open your eyes

goddamn, i wanna undress you i wanna impress you ‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ “You did really great out there,” Patri’s voice echoed in your head. 

An airy moan escaped your mouth as you moved your fingers hastily in a circular motion, pressed against the heat gathering between your thighs. Your eyebrows furrowed and your eyes shut hard as you repeated her voice in your head over and over, rubbing yourself faster as you remembered the smirk on her face as she said it. You bit your bottom lip hard, choking down the moans that threatened to escape your lips.

The tension inside your body wound tighter, muscles clenching with anticipation as your fingers moved faster, tracing the memory of Patri’s words from the past weeks, each one driving you closer and closer to the edge.

“You did so good today.”

“Stunning goal.”

“That’s my stargirl.”

And, just like that, you were coming undone, arching your back involuntarily, pressing your own core against your hands as you rode out your orgasm. You tried to bite your bottom lip, not wanting your roommate to hear the soft gasps and moans you couldn’t keep in.

As soon as you came off your high, you felt the shame quickly replace the pleasure in your body, feeling embarrassed of yourself, that you let yourself get off again to the thought of your captain, Patri Guijarro.

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ There were a lot of reasons why you really pushed for the transfer to Barcelona.

There was the sporting aspect; Barcelona was the best club in women’s football now and they produced the best players in the world. Also, it was a club you’ve supported since you were young. The fact that you could live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world also was a great bonus. 

These were all the reasons you gave to your agent. The one major thing you forgot to mention was the fact that you just really wanted to play alongside Patri Guijarro. 

You’ve always admired Patri. 

Even before transferring to Barcelona, you always looked up to her, watching highlight clips of her online and trying your best to recreate her moves. So when the offer from Barcelona arrived, there had been no hesitation. You knew this was your one and only chance to play alongside her.

And you had no regrets. Barcelona was everything you hoped it would be and Patri was even better than you imagined.

She was a great teammate, and an even better captain, much to your surprise. 

 Patri was the kind of captain who made training feel lighter.She cracked jokes mid-drill, mimicked Pere's cadence and accent when he wasn't looking, turned sprints into silly competitions. That was not to say that she wasn’t strong and steady when it counted. 

As fun and silly as she could be, she was also incredibly capable and amazing. She guided the team without ever needing to raise her voice, and she made sure no one got left behind, especially the new girls. 

She kept nudging Pere to give you and the rest of the promoted La Masia players minutes, so you could all adjust to the style and pace of the team. And after every match you played, she pulled you aside for a quick, one-on-one session. She’d tell you what you did well, what you still needed to work on, and really go into specifics of how she’d help you improve. Considering that she knew that you were aiming to try out a defensive midfielder position at some point, she took extra time with you, even mapping out what kind of drills and practices you could do together during the next training session.

Patri was probably the best captain you'd ever had. She did it all with such grace and effortlessness.

Which was probably why no one noticed how much pressure she was carrying.

It was the first season without Alexia. The team had just won the UWCL and basically experienced a perfect season before watching not only their captain leave but also witnessing the departure of a bunch of key players. 

Now, what was left of the team was a handful of veterans and a wave of kids fresh off the academy and the B team. All of it the pressure weighed heaviest on Patri’s shoulders in her first year as first captain. 

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ You could never get enough of getting praised by Patri.

You can still remember the first time you got a compliment from Patri. You were on the same team during a mock game. Ewa, who was on the other team, suddenly broke through everyone with the ball, pushing forward to score. But you slid in perfectly, tackling the ball away just in time, not letting her get past you. Patri immediately ran over, her eyes shining as she placed a hand on your head, ruffling your hair.

"Good job, stargirl," she said softly, her voice warm and full of pride. "Do more of that, vale?"

After that moment, her praise fueled a hunger inside you. It started off tame. You felt a small flutter, a blush, totally normal feelings. But as time passed, that desire for validation turned into something more insatiable and unusual.

You obsessed over Patri’s compliments, shaping your actions around winning her approval. You mimicked the habits and plays your teammates used that got Patri's attention. You lingered after practice, volunteering to help clean and organize even when it wasn't your responsibility, just to earn a compliment from her. You pushed your body past its limits, chasing that rare, precious sound of her voice telling you you were doing well.

You rationalized to yourself that maybe it was because you idolized her, that you wanted to play like her and to be a better player for the team.

But that flimsy excuse stopped making sense when you sought her attention beyond the sport. The way she looked at you, the way her voice softened  whenever she spoke to you, the way her strong arms wrapped around you whenever she pulled you in for a hug — it lingered in your mind long after the games or training ended. You found yourself wanting to catch her attention off the pitch too.

So, you did a lot of other things to try and get more compliments. You worked extra hard on learning Spanish and Catalan just so she could tell you that you were learning fast, complimenting you in both languages.

You also started paying attention to how you presented yourself. Whenever there'd be a team hangout or dinner, you'd carefully choose the pieces that hugged your figure right or exposed the perfect amount of skin. You made sure you chose colors that both suited you and you knew Patri liked. After noticing Patri compliment Vicky on her mascara, you started wearing a bit more makeup, hoping she'd notice and say something.

It was slowly consuming every thought that you had but it was becoming an addiction that you just couldn’t help but give into.

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ It was a team dinner when you first thought that this whole praise thing might have been getting to your head.

You dressed in a slightly revealing, body-hugging dress that complimented your body and showed off your best features. As soon as you walked in, a teammate teasingly let out a low whistle as the others paid you compliments but your attention was solely on Patri. When Patri saw you, her eyes widened and her lips curled into a smile.

"Oh guapa," she said, pressing a hand to her chest. "Almost gave me a heart attack there.

A blush crept to your cheeks, thanking her in Spanish before heading off to your table where you were to be seated with your other teammates. As soon as you sat, Sydney and Esmee looked over to you with giddy faces. "Looks like someone has a crush," Sydney teased, nudging you gently, only causing you to grow redder.

The two other international players widened their eyes and chuckled at the instant flushing of your cheeks, pulling Kika into the conversation to tease you.

Kika shook her head. "What did I tell you two?" Kika said, pointing a finger at both of them. "It's why she's always sticking behind after Spanish and Catalan class to ask for more pointers. She wants Patri to notice."

"Is that why you've been more intense during training as well?" Esmee asked you in disbelief. "I swear to God when I stopped your goal from coming in during training, it looked like you wanted to kill me for a moment."

The three laughed but you couldn't even defend yourself and deny it. 

But then again, there was no way you could deny it. Your every thought was tangled up with Patri, everything you did was to live up to her standard, to get that sweet praise from her. Anyone with eyes could see how much you exerted yourself lately in training just to get noticed by your captain.

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ Eventually, all your hard work has also been noticed by Pere who felt confident enough to give you more minutes than you previously had. For the first time, you were starting a game against Atletico.

You were extremely hyped, feeling the adrenaline rush through your body. After being given this opportunity, you knew you just had to show Patri you were worthy of her attention and praise.

Unlike what everyone initially expected, the game was intense; it was fast, brutal and unrelenting as Atleti's forwards easily cut through your defense. Even if you were a bit rattled, you worked through it, silently dedicating each tackle and interception to Patri, feeling a sense of giddiness whenever you did something right, knowing that she would notice.

You pushed yourself harder. Your body screamed, lungs burning, quads already starting to ache, but you didn't stop or slow down. Every time you stopped an attack, every time you cleared the ball, you felt like you were working towards Patri's affection and respect on the pitch.

And then came the breakaway. Atlético's striker ran past you with the ball. Your breath caught as you tried to chase her down, feeling determined to win the ball back. In your haste, you lunged, moving as precisely as you could to get your foot to the ball but your timing was off and the sole of your boots caught her ankle hard. The sharp sound of impact and the sound that escaped her mouth was loud enough for the crowd to hear, followed instantly by the piercing blast of the referee's whistle.

Your stomach dropped. You stood frozen, staring at the player still on the ground as she writhed in pain, breath caught in your throat, knowing that you had majorly fucked up.

Your teammates were at your side in seconds and your heart dropped to your stomach once your eyes caught Patri, with her face a mixture of fury and fear.

She walked past you to stand behind Caro, who was now arguing with the referee, but for a moment Patri just stayed silent, jaw tight and clenched. Eventually, she joined in, arguing with the referee in rapid Spanish, voice shaking with passion. "¡No! Fue la pelota primero, por favor." She waved her hands around, gesturing desperately at the referee. "She got the ball! It was the ball. No es falta."

The referee shook her head, waving her hands to dismiss Patri and Caro as she raised the red card. Patri exhaled hard through her nose, patted Caro on the back as if to tell her to leave it be, and turned away before her expression could slip any further. Some of your teammates tried to talk to the referee while the others gathered around the injured player.

Patri's eyes snapped to you, and the look she gave you was worse than any sort of punishment. It was just pure, crushing disappointment.

"Why would you risk it like that?" she walked up to you and asked firmly, the pain and frustration in her voice completely audible. It was such a stark difference from the happy, easy-going captain you knew. She shook her head as her eyes stayed firmly planted on you. “Did you not think that through?”

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning, tears threatening to spill. "I… I just wanted to stop her. I didn't mean to…" Your voice broke, starting to feel the shame in your actions.

Patri placed a hand behind your back, supposedly to calm you but you could tell that the captain was upset with you as she walked you back to the bench. Her hand wasn't quite steady.

Patri lowered her voice so that no one nearby could hear but it remained firm. "You can't just act so… stupid on the pitch. You need to be precise. Más inteligente." She paused before looking at you, brown eyes staring serious daggers into yours. 

The volume of her voice increased a bit. "And I have had enough of this show-off nonsense, okay? This is not the time and place to want the spotlight, yeah? This game, this sport isn't just about you. It’s about all of us.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, like she was reminding herself as much as you. “Got that?”

You gulped and bit your lip.

“I asked you if you understood,” Patri said before frustratedly pressing her lips together, lips forming a tight line.

“Yes, yes, I understood,” you said, nodding, voice meek and soft.

Patri gave you two pats on the shoulder before running back to the injured player who was being attended to now by the medics. You returned to the bench, already feeling your shoulders slump and the tears well up in your eyes, lips quivering as you held back the tears.

Pere and your teammates tried talking to you but all of it fell upon deaf ears. You couldn't focus on anything after what Patri said. You wanted to disappear, to sink into the earth and never be seen again.

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ Thankfully, despite your mistake and the initial struggle, the team still won thanks to Pina's clutch goal at the 87th minute. You couldn't celebrate at all or even fully appreciate Pina's goal when you were still completely riddled with shame and regret.

Aitana saw you staring blankly, sitting all alone on one of the benches on the more empty area of the dressing room. "Hey, chica," she said, patting you on the back. "Don't be too hard on yourself. It's okay."

You looked up to her and gave her a meek smile but even Aitana could see that the smile didn't reach your eyes.

"It's just a mistake. It happens to everyone." She comforted, nodding at you. "Okay?"

"Yeah…" you said but didn't mean it a bit. Even if all your teammates had been supportive, talking you out of your gloomy state, you still couldn't shake it off.

All you could think about was the look on Patri's face at that moment: the disappointment, the frustration, and the animosity she had for you at that moment. What hurt most was that she called you a show-off and implied that you were selfish, as if you were trying to do all of it for yourself or for attention. She didn't get that everything you were doing was for her.

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ As Patri walked into the locker room, after talking to the other team’s injured player and apologizing on your behalf, Aitana immediately approached her. "Hey, Patri." Aitana said. "You should really  talk to YN."

Caro overheard as she was changing. "Yeah, I saw her when I walked in," she interjected as she slipped on a shirt. “She looked like those stray kittens abandoned in the rain.”

Kika stepped closer. "I tried talking to her but she had a distant look." She added. "She's not doing okay."

Aitana nodded. "Yeah, you should talk to her. I don’t want this incident to ruin her morale for the rest of the season.

Patri paused, trying to look at you from across the locker room, sighing as she saw you sat and bent over, head in your hands. She bit her lip, feeling even more guilty now hearing what everyone had to say and seeing you all upset.

Barely halfway through the season, Patri thought to herself. And I’m already fucking up being a captain.

She let out a sigh, shaking off her doubt.  "Was what I said that bad?" She asked, rubbing the back of her neck.

Caro and Aitana looked at each other, as if waiting for one of them to say something. 

“To me, it wasn’t that bad,” Aitana said with a small shrug. “I mean, from what I heard, it just sounded a bit heated.”

Caro nodded in agreement. “Yeah but honestly, I think that girl cares too much about what you think so what you said to her might sound fine to me or anyone else but to her, it was…” she trailed off, unsure how to finish it. She sighed. “It might just have been too much for her to hear from her idol.”

Patri sighed, shaking her head. "Yeah, okay, I'll talk to her.." She said before looking at the girls. "Thanks for letting me know."

They all nodded and went back to getting ready. Patri headed to her locker but as she made her way, she kept a subtle eye on you. You were just sitting there, still in your uniform, towel resting across your shoulders.

Was it really that serious for her, Patri thought to herself, before shaking her head. She had enough weighing on her already — the armband felt heavier some days than she let on, and tonight had been one of those days. 

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ It took you a while to process what happened and how you felt about it and by the time that you were ready for your shower, everyone had left.

Vicky, Kika, and Esmee had asked if you wanted to check out this one café with them but you just waved them off. Irene asked if you wanted to chat but you told her that it was best you think things through alone. Even Aitana – who was usually the first person out of the locker room – stayed a bit longer and even asked you if you wanted to grab dinner with her, to cool off and indulge in food your team nutritionist wouldn't approve of, but you just didn't feel like you deserved that right now.

To you, everyone in the team could try to comfort you but only one person's validation and comfort mattered. You sighed, taking off your shirt and throwing it into the bin before heading into the showers.

The air was already foggy from everyone who showered before but you didn't mind that much. At least now, it was just you and your thoughts. You opened the shower head, letting the warm water rinse through you. You prayed that all your doubts and negative thoughts could be washed away into the drain.

You didn't expect it to happen but you suddenly felt tears sting your eyes. Perhaps, a while ago, while everyone was there, you had just been holding the tears in, not wanting to look overly dramatic. But now that you were alone, the tears just came.

You let the water run through your face, mixing into your tears as it did, hoping that you could get past this. 

You wished that after the game, you had the guts to say something to Patri, to apologize and tell her that you really fucked up and that you were willing to take accountability for it, that you were still going to try and improve and put the team’s interest before yours. But when you caught sight of Patri entering the locker room, you just had to keep your head low and stop yourself from completely breaking down.

You wiped the water and tears off of your eyes, sighing and deciding that you were going to quit moping about it and start working on how you could gain Patri’s trust back.

‧₊˚ ✩ ₊˚ ⊹ Patri massaged her temples as she walked back into the locker room.

Before she could even change out of her uniform, Pere called her over to talk through what had happened and how they'd handle it. By the time the conversation wound down, everyone else was gone, and all she wanted was a shower and to get back to her place to sleep the stress off..

She took off her clothes, tossed it in the bin, and slung her towel over her shoulder. Pulling her hair out of its ponytail, she ran her fingers through it as she walked toward the shower room. The closer she headed towards it, the more she heard the sound of someone talking. At first, she thought that maybe some of the girls stayed longer and were having a conversation in the shower area, which was not an uncommon occurrence, but then she realized there was only one voice that she could hear.

She slowed, stepping quietly into the shower room and her thoughts were confirmed as she saw that only one shower was running. 

"Patri, I'm really sorry that…" The voice continued rambling in a soft tone. Patri blinked, surprised. It was you, rehearsing what you were going to say to her.

Patri huffed out a quiet laugh, a small smile tugging at her mouth as her brows knit together.  Fuck, she really isn’t taking this well, she thought to herself as she moved towards your shower.

It didn’t take you too long to feel her presence behind you. You stopped talking and turned around quickly and instinctively covering yourself with your hands, nearly slipping on the now soapy floor as you did. Patri held her arms out too, also out of reflex, just in case you slipped. 

“Patri!” You exclaimed and felt your cheeks flush as you realized you practically shouted her name, your voice echoing slightly. “Sorry, I – uh…”

Your eyes couldn’t help but make a quick glance at her, growing hyperaware of the fact that you two were completely naked.

You’d seen practically everyone in the team topless before, most even completely nude, but when it came to Patri, you were always too flustered to even look at her direction whenever she was changing or heading to the showers. 

So, to see her now, completely bare in front of you, you didn't know where to look or how to feel.

You fumbled, mumbling apologies that didn't quite form into full sentences, your hands still wrapped around yourself just to hide your nakedness  "I'm really sorry, I was thinking about what to say to you and uh — I guess I'm sorry for earlier, and now this is just — it's awkward now, but never mind that, I should be apologizing for what I actually did, not…" You couldn't stop rambling even as you heard yourself sounding like a complete idiot, heat rushing to your face.

Patri had stopped listening somewhere in the middle of that. Her eyes had drifted,  taking you in without quite meaning to, brows lifting slightly at the sight of you. She'd seen you in towels and sports bras and everything but never quite like this. She caught herself staring and looked away almost too fast, clearing her throat.

"It’s okay," Her voice came out steadier than she felt, the captain in her stepping forward to cover her lapse of judgement just then. "It's fine, YN. Forget it. I shouldn't have said all that out there in front of everyone.” 

She nodded. “I got caught up in the moment and it was wrong for me to reprimand you that way,” she said. “You're still a good player. You made a mistake and it was a bad one but I can see that you internalized that already. So… just learn from this; I don’t want this to get to your head and affect your performance for the rest of the season.”

You nodded your head before she even finished. "No, I get it. I deserved to be reprimanded. I made a mistake and I really am so sorry.” You hesitated to say what you’ve been thinking about while you were formulating your apology a while ago. "But I have to say that you did get one thing wrong.”

Patri didn’t look offended. She just tilted her head and looked at you curiously.

You bit your lip before you continued. “I wasn't doing what I did to get attention or to prove anything to the fans, or Pere, or anyone else out there,” you said, tone softer. “I was just trying my best because  I didn't want to let you down. You were the one who fought to get me minutes and to get me my start today. I wanted to be good enough for that… for you."

Neither of you said anything for a moment, just standing there, holding eye contact a little too deliberately, like looking away first would mean admitting where your eyes actually wanted to go. You blinked and used it as an excuse to glance down.

"I think I've just been too fixated on wanting to impress you," you admitted, eyes returning to her eyes.

Patri’s expression shifted. It wasn’t just her face that changed. It was as if her muscles unclenched, as if taken aback but also a bit relieved. She exhaled a heavy breath before nodding and running a hand through her hair. She released a chuckle.

“That,” Patri responded, “means a lot to me. Seriously.”

You nodded. Again, silence fell upon the two of you. All you could hear was the sound of the shower and your own heartbeat. 

Patri’s expression turned more playful as she looked up to your face again. "Is it weird if I say I'm impressed by what I'm seeing right now?" The words came out light and joking but something about it made your stomach flip.

Your face went warm again. You bit down on your lip, unsure if you were supposed to laugh at the comment or say something back. Suddenly, feeling a bit more self-conscious once more.

Patri seemed to catch herself a beat too late. She let out a short laugh and shook her head, like she wanted to undo it. "Sorry, that's… that was a fucked-up thing for me to say." She dragged a hand through her hair. "I'm your captain, I shouldn't be saying stuff like that to you. I think the stress is just getting to me. I'm losing my mind and composure a little."

She laughed once more but straightened her face again before meeting your eyes. "Yeah, no. I shouldn’t be making excuses. I just shouldn't have said it."

You bit your lip and nodded. It felt like Patri trying to take the comment back only made things worse; it made it impossible to pretend you hadn't understood exactly what she meant by it.

"It's okay," you said quietly. Your eyes hadn't left hers. Your hands started to loosen around you, not covering yourself up so much.

"I told you," you said, voice lower than you meant it to come out, "I always want to impress you."

Patri didn't move, but something in her went very still. She could feel the tension and energy in the room shift. Suddenly, she was aware of your warmth, the feeling of the fog that swirled in the bathroom, the breath she had been holding.

She smiled and looked like she was about to say something to lighten the mood but her mind failed her. She cleared her throat and she looked away, hand adjusting the towel on her shoulder.

You bit your lip. This was your chance, and it might be the only chance you’d ever get. "Maybe," you said, taking a step as you dropped your hand to your sides now. "I can impress you a little more."

Patri met your eyes again. You hesitated for a moment but ultimately thought fuck it. You moved closer to her, wet hands cupping her face as you gathered up all your confidence as you closed the distance.

You placed your lips onto Patri’s gently, as if testing the waters. You closed your eyes, feeling the softness of her lips against yours, the warmth of it emanating to you as you did. When you pulled away, you realized that Patri’s eyes were still open, pupils blown wide and expression surprised.

Your heart started beating faster, feeling a sudden rush of regret pass through you, but before you could even fully process it, Patri was stepping towards you.

It happened so quickly. Her towel dropped from her shoulder to the floor as she closed the distance between you, hands on your body, lips on yours. The floor was slippery but you didn’t worry too much because her hands were gripping you firmly as she pressed you against the shower wall.

Your hands wrapped around Patri as you did, feeling the water from the shower trickle on her back now as she pressed you against the wall. She kissed with an almost desperate intensity, as if she was letting out all her frustrations on you.

A moan escaped your lips as you felt her tongue enter your mouth, effortlessly moving with yours. Her hands gripped tighter as she felt your moan vibrate against her lips. 

Patri moved from your lips to your jaw, tongue licking along the shape of it before wrapping her mouth around the space between it and your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. You moaned, holding her closer to you.

As she kissed your neck, her hands began to wander from your waist to your hips and to your ass, moving fluidly through your skin. You inhaled sharply as you felt one of her hands in between your thighs, parting your legs, adjusting your stance so she could slot herself in between you.

You pushed her lightly.

Patri looked at you with eyebrows raised, unsure why you were stopping her.  You bit your lip. “I…” You cleared your throat, urging yourself to speak louder. “I want to be the one to please you.”

Patri’s brows furrowed but she released a small laugh. “C’mon, chica, just let me—”

You shook your head. “Please,” you said in a soft pleading voice. “I really want to show you what I can do for you. Please.”

Patri’s lips curled into that smirk you knew all too well, the same smirk that always made you feel a little warmer inside. She straightened up, hands detaching itself from you, running one of them through her now-damp hair.

She paused before reaching for your face, thumb brushing your cheek as she looked into your eyes. “You really want to?”

You nodded eagerly, eyes wide as if pleading to her.

The older girl smirked. “How could I say no to that face?” She said softly, thumb now brushing your bottom lip, feeling your plush lips against her thumb. “Okay, star girl. Impress your captain.”

You didn’t hesitate. You moved towards her, hand on the back of her neck, pulling her closer to you as you captured her lips once more. You both shifted so that it was Patri who was closer to the wall, lips never leaving each other as you did.

You moved your lips to her jaw then to her neck, planting kisses all over her as you slowly descended in front of her, feeling the shower once more against your head and back. 

Then, you were on your knees, feeling the cold tiles press beneath you as you lowered to the level of Patri’s core. She cursed under her breath, feeling herself get wetter at the sight of you, naked and all-too-eager on your knees for her.

You kept eye contact with the Barcelona captain as you moved closer. Patri cupped your face once more, smiling before moving her hand from your face to her core, using her fingers to delicately spread herself apart before you.

You nearly moaned as you saw her open herself before you, feeling your own core warm up as you caught a whiff of Patri’s faint musk. You gulped, shifting a bit as you moved your head closer towards her.

You opened your mouth, tongue slightly out, capturing Patri’s clit with your it, wrapping your lips around the throbbing bud. Patri  groaned as she felt it, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, hand holding the back of your head.

You took that as a sign to proceed, rounding your mouth around her before doing consistent pulses of suction. The older girl moaned, her other hand finding the back of your head, pushing you closer into her.

You moaned, sending a vibration across Patri’s  body. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to enjoy the moment and to not overthink your actions. This was all you’ve wanted since you realized that you had a crush on Patri. You fantasized endlessly about pleasuring her, doing everything to get her praise.

And now this was your chance to do it.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Patri moaned, voice a bit tight. “Keep eating me out.”

You could feel your own wetness pool around your core as you heard Patri’s praise, urging you to do even better. You pressed your tongue around your captain’s clit, moving your head to guide your tongue, drawing circles into her. You kept your hands firm against her legs, holding yourself steady as you moved your face further into her core, really burying yourself into her. 

You kept your eyes closed and focused on Patri – the feeling of her warmth and her sweet nectar coating your mouth and chin as you continued to lick and suck on her folds, the firmness of her hands on the back of your head as she guided you closer to her, the sound of her low moans and grunts as you picked up the pace, really wanting to hear more of her.

“Yeah, keep doing that,” Patri moaned. “You’re doing really well.”

You practically moaned against her clit as she said it, holding your head firm against her. You focused on licking her, moving in vertical stripes, starting from just below her clit upwards, tongue grazing the sensitive part of her clit every time you did. The older girl grinded her lips towards your face, both hands on the back of your head and her back pressed against the wall to support her weight.

Then, you pointed your tongue, using the tip of it to draw smaller circles around a specific part of her clit, moving around it until you grazed the spot that garnered the loudest moan and the biggest reaction from her. You focused on it, pressing the tip of your tongue against it, alternating between flicking and drawing circles.

Soon, you could feel Patri’s strong thighs tense and clench under your hands and the feeling of her grip on your head tightened, pulling you impossibly close. You took your tongue off her and parted your lips, now capturing her clit in your mouth, alternating between sucking and licking her. 

Patri’s moan came out a bit strained, using her other hand to hold onto the shower faucet for some semblance of balance as she neared her climax. Her other hand stayed behind your head, pressing you firmly against her.

Her muscles clenched even more, thighs firmer against your hands, until she moaned out loud and her muscles relaxed. Patri twitched a bit under you as she rode out her orgasm, gyrating herself slowly against your face for a bit more before guiding your head away from her core, a string of wetness forming between you and her before breaking as you moved farther.

Patri glanced down at you, eyes dark and heavy. She bit her lip and smirked. “Good job, stargirl.”

She held your hand, pulling slightly as if to direct you to stand up. Carefully, you stood and used Patri’s hand as a way to balance yourself. As soon as you stood up, Patri was wrapping her arms around you, guiding your body to turn your back against her.

Now, you were facing the wall with Patri’s hand on your breast and her lips on your neck, kissing you from behind. “Since you did so well,”  Patri whispered in your ear before taking your lobe in between her lips, nipping at it slightly. “I think it’s just fair that I reward you.”

You moaned as you felt Patri’s lips against you, more aggressively this time, nipping and biting your neck as her hand continued to fondle your chest. Her other hand slowly made its way from your waist to your core, slotting it in between your legs, pushing them apart to expose yourself to her touch.

You bent over slightly, gripping the walls with your hands to keep yourself stable as Patri adjusted your position to be slightly bent over.

You moaned as soon as her fingers found your core, using two fingers to press against your throbbing clit. She began to rub wide and firm circles, mouth still attached to your neck, biting against your soft flesh.

You arched your back closer to her, bending forward as she continued to rub faster against you. Her other hand went from massaging your breast to now pinching your nipple, rolling it in between her fingers.

“Patri,” You moaned out as she switched to flicking her fingers against your clit, hitting the most sensitive part of it as she did. “Fuck.”

Her mouth was warm against your ear. “Quiet down, chica. Wouldn’t want anyone to find us,” she whispered into it.

You bit your lip, trying to hold down your moans. Patri’s hand left your clit, moving swiftly behind you now. She used her other hand to support your weight as she angled you in such a way that would allow easy entry for her.

You gasped loudly as you felt her fingers tease your entrance from behind, nudging slightly and letting your wetness coat the tips of it before fully entering. Her other hand clutched you, keeping you steady and close to her as she started to thrust into you. First, moving with a slow and steady pace as if to test out your reaction before increasing her speed and intensity, pumping in and out of you.

As Patri pushed forward, hitting the most sensitive spot inside you, you could not help out but moan so loud that your voice practically echoed. Patri tutted her tongue before moving her hand from around your waist to cupping against your mouth, holding it firmly so that no noise would escape.

“Now you can moan as much as you want,” she said as she continued to pound her fingers against you.

You moaned into her hand as you felt Patri finger you, curling each time she thrusted in, pressing firmly each time against your sensitive spot. Your fingers desperately clung onto the shower walls as you felt yourself grow weaker, knees shaking with pleasure.

Soon, Patri could feel your loud moans vibrate into her hand. Your walls clenched around her fingers. She smiled at the tight sensation, thrusting into you even faster and harder. You were glad that Patri’s hand was on your mouth or else the staff would have definitely heard the obscene and almost pornographic sounds escaping your mouth now.

“Come on, star girl,” Patri ordered into your ear. “Cum for me.”

You nodded. You almost buckled over as Patri practically slammed her fingers into you, eager to get you to that climax. Soon, you could feel your knees shake even more and your muscles clench as you inched closer and closer to your orgasm.

Then finally, the waves of pleasure came, all your muscles unclenching. Patri’s hand moved from your mouth back to your waist, making sure you wouldn’t lose balance. After a couple more thrust to help you ride out your orgasm, she pulled out her fingers.

She moved them to your face, presenting them to your lips, urging you to suck on them. You wrapped your mouth around her fingers, closing around them, letting the older girl push it further into your mouth. She thrusted them a bit into you, enjoying the feeling of your warm mouth around her. As she pulled them out, you heard her chuckle a little. “You’re such a good girl.”

You straightened up and breathed deeply, trying to catch your breath. Your captain kept an arm around your waist, just to help you steady yourself. Once your brain was less scrambled from what just happened, you looked at Patri who was giving you a smirk. 

“Consider that red card forgiven,” she said with a teasing tone. “But I don’t want you getting more red cards in the future just to get my attention.”

You nodded. “Of course not,” you reassured her immediately. “I wouldn’t do anything to upset you again.

Patri looked pleased with your response, eyes scanning your face. She smiled as she cupped your face before pulling you towards her for another kiss, pulling you in for another kiss. 

“That’s my stargirl.”

a/n: anyway, just thought i'd post something while everyone is waiting for the Only We Know, Princesa, and With Love Alexia updates ack i promise i'll find time to work on those

The reality is far more clinical. Alexia isn't there for the tactical shift of the LCL midfield or to share a laugh with peers. She is there because London is a sprawling, anonymous labyrinth, and you are tucked away in one of its corners, still aching from the bruises of yesterday’s match.

The knock at your door isn't a surprise, but it still feels like a violation of the silence you’ve been cultivating since the final whistle at the Bridge.

When you open it, she is already shedding the public version of herself. The scarf comes off, releasing a tumble of brown hair, and she steps into your entryway with the practiced ease of a woman who is used to taking up space. She smells of the London damp and something expensive—Santal 33 and the metallic tang of the stadium air.

"You didn’t answer my text," she says. It isn’t a question. It’s an observation of a foul you’ve committed.

"I was sleeping," you lie, stepping back as she hooks her coat on the peg. You watch the line of her back, the way her shoulders settle now that the cameras aren't trained on her profile. "How was Bromley? Did you enjoy the glamour of the South London suburbs?"

Alexia turns, her gaze sweeping over you with the same terrifying precision she uses to pick out a cross-field pass. She sees the tension in your jaw, the faint purple smudge under your left eye from a collision in the box, and the way you’re holding your shoulder.

"The football was... functional," she says, her voice dropping into that low, melodic Catalan register that usually stays reserved for high-intensity huddles. "Jana is frustrated. Mariona is insufferable when she wins. And Patri spent ninety minutes wondering why the coffee in this country tastes like burnt mud."

She moves closer, invading your personal space with a lack of hesitation that makes your pulse stutter. "But I am not here for the coffee."

This started three seasons ago. A Champions League semi-final that had been billed as a clash of civilizations. You were the rising star of the Chelsea backline, task-oriented and aggressive; she was the untouchable icon. In the tunnel at Camp Nou, amidst the heat and the deafening roar of 72,000 people, your eyes had met. Not with respect, but with a sharp, jagged curiosity. After the game—a 1-1 draw that ended your journey—she had found you outside the away dressing room. A jersey swap that wasn't for the cameras. A piece of paper tucked into the fold of the fabric.

Since then, your relationship has been a series of coordinates. Her place in Barcelona. Hotels in Paris. Your quiet little corner of Surrey.

"You shouldn't have come," you mutter, even as your hands find the hem of her jumper. "People are talking. They’re already wondering why you’re here twice in one month."

"Let them wonder," she says, her fingers tracing the line of your collarbone. Her skin is cold from the outside, but her touch is incendiary. "They think I am here for Jana and Jana only. They see what they expect to see. They don't see you."

She leans in, and the kiss is a reclamation. It’s detailed and slow, a deliberate dismantling of the defenses you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours building. Alexia doesn't do anything halfway; she approaches you with the same obsessive dedication she gives to her recovery sessions. She knows the exact pressure to apply to the small of your back to make you forget the loss to Arsenal. She knows how to tilt your head so that the world outside—the tabloids, the league table, the looming pressure of a title slipping from your grasp—simply ceases to exist.

You pull back, breathless, your forehead resting against hers. "Your friends are literally ten miles away. If they knew you were here..."

"They’re all too busy with dinner," Alexia interrupts, her thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "They think I am in my hotel room with a migraine. They won't check. They all know I value my privacy."

A smirk touches your lips. "You're a terrifyingly good liar, Ale."

"I am a strategist," she corrects. She moves toward your kitchen, her movements fluid and feline. She looks at the half-empty bottle of wine on your counter, the discarded notes from your post-game analysis, the mess of a life lived in the shadows of hers.

She picks up a pen, circling a note you’d made about your positioning against Russo. "You were too deep," she says, not looking up. "You gave her the turn. You never give her the turn."

"I don't need a coaching session right now," you snap, though there’s no bite in it.

Alexia sets the pen down and walks back to you. She traps you against the counter, her hands resting on the marble on either side of your hips. The light in the kitchen is dim, casting long shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp angle of her jaw.

"You don't need a coach," she whispers, her lips grazing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. "You need to stop thinking. You spend all day analysing the game, analysing the risk. For once, just be the person I flew eleven hundred miles to see."

She reaches for the drawstrings of your joggers, her eyes never leaving yours. It’s a challenge. A silent demand for total surrender. In the stadium, she is the one who dictates the tempo, who decides when to accelerate and when to hold. Here, in the quiet of your flat, the power dynamic is a blurred line, a shifting tide that pulls you both under.

You reach out, gripping her forearms, feeling the lean muscle of an elite athlete. "If people find out," you start, but she silences you with another kiss, deeper this time, desperate and hungry.

She spends the night halfway between tears and ecstasy, so happy to feel loved like this yet preemptively mourning what she’ll lose by leaving. The decision has been turned over in her mind thousands of times by now, so many questions surrounding its value, the opportunities she gains and loses. But then again, who turns down Barça? And it will be exciting, she’s sure. 

The consequence of such mixed emotion, however, is a small frown forming on her lips. Almost imperceptible. Her friends are too drunk to notice by now. 

She swivels around instantly when she feels a tap on her shoulder. Jumpy. Surprised that anyone has noticed, definitely. And she doesn’t recognise the face before her, which is even more confusing, because she hasn’t had that much to drink so her memory should be fine and – who even is this? 

“Hi,” you say, smiling. She notices a bit of an accent, vowels brighter than the drudge Portuguese should have, the innate saudade and misery. 

“Hi?” Kika replies, not meaning to be so defensive but crossing her arms over her chest regardless. She had assumed that the club had been rented out, what with the sheer amount of people inside being there for her, but maybe it hasn’t been. Or maybe you’re a plus one? Or a mutual friend? But she’s sure she would’ve remembered your face. So maybe not. 

“I was wondering,” and you’re speaking in English but that isn’t natural either, “if you’d seen my friend? She has dark hair and she’s in a pink dress? I need to find her.” 

Her eyes scan your features a bit too intently for you to not blush. Friend be damned. Not one to back down, to shy away, you meet her where she stares, falling into depths of light brown. 

Eventually, Kika clears her throat. It feels like an age has passed. Maybe it has. There’s certainly a different song booming out of the speakers now. 

“No, no. I haven’t seen her.” She swallows. “Sorry.” 

Your shrug is light, absent-minded. “Maybe she is talking to someone. She always runs away when we go out to party.” 

That brings a laugh, which you see more than hear in the deafening noise. Clubs are the worst place to have a conversation at a respectable distance. Luckily for you, Kika draws closer, saying, “that’s not very nice for her to do.” 

“I know.” You exhale and she feels the warmth of your breath, close enough for that. Very close, actually. 

“And you? Do you run away too?” 

A fleeting thought passes through Kika’s mind. She’s set to fly to Barcelona in a week. Hawaii was great. The Lisbon summer is yet to taper but a different city calls her and she has fitness tests to get to, pre-season training, preparation to prove herself at a better team. The thought is one that precedes many a bad decision: why not? And this decision, its spark in her mind, doesn’t even seem that bad. 

She knows that her friends have shown up for her tonight. Some would have cancelled other plans, made arrangements, spent time organising a perfect farewell. But they won’t notice if she leaves, surely? There’s so many of them. And they’re going to have to get used to her absence anyway. 

“Sometimes,” comes your response, your smirk clear. You practically bat your eyelashes at her. 

Fingers curl around your wrist. Kika is forward, you’ll give her that. She tugs you gently through the crowd, through smiling faces that squeal at her presence, through hordes of drunk dancers. The fresh air swarms you outside the club but Kika’s hand is still connecting your bodies, and it carries on until the music fades and the yellow light of Lisbon’s night settles over your figures. 

A wall presses into your back. Close enough that the uneven stone kisses your shoulder blades, close enough that the night suddenly feels achingly quiet compared to the roar you’ve left behind. Kika is still holding on, thumb resting against your pulse. Strong hands, you think, and you’d recognise the attitude anywhere. You’ve spent your life around these egos, this confidence that they all seem to exude. And perhaps you did make a promise once upon a time to not get tangled up with people like her, but you have no real confirmation and that’s enough deniability for you. 

Kika tilts her head. The frown from earlier hasn’t disappeared but it’s softer now, its edges blurred by curiosity. By want, too. 

You swallow, smile crooked. “I don’t usually make out with strangers I meet in clubs,” you say. 

She huffs a laugh immediately. Rude. She steps closer, so that there’s barely any space left between you. 

“Why do I not believe you?” she asks, eyebrow arching. Her fingers slide from your wrist to your forearm, slow and deliberate. “You look very practiced.” 

“Uf,” you murmur. “I’m offended.” 

“Liar,” she says lightly. 

“You say I look like a slut?” 

Kika shakes her head, not falling into that trap. She’s composed about it too, which is rather unsettling. You like to make people squirm. She seems to be immune. “No, not a slut. But you’re very good at flirting in your second language.” 

“Third,” you correct. 

Her mind saves that information. “I’m Kika,” she says suddenly. “Not a stranger anymore.” 

You hum at that. Kika. Nice name. A little familiar, but not something you’ve heard too often. A friend had a cat named Kika, once, which you are beginning to think of before human-Kika’s other hand drops to your waist.

“So, Kika, do you make out with strangers at clubs a lot?” 

Her forehead presses to your shoulder as she giggles. Then she looks back up at you. 

“We haven’t made out yet.” She says it and then she’s already moving. 

It’s Kika who leans in first, a decisiveness in that action that has grown from leading you out of the club and completely ignoring your search for your friend, and her mouth finds your with irritating confidence. It’s not a rushed kiss, nor sloppy. Nothing like drunk men who think with their dicks and straight girls in the mood for an experiment. No, this a woman who kisses with certainty, who doesn’t have an interest in pretending she doesn’t know where this is going. 

Her hand at your waist tightens, pulling you closer until your bodies press together, and then pushing so that the wall is solid at your back, cool against your bare skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of Kika’s skin and mouth. She tastes of mojitos. Mint and citrus. Summery. 

You kiss her back properly now, slower, letting it linger. She hums softly, almost approvingly, and tilts her head to deepen it, thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. All time is suspended and Kika is patient, isn’t worried about the declining minutes approaching her biggest life-change yet. She’s caught up in this moment with you. 

When she finally pulls away, it’s only to catch her breath. Her nose brushes yours. You chase her lips for a peck and soon it’s a trail, a path wandering down the sharp line of her jaw, leading to her neck.

“Now we have.” 

You pause, lips hovering over tanned skin that’s enticing but not so much that your surprised cannot be voiced. “You call that ‘making out’?” 

“And you said you were a saint.” 

“I never said that.” 

“Okay,” Kika says. You’ve tripped over a wire and if you were a rabbit, this would be your death. Silly you. “How about we get in a taxi and go to my apartment… and you prove me wrong.” 

“What if you murder me, Kika?” 

“Then the last thing you do before you die is have mind-blowing sex.” 

There’s hardly any time to overthink it. 

Soon you’re in a taxi, cramped into a space that’s too small for how aware you are of each other. The city slides past the windows in streaks of colour, folding in on itself as the car pulls away. Kika’s knee brushes yours. Then presses. Then stays there. 

Her mouth finds yours again, hungrier this time, and while still not sloppy, it deepens quickly and with little patience. Your hand slides into smooth brown hair, anchoring there as though the road might jolt you apart. Everything seems to melt into it, into the connection, hands on your thigh, tongue sliding between your lips and swirling around your own, sucking and absorbing the sound you make at that. 

She shifts closer, thinking momentarily about how embarrassing it would be for her to never make it to Barcelona by getting into a car crash without her seatbelt on with the sole prerogative of being too invested in the kiss to wait. Her balance is kept by one hand braced against the window, the glass cool beneath her palm. Your mouths move together, breaths tangling, foreheads bumping. 

The taxi goes over a pothole and she laughs into your mouth. Her head hits the ceiling. The driver might lose his insurance if he were to be pulled over, but it’s an awkward thing to break up this moment between you and ask for safety. He glances into the rearview mirror and decides that you’re both quite sensible. He writes this off as a one-time thing. The next time he picks two people up from a club, he’ll tell them to sit safely before they jump each other in the backseat. 

By the time the car slows, you’re both breathless, hair mussed. The driver pointedly ignores this as you get out. Kika thanks him quickly, handing him a hefty tip. She nudges you towards the door of her building insistently after that. 

You realise you have no idea where you are so Kika very much is able to murder you if she so wished. You doubt she will but… 

“Can I have your address?” 

Big sisters get in your head about these things and you know what yours would say if they heard about you hooking up with a stranger before prioritising your basic safety. 

Kika twists her key in the lock but you hesitate at the threshold. She shrugs and types it into your phone. There’s a swoosh as that text message gets sent off to your friend. You quickly add that you’ll be back in the morning. 

“I’m not going to murder you,” Kika states, very serious despite the act of pulling your hips into her rickety lift and wrapping her arms around your body. 

“But you did promise me mind-blowing sex.” You raise your eyebrows. The lift doesn’t move. “Did you press the button?” 

Kika snaps out of her daze and doesn’t grant you a response, hand slamming onto a button until the lift beeps and begins to ascend. That’s embarrassing but whatever. She’ll make you forget about it, she’s sure. 

When the doors finally grind open, she all but drags you out. 

Her apartment is spacious. Too spacious. The lights flick on and cast long shadows across stacked cardboard boxes, half-labelled in thick black pen. Cozinha. Livros. Prêmios. You take in the categories of her life nosily. An interesting way to live. 

“Sorry,” she says a little breathlessly, offering a vague gesture at everything. “I’m moving out.” That would explain it. “I haven’t packed my bed yet.” 

“Where are you moving?” She looks surprised that you’ve asked, as if the comment about the bed should have been enough to satisfy the explanation and allowed you to continue with getting to the mind-blowing sex she has indeed promised. But you seem genuinely interested. 

“Spain,” Kika answers. “Barcelona.” 

“Not Spain,” you counter. 

“Anti-Catalan?” 

“Independentista.” 

“¿Eres de Cataluña?” she tries in Spanish, despite that going against your revelation. But this is good for her to practice before she touches down. “No lo sabía.” 

“Why are you moving?” comes your next question. Kika rolls her eyes. This is killing the vibe and now she can see you in clear lighting and she wants you even more. 

“Work.” 

The one-word answer is an obvious hint to get back to it. You shake your head quickly, as if to get rid of your curiosity, and then Kika is on top of you again, backing you into something plush (must be her sofa) until you're flat against it. 

Kika’s mouth crashes into yours with renewed urgency, like the questions have only wound her tighter. That’s true; they have, because now her plans have been delayed. She kisses you insistently, her hands everywhere, and you don’t usually submit so easily but it seems Kika has subverted your usual dominance. Not that you mind, as her body presses into yours, knee parting your legs and nudging at your crotch, at the growing wetness there. Her biceps are flexed as she holds herself up, bulging as they bracket your head. Work, she said. You can make your guesses. 

You begin to grind your hips into her muscular thigh, skirt bunching up as though its existence has been willed away. Her teeth catch your bottom lip, surprised by the movement, but it’s welcomed quickly as she pushes against you with more force. You moan and she is right there to hear it. Strangers in a club and now about to fuck on a sofa. What a night. 

The leverage of Kika’s body is used well, aware of the effect she’s having, and it’s good enough – she’s good at this – that your mouth opens and the kiss becomes messier, more just exchanged breath as you find the perfect amount of friction to get you where you need to be. Her hands pin you in place, fingers digging into the sofa on either side of you as if she’s holding herself back from doing more. As your head lulls to the side, you press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. 

Nice hands, you think. 

“Kika.” 

She finds your eyes, doesn’t stop the pressure of her thigh but continues with slightly more trepidation, ready to abandon this and let you run away. 

“Kika,” you rasp again, because she hasn’t replied. 

“Yeah?” 

“Use your fingers.” The instruction is needy; a little bit pathetic but not enough for you to care. You don’t care. Right now, you have a one-track mind. 

Her hand doesn’t hesitate as she shifts to keep herself upright. Fingers slide where you’ve been awaiting them, moving quickly and precisely beneath the elastic of your underwear. Your breath hitches and that’s all she needs to grin against your mouth, teeth clashing against yours as you gasp. 

She circles your clit once, twice, gathering the wetness – “you’re so wet” – before she slips a finger inside. Your hips buck up into the space where her thigh has retreated, the space she made to give you what you wanted. 

“More.” 

“Mandona,” she murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your neck before grazing her teeth against the same spot. You can’t hold back the shuddering moan that spills out, loud enough for it to echo in the emptiness of her living room.

Her finger moves faster, slick and confident, driving you higher. She traces a hot line from your jaw to your ear, nipping lightly, leaving trails of fire where she touches. 

You arch into her, chest pressing to hers, nails digging into the firm muscle of her back. Each movement is unrelenting and yet you still need more. 

As if she hears that thought, that ache inside, she adds another finger, perfectly timed with the grinding of her palm into your clit. You can’t do anything but give yourself over entirely, breath catching, body shivering with need. Her control is absolute but in the best way: you’re lost in it. 

She kisses you again, tongue sliding against your own in sync with her fingers. It’s overwhelming – she’s all you can feel, and that’s addictive. Impossibly so. The sofa exists in the apartment, yes, but it’s also on a cosmic plane, something different to anything else, and you think for a moment, wow, I wonder what she can do in a bed. Maybe ‘mind-blowing’ wasn’t just her ego talking. 

You come quicker than usual. It must have been the build-up. And her skilled movements. And her proximity. 

She works you through it with gentle diligence, extracting her fingers only when your hips stutter to a halt, forehead resting against yours as she watches you. She wants to commit that expression to memory. With a satisfied smirk, eyes dark and wild, she pushes herself upwards, sitting back on her haunches. 

“Good?” she teases. There’s no mercy in her grin. She is far from finished. 

“You’re impatient. I’m not even naked.” 

“As if you’re complaining.” 

You fold your arms over your chest, top hardly out of place. “I was promised ‘mind-blowing’.” 

“I think you woke the neighbours up,” she retorts. Your legs tingle as she stands up, free of her weight but missing it instantly. “That must be mind-blowing.” 

“I’m just loud.” 

“Mhm.” She’s not convinced. 

You roll your eyes. “Where is your bedroom? Get naked and I’ll show you ‘mind-blowing’.” 

Her laugh is light and soft and you like that sound a lot. She grabs your hand and takes you past more boxes, past a room with only a shelving unit left, towards the door at the far end. 

“Here’s where that grand tour ends,” she says playfully. She swings the door open to reveal a space that’s still mostly empty, but the bed is made up enough to expose its purpose. You have to step over a guitar case to get inside. Her smile grows sheepish. “It’s messy, sorry.”

“I’m not your mother,” you tell her, shrugging. 

“I’d hope not.” 

You laugh at the horror on her face. As a distraction, you rid yourself of your top. It’s a nice top and you hear the fabric stretch at the force but that’s a problem for later. 

Kika’s jaw goes slack as your bra gets thrown onto the pile. Not that she’s a prude. Or that she’s never seen a naked woman before. In fact, she’s seen lots of naked women, in both sexual and non-sexual contexts. Like in changing rooms. And stuff. 

“Enjoying yourself?” you ask, infuriatingly smug. 

She realises she has visibly malfunctioned, standing statue-like in her bombsite of a bedroom. And now she’s blushing because she has been staring at your boobs instead of doing something – anything – and now the bravado from before has dissipated completely. You, topless, have reduced the ego to zilch.

Kika blinks, then shakes herself, and she is soon all movement, back to her confident self; hands in your hair, mouth on yours, hips pressing into you as though she’s determined to erase that blunder. You’re lying on the bed before long, her hands tracing your ribs until a thumb brushes your hardened nipple. 

“You too,” you whisper in her ear as she palms your breast, tugging at her own top. You’ve wiggled out of your skirt already. “I want to see.” 

She’s not shy – she’s actually very proud of how she looks – and so that is something she can indulge you in, stripping and launching her clothes halfway across the room before she returns to your body. She’s about to have even more fun but your palm presses into her stomach, splaying across the divots of her abs, and she pauses. 

You’re frowning. She wonders why. Her answer comes in the form of a decisive: “can I eat you out?” 

Kika freezes for a fraction of a second, brows lifting, but then her lips curve into a grin. Daring and hungry. “You can,” she replies, voice low and teasing, “but don’t take forever.” 

That earns another eyeroll and if you couldn’t tell from the way she really hasn’t finished packing, you’d assume her flight to El Prat is in two hours. You slide your hand up her back, guiding her as you switch positions, your legs either side of her hips as you tilt her head to the side and kiss down her neck. 

She moans softly, skin tensing under your mouth, fingers tangling in your hair as you explore. 

And explore you do; down to her collarbones, her breasts, her sternum. You part her legs and move your body between them and then you lick down her navel, shamelessly tasting the saltiness of the sheen of sweat covering her skin. Her hips cant upwards insistently. 

“Prisa,” she says. Funny. This is a weird time to have a Spanish lesson. 

“Date prisa,” you reply. “How you say it.” 

You feel her indigance. “Date–” 

She’s cut off by her own gasp as your tongue sweeps over her clit. Her thighs press together, trapping your head, but death-by-hot-woman might be an acceptable thing to add to the obituary. You’d happily suffocate here. 

You drag your tongue over her in deliberate, relentless strokes, and she shudders, hips jerking against you, gripping onto your head for leverage. Her gasp shatters into a low, ragged moan, the sound vibrating through your chest as you lap and flick with careful precision. 

Kika tries to shift, tries to grind against you, but your hands pin her hips down, holding her in place as you control the rhythm. She arches as you make one more pass over her clit before thrusting your tongue inside her, hips fighting you until you pull away pointedly. She stills, begrudgingly, noticing that only one of your hands has returned. She traces your arm until she realises that you're touching yourself. Her head drops back onto the pillow. 

“Don’t stop,” she pants, voice husky. It’s not necessary – you’re not planning to/ You already know what she wants, what she needs. You’re a fast learner. 

You increase the pressure, circling, flicking, teasing just enough to make her squirm desperately, drawing out every gasp and shudder she has to give. Her hips jerk again but you’re insistent on her stillness so she tries to contain herself, clenching her jaw before another moan breaks free and she abandons any notion of having control over herself. 

And when she comes, you’re also groaning into her, and that feels a bit like the stars aligning. Or something equally poetic. She hopes your friend stays lost forever. 

… 

“So…” The morning sunshine is blinding as it pours in through the windows. Kika forgot to close the blinds last night, preoccupied with other things. Things that are currently naked in her bed right now. 

Your voice is husky from sleep, accent thicker now. 

“So?” Kika echoes. You kick her lightly. She wraps her arms around you, hot from being so close but wanting to be close anyway. 

“Lloro,” you grumble.

“Are you going to finish the sentence?” 

You wiggle free of her grip, satisfied by the ache between your legs but also slightly afraid that touching her will soon make you insatiable. Your phone lies dead on Kika’s bedside table. You groan. 

Kindly, she reaches an arm over you, plucking up the glorified brick and putting on charge on her own side. 

“Thank you.” 

“Nada.” 

You spread out, starfishing across the mattress, kicking off the covers. The shock of the air against your naked body is jarring but it’s also very refreshing. You sit up. 

“Bon dia,” is the first thing you really want to say to Kika, happy to find yourself in her bed. That’s not always the case with strangers you meet in clubs. “Not ‘mind-blowing’ but it was a good try.”

She scoffs. “The neighbour hit the wall at one point!” 

“Good you are moving, eh?” 

Kika swings her legs out from underneath where you have invaded her space, planting both feet on the floor. She reaches out for a t-shirt folded on the top of a pile near collapse. She hands it to you and you thank her, because you may be annoying but at least you’re polite. And Kika is very sweet. You’ll give her that. 

“There are some good things about moving,” she agrees. Then she looks around at the bedroom she has lived in for years. Not the first place she has been since moving out of her parents’ house but definitely the one that has felt most like home. “Bad things too.” 

“Like what?” you ask, not because it isn’t obvious but because you’re interested in the list she’ll cultivate. 

“My family lives here. My friends. My club.” 

“Club?” 

“I play football,” she explains. The confirmation makes you feel smug internally, because at least your radar is calibrated and functioning. “Professionally. For Benfica. Do you know Benfica?” 

You could tell her that football has been forced into your life from the moment you were born. You could tell her about Alexia. And Barça. And let it dawn on her that she’s just slept with her new captain’s younger sister, which definitely isn’t the best foot to get off on with Alexia because Alexia is very protective. But some things you just want to keep to yourself. Some things don’t deserve to be complicated by football. 

“I’ve heard of it,” you answer neutrally. Then, to shed yourself of the bad karma that comes with lying by omission, “mi hermana mayor está obsesionada con el fútbol. Y a la otra, le interesan más las jugadoras.”

“Family trait,” Kika says, looking you up and down with a lazy smirk. 

You puff out a breath of denial. “No, no. I do not look for footballers. And you flirted with me.” 

“You flirted back.” She shrugs and you watch the muscles of her back flex as she reaches out to grab a t-shirt for herself. It spoils the nice view of her topless but you’re not going to let that thought surface. “I have a sister too,” she says then, continuing the conversation as she stands up and stretches. “Do your sisters live in Barcelona?” 

“Yes.” 

“But you do not?” She pulls on a pair of shorts but after that, she climbs back into bed. However, she now sits cross-legged in front of you, smiling but seemingly very awake. You bet that Kika is a fucking morning person. 

“I graduated a month ago and I want to travel. I was doing surfing in Porto but my friend lives here. I visit her.” The English muddles in your brain and this is a bit like an oral exam but you push through it, forcing yourself to wake up. Not that you will ever achieve Kika’s level of spriteliness before midday at least.

“No te gustan las mañanas,” Kika deduces somehow. Maybe from your pout and the way you rub your eyes. And your comfortable position in her bed that makes it clear you’re not planning to get out of it soon. 

“Ven aquí,” you murmur, relieved. Good on Kika for learning Spanish. Your arms open up as she crawls towards you. “I sleep more.” 

She nods into your chest. “Voy a hacer… breakfast.” 

“No,” you whine. “Quédate.” 

“I’m hungry.” 

“You eat me?” you suggest. 

“You are asleep.” She glances at your soft smile, the curve of your cheeks, the crinkle between your eyebrows. You’re beautiful. She wants to kiss you. She almost does. Instead, she gets up despite your protests and slinks off into the kitchen. 

When you next wake up, you’re alone in bed. You pat the other side of the mattress and feel the cold sheets and Kika has no clock so the only way to check the time is by staring at the sun or braving your phone. You choose the latter. Your friend, Sara, can’t be that annoyed with you. 

The messages come as soon as you type in your password. 

Where have you gone? 

What are you doing? 

What the fuck is this address??? This is so far from my place!!!!

Yeah, so maybe not the most pleased. A groan rumbles in your throat as you see it’s almost midday. 

You send Sara a message confirming that you’re alive. She replies instantly, asking who you went home with. You leave that message on read, unwilling to spread the word just yet. 

After a detour to the ensuite attached to the bedroom, you pad out into the hallway, minty and mildly victorious about the discovery of a brand-new toothbrush still in its plastic wrapper. There’s something intimate about Kika leaving it there for you, but you pocket that feeling, ignoring the warmth growing in your chest. You follow the sound of commentary coming from the living room. 

Kika is on the sofa, legs stretched out, one ankle hooked over the other. She’s wearing different clothes now, linen shorts and a tank top, hair damp against her back. There’s a coffee mug balanced on the arm of the sofa, empty. The TV is on low volume but you can tell from her posture, the intensity with which she watches the screen, that she is invested in it.

Highlights from the Olympics. Yawn. 

“Who do you want to win?” 

She jumps at that, having not noticed your presence. You dart forwards to catch the mug that falls from its precarious position, setting it down on the wooden floor. Kika lets out a shuddery laugh, folding her legs underneath her in an invitation for you to sit down. You accept, glancing at the goal being shown on the TV. Jenni, against Colombia. You’d seen your family group chat with each relative’s opinions on the match. It went to penalties. 

“Me?” Kika asks, as if there are any other people in this room. You nod. “Brazil. Spain. I like Brazil… but my new teammates are playing for Spain. The atmosphere will be very bad on the first day if they lose.” 

“It’s not their fault,” you tell her, wincing slightly at your ability to carry the conversation. Stupid Alexia and her forcefulness of football onto your childhood. And strong Alexia, you suppose too, because she works so hard despite the odds being stacked against her. “Bad manager.” 

“It’s hard when it’s like that. You can’t do much when you have a bad manager.” Her breath hitches as she watches a Colombian player take a penalty and miss. “I hate penalties.” 

“Stressful,” you murmur in agreement. Her feet brush your thigh and you’re most focused on that, but Kika is adorably engrossed in the match and doesn’t seem to care. 

Your stomach makes a sound and that seems to snap Kika out of it. You blush, embarrassed.

“We can get food after this finishes? I was making you breakfast but you were dead to the world so I thought we could get some when you woke up.” 

Enticed by food, you’re tempted to spoil the match’s outcome but then you’d be exposing knowledge that you want to keep separate from her. Amongst the many reasons to go to Portugal after university, one of them was distance from football. Football has engulfed your family, dictating almost everything, and while you’re proud of your sister, you also want some agency in your own life. While Alexia and Alba are happily rooted to Barcelona, to the same streets and cafés and people, you have grown bored. You want to experience more than just the comfort of your home. 

Kika turns the TV off once the highlights end, stretching her arms over her head with a satisfied hum. “Okay,” she says, “let’s go.” 

You glance down at yourself, then back up at her. The borrowed t-shirt from earlier is gone; you’re back in last night’s clothes, creased and spangly and very clearly meant for a dark club at two in the morning, not a sunlit street in the afternoon. “I can’t go out like this.” 

She tilts her head, assessing your outfit. A smirk spreads out onto her lips. “You look fine.” 

“This looks like a walk of shame,” you counter. “It is. But still.”

“Come.” She stands and offers you her hand, and you go back to the bedroom. She rifles through the piles of clothes on the floor, pulling out a pair of similar shorts to the ones she is already wearing and a loose t-shirt. She presses them into your arms without ceremony. 

You raise an eyebrow. The t-shirt has a crest on it, which you can only assume to be Benfica’s. 

“What?” she asks with faux innocence. 

“Really?” 

She shrugs at your question.

You change while she pretends not to watch and very obviously watches anyway. The shorts sit low on your hips, the top is too big, hanging on the edge of your shoulder. It smells like her, like the freshness of the apartment, and you find that to be weirdly comforting. 

Kika’s expression shifts when you turn back to her. Not dramatic, but full of intent. She steps closer, fingers brushing the cuff of your sleeve and then sliding up your arm. 

“Careful,” you murmur. “We are going.” 

“I know.” She kisses you anyway.

You lean into her without thinking, hands finding her waist, and for a moment everything goes very quiet, holding its breath. Her lips part as you deepen the kiss, your grip slipping to the curve of her bum, pulling her into you. And then she pulls away. 

“Vámonos.” 

Rude. 

You blink and soon you are outside. The street is bright and alive, pavement baking under the sun, people walking past without hurrying. A few faces linger on Kika beside you, whose fingers brush yours but never intertwine, and you can feel the pride that she exudes at that. You pass an advert with her face on it, too, and Kika nudges your shoulder. 

It’s hard to pretend to be surprised. You’re used to images of your sister following you around Barcelona, watching your every move, but to entertain it you ask Kika, “are you famous?” 

She laughs. “No.” Very humble. “They just like me here.”

You grow pensive as she steers you towards a bustling café with shaded tables scattered on the street. 

“Why leave?” 

Kika turns, having been distracted by finding a seat and greeting the waiter who clearly knows her. It takes a moment for her to respond, biting her lip as she thinks about her answer. Your fingers drum against the metal table. 

“You don’t reject an offer from Barça.” Neither of you are satisfied with that PR response. She sighs. “I guess I want more experiences; different opponents, different leagues. It’s a different level of football. It’s the best.” Her hesitation comes in the form of holding two fingers up at the friendly waiter, who doesn’t look surprised but raises his eyebrows at her before disappearing inside. “I am… worried. Worried that I won’t be good enough. But you can only get better by playing with better players.” Brown eyes find yours. “Why do you want to travel?” 

The question reminds you that you’re yet to break the news to your family. You make a mental note to call Mami later and talk to her. 

“I think the same. Different experiences. I have lived in Barcelona my whole life but there is so much more to explore.”

“Where do you want to go?” Kika asks with genuine interest, hardly breaking eye contact even when the waiter brings out two coffees with a plate of pastries.

You shrug. “Everywhere.” 

She likes the sound of that. She finds you very intriguing actually. Relaxed and confident but not outwardly, just at peace with yourself. She knows you’re clever, has deduced that from the degree you’ve just earned, and you’re pretty, too, and if it weren’t for her moving countries, she’d be a lot more invested in making last night a longer thing. 

But you’re two trains passing, swapping stations. It’s unfortunate but such is life, and Kika accepts that with a touch of disappointment but the awareness that there isn’t much she can do to change the situation. Trust her to meet a Catalan she likes who is moving away from Barcelona before she can even get there. 

It settles in her chest like a doomclock but she tries to ignore it. 

Food turns into a walk around her neighbourhood, which turns into a movie at her place, which turns into even more sex. And then you’re waking up in her bed again, now resigned to wearing her clothes, and you’re helping her finish packing and giving her lists of things to do in Barcelona and she lends you her laptop to look for flights to Madeira, because you’re planning to hike around the island before embarking on more adventurous travel. 

You’re having breakfast, lunch, and dinner with her, teaching her Catalan words, absorbing a bit of Portuguese to help you on your travels. You call Mami from her balcony, with Kika sitting there watching you, unable to take her eyes off you even though the conversation goes straight over her head. And then when you’re crying about it, suddenly terrified by the prospect of being alone, never having been allowed to feel that why because of the sacrifices your loved ones have made to protect you, Kika is the one to pull you into her arms and tell you that it will be alright. “Just do it anyway,” is what she says. 

“I’m scared,” you confess, sniffling as the tears subside. Kika doesn’t move, doesn’t let go. You feel safe in her arms and it’s ridiculous, really, because this is your fifth day of knowing her, but sometimes you just… click. And that’s good. “I realise I don’t know anything about the world. I don’t travel on my own. This is new for me. My sisters have always been there to help me.” 

“You can call them, text them… You’re not completely alone.” 

A wet laugh bubbles out of you. “You don’t understand. You don’t know my sisters.” Part of you aches to tell her, but with how Alexia has reacted to your travel plans has been enough of an indicator that you are not leaving on the best terms with her. 

Kika hums softly, not pushing but shifting just enough so you’re both sitting back against the balcony wall, knees bent, Lisbon stretching out beneath you. 

“You can tell me,” she says. Her voice comes out gentle and smooth and a little Portuguese, but she is speaking to you in Spanish. 

You pick at a loose thread on the hem of her shorts, breathing in. You exhale. The words sit heavily on your chest but they have been there your whole life, a gloomy shadow that has followed you around. A story that everyone in Barcelona knows before you get to tell them. 

“My dad died when I was ten,” you say finally. It’s plain, routine. It has become a bullet point in the description of why you are the way you are. 

Kika’s arms tighten around you instinctively. She doesn’t interrupt. 

“My oldest sister was eighteen,” you continue. “Barely an adult. But suddenly she was everything. She helped Mami with bills, appointments, household chores. Mami was devastated. He didn’t die quickly – he suffered and he was ill and it took its toll. So Alex was the one who took me to school. She helped me with my homework. She had to deal with me and my sister’s pain before she could even process her own and she hasn’t changed.” 

You feel Kika’s jaw clench and unclench, as though she recognises this, as though she’s felt it. Everyone makes sacrifices. Everyone can see themselves in anyone’s suffering. 

“When I say I’ve never really been alone, I mean it. Someone has always been there to catch me. And now I’m telling them I want to leave and Alex, she just doesn’t understand.” You think of Mami’s measured story, of how she promised to deal with it and reassured you that she, as your mother, trusts you to do what you think is best. “I’m worried she will think I’m betraying her. I’m… rejecting everything she has ever done for me. She thinks it’s her job to stop me from getting hurt.” You chuckle but it comes out humourless. “You should have seen her talk to my first girlfriend.” 

Kika decides she’s not looking forward to that conversation, then. Even if you’re going away, she will find you again. She is sure of that. 

Her chin rests on the top of your head, 

“That’s not a bad sister,” she says. 

“No,” you agree. “That’s the problem.” 

Silence hangs between you. Somewhere below, a dog barks. You can hear the distant rattle of the tram. Children playing football on the street, laughing. 

A hand cups your cheek, Kika’s eyes shining and warm. “I know I’m technically a stranger,” she starts, nodding when you shake your head, because she doesn’t feel like that anymore, “but I don’t think you’re running away from them. You’re running towards something else. Something for yourself.” She speaks these words from experience, from her own battle that grappled with leaving everything she has ever known. There was a moment where she almost declined the offer, but someone else, back then, had given her a similar talk.

“Your sister protected you because you needed it. That doesn’t mean you need it forever.” 

You swallow. Part of you is tinged with guilt about telling her this. Whatever fantasy Kika has of keeping in touch will stay as such, because she can’t know all of this about Alexia and still be her teammate. You can’t compromise Kika’s professionality by giving her a sob story about your sister’s slightly overbearing nature. Not when you know just how much people worship her. She exists on a different plane. You do not want to bring her back down to Earth and ruin the illusion for Kika. 

But you like Kika. So much. It adds another ache to your heart. 

Your flight to Madeira isn’t long. You read a book you pick up in the airport. You’ve given Sara the things you haven’t wanted to bring and now you feel like a traveller, backpack and all. And you’re ready for it. You’re ready to take on the rest of the world.