#kika

Each part has a song to go with it (of course, because how could I not) side note: all the songs are by queer women!! Except Hozier, but he counts. Anyway, you should listen to them. Support queer art!!

Also I’m seriously on the Kika train rn so just indulge me briefly please

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI Content warnings for some pretty angsty angst, drunk Kika hehe, then lots of smut!! Scissoring, Oral (Kika receiving), strap sex (R receiving), but it’s all ooey gooey fluffy nice crying sex ofc but I cannot write any other kind. So there u go.

Thinking of you

Kika Nazareth x Reader

~9k words

Five times you couldn’t admit to thinking of one another, and one time you did.

Your hair snags under your shoulder blade as you shift against the floor. It’s snagged there, tugging gently at your scalp, but the effort of sitting up and readjusting it is too much right now. The ceiling reflects only darkness back at you, the low glow of halogen streetlights through the kitchen window casting only a dribble of light under the bedroom door. The floor is cold- porcelain tile, icy and smooth, digging into each point of contact your body makes. Heels, calves, pelvic bone going numb. Shoulder blades and elbows fidgeting, unable to get settled in a position that will provide any relief.

This is meant to be helping, meant to be realigning your spine or whatever. You’re meant to fall asleep and wake up in the morning entirely reset. But, honestly, it doesn’t feel much like it’s working as your head flops back against the thin pillow, the only buffer between your skull and the surface below you.

Whose fucking genius idea was this anyway?

Hers. She’d told you, once, that the doctor made her do this. It had been after that time she’d hurt her back in the gym, showing off with a stupidly heavy deadlift she didn’t really know how to do, trying to impress some girl. The girl- she’d been the year above, you were pretty sure. You couldn’t even remember her name. But Kika had ended up in the doctors chair, and when she came back to school the next week she told you about the sleeping-on-the-floor thing. Ever dramatic, her dark eyes had rolled as she’d told the story, complaining that her mother was making her do it, even though it was torture.

In an attempt to make her life easier, you’d spent two weeks following Kika around like a lost puppy. Most people knew this as your role anyway: always at her side, joined at the hip in a way that made sense to few others. But this time was different, you were at her beck and call- picking things up when she dropped them, reaching for the higher or lower shelves she couldn’t strain to reach with her injury. You found yourself knelt at her feet more times than you could count on both hands.

Lying with vertebrae digging into the flooring of your Lisbon apartment, that feels like a lifetime ago. You were only 15, before she’d even signed with Benfica- before either of your lives had changed really. Now… well now things were different. She’d call, sometimes, when she had a minute, always saying she preferred to hear your voice than send a text. But she was busy, a lot, and sometimes you got lost in the noise. You know that- it’s not her fault. But it feels better when she calls.

The memories swirl in an eternal spiral down the centre of your amygdala, sending sparks down your bruised spine that only serve to confuse. She’s your best friend, always has been, and there’s no question in it. She’ll never be famous to you, not in the way she is to other people, no matter how many trophies she wins or how many little girls wear her shirt. So why, when you think about that time so many years ago, does it feel like a little part of your heart is being extracted? Like she made herself a home there without you realising, and when she’s gone, the shutters go up before you can stop them.

You like to think your relationship is uncomplicated, that it was founded on the kind of trust and belief in one another that prevails from childhood. It endures in a way that later bonds, ones where people have ulterior motives, just cannot replicate. But the longer you lie there, the image vivid in your mind- knees on the floorboards of the library, hush all around you, a book in your hands as you look up into her eyes and she gives you a wry smile- the more distorted it feels.

You would’ve done anything for her then, if she’d asked. You’d never been interested in doing anything for anyone else. Even when she had crushes on other girls, older girls, rambling about them to you endlessly, you just nodded along, knowing full well that one day she’d leave you for one of them and yet there was no way out of this.

Before that, you remember her coming out- being fourteen, curled up in a pile of mattresses and blankets on your mothers living room floor, movies playing with the volume low on the TV long into the night. She’d rolled over, half asleep, and tugged you in by the shoulder. You’d gone willingly, in the way you always would. She’d whispered it softly.

I like girls. I know I like girls and I don’t like boys. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But I have to tell someone. I’m scared. Please don’t hate me.

You held her that night, limbs wound together in a way that hardly had the space to mean anything yet. But your adolescent heart had raced as your mind fumbled through every interaction, every “practice kiss,” every gentle squeeze of your hand, every lingering look as you changed for football games or back into your school clothes. You’d always had a tendency to overanalyse.

And that’s what you’re doing now, probably. Overanalysing. Thinking too much about what could’ve been, if you’d been brave enough. You know you’re lucky to still have her around, in whatever capacity. You’d do anything for her, that hasn’t changed in the slightest. But it’s different now.

Different because so much time has passed, and the idea of telling her you’re thinking of her as you lie flat on the floor, heart beating so hard it sends blood to all the places you don’t want or need it, makes you want to vomit.

At some point, this became something you just carry. Because you have to, because there is no other choice. You close your eyes, back flat and arms at your sides, and pray for sleep to come. Pray quietly, to a god you’re not sure exists any more, for the pain to go away. The problem is, you’re not entirely sure which pain you mean any more.

The roar from the stands at Estadi Johan Cruyff echoes up into the dark Barcelona sky. Kika stops, dead still, catching her breath with a grin as teammates pile in around her, jumping on her, clapping her on the back. Alexia kisses her forehead, whispers something in Kika’s ear that she doesn’t quite catch. She’s out of breath, maybe more than usual, the sweat clinging her shirt to her body in a way that chills her when the wind blows. She can feel rivulets at the nape of her neck, in her hairline, and she knows her face must be bright red from the way it burns against the cool night air.

It’s Friday, the stadium lights are bright and the stands are packed. She just scored- really, really scored- a hook in from so far out of position that she’s surprised she’s getting congratulated instead of bollocked by Alexia. It would probably be the alternative if the ball hadn’t gone in quite so spectacularly.

She’d cheered, hearing her name reverberate through the waves of fans, but something about it felt sour tonight. Without thinking, her eyes flick to the bench, to the row of seats directly behind it. There’s family there, friends, someone’s boyfriend, someone’s sister. But nobody for Kika.

That’s the reality of playing so far from home. Sometimes her family will travel, for a really big game, but more often than not she is alone in this city. And yet, she finds herself scanning that same stand every time. As if you’d magically appear without her knowing. As if you’d even bother to come.

Her heart clenches, and her focus is shot for the rest of the game. Luckily not long to go- eight minutes, plus two. She triangulates balls back and forth between Alexia and Caro, but going for another shot feels unnecessary now. She’s just treading water, trying to keep her head up as the memories flood back in unbidden.

She was seventeen when she started at Benfica. Two weeks before her birthday, and you’d managed to get a front row seat to her very first appearance. Your face had peeked over the bench, eyes glittering and smile wide as she’d jogged nervously out onto the pitch. You’d had a shirt printed with her name especially, since they weren’t even available to buy.

Kika was still nobody- talented, sure, and rising through the ranks, but the time between then and now had changed everything. Back then you’d been at every game, screaming her name and clapping as hard as you could, and when Kika looked to the stands you’d be there to meet her eye, every single time.

It made her heart twist, fuelled her with something that felt like confidence but tasted a little more metallic, and pushed her on through game after game. And after, you’d wait for her. She’d find you sitting on the low wall outside the stadium, just waiting as if it was what you were put on earth to do.

Final whistle, and Kika is snapped back into the present moment with a force so violent it makes her momentarily nauseous. She steels her face, chest still feeling a little concave at the knowledge that you won’t be sitting outside to walk her home. A deep breath settles her as she attempts to neutralise her expression, shaking hands with members of the other team, girls whose names she hardly knows. Then Patri comes up behind her, an arm around her shoulder, and Kika forces a brief smile before her teammate moves away to someone else. She is silently grateful for a moment of solitude as she retreats down the tunnel, cleats clacking against the linoleum.

Alexia stops her in the doorway.

“Everything okay?”

She has that look on her face, the one that is concerned captain first and concerned friend second. Kika loves her for this- her ability to assess and solve for all kinds of damage in one fell swoop. So Kika lies.

“Yeah, just tired. Ready to get home.”

Alexia smiles softly, a hand on her arm, and the knowing look of sympathy on her face tells Kika that she knows she’s lying but won’t push any harder. Kika is grateful.

“Well, whoever she is, maybe you should call her. It might be easier than fighting it,”

Somehow, she has nailed it- again. Ever perceptive, Alexia might as well just perform a lobotomy right there in the hallway and pull Kika’s thoughts out one by one with a pair of forceps. She just nods, letting her captain go ahead into the changing rooms, her legs suddenly heavy in the corridor.

Kika knows she should call. It’s been a long time- too long- and it gets harder to type the numbers in, to hear your voice, to catch up in a way that’s so surface level without stumbling into something deeper, something she’s sure she’ll regret.

She knows she fucked it, probably longer ago than she’d care to admit. She fell in love so slowly she barely noticed, and by the time she realised it might be a good idea to do something about it, a contract with Barcelona was signed and her apartment was packed into boxes.

You’d held her, there on the doorstep of her Lisbon apartment, as the final ones were loaded into the back of a van to be shipped ahead. She’d brushed a lock of hair back from your temple, fingertips lingering for a moment against the freckled skin of your cheek. You’d looked up at her, earnest and open, and Kika had felt in every atom of her being that impossible magnetic draw that had held you so close for so long.

Stop being a fucking coward and just kiss her.

But she didn’t. She stepped back, released you from her grasp, and climbed into the waiting taxi. She drove away from her own home, you still stood on her front porch, the weight of the kiss hanging heavy in the air. She wasn’t sure that weight had ever gone away.

Now, leaning on her kitchen island as a chamomile tea steeps by the sink, she opens her phone. She should do it- just call, just to say hello. She could talk about the game, although she doesn’t know any more if you even watch them. It makes her hands shake, in a way that not many things do- it’s like the confidence, the nearly ten years of growing and learning and training and pushing herself, falls away in a single moment, and she is back on your living room floor, nose pressed to yours.

Please don’t hate me.

Her fingers find the numbers easily, a sequence branded into her mind. She’s sure if they autopsy her after she dies, cut her skull open, your phone number would be scrawled there in blue biro. The number sits on the screen, white numbers in a black box, glaring up at her. Just one button, one more touch of fingertip to glass and you’d be there.

She could do it, should do it, knows she’s probably ruining everything all over again by not doing it. But it’s late- the clock on the kitchen wall ticks into the last two minutes of the day. You’re probably asleep already, and it would hurt more to go to voicemail. So she deletes the digits, closes the app, then locks her phone.

It’s sunset. The sky was blue all day, Portuguese heat hanging languid in the air its only does here. It’s dying now, settling like sheet dropped onto the mattress from a height. Clouds streaked with pink and orange explode out across the horizon, like the angry strokes of a Jackson Pollock painting, aftershocks of the burning red sun who threatens the distant treetops with her fire.

You sit, the gentle creak of the swing under your weight a reminder that you are in fact on earth, even if you aren’t swinging. It’s rusty, the swing- has been for years. You’re not really sure how you ended up here, or why. But it’s too quiet. It was stupid to come here, dredging up old times that echo with possibility, possibility that is long dead.

She had to go. But listening to the steady click of the swing’s chain against the frame, closing your eyes and letting the dry dust of the playground settle, it’s almost possible to believe she’s there with you.

As these things often happen, you’d been out walking and ended up at the playground by accident. Maybe it was the storm threatening, the energy of lightning crackling high up in the clouds, but the path through town had naturally lead you here.

Last time, she’d been with you. You’d sat on these swings and talked until there was nothing left to say. She’d insinuated something, that she wanted something from you, although quite what you can’t remember. But she pushed too far, you know that, because the swooping panic and subsequent defensive outpouring resonate through your chest as if she’s still there beside you.

You’d tried so hard to push her away, praying it would be easier to exist if she’d just leave it alone. Now you want nothing more than for her to come back.

It’s funny, the feeling of haunting a place where you once felt most alive. Now there is nothing left for you here, nothing but the retreat back into a place she never knew, a room she never slept in, and yet a home that is still plagued by the ghost of who she could’ve been to you. It should be easy to romanticise- a place of your own in the city you love, exactly the way you want it. You created your own beginning again, after she left- but it never felt quite right. The memory of her chapped lips, fingers hesitating by your ear as the van doors closed, has simply followed you from her doorstep to your own.

Being without her isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just sad, little moments in the day when she should be there, her little finger brushing yours as you walk side by side, refusing to acknowledge that maybe if you just took her hand everything would start to make sense.

You will never tell her. Never ever let her know how lonely it is without her. She deserves everything she has, everything she’s worked so hard for, and you are fiercely proud in a way you cannot and will never be able to explain. Somehow, even after all this time, she is still everything.

But you can’t tell her- can’t let her see how much it has changed you. Or maybe it hasn’t- maybe you’re exactly the same as when she left, just watching the sky cloud over with the swirls of apocalyptic thunder, patiently waiting to be struck down. It would be easier to fry your nerve endings in the path of a lightning bolt than to tell her any of this. You’re still on the swing, phone dangling loose from your grip. It buzzes, and for a second your heart leaps- what if it’s her?

But it never is.

You could do it- reach out, initiate the contact. You have no doubt she’d be gracious about it, even if she didn’t really want to speak to you. But somehow that feels worse- like if you called and she felt obliged to speak to you, any illusion of potential or desire or want of any kind would be completely shattered, its shards littered across the sandy ground beneath your trainers. No, the maybe is too fragile to risk.

And then the rain comes. It’s light at first, sporadic droplets that catch in your hair and stain dark spots on your hoodie. But it gets harder, and still you cannot move. The sun disappears and the sky ripples dark and hazy, like fingerprint smears on a mirror. The water is ice cold- seeping down the back of your neck, heavy fabric clinging to your body, denim stuck to your legs.

It runs down your face, and before long you cannot tell what is rainwater and what is tears. You do not know when you started to cry, only that you are, and suddenly the overbearing truth of needing her is the only fathomable thing in the universe. It darkens, closes in, shrinks down to that one single thought. You are cold and wet and probably making yourself horribly ill, but it doesn’t matter. She is out of reach, completely, and the world here hardly exists without her in it.

When it finally stops you are spent. Your body shivers, half with cold and half with exhaustion, as the clouds clear and give way to a milky blue dusk. The walk home is not long, but it drags, fabric chafing half frozen on your skin, throat raw from screams you didn’t know you still had in you.

Your apartment is warm, dry, safe. It feels empty, but that is what you need- solace, space to exist like this and not be mocked for it. You strip out of your wet clothes in the hallway and leave them there, because there is no one to tell you otherwise.

The shower is hot, probably too hot, but it brings the colour back into your skin and the feeling back to your fingers. Bed is soft, warm, safe. Lonely, yes, but as you cocoon naked in the sheets and let the tension fade from your muscles, you know you could not stand to let anyone see you like this. Could not stand for her to know just how thoroughly you miss her.

Kika doesn’t drink. Not during the season, and not often outside of it. She is, what most would accurately call, a lightweight. So it doesn’t take much.

Bottles of wine litter the long table. Laughter rings true and unbridled in the restaurant, the kind that only bubbles up when inhibitions are blurry at best. Kika’s not sure how they ended up in this situation- a long weekend, some time off training, just one win away from a league title. So Alexia has loosened the reins, let them have their fun, and left her Amex on the little plate at the centre of the table.

Team dinners are fun, especially when spirits are high like this. The banter is easy, flowing, comfortable. Nobody is left out, and nobody is at the centre- waves of chatter course up and down the rows of chairs like tides, carried by gentle touches and cheek kisses and ruffled hair. Kika loves it- how unafraid these women are of loving one another.

She wishes, for one moment, that you could feel this. You were always different- not just from her, but from her other friends. More withdrawn, more cautious with your affection, less freely open to receive love. She wishes you could see this, wishes she could take your hand and say

See? You are allowed to be loved.

Kika contemplates this as she drinks her second glass of wine.

By the third, she’s convinced herself she’s glad she let you go. That it’s easier this way, that she can just hope you’re happy and know that you’ll never actually be there. When she first moved, Kika really thought maybe you’d follow. Maybe you’d be unable to resist the pull, the pull that was slowly disintegrating her from the inside. Maybe one day she’d come home and you’d be waiting.

Now she is nursing her fourth glass of wine and staring into space. Alexia is beside her, and she feels a hand on the back of her neck before she realises her captain is leaning in to speak.

“You’ve got that look again. Did you do it? Call her?”

That was three weeks ago. Three weeks since she didn’t call.

Kika shakes her head.

“Do it now.”

The idea is potent, like a shot of tequila, and for a second Kika thinks she might. She allows her mind to run- what would happen if she called now? Would the truth out? Or would you run?

“Can’t.” She slurs, slumping down in her seat as her glass clinks on the tabletop.

“I’m wasted.”

Ale laughs, fingers massaging the knot at the top of Kika’s spine. For a second she relaxes into it, and then she remembers what people are saying, about her and Alexia. Maybe she could see it- maybe she even would, if circumstances were different. But they aren’t.

Kika closes her eyes, leans into the touch. For a moment the world dims. Behind her eyelids, she sees you- coming to the door of her bedroom, lipstick smudged, music guiding your bare feet across the floorboards. She wants nothing more than to go to you, to drag you down onto the mattress. Somehow she has drunk enough that there’s no denying it any more.

“I’m in love with her, Alexia.”

Her eyes open again, and Ale is just looking at her. She smiles gently, nods, and then pats Kika on the back.

“I’m going to go and sort the tab. You know what you need to do bebita.”

Kika does know. She feels it in her bones, like the tectonic plates of her existence are shifting against her will. There’s nothing she can do about it.

First contact. It’s like going into space, reaching out to the aliens, praying for a response that isn’t intent on destroying you.

Then drunk Kika has an idea. Her mind flits back to a trip you took in your first year of high school, to an art gallery in Porto. There was some old timey artist there you loved, you wouldn’t shut up about him for weeks. Vasco- that was it. She googles him without thinking, finds the most recent article. Only a couple of weeks ago, something about a new exhibition. That seems plausible enough. She copies the link, pastes it before she has time to question if this is a good idea.

Saw this and thought of you the text reads, which isn’t technically a lie. If those events happened in the opposite order, you don’t need to know that right away.

As soon as she hits send, it’s like her mind has been hit by a missile. Kika’s ears ring, her vision goes fuzzy, and panic sets in fast and strong. That tether, the one she’s been tugging on and testing in her mind, just became a real, tangible text thread. It feels like a confession, like she’s just climbed up on the roof and screamed it. Her hands shake as she watches the word “delivered” pop up below the message.

She checks her phone four times in the space of ten minutes. When Alexia comes back, she physically pries it from Kika’s hands, putting it in the back pocket of her jeans.

“It’s done, chica.” She says, her tone firm even if her eyes are sympathetic.

“You have to wait.”

So Kika waits. She tries to focus on sobering up, drinking two glasses of water, peeing three times, sometimes just getting up and walking around the entire table for something to do that isn’t looking at her phone. If the others think her behaviour is weird, nobody says anything. As they’re leaving the restaurant in a tipsy, cackling gaggle, Alexia hands Kika her phone before sliding into her taxi.

“Be careful Kikinha, your heart is more fragile than you think.” She warns, slipping away into the night.

Kika stands dead still on the pavement, phone in her hands, half oblivious as people brush past her. Then she opens it, heart tight and lungs burning. And there it is.

Seen- 23:41.

“Kika,” you gasp, barely able to catch your breath. It doesn’t matter how many times you say her name, the fire never subsides. She burns through you like a natural disaster, plundering and taking.

But you lie back, head craning against the pillows, spine arched up under her touch. Her body is steady, solid and grounding above your own writhing mass of limbs. She holds herself almost completely still, except for the heaving of her chest as her breaths come shallow.

She is so unbelievably beautiful like this- powerful and strong, and yet so vulnerable in a way that feels like she’s giving her soul to you. Her skin is honey golden and smooth, slicked with sweat and fluid, sliding against your own like some kind of well oiled machine. You can’t help but work in sync, hips rolling up to meet hers in a hypnotic rhythm that could verge on mechanical, as if you are two parts of the same organism, something so purely human it is almost not.

Her thigh tenses as a shudder flickers through her body, lips parting just a fraction more, as if she’s not getting enough oxygen. You shift beneath her, seeking her, a spark of ecstasy trailing into satisfaction as you drag your clit against hers, quietly proud at the unholy sound that escapes her.

There is nothing more true than the way this feels, body to body, mouth to mouth, like finally going to battle with the God who kept you apart for so long. You want to hold her, steady her as she gets closer, but you can’t- your own movements are as urgent as hers. It rises, steady in your stomach, the heaviness fading to light like a helium balloon rising into the sky.

And then she screams, her body collapsing forwards, spasms wracking through her as her fingernails dig into your shoulders. She is still there, her movements slower but persistent, as you crumble. It feels less like a tsunami and more like waves lapping at the shore, your body twitching over and over, begging her for more.

She kisses you sweetly. She tastes like strong espresso and those horrible toffees she loves so much. Her tongue is restless, pressing into your mouth, and for a second you think she may go again. But she doesn’t, her body rolling off you to the side. You are in your room- pink bedsheets underneath you, posters on the walls, school football kit hanging over the back of your desk chair.

And then it hits. You are not there, you can’t be. That house has been gone for nearly ten years. You are, quite suddenly, very much awake and aware that your heart is shattering.

Orpheus- the word flashes across your mind like a brand. If you don’t turn your head, Kika is still there beside you. You could let yourself drift, go on believing that she’s right there, that she’ll always be right there. But the minute you turn, the minute you open your eyes and look around, she is Eurydice- dragged away from you into oblivion. It makes you feel sick, heart racing. But you have no choice.

The room is dark. Completely dark, blackout curtains drawn tight. You are sweating- the sheets soaked, your T-shirt stuck to your back. And then you notice the other thing- your underwear, twisted and mangled to one side, a sticky mess of fluids smeared down your thighs, presumably from all the writhing. A faint pulse throbs through your clit- so you did come then. That’s almost worse.

You’re not sure why, but you reach for your phone. It’s only twenty to twelve- you can’t have been asleep more than an hour and a half. The screen’s light is bright white, and it makes you screw up your face as you check notifications. An email, two Instagram DMs… and a text.

A text from a number you’d recognise anywhere, a number that will never give up following you. It’s two texts, actually.

It’s like she knew. Like she could feel it, feel your energy reaching for her, even in sleep. It’s been weeks, and even before that communication was sparse and shallow. But she’s reaching out now- in the middle of the night- and it feels like an earthquake has shifted your foundations.

The message is weird- a link to an article about a painting you saw on a school trip almost fifteen years ago. Whatever she’s thinking, it’s strange. It feels out of place, a little desperate.

Before you can think properly, your bank account is open on your phone screen. That’s fine- money is not too tight this month, not as tight as it is sometimes.

And as if there is no other choice, you’re booking a flight. Because you cannot argue with the universe any more. You cannot deny what it has been whispering in your ear for thirteen years, although the last five have felt more like screaming. You have to know- even if you get there and she tells you to fuck off home, you have to know. No more arguments, no more thinking of her and refusing to admit it. You have to say it.

Barcelona El Prat feels familiar in a way that makes you feel sick. You’ve been here once before, back when she first moved. You visited for a weekend, but leaving her again was too fucking sad to do it more than once. She’d tried to show you round, but in truth she was still finding her own feet, fumbling her way through those early weeks at Barça. It was hard, seeing her like that. After Benfica, where she’d been so impossibly her, seeing her try to shrink herself to fit into someone else’s city just felt wrong.

But this is her city now. You’d seen the photos, the games, the posters. Barcelona loves Kika like she is one of their own. The metro is quiet, the hour still too early for evening commuters and definitely for the general public. It is easier this way- travelling without looking out at the streets, not feeling your guts quite so ripped out by a place that had enveloped the only thing that ever mattered to you and claimed it.

But you have to emerge eventually, to walk down the hill towards the stadium. You stop just short of the training field, shielded from the outside world by huge logo-ed banners. Someone inside is counting aloud in Catalan, and the thud of ball against boot echoes in the air. Then you hear it- a shout, some words you don’t understand, but they sound excited. It doesn’t matter if you don’t understand it, because it’s her.

There is half an hour more of training left. You know this because she told you once, in those early weeks, how nice it was to finish at three every day.

So you sit on the wall, eyes on the gate, and you wait. Suddenly you feel eighteen, waiting for her to finish practice, and the realisation hits you that you’ve been waiting around for her your whole life. It’s different now though. You don’t know the players who exit the building before her, and nobody knows you, so nobody runs back to get her, to tell her you’re there. She doesn’t know- until she does.

Kika’s mouth drops open. She sees the top of your head before anything else- golden waves just visible beyond Salma’s car as she turns it around at the front of the building. But it’s unmistakeable, she knows that head of hair, maybe better than she knows her own reflection. She falters- there’s no way you’d be here if something bad hadn’t happened. And at the training ground? Waiting for her? Not even at a hotel, not even calling first. Still, what can she do but go over?

You look up as her shadow blocks the sun. Her hair is wet, still tangled from the shower, leaving damp patches on the shoulders of her navy tracksuit. A duffle bag is flung over her left arm.

“What are you doing here?”

There’s no hello, as if it’s not necessary. When you stand she’s close- closer than you expected. It makes your breath hitch a little in your chest.

“I had to see you.”

Kika presses her lips together, a small frown knitting her brows. This doesn’t help- she still doesn’t understand, and now you’re being evasive?

“I… is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

You won’t give her any more than that. She huffs, frustrated, and beckons after her.

“Come on. Can we talk back at my place?”

You nod, slinging your backpack over your shoulder and following her. It feels so foreign and yet so familiar, letting her lead the way like that. Like you’d done your whole life, until she left.

The car ride is uncomfortable. You want to reach over, put your hand over hers on the gearstick, just to feel her warmth. But you don’t, you don’t dare touch.

You are settled on the end of Kika’s couch when she comes back into the room. She sets a glass of water in front of you. You thank her quietly.

“Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Her voice is shaking, like she’s scared. Kika has no idea what to expect. Did someone die? Did something happen to you? Someone else she loves?

You take a slow, deep breath. You’ve had a couple of days to practice this, to decide exactly what you want to say. But it’s still hard, especially after all these years. You are risking everything, you have so much to lose. But you feel so lucky to even have a chance, and you know you have to take it.

“Kika. I got your text. I’ve been thinking a lot, about us, about school, and after, and all those years. And how nothing has been the same since you left. I think about you- am thinking about you- all the time. Every waking moment. There are so many times I could’ve done this- should’ve done this- in the last five, eight, maybe even ten years. If I’d understood this at fourteen, that day at my mami’s house, I imagine things would be different now. Because, Kika, I’ve been in love with you since I understood what love was. I thought maybe it would stop when you went, maybe I’d heal and get better. But it got worse, because now I just want what I can’t have. I don’t expect anything from you, I just want to talk. I need to know that you understand. It’s okay if you don’t want me back, I never expected you to. I can just go, if that’s what you want. But I couldn’t stand any longer without knowing. I just have to know.”

Kika is stunned into silence, something which doesn’t happen very often. Tears prick in her eyes, hot and dangerous, threatening to expose the true chaos at work in her heart.

“Mi amor,” she whispers softly, and before she knows what she’s doing, she drops to the ground. She crawls across the hardwood floor, actually crawls, until she is knelt at your feet, the role reversal violently evident.

“I can do nothing but beg you to forgive me. For being so stupid, for taking you for granted, for leaving you so alone. I think about you every day, and most nights. I didn’t understand what this was until I realised I was looking for you in crowds you’re not in. I’ve always needed you, like we’re tied together. You say you cannot have this, but you can. You can have it, take it, do what you want with it. My love, it’s yours. It’s been waiting for you.”

As she speaks, Kika leans closer. Her hands start on your knees, steadying her, but they grasp urgently at your hands and thighs, as if you might disappear when she lets go. When she finally stops she is inches from your face, leaned all the way over, her breath coming short and fast as though she might burst into tears. You don’t let her, can’t let her.

The kiss feels like a gong reverberating against the inside of your skull. Everything else disappears, you are deaf and blind and dumb as every sensation bar her mouth dissolves into nothingness. At first she is tentative, gentle and full of emotion. You realise, as your tongue slides over her lip, that she is crying silently, her skin salty with tears.

“Mi Kikinha,” you pull back for a moment, cradling her face with both hands,

“I’ve got you.”

That seems to fuel her, diving back in as if there is more to take than she realised. And there is- she is greedy, demanding, leaving your mouth half open in sheer euphoria as she bites down on your lip and laughs at the desperate groan in your throat.

“I dreamed about this,” you say, as she lowers herself down over you onto the bed.

“You did?” She asks between kisses, trailing her mouth down your neck, fighting not to lose contact for more than a second.

“Mm hmm.” You hum, tilting your head back, shifting to find her waist with your hands.

“I came. In my sleep.”

She freezes, and lifts her head up to look at you. The look on her face is somewhere between horrified and amused.

“Really?”

You nod.

“That’s…” Kika has no words. The way you say it, like she just has to accept it, sends a hot knife of desire right down to her core. She moans softly, trying to catch her breath.

“That’s so hot.”

You laugh at that.

“Your fault. If you hadn’t moved to another country it wouldn’t have been in my sleep.”

She grins into your mouth, pressing her body down against you. Even through clothes, she is exactly as you imagined. Solid, trustworthy, the cornerstone of everything you’ve ever wanted.

“You’re not asleep now?” She trills, a little breathlessly. Then she goes still, waiting for an answer, not expecting you to loop a leg through the back of her knee and roll her smoothly over. Kika drops down on her back amongst the pillows, wind knocked out of her, and when she looks up at you her eyes are shining with years worth of cumulative desperation.

“I’m not coming before you do.” You mumble, quickly reaching for the hem of her shirt. There is no hesitation in the way she lifts her arms, she is as eager to be rid of it as you are. Within moments she is stripped to the skin, and you are trying to ignore the rising burn in your core and focus on her.

She is completely beautiful, any pretence that she’s holding back abandoned with absolution. Kika whimpers when your mouth leaves hers, trailing down the column of her throat, teeth snagging as it bobs under your mouth. You’ve dreamt about doing that more times than you could count, and actually doing it, sucking her pulse point until it blooms purple under your mouth and she lets out a sharp cry, makes your head spin.

You want to take your time, leaving no inch of her skin untouched. You kiss back up to her jaw and then trail down the other side of her neck, leaning over. Kika goes dizzy as your hair falls over her face, the scent of your shampoo completely intoxicating, the exact same one that’s haunted her for years. It feels so good to give in, inhaling you, dissolving under the constant nip and soothe of your teeth and tongue.

Your nose reaches the crease of her collarbone, pressing into her shoulder as you kiss along it, tongue dipping into the dimple between her clavicles as if you might lap the elixir of life from her chest. She slowly loses her mind as your mouth trails lower, the flesh of her tits giving willingly beneath your lips. You mouth over her, barely kissing, more just feeling her out. Your hand comes up to cup her other breast as your tongue reaches her nipple, gathering her into your mouth. You squeeze, and a keening whine escapes her, chest pressing up against your palm.

“Bebé” she breathes, hips twisting.

“Be patient, amor.” You coax, allowing your body to drop back and down, knees folding under you as your mouth drags over her stomach, tongue flicking past her navel. She gasps, and her eyes flutter closed.

For a minute you pause, look up at her, just to take it in. Her neck and chest are flushed, eyelashes twitching, lips parted and kiss swollen as she tries to catch her breath. It’s almost overwhelming, how divine it feels to see her like this, and not just in your own head. You could cry.

You are snapped back into your body by the insistent wriggle of her legs as they part to make room for you without question. You press one gentle, tame kiss to the lower swell of her belly, and shimmy down until your breath ghosts over her cunt. She makes a sound- or half a sound really, cut off by a choked gasp.

Everything about her is perfect, the smooth expanse of her thighs, the way she trembles when you dig your fingers into them to spread her open. You are drunk on her scent, something so deeply nostalgic and yet brand new that the paradox almost rips a hole in the fabric of space-time. This moment should not, could not exist, and yet it has to. And yet it does.

You are tentative with her, gentle, savouring every mouthful and making a show of swallowing each time your tongue drags from entrance to clit. At first she twitches, rolls her hips, but after a few moments she settles into a string of soft whimpers and whispered prayers.

It is both nothing like you imagined and everything you could’ve asked for, the way she goes quiet as if respecting the sanctity of this union. And it feels like that, completely sacred, as your lips wrap around her clit and she breathes out a noise that will ring in your ears for decades. The whispers from her mouth get louder, pleas to god tangling with expletives and random words of Catalan that you don’t understand.

But you feel it, rising in her, and you know she won’t stop you, not now. The first finger goes easily, her body reaching hungrily for it with each flex of muscle, and she lets out a choked sob that sounds more like relief than anything as you curl it against her. You maintain your rhythm, your speed, never pushing her faster than she wants to go, simply soaking in the way she washes over your every sense.

The second finger comes barely moments later, as her hips start to press down into your hand, and the involuntary twitches in her adductors seem to accelerate exponentially. The stretch is a little more than you’d like initially, wanting to warm her up into it, but she forces her body down wildly against you, a groan ripping from her as it disappears to the knuckle. You return to your rhythm, stroking her in time with the unconscious spasms of her core. Your mouth works harder, faster, drawing her closer, tongue flicking more precisely than before, circling tight and consistent over her clit.

Kika shatters. She does not just break and dissolve, or melt, but shatters, the orgasm exploding into tiny fragments that fly violently to every nerve ending in her body. For about three seconds, she is entirely numb, unable to hear whether she is screaming or crying or silent. And then it wracks through her, shudder after shudder like lava spilling from a volcano; hot molten waves that lock her limbs and make stars erupt behind her eyelids.

She is not sure whether it was always meant to feel like this- she’s been close to this, sure, maybe physically at least. But the emotional release? The way her heart was in her stomach and now it’s in her throat or maybe in her mouth? She can’t fathom the way her chest burns, the way the tears come before she can stop them, uncontrollable sobs that keep her shaking and clinging to you long after the climax has faded.

You withdraw from her softly, pressing a kiss to her right thigh, and crawl up her body to pull her in. Kika just rolls, allowing her weight to fall against you, boneless and spent in every sense of the word. She can just about fathom your presence, the feeling of your hand as you run your fingers over her scalp, the only thing really tethering her to her body.

You let her sleep for a while. At first you think she’s just lying there, weak and exhausted, but before long her breathing settles and she drifts. Having her like this, naked and vulnerable and pressed close, is almost entirely unfathomable. If it weren’t for the taste of her in your mouth, you might think she was a figment of your imagination. She snoozes, peacefully, and you watch the sun lazily dip below the horizon outside her apartment window.

Maybe you sleep a little too, but barely- you are acutely aware of the way your underwear clings to you, damp and neglected, the knot of tension in your stomach that twists and burns and demands release. You can ignore it, push it down, let her sleep on. But Kika snaps you awake when her hand slides between your thighs, too high up to be a mistake, and her hum rattles your ribcage when her thumb snags over the fabric.

“Amor,” she purrs, voice heavy with sleep but immediately demanding.

“I make you this wet?”

Your breath catches, and you are very, very awake. You just make a sound, an agreement you suppose, and Kika laughs into your collarbone.

“Wish you’d said earlier, bebé. I hate to think of you lying here, dripping for me, and I didn’t even know,”

When she sits up, there is a wicked smile on Kika’s face. It’s one you know well- the same one she had when she climbed out her window to go to a party, or when she punched that boy in the face because he called you a dyke. It means one thing: there’s going to be trouble.

“You just lie there and look pretty for me,” she scoots to the edge of the bed, her body still sticky with sweat and spit and cum, although she doesn’t seem to notice. Her focus is elsewhere when she stands, crosses the room to the dresser and opens a drawer.

“Take them off for me, querida,” she says with her back turned, and you are lifting your hips to wriggle your underwear down when your jaw drops and your lungs fail. Kika is stepping into a harness as if its second nature, her back still turned, straps hugging the curve beneath her ass and framing her hips. Suddenly you want nothing more than to sink your teeth into it. So, quietly, as she’s adjusting the buckles, you slip from the bed and drop to your knees behind her. She turns, but not in time, your teeth sinking into the flesh of her ass cheek, a purple mark blooming as you lave over the skin with your tongue.

“Fuck!” She almost sounds angry, or she would if the arousal wasn’t oozing from her voice.

“Can you not behave for one fucking second?”

When she looks down at you, knelt on the floor, there is a glint in her eye. She’s a little startled by the way you rise to match her energy.

“Come here,” she pulls you to your feet, and before you can react she is lifting you up. The strap smacks against the hollow of your stomach, cold and hard, but you can’t fight the press of it as your legs wrap around her waist. Her hand comes to the back of your neck, and she pulls your face close, eyes dark with want as she takes the three steps back to the bed and throws you down. You fall in something of an unceremonious heap, but it doesn’t seem to matter- she is on you before you have a chance to move.

“Gonna have to teach you to fucking behave, aren’t I?” She whispers, teeth nipping at your ear. All she gets in return is a whimper, your mind going blank. A part of you always knew she would be like this with you, and a part of you always knew you’d let her. But now the time is upon you, it isn’t any easier to believe.

“Fuck, look at you,” she kneels up between your legs, still half wrapped around her back. You let them fall as she reaches down, kneading your chest with a force and precision that only comes from knowing exactly what that feels like. Your back arches under her hands, a needy moan escaping your open mouth, and Kika laughs. Actually laughs. You open your eyes and there is something misty in her gaze. She softens, standing, and shifts back until she’s standing at the end of the bed and her hips rest against the mattress.

“I can’t believe this is real.” It feels like she’s reading your mind, just saying what you’re thinking.

“It is.” You husk, and she shakes her head.

“I’ve waited so long. Always wanted- oh, it doesn’t matter. I get it now. Get to ruin you.”

Those last words shoot up your spine like a hot sword. She is so far away now, the space between your open legs achingly empty. That is, until Kika’s hands lock around your ankles, pulling your legs up and towards her until your hips smack against hers and your heels rest on her shoulders.

“You ready?” She asks, and you have never been more sure of a yes in your life.

“I’ll go slow. Slow as I can, anyway. Just say if you want me to stop, okay?”

You nod, completely flat on the mattress, and watch her eyes as she nudges the head of the strap into your body. At first the stretch is unforgiving, but as your muscles yield and the wetness around it gives way, Kika can see the ecstasy ripple behind your eyes.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, mind short circuiting as she fills you completely. Her body rests against yours , the force of her hips pressed into you, and she smiles. A strange look crosses her face, not what you’d expect from someone mid-fuck. She sort of looks like she she’s drifting away, half asleep or dreaming, her eyes closing as her hands trail down your thighs.

“You’re perfect.” She says, so simply it sounds as though there is no other explanation for this moment. You whine in response, but for a second she is lost in it. Then she moves, the exquisite drag of her inside you almost unforgivable, and her head falls back, mouth hanging open in a grin.

“So, so perfect.” She chants it like she can’t think of anything else to say, as she inches back in. She’s going slow, like she said she would, but it’s torturous.

“Kikinha,” your voice brings her back down, her eyes falling on you.

“Yes, amor?”

“I need you Kika. Please.”

“I’m right here.” She wiggles a bit, the strap shifting inside you. It’s like some kind of cruel joke.

“I know I- just fuck me, please? I need-” she cuts you off with a sharp snap of her hips, knocking the air from your lungs. You choke a little.

“I know exactly what you need, bebé,” she reassures, the pace of her strokes increasing, still pulling almost all the way out each time.

“Just relax for me, okay?”

You just nod, breathless now, and close your eyes. For a few brief moments you fear you might break- physically, under the width and pressure of her, or emotionally, with the clawing, carnal need that scrapes at your every thought.

“Kika,” you whisper her name this time, like a plea to god. She leans down, letting your legs drop to wrap around her again, and captures your mouth in a kiss. Her strokes slow but they are deeper, punishing, the strap grinding against the spot inside you that sends fireworks through your neurons. Her mouth on yours is like baptism and execution all at once. You’re convinced you might die, her body pressed to yours in every conceivable way, no closeness close enough.

“That’s it,” she breathes, listen or perhaps feeling as your body starts to clench around her and your breathing becomes uneven.

“I’ve got you.”

And she does, hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit, fingers moving languidly in time with the steady grind of her strap inside you. But the relief her touch provides is unmatched, like the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place.

You can see the whole picture now, every tiny fine line and bead of sweat and hair sticking to her face, the way your bodies connect so entirely like they were never meant to be apart. And as the orgasm rises in your stomach it feels like letting something in, rather than letting it go.

A light floods into your chest, warm and golden, and you half laugh- half sob as your back arches up and your fingers tangle in her hair, pulling her face down closer as you rock up to meet her. The waves come without hesitation, sending you reaching for her again and again. She takes her hand away, sliding it under your arched back instead to hold your body closer as she guides you through it.

When you look up at her, still shuddering but gradually coming back to your body, she is smiling like she’s won the lottery. She takes her time easing out, cleaning you up, her touches gentle and safe in a way she always has been for you, in every other capacity. Now you have all of her.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” She asks eventually, flopping down beside you on the bed. It is dark outside now, the nightlife of Barcelona ringing out below, the city alive with no idea it just witnessed the birth of something precious.

You hesitate. “I… was hoping I could stay here.”

For a moment you doubt yourself. You hadn’t booked anywhere, had thought you’d just leave again if she didn’t want you. But now, tangled in the sheets with her fingers dragging back and forth over your ribs, that feels like a ridiculous idea.

“Of course you can.” She says it without hesitation, like your presence is the most obvious thing in the world. Kika closes her eyes for a brief second, and her heart almost explodes. You’ll be there in the morning- she can make you a coffee, like she’s thought about doing a million times. Maybe you’ll go for a walk. The quiet domesticity her soul has yearned for is teetering on the edge of real.

Wenn der fickt... Ist das dann trocken? Oder eher rau? Beides? Liegt im Nachtschrank eine Flasche Sand um alles zu entfeuchten?

"It's dangerous to go alone take -- ah Mist!"