Spanish or Dating?
Part 1
You join Barça and everything is so different from home. The food, the pace of life, the fact that nobody ever seems to be on time. And the touchiness. It's so confusing. Is it friendly? Is it more than friendly? There seems to be no such thing as boundaries with these Spanish girls. Most surprising of all is how you've found yourself a fast friend in the Barcelona captain, Alexia. Not a day goes by where you don't feature in each other’s lives, her arm wrapped around your shoulders, your legs intertwined on your couch. And yet still you're taken by surprise when one of the girls makes a comment on a night out about you two dating.
Part 1 -> Part 2
Wordcount: 4.2k
Warnings: 18+ for smut
You find yourself in Barcelona, thousands of miles away from England and all you know. And you’re not sure how you got here.
Okay, well, that’s a lie.
You know how you got here. Your agent. And you, needing a change of scenery from the wreckage of your dating life left behind in the rainy country after your girlfriend (ex you suppose is the better term now) dropped you like a hot potato for the new signing at her club. That stung. A lot. And seeing them in WSL match-ups was not your idea of a pleasant time.
Which is how Barcelona’s interest skyrocketed them to the top of your consideration list come contract negotiation time. Arsenal was not happy to lose you. But they couldn’t compete with the promise of a new league, new faces, and no run-ins with your ex and her new girl at half field.
But even with your reasons for wanting to come to Spain, it’s still such a major change in your life. Debilitating really. The language. The food. The tardiness. Seriously – how is it that every single Spaniard you’ve met is always 5, 10, 15 minutes late? Annoying and yet they also somehow have it come across as endearing. You hate it. Because you know that won’t work for you. Or your perpetually 10-minute ahead of schedule self. You’d break out in hives if you even tried to be late.
The slower pace of life, now, you could get used to. Midday naps? Yes please. Spending a couple hours making your way through dinner because everyone prioritizes congregating and chatting instead of inhaling food in silence? Also on board.
But the touchiness. You are utterly perplexed. You’re English. Even a handshake can feel like crossing a personal boundary. But the Spanish. With their legs across your lap. And hands dancing down your arms. And the kisses on the lips.
You’re taken aback. The team is friendly. Very, very friendly. With each other and with you. You are not sure if you’ve found yourself with 15 new girlfriends (based on the level of affection, you think yes), or if this is just the baseline in Spain.
Because you’re pretty sure Mapi is with Ingrid. Like with with.
But as you sit here after team dinner, the crew moving to the nearby club, you see Mapi draped over Patri, the midfielder’s hand tucked between her thighs holding her in place where the defender sits on her lap. But that hand is much, much higher up than would ever be considered appropriate in England. Let alone Mapi sitting on Patri’s lap in the first place!
Your eyes snap to Ingrid who you find smiling, not at all upset. What the hell? Patri’s hand is basically snug between Mapi’s legs, tucked up high and tight. Something that could very well cause a fist fight in England. But Ingrid is laughing, looking light and happy.
Alexia slides into the booth next to you. Jolting your thoughts to the other surprising thing about moving to Barcelona: your new friendship with the world’s best female footballer.
She’s nothing like you thought she would be. Not cocky. Not loud. Not competitive (well except on the field). She’s soft and quiet and tentative smiles. And broken English making an effort to help you settle into home here in Barcelona.
And you quickly find yourself and her spending an awful lot of time together. At her apartment, with Nala curled in your lap. At your place, with her commandeering your kitchen and filling it with delicious smells. At night when the city goes a little quiet and your thoughts get too loud. At the beach, learning to sink in the sand from the master, her face turned up towards the sun, forcing you to exist in the quiet with her.
She’s easily been one of the best parts of coming to the club, aside from the football. She makes you feel like you belong, even if it’s only been 8 weeks. You can see why Lucy once told you that Barcelona was the best place she ever played football. That they’re a family in a way no other club she’s been at touches. Because you feel it, even with your limited time here.
You turn your attention back to deciphering the Ingrid/Mapi/Patri debacle when you feel Alexia’s fingers start tracing shapes over the skin exposed through the rip in your jeans. Your quad tenses at the fluttery feeling before you relax back into the booth with a small exhale.
You can see Alexia’s small smirk from the corner of your eye. It’s like she lives for pulling reactions out of you. You huff out a grunt at proving her theory right that you English are rolled a little tight.
You are so focused on dissecting the interactions between Mapi and Patri and Ingrid that you miss the woman walking up to the table, dark hair thrown over her shoulder, smile gracing her painted lips.
“Hola,” she says, drawing attention her way. “I’m Lucía,” she says, looking at you.
You smile back politely, already turning away to study if the way Ingrid’s fingers are clenched around her glass is because the condensation is making it slippery or secretly a tell at Patri fondling her girlfriend.
“Would you like to dance?” the woman asks, voice hopeful.
“She’s taken,” Alexia instantly replies, a slight edge to her tone that has your eyes brought back towards the current situation. Ingrid and her relations with her glass will keep for now.
“Yeah, they’re dating,” Mapi chimes in, pointing to you and Alexia.
The woman frowns slightly but offers a shoulder shrug of acceptance and wanders off back to her friend group.
"We're not dating," you correct.
"Uh, yes we are?" Alexia chimes in, brow wrinkling up adorably.
"What? Since when?" you ask, confused at whatever joke she’s trying to make.
"Cari, what did you think this was?" she asks gently, laughing lightly, her free hand indicating between the two of you as the hand on your thigh squeezes to emphasize her point.
"You being Spanish! You're all so touchy feely!" you exclaim, voice rising as your hands gesture around.
Alexia laughs, the pads of her fingers pressed to her mouth as if she can stuff her smile back away. "There is a big difference between being touchy with your friends and touchy with your girlfriend.”
“Well tell me the difference then! It all looks the same.”
Alexia leans in, lips close to your ear. “I do not want to take my friends to bed,” she murmurs softly, her hand squeezing fairly high up your thigh in emphasis.
You exhale a breath, fighting the urge to shudder at the whisper of her breath across the shell of your ear. “If we’re dating, why haven’t you kissed me?” you ask breathlessly.
“We’ve kissed,” she asserts.
You roll your eyes. “I thought you Spaniards peck everyone on the lips! Your friends, your teammates, your family, the local bus driver, the busboy, the dog walker.”
She rolls her eyes at your dramatics. “I was waiting for you to indicate you were ready for more. You’re a little bit like a bird.”
“A bird?” you ask confused.
“Flighty,” she smiles. “Fluttery wings that take a few times to land and stay in one place. Easily scared off at quick movements.”
Okay, you feel only slightly attacked for her mentioning your erratic habits. But her gentle smile soothes that burn of truth.
“We’re dating?” you ask again, confusion still infused in your words.
“Sí”
“We’ve been on dates?”
“Sí”
“What dates??”
“That vineyard? That new restaurant with the rooftop garden where we held hands? The road trip up the coast? The farmer’s market? The private boat ride at sunset? I took you to my uncle’s birthday party, the family party?” She states, eyes imploring you to stop her at any point as she racks up all the different dates you’ve been on.
“What! I thought you were just being super friendly because I’m new to the team.”
“Cari, no!” she laughs. “Nobody gets invited to my family parties, not even Irene. I keep football and my personal life pretty separate.”
Oh, that changes your perspective a little. But how were you supposed to know that? What she’s saying makes sense though. You yourself thought that the vibes were pretty romantic during that boat ride at sunset, just the two of you and the captain. And you may or may not have watched her as the setting rays bathed her gold and desired to kiss her when she smiled at you so openly.
“Well shit, I’ve been dating Alexia Putellas this entire time and had no fucking clue,” you state in disbelief. “How’d I pull that off?”
She chuckles and pulls you into her side by your belt loops, hip nestling up against hers as her arm slides over your shoulder. “I didn’t realize you English were so oblivious.”
“Hey!” you say in mock irritation. “We’re just a little emotionally stunted, thank you. Not every culture can be so touchy feely as you Spanish. It would be too confusing. Imagine the entire world having to play this game.”
“What game?” she murmurs, face close.
“Are they just Spanish or are they dating?”
She laughs into the crook of your neck, body shrugging up and down with her chuckles.
And you’re thinking that if you are dating Alexia, it’s about time you enjoy some of those perks, sliding a hand into her hair and around the back of her neck. You pull her head up to yours, lips descending to capture hers in a proper kiss.
Untangling the thread between Mapi and Ingrid and Patri can wait for another day.
Right now, you’re solely focused on convincing Alexia that now that you are aware of your dating status, you are loudly indicating you are ready for her to show you the differentiation between friend and girlfriend.
The whole taking you to bed part.
Stat.
---------------------------
You watch her, reluctantly pulled onto the dance floor by an eager Jana.
Alexia has a hard time saying no to the kids. It’s one of the things you found most endearing about the legendary captain when you first joined Barça. Lucy had mentioned that you’d find the atmosphere different from the English clubs you’ve both filtered through in your careers.
So, you were expecting a bit of a closer relationship between these long-standing players. But you weren’t expecting her, Alexia. She’s an untouchable figurehead in recent years with her Ballon d’Or wins and countless others – Champions League, Nations League, World Cup.
You aren’t a stranger to success. The back-to-back Euros can attest to that.
But, still, she commands attention and respect at a frequency that is unmatched in your industry. You’ve yet to hear a single bad thing about her from teammates or rivals alike. With so many strong personalities and ultra-competitive women in the field, that is exceedingly rare. To have nobody who has a bad word to mouth about you.
You can’t even claim that. And you’re one of the happy-go-luckiest bitches on the pitch, in your humble opinion.
From her abbreviated movements at the edge of the group, you can tell that Alexia is not wholly comfortable out there on the bass-thumping dance floor. Still, she made the effort, not wanting to tell Jana no.
But, your patience has worn thin.
Alexia dropped a bomb on you earlier. You two are dating. And you mistakenly assumed that meant that she would swoop you away to do something with that information.
But no. Instead, Jana asked her dance. And she said yes.
Alexia went ahead and sauntered over to the dance floor as if your world hadn’t been cracked wide open in the last hour, gaining yourself a world-class footballer girlfriend who you had no idea was already yours.
While you usually love nights out with your new teammates, this new family you’ve found yourself part of, tonight is not one of those nights.
Because since Alexia confirmed you two are dating, have been dating for weeks, all you can think about is taking her to bed. Or rather, her taking you. Whichever way she wants it, you’re not fussed.
You just want her. Now. Not after another hour or two of the girls jamming to the latest hot pop at the club.
You down your drink and push up to stand, pulling your blouse hem down from where it’s risen.
Enough. It’s time for you and the girlfriend you've just been informed you have to have a little bit of alone time. You’ve been patient. More than.
It's been at least four songs.
And now that you're allowing yourself to properly look at Alexia, really linger since it can't be considered crossing a boundary when she's your girlfriend, you are incredibly turned on.
Her jeans sit low on her hips, drawing your eyes to the way they accentuate the curve of her ass before falling off into wide pant legs.
The white crop top looks like it's been painted on, tight and bright and a beacon calling at you through the crowd. You need no confirmation that she isn't wearing a bra. Her nipples have no problem bearing that truth to you.
You nudge Mapi with a finger to her ribs. The defender grunts at you but reluctantly stands when you motion for her to let you out of the booth. You are a woman on a mission. A very important mission to get into one Miss Putellas' pants.
She catches your eye from across the room as you start threading between tables and bodies, destination set on her. When an oblivious man slides in front of you, causing you to pull up short to avoid touching his sweat-drenched shirt, you lose eye contact. And once you've side-stepped that mess of a man you see that someone else has caught your girlfriend's attention in your absence.
Or rather, someone has stepped up to command her attention. And Alexia is too damn polite for her own good.
You sigh and shake your head in a mix of annoyance and fondness at this woman who is shockingly yours.
You can tell by the way Alexia's eyes roam away from this stranger every few seconds to scan the crowd that she really would like to be out of this conversation. But the woman is just too damn polite to walk away.
And so, as her girlfriend, it is your duty to save her.
By the time you make it across the dance floor the man has his hand on her forearm and you can visibly see Alexia shrink away, unease leaking from her curled in posture and too tight smile.
You walk up like a woman possessed, shoulders thrown back and chin raised high. You barge through the man's arm, separating the tether between the two.
"Hey!" he shouts affronted.
You pay him no mind, instead wrapping a hand around Alexia's waist and turning her to lean up and whisper in her ear, "Let's go home."
She looks at you and nods in relief.
The man is still speaking for some strange reason. You just grab your girlfriend by her wrist and gently pull towards the exit, walking past the team booth and snagging her purse as you go. Your feet don't even stop.
You can feel Alexia's grin from behind as you break out into the fresh air, taking a deep breath. So much better.
Alexia grins at you, reaching her hand down to grab yours as you walk down the street, music fading with every step.
"My place or yours?" you ask, eyes dropping to gaze at her lips.
"Mmm, mine," she teases with a wink. "Bigger shower."
You moan low under your breath at the visual of her in the shower pressed up against the tiles. The things you'd like to do to her.
Barely maintaining control of your spiking arousal, you speed walk your way to Alexia's apartment, practically dragging the laughing midfielder along behind you.
Her apartment door swinging shut behind you with a firm thump pulls you out of your stupor. There are no audiences here, no grubby club goers, no teammates vying for Alexia's attention.
It's just you and her, your girlfriend. That word, even if uttered only in your head, sets you spinning in the most delicious way.
You can see her pupils dilate as you stalk towards her, shoes discarded, jacket dropped to the floor.
Hands drag through her hair. She wore it down tonight, and she looks so pretty with it that way. You're not sure you've told her that in the span of time between knowing that was not an appropriate comment to make to your captain and learning said captain apparently is also your girlfriend.
Your grip tightens slightly, dragging her head down as you claim her lips.
She moans into your mouth and the vibration has you groaning into her, wrecked at the knowledge that she's just as turned on as you are.
You shuffle the two of you towards her bedroom, chuckling slightly at how you know exactly where that is because you two have had sleepovers in her bed before.
How incredibly dense could you have been? As if sleeping in Alexia Putellas' bed was just a run-of-the-mill action from a captain looking out for the new signing. Stamp "cabrona" on your forehead and mail you back to England.
This girl must have the patience of a saint. To put up with oblivious you for so damn long.
And here and now, watching how her body turns pliant under your hands and lips, you realize that she probably would have waited an inordinate amount of time more waiting for you to make the first move.
Alexia Putellas, Miss Ballon d'Or herself, football legend, Catalan goddess, prefers to give up control rather than take it.
It sends you soaring as you press her down into the bed as she fucking whimpers at the contact.
"Ale," you murmur, drawing back to look at her lust-hazed eyes.
She blinks up at you. "¿Qué?"
"You're my girlfriend," you state with awe, hands trailing down her abs as you sit up, settling back into her lap.
She bites back a groan, hands settling on your waist. "Sí," punctuated by a thrust up of her hips, teeth worrying her bottom lip.
"Is this okay?" you check softly, grinding down into her gently.
That does draw a strangled noise somewhere from the back of her throat. Her eyes are wild as they find your gaze, head nodding insistently. "Por favor," she begs. "Tocamé."
You lean down, capturing her in another kiss as your hand trails up her arm, fingers delicately trailing along her exposed collar bone before landing on her breast.
She arches into the touch and you squeeze lightly, taking delight in how she turns her head into your neck to catch her breath.
You feel her own fingers start an exploration of your body.
But the clothes separating the two of you really, really need to go. You pull back and yank your blouse over your head in one motion.
Alexia's eyes feast on your chest, hands reaching out to cup you through your bra.
Your head falls back as you moan. Her touch is soft, slightly hesitant. Your hands cup her own, pushing her to touch you more insistently. You like it a little rough. And it's better she understand that up front.
The midfielder chuckles into your neck, fingers flipping one of your bra cups down to fully seat you in her hand before her fingers reach out to pinch a nipple.
Fuck, yes. That's it.
She has distracted you from your original purpose, though, to divest her of her clothing.
You reluctantly climb off her.
And she whines, hands reaching to pull you back onto her.
"Clothes," you state. Getting even that one word out is difficult when your mind is so wholly focused on the throb between your legs. All of her touches, her huffs of air against your skin, her thrum of energy has landed firmly between your legs.
You kick your pants and underwear down your legs and onto her bedroom floor.
As you move to pull off her jeans, you can feel the glide of your arousal coating your thighs as you move.
You are ridiculously wet.
You've been wet since the club. And you'd be willing to bet if you slipped a hand down between Alexia she would be as well.
Which is a good idea.
You discard the rest of her clothing somewhere near yours and pounce on her, pushing her back to lay down as you mount her, legs slotting on either side of her.
She can feel how wet you are in the glide against her abs. She clenches the muscles in response and groans into your mouth, reaching up to pull you back down to her mouth.
"Please," she whispers. "I need you."
Your hand is descending before she finishes speaking. Her wetness engulfs your fingers the second they find a home between her thighs.
She gasps as you make contact, a hand threading through your hair and pulling lightly. "Yessss."
Hearing her so affected at just an initial touch has your body running hot.
You paint kisses down her shoulder that quickly turn to nips when on the first one she moans at the bite.
Fingers drag through her, twirling and circling and spinning Alexia tighter and tighter.
She's panting into your neck at this point, moans spilled into your skin.
And you absorb them, let them run down your nervous system until you're just about there with her, grinding down on her thigh in a poor attempt at relieving the ache settled low in your stomach.
"Don't stop," she demands, eyes screwed shut as her thighs start to tense. "Don't stop, don't stop."
Your forearm flexes as you keep up the pace, other hand gripping her opposite hip to anchor her down as those hips start to gyrate the closer she gets to release.
You can hear the desperation in the noise escaping her. Not really moans anymore, definitely not words. Really just breathy, whining things at this point.
She raises the thigh you're pressed up against as you push her closer to the edge, thigh full on tensed. The way she pushes up into your clit, unintentional but still somehow hitting the exact spot you need, pulls a filthy moan out of you.
She finds her words again at that.
"Cari, look at me," she whispers.
You didn't even realize your eyes had closed. But you listen, finding her gaze easily.
The hunger you find there as her hands come to rest on your hips, pulling you forward and pushing you backward as you ride her thigh, has you careening towards your orgasm faster than you've ever experienced before.
You thought you were leading this dance. And you were. Still are.
But your moan awoke something in her that has her needing to wrap her body around yours and pull you over the cliff with her.
Your hips are working in rhythm with her hands, pulling you up with every pass of your clit over her thigh. Until she takes control of your rhythm, slowing it down, letting your body drag slowly, elongating the contact.
It causes your hips to stutter, the rhythm of your hand faltering for a second before you press firmer against her and start again.
She gasps at that. Pushes her body up into you, thigh included.
You can't take anymore. You're too far gone.
Your hips cant down onto her leg, taking what you need. Your fingers on her involuntarily speed up as your body crashes towards your peak.
She whispers it. Not for performance. Just out of desire to care for you. "Let go, I've got you."
And you do. You come in a crashing wave of heat, hips humping into her, body shaking as the stimulation becomes too much for your poor clit.
She captures your moaning mouth into a deep kiss, hand cradling your head.
Your fingers never stop.
She'll marvel at that later.
But for now, she follows you into orgasm, your sounds amplifying the pleasure for her. Where she pulled low, rumbling moans from you. Your fingers pluck high, sweet sighs from her.
You gently carry her back down, fingers trailing off to muted movement, just connection not intention.
Her final sigh is her loudest. A worn out huff of air that relays how much her body needed that release, muscles now lax and loose.
Alexia pushes you onto your back before she pillows her head on your shoulder and throws a leg over your hip.
It's comfortable and intimate all in one. You're close to drifting off. You can feel the haze closing in as your body starts to lose the battle with your incoming post-orgasm coma.
"Might be a bit slow with the Spanish things," you slur into her hair. "You might need to explicitly spell things out for me, love. Otherwise next thing I know you'll hand me a flower and all of a sudden I've missed that we're now married."
She laughs at that, rich and full.
You drift off to sleep with a smile on your lips, her laugh in your ears, her shampoo in your nose, and Alexia wrapped in your arms.
Part 2
