—anything but a goal. And yet, here you were. You’d lied. If you could, you’d lay the whole world at her feet.

Besides, her goal hadn’t sealed a win for Atlético. It didn’t matter. Because when your eyes found hers across the pitch, something had shifted. Something had returned.

The old flames were burning again—brighter than ever. And this time, you swore to yourself, you wouldn’t let her go.