sheer lace -alexia putellas x reader friends to lovers - smutish
The heat in Mexico wasn’t the same as Barcelona’s. It was heavier, lazier, like it wanted to wrap itself around you and keep you still. And it completed the way the air brushed lightly against the skin, and the pale sand clung to the beach towels, contrasting with the crystalline ocean water.
Alexia had worked for the first two days, attending the partners’ and sponsors’ events before she let herself fully enjoy the resort buffet and the lounge chair by the infinity pool, sunglasses perched on her nose and a glass of some almost frozen drink in hand. Often, she left for photoshoots and ended up staying for weeks in those places, enjoying the holidays that her job offered her between the Women’s Euros and the new season with Barcelona. And the thing she always did was invite the same person to spend those days with her.
They spent hours walking on the beach, finding places to explore at their destinations, with the midfielder keeping her eyes only on her and the coconut water. She spent the weeks wearing a pair of loose pants and a bra, and occasionally pulled out dresses that fit her body like they’d been painted on, catching the attention of many at the resort. She lost track of what day of the week it was, with everything blending together into slabs of tropical fruit, afternoons on the seashore where the Spaniard dragged her along, and evenings when they let themselves go to the music or to small strolls through little street markets where the locals offered foods nobody could pronounce.
And yet, through all of it, they never really talked about what they were to each other. Friends? Sure. More than friends? Definitely. But neither of them dared to give it a name.
But after a week in the sun, one evening Mexico itself decided to give the two of them a little push.
As every evening, they had showered one after the other, and Alexia was sitting just outside the large wooden doors of the villa where they were staying, the pool reflecting the late-afternoon light. It was still early for dinner, and the girl still in the bathroom had plenty of time to get ready before the Spaniard would stand up and pull her away by the hand. All the doors and windows were ajar, so the distant music could already be heard, and the ocean breeze teased them gently.
“Ale,” she called from the bathroom, turning toward Alexia. “Can you grab my charger? It should be in the small blue pouch on your left.”
The footballer rose from her safe spot by the pool, entering with heavy steps and digging into the other girl’s suitcase as if it were second nature, feeling a familiar warmth at seeing their things together.
“Small pouch… vale… oh.”
From the bathroom, the other couldn’t see the small smile that spread over her face, accompanied by a little sound of surprise and then a low chuckle. Lifting her eyes to the mirror, she saw Alexia standing in the archway that separated the bedroom from the bathroom, hair still damp and eyes that looked like they had found something interesting. She was holding something small, black, and sheer, letting it slip through her fingers. A nightgown. No — not just a nightgown. Lingerie. The kind with delicate lace along the hem and thin straps that promised nothing was left to the imagination.
“That’s so not mine,” said the girl, her hands full of hair foam, still wrapped in the robe she had put on after her shower.
Alexia raised an eyebrow, opening the garment as if to inspect it, holding it by a strap between her thumb and forefinger, an almost arrogant grin on her face. “No?”
As much as she knew the girl in front of her, that fine, elegant piece of lingerie probably wasn’t hers — but something told her that maybe she had finally realized where things were heading between them and had decided to surprise her.
“No,” she repeated firmly. “I don’t… wear things like that.”
“Maybe you should.”
The girl turned, looking the footballer in the eye after wiping her hands on the robe, her hair styled meticulously into waves that Alexia knew like the back of her hand.
“I’m serious, Alexia. I didn’t buy that.”
“Then it just… walked into your suitcase?”
“You know what I feel like right now? Like when TSA stops someone at the airport and they say, ‘I swear, I have no idea how that got in my bag.’” She crossed her arms, leaning her hips against the sink.
The Spaniard was amused, watching her face as if trying to decide whether she was telling the truth, that faintly inquisitive, piercing look still in her eyes, dressed in the pants she had chosen that evening and one of her favorite tops, which showed the tattoos across her back. Her mind filled with the image of that nightie on the girl’s body in the soft light of the moment.
“I won’t confiscate it. Whoever put it there has excellent taste,” she said gently, her voice thickened by her Spanish accent.
“Stop looking at it,” the other muttered.
But Alexia leaned back against the wall, running a hand through her hair as she hung the garment where the towels usually went, leaving behind a silent challenge she’d love to see answered.
“You said it’s not yours, so you have nothing to lose. Humor me.”
And there was something in the way she said it — half dare, half promise — that made the girl’s skin tingle as she tried to dry her hair, shaking her head without much conviction.
“Quiero verte con él.” Her voice had dropped as she finally turned to leave the villa, leaving her in peace in the bathroom, a sly smile still on her lips. And the Spanish had landed exactly where Alexia knew it would. She’d known for months that when she spoke to her in that tone — casual, warm, a little commanding — it made her feel things she would never admit out loud.
So the girl calmly dried her hair as every evening, with unusual delicacy in treating the small curls that formed, humming some tune stuck in her head. The nightie stared at her as though there was unfinished business between them, hanging on the dark wall like a piece of art. She thought about it, her gaze shifting between her reflection in the mirror and the fabric Alexia had held moments earlier like a treasure. And she decided to call her best friend, placing the phone on the sink with a video call running, moistening her lips as she thought about what to do.
“Why do you look like you’re about to confess to a crime?” Her practically-sister’s tired face popped up on the screen, eyebrows instantly lifting.
“I wish. This is worse,” she muttered, lifting her hands to show the sheer nightie dangling from them.
“Oh… ohhh.” The girl on the other side of the world grinned like a wolf. “And let me guess, you didn’t buy it.”
“Someone must have put it in my suitcase, and Alexia found it,” she stammered, words tripping over themselves.
“Wait. Alexia Putellas wants you to put on that? Honey, you are living my dream and you don’t even know it.”
She didn’t know what to do, torn between actually putting it on and seeing how the footballer would react, and leaving it there until the end of the trip when she’d have to stuff it back into her suitcase.
“I don’t even know how to wear it. Bra? No bra? Is it supposed to cover anything? These straps — what do they even do?”
“First of all, absolutely no bra. That’s the point. Second, put it on and let me see.”
She lifted the nightie, trying to figure out whether she should follow her friend’s advice, assessing its coverage and how to put it on.
“I’m not getting naked on FaceTime,” she groaned.
“You’re totally doing this live.”
At first, it felt almost ridiculous — untangling the thin straps, trying to figure out which loop went where. Her hands fumbled, not because it was difficult, but because her pulse was already racing. The fabric slid over her head in a whisper, cooler than her skin, like dipping her fingers into still water. She shivered automatically, even though the room was warm. When the thin fabric settled, it didn’t weigh like normal clothes. It floated. The hem brushed her thighs in the lightest touch, so insubstantial she kept wanting to tug it down, make sure it was still there. She became acutely aware of every place the lace touched her — the scalloped edge over her chest, the way it cupped and traced without truly covering, the faint tickle where the hem kissed the tops of her legs.
Without a bra, she felt exposed in a way that wasn’t just physical — like someone had peeled away a layer she usually hid behind. The sheer fabric didn’t disguise her body; it hinted at it, outlining without fully revealing, which somehow made it worse. Or better. She couldn’t decide.
She turned in the mirror and caught the low swoop of the back — bare skin framed by slim crisscross straps. The sight made her stomach twist. It didn’t feel like wearing sleepwear. It felt like wearing a question you weren’t sure you wanted answered.
She felt silly, nervous, self-conscious. But beneath that, there was a spark — that restless little current that came from knowing Alexia was waiting in the other room, almost expecting to see her like this. It made her heartbeat pound against her ribs, part fear, part anticipation. Her mouth was dry, but her skin was buzzing. And that was the problem. She didn’t know if she was more afraid of her reaction being too much… or not enough.
“Ohhh, okay, that’s illegal.”
“It’s see-through!” she hissed, her little soft curls falling down her back gracefully.
“Yes. That’s the idea. And your legs—oh my god—turn around, let me see the back. The straps are perfection.”
“Too much,” she muttered.
“Not enough,” her best friend countered instantly. “You’re going out there right now.”
“What if I—”
“You are going to get her for good. And you are not chickening out. Go. Before the moment passes.”
The girl blew her a kiss, holding the phone in her hand with a timid, nervous smile. Her friend caught the kiss with one hand.
“Love you, and good luck — though I think you’ll need it far less than you seem to think. Now go.” They smiled once more before the girl who shared a villa with a Ballon d’Or winner ended the call, sighing, trying not to rip the nightie off and retreat into her robe.
She looked at herself one last time in the mirror before leaving the bathroom, seeing that the Spaniard had spared her the stress of figuring out how to walk out to show her, because she caught sight of her as she rummaged through her backpack. Her hair had dried a little but she still had the same relaxed air she’d carried through the vacation, lost in her thoughts. The area was quiet, the only sound the clinking of objects, until she lifted her eyes to the familiar footsteps of the girl she had brought to Mexico. The words she was about to say died on her lips, strangled by the sight.
Her gaze skimmed over the fabric, taking in every inch of lace and mesh against her skin. She couldn’t hide the way her eyes darkened slightly, her breath catching in her chest.
“Estás preciosa… demasiado preciosa para quedarte ahí tan lejos.”
(You’re gorgeous… far too gorgeous to stay over there.)
Every now and then, Alexia forgot her English when she was around her. And during those vacation days, the girl had to arm herself with patience and intuition to understand her, because even though the footballer was improving, there were more words she missed than ones she got right.
The Spaniard took a step forward, her hands in her pockets, motioning for the other to turn around for her.
She obeyed, turning slowly while glancing at her out of the corner of her eye, thinking about how Alexia never failed to make her feel beautiful and special, even when in that moment she felt terribly bare. Then she took a few hesitant steps toward the midfielder, locking eyes with her as if to say she would be the only person for whom she would ever wear something like this. With each step she took, her pulse pounded harder, every inch closer tightening the thrill in both their chests.
When they were close enough, the Spaniard’s fingers lifted slightly, brushing lightly along her arm, just as the fabric of the nightie did. But with more thought.
"Eso… eso es lo que quería." (That… that’s what I wanted.)
Alexia’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile as she leaned back against the wall. They were so close they seemed like two pieces of a puzzle waiting to be put together, the younger woman standing between the footballer’s knees, one of Alexia’s large hands intertwining with her smaller one. The Spaniard’s other hand pressed firmly at the small of her back, pulling her against her body. Her eyes lifted, meeting the pair in front of her.
“Y pensé que verte desnuda tendría este efecto en mí, pero esto es aún mejor.” (And I thought seeing you naked would have this effect on me, but this is even better.)
The girl let a little smile escape against the Barça captain’s lips, who had kissed her lightly, almost testing what would happen if she deepened it, while the palm trees shaded the pool outside, reminding them the afternoon was ending.
Her lips moved softly against hers, the kiss almost exploratory at first, a tentative tease. But quickly, it shifted into something hungrier, more urgent. The hand on her back tightened, pulling her closer. Her body pressed firmly into the one shielded only by the nightie — solid muscle and warm skin, radiating heat in waves. Kissing Alexia was an experience of its own, and the way she cupped the side of her head while her tongue slipped into her mouth made them both feel like they could pass out, especially as her free hand traced up her back to brush over the silky straps. As the kiss deepened, her touch grew more demanding, more possessive. Her hand in the younger woman’s hair tugged gently at the strands, angling her head the way she wanted. Her other hand followed the straps, fingers teasing along the sensitive skin there.
"Dios, he querido tocarte así durante tanto tiempo." (God, I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so long.)
“Then why did you never do it?”
Alexia wet her lips, placing both hands on the girl’s hips.
“Because I’ve been waiting,” she said, “esperando a que me dejes.” (Waiting for you to let me.)
But the girl had always thought someone like the footballer — who lived riding the wave of success that came from doing what she loved — would never see her as anything more than the fun friend she brought everywhere, the one everyone knew as her better half.
The Spaniard stepped forward, guiding her backwards toward the bed, where she laid her down gently, her hands tracing the full line of her legs, lifting the hem of the nightie, the fabric bunching at her hipbones.
Her lips returned to the girl’s, the kiss scorching and demanding. She knew exactly how she wanted to kiss her, and made it clear in the way her tongue moved into her mouth with certainty. The one caged between her arms sighed softly, lost to time, her only thought being Alexia above her, covering her like a warm, exploring blanket. Her hands were everywhere at once, leaving trails of fire as she explored each inch. Alexia’s mouth moved to her neck, lingering at the spot that made her breath hitch, grazing the delicate skin before biting softly — a sweet promise of more. She was in control; every touch, every kiss was hers to give.
The girl in the nightie felt the press of the footballer’s thumbs on her hipbones through the fabric, sighing into her ear as though she couldn’t breathe any other way.
"¿Puedo tocarte? Bien, quiero decir." (Can I touch you? Properly, I mean.)
Alexia had pulled back slightly, still drawing lazy circles on her hips, the pressure just firm enough to make her shiver. She was waiting for permission, her beautiful face caught in the most breathtaking of situations.
“Yes, Ale, yes.” The girl moistened her lips, feeling the midfielder’s touch grow certain, no longer tentative, as her palms traced the lines of the nightie, flattening against her skin through the fabric. She moved almost reverently, as if memorizing every curve and contour. Her hand hooked into the sides of the girl’s panties, while her breath spilled from perfect lips that had long since abandoned English.
Lace slipped down her thighs, and she sighed at Alexia’s gentle, firm touch. Her eyes flicked up to the footballer’s face, watching her take her time.
"No te suelto." (I’m not letting you go.)
One of the Spaniard’s hands skimmed up her body, stopping just below her sternum, fingers intertwining with hers. The moment stole every word from her lips; she melted under the midfielder’s hands, who anchored her to the bed, towering above with knees planted on either side of her thigh. The nightie shifted with each movement, delicate straps sliding slightly as Alexia explored her — never rushing, never hesitating. Her fingers found a slow, deliberate rhythm, exploring gently. She read every flicker of reaction, her gaze locked on her face, searching for any hint of pleasure or discomfort. Her expression was one of intense focus and raw want, her eyes darkened and lips curled into a faint smirk, satisfied at how much she was affecting her.
Friends? Drop it.
She murmured between breaths:
“Mírame.” (Look at me.)
Alexia could hear every question racing through her head, and she already had the answers written on her lips. Practice. Attention. And big, sure hands.
Her touch grew more demanding as she noticed the girl’s breaths becoming erratic, lips pressed together to keep herself grounded. Alexia was teasing, confident, and god — she was hell of a woman. Like a vision of dark, fiery intensity. The same as on the pitch.
She looked up at her from that angle, so close the girl could feel the words against her skin, and it was dizzying — that mix of playful control and raw desire. Then she grasped a fistful of the nightie, capturing her lips again in a deeper kiss, reminding her where they were. Every kiss matched the weight of her body pressing down, every touch paired with a word that wrapped around the younger woman just as tightly.
“Amor,” she breathed against her lips, feeling the girl’s legs beginning to close a little around her knee.
The word landed low in her stomach, sending another rush through her, and when Alexia’s lips trailed down her body, she realized she didn’t just want to hear her voice in Spanish — she needed it, every word wrapping tighter around her. Her mouth found the softest parts of her with unhurried precision, and the first sweep of her tongue drew out a sound she hadn’t meant to release.
She still clutched Alexia’s hand, fingers tightening as she gripped a handful of the nightie. Her pace was patient, savoring — every move calculated to keep her lingering on the edge. Her hands steadied her hips when they tried to rise. She alternated between long, slow strokes and quick bursts that made her fingers curl in Alexia’s.
The Spanish kept coming — low, murmured praises between breaths, soft commands that wrapped around her just as much as the midfielder’s hands did.
“No pares… dámelo.” (Don’t hold back… give it to me.)
The midfielder said it with the most infuriating grin. She wiped her lips on the shirt she had tossed aside earlier, forgotten in a corner of the bed that watched them silently. Her parted lips, the soft pants of her breath, and the damp hair falling over tattooed shoulders were enough to make the girl shudder again after that powerful first wave. Her body pressed fully into hers now, heat against heat, showing just how much she wanted this — wanted her.
The girl’s hands reached for the footballer’s waist, undoing the button of her jeans, the nightie long gone, leaving nothing between them. Alexia chuckled, a low rumble in her throat, amused by how quickly her friend’s forgotten shyness had vanished.
It was just a matter of time before their hips started moving in sync, as if the rhythm itself was pulling them both under. There was no real plan — just instinct. Her kisses turned deeper, messier, the girl's hands clutching at Alexia's tattooed muscles as she led her straight to perdition. She threw her head back, baring her neck, her hair falling down her back as she moved perfectly, her hand glued to the girl's knee. The heat was building fast, their breaths growing shallow, their closeness making every nerve flare to life. Alexia's jaw tensed as she moistened her lips, loving the sight of the one beneath her, and she started moving slower, creating twice the friction.
It hit them both at the same time — a rush so sharp it was almost overwhelming, their hips stuttering against each other’s hands, bodies arching, everything wound tight before breaking apart in waves. The Spanish captain laughed breathlessly, clearly proud of what she had achieved in such little time, pressing a kiss to the other girl’s temple as she leaned down on her arms and elbows, caging her in.
“Creo que acabamos de romper un mio récord.” (I think we just broke a record of mine.)
Even the slightest move from her made the younger one squirm, and God, the footballer was enjoying it. The girl’s fingertips dug into the perfect curve of her lower back, as if to press her more into herself. The first roll of Alexia’s hips pulled a sharp sound from her lips, and she grinned like she had been waiting for it. She knew that, for many, something like that was new — and giving that girl two rounds of it was the least she could do. And no fingers, no tongue could ever mimic that.
The girl in the nightie was completely at her mercy now, trapped there, but her hands were driving Alexia wild.
“No juegues conmigo… así pierdo la cabeza.” (Don’t play with me… I lose my mind like this.)
She smiled against the Spaniard’s lips, feeling worn out but still chasing more, as if Alexia wasn’t getting anywhere near tired. She had the stamina of a footballer who played like there was no tomorrow, who led her team to countless victories, no matter where or which league they were in.
The midfielder was good — there was no denying it. She kept guiding her, showing her how to move, how to learn from her, and the way she spoke Spanish — never saying anything outright dirty — was enough to send her over the edge. And they finished. Again. Again. Again.
Always shifting subtly to change the sensation, never once catching the hint that it was getting late and they should have been heading to dinner. Alexia would roll onto her back, admiring the way the nightie’s straps would slip onto her arms, grazing her skin as she moved. How the fabric shaded different areas each time, leaving nothing to her imagination but adding a layer of mystery that drove her absolutely crazy.
“Tenemos que irnos…” (We have to go...)
Alexia said, running a hand through her hair as she checked her watch just after giving the girl one last time, her tone not even bothering to hide how unhappy she was to let go.
“Aunque… debo decir… te ves demasiado bien después de todo esto.” (Although… I have to say… you look way too good after all this.)
She kissed her again before offering her a hand, helping her to the bathroom so she could get herself together for dinner. A smirk stamped on her face. And the marks of the other’s nails tracing across her tattoos.
“¿Estáis convencida de lo que somos ahora?” (Are you convinced of what we are now?)
soo, a study vacation in england during the euros opened my eyes to women's football even more than before. I had been watching the italian league for some years, and I knew barça femeni from the matches in champions league but my interest spiked a lot after the euros. However, this is my first attempt at publishing smut, as the poll I had put up a few months ago ended up in you preferring I sticked to fluff... it's not proofread, and it's the result of me falling in love with a girl and realizing I can write wlw imagines as well... (not proofread, google translated spanish and english's not my first language so bear with me)
