A random girl writing

you knew what it was the second he handed you the itinerary.

no museums. no hiking. no historic landmarks. just “villa check-in” and “spa day” written in his sloppy ass handwriting.

and he was smiling like he didn’t just drop 200k on a trip just so he could fuck you uninterrupted.

“this is ridiculous,” you said, flipping through the pages. “you didn’t even pretend to plan activities.”

he leaned back on the couch, sweatpants snug on his hips, one hand down his waistband. “i planned one,” he said, tilting his head, “you just didn’t read far enough.”

you flipped to the last page.

activity: fuck you stupid. daily.

you threw the binder at him.

and two days later, you were pressed against a glass window in a villa that overlooked the ocean, with his dick so far in you that you couldn’t even find the energy to be mad.

he did this on purpose.

booked the most expensive suite on the property. picked the one with mirrors on the ceiling, a balcony big enough to host a small wedding, and a bed that squeaked when he really got in his rhythm. and he did. over and over. every day.

day one, he took you on the floor. hardwood. knees burning. cheek pressed to the cold surface while he fucked you from behind, palm flat on the back of your head to keep you still.

"that’s how you like it, yeah?" he panted, sweat dripping from his chest onto your back. “face down like a nasty lil’ thing.”

and you did. you liked it like that. with your ass in the air and his dick hitting your g-spot with every single stroke. no rhythm. no mercy. just the sound of your pussy getting wetter with every slap of his hips.

he came without warning. deep and rough, pulling out only to nut across your ass, thick and warm, groaning your name into the crook of your neck like it hurt to hold it in.

and you? you just laid there. pussy twitching. drooling onto the floor.

you slept for four hours after that.

—

he was a demon in the mornings. always hard, always needy. the kind of dick that woke you up out of your sleep. the kind of dick that pressed against your thigh under the silk sheets, thick and leaking and already sliding between your legs before you could even open your eyes.

“jus’ wanna put the tip in,” he whispered, kissing the back of your shoulder, “won’t even move.”

liar.

he moved the second he felt you clench. shallow strokes at first. slow. like he was trying to savour it. but then you rolled your hips back into him, and he lost control. started grabbing at your waist, teeth at your neck, muttering shit under his breath like fuck, this pussy’s too good.

it was. you knew it was.

you made hugo fold every single time. no matter how many times he touched you, he always acted like it was new. like your pussy had him under a spell. like he was trying to memorise it from scratch.

"you’re always so wet for me." he said once, watching your slick drip down his dick as he pulled out, rubbing the head against your clit just to tease you.

"cause i like you in it," you whispered, mouth open, toes curling.

he liked himself in it too, which is exactly why he grabbed your throat. spit in your mouth. fucked you harder than he ever had.

and afterwards, when your voice was hoarse and your legs were shaking, he picked you up like nothing happened and carried you to the shower, humming some french tune while he washed your thighs.

—

day three, he made you sit on his face.

not asked. made.

laid back in the centre of the bed, head propped up on a pillow, hair messy from the way your fingers had been tugging at it all day.

“sit, baby,” he said, tapping his tongue against his bottom lip. “wanna taste.”

and you hesitated. not because you didn’t want to, but because every time you sat on his face, he acted like he didn’t need to breathe.

but you did it anyway. lowered yourself down, one hand on the headboard, the other clutching at the back of his head as he pulled you down further, tongue already inside you before you even got fully comfortable.

he didn’t ease into it. he went straight to sucking, licking, moaning like he needed it to survive. like your pussy was water and he’d been parched since birth. every time you lifted your hips to breathe, he pulled you back down, nose buried in your folds, humming against your clit until your legs gave out.

and when you came — twice, shaking and screaming — he still didn’t let up. kept licking until you begged him to stop, until you were damn near crying, nails digging into his scalp.

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiled, and said, “you taste like heaven.”

—

by day four, it got a little more reckless.

no more decorum. no more patience. he ate you out on the balcony with the door wide open while the villa staff walked around beneath. let you ride him in the kitchen while the private chef was knocking on the door. fucked you against the window at midnight, one hand on your throat, the other pressed flat against the glass.

and you loved it. loved being his. loved the way he whispered filthy things in your ear like you weren’t already gone for him.

"you think they can hear you?" he said, dick deep inside you, each thrust sending a shock through your spine. “think the staff know who this pussy belong to?”

"yes," you gasped, gripping his forearm. “they know.”

"good," he hummed, fucking you harder. “let ‘em hear.”

you came so hard you damn near passed out.

—

last night there, he made it romantic.

lit candles. played d’angelo. had rose petals scattered across the bed and a little note on your pillow that said thank you for letting me ruin you this week.

you turned to look at him, smiling.

“you’re insane,” you said.

“and you like it,” he replied, already pulling you into his lap.

he fucked you slow that night. missionary. deep strokes. staring in your eyes the entire time. kissing you with every thrust. telling you you were the best thing that ever happened to him. telling you how pretty you looked with his dick inside you. telling you he wanted to do this for the rest of his life.

“i love you,” he said when you came.

and he meant it.

you said it back. mouth open. tears slipping down your cheeks as your legs shook and your back arched and his cum filled you up again, warm and thick and full of everything that made him him.

you’ve been deep in the trenches of youtube for three days now. full-on war mode. “basic spanish phrases to survive meeting your boyfriend’s mom” is typed in the search bar and you’ve got six tabs open: duolingo, a random blog by a girl named beth who apparently married a spaniard, your notes app full of random spanish words, a spanish podcast playing in the background on 1.25x speed like you actually understand anything, and then, somewhere in the mess, the tab with your class assignment due in two days—forgotten, abandoned, neglected like your gym subscription and that plant you swore you’d keep alive.

you press play on yet another video, elbow propped on your knee, pen in hand.

“hola, señora. mucho gusto.”

you pause. repeat, brows furrowed like you might actually be doing quantum physics.

“hola, señor… señor-ra… mushy gusto.” you close your eyes and groan. your whole body slumps back into the mattress like you’ve just been defeated in a battle no one prepared you for. you toss the pen to the side dramatically. it bounces off the bed and disappears under your dresser, but you don’t care. let it go. convince yourself that it’s over for you.

you’re so deep in the pit, you don’t even hear alejandro walk in. he’s standing at the door with a water bottle in hand, watching you mumble to yourself like a girl possessed.

you’re halfway into whispering, “¿yo... uh, quiero… to… be polite... para your madre…” when you finally see him out of the corner of your eye.

he’s already grinning. that soft, smug smirk he does when he knows he’s about to be annoying.

you turn your head toward him, squinting, your index finger already pointed in his direction like a warning shot. “don’t even play with me right now, ale. i’m fighting for my life.”

alejandro raises both hands like he’s surrendering, but that damn smile is still on his face.

“baby, what is this?” he asks, doesn’t even bother hiding his amusement as he drops his keys on the nightstand and toes his shoes off before falling back onto the bed next to you.

you shove the laptop into his lap like it personally offended you. “that is me trying to not embarrass you in front of your family.”

he clicks the touchpad, squinting at the screen. the youtube video is paused mid-sentence, the lady frozen with a bright smile and big earrings, and the title below says “50 essential phrases before meeting la suegra.”

he glances at your notes app, where you’ve written:

– “moochy goose-toe” = nice to meet you

– “perrrrddooon” = sorry / excuse me?

– “dios mio” = omg (ale says this a lot when i mess up)

– “puta” = not for polite convos 😭

he snorts, “why is ‘puta’ on here?”

“because you taught me that first, and you keep saying it during fifa, so now i’m scared it’s gonna pop out by accident if your mom asks me a question i don’t understand.”

he snickers, tucks your freshly done braids behind your ear, then leans in, voice soft. “deja de pensar tanto, baby. you’ll be just fine.”

—

you try to. genuinely, you do. but you just can’t stop overthinking.

because the thing is… this matters to you. a lot.

not just because you want to make a good impression. but because you’ve seen the way alejandro lights up when he talks to his family. when he’s on the phone with his mom and his voice gets all boyish. when he switches to catalan mid-sentence without realising. when he’s laughing so hard at something his cousin said that he’s clutching his stomach, and you’re sitting there smiling, pretending like you caught the joke even though you understood none of it.

you want to be part of that. even if it’s just a little. even if it’s just being able to say “thank you” properly when his grandmother hands you a plate. you want them to see you and know you tried.

so, you keep practicing.

you record yourself. play it back. cringe. repeat.

he catches you again two days later, whispering phrases under your breath while brushing your teeth.

“mi nombre es y/n. tengo… treinti… treintiocho años?”

he leans against the doorframe, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants, that amused little smile playing on his lips. “baby, you’re twenty-two. not thirty-eight.”

you pause mid-brush, glare at him through the mirror with a mouth full of foam. “shut up. you know that’s what i meant.”

—

the day of, you’re damn near hyperventilating.

you spent two hours trying on outfits, sending your best friend voice notes like “should i wear the jeans or the dress? jeans feel chill but the dress says i’m respectable. does my ‘respectable’ scream ‘boring?’ does this say ‘wife me?’ do i even want to be wifed right now or do i just want them to not hate me?”

you end up wearing the dress. simple, soft yellow. the one he once said made you look like a sunflower. you also wear the bracelet he got you in mallorca. just for luck.

during the drive to his parents’ house, your hand is shaking slightly. he notices. doesn’t say anything. just reaches over and takes it, warm and calm and reassuring. his thumb strokes over your knuckles the whole ride. you don’t talk much, just music playing softly in the background. your heart’s in your throat.

when you get there, his mom’s waiting at the door.

you don’t even get to say anything before she pulls you into a hug. tight, warm. she’s shorter than you expected. smells like citrus and something floral. her hands are soft.

“bienvenida, mi niña,” she says.

you choke out a shaky “gracias” and pray to every god that she doesn’t say anything else yet because your brain has shut down and you’re sure if she asks you what day it is, you’ll say “quesadilla.”

she pulls back, cups your face like she’s known you forever, and then looks at alejandro with this smile that makes your chest warm. he leans down, kisses her cheek, and says something in spanish that makes her laugh. you stand there like a deer in headlights.

his dad’s there too. quieter. handshake rather than a hug. kind eyes. says “mucho gusto” and you blurt it back too fast, too panicked. but he just smiles and gestures you inside.

the house smells like dinner already—garlic, tomatoes, something roasting. there’s family photos on the wall. alejandro’s baby picture in a barça kit. you nudge him and whisper, “you had a big head.”

“still do, to be fair.” he whispers back.

you laugh because, yeah. he definitely still does.

—

the evening is… better than you feared.

you understand about 30% of the conversation. 40% on a good stretch if someone points at something while they’re talking. his cousin speaks slow enough for you to catch stuff. his grandmother kisses your cheeks and talks to you like you do understand, even though you clearly don’t, and you kind of love her for that.

you catch alejandro watching you a lot. when you’re fumbling through a sentence. when you’re smiling politely even though you’re lost. when you finally manage to say something right and his aunt claps a little and you glow with pride. he watches you like you’re the most unreal thing in the room. like he can’t believe someone like you wandered into his life and stayed.

when you excuse yourself to the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror and whisper, “you’re doing okay. you haven’t called anyone a bitch by accident yet. that’s a win.”

and that is a win.

on the way home, you finally exhale. really exhale. you sink back in the passenger seat of his mercedes, the leather warm against your thighs, the city lights slipping in through the windshield and dancing across your skin, and you let your head fall onto his shoulder. he doesn’t say anything at first, just instinctively tilts his head and rests his cheek against your hair for a few slow seconds.

“told you they’d love you,” he says after a while, his voice low, mellowed out by the road.

“not with the way i embarrassed myself.” you scoff, nose wrinkling. “i literally said ‘your chicken is very sexy’ instead of ‘very tasty.’”

he snorts, a quiet, half-muffled little laugh. “yeah, my uncle’s probably still laughing about that.”

“see? that’s exactly why i’m never showing my face there again.”

he hums — a sound sitting somewhere between affection and amusement — and leans over to kiss your temple at the next red light. “kind of impossible since they already asked me to invite you to the next family barbecue.”

you lift your head just enough to look up at him. he doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but you can see the smile in his face.

“really?” you ask, voice small. maybe even a little hopeful.

he nods. “really.”

you can’t help but smile into the sleeve of his hoodie, your chest warming in ways you can hardly explain.

—

later, when you’re back at your apartment and brushing your teeth side by side, you catch him watching you in the mirror.

“what?” you ask, mouth full of foam, half glaring.

he shrugs, pretending to play it off, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. it’s all sweet. all soft. all charm.

“nothing.”

you rinse, spit, wipe your mouth on a towel, and flick a little water in his direction. “alejandro.”

he chuckles, stepping closer, arms wrapping around your waist from behind. his chin settles on your shoulder, and you both look at yourselves in the mirror — this picture of domesticity you never imagined but somehow ended up in.

“it’s nothing,” he repeats, quieter this time. “just… today was nice, that’s all. felt good to finally have all the people i love in one room.”

you lean back into him, breathing him in, the curve of your spine fitting perfectly against him. and you realise that, yeah. maybe your spanish still sucks. maybe you’ll always be a few beats behind the jokes, maybe the grammar will never come naturally.

but none of it matters.

you don’t have to be fluent in his language to be his.

your voice is a little shy when you ask, “wanna know what else i learned to say in spanish?”

he kisses your cheek, slow and gentle. “what?”

your hand comes up to rest over his on your stomach, fingers lacing gently. then, a little nervous, you say it:

“estoy tan enamorada de ti que me duele un poquito.”

he blinks. then smiles. all teeth, all love. all that affection he doesn’t bother hiding when it’s just you.

“dilo otra vez,” he says, kissing your shoulder. then the side of your neck. “say it again.”

so you do. a little bolder this time. a little more sure. “estoy tan enamorada de ti que me duele un poquito.”

he turns you around with a softness that makes your knees a little weak, hands never leaving your hips. he’s looking at you like you hung the moon, like you saying those words just rewired something in him.

“yo también,” he says, his voice lower now. “yo también estoy enamorado de ti.” his fingers come up to brush your jaw, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth. “y lo voy a estar. siempre.”

you blink up at him, heart slamming so hard against your ribs it almost drowns out your voice.

“yeah?” you whisper.

he nods, forehead pressing to yours, noses brushing.

“forever.”

and in that moment — toothbrushes on the counter, bathroom mirror slightly fogged from your shower, his hands still steady on your hips— you believe him.

you believe all of it. every syllable.

you don’t need a translator to understand love when it sounds like this.