The Late-Night Protocol
Alexia Putellas x Female!Reader
Word Count: ~5,180 words
TW:Mature. Light Smut, Heavy Humour, and Fluff. Brief references to the past loss of a pet (Nala, 2023), mild language, explicit but tasteful sexual content, parental intrusion/walk-in embarrassment, and chaotic social media speculation.
There was a very specific, unspoken rule within the architectural layout of Alexia Putellas’s villa in Pedralbes: if the heavy oak doors leading to the master bedroom suite were completely closed, you did not knock, you did not enter, and you certainly did not assume the occupants were just sleeping.
Regrettably, Eli Putellas had completely forgotten this protocol on a remarkably warm Thursday afternoon.
"Alexia, cariño, I left the keys to the Mollet flat on your kitchen island, and I’m just going to look for—"
The heavy oak door swung open with a smooth, unproblematic creak. The sentence died a brutal, sudden death in Eli's throat.
On the massive, king-sized bed, the scene was entirely, undeniably catastrophic for a mother’s vision. The crisp white linen sheets were half-torn off the mattress, pooled around the floor in a chaotic swirl. You were flat on your back, your dark hair fanned out across the pillows, your cheeks flushed a deep, breathless crimson, and your legs completely wrapped around Alexia’s waist. Alexia, entirely stripped of her formidable athletic kit, was poised directly over you, her powerful shoulders slick with sweat, her head buried in the crook of your neck as she let out a low, breathless groan that was cut short by the sound of the door opening.
For a fraction of a second, the universe completely froze.
Alexia’s head snapped up, her hazel eyes widening into absolute, unadulterated terror as she caught sight of her mother standing frozen in the doorway. You let out a tiny, horrified squeak, instantly pulling the discarded duvet over your face like a teenager caught in a bad comedy sketch.
"¡Madre mía!" Eli gasped, her hands flying to cover her eyes as she spun around on her heel with a speed that rivalled a professional winger. "¡Lo siento! ¡No vi nada! ¡Me voy, me voy!"
"¡Mamá!" Alexia bellowed, her voice cracking in a mixture of profound embarrassment and sheer panic as she scrambled off you, desperately trying to find her shorts among the tangled sheets. "¡Te dije que me llamaras antes de venir!"
"I am leaving the keys on the counter!" Eli yelled back from the corridor, her retreating footsteps sounding remarkably frantic. "I am going to church! I am going to erase this from my brain! ¡Adiós!"
The front door of the villa slammed shut with a heavy thud, leaving the house in an agonizing, suffocating silence.
Slowly, you lowered the edge of the duvet from your face, peering over the fabric with wide, shell-shocked hazel eyes. Alexia was sitting on the edge of the mattress, her face completely buried in her palms, her ears burning a deep, radioactive shade of red.
"I think..." you whispered, your voice a tiny, shaky scratch in the quiet room. "I think your mum is going to need a very expensive therapist, Ale."
Alexia let out a muffled, broken groan into her hands, her shoulders shaking. "She is never going to look at me the same way again, Y/N. Never. I am thirty-two years old, and I have just been grounded by my mother’s sheer trauma."
You couldn't help it. The sheer absurdity of the situation broke through your panic, and you burst out into a loud, hysterical fit of giggles, throwing yourself across the mattress until you were draped over Alexia’s bare back, your arms locking around her neck. "Look on the bright side, mi amor. At least she knows your knee rehab is working perfectly. Your mobility was excellent."
"Cállate, por favor," Alexia laughed, turning her head to press a fierce, embarrassed kiss against your lips, pulling you tightly against her chest to hide her burning face. "Don't say another word."
The domestic embarrassment, however, was merely the prologue to a week of absolute public chaos.
Three days later, Alexia was scheduled to appear on La Revuelta, the late-night television phenomenon hosted by David Broncano that had taken Spain by storm with its surreal humour and notoriously intrusive questions. Because the media and the public still widely assumed Alexia was completely single—given her fiercely guarded private life since the heavy years of 2023—the atmosphere in the theater was electric.
Alexia walked out onto the stage looking effortlessly brilliant, wearing a structured, oversized charcoal blazer, a simple white t-shirt, and silver chain necklaces. She sat on the infamous battered sofa, leaning back with the easy, charming confidence of a woman who had won two Ballons d'Or.
The interview was a classic Broncano whirlwind—ranging from bizarre debates about local cheeses to tactical football analysis—until the show reached its traditional, dreaded climax.
Broncano leaned forward, a mischievous, feral grin spreading across his face as he tapped his fingers on his desk. "Right, Alexia. We’ve had a laugh, we’ve talked about the Champions League, but you know the rules of this programme. We have the two classic questions that every guest must answer with total honesty."
The audience roared with laughter, clapperboards clacking in anticipation. Alexia chuckled, shifting slightly on the sofa, her hands resting casually on her knees. "Venga, David. Dale."
"First question," Broncano said, squinting at his prompt cards. "Money in the bank. Total net worth, including properties, liquid cash, and your sponsorships. How much money does the captain of Barcelona have?"
Alexia smiled, a classic, diplomatic expression. "Look, David, I’ve been very fortunate. I’ve worked hard, the women’s game has grown massively, and I have a few good investments in properties around Catalonia. Let’s just say it’s enough to ensure my mother and my sister can live very comfortably for the rest of their lives. I won't give a specific number, but it’s a good amount."
"Brilliant, a proper political answer," Broncano scoffed playfully, before leaning in, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, the second question. The one the internet actually cares about. Sexual relations in the last thirty days. How many times? Remember, the points system: classic intercourse is one point, oral sex is half a point, and so on. What’s the total score for Alexia Putellas this month?"
The theater completely erupted into cheers and whistling.
Outside the studio, watching from the green room monitor with a bottle of water in your hand, you felt your stomach drop into your shoes. Your mind immediately flashed back to the catastrophic incident with Eli three days prior.
On stage, Alexia didn't even flinch. A slow, incredibly smug, and slightly wicked smile spread across her face. She leaned back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, completely abandoning her usual media-trained reservation.
"Well, David," Alexia said, her voice dropping into a smooth, slightly raspy register that made the front row of the audience collectively gasp. "People on the internet like to talk a lot. They write a lot of stories, and they think they know my life. They think I spend all my time alone with my trophies."
"And?" Broncano nudged, raising his eyebrows. "What’s the score?"
"Let’s just say..." Alexia purred, a tiny, knowing glint in her hazel eyes as she thought directly of you waiting in the wings. "That it has been a remarkably productive month. If we are using your points system, David, I am easily winning the league. I am safely in the Champions League positions. Easily over twenty points."
The studio went absolutely mental. Broncano stood up from his chair, slamming his hands on the desk in mock disbelief. "¡¿Cómo?! ¡Pero si los rumores dicen que estás más sola que la una! ¡¿Veinte puntos?! ¡Eso es casi un partido diario, Alexia! ¡Por el amor de Dios, estás jugando dos competiciones a la vez!"
Alexia just laughed, a rich, unbothered sound, refusing to provide a single name, a gender, or a clue.
Within three minutes of the broadcast airing, Twitter (X) completely collapsed into a state of radioactive speculation.
@putellas_fcb: ALEXIA?? TWENTY POINTS??? WHO IS SHE DATING IN SECRET MY HEAD IS SPINNING @blaugrana_fem: Hold on... Alexia said she's winning the league in the bedroom but she hasn't been seen with anyone since 2024. Who is the mystery person?? Is it a teammate?? @indie_vibes_es: Lads, have you noticed that Y/N (the animal rescue influencer) posted a TikTok from a kitchen that looks EXACTLY like Alexia’s villa last week? Check the marble counter tiles. I’m starting a conspiracy theory. @marias_fcb: No way Alexia is single. That smile on La Revuelta was the smile of a woman who is getting absolutely spoiled at home. WHO IS SHE.
Over the next few weeks, the digital detectives of Barcelona went into overdrive. The internet began to piece together a trail of breadcrumbs that was becoming increasingly impossible to ignore. A blurry reflection of an oversized cream blazer in your sunglasses during a brunch in Sitges; a familiar black SUV parked outside the administrative offices of the local animal shelter you represented; a stray like from Alexia’s private Instagram account on a photo of your hands holding a coffee cup.
The rumors were reaching a boiling point, but you remained entirely focused on your actual passion project.
Aside from your digital presence, you were the lead ambassador and a high-profile influencer for Amics dels Animals de Catalunya, a beautiful, slightly struggling animal rescue sanctuary located on the outskirts of the city. You used your platform to run adoption campaigns, raise funds for medical treatments, and find homes for dogs that the rest of the world had deemed "unadoptable."
On a bright Tuesday afternoon, you decided to run a surprise TikTok Live stream directly from the sanctuary’s main play paddock. The goal was simple: showcase the older, senior dogs who had been in the shelter for over a year, hoping to tug at the heartstrings of some local families.
You set up your tripod on a wooden bench, wearing a pair of old, muddy Adidas trainers, dungarees, and your hair tied up in a messy, practical bun. Within minutes of clicking 'Go Live,' the viewer count exploded from five thousand to a staggering forty thousand—half the internet was there for the dogs, and the other half was desperate to see if you would drop a clue about the La Revuelta interview.
"Hi everyone! ¡Hola a todos!" you smiled warmly at the screen, holding a small, scruffy terrier mix in your lap. "Welcome to our Tuesday adoption drive. This little guy next to me is Pancho. He’s six years old, he loves biscuits, and he is looking for a quiet sofa to spend his afternoons on. If you’re in Barcelona, please check the link in my bio to fill out the form."
The comment section was scrolling past at a speed that was impossible to read.
User1: ADOPT PANCHO PLS User2: Y/N are you in a relationship??? User3: Ask her about the twenty points!!! User4: Look at the background who is that behind the gate?
You deliberately ignored the personal questions, shifting the camera slightly to focus on the grass. "Right, next up, we have a very special boy. A lot of people don't want to adopt senior dogs because they think it’s too much work or they are afraid of the heartbreak. But senior dogs have the most love to give."
You looked up toward the holding pen gate, a brilliant, genuinely soft smile breaking across your face. "Can you bring him out, please?"
The gate clicked open.
Walking out onto the grass, holding the frayed blue leash of a massive, beautiful, and incredibly slow-moving twelve-year-old golden retriever, was Alexia Putellas.
She wasn't wearing her Barcelona kit or a designer blazer. She was wearing an old, oversized white t-shirt of yours that was covered in muddy paw prints, a pair of worn grey sweatpants, and her hair was pulled back into a simple, messy ponytail. She looked completely relaxed, completely domestic, and entirely comfortable in the space.
The retriever, whose name was Bruno, had a completely grey muzzle and cloudy eyes, but his tail was wagging in slow, heavy thuds against Alexia’s leg.
"This is Bruno," Alexia said, her raspy voice cutting cleanly through the phone's microphone as she walked over to the bench. She didn't look at the camera; she kept her eyes on the old dog, dropping down to her knees in the grass to rub his ears with an immense, protective tenderness. "He’s twelve years old. His owner had to go into a nursing home, so he’s been here for five months. He doesn't need long runs, he just wants someone to sit with him while they watch the football. He’s the best boy."
The TikTok comment section completely lost its collective mind. The text became a vertical blur of capital letters and emoji.
@fcb_addict: OMYGOD ALEXIA PUTELLAS IS ON THE LIVE @lucia_10: THE SHIRT!! ALEXIA IS WEARING Y/N’S SHIRT I RECOGNIZE THE GRAPHIC PRINT FROM Y/N’S VLOG FROM MAY @putellas_world: Look at how Y/N is looking at her... oh they are absolutely dating. They are living together. @bruno_love: PUT ALEXIA ON CAMERA PLS!! SHOW US ALEXIA!!
You looked down at the phone screen, seeing the absolute revolution happening in the chat. You let out a soft, amused chuckle, leaning over the bench until you were hovering directly above Alexia, who was still busy kissing Bruno’s grey forehead.
"Ale," you cooed, your voice dropping into a soft, deliberately whiny register that you only used when you wanted her to do something at home. You made a dramatic, exaggerated puchero—a classic, pouting lower lip that you knew she could never resist. "The comments are going crazy, mi amor. They are begging you to look at the camera properly. Please? Just for a second? Help me get Bruno adopted."
Alexia paused her ear-rubbing. She looked up at you, her hazel eyes softening instantly as she caught sight of your pout. A helpless, incredibly fond smile broke across her face. She reached up, her hand gently catching the back of your neck, and pulled you down until she could press a firm, sweet, and lingering kiss straight onto your lips, completely unbothered by the forty thousand people watching live.
"Anything for you, pesada," Alexia whispered against your lips, before finally turning her head to look directly into the camera lens with a warm, relaxed wave. "Hola a todos. Please adopt Bruno. He’s an icon."
The stream chat officially broke. The viewer count spiked to eighty-five thousand within thirty seconds as people started screen-recording the interaction and uploading it to every corner of the internet.
The digital explosion was immediate, but instead of retreating back into the shadows as she had done in the past, Alexia decided it was time to take complete control of the narrative. The era of hiding was officially over.
Two days later, an official joint publication appeared on both your Instagram profile and Alexia’s main account—the one followed by millions of football fans worldwide.
It wasn't a standard, sterile PR announcement. It was a beautiful, carousel post of black-and-white photographs taken at the shelter and in the private garden of the Pedralbes villa. The first photo showed you and Alexia sitting on the grass, sandwiched between Bruno the golden retriever and a tiny, three-legged puppy you had been fostering. Alexia had her arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, her chin resting on your head, looking happier and more grounded than she had in years.
The caption was written entirely by Alexia, and it carried a emotional depth that made her fans collectively weep.
@alexiaputellas:
“Many of you know that in 2023, I lost a piece of my heart when my little Nala passed away. For a long time, the house felt entirely too quiet, and the grief made it hard to open up again. But life has a beautiful way of bringing the right people—and the right souls—into your world when you need them most. Over the last few months, Y/N has shown me the incredible work that rescue shelters do every single day. She healed my quiet spaces, and she reminded me of how much love is still left to give. Bruno has officially found his forever home with us in Pedralbes. Please, if you are thinking of adding a member to your family, choose to adopt, don't buy. There are thousands of beautiful lives waiting for a second chance. Link in bio to support @amicsdelsanimals.”
The post gained two million likes in under an hour. The football community, her teammates, and fans from London to Buenos Aires flooded the comments with absolute support.
Mapi León left a comment that simply read: “Finally. Welcome to the family, Bruno. (And Y/N, you're still doing the washing up at the next dinner).”
With the relationship officially out in the light, the domestic rhythm of your life in Barcelona took on a beautiful, unbothered freedom. You no longer had to leave the villa through the service elevator, and you didn't have to keep the blinds drawn in the living room.
On a stormy Friday evening, following a grueling double-training session for Alexia and a long day of administrative fundraising for you, the house was entirely quiet. The rain was lashing against the massive glass windows of the bedroom, creating a cozy, isolated sanctuary away from the world.
Bruno was fast asleep on his massive orthopedic bed in the corner of the room, his old legs twitching slightly as he dreamed of biscuits.
Inside the king-sized bed, however, the atmosphere was thick, warm, and remarkably heavy with a different kind of intensity.
Alexia was hovering over you, her powerful frame casting a long shadow across your skin in the dim light of the bedside lamp. She had discarded her t-shirt hours ago, her athletic chest and the intricate tattoos on her left arm shifting beautifully with every breath she took. You were wearing nothing but a silk camisole, your hands firmly gripped around her biceps, your fingers digging into the muscle as she leaned down to press her lips against the hollow of your throat.
"Ale..." you gasped, your breath hitching as her tongue traced a slow, burning path down toward your collarbone. "We... we checked the door this time, right? Your mum isn't..."
Alexia let out a low, vibrant chuckle against your skin, her hands sliding down to grip your hips with a possessive, unyielding strength that made your core throb. "The front gate is locked, the alarm is on, and my mother is currently in Madrid, mi amor. I promise you, we are entirely alone."
She looked up, her hazel eyes dark with an intense, consuming hunger that always made your knees melt. Her thumb traced your lower lip, pulling it down slightly. "No more distractions. No more interviews. Just you."
"Good," you whispered, reaching up to wrap your arms securely around her neck, pulling her down until your lips met in a deep, bruising, and incredibly passionate kiss.
The kiss was heavy with the built-up tension of the past month—the secrecy, the public scrutiny, the chaotic social media storms—all of it melting away into the raw, physical reality of her mouth against yours. Alexia’s tongue parted your lips with an effortless, dominant sweetness, exploring the roof of your mouth while her hand slid beneath the silk of your camisole, her warm palm cup-ping the curve of your waist, her fingers splaying across your ribs.
A soft, needy whimper escaped your throat, your hips instinctively arching upward, seeking the heavy, comforting weight of her body. Alexia let out a low growl into the kiss, her thigh sliding between yours, pinning you against the mattress with a smooth, athletic precision that left you completely breathless.
"Eres tan hermosa, Y/N," she murmured against your lips, her voice deep, raspy, and thick with an absolute, unadulterated devotion. "My beautiful girl."
She shifted her weight, her hands sliding down to grasp the edge of your camisole, pulling it slowly over your head and tossing it carelessly onto the floor. In the amber light, she looked down at you like you were the only trophy she had ever cared about winning. Her fingers traced the line of your hip, her touch leaving a trail of fire across your skin as she moved down, her lips following the path of her hands until you were nothing but a shivering, gasping mess beneath her touch.
The lovemaking was slow, intense, and deeply reverent—a stark contrast to the frantic, hurried encounters of the weeks before when you were still hiding from the world. Every touch was an assertion of ownership, a quiet promise that she wasn't going anywhere. When she finally slid inside you, your fingers tangled into the short blonde hair at the base of her skull, your forehead pressing against hers as you moved together in a rhythmic, intoxicating heat that completely filled the silent room.
You clung to her like a lifeline, your breath echoing in the quiet space, your heart hammering against her ribs until the tension broke, sending a violent, beautiful wave of release through your body that made you cry out her name into the crook of her neck. Alexia followed you a second later, her body stiffening against yours, her muscles tightening as she buried her face in your hair, holding you so close it felt like she was trying to fuse your souls together under the heavy down comforter.
An hour later, the room had cooled down, the only sound being the rhythmic thud of the rain against the glass and Bruno’s soft snoring from the corner.
You were lying flat on your stomach, completely exhausted but thoroughly content, your skin glowing in the faint lamplight. Alexia was lying right beside you, completely naked, her long legs tangled with yours under the sheets. She had her laptop resting on the mattress in front of her, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she reviewed the latest ticket sales for the shelter’s upcoming charity gala.
But despite her focus on the screen, her hands were completely incapable of leaving you alone.
Her right hand was resting heavily on your lower back, her long fingers idly tracing the curve of your spine, occasionally drifting down to cup the soft skin of your hip with a casual, lazy possessiveness that had become her default state at home. She would look at the screen, type a quick email to her management team about a donation, and then lean over to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder blade, her lips warm against your skin.
"The gala is completely sold out, by the way," Alexia murmured, her voice incredibly sleepy and deep. "My manager said the corporate tables were snapped up by three different sports brands within ten minutes of the Instagram post going up."
"That’s amazing, Ale," you mumbled into your pillow, shifting your hips slightly, which only caused her hand to tighten its grip on your hip, pulling your thigh closer to hers. "Thank you. Seriously. The shelter can finally build the new veterinary wing now."
"Don't thank me," Alexia smiled, closing the laptop and setting it on the floor. She slid down the mattress until she was completely flush against your side, her powerful arms wrapping around your waist from behind, pulling your back into the warm contour of her chest. "Thank the forty thousand people who saw me wearing your muddy shirt on TikTok."
You turned your head slightly, looking back at her through the dark strands of your hair. "You looked very hot in that shirt, for the record. Very domestic. The internet was right to go mad."
"Mmm, I know," Alexia chuckled, a wicked, playful smirk touching her lips as she leaned in to bite the soft skin of your earlobe. "But they don't get to see what happens after the live stream ends. That part belongs entirely to the league leader."
"Oh, shut up about the twenty points, Putellas," you laughed, turning around in her arms until you were facing her, your fingers locking behind her neck as you pulled her down for one last, incredibly soft, and comforting kiss. "Go to sleep."
The final piece of the chaotic puzzle fell into place the following Monday afternoon.
You and Alexia had ventured out into the center of Barcelona for a casual lunch at a small, independent vegan café near El Born. For the first time in your relationship, you didn't look for a hidden table in the back corner. You sat right by the large glass window, enjoying the autumn sunshine, with Bruno lying contentedly under the wooden table, his tail wagging whenever the waiter brought a bowl of water.
As you walked out of the café, your hand was firmly locked in Alexia’s. She was wearing a simple leather jacket, her glasses, and a relaxed smile, while you were carrying a box of leftover pastries.
Just as you reached the pedestrian crossing near the old market, a couple of local paparazzi emerged from the corner, their camera lenses clicking in rapid succession. In the past, Alexia would have instinctively dropped your hand, pulled her cap low, and hurried toward the car to avoid a headline.
But today, she didn't even blink.
Instead, as the cameras flashed, Alexia paused in the middle of the pavement. She turned toward you, a bright, completely unbothered smile breaking across her face. She reached up with her free hand, gently tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind your ear, and then leaned down, pressing a firm, proud, and incredibly affectionate kiss straight onto your lips right there on the public streets of Barcelona.
You smiled into the kiss, your hand tightening around hers, completely matching her confidence.
By Tuesday morning, the photographs were plastered across every sports and entertainment portal in the country. The internet went into a state of absolute, beautiful completion. The rumors of her being single were dead; the myth of you being a heartbreaker was gone. There was only the sight of the captain and her influencer, completely out in the light, surrounded by rescue dogs, family support, and a love that didn't need a secret protocol anymore.
Back in Pedralbes, sitting on the sofa with a fresh cup of coffee while Bruno rested his heavy head on your knee, you opened your phone to see a new message in your WhatsApp notifications. It was from an unsaved number, but the profile picture was unmistakable.
Eli Putellas: [Image: A screenshot of the street-kiss photograph from the news]
Eli Putellas: Beautiful photo, girls! You look very happy. Much better than the bedroom. I have finally returned from Madrid, and the keys are on the counter. Please, next time, keep the door locked! ¡Un beso!
You let out a loud, choked laugh, dropping your forehead against Alexia’s shoulder as she leaned over to see the screen.
"See?" you giggled, your arms wrapping around her neck as you clung to her like a koala. "I told you she’d get over the trauma eventually."
Alexia let out that rich, raspy laugh that always meant absolute safety, her arms locking around your waist to hold you close against her chest. "Yeah... but I’m still buying a sturdier lock for the door this afternoon, mi amor. Just in case."
AU: miss u nalita
