Earlier, it had been you, Alexia, Alba, your friends, a boat, and far too much time under the sun.
There had been too much alcohol, too.
By the end of it, you were tanned and drunk, a combination that should probably be illegal for you.
Which was how Alexia finally lost what little patience she had left.
And honestly?
Fair.
Very fair.
She’d warned you.
“You’re going to pass out. Don’t drink too much.”
“Okay, captain.”
Message received.
Message ignored.
Spectacularly ignored.
And now look at you.
Sun-drunk.
Alcohol-drunk.
Alexia-drunk.
Completely limp.
Not a single functioning muscle left.
You should probably get up, because you planned a dinner, a beautiful restaurant by the sea, food you normally love, food you’d probably be excited about under normal circumstances.
But these are not normal circumstances.
You are tired.
The AC is freezing and the room feels like heaven.
You want to stay here. You want Alexia to come back. You want her to get in bed and the two of you to watch something stupid on TV or sleep.
Preferably sleep.
Definitely sleep.
Actually, no.
Not sleep.
Coma.
A nice little vacation coma.
But that’s not happening. You know it’s not happening.
The bathroom door opens.
No.
Fuck. Fuck.
You don’t move.
Maybe if you don’t move she’ll think you’re dead.
Not dead, asleep.
Dead is dramatic.
Although you are suffering, so maybe not that dramatic.
You hear Alexia walking around the room, drawers opening, a bag zipper.
The unmistakable sound of somebody getting ready while you continue your long-term commitment to becoming part of the mattress.
Maybe she’ll leave you here. That would be nice.
Actually, no.
That would be worse.
You want to stay here, but you also want Alexia to stay here.
This is a complicated situation.
You hear her stop moving.
Silence.
Which means she’s looking at you.
You can feel the stare.
The one that says, look at yourself.
Unfortunately for her, you’re not looking at yourself.
You’re looking at a pillow.
A very nice pillow.
“You alive?”
Barely.
“Mm.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all I’ve got.”
Another silence.
You can practically hear her rolling her eyes.
Which is unfair.
You’ve had a difficult day.
You made questionable decisions, repeatedly, and now people expect you to attend dinner.
Honestly, nobody is thinking about your needs.
“You’re taking a bath.”
No.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, Ale. I’m going like this.”
There’s a pause.
A dangerous one.
“Naked?”
You lift your head just enough to look offended.
“What? No. I’ll throw on a dress and we’re done.”
Alexia raises an eyebrow, which is never a good sign.
A raised eyebrow from Alexia is basically a formal warning.
“A dress isn’t the problem.”
You narrow your eyes, or try to, but everything requires too much effort right now.
“Then what is?”
Alexia looks at you for a second.
Then at your hair.
Then back at you.
“You have sand in your hair.”
“Not true.”
“You smell like sunscreen.”
“I was at the beach!”
“And alcohol.”
You stay silent, because it’s expected.
“And poor decision-making.”
Rude.
“That one isn’t a smell.”
“It is on you.”
This relationship lacks respect.
“I’ll survive.”
“You’ll survive. Alba won’t let you.”
Oh.
That’s worse.
Much worse.
You stare at her.
She stares back.
Completely serious.
“Do you want Alba making comments all through dinner?”
A horrible image immediately appears in your head.
Alba noticing.
Alba grinning.
Alba making one comment.
Then another.
Then another.
For two straight hours.
You sit up immediately.
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
Alexia points toward the bathroom.
“Bath.”
You fall back onto the mattress.
Then you feel the bed dip and a hand run through your hair.
Immediately, all your complaints disappear.
Alexia pauses.
Her fingers catch on a knot.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Be nice to me.”
“I am being nice to you.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“I’m touching your hair, aren’t I?”
You smile into the duvet.
“You said one drink.”
You laugh.
“I believed that when I said it.”
“You never believe that when you say it.”
You hate when she’s right.
The room is quiet again.
The bed is comfortable.
Alexia is next to you.
See?
This is nice.
This is exactly what should happen.
Nobody should be going anywhere.
The restaurant will survive without you.
Your friends will survive without you.
Alexia stands.
The mattress shifts.
No.
Come back.
You don’t say it, mostly because that would sound pathetic and also she already knows.
“You have ten minutes.”
You groan, a long, miserable sound.
The sound of a woman being oppressed.
“Five.”
What?
How did it get worse?
“I didn’t even do anything.”
“You were thinking about not doing it.”
As you start to drag yourself out of bed, Alexia walks over to your suitcase.
Opens it.
Pulls out your favorite dress.
Then your earrings.
Then the shoes you were already planning on wearing.
You stare.
“How do you know?”
Alexia stares back.
“You’ve worn that exact outfit three times.”
“Oh.”
“You were always going to wear it.”
“Oh.”
You immediately get up.
Alexia barely has time to react before you’re wrapping your arms around her.
“Te amo. Te amo. Te amo.”
“Mm.”
“Te amo.”
“You said that one already.”
“Te amo.”
Alexia huffs a laugh, one hand settling automatically at your waist.
the heat hits different at night, it doesn’t cool down, it just changes texture.
becomes something thicker, more personal, like the city is breathing directly on you. up here on the private vip area of the estadio metropolitano it’s slightly better, the altitude pulling a faint suggestion of a breeze off the stage rigging, but only slightly.
the area has just a low iron railing between you and the drop to the levels below, the stage sprawling enormous and luminous ahead. benito small blazing figure at the center of it all, voice massive, production even more so.
gold and red and deep violet light sweeps in long arcs across the crowd.
tens of thousands of bodies.
the bass rolls up through the concrete and into your feet and doesn’t stop.
you are, in theory, having a great time.
you’re all together near the railing where the view is best.
you, alexia, clara, kika, misa, laia and victoria.
it’s been good.
it’s been genuinely, properly good.
the first few songs were joyful chaos, all of you screaming at each other over the music, laia nearly losing her drink, misa dancing with the kind of full-bodied commitment that makes everyone around her better. victoria filmed everything. clara kept grabbing kika’s arm every time she recognized a song, which was often, meaning kika’s arm had been grabbed approximately forty times.
alexia has been right beside you for all of it.
alexia, who is wearing white.
not soft white.
dangerous white.
the halter top wraps cleanly around her throat, all sharp lines and bare shoulders, elegant in the way expensive things are elegant without trying very hard. her hair is pinned up, though madrid’s humidity has already started winning the argument, loose strands falling against her cheeks.
she’s been happy all evening.
real, unguarded, vacation mode, happy.
the version of her that takes a while to surface, the one that belongs to people she actually trusts.
but.
she has also been…something else.
something she hasn’t said.
it started when you came downstairs earlier, before the car, before any of it.
you’d walked downstairs and found alexia waiting by the door.
she looked up.
and stopped.
just for a second.
her eyes dropped from your face to the skirt.
then to the heels.
then back up again.
a complete assessment.
silent.
thorough.
gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
your outfit had been a calculated decision.
the black top fits like it was made specifically to cause problems.
the skirt is worse.
all black sequins and unapologetically little fabric, catching light every time you move.
it was short, you know it.
the heels push everything a few inches higher.
you’d stood in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary and decided, very deliberately, that the answer was yes.
absolutely yes.
“lista?” she’d asked.
the word sounded perfectly normal.
everything else about her did not.
you’d assumed it was a compliment.
you were only partly right.
by the time you reached the stadium, her hand had settled at your waist and never really left.
you filed it away.
your heels were high enough to bring you exactly to her eye level, enough that when she would lean to speak in your ear she didn’t have to bend at all.
her hand had been at your waist like it belonged there.
the night was good and neither of you wanted to be the first to ruin it.
that lasted until clara got her phone out.
it started the way it always starts, harmless.
she was filming the stage, the crowd, the lights, then the group.
kika started to make faces, misa was stealing the frame.
normal.
then the camera landed on alexia, who grinned and finally gave in to the music.
the stadium lights flashed across the clean white line of her top, caught briefly on the sunglasses still perched on her nose for reasons known only to her.
she laughed at something clara shouted through the camera, head tipping back.
her hips found the beat with that easy, natural rhythm she has.
nothing crazy.
nothing performed.
which somehow made it worse.
alexia never looked like she was trying.
she just looked good.
kika slid in behind alexia with a grin, hands finding alexia’s arm, and they fell into it together: performing shamelessly for clara’s camera.
the stage lights, kika’s hands, alexia tipping her head back laughing that laugh, and clara hollering something encouraging.
and that’s when you turned back to the stage.
the railing was cold under your palms. cold in the specific way metal gets in the middle of a hot night. you’re pressing into a little harder than necessary.
below, the crowd moves in long slow waves. the song has shifted into something heavier, more deliberate.
you stare at the crowd.
you are a rational adult. kika is one of your favorite people. this is a video. it means nothing.
“estás bien.”
not a question.
alexia’s voice, low and close, right at your ear.
you didn’t hear her come back. you never do.
“fine,” you say. english. clipped.
a small pause.
“mentira,” she says. quiet. exact.
you don’t answer.
she steps in behind you closing the distance and settles there, warm and immediate.
one hand comes to your hip.
her chin drops to your shoulder, her mouth near your temple.
the fabric of her pants brushes against your bare legs. she’s close enough that you can feel the heat of her through the layers between you.
you can feel the weight of her restraint.
the skirt.
the top.
the attention they draw.
all the things she’d spent the evening pretending didn’t bother her.
you feel the breath she takes.
slow.
measured.
the kind that means she is being very patient with herself and with you.
her thumb moves once against your hip.
traces the hem of your skirt where it sits.
doesn’t say anything about it.
still hasn’t said anything about it.
“mírame,” she says.
“I am watching the show.”
“no estás.” her thumb traces a slow arc against your hip. “llevas cinco minutos mirando la barandilla.”
“I like the railing.”
a low exhale against your hair. not quite a laugh.
“era kika,” she says. low. careful. “para la cámara. nada más.”
“I know that.”
“lo sé. y aun así.”
you say nothing.
because she’s right and she knows she’s right and you know she’s right and none of that is actually the point. the point is her hands are on you and the point is the tight thing in your chest, small, unformed, not quite a thought yet.
“oye.” her nose presses to the back of your neck. slow. “estoy aquí.”
something in your chest loosens against your will.
“your sunglasses,” you say, because you have to say something. “it’s already night.”
a warm sound against your ear.
“¿te molestan mis gafas?”
“they’re ridiculous.”
“dramática,” she says softly. like it’s a love language. because for her it is.
“she had her hands on you.” you say smaller than you meant it. less armored.
“lo sé,” she says.
“I know it’s nothing. I know—”
“lo sé,” she says again. same words. entirely different weight.
her arms wind all the way around you then, both of them, crossing at your stomach and pulling you properly back against her, just holding.
her lips press to your temple and the tight thing in your chest opens a little more.
“eres la única que me importa,” she murmurs into your hair. “¿me escuchas? la única.”
you close your eyes for one second.
when you open them the stage is gold and enormous.
laia materializes beside you, grabs your arm, shouts something about the next song, then vanishes. clara is laughing at something with kika, phone nowhere in sight, already moved on entirely.
alexia’s arms stay around you. then quiet, almost underneath the music, almost like she’s saying it to herself—
“y tú.”
a pause.
“tú también podrías haber dicho algo. antes de salir.”
you go still.
there it is.
“about what?” you ask. carefully.
her hands shift at your waist.
deliberate.
the movement is brief.
pointed anyway.
“ya sabes sobre qué,” she says. not angry. not quite. something more complicated than angry.
“you didn’t say anything,” you say.
“no,” she agrees. “no dije nada.”
“so—”
“porque no quería arruinarlo.” her voice is still low, still even, but there’s something underneath it now, something real and unguarded and a little raw. “querías ir así, y no quería que la noche empezara con eso. así que no dije nada.”
you turn in her arms.
she lets you.
she is a lot. the gold light hitting the planes of her face, jaw set, eyes very dark, looking at you with an expression that means she has been managing something privately for several hours.
“alexia,”
“la falda,” she says quietly. “el top. la forma en que todo el mundo miraba.”
she exhales through her nose.
that says enough.
the crowd roars below for something. gold light floods stadium. neither of you moves.
“you could have told me,” you say, softer now.
“carinõ,”
“i would have chan—”
“no habrías cambiado,” she says, and the corner of her mouth moves, not quite a smile but also quite not one. “y no te lo pido. no es eso.”
“then what is it?”
she looks at you for a long moment. the lights move across her face: red, gold, red again. something in her expression shifts, settles, becomes something quieter and more honest.
“que me vuelves loca,” she says simply. “eso es lo que es. desde el momento en que bajaste las escaleras.”
something warm unfurls in your chest.
“yeah?” you say.
“sí.”
the answer comes immediately.
“con esa falda y esos tacones.”
she shakes her head once.
“y yo intentando comportarme como una persona normal.”
the corner of her mouth twitches.
“sin éxito.”
you look at her.
really look at her.
she looks back.
the music shifts below, something slow, heavy rolling up through the concrete, the crowd swaying with it.
then her eyes drop, slow, deliberate, taking in the skirt, the top, all of it, before coming back up to your face. “la falda“ a pause that has weight in it. “eso lo hablamos después.”
the way she says después.
low. certain. a door closing on something that hasn’t happened yet.
“promise?” you say.
her jaw shifts. her hands tighten at your hips. just slightly. just enough to tell you everything.
“gira,” she says softly.
you turn back to the railing.
her arms come around you, her lips at your temple. the song that’s been building below finally crests, not louder, just deeper, the kind of track that doesn’t ask anything of you except to feel it.
slow. heavy. deliberate.
moving through the floor, through your heels, through everything.
alexia starts to move.
it’s barely anything at first. just a slow sway, her body against yours. her hands resting at your hips, not guiding, just present.
and then you start to move with her.
and something changes.
her hands spread wider at your hips. her fingers press in, not hard, just firm, just certain.
you can feel the exhale she releases against the side of your neck.
slow.
unsteady in a way she’d never let happen anywhere else.
you roll your hips back into hers, following the low pulse of the music, her grip tightens immediately.
“dios,” she breathes. barely sound. more just air.
you do it again. slower this time. more deliberate.
her fingers dig into the fabric over your hips, the hem of your skirt rising just slightly with the movement, her thighs press in against yours from behind, corning you, stilling the movement just enough to control it.
to make it hers.
“para,” she murmurs against your ear. not a real instruction. not even close.
“you started it,” you say.
“tú empezaste esto hace horas,” she says, low and rough. “with this ridiculous skirt.”
her hands slide, from your hips down over the front of your thighs, just to the hem.
just to the edge of it.
her palms are warm against your bare skin, she stops there, holding, the tips of her fingers resting at the point where fabric ends and nothing begins.
she doesn’t go further.
she just holds.
the restraint in it is somehow more devastating than anything else would be.
you tilt your head back against her shoulder and look up at her.
her eyes are very dark as she looks at you like you are something she has made a decision about and is now in the process of executing with great patience and zero mercy.
“alexia,” you say.
“sí” she says. she already knows. she always knows.
her nose brushes your temple. her lips follow barely there, just the heat of them, dragging slowly along the line of your jaw. not a kiss. a quiet, unhurried threat.
“there’s people,” you breathe.
“I can see,” she says.
her hands slide back up to your waist.
“por eso me estoy portando bien.”
the way she says portando bien.
like it is costing her something significant.
like the bill is going to come due later and you are both very aware of it.
you look to the side, laia has her arms around victorias’s shoulders and the rest of girls are watching the stage, present.
you lean back into alexia and feel her exhale against your hair and the whole world narrows down to the size of this.
the heat of her, the press of her thighs behind you, the press of her hands flat against your stomach holding you against her. the music rolling up through the floor. the city enormous and gold and alive below.
word count - 2.6k | summary - you have your routines, even when it comes to away games, but when the opportunity presents itself to tease her before and after the game, you just can't stop yourself. but after an insane goal, she wants her rightful reward.
MDNI 18 + - borderline smut, very suggestive
-
you hated away games, you were only able to attend a few a year, often taking a few friends or family members to make a mini vacation out of it.
but when you couldn't go, being away from patri for 2, sometimes 3 nights, had you wandering around your shared apartment like a puppy waiting for their owner to come home.
you’d sit on the couch for hours, switching between shows, counting down the hours till patri’s match kicked off, using anything as a form of entertainment whilst she was away.
eventually when the matches started, your eyes were fixed on her, watching as she played passes that looked like they were straight from the training ground, commanding the midfield with a level that was beyond you, and scoring goals like it was the easiest thing in the world.
of course you watched her games to see her play, but it was even better when the camera stayed on her long enough to watch her hand run through her hair, or her tongue flick across her bottom lip in a similar way she'd look at you when she was on top. it was even better when she’d pull the hem of her top up, her abs on full display as she wiped the sweat off her brow with it. that was your definitely your favourite.
it sent you crazy, and of course she knew that, and used it to her advantage.
a few days after a night where you had appreciated her abs for what felt like hours, she had flown to tenerife for an away game, you could’ve sworn she could see you through the screen when she looked dead at the camera and lifted her top excruciating slow to cover her face in a way that had your thighs clenching.
not even 15 minutes after full time, your phone lit up, she had texted you, ‘i hope you enjoyed that.’ and god you really did.
so when she left for bilbao, you followed your usual routine. driving her to the training ground, a quick goodbye that hurt your heart every time, and a kiss that had kika whistling behind you and vicky gaging alongside her.
back home, you did everything you usually did, getting yourself comfortable in the corner of the sofa as you worked on your laptop, checking your phone occasionally as you waited for the text that your girlfriend had landed safely.
that night your phone lit up, a facetime from patri, she was tucked up in her hotel room, a sight that had become far too familiar in the years you’d been together.
“hola amor,” she grinned, “how are you?”
the sound of her voice hit your ears like it was honey, even if it had only been like 10 hours since you last talked to her, “i’m good baby, how are you? was your flight okay?”
“so tired, it was very bumpy today but i sat with salma so she was just reading whilst i watched a show.” she spoke, yet your eyes were mostly fixated on her lips, missing her presence a little too much.
“mhm, was the book good?” you asked, definitely paying attention.
“the book? bebé, i was watching netflix,” she laughed lightly, yet she watched the way you nodded slightly, head tilting and a smirk appearing on her face as she realised your head was somewhere else entirely, “it was a book about trying new sex positions, i thought i’d study so we could try new stuff?”
that peaked your interest.
your eyes widened, blush lighting up your cheeks, “really? you read that in front of everyone?”
she let her smirk widen across her face before you realised what had just happened, “oh my god, don’t lie to me like that.” you whined, throwing your head back as you let out a sigh.
“prestar atención, mi amor.” she laughed, shaking her head with a slight eye roll. (pay attention, my love.)
you narrowed your eyes at her, sending her a glare that had her blowing a kiss towards her phone, “you’re so annoying.”
“make sure you’re paying attention to my game tomorrow, kick off is at 12.”
“okay patri golazo guijarro, i’ll set an alarm.” you reassured her, grinning at her down the phone, not one to miss a chance to watch your girlfriend on the big screen.
“amorrrr, i told you to stop calling me that.” she whined, but you could see the smile she was trying to fight off her face.
you said your goodnights, phone on charge and placed on your bedside table but your head was turning, thinking of all the ways you could pull one over on her, the same way she did to you.
the morning of the game, you sent her your normal good luck text, but this time you included a picture that was a little past the line of innocent.
you were laid in bed in your usual sleep attire, which wasn’t much yet the blanket covered you just enough to not reveal everything, holding your phone from above as you snapped a quick picture. playing as the sweet and supportive girlfriend that wanted nothing more than her name to be on the score sheet, but you were fully prepared to pull a little more out of your sleeve.
you went about your away game routine from the comfort of your apartment, playing off the texts from patri that warned you of the effects the ‘game you were playing’ had on her.
little did she know you weren’t done.
two hours before kick off, you slipped on one of your favourite jerseys, patri’s name on full display across your back. you even decided to put a pair of patri’s training shorts on, ones you had ‘accidentally’ shrunk in the wash but sat perfectly on the curve of your ass.
and just on time, your phone rang.
“hola amor.” she smiled, her phone in hand as she sat in the lobby of the hotel waiting for the coach to take them to the stadium.
“hey baby, how are you feeling?” you asked, propping your phone up on the kitchen counter as you continued your lunch prep.
she tilted her head, watching you move around your kitchen with a look that was half adoration, half hunger, "nerviosa," she said softly, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, "but better now." (nervous.)
you looked up at that, raising an eyebrow as you stirred whatever you had going on in the pan, “yeah? is my brilliant cooking helping your nerves?”
patri shook her head, slouching back into the lobby chair with a cocky grin across her face, “your cooking increases my nerves, but seeing you in my kit helps.”
you fought the urge to smirk but failed miserably, “this old thing?” you asked innocently, spinning slightly so she could get the full view, the view you knew she wanted.
“dios mío,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes scanning your body, not even trying to hide her reaction, “you’re trying to kill me before I even step on the pitch.” (my god.)
“i can take it off if you want.” you suggested, a seemingly innocent suggestion yet the way you tugged your shirt up ever so slightly to expose your midriff before dropping it again had her groaning. a quiet, muffled sound that made your stomach flip.
“i’m not going to be able to focus, eres malvada,” she murmured, shaking her head. (you’re evil.)
you leaned into the camera, head tilted and eyes wide, putting on your best innocent voice, “i’m just showing support for my girlfriend.”
“support?” she scoffed. “you're going to make me trip over the ball thinking about you in those shorts.”
you took a bite of something, licking the fork a little too slowly, “that’d be embarrassing. you should really keep your head in the game.”
patri’s eyes darkened a little, a singular eyebrow raising, “you’re really pushing it.”
a throat cleared loudly behind her, it was one of the coaches letting her know they were needing to board the coach to leave.
patri sighed dramatically, standing up and shifting her phone slightly to avoid showing too much of her teammates, “i have to go, but this conversation isn’t over.”
you blew her a kiss, “good luck sweetheart.”
the call ended, and you were left staring at the blank screen, heart racing, grin practically glued to your face. you went back to your lunch, though now the kitchen felt warmer than it had minutes ago, but maybe that was just the heat spreading across your body.
when the match kicked off two hours later, you were front and center on the sofa, jersey still on, legs curled underneath you, your phone vibrating every now and then with texts from friends, but your focus deadset in front of you.
you watched as mapi sent a pass in her direction. on the surface, it looked like it was nothing special, just a routine ball. but the moment patri received it, you could tell there was something more. the ball settled at her feet, and with a slight lift of her head, she scanned the pitch. then, with a calm certainty, she struck it, like she already knew its exact destination.
of course, she did.
the ball soared, arching over the defenders, grazing the keeper’s fingertips before slamming into the top corner of the net with incredible force.
you shot to your feet, eyes wide, jaw practically hitting the floor as you stared at the screen. “oh my fucking god,” you muttered under your breath.
on the pitch, the team swarmed her in celebration, but patri’s smile was so casual, it was as if she hadn’t just scored something outrageous.
there was a grin etched onto your face for the rest of the game, a smile that wouldn’t be going anywhere, anytime soon. especially with the stunt you were about to pull.
you watched the game come to an end, the game finished 1-8, your girlfriend's name sitting proud on the score sheet, even getting the chance to wear the captain’s armband for the club that she loved more than anything. your favourite sight.
your phone vibrated nonstop, friends, family, even a few random twitter notifications you had somehow ended up tagged in, but none of it mattered. you were waiting for one name to pop up.
and of course, it didn’t take long.
your screen lit up with a facetime, and you didn’t even hesitate before answering. the picture cleared, and there she was, sweaty hair plastered to her forehead, cheeks flushed from the game, still in her kit on the bench of a loud locker room.
“hola, mi amor,” she grinned, voice hoarse from shouting on the pitch, eyes sparkling in that way that always made your heart flip, “did you see my goal today?”
your eyebrows narrowed slightly, “oh sorry, i was binge watching love island so i ended up missing the match, was it a really good goal?” you asked, head tilted slightly as you asked.
you watched her eyebrows raise, that smug little smirk tugging at her lips.
“don’t lie to me, amor,” she said smoothly, leaning a little closer to the camera. “you never miss my games. but you know what happens when i score, so…” her eyes practically sparkled, “…what’s my reward?”
your stomach flipped, caught completely off guard by the confidence in her tone. your game completely thrown off before you had even started.
before you could even answer, vicky’s face suddenly appeared in the frame, grinning ear to ear. “mi novia favorita! did you see my two goals, they were better than patri’s no?” (my favourite girlfriend.)
you blinked, scrambling for words, but only managed a quick nod, lips parting uselessly.
patri burst out laughing, shoving her teammate away from the camera with a playful push. “vete, niña. this call isn’t for you.” (go away, child.)
when she turned back to you, her smile had softened into something much more deliberate. “so? don’t think you’re getting away with it. i scored, you know the routine, i want my reward when i’m home.”
you swallowed hard, the teasing tone in her voice making it very clear this wasn’t just playful bragging.
“better start thinking, mi amor,” she added with a wink, before someone called her name from across the room, “tengo que irme. but don’t forget, i’m home tomorrow.” (i have to go.)
and with that, she blew you a kiss, and the call ended.
you sat frozen, phone in hand, pulse already racing, whilst your mind was already playing out a thousand possibilities in your head about what exactly she expected when she got back.
it was the afternoon of the next day when the sound of keys jangling in the lock made your heart stop for a second. you sat up straighter on the sofa, pretending to look casual, but the way your heart was beating was anything but calm.
the door swung open, and there she was, suitcase by her side, still in travel clothes, hair tied back in the messiest bun. the sight of her made your chest ache in a familiar way that you loved so much.
she left her bag by the door, a grin spreading across her face when her eyes landed on you. “hola, mi amor,” she said softly, crossing the room in a few quick strides before leaning down to kiss you.
it was quick, almost innocent, but it held something much more than that.
“i’m glad you’re home” you breathed, fingers curling lightly at her hoodie, as you pulled her onto the sofa alongside you, refusing to let her go just yet.
her lips curved into something softer as she brushed her thumb over your cheek. “so am i. how was it here? did you eat properly? sleep okay?”
you smiled at her fussing, patri always wanted to make sure you looked after yourself, even if she was only away for a few days, “mhm, i managed, but it’s better now that you’re home.”
she hummed in satisfaction, pressing another kiss to your forehead. for a moment, the tension in your shoulders finally relaxing ever so slightly..
then her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips. “sooo…” she said, drawing the word out as her hand slid to rest at your waist, “my reward?”
your stomach flipped, heat rushing to your cheeks quicker than you’d like to admit.
“the goal was insane, like golazo insane, so we can do whatever you like.” you said, voice low, as if you were sharing a secret with her.
her grin widened, eyes darkening a little as she leaned closer, “perfect, because i already know exactly what i want.”
her lips were already on yours, hungry, claiming, there was nothing hesitant about it. every teasing moment from the picture you sent on the morning of the match unraveled in that moment.
when she finally pulled back, both of you breathless, her grin hadn’t faded, “mmm, that’s a start,” she teased, thumb brushing your lip as she watched the way your mind had already gone fuzzy from being underneath her. “that’s not all though, so you better keep going, mi amor.”
just like that she was back on you. the sudden weight of her against you had your breath hitching. her hands slid into your hair, tugging at the base of your neck, just enough to make you gasp. she caught the sound with another kiss, deeper this time, stealing the air from your lungs.
when she finally broke it, she rested her forehead against yours, her voice dropping to a mutter, “all that teasing, now look at you.”
she leaned back slightly, surveying you like she was already mapping out the next move. her smirk turned into something devastatingly deliberate, head tilting slightly as if you were about to become her prey, “i scored a goal like that, mi amor. i think i deserve a little more than this, don’t you think?.”
you could feel your heart beating in every part of your body. especially between your legs. her words were sinking into your skin like fire, heating every part of you. you opened your mouth to protest, or attempt to tease her back, but she cut you off with a slow drag of her lips down your neck, her laugh vibrating against your skin.
“you offered,” she reminded you, breath hot on your collarbone, your back automatically arching into her touch, “my choice. my reward. and i want every bit of it.”
a/n - i am really in my patri era so this was incredible to write, this was an incredible request. thank you for reading, any requests/feedback - my inbox is open. <333
Once the adrenaline finally started to leave Patri’s body and she was freshly showered, in bed. That was when she felt it.
The prickling, all-consuming need. Deep and hot, her nerve endings lit up like a wildfire.
The ache between her legs bordered on painful, thighs slick with arousal.
She needed you.
Only problem? You were away on business in America, so Patri knew there was no way to contact you, due to the time zone and the fact that you had meetings all day.
So, she was left to her own devices. Luckily, the two of you had mastered the art of phone sex over the years.
With a racing heart and trembling fingers, Patri clicked on the app (password-protected) where she kept all of the spicy voice notes, photos and sometimes videos of you for emergencies like these.
As she scrolled through the app, her arousal got even worse seeing the photos and a few messages that had her squirming. Her soaked underwear pressed uncomfortably against her cunt. She was throbbing and in need of relief. Urgently.
With a shaky exhale, she finally found the voice note she always went back to when she was especially desperate, clicked play and put the phone by her ear, letting your voice fill the empty room.
Sheets rustling could be heard first, then a very quiet whimper just as Patri’s thumbs hooked the waistband of her underwear, sliding them down her long, lean legs and kicking them off. They’d only be in the way regardless.
Patti's stomach clenched at your first breathy moan.
“Oh fuck,” you exhaled. Patri’s fingers slipped down to her front, a moan lodged in her throat as she cupped her wet cunt. Her mind filled with images of what you had been doing when you sent her the voice note.
“—fuck baby, I’m so wet for you,” your shaky voice broke through and Patri let out a groan of her own, fingers on her clit, rubbing slow and teasing circles. She hissed at the sensitivity, hips canted up, grinding into her own touch.
Patri’s throat went dry hearing the sudden filthy, slick sounds of your fingers in your cunt. Those sweet moans of yours, the keen whine when your fingers brushed against your spot. All of it made Patri’s head swim with need. How pretty you looked splayed out against the pillows, body arched into your own touch. Your hips constantly moved, chasing pleasure. When something felt particularly good, no sound escaped— instead, your lips parted in a silent scream.
“Yes baby, fuck, right there! God I wish it were your fingers fucking me. Stretching out my cunt, feeling how wet I am for you baby. Your long, thick fingers fucking me closer and closer to my orgasm.” A wrecked moan broke from deep in Patri’s throat, her fingers easing inside of her aching cunt, sighing in relief as she got filled up with two of her fingers. Her own walls hugged her fingers tightly, her own slick making the glide in and out effortless. The noises were lethal, Patri felt the shivers zip down her spine when she pressed her fingers against her front walls firmly. It did something to her hearing the way you spoke about her, about the way she could pleasure you. It filled her with pride and a healthy dose of smugness.
Patri knew you loved her fingers, some might say you had an obsession with them.
“—one hand in my cunt and the other in my mouth, stuffing me full, please baby I need it, I need you Patri,” your voice cracked, breath coming in short gasps. Patri heard the way you squirmed, a broken moan slipped out and it drove her wild. Even more frantic in her own movements to get herself off.
Hearing you beg so sweetly for her, that you needed her to fuck her in such a filthy way. God, Patri felt it, the steady pressure, low in her stomach.
Patri nearly came when she heard the buzz kick to life in the recording. The unrestrained moan that you let out when it came in contact with your slick clit, the sharp inhale. All of it drove Patri even closer.
“Holy fuck! Patri, baby please— please I need you, fuck! God that feels so good,” the words just spilled out of you. The desperate edge to your words, begging. Patri fisted the sheets whilst her other one worked in and out of her cunt faster and deeper. She was a mess listening to you, a thin layer of sweat covered her body, muscles contracted and a slight tremble in her thighs.She felt feral, she was feral.
“Please baby, let me come for you, wanna come for you guapa, I want you to see how pretty I look when I do. Fuck, want to know what I'm doing now baby? I’m— ohfuck, straddling my dildo, riding it, imagining it's your strap I’m taking baby. God, it’s so deep inside me— you’re inside me so deep Patri, fucking me so good, and I’ve got the, shit! T-the vibe pressed against my clit, I can't stop grinding down on it,”
Patri’s jaw dropped hearing the lewd noises, your sinful moans that had her skin prickling. The unmistakable sounds of you fucking yourself on the toys. Patri could picture it so clearly, the way you looked riding her. Your hands resting on her stomach for leverage, the smooth roll of your hips taking her strap so deep it made your stomach bulge. Your messy hair and the blissed out look on your face as you bounced on her.
Patri tossed her head back, her fingers leaving her cunt to focus on her clit instead. Quick, slick passes before she used more pressure so she could rock up into her hand.
“Patri, Patri, Patri!” Your chants filled the room and Patri’s eyes shot open. She knew exactly what would follow and she was right there with you. Her movements grew sloppy and frantic the closer she got. Her fingers were absolutely soaked with her juices, making a mess on the sheets below.
“God please, please baby, need you to come for me,” Patri begged to herself, her breath hitched as she started to convulse, her orgasm slammed into her forcefully.
“Fuuuuckkkk I’m gonna come! Patri— baby, oh fuck, I’m coming,” you cried, little sobs and whimpers filling the room as you came. The sounds you made slammed Patri into another, less intense orgasm, but still as impactful.
Your breathy giggles broke through Patri’s haze, where she was still trying to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. “Well, that was fun,” you giggled shyly, pulling a smile on Patri’s face, knowing you’d no doubt be completely flustered at the fact that you had sent her such a filthy recording.
“I wish you were here baby,” Patri’s voice trailed off into the silence. The warm and fuzzy feeling was competing with the intense loneliness that crept into her veins, knowing you wouldn’t be home for another few days. Patri always got clingy post-orgasm, and, coupled with the day she’d had playing at a packed Camp Nou, she felt everything even more intensely.
As if you had known she was spiralling, a text message came through.
You: I’ve had sneaky notifications on throughout the game. Congratulations on the game baby. I’m so proud of you. 🥰
Patri let out a wet laugh when she read it. Of course you’d had the notifications on, you were her biggest supporter. And you always would be.
Patri: Thank you mi vida, I wish you were here, I miss you. 💕
The message showed ‘read’ within seconds and Patri felt her chest tighten knowing that you'd been waiting for her reply.
You: I miss you too guapa. You’re my favourite person in the whole world. I love you babygirl. 🥰
A tear or two slipped down Patri’s cheeks, but her smile grew wider as she read your words. You always knew what she needed to hear and when she needed it. It was your special skill.
Patri: I love you too, more than words will ever know. I’m going to sleep now, but I’ll speak to you soon. ❤️
You: I can’t wait, sweet dreams guapa. Dream of me 😘
pairing : alexia putellas x fem!reader. summary : seems after few drinks, the whole team are talking about every situation where you and alexia were in love but didn’t see it. warnings : reader referred as ‘naranja’, alexia being grumpy, whole team making fun of them. word count : 2.4k.
Barcelona, Saturday, just before lunchtime. Sun hung high in the sky, hotter than ever, kind of weather that practically demanded cold drinks and good food. That was exactly why Barcelona Femeni squad had found themselves aboard a yacht once again, celebrating every trophy they had collected throughout the season. It was a private gathering, far from cameras and reporters, with nearly the entire team present.
Patri, Kika, and Cata? Probably on their tenth beer by now. . . Or well past that number, Clara and Vicky were busy filming TikToks, Aitana and Sydney sat together with Irene, deeply invested in whatever piece of gossip had captured their attention, Claudia and Esmee had already decided that repeatedly jumping into the freezing water was the best way to spend the afternoon. Poor Alexia, meanwhile, had somehow once again found herself in her usual role as team's designated mother, keeping an eye on everyone as if they needed constant supervision, which, judging by the state of the yacht, they absolutely did.
And you? You were stretched out across one of loungers taking advantage of rare opportunity to work on your tan during what could only be described as almost summer.
If you weren't familiar with european weather, you would have assumed the continent was moments away from spontaneously combusting. Yet, everyone around you seemed to consider this temperature perfectly normal.
Turning your head and opening your eyes was easy enough, sliding your sunglasses down bridge of your nose wasn't much harder. Actually forcing yourself to sit up so you could reapply sunscreen, however? That was a completely different story, a low groan escaped your lips before you could stop it.
Your entire body felt heavy, exhausted after an endless season that had demanded everything from you. Every muscle seemed determined to keep you exactly where you were, stretched out beneath the sun, doing absolutely nothing. Sure, by end of the day an inevitable sunburn and irritated skin would remind you just how stupid that decision was. If you made it.
“Eh! Naranja girl.” One voice caught your attention.
Once again, your attempt to sit up ended in failure. With a sigh, you simply pulled your sunglasses off, only to find Kika standing nearby. Her face was slightly flushed from the sun, freckles far more visible than usual. One thing you had learned over years of friendship was that the Portuguese midfielder's freckles always seemed to multiply whenever temperatures climbed high enough.
“Alexia could help you with that, couldn't she?” She said, voice dripping with barely concealed sarcasm and amusement.
Ugh. You and Alexia really should have kept things a secret. Although, honestly, that idea felt ridiculous for two very obvious reasons. First, practically everyone already knew. . Except the two of you, apparently. Second, there was no universe in which it would have stayed a secret for long.
As retaliation, you snatched the beer bottle from Kika's hand and took a sip. You didn't even like it but was either that or one of Marta's drinks and experience had taught you that those came with consequences. “My girlfriend is busy looking after children!” you replied, gesturing toward the Spanish captain. Across yacht, Alexia appeared to be attempting the impossible: preventing Catalina from somehow falling into water.
A task made considerably harder by the fact that Cata was laughing hysterically while balancing far too close to the edge.
“Venga, Catalina Coll!” Alexia called out, voice carrying that unmistakable authoritative tone that had captains, teammates and apparently even goalkeepers falling into line.
Almost immediately, Catalina quieted down and did exactly as she had been told. Gracias Díos.
A few moments later Alexia made her way over to where you and Kika were sitting, a long, exhausted sigh escaped her as she claimed one of loungers and practically collapsed onto it. At this point, your girlfriend looked tired not only physically, but mentally as well. The season had been demanding on everyone, but especially on her and you couldn't help worrying, though that was a conversation better saved for when the two of you were alone.
“Cariño, need help?” she asked, already referring to the sunscreen. Her thick Catalan accent still lingered in every english sentence, despite how much more comfortable she had become with the language over recent months.
“You need to be careful with sunburns, come here. I'll help you.” Before you could protest, she had already moved beside your lounger, sunscreen bottle in hand.
You loved this side of her, the way she cared not only for you, but for everyone around her. Especially younger players. Alexia had always been like that, long before you started dating, long before the two of you had stopped being complete idiots and finally acknowledged what had been painfully obvious to everyone else.
“Hey, don't worry about it, sí? I can handle it myself,” you attempted to argue.
Immediately, Alexia pressed her index finger against your lips, stopping any further objections before they could leave your mouth. “Stop that, vale? Let me take care of you for once.”
As if she didn't do that every chance she got! That was simply who Alexia Putellas was. Her love language had always been acts of service, and honestly, you weren't about to complain. “How do you even manage this, hmm?” She murmured. “I like tanning, but my skin just turns red instead of actually tanning.”
One hand carefully spread sunscreen along the base of your spine while the other reached for more product but nearby, Kika remained suspiciously silent.
You knew that look. She was waiting.
Waiting for the perfect opportunity to say something sarcastic, ridiculous, or embarrassingly suggestive. Last time her personal record without making some sort of comment was eight minutes.
This interaction was already approaching seven. A new record seemed unlikely.
Unable to help yourself, you let out a content sigh as Alexia continued applying sunscreen. Honestly, you thanked every higher power available for blessing you with a girlfriend who was not only beautiful but impossibly kind. And unfortunately for both of you, Kika finally decided she had suffered in silence for long enough.
“Jesus Christ,” She muttered dramatically, throwing her head back. “you two make me sick.”
Alexia didn't even glance in her direction.
“Then stop looking.” She had a pout on lips.
That only made Kika laugh harder. “VICKY! Come here, now!”
Vicky immediately abandoned whatever TikTok she had been filming, curiosity won far too easily among footballers and within seconds she was making her way across deck while Kika waited with an expression of someone about to present evidence in a criminal investigation. “What happened?” She asked.
Your girlfriend's expression was soft, focused, completely unaware of how ridiculously affectionate she looked. It was pretty. You loved her.
Vicky stared. Then at you. Then at Alexia. Then back at you. “Oh.” From her lips, just came this out.
“Exactly,” Kika said. “Look at this.” She waved a hand dramatically toward Alexia. “Our captain. Alexia Putellas. A woman known for being low-profile. Introverted. Someone who hates being center of attention unless football forces her to be!”
Patri joined the chaos and somehow, that only made everything worse, the midfielder stayed firmly on her body even in that heat. You had no idea how she managed it.
Everyone else looked like they were slowly melting under sun, yet Patri looked completely unaffected. Confident. Comfortable. Almost like the temperature was a personal challenge she refused to lose.
You were fairly sure that was just how she existed. “See?” Patri said, suddenly pointing at both of you. “This reminds me of that time when these two—” Before she could finish, Irene appeared. Of course she did.
Carrying a margarita like she had been summoned by gossip itself! You rolled your eyes as one by one, more players began to drift closer. Claudia. Aitana. Even Esmee! Still slightly wet from her last jump into sea.
A whole circle formed naturally around your loungers, like gossip had a gravitational pull of its own, at the center of it all, you and Alexia.
Alexia was already regretting every life decision that had led to this moment. She hated it.
“So I was saying,” Irene went on “this reminds me of that one time when these two were already acting like a couple but refusing to admit it.”
“I beg your pardon” you interrupted.
Irene raised a hand, like she probably did with her son at home when he needed to behave.
“No no, let her cook.” Kika replied. She was so invested at it, maybe that’s what she wanted the whole time and you just wanted to enjoy sun, a book and staying in silence.
“This reminds me of that time they shared a table during team lunch,” Vicky pointed out, a proud smile tugging at corners of her lips. “They acted like it was completely normal but Ale kept stealing olives from your plate and you kept stealing meat from hers.”
The comment landed in the middle of the circle like a perfectly aimed pass. . . For a second, nobody reacted. Then silence broke almost immediately. Of course it did.
Because now everyone had a new detail to obsess over.
Vicky leaned back slightly, clearly satisfied with herself, as if she had just unlocked a particularly valuable piece of evidence in a case everyone else was already convinced about while your girlfriend let out a long, tired breath, the kind that came from someone who had officially accepted defeat for the day.
“That was just lunch.” She said, though her voice lacked any real conviction.
Patri immediately scoffed. “Nothing about you two is ever ‘just’ anything.”
You rubbed your face slowly, already feeling the situation slipping further out of your control with every passing second. It did.
“Can we talk about that time a girl tried to flirt with Naranja at the club?” Aitana finally spoke up, breaking her usual quiet observation of the chaos. “And Alexia looked like she was about to explode. I remember her taking five straight shots of vodka just to survive watching it happen.”
The circle erupted instantly, as if Aitana had just dropped the final missing piece of a story everyone already half knew.
Esmee jumped in right after, fully committed to escalating it further. “Naranja almost left the bar with her” She added, laughing. “But then our capi suddenly, faked a faint.” That was enough. Right?!
The entire group burst into laughter at same time, sound spilling across the yacht without any attempt at restraint. Even those who had not been there for the story were laughing purely out of secondhand embarrassment and admiration for how absurd it all sounded.
“That did not happen like that. Liar.” she muttered, Alexia buried her face in one hand.
Kika immediately pointed at her. “It absolutely did.”
“It was one shot.”
“Five capi!”
“One.”
“Five emotional support shots!” Irene corrected, barely able to speak through her laughter.
Claudia, who had been quietly listening until then, suddenly leaned forward with a knowing smile as if she had been waiting for her own moment. “Oh, if we are exposing things today.” She began, earning immediate attention from the circle.
“I remember when Alexia refused to leave training until she saw Naranja finish physio after that knock on her ankle.” A few players immediately gasped and laughed at same time, already anticipating where the story was going. “She literally sat there for an hour pretending it was ‘just paperwork’ with the staff.” Claudia continued, shaking her head.
Alexia sighed again, louder this time, fully aware there was no escaping it anymore.
“And she only left when Naranja was finally okay.” Claudia finished, smiling like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“She is no good at lying.” One of them said, laughing.
Mapi, who had been unusually quiet for a few minutes, suddenly straightened up with a grin that immediately made everyone suspicious.
“Oh no, not you.” Alexia muttered, already sensing trouble before a word was even fully spoken.
“I just remembered something from last pre-season camp.” Mapi said ignoring her completely as the whole group leaned in.
“You two were supposed to be in different recovery groups, but somehow ended up sneaking off together anyway.”
Everyone was already picturing it without needing details.
“And when staff asked, Alexia said it was ‘strategic bonding for morale’.” She added, dramatically quoting her captain.
What the hell? How did they even know all those details?
The two questions came out almost instinctively, your gaze sweeping across you all, it seemed no one looked surprised by your confusion, which somehow made it worse. If anything, they looked entertained, like they had been waiting for you to finally say it out loud.
Kika was the first to answer, far too satisfied with herself.
“Because everyone knew.” she said simply, shrugging as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone except you two.”
Aitana, shaking her head in disbelief, while Vicky covered her face like she was trying not to laugh again. Even Patri looked away, smiling as if she had long given up pretending this was subtle in any way.
“I have my own story to tell. Eh!” Patri announced, her voice cutting through the group and immediately drawing every gaze back to her. A wave of amused murmurs spread instead of laughter, an kind of reaction that came from people already bracing themselves for whatever she was about to reveal. Alexia let out a long breath beside you, clearly anticipating disaster before a single detail was even shared. “Oh no. ” She was shifting slightly as if that could somehow delay what was coming. Patri, however, only smiled wider and leaned forward, completely unfazed by the reaction she had caused. “Oh yes.” She insisted, pointing between you and Alexia as if presenting undeniable evidence. “This one is good, trust me, you are going to remember it.”
Patri took her time, clearly enjoying suspense. Alexia Putellas rubbed her temple slowly already looking like she was reconsidering every life choice that had led her to this yacht and you glanced at her briefly only to find her avoiding your eyes in the exact way that confirmed she remembered whatever was coming. “It was during an away trip. . ” Patri began, speaking with exaggerated seriousness as if she were delivering tactical analysis rather than stupid gossip.
“Patricia Guijarro, shut up. Calá-te.”
author’s note : this is a little bit shorter than i expected, but loved to write it hehehehehe. ((( next smau is coming in few days <333
patri in the kitchen with a melon baller - "bebé what is this medieval device?"
alexia in the grocery store with a bottle of olive oil - "no, ale! we have enough at home! you buy one every.single.week. we're stocked five deep. we're going to have to get rid of your ballon d'ors to make space at this point!"
cata at team bonding with a rubber chicken - (whispering to pina) "i'm going to squawk this every time r goes to speak and see how long it takes her to blow up." pina: "that sounds like a stupid decision to wind up with your gf mad at you." cata: "she knows what she got into dating me"
Hi, my lovelies. I love every single one of these prompts so fucking much. @2truthsand1lie your brain is fantastic (which we all already knew anyways). Mwah mwah mwah. I hope you enjoy.
Different Worlds
Patri Guijarro x Reader
Description: you and Patri are from different worlds and she is a bit dumbfounded by it all.
You and Patri had grown up in completely different stratospheres, let alone different worlds.
You were from money. Like… a lot of money. Like best-not-ask-where-it-came-from type money. Doesn’t-need-to-check-the-price-tag type money. Money-is-no-issue type money and great-grandchildren-set-for-life type money.
The kind of money that meant your childhood home had more bathrooms than people. The kind of money that meant you never really understood the concept of “saving up” for something, because if you wanted it, it simply appeared. The kind of money that made your relationship with reality a little… warped.
You hadn’t grown up spoiled in the stereotypical sense. You weren’t cruel or entitled or demanding. You’d just grown up buffered. Buffered from consequences. Buffered from limits. Buffered from the idea that the world might ever say no to you.
Your grandfather was the epicentre of it all.
He was old money with a modern appetite for power, influence, and legacy. A man who wore perfectly tailored suits and spoke softly, but whose name opened doors you didn’t even know existed. To the outside world, he was charming. To politicians, he was useful. To you, he was simply Abuelo. The man who taught you how to play chess, bought you your first football, and looked at you like you personally hung the moon.
And being the apple of your grandfather’s eye meant one thing above all else: Whatever you wanted, you received.
You had been into football since you were a little girl. Not in a casual way. Not in a “my dad watches it on Sundays” way. In a genuinely obsessed way. You memorised lineups before you could properly do long division. You knew the difference between a false nine and a classic striker before you knew how to ride a bike. You cried when your favourite players retired. You argued with adults about tactics and somehow usually won.
Your grandfather used to sit next to you on the couch, pretending to read the newspaper while secretly watching you instead. Watching the way you leaned forward during tense moments. The way you muttered under your breath at missed chances. The way your entire face lit up when a goal went in.
So when you were sixteen and casually said, “I wish I could just have a football team,” he didn’t laugh.
He asked which one.
You’d meant it as a joke. Kind of. In the abstract, impossible way teenagers wish for absurd things.
But two weeks later, you were sitting in a conference room in Barcelona, surrounded by men in suits who kept referring to you as “the young lady” while your grandfather negotiated like he was ordering coffee.
It had taken a lot of boring meetings and stuffy legal things - words like “shares” and “stake” and “board representation” thrown around until your brain melted - but somehow, impossibly, it happened.
You and your grandfather now sat proudly on Barça’s board. Not as figureheads. Not as mascots. As actual decision-makers.
By seventeen and technically one of the most powerful people in European football. Which was ridiculous, really.
You spent most meetings half-listening while doodling hearts in the margins of your notebook, channelling money into projects you barely understood, and trying not to laugh when grown men twice your age got into heated arguments about shirt sponsors.
Your grandfather did the serious stuff. You just nodded, smiled, signed where you were told, and occasionally suggested buying better snacks for the staff.
And spent far too much time staring at the pretty women.
Of course, one woman in particular.
You had first officially met Patri at a fancy dinner. The kind with too many forks and not enough actual food. The kind where everyone pretended not to be checking their phones under the table. The team were told to impress and you were told to have your checkbook ready.
You’d been expecting… well, footballers. Confident, sure. Athletic, obviously. But still just people.
Then Patri had walked in.
Shorter than you expected. Broader shoulders. That stupidly pretty smile that made her eyes crinkle. Hair pulled back, suit jacket slightly too casual for the room, posture relaxed like she wasn’t surrounded by some of the most powerful people in the club.
She looked comfortable. Not impressed. Not nervous. Just… at ease. And then she’d looked at you. Actually looked. Not at your grandfather. Not at your name tag. Not at your last name. At you.
She’d flirted, you had swooned. Shamelessly. Immediately. Completely. She leaned in when she talked. Teased you about the wine you chose. Complimented your dress in a way that felt more personal than polite. Made you laugh so hard at one point that your grandfather raised an eyebrow at you like he was mentally taking notes.
She asked for your number first, you handed it out without a second thought. You didn’t even pretend to hesitate.
By the end of the night, you were sitting too close, knees brushing under the table, exchanging glances like teenagers at a school dance while everyone else discussed budgets and contracts.
Your grandfather noticed. He didn’t say anything. Just smiled to himself and ordered another bottle of wine.
Dating Patri felt surreal at first.
You were used to people liking you for your money, your connections, your lifestyle. Patri didn’t care about any of that. Half the time she forgot you were technically her boss. She stole food off your plate, wore your hoodies, complained about training, and treated your absurd life like an amusing novelty rather than something impressive.
She was grounded in a way you weren’t.
She paid her own bills. She knew how to cook real meals. She knew the price of milk. She knew how to fix things when they broke instead of just replacing them.
She grew up sharing a room. You grew up with an entire wing. She grew up counting coins. You grew up not knowing what coins were for.
And somehow, she adored you anyway.
You moved in together surprisingly quickly. Mostly because Patri was always at your place anyway, and one night she’d looked around your massive living room and said, “You know, this is stupid. I should just bring my stuff here.”
So she did.
And suddenly your ridiculously expensive, echoey mansion felt like an actual home. There were her boots by the door. Her shampoo in the shower. Her training gear draped over chairs. Her presence in every room, grounding you, teasing you, kissing you in the kitchen while you burned toast.
Which is how you ended up here.
On a random afternoon, years later. No cameras. No board meetings. No fancy dinners. Just you half-asleep on the couch, scrolling on your phone, while Patri rummaged around the kitchen.
“Bebé?” Patri’s voice echoed through the house. “Yeah?” “Can you come here?” She sounded concerned.
Somewhat sighing, you hauled yourself off the couch and padded off in the direction of her voice, barefoot on cold marble, still in one of her old Barça t-shirts that was way too big for you.
You found her in the kitchen, standing perfectly still by the counter, holding something between her fingers like it might suddenly activate and explode.
She looked at you with genuine suspicion.
“Mi sol?” You asked, eyebrows furrowed. “Bebé, what is this medieval device?” She asked, her gaze flicking between the small metal object in her hand and you.
You leaned in, squinting dramatically like you were analysing an ancient artefact. “Oh, mi sol,” you giggled. “It’s a melon baller.” “A what?” “A melon baller.” “Why does it look like a tiny torture spoon?” “Because it’s for scooping.” “Scooping what?”
You gently took it from her and mimed the motion in the air. “You know, for when you make melon balls.” “What are melon balls?” You paused. Slowly blinked. “Balls … of melon,” you said, carefully.
She frowned. “Why would anyone do that?” “I don’t know.” You shrugged. “At like dinner parties and stuff. For a starter with jamón and stuff or as a pudding.”
Patri stared at you like you had three heads. Then she looked down at the tool again, turning it over in her hand. “So instead of cutting melon like a normal human, rich people just… carve little spheres?” “I guess?” “That’s insane.” “You own football boots you’ve never worn.” “That’s different.” “How?” “That’s football. This is… fruit architecture.”
You laughed, leaning against the counter. “You’ve never seen melon balls before?” “No.” “Ever?” “No.” “Not even at hotels?” “Nope.”
You tilted your head. “So you’ve never had melon in little perfect spheres?” “Why do you keep saying it like it’s a luxury experience?” “Because it kind of is.” “It’s still just melon.” “Yeah, but aesthetic melon.”
She shook her head slowly, like she was reassessing your entire upbringing. “Your childhood was weird.” “Your childhood was boring.” “I knew how to use a washing machine at twelve.” “I had a woman who ironed my socks.” “Exactly.”
You reached into the fruit bowl and picked up a melon and slicing it open. “Come here.” “No, I don’t trust you.” “I’m going to show you.” “Every time you say that, something ridiculous happens.”
You pressed the melon baller into the flesh and popped out a perfect little sphere. “See?” you said proudly.
Patri stared at the tiny ball in silence. Then she burst out laughing. “That is the most unnecessary thing I have ever seen.” “Admit it, it’s cute.” “It’s stupid.” “It’s cute and stupid.”
She paused. “Can I eat it?” “Obviously.”
She took it, inspected it like it might still be a trap, then popped it into her mouth. “…Okay.” “Okay what?” “…It tastes exactly like melon.”
You looked at her expectantly. “And?” “And I could’ve just cut a slice.” “But did that slice come in a perfect little sphere?” “No.” “Exactly.”
She looked at you bewildered. “How would you eat melon?” You asked.
Summary: Y/N is Alexias sister. Shes 18 years old and dates Kika. They try to keep it a secret but Alexia finds out.
Pls send some requests🤗
The first sign something was wrong happened at breakfast. Not dramatic wrong.Not someone’s injured wrong. Just…Quiet. Too quiet. Y/N walked into the kitchen rubbing sleep from her eyes, oversized Barça hoodie slipping off one shoulder as she reached automatically for the coffee machine. Usually mornings with Alexia Putellas involved at least one of the following:
Alexia lecturing her about nutritionAlexia reminding her to stretch properly
Alexia stealing her toast
Alexia asking approximately seventeen questions before 8 a.m.
Today? Nothing. Alexia sat at the counter scrolling through her phone silently. That alone was terrifying.
Y/N slowed immediately.
“…Good morning?” “Morning.”
Still not looking up. Okay. Definitely terrifying.
Y/N carefully grabbed a mug.
“You okay?” “Mhm.”
One-word answers. Even worse. Y/N glanced toward the living room like someone might explain what was happening. Unfortunately, there was nobody else there to save her. She turned back slowly.
“Did I do something?”
Finally, Alexia looked up. And smiled. That was somehow the scariest part.
“No,” Alexia said calmly. “Why would you think that?”
Oh, this was bad. This was really bad. Y/N forced herself to act normal as she poured coffee.
“Because you’re being weird.”
“I’m being weird?”
“Yes.”
Alexia hummed thoughtfully.
“Interesting.”
Y/N’s stomach dropped. That tone meant Alexia knew something. Maybe not everything. But something. Before Y/N could figure out how much danger she was actually in, her phone buzzed against the counter.
One message. From Kika Nazareth.
miss u already :(
Y/N nearly launched the phone across the kitchen. Alexia’s eyes flicked downward instantly. Y/N grabbed the phone face down so fast it looked suspicious anyway.
Alexia leaned back slightly in her chair.
“…Who’s texting you this early?”
“No one.”
“No one texted you?”
“I mean—someone texted me—but like… not importantly.”
Alexia stared. Y/N wanted to evaporate. Thankfully, the older woman’s phone rang before she could interrogate further. Alexia answered while standing from the counter.
“Hola?”
Y/N exhaled in relief. Barely survived. Barely. Then Alexia walked toward the hallway, still talking on the phone.
“Yeah, I’m leaving soon… she’s here with me now…”
Pause. Alexia looked directly at Y/N.
“…No, I haven’t asked yet.”
Asked what? Y/N narrowed her eyes suspiciously. The second Alexia disappeared into the hallway, Y/N grabbed her phone again.
YOU TEXTED ME AT BREAKFAST
Kika replied instantly.
and?
ALEXIA WAS THERE
Three dots appeared. Then:
oops
Y/N stared at the message in betrayal.
YOU’RE ENJOYING THIS
a little
Insane. Actually insane.
______________________________________________
Training should’ve distracted her. It didn’t. Because Alexia kept watching her. Not obviously. That was the problem. Alexia Putellas was subtle when she investigated things.
During rondos, she watched who Y/N laughed with. During tactical drills, she watched who Y/N instinctively looked for on the pitch. And unfortunately for Y/N’s mental stability…that person was always Kika.
“Y/N,” Patri Guijarro whispered while they stretched near the sideline.
“Why does Alexia look like an FBI agent?”
“Because my life is over.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“She knows something.”Patri winced.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
From across the field, Kika glanced over. Smiled. Y/N glared immediately. Kika only looked more amused. Traitor. Absolute traitor.
Practice ended with a small training match. Coach split the teams unevenly on purpose, which meant Y/N and Kika ended up against each other.
Normally that would’ve been fun. Today it was psychological warfare.
“Scared of me?” Kika teased as they lined up before kickoff.
“You wish.”
“You’ve been glaring at me for twenty minutes.”
“Because you’re ruining my life.”
Kika grinned lazily. “Still cute.”
Y/N shoved her shoulder. Unfortunately, Alexia saw that too. Of course she did. Because apparently the universe hated Y/N personally.
_____________________________________________
The scrimmage started fast. Y/N played aggressively out of pure stress, pressing harder than usual, moving quicker, trying desperately not to think about the fact her sister’s detective instincts were activating in real time.
Then came the mistake. A terrible mistake. The kind of mistake that changes lives.
Y/N scored.
That wasn’t the mistake. The mistake was celebrating. Without thinking, she turned immediately toward Kika after the goal.
And Kika—idiot, beautiful idiot that she was—blew her a kiss. The entire field froze. Just for a second. But one second was enough.
“Oh my god,” Vicky López whispered.
Clàudia Pina physically covered her face with both hands. Patri looked like she wanted to disappear underground.
And Alexia? Alexia stared at Kika. Then at Y/N. Then back at Kika. The silence felt deadly. Kika’s smile vanished instantly.
“…Ah,” Irene Paredes muttered quietly from defense.
“That’s not ideal.”
Not ideal? NOT IDEAL? Y/N wanted the earth to open beneath her. Coach blew the whistle to continue. Nobody moved. Alexia finally spoke.
“Y/N M/N”
Oh no. Not the middle-name. Everyone on Barça knew the full-name voice. Y/N swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
Alexia’s expression was unreadable.
“Focus.”
That was it. No yelling. No anger. Which somehow felt worse. Much worse. The rest of training became torture. Alexia barely spoke. Kika stopped flirting entirely. The team moved around them carefully like they were trying not to trigger an explosion.
By the end of practice, Y/N felt physically sick. She grabbed her bag quickly, hoping maybe—just maybe—she could escape before the conversation happened. Delusional.
“Car. Now.” Alexia’s voice behind her was calm.
Too calm.
Y/N closed her eyes briefly. Dead. She was dead.—The drive home was silent.
Horribly silent.
Alexia kept both hands on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. Y/N sat frozen in the passenger seat trying not to throw up from anxiety. Streetlights blurred past outside.
Finally, Alexia spoke.
“How long?”
Straight to it. Y/N stared at her lap.
“…What?”
“Don’t do that.”
The disappointment in Alexia’s voice hurt more than anger would’ve.
Y/N swallowed hard.“…A few months.”
Alexia laughed once. Not happily.
“A few months.”
“I was gonna tell you.”
“When?”
Y/N had no answer. Because honestly? There had never been a good time. Alexia tightened her grip on the steering wheel.
“She’s twenty-three”
“I know.”
“You’re eighteen.”
“I know.”
“She’s your teammate.”
“I KNOW.”
The words burst out louder than intended. Silence filled the car again immediately afterward. Y/N looked away first. Alexia exhaled sharply through her nose.
“You lied to me.”
That one landed hardest. Because it was true. Y/N’s voice came out smaller this time.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“But you did.”
Tears burned suddenly behind Y/N’s eyes, which was annoying because she absolutely did not want to cry right now.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Alexia finally glanced at her.
“And that didn’t make you think maybe you shouldn’t be doing it?”
Y/N’s chest tightened. “It’s not bad.”
Alexia scoffed quietly. “You’re a teenager.”
“I’m an adult.”
“Barely.”
The frustration snapped instantly.
“Why are you acting like she manipulated me or something?”
Alexia didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. Y/N stared at her in disbelief.
“You seriously think that?”
“I think she’s older than you.”
“She loves me.” The words slipped out before Y/N could stop them.
The second they did, silence crushed the car again. Alexia looked genuinely stunned now. Not angry. Not suspicious. Just… surprised. Y/N realized with horror she’d never actually said those words out loud before. Not even to Kika. Alexia pulled into the driveway slowly. The engine shut off. Neither moved.
Finally Alexia spoke quietly.“Do you love her?”
Y/N looked down at her shaking hands.
“…Yeah.”
The honesty in that answer hurt. Because it was real. Completely real. Alexia leaned back in her seat, staring through the windshield. For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then finally: “She should’ve come to me.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“If this was serious, she should’ve talked to me.”
“That’s your issue?”
“She’s older. She knows better.”
Y/N shook her head immediately. “No. I’m the one who wanted to keep it secret.”
Alexia looked unconvinced. “Alexia.”
“She’s twenty-four.”
“And you dated older players too!”
Alexia opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“That’s different.”
“It literally isn’t.”
“It is when it’s my little sister.”
There it was. The real problem. Not Kika. Not football. Not the team. Y/N was Alexia’s little sister. The kid she’d spent years protecting. The kid she still saw as too young for heartbreak.
Y/N’s voice softened slightly. “You can’t decide who I love.”
Alexia looked exhausted suddenly.
“I know.”
That caught Y/N off guard. Alexia rubbed a hand over her face.
“I just…” She sighed quietly.
“I worry about you.”
“I know.”
“She’s important to the team. You’re important to the team. If this goes badly—”
“It won’t.”
Alexia gave her a look. Y/N corrected herself weakly.
“…Hopefully.”
That earned the tiniest huff of laughter from Alexia. Tiny. But there. The tension eased slightly. Just slightly. Then Y/N’s phone buzzed again. Both sisters looked down simultaneously.
Kika.
Of course. Alexia held out her hand immediately.
“Give me the phone.”
“What? No!”
“Give me the phone.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Y/N.”
Groaning dramatically, Y/N handed it over.
Alexia read the message silently. Then blinked once.Y/N narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
“What does it say?”
Alexia looked almost offended.
“She sent a heart and asked if you’re alive.”
“…Okay and?”
“She used thirteen question marks.”
Y/N snatched the phone back instantly.
ARE YOU ALIVE?????????????
Y/N couldn’t stop herself from smiling a little. Alexia noticed immediately.
“Oh my god,” she muttered. “You’re gone.”
Y/N tried to hide the smile. “Shut up.”
“You’re completely in love with her.”
That sentence made everything feel suddenly real. Bigger somehow. Scarier too. Y/N looked down at her phone quietly.
“…Yeah.”
Alexia studied her for a long moment. Then finally sighed.
“I still think the age gap is weird.”
Y/N groaned. “Alexia—”
“But…” She paused. “I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at her.”
Y/N blinked. That was… unexpectedly nice.
Alexia pointed a finger immediately. “I’m still mad.”
“There it is.”
“And if she hurts you, I bury the body.”
“VERY normal response.”
“Irene said she’d help me.”
Y/N burst out laughing despite herself. That finally cracked Alexia too. Small at first. Then real laughter. The kind they hadn’t shared all day. Relief flooded through Y/N so hard she nearly cried again.
“You’re seriously okay?” she asked softly.
Alexia leaned her head back against the seat.
“…I’m trying to be.”
That was enough. More than enough. Y/N threw her arms around her instantly. Alexia groaned dramatically.
“You’re sweating from training.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Y/N laughed against her shoulder. After a second, Alexia hugged her back tightly.
Then muttered quietly: “You should probably text your girlfriend before she breaks into the house.”
Y/N pulled back immediately. “You called her my girlfriend.”
“I regret it already.”
But she was smiling. And for the first time all day, Y/N could finally breathe again.
Summary: You and Alexia swore up and down that you would never get involved with a teammate. But strictly having sex only after big matches wouldn't put that rule in danger, would it? aka another friends with benefits fic
Word Count: 7.5k
Warnings: +18 (SMUT) • fingering (r giving and receiving) • oral (r receiving) • scisorring • choking (very lightly ok) • idiots in love • kika knows it!! • mentions of alcohol
☆ A/n: I hope this silly fic can alleviate some wounded hearts out there <3
You and Alexia had crossed your hearts and promised you would never do this. You had mumbled that exact same oath against each other's lips a few too many times until it became pathetic enough that you both just accepted the reality you found yourselves in, time after time.
During interviews with reports or locker room conversations, you and Alexia always stood your ground: you two would never get involved with a teammate. You'd never let any form of attraction stand in the way of professionalism, both on and off the pitch. You would never blur the invisible lines you had set.
You were both too dedicated, too focused, too professional for that kind of distraction, right?
Alexia was captain, and you, though not wearing the armband, were a veteran, deeply and well respected by the club for your history, mainly for choosing to come back after a few years abroad.
And yet, here you were, a year and a half into an arrangement that would probably send Lacan into a coma if he tried to psychoanalyse it – all that suppression of desire, the carefully constructed distance when you were around other people, all those unspoken rules about when it was acceptable to want each other and when it wasn't. When you could touch, or kiss or fuck. When it was okay to need Alexia, when it was okay to feel needed by her.
Your unconscious was your worst enemy. It needed Alexia all the time. So you shut it up at the gym, at home devouring book after book, at random bars looking for girls that looked like Alexia.
Your agreement centred around sex. You both had agreed it would only happen after big wins.
That was the deal, as idiotic as it sounded for adults who had a significantly high sex drive and who wanted each other badly half the time. You had even sat down to discuss what would be considered "big wins", treating it like a business conversation. You settled "big wins" on "significant victories", meaning league titles, cup finals, semifinals, crucial matches like El clásico, etc.
After all those months of great sex, you were now properly conditioned. A Pavlov dog.
Wins equalled reward. Reward equalled Alexia in your bed, or you in hers, her wet mouth trailing up and down your body while your fingers explored her every inch.
May had been a very, very busy month; three domestic trophies hinted at a lot of sex. And by that you meant A lot ... hours!
All that built-up suppression meant you spent entire nights tangled together in each other, only taking breaks to keep your body functioning enough to keep going for more. You only ever stop if one of you fell asleep, or if the sun was up.
May 23rd was a different day, though. Barça had just won the Champions League. ;)
May was indeed an amazing month.
The private bar in the southern district of Oslo was packed with your teammates, their families, partners, friends and the coaching staff. The music was loud, maybe a bit too loud for your ears, and the drinks were flowing freely, spilling onto expensive shoes, as people enjoyed themselves in the open bar.
Everybody was riding the high of being crowned Champions of Europe, even the ones who hadn't even stepped onto the pitch. Case in point? Kika's mom. She was currently the unequivocal queen of the dance floor.
The vibe was entirely gregarious, thrilling, something that you couldn't quite pin down with a single word. You tried to find the vocabulary for it while sitting in a quieter corner of the room, the glass of the one single piña colada you had allowed yourself cooling the palm of your hand.
One drink was just enough to take the edge off, enough to make your skin feel warm and your thoughts just a bit hazy, dangerously hazy, perhaps. The bits of alcohol relaxed you, your shoulders dropped, your brain slowed your thoughts, and a smile came to your face a little more easily.
Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
The lyrics faded out around you, only for the next song to start:
Want more and more, people just want more and more
Freed from desire
Mind and senses purified
Those were just a couple of the songs that had played over the ten minutes you had been sitting there. Their lyrics were a tad too ironic given your current situation. Or perhaps, it was just one of those things where mundane occurrences felt severely personal, your brain desperately searching for clues to validate your thoughts, emotions, and action… bla bla bla. You had long forgotten the specifics of that uni class you took on human behaviour and cognitive dissonance back in the US.
Right now, you were trying to use that mechanism to validate your feelings about Alexia, taking any song as a sign from the universe that it wants Alexia to be between your legs soon enough.
Alcohol – or maybe just the high of the win – made you hyperaware of her. You could sense her across the room, watch the way her lips moved as she talked to her friend Miriam.
Your silly, tipsy brain actually thought it could decipher every word coming out of her mouth, shaping them into sentences that stroke your ego. You wanted her to be talking to Miriam about you. So, your mind simply invented that reality. Things were easy when you were buzzed; everything was far too simple, rules were negotiable, and your need for Alexia felt entirely merited and legitimate.
See? cognitive dissonance. It was one of your finest hobbies lately.
You watch Alexia, observe her as she moved around.
The captain was in full extroverted mode; it was the version of her that only emerged after major titles. She was dancing with Vicky now, laughing and taking pictures with Patri.
She had a drink in hand, one you knew for a fact would be far too sweet, with a fake-strawberry flavour. You would taste it on your lips later tonight, you were sure.
During celebrations, Alexia drank just enough to get tipsy, too, but unlike you, her tolerance could handle more than a single, miserable drink. She would have four, maybe five max, before switching to virgin drinks.
A bad bunny song started, and Alexia tracked down that goddam trophy, which had been her sole fascination for the last three hours, and began dancing with it in her hand, her jeans hugging the perfect shape of her ass.
She was a stark contrast to her usual quiet, shy, introverted self. This version wasn't necessarily better or worse; it was just different. She was still Ale, and you, as much as you tried to fight it, were still hopelessly you.
And this version was the only Alexia you had ever slept with. The high-adrenaline, post-victory, almost but not quite drunk Alexia, who was loose, and confident, and commanding in a way that made your stomach flip with butterflies.
You had never had her on a random Friday after training, you painfully realised. You had never seen what she was like when the adrenaline wasn't pumping in her veins, when the victory wasn't so fresh and raw, when she was just... herself.
You wondered if the sex would be different. Would it be softer, maybe? Less intense and emotionally charged? Would she be equally warm and fervent?
Or would she be exactly the same, because sex with Alexia was never just sex. For her, it was a very complex game, a way to open somebody up. Alexia was almost clinical in her precision, almost obsessive in her attention to detail.
While you viewed sex as a means to an end, a way to get off, to give someone an orgasm, to feel good and make someone else feel good, Alexia treated it like a dance. A deep involvement, an act she took her absolute time with.
She always kissed every bit of your skin. Always listened to every sound, and learned your body like it was a mystery she needed to solve. And god, you wanted her to take her time with you tonight.
"You are sooo nonchalant about her."
You jerked your attention away from Alexia to find Kika standing beside you, a knowing smirk on her face. One that scared you. "Ahn? What? What are you talking about?"
Kika took a sip of her artificial pink drink, gesturing with her chin toward the captain, "You are staring at Miss Catalunya right there."
"I'm not staring," you said, taking a sip of your own drink to cover. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just resting–"
"You absolutely are." Kika slid into the seat next to you without an invitation; her eyes were twinkling with mischief. "You have been staring at her for the past ten minutes."
"I'm just… people-watching, okay?" you countered. "And you must be staring at me if you know exactly how long I've been sitting here–"
"And does this people-watching always involve looking at Alexia like you want to rip her clothes off with your teeth, or–"
"Kika," you warned, your voice dropping low. "I'm serious! Stop acting silly. There's nothing like that between us, you know that. We are friends! Colleagues even!"
Lying was so easy at this point; your only real problem was that you were not nearly as convincing as needed to be.
The Portuguese held up her hand, laughing teasingly at your grumpiness. "Calma! I'm just saying… You two have been acting weird for months. Don't think the rest of us haven't noticed, we have eyes everywhere." [calm down]
Your stomach dropped. You could feel the hollow organ actually fall all slimy to your feet. "W-we have not, I–"
"You have, though, and everyone's noticed. Well… mostly the younger girls and me, but still." She leaned in conspiratorially; her voice was low, meant for your ears only, but it was hard to understand her over the loud music. "Something's going on. I know it. I can literally sense the love in the air every time you two are in the same room."
"Nothing's going on between me and Ale" you said firmly, even as your heart rate picked up. "And there is definitely no love involved either!"
Maybe there was love. Maybe. Just a tiny bit. But it was small, the size of a fly. You could step into it, and it would go away.
"Okaaaay, sure," Kika said, but didn't sound convinced at all. You couldn't blame her.
"But just so you know, if something were going on, I think it's cute, tá bom? You two would be great together…You know," Kika began narrating everything as if it were a story in a book and not your life she was talking about. "The two legendary Barça players who had known each other for an eternity, who won every single trophy in existence side by side! It's more romantic than Romeo and Juliet, if you ask me! Oh… I just hope you both get a better ending." Then her excited face dramatically dropped into a sad pout.
Before you could respond, before your brain could even figure out what the hell to even say to that, Kika was already standing up, patting your shoulder affectionately, and wandering off to join the dance floor.
You drained the rest of your piña colada in one long gulp. You needed air. So much air, more air than this bar could provide and more than your lungs could take in.
The bar was getting too warm, too crowded, too much. Kika was entirely responsible for tangling your neurons together, leaving you unable to think properly. And no, the pina colada had nothing to do with it, nor did the heating pooling low in your belly from your desperate need for Alexia.
You slipped outside to the small patio area, where the night air was cool and crisp and exactly what you needed. You almost wished it would rain, that a downpour would just wash over you. You were never one for dramatics, but tonight felt like the perfect time to start.
The team had been noticing.
But noticing what, exactly?
You and Alexia had been friends for years, more than ten. You had never seen each other as anything other than friends, and truth be told, you hadn't even been that close.
You had lost contact a few years ago when you moved to play for Orlando Pride. It was only two years ago that you signed back with the club of your life. Alexia had been dating someone else at the time, so she was completely off limits.
Still, you couldn't help but notice how she had grown into such a beautiful woman. She was just a couple of years older than you, but she always carried a bit of a baby face; now, at thirty-two, she had fully grown into her features.
It was after she tore her ACL that things changed, that massive injury and the long pause from football seemed to be when she lost the last trace of that girlhood softness. She was different now. Or maybe your eyes were just different.
Then she broke up with her girlfriend, and that's when it happened.
You had been out there for maybe ten minutes when the door creaked open behind you. You didn't need to turn around to know who it was; that strawberry scent from her drink mixed with her honey shampoo made it clear.
"Are we hiding now?" Alexia's voice was warm and amused. "I was looking for you, but you were gone."
"I just needed a break," you said, still facing away from her. "Too loud in there, no?"
You heard her footsteps, feeling her presence as she came to stand right beside you, close enough that you could almost feel the heat from her.
"Kika cornered you," Alexia said, and it wasn't a question. "I saw her. I thought about trying to save you, but…"
"She thinks something's going on," you said straightforwardly. "Actually, she is very certain of it. We should probably sit down and make up a very good lie about why we always seem to gravitate towards each other after a win."
"Huh, like right now?" Alexia murmured, her breath dangerously close to your ear.
"Like right now," you murmured back, turning to look at her.
"We have been careful, nena", Alexia said. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed from dancing and alcohol. "But Kika is... observant."
"Too observant."
She looked at you, studying you. "Are you worried about it?"
You considered it for a moment, "I don't know. Maybe we should cool it for a while? The media and the girls will--"
"Is that what you want?" Alexia's gaze was suddenly sharpened. You knew better than anyone else that she did not like to be rejected. "To cool it?"
"No, I really don't," you admitted softly. "But–"
"We won the Champions League tonight," Alexia said, her voice all tender once again. She took a step closer, your bodies touching now. "That was the deal, wasn't it? Big wins? Sex right after?"
Your breath caught in your throat. "Yes, Ale. I know about our deal. It's just that–"
"Tell me you don't want this, and I'll go back inside," she said, and there was something vulnerable in her voice despite the confidence in her posture. "Tell me you want to cool it, and we will. I won't chase after you anymore, and we'll go back to being just friends."
You should say yes. Should tell her you wanted to stop, that this whole arrangement was getting too complicated, too risky, too dangerous for your own heart.
But all you could think about was the feeling of her hands on your bare skin, her wet mouth tracing patterns across your body, and the way she looked at you in the dark of the night as if you were something to be savoured.
"I don't want to cool it," you whispered finally.
Alexia's lips curved into a slow, beautiful, small smile. "Good. Because neither do I."
You managed to leave the bar separately. Alexia left first, claiming she was tired, and you followed about twenty minutes later. You didn't give anyone an excuse for your departure. At this point, you knew any lies you attempted would only make it obvious exactly what (or who) you were after.
No one seemed suspicious of Alexia. Or if they were, they were simply too drunk and ecstatic to care. Your absence went unnoticed, too; your phone remained blissfully silent in your pocket. You couldn't help but smile as you stepped into the back of a taxi heading towards the hotel.
When you finally reached her room on the seventh floor, you started the same careful dance you had performed a dozen times before. But tonight felt different. Maybe it was the magnitude of the win. Maybe it was the single pina colada loosening your inhibitions. Or maybe it was Kika's lingering comment about the two of you being good together, and all that silly nonsense about love.
Whatever it was, the moment Alexia opened the door and pulled you inside, all the growing tension ruptured into a kiss. Alexia kissed you with an intensity that made your knees instantly weak, and you felt something shift between you two.
This wasn't just a post-match reward anymore. This was something… deeper. It felt as if she wanted to prove a point, to show you that you couldn't live without her. That there was absolutely no way you could ever "cool things off".
Alexia took her time, she always did, but it felt even more deliberate… was it predatory? Her hands mapped every centimetre of your skin, as if she were trying to memorise your anatomy. Her lips followed the trail of her fingers, pressing heavy and bruising kisses into places that made you gasp, places that forced you to arch into her touch.
"Ale," you breathed, your fingers tangling in her hair.
"Shh," she murmured against your collarbone, her warm breath sending a shiver running through you, "Let me."
And you did.
You let her take you apart piece by piece, slowly and methodically. Every touch was calculated to draw a reaction. Every kiss was placed exactly where she knew it would make you completely fall apart.
It was overwhelming. It was perfect. You needed more. It was just not enough. It was also starting to feel dangerously less like just sex and more like something unnamed.
You pulled her face closer as Alexia lay naked on top of you, both of you letting out a moan, sharing the same shallow breath.
You and Alexia fit together with terrifying perfection, the alignment of your pelvis, the friction of bone against bone, the heavy brush of your breasts, the curve of your collarbones and shoulders. But above all, your mouth. Alexia slid her tongue into your mouth, and you sucked on it, reaching for me, demanding to taste her and that sugary drink that still tinged her tongue.
Alexia was a biter. Her lips nipped at your sensitive skin, leaving mark after dark mark against your throat, and she clearly did not give a damn if you would have to use concealer to hide them from the cameras and teammates tomorrow.
She did not care at all. The analytical and pragmatic version of herself melted while in bed; she let her instinct take over, and her instincts were flawless; she knew exactly where to suck, where to bite, where to slap, and where to caress.
You were so utterly lost too in the assault of different sensations that you barely realised that Alexia's hands had moved from your waist. Her fingernails were scratching your abdomen lightly, dragging downward.
You whined against her lips, wanting those hands on your thighs, wanting them inside you. You wanted her to fill the ache, only she knew how.
You had slept with other people in the months between your rendezvous with Alexia, but not a single one of the girls had been able to make you come properly. Eventually, you had just given up on everyone else entirely. None of them compared.
"You like it, no, nena?" Alexia's voice carried that inflexion of arrogance, the tone of a woman who knew what she was capable of doing to you. "You like it a lot. You have been thinking about me wanting you all night, haven't you?"
Her wicked words and even more wicked fingers were doing unspeakable things to your body, sending your pulse skyrocketing. Your jugular throbbed so violently beneath her touch that it felt as if it might burst if she didn't slide her hand lower soon.
"Tell me, corazón," Alexia murmured, her lips catching your earlobe roughly, biting down hard enough to make you whimper. "Let me hear your voice."
"I thought about you wanting me," you breathed, your legs trembling so badly you could barely manage to keep your thighs open.
"And what do you want me to do to you?" Alexia asked, you sensed her smile flutter against your pulse point, and God, you wanted her to bite you again.
Her fingers kept teasingly moving lower, tracing every part of your body, every birthmark, every scar, teasing and mocking your lack of control. You were going mad. Alexia's low voice and skilful fingers would be your undoing.
"You can do whatever you want," you panted. Alexia's smirk only grew; she deftly ran her tongue over one of the small bruises already flowering on your neck. "
"I've wanted you too, nena," Alexia whispered, calling back to what you said before. Her mouth was once again teasing your ear, and you wondered if that was her favourite spot. If not, it was a close second.
She let out a hot puff of air, nipping gently at the reddened skin. No amount of makeup was going to save you tomorrow. Everyone in the team would look at you and know someone had fucked you silky, leaving you this weak, this powerless, this beautifully undone.
They just wouldn't know that the someone in question was their captain. The captain who was currently branding you just like she always did. Alexia was a possessive little creature, and not-so-secretly, you enjoyed being hers.
"Ale, please" you moaned, your eyes closing shut as her fingers finally traced your inner thigh, slipping inside your pussy.
You were soaking for her. So pathetically wet for her.
Alexia let you accommodate to the depth of her two fingers, slowing down to press a line of small, sweet kisses against your lower lip, mindful of the previous bites she had left there just minutes ago.
There were such gentle, tender kisses that you trembled at the sheer affection of them. More often than not, you didn't associate softness with yourself, as if you didn't deserve it. So why was Alexia softer now?
"I want you all the time, corazón," Alexia whispered, her finger starting to move in a steady, agonising rhythm.
The sensation of her stretching you inside was overwhelming, the inaction burn instantly overtaken by the pure exaltation of relief. Finally, you had her.
Alexia continued to move her fingers in and out of your clenching pussy, her free hand coming up to rest flat on your neck. She applied the right amount of pressure. The devil-woman was very much aware of how much you loved choking, and, easy like that, she was commanding your body to come for her on the spot.
"Fuck me, please," you whimpered, shifting your hips as her pelvis pressed tightly against he own hand, driving the penetration even deeper. Dizzy. You were so dizzy.
"I am fucking you, bebe," Alexia murmured, her voice filled with satisfaction. "And I do my job so well, don't I?"
She curved her hand firmly around the base of your throat, restricting your air, making your vision grow pleasantly hazy as your blood flow constricted. "Like this. You love it when I hold you down, right?"
You let out a needy whimper, the words barely coherent, but Alexia understood it.
"Of course you like it, mi campeona," she smirked. She released the pressure on your neck as your cheek flushed a deep crimson, her thumb immediately caressing the sensitive skin she had just been dominating. "You are so wet… Tan mojada."
"I'm almost there," you pouted, hips twitching. "Please, please, I'm almost-"
"You want to cum?" Alexia asked, her eyes locked onto yours. "Want to soak my sheets? Drench my hands?"
"Please?" You begged desperately. "Can I?"
You could feel your orgasm closer. Her fingers moved faster, going deeper, searching for your own limit.
"Of course you can," Alexia whispered, her tone suddenly shifting into something so breathtakingly tender it hurt. "We just won the Champions League, amor. Mi amor. Tonight, you can have whatever you want."
Alexia moved her thumb, pinpointing a very specific spot on your clit, and within seconds, you were coming. The orgasm ripped through you, stealing every last drop of oxygen from your lungs.
You arched your back into her, trembling as she pulled her fingers out, only for her tongue to instantly swipe from your clit down to your slit. A gasp caught in your throat, and you weakly pushed at her shoulder.
"Too much," you mumbled, barely possessing the strength to resist; your arms were too heavy to move.
"Let me taste you, corazón," Alexia murmured against your wet folds.
You looked down through heavy-lidded eyes as she kissed her way back to your pussy. "I spent the whole day thinking about this. You taste, your scent… how badly I wanted my face buried in tu coño."
"Oh," you moaned, throwing your hand up to cover your face. The sensory overload was too intense; a second orgasm was already starting to build, just as intense as the first one. "Fuck, ale, it's too much-"
"Sh," she whispered against your heat, her tongue thrusting inside your entrance before lapping up at your wetness. "Don't fight it, nena. Just let it come to you."
"I can't," you cried out, trying to tilt your pelvis away, but Alexia stopped it, placing a heavy hand on your hip. "I can't I–"
"You can,' Alexia said, her voice not leaving room for you to fight her. "You can because I said so. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't know you couldn't handle it. So just fucking lie there and come on my tongue."
Her words were the trigger you needed. Your walls clamped down around n her tongue, and your orgasm washed over you in a wave of translucent liquid. Wetting the bedding, ruining her sheet, coating your inner tights and her whole face.
"Joder," Alexia groaned, swallowing your release. She kept lapping at you, but now, the overwhelming pleasure was begging to cross the line into pain.
"No, no more, please," you whimpered, gently tugging at her hair to pull her up.
Aleixa immediately alleviated the pressure, kissing her way away from your clit, and pressing soft and soothing kisses on your inner thigh. "Just cleaning you up now, mi amor, sí?"
The feeling was so intense you didn't realise it wasn't the first time Alexia had called you amor tonight. But whatever, maybe she was just too pussy drunk.
"You are dripping everywhere," she muttered, her voice low. Her palm pressed firmer against your thigh, forcing wider over her shoulder so your pussy stayed fully exposed to her.
She dragged her tongue lower, circling your entrance before pushing inside just enough to make you clench. She continued to tend to your pussy, her tongue still warm, but incredibly tender now. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered that she was doing that more as an act of self-indulgence than anything else.
"Tienes un sabor tan dulce," she mumbled against you. [You taste so sweet.]
You gasped, a sharp flare of oversensitivity striking you as she sucked gently on your outer lips, cleaning every trace of your release with wet sounds. Alexia kept lapping at your folds with slow strokes, her tongue dragging through the slick mess until your whimpers grew sharper again.
"Okay, okay, that's enough," she murmured, more to herself than to you.
She pulled, leaving what you thought was a final kiss right on your clit that made your hips twitch. She reached down for the Campeonas shirt crumpled on the floor, using the soft fabric to gently wipe between your thighs, soaking up the wetness.
Because she couldn't help herself, she pressed one more tender kiss right on your centre before moving up your body to face you. Her lips brushed your nose first, then claimed your mouth in a deep kiss. Her tongue pushed in to swirl around yours, forcing the taste of your own release across your palate.
"See? That's why I couldn't stop," she whispered against your lips. "See how you taste? Good, no?"
Your cheeks flushed hot. Your mind was hazy and slow to form proper thoughts.
"I get sensitive when I squirt," you mumbled, trying to explain to her why you had to end her fun so soon.
Alexia smiled. "I know," she said, tugging the duvet over both of you. "And cold too, if I remember correctly."
You lay there catching your breath while she peppered lazy kisses along your jaw and neck. Your hand trailed down the mattress, moving slowly until your fingers found her pussy, touching it without any hurry.
You slid one finger inside her easily, testing the slickness, and Alexia moaned low, her face pressing into your neck as her walls tightly clenched around your finger.
You cupped her face and drew her into another kiss, sliding a second finger alongside the first inside her dripping pussy. "You are wet, wetter than me," you whispered on her lips.
She let out a low chuckle. "That would be impossible, nena."
You smiled at her arrogance and rolled your eyes, then guided her head down to rest against your neck properly. Her body shifted naturally on top of yours, her thighs spreading wide so your hand could keep working between her legs without pause.
"Good?" you asked, brushing kisses across her flushed cheeks.
Alexia needed that slow, steady rhythm to build up her orgasm; she actually hated to be rushed when it was her turn to come. Your fingers already ached slightly from the constant motion, but you kept the pace even and deep.
"Uhum," she murmured, voice thick with desire. "Tan bona."
"Want one more finger?" you offered, your thumb circling her clit,
"Don't know if it will fit," she moaned, her hips grinding down to meet your hand, clearly betraying her own words.
"You're very wet, Ale. It will." You eased the third finger in gradually, stretching her open while monitoring every twitch and gasp she let out.
Once all three were buried knuckle deep in her pussy, you resumed the thrusts, curling and stroking her inner walls with consistent pressure that had her breathing turn ragged against your neck.
She clutched desperately at your shoulders, her thighs trembling as the tension finally snapped. Her pussy tightened around your fingers, pulsing hard through the orgasm while she buried her face deeper into the crook of your neck, muffling low words you couldn't quite understand.
You kept her hand still, letting her ride out her orgasm on your fingers until she finally softened.
She let out a chuckle. "Joder," she breathed, kissing your jaw before you slid off your hamd. "Fuck, gràcies."
Seemingly, she wasn't done with you… not close.
You let her take the lead again, guiding your body exactly how she wanted. There was such a beautiful duality to her, soft everywhere, yet her muscles stayed firm from all the training she had done through the years.
She spread your legs again, her eyes falling on you for a second before she dipped her head between them. When she sucked your clit into her mouth, a gasp left your lips. The pull was gentle, her tongue slow, while you sank helplessly back into the mattress.
It felt less like foreplay now and more like she simply wanted the taste of you; she wanted the closeness, wanted to consume you. Her low voice hummed against your skin as she worked on you all over again.
When she finally pulled away, her face was glistening. She bit into your inner thigh, then hooked your leg over her shoulder once more. She shifted up, lining her soaked pussy directly over yours.
The moment the wet heats fused together, you let out a collective groan. Alexia didn't wait to accommodate herself; she started rocking her hips, grinding her clit against yours in a perfect slide. She was dripping.
"Ohh," you moaned, eyes locked on the way your slick folds pressed and parted with every roll of her hips. Every move of her made a wet, squelching and embarrassing sound that echoed through the hotel room. It sounded so devastatingly hot and prohibited; it only made it all more thrilling.
"Yes, Ale. Grind against me, bebé."
Alexia kept the pace slow. Her chest was pressed against yours, breast against breast. "So good… joder."
Her hip continued the motion relentlessly, your clit meeting every single time. She was pinning you down with her weight, taking everything you had to give her. "You feel so good, corazón–"
The friction was becoming too much, the heat far too intense. "Alexia… please!" You cried, tossing your head even further back into the pillows.
"Fuck," she panted against your lips while her pace became faster. "I'm close too, mi amor, fuck–"
Your walls spasmed first; you didn't know if it was the reason that triggered her orgasm, but Alexia shattered right after. She let out a loud cry into your mouth as her pelvis locked hard against yours, her body rigid as her orgasm took over. Underneath her, you were coming just as intensely, your vision already opaque, your mouth completely dry.
Slowly, you both relax, too much exhaustion in your muscles. Alexia's body collapsed fully on top of you; the poor thing was spent. You wrapped your arms around her back, welcoming her.
You didn't say a thing, but it was obvious that the invisible line you had feared crossing for so long had been blurred beyond recognition. Yet, as your eyes closed, all you cared about was that Alexia was sleeping next to you.
The sleep didn't last too long, though.
You woke up around thirty minutes later with the sensation of Alexia's fingers tracing lines across your shoulder blade.
"Hi," she murmured, her voice sleepy.
"Mhm," you mumbled, pressing your face directly into her (warm) neck. You were so sleepy, so tired. "Shhh, quiet."
She allowed you a few minutes of silence to properly wake up. But the moment she spoke again, she went right to the point, as if whatever was on her mind had made a home there for a long time.
"Ey nena, do you ever wonder…" she began quietly, breaking the comfortable silence, not quite looking at you, choosing to focus on the hotel's tv. "What would this be like if it wasn't just after wins?"
"Mhm? What do you mean?" you asked, rubbing your eyes and already knowing exactly what she meant. You had been torturing yourself with the exact thoughts at the club earlier, although you never articulated them.
"Just…" she trailed off. "I think I want to know what it would be like to be with you when we don't have to sneak around and hide in hotel rooms. Like… would the sex be different? Would we be different?"
Okay. Calm. Be calm!! It's happening!
"I ask myself that, too," you confessed to her, the conversation making you feel more awake.
"What do you wonder about?" Alexia asked.
You thought for a moment, picking up her hands and playing with her long fingers.
"Mainly if the sex would be softer. Maybe less..." You struggled to find the right word. "Less intense…? I feel like we try to give our absolute best and squeeze in every single position we can think of, simply because we only get to this a handful of times a season, you know?"
Alexia's lips curved into a small smile. "Oh, so you think I'm intense?"
"I think you approach sex like you are trying to win a prize." You rolled your eyes playfully. "Trying to win the gold medal."
"And is that a bad thing?" She asked, her eyes light narrowed.
"No, of course not," you said honestly, looking up to her, kissing her chin because why not? "It's incredible. You are incredible. I just..."
Alexia shifted, propping herself up on one elbow so she could look at you properly. "You just wonder if this is all we are. If this arrangement is all we can ever be."
Your breath caught instantly. "Yeah… exactly."
She was quiet again.
"I know we agreed this was supposed to be simple," Alexia said softly. "A way to... release tension after big matches. No complications and no real feelings, etc."
"...And now?" you asked, feeling a dangerous spark of hope.
"And now I think about you at the most random times," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think about you during training. I think about what it would be like to have you in ways that have nothing to do with football."
You felt like you couldn't breathe, as if the oxygen in the room had dissipated. This is exactly what you had been unconsciously waiting months for. "Ale-
"But I'm also scared," she continued. "We both swore we would never do this. Never get involved with a teammate. And well…look at us."
"We're not... involved," you tried to say, even to yourself; it sounded weak. "Not really."
Alexia gave you a look that clearly said you were full of bullshit.
"Aren't we?" She asked, looking down at your naked body, only covered by the duvet. "This is as involved as I have been with someone in a while, nena."
You didn't have an answer for that; maybe it didn't exist. So instead, you reached up to her, wrapping your hand on the nape of her neck and pulling her down to kiss her.
The kiss was slow and tender; it was made to shatter every rule you both had ever made. There was still the faint taste of you in her mouth; you wished Alexia hadn't grown tolerant of that.
When you finally pulled apart, Alexia rested her forehead against yours. She was breathless and flushed and perfect. Suddenly, you wanted to completely claim her as yours.
"What are we doing, Ale?" you whispered in the dark. "What does it all mean?"
"I don't know," she admitted, her thumb lazily tracking your cheekbone. "But I want you, corazón."
"Even though it breaks every single rule we made?"
"I don't think I care about those rules, if I'm being honest," she chuckled. "They were kind os stupid."
You couldn't help the smile that escaped you. "That is so very unlike you, capitana. You live for rules, don't you?"
"I think I live for you more," she said suddenly.
The words hung between you.
You could see the exact moment Alexia realised what had just slipped past her lips, the way her eyes darkened with a flicker of panic.
You would think it was a rehearsed line with how easily she said it, but it was an accident. A truth that had been suppressed.
"I—" she started, and her posture stiffened, as if she wanted to take every single word and swallow it down.
"Don't," you interrupted her spiralling, moving your hand to cup her jaw. "Don't take the words back, bebé. Say them properly."
"What?" she breathed, looking tapped.
"Say it again. Please, Ale."
Alexia's expression softened, and she closed her eyes and swallowed hard. "I love you," she whispered. "Te quiero, corazón."
Your heart was doing somersaults, and a wave of warmth took over your body. "Te quiero, Ale."
"Sí?" She asked, eyes wide.
"Yeah." You pulled her into another kiss "I think I have for a while now, but I didn't have the courage to say it."
"Me too," Alexia murmured. "I kept trying to convince myself it was just physical, just the arrangement, the adrenaline, but it wasn't."
"It never was, right?" You were staring at her pink lips.
So sweet they were.
Your sweet, sweet girl.
You stayed like that for a long time, just holding each other, processing what you had both just admitted.
"So what do we do now?" Alexia asked after you both had taken a shower and had something to eat.
"I'm not sure," you murmured, getting even closer to her. "This is... complicated, no? A bit humiliating considering we always went out of our way to talk about how we would never be with a teammate?'
"I think we are hypocritical," Alexia agreed, smiling.
"The team will definitely think that, too," you said, already imagining the teasing.
"They will probably be insufferable about it," Alexia said, her eyes as lifeless as yours, thinking about the future teasing. She didn't handle teasing very well. "Especially Kika… she scares me sometimes."
You laughed. "We are big girls. I think we can handle Kika and the others."
"Yeah, you are right," Alexia said slowly. "But also, I don't think I care that much…"
You pulled back to look at her. "No? You hate it when the kids make fun of you."
"Yeah, I don't appreciate much of the team banter, but when it comes to us… We are professionals, aren't we? We've proven that years ago. This… thing between us hasn't really affected our performance. If anything, we have won more since we started having sex."
"That's... probably not a correlation we should mention to the team, though," you said, your index finger to your chin.
Alexia grinned. "Probably not."
"So you want to... what?" You asked. "Tell them? Make this official? Or let them figure it out on their own.
"It would be nice for us to tell them… eventually. But right now–" She pecked your lips. "–I just want to see where this goes. No more rules about only having sex after victories, no more pretending this is just physical… just us, okay?"
"Okay," you smiled. "I think I like us a lot."
"Good." Alexia kissed you again, softer "So... does this mean I can take you to dinner? On a proper date."
Now you were properly grinning. "Only if it's an Arabic food place."
She rolled her eyes. "Deal."
"And then," you continued, kissing her chin, then moving to her neck. Your hand came to her waist as you straddle her hips, your breast right in front of her face, you could see she was trying to look in your eyes, and not down. "Maybe we can find out what it's like to have sex when we aren't tipsy or on an adrenaline high…?"
Alexia smirked, her hand tracing your side up and down, until she settled on your hips. "It would be a lovely discovery, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah," you nodded. "It would. I think we would be slower and–"
"Soft?" She suggested.
"Yes," you said, bringing her thumb to counter the shape of your lips. "I think we have a problem, though… I might be too eager to wait till them."
In the end, you did find out, right then.
And it turned out that Alexia, without the victory high, was, if possible, even more devastating. She was indeed softer, sweeter, but just as intense.
Somehow, the sex was even better.
The end.
Or is it?
Three Weeks Later
"I fucking knew it!" Kika crowed when you and Alexia finally, officially told the team, after they caught you kissing in the locker room when you thought no one was around.
"We all knew it," Vicky said, looking entirely too smug.
"I didn't know," Patri said, looking genuinely surprised. "Why didn't anybody tell me!?"
"How could you not?" Clara asked, just as surprised. "They used to disappear after every big game to do… god knows what."
Alexia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, at ease. You loved seeing her like that, relaxed and soft.
"So you are really together?" Patri asked, eyeing you both suspiciously. "Like, for real?"
"Yep!" you confirmed, popping the P.
"It was about time," Kika said. "The sexual tension was exhausting to watch… it was getting seriously depressing,"
"It really was," Ona agreed. "We thought about playing cupid to see if we could bring you two together… but it seems that Oslo did that just fine."
The defender winked, and Alexia's face heated up, but then her smile slowly turned into a grin.
"It was a very good night, indeed," Alexia said, kissing your temple.
A/n: Honestly I only wanted to write the smut, but I feel like it needed a bit of context around it, that's why the scenes might feel a little bit disconnect?
I will always feel privileged and honoured to have found Barça. look at how lucky we have been these past few years. and how much there's left yet to come and celeberate.
gummygunk
kianamaiart
